David baldacci, p.12
David Baldacci, page 12
The tone in his voice was just enough to ignite every molecule of rage in Sidney Archer’s body.
“I can’t explain it. I’m not even going to try to explain it. I don’t know what the hell’s going on. I just lost my husband, goddammit! There’s no body, there’s no clothes. There’s nothing left of him and you’re sitting there telling me you think he was ripping you off? Damn you.” The Ford swerved slightly off the road and she had to struggle to bring it back on. She slowed down once again as the vehicle hit a major rut. The jolt went through her entire body. It was getting harder to see in the swirling snow.
“Sid, please, please calm down.” Rowe’s voice was suddenly panicked. “Listen, I didn’t mean to upset you further. I’m sorry.” He paused, then quickly added, “Can I do anything for you?”
“Yeah, you can tell every friggin’ person at Triton to drop dead. Why don’t you go first?” She clicked the off button and tossed the phone down. The tears were pouring so fast she finally had to pull off the road. Shaking as if she had just been plunged into ice, Sidney finally undid her seat restraint and lay across the front seat, one arm covering her face for several minutes. Then she put the Ford back into gear and took to the road once more. Despite her evident exhaustion, her thoughts moved as fast as the V-6–powered Explorer. Jason had been terrified of her upcoming meeting with Triton. He probably had the job interview story ready in case of an emergency. Her meeting with Nathan Gamble and company had qualified as such. But why? What could he possibly have been involved in? All those late nights? His reticence? What had he been doing?
She looked at the dashboard clock and noted the time creeping relentlessly toward four A.M. While her mind was functioning in high gear, the rest of her wasn’t. Her eyes would now barely stay open, and she had to address the obvious concern of where she would spend what was left of the night. She was coming up to Route 29. When she turned onto the highway, she went south instead of retracing her route north. A half hour later Sidney cruised through the empty streets of Charlottesville. She drove past the Holiday Inn and other possibilities for lodging and finally turned off Route 29 onto Ivy Road. She soon entered the parking lot of the Boar’s Head Inn, one of the area’s best-known resorts.
Within twenty minutes she had signed in and was slowly pushing her near-immobile limbs between the sheets in a well-appointed room with beautiful vistas that at the moment she cared nothing about. What a day of nightmares, all of them absolutely real. It was her last conscious thought. Two hours before dawn, Sidney Archer finally fell asleep.
CHAPTEEN SIXTEEN
At three o’clock in the morning, Seattle time, the thick clouds spilled open and delivered still more rain to the area. The guard huddled in the small guard shack, his feet and hands close to the floor heater. In one corner of the structure a steady stream of water trickled down the wall, forming a puddle on the ragged green carpet. The guard wearily checked the time. Four hours to go before his watch was over. He poured out the last of the hot coffee from his thermos and longed for a warm bed. Each building was leased by different companies. Some of the buildings simply stood empty, but all were secure regardless of their contents, with armed guards on-site twenty-four hours a day. The high metal fence had barbed wire at the top, although not the deadly razor wire favored at prison facilities. Video monitors were discreetly placed throughout the area. It would be a difficult place to break into.
Difficult, but far from impossible.
The figure was clad head to foot in black. It took him less than a minute to climb the fence in the back of the warehouse facility, expertly avoiding the sharp wire. Once over the fence, he slipped in and out of the shadows as the rain continued to pour down, completely covering the slight sounds that his quick-moving feet made. On his left sleeve was a miniature electronic jamming device. He passed three video cameras on the way to his destination; none of them captured his image.
Reaching the side door of Building 22, he pulled a slender wirelike device from his knapsack and inserted it in the sturdy padlock. Ten seconds later the lock hung loose.
He took the metal steps two at a time after making a visual sweep of the building’s interior with his night-vision goggles. He opened the door to a room, illuminating the small space with his flashlight. He unlocked the filing cabinet and removed the surveillance camera. He placed the videotape in one part of his knapsack, reloaded the camera and replaced it in the cabinet. Five minutes later, the area was once again quiet. The guard had not yet finished his last cup of coffee.
