The Inner Sanctum Page 5

  Webb laughed cynically. “Yes, I doubt too many of my colleagues would believe I really needed to take any time off to gather votes.”

  Rhodes nodded, then fell silent for a moment as he watched the senator stretch. Webb was tall, broad, and silver-haired, with a jutting jaw; an imposing man who was often described by the press as presidential-looking. But Webb would never be President, Rhodes knew. He had made too many enemies in both parties.

  “The grapevine is talking,” Rhodes finally said.

  Webb exhibited no outward reaction to the news. So Rhodes was here tonight to give information. Which was, of course, why the little man was so successful. Rhodes viewed his job as a two-way street. His primary objective was to help his defense industry clients obtain business, but if he had information he knew was important to the other side, to those who could dole out the money from the Defense Department budget, he would relay it as quickly as possible. Most of the other lobbyists didn’t understand the goodwill this approach generated.

  “And what exactly is the grapevine saying?” Webb asked calmly.

  “It’s saying that a very important top-secret project is under way in Nevada, out at Area 51. And that if the project passes prototype stage, it could be the most significant program to come out of the black budget in years.” Rhodes was certain Webb would be interested. “I know that officially there isn’t a black budget, but I thought you’d want to hear the talk anyway.”

  Webb said nothing for a moment. It was the first time the information had come back to him from a source outside the circle. It could be just someone’s lucky guess, or a shot in the dark by one of Rhodes’s clients. But Rhodes didn’t work that way. He took a much longer, relationship-oriented view. So the only conclusion was that Rhodes was telling the truth. And unfortunately, the little man with the Brooklyn accent was almost always accurate when he cited the “grapevine” as his source.

  “Where did you hear this?” he asked.

  It was a tacit acknowledgment that the lobbyist’s information was at least partially accurate, and Rhodes was elated. He had probably just earned a favor, perhaps a contract for one of his clients. “This is off the record, sir.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have a mole in Senator Malcolm Walker’s office.”

  “You son of a bitch.” Webb slapped the smaller man on the back and smiled approvingly. “Good for you.” Then his smile faded. Here was an opportunity, one he wasn’t going to let slip away.

  “I think it’s always a good idea to be as close to your enemies as possible,” Rhodes remarked, proud of himself for eliciting such a strong reaction from the normally reserved Senator Webb.

  “I couldn’t agree more, Phil. That prick Malcolm Walker is trying to put the entire defense industry out of business.”

  “That’s absolutely right.” Rhodes checked the waiting area for anyone who might have wandered in through one of the dark entrances. “Anyway, my mole says that Senator Walker has infiltrated Area 51. Apparently he has an informant out there feeding him information on this big black-budget program. Walker is going to blow the cover on the project once he’s gotten enough data from his informant. Supposedly this informant has the access to figure out what’s going on.”

  “Really?” Webb was suddenly animated.

  “Yes, sir. If my mole’s information is accurate. And she’s been very accurate so far.” His eyes darted to Webb’s. He suddenly wished he hadn’t slipped and revealed the sex of his mole. But the senator didn’t seem to have noticed, and Rhodes breathed a small sigh of relief. He didn’t want Webb pushing too hard. “It’s not exactly good news, I know,” he continued. “But I thought you’d want to hear about all this as soon as possible.”

  Webb slammed the polished wood wall with his large hand. “Some of the idiots in this city just don’t understand how difficult it is to protect a nation.” He was seething. “That bastard Walker is going to screw up everything.”

  “I agree, sir.”

  Webb turned to face Rhodes. “Do you have a name, Phil? The name of Walker’s informant at Area 51?”

  Rhodes shook his head. “My mole in Walker’s office will give me general information, but that’s all. No names.”

  “What is your mole’s incentive?”

  “I provided money. There was a need. I’m sure my mole has rationalized that money can be accepted because there isn’t anything specific being given in return. Such as the name of Walker’s informant at Area 51.” Rhodes didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “Senator, it’s been nice talking with you, but I really should get going.”

  “Phil.” The senator blocked the lobbyist’s departure.

  “Yes?” Rhodes asked hesitantly.

  “I’d like to meet that contact of yours sometime. Your mole in Senator Walker’s office, I mean.” Webb tightened the screws.

  “Um, well…” Rhodes coughed uncomfortably. He had not anticipated this. “I’d like to accommodate you, Senator, I’m just not certain the person will agree to meet.”

  “Make her agree,” Webb countered forcefully. Rhodes could become an extremely valuable asset, if cultivated correctly. “You have more power than you realize, Phil. You are in the intelligence industry. Use your access to people who can lay bare a person’s entire life. Use your access to people who can find a smoking gun, or that one skeleton in the closet that will allow you to manipulate the person in question any way you want.” Webb smiled wickedly. “I could find the skeleton in your closet,” he said casually, as if he were relaying the score of a ball game or greeting someone for the first time.

