Dan Brown - Deception Point

Yolanda paused. “Gabs, you know this thing you were saying about Sexton’s campaign finance and the SFF?”

“I told you I was wrong and—”

“I just found out two of our reporters who cover the aerospace industry have been working on a similar story.”

Gabrielle was surprised. “Meaning?”

“I don’t know. But these guys are good, and they seem pretty convinced that Sexton is taking kickbacks from the Space Frontier Foundation. I just figured I should call you. I know I told you earlier that the idea was insane. Marjorie Tench as a source seemed spotty, but these guys of ours... I don’t know, you might want to talk to them before you see the senator.”

“If they’re so convinced, why haven’t they gone to press?” Gabrielle sounded more defensive than she wanted to.

“They have no solid evidence. The senator apparently is good at covering his tracks.”

Most politicians are. “There’s nothing there, Yolanda. I told you the senator admitted taking SFF donations, but the gifts are all under the cap.”

“I know that’s what he told you, Gabs, and I’m not claiming to know what’s true or false here. I just felt obliged to call because I told you not to trust Marjorie Tench, and now I find out people other than Tench think the senator may be on the dole. That’s all.”

“Who were these reporters?” Gabrielle felt an unexpected anger simmering now.

“No names. I can set up a meeting. They’re smart. They understand campaign finance law...” Yolanda hesitated. “You know, these guy actually believe Sexton is hurting for cash—bankrupt even.”

In the silence of her office, Gabrielle could hear Tench’s raspy accusations echoing. After Katherine died, the senator squandered the vast majority of her legacy on bad investments, personal comforts, and buying himself what appears to be certain victory in the primaries. As of six months ago, your candidate was broke.

“Our men would love to talk to you,” Yolanda said.

I bet they would, Gabrielle thought. “I’ll call you back.”

“You sound pissed.”

“Never at you, Yolanda. Never at you. Thanks.”

Gabrielle hung up.

Dozing on a chair in the hallway outside Senator Sexton’s Westbrooke apartment, a security guard awoke with a start at the sound of his cellular phone. Bolting up in his chair, he rubbed his eyes and pulled his phone from his blazer pocket.

“Yeah?”

“Owen, this is Gabrielle.”

Sexton’s guard recognized her voice. “Oh, hi.”

“I need to talk to the senator. Would you knock on his door for me? His line is busy.”

“It’s kind of late.”

“He’s awake. I’m sure of it.” Gabrielle sounded anxious. “It’s an emergency.”

“Another one?”

“Same one. Just get him on the phone, Owen. There’s something I really need to ask him.”

The guard sighed, standing up. “Okay, okay. I’ll knock.” He stretched and made his way toward Sexton’s door. “But I’m only doing it because he was glad I let you in earlier.” Reluctantly, he raised his fist to knock.

“What did you just say?” Gabrielle demanded.

The guard’s fist stopped in midair. “I said the senator was glad I let you in earlier. You were right. It was no problem at all.”

“You and the senator talked about that?” Gabrielle sounded surprised.

“Yeah. So what?”

“No, I just didn’t think...”

“Actually, it was kind of weird. The senator needed a couple of seconds to even remember you’d been in there. I think the boys were tossing back a few.”

“When did you two talk, Owen?”

“Right after you left. Is something wrong?”

A momentary silence. “No... no. Nothing. Look, now that I think of it, let’s not bother the senator this instant. I’ll keep trying his house line, and if I don’t have any luck, I’ll call you back and you can knock.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Ms. Ashe.”

“Thanks, Owen. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem.” The guard hung up, flopped back in his chair, and went to sleep.

Alone in her office, Gabrielle stood motionless for several seconds before hanging up the phone. Sexton knows I was inside his apartment... and he never mentioned it to me?

Tonight’s ethereal strangeness was getting murkier. Gabrielle flashed on the senator’s phone call to her while she was at ABC. The senator had stunned her with his unprovoked admission that he was meeting with space companies and accepting money. His honesty had brought her back to him. Shamed her even. His confession now seemed one hell of a lot less noble.

Soft money, Sexton had said. Perfectly legal.

Suddenly, all the vague misgivings Gabrielle had ever felt about Senator Sexton seemed to resurface all at once.

Outside, the taxi was honking.

The bridge of the Goya was a Plexiglas cube situated two levels above the main deck. From here Rachel had a 360-degree view of the surrounding darkened sea, an unnerving vista she looked at only once before blocking it out and turning her attention to the matter at hand.

Having sent Tolland and Corky to find Xavia, Rachel prepared to contact Pickering. She’d promised the director she would call him when they arrived, and she was eager to know what he had learned in his meeting with Marjorie Tench.

The Goya ’s SHINCOM 2100 digital communications system was a platform with which Rachel was familiar enough. She knew if she kept her call short, her communication should be secure.

Dialing Pickering’s private number, she waited, clutching the SHINCOM 2100 receiver to her ear and waiting. She expected Pickering to pick up on the first ring. But the line just kept ringing.

Six rings. Seven. Eight...

Rachel gazed out at the darkened ocean, her inability to reach the director doing nothing to quell her uneasiness about being at sea.

Nine rings. Ten rings. Pick up!

She paced, waiting. What was going on? Pickering carried his phone with him at all times, and he had expressly told Rachel to call him.

After fifteen rings, she hung up.

With growing apprehension, she picked up the SHINCOM receiver and dialed again.

Four rings. Five rings.

Where is he?

Finally, the connection clicked open. Rachel felt a surge of relief, but it was short-lived. There was no one on the line. Only silence.

“Hello,” she prompted. “Director?”

Three quick clicks.

“Hello?” Rachel said.

A burst of electronic static shattered the line, blasting in Rachel’s ear. She yanked the receiver away from her head in pain. The static abruptly stopped. Now she could hear a series of rapidly oscillating tones that pulsed in half-second intervals. Rachel’s confusion quickly gave way to realization. And then fear.

“Shit!”

Wheeling back to the controls on the bridge, she slammed the receiver down in its cradle, severing the connection. For several moments she stood terrified, wondering if she’d hung up in time.

Amidships, two decks below, the Goya ’s hydrolab was an expansive work space segmented by long counters and islands packed to the gills with electronic gear—bottom profilers, current analyzers, wet sinks, fume hoods, a walk-in specimen cooler, PCs, and a stack of organizer crates for research data and the spare electronics to keep everything running.

When Tolland and Corky entered, the Goya ’s onboard geologist, Xavia, was reclining in front of a blaring television. She didn’t even turn around.

“Did you guys run out of beer money?” she called over her shoulder, apparently thinking some of her crew had returned.