At the crack of dawn, a Gulfstream V lifted off from the Seattle airport. The black-clad figure was now dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and was fast asleep in one of the luxurious cabin chairs, his dark hair falling into his youthful face. Across the aisle, Frank Hardy, head of a firm specializing in corporate security and counter-industrial espionage, intently read every page of a lengthy report as the plane soared through the now clear morning sky; the last vestiges of the previous night’s storm system had finally pushed on. Inside a metal briefcase was the videotape that had been removed from the camera in the file cabinet. The case was within easy reach of his hand. A steward appeared and poured out another cup of coffee for the plane’s one awake passenger. Hardy’s eyes rested on the metal briefcase. His brow wrinkled and, from long habit, his fingers traced and retraced the worry lines stamped across his forehead. Then Hardy put the report down, leaned back in his seat and stared out the cabin window as the aircraft headed east. He had a lot to think about. He was not a happy man right now. Both his jaw and his gut clenched and unclenched as the sleek jet raced on.
The Gulfstream hit its cruising altitude on a flight that would culminate in Washington, D.C. The rays of the rising sun reflected off the familiar company logo emblazoned on the aircraft’s empennage. The soaring eagle represented an organization like no other. More recognized worldwide than even Coca-Cola, more feared than most of the world’s largest conglomerates—which, by comparison, were aging dinosaurs awaiting the constant pull of extinction. It was the complete package as the twenty-first century hurtled toward them, just like the bold eagle symbol that was rapidly making its way into the four corners of the world and everywhere in between.
Triton Global would have it no other way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A uniformed security guard escorted Lee Sawyer through the massive lobby of the Marriner Eccles Building, the Constitution Avenue home of the Federal Reserve Board. Sawyer thought that the premises were in keeping with the enormous clout of their occupant. After walking up to the second floor, Sawyer and his escort stopped at a thick wooden door and the escort knocked. The words “Come in” filtered out to them. Sawyer moved through the doorway to a large, cozily furnished office. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases, dark furniture and ornate moldings made a somber impression. The thick drapes were closed. A green banker’s lamp glowed on the large, leather-topped partners desk. The smell of cigars hovered everywhere; Sawyer could almost see gray wisps of smoke hanging in the air like ghostly apparitions. It reminded him of the scholarly studies of some of his old college professors. A small fire burning in the fireplace threw both warmth and light into the room.
When a man of massive girth swiveled around in the chair behind the desk, Sawyer’s attention was instantly riveted upon him. A corpulent red face housed light blue eyes hiding behind lids reduced to slits by sagging facial skin and the overgrowth of a pair of eyebrows as thick as Sawyer had ever seen. The hair was white and abundant, the nose was wide and the tip was even redder than the rest of the face. For one brief moment, Sawyer jokingly wondered if he was confronting Santa Claus.
The man rose from behind the desk, and his big, cultured voice flowing across the room to envelop Lee Sawyer dispelled all such thoughts.
“Agent Sawyer, I’m Walter Burns, vice chairman of the Federal Reserve Board.”
Sawyer moved forward to grip the flabby hand. Burns matched the six-foot-three Sawyer in height, but carried at least a hundred more pounds on his frame than did the powerfully built FBI agent. Sawyer took the leather chair indicated by Burns. When Burns sat back down, Sawyer noted that he moved with a grace that was not uncommon to large men.
“I appreciate your seeing me, sir.”
Burns shot the FBI man a penetrating glance. “I take it that your agency’s involvement in this matter means it was not merely a mechanical or other similar problem that befell that plane?”
“We’re checking through all possible scenarios. Nothing has been ruled out right now, Mr. Burns.” Sawyer’s features were impassive.
“My name is Walter, Agent Sawyer. Since we’re both members of the sometimes unwieldy system known as the federal government, I think that allows us the pleasure of a first-name basis.”
Sawyer grinned. “Mine’s Lee.”
“How can I help you, Lee?”
The clatter of freezing rain assaulted the window and a chill seemed suddenly to pervade the air. Burns rose and walked over to the fireplace, beckoning Sawyer to pull his chair over. While Burns placed some small pieces of kindling taken from a brass bucket onto the fire, Sawyer flipped open his notebook and briefly studied some notes. When Burns sat down across from him, Sawyer was ready.
“I realize that a lot of people have no idea what the Fed does. I mean people outside the financial markets.”
Burns rubbed at one eye and Sawyer almost heard a chuckle escape the other man’s lips. “If I were a betting man, I would be inclined to lay money on the fact that fully half the population of this country have no idea of the existence of the Federal Reserve System, and that nine out of ten have no clue as to what our actual purpose is. I must confess I find that anonymity enormously comforting.”
Sawyer paused and then leaned toward the older man. “Who would benefit from Arthur Lieberman’s death? I don’t mean personally, I’m focusing on his professional side. As chairman of the Fed.”
Burns’s eyes widened until the slits reached the shape of half-moons, about the limits of their range. “You’re implying that someone blew up that plane in order to kill Arthur? If you don’t mind my saying so, that seems awfully far-fetched.”
“I didn’t say that was the case. That is, we’re looking at everything right now.” Sawyer spoke in low tones, as though he feared he would be overheard. “The fact is I’ve combed through the passenger manifest and your colleague was the only VIP aboard. If it was a deliberate sabotage, then one reason that jumps out would be killing the Fed chairman.”
“Or just a planned terrorist attack and Arthur simply had the misfortune to be on board.”
Sawyer shook his head. “If we are looking at sabotage, then I don’t believe Lieberman being on the plane was a coincidence.”
Burns leaned back in his chair and slowly put his feet out toward the fire. “My God!” he finally said as he stared into the fire. Although he would have looked quite at home in a three-piece suit replete with watch chain, his current attire—camel-hair sport coat, dark blue crew sweater with a white button-down shirt collar peeking out, gray pleated slacks and comfortable black loafers—did not look so out of place on his frame. Sawyer noted that the man’s feet were surprisingly small for his size. Neither man spoke for at least a minute.
Sawyer finally stirred. “I know I don’t have to tell you that anything I say to you tonight is extremely confidential.”
Burns’s head swiveled around to the FBI agent. “Secrets are something I am quite good at keeping, Lee.”
“So getting back to my question: Who benefits?”
Burns considered the query for some moments and then took a deep breath. “The United States economy is the largest in the world. Hence, as America goes, so goes the world. If another country hostile to America desired to damage our economy or disrupt the world financial markets, perpetrating an atrocity such as this could well have that effect. I have no doubt that the markets will take a staggering blow if it turns out his death was premeditated.” The vice chairman shook his head sadly. “I just never thought I would live to see the day.”
“How about anyone in this country who might like to see the chairman dead?” Sawyer asked again.
“As long as the Fed has existed there have been conspiracy theories painted so vividly about the institution that I’m quite sure there are more than a handful of people in this country who take them, however nonsensical they are, quite seriously.”
Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Conspiracy theories?”
Burns coughed and then loudly cleared his throat. “There are those who believe that the Fed is actually a tool for wealthy families around the globe to keep the poor in their place. Or that we take our marching orders from a small group of international bankers. I’ve even heard one theory that has us being the pawns of alien beings who have infiltrated all the highest positions of government. My birth certificate says Boston, Massachusetts, by the way.”
Sawyer shook his head. “Christ, that’s pretty wacko.”
“Exactly. As if a seven-trillion-dollar economy employing well over a hundred million people could be secretly run by a handful of waistcoated tycoons.”
“So one of these conspiracy groups could have plotted to kill the chairman in retaliation for perceived corruption or injustice?”
“Well, few governmental institutions are more misunderstood and feared out of ignorance than the Federal Reserve Board. When you first mentioned the possibility, I said it was far-fetched. Having thought about it for a few minutes, I have to say my initial reaction was probably not correct. But blowing up a plane . . .” Burns shook his head wearily.
Sawyer jotted down some notes. “I’d like to know more about Lieberman’s background.”
“Arthur Lieberman was an immensely popular man in the major financial circles. For years he was one of the top moneymakers on Wall Street, before turning to public service. Arthur called things as he saw them and he was usually right in his judgment. With a series of masterful maneuvers, he shook up the financial markets almost from the moment he became chairman. He showed them who was boss.” Burns stopped to put another piece of wood on the fire. “In fact, he led the Fed in a way that I would like to think I would if ever given the opportunity.”
“Any idea who might succeed Lieberman?”
Burns shook his head. “No.”
“Around the time he left for Los Angeles, had anything unusual occurred at the Fed?”
Burns shrugged. “We had our FOMC meeting on the fifteenth of November, but that was a regularly scheduled event.”
Sawyer looked puzzled. “FOMC?”
“Federal Open Market Committee. It’s our policymaking board.”
“What goes on at those meetings?”
“Well, in a shorthand version, the seven members of the Board of Governors and the presidents of five of the twelve Federal Reserve Banks look at all pertinent financial data on the economy and decide whether any actions are required with respect to money supply and interest rates.”
Sawyer nodded. “When the Fed raises or lowers interest rates, for instance, then that affects the entire economy. Contracts or expands it.”
“At least we think so,” Burns replied sardonically. “Although our actions have not always had the results we intended.”
“So was there anything unusual at this FOMC meeting?”
“No.”
“Nevertheless, could you give me a rundown of exactly what was said and by whom? It might seem irrelevant, but getting a motive could really help us track down whoever did this.”
Burns’s voice went up an octave. “Impossible. The actual deliberations of FOMC meetings are absolutely confidential and cannot be divulged to you or anyone else.”
“Walter, I won’t push it now, but with all due respect, if any information discussed at these meetings is relevant to the FBI’s investigation, rest assured that we will have access to it.” Sawyer stared at him until Burns dropped his gaze.
“A brief report detailing the minutes of the meeting is released six to eight weeks after the meeting is held,” Burns said slowly, “but only after the occurrence of the next meeting. The actual results of the meetings, whether any action was taken or not, are released to the news media the same day.”
“I read in the paper where the Fed left the interest rates the same.”
Burns pursed his lips and then eyed Sawyer. “That’s right, we didn’t adjust the interest rates.”
“How exactly do you adjust rates?”
“There are actually two interest rates that are directly affected by the Fed, Lee. The Federal Funds Rate is the interest rate banks charge other banks who borrow funds to meet reserve requirements. If that rate goes up or down, interest rates on bank CDs, T-bills, mortgages and commercial paper will soon follow. The Fed sets the target Federal Funds Rate at the FOMC meetings. Then the New York Federal Reserve Bank, through its Domestic Trading Desk, buys or sells government securities, which in turn restricts or expands the supply of money available to banks to ensure that that interest rate is maintained. We call that adding or subtracting liquidity. That’s how Arthur took the bulls by the horns when he became chairman: by adjusting the Fed Funds Rate in ways the market didn’t anticipate. The second interest rate which can be affected by the Fed is the Discount Rate, the rate charged by the Fed to banks for loans by the Fed. However, the Discount Rate is tied to loans for what amounts to emergency purposes; thus, it’s known as the ‘window of last resort.’ Banks who frequent that window too often will come under increased regulatory scrutiny, since it’s seen as a sign of weakness in banking circles. For that reason, most banks will borrow money from other banks at the slightly higher Federal Funds Rate, since there is no stigma attached to that channel of credit.”
Sawyer decided to change direction. “Okay, had Lieberman been acting strangely? Anything bothering him? Any threats that you know of?”