  The image of his girlfriend’s heavenly body drifted through his mind. A girlfriend his pudgy wife knew nothing about. “I’ll arrange the meeting,” Rhodes said softly. Suddenly he was in deep with the good senator from Georgia.

  “Good. And call me as soon as you have the name of Walker’s Area 51 informant. That is very important.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rhodes shook Webb’s hand, then melted into the gloom.

  Webb stared into the darkness long after Rhodes had disappeared. He needed to make a phone call before returning to the Senate floor.

  Chapter 6

  Malcolm Walker had had an advantaged upbringing as the only child of two physicians who had clawed their way out of poverty-stricken inner-city childhoods, then met and married as medical students. They had attended Johns Hopkins on grants from the United Negro College Fund and ultimately settled in Homeland—an upscale north Baltimore neighborhood. Walker had matriculated at Macon Academy, an exclusive Massachussetts prep school, starring in football and track from sophmore year on. He’d graduated summa cum laude from Harvard undergraduate and Harvard Law in only five years, and afterward accepted a position at the high-profile Washington firm of Baker & Stroud, handling civil rights cases.

  Six years after coming to Baker & Stroud, Walker ran a grassroots campaign for, and was elected to, the Maryland state senate. Four years later, at the tender age of thirty-three, he became a United States senator. In campaign speeches he cited lessons learned as the son of parents who had lifted themselves from the ghetto through hard work and determination. He spoke of the times when, as children, his parents did not eat because there was no money. He talked about the dilapidated homes in which they were raised. And he discussed the dreams they had achieved. He was articulate, attractive and a sworn enemy of Washington insiders and behind-the-scenes money deals between politicians and big business. And despite all the advantages of his youth, he related naturally to the plight of the working class—and they to him.

  Establishment opponents constantly attempted to undermine the loyalty of Walker’s constituents by depicting him as a fraud, as himself a member of the elite, focusing on his list of degrees from privileged schools and his sizable, publicly disclosed investment portfolio. However, Walker had managed to deflect the criticism and maintain the all
egiance of his followers—until Elbridge Coleman had appeared on the political horizon and began burning millions on advertising that subtly appealed to white voters who had supported Walker in the last election. The ads consistently misrepresented Walker’s record as only voting for legislation favorable to black communities and ignoring others, which in fact was not the case. His record indicated no bias whatsoever; however, he lacked the financial wherewithal to fight the onslaught, and the spin was having a major effect on his white constituency. A constituency he had to have to win reelection.

  Walker smiled pleasantly at the talk show host sitting across the studio.

  “We’re back from commercial break here at WBCC radio Baltimore. This is Night Speak and I’m Cynthia Jones.” Her creamy voice drifted through the microphone and out onto the airways. “Our guest tonight has been United States Senator Malcolm Walker, first-term Democrat from Maryland.” The woman kept her lips close to the mike as she turned her head slightly to make eye contact with Walker. “I want to thank you so much for taking the time to come on our program tonight, Senator. I know you have a hectic schedule.”

  “Not at all, Cynthia,” Walker said in his deep voice. “It’s been my pleasure.”

  “Good. Well we have just several moments left so only time for a few more questions and one very important phone call.”

  Walker gave the host and the producer a curious look but neither responded to his silent question about the phone call. A call no one had mentioned during the prep session just before air time.

  “Senator,” the woman continued, “tell us why your appeal and voter support is so broad. You’re black, but in the last election you received more than fifty-five percent of the white vote.”

  Walker launched into his prepared impromptu remarks. “Cynthia, it’s because I talk common sense and people appreciate that kind of thing no matter what race they are.” He’d said these things so many times he could recite them in his sleep. But he was a polished politician and could project enthusiasm no matter how many times he crusaded. “As we’ve discussed tonight, in my first term I’ve gone out of my way to focus on cutting the Defense Department’s budget and that’s certainly irritated some people in Washington. But it only makes good sense and voters know that. The DOD spends over three hundred billion dollars a year. Three hundred billion. And much of that is appropriated for weapons we just don’t need. Take aircraft carriers for instance. Do we really need to sink, no pun intended, another five billion dollars into a floating target? I don’t think so. Many of these contracts are simply directed to firms to enrich the entrenched military establishment. I believe the DOD budget could be half of what it is now, and the United States would easily remain the world’s only military superpower.

  “Cynthia, imagine what we could do with another hundred and fifty billion dollars a year if we really did cut the budget by fifty percent. Think of the opportunities. We could train inner-city youth to become part of a skilled labor pool. We could increase the number and quality of police officers. We could vastly improve our school systems. You see, race becomes irrelevant when you talk about these things because everyone benefits. I’m all about making this country a better place for everyone.”

  “Senator Walker, do you really believe we could cut the military budget in half and remain strong?”

  “I know we could. And so do those in power in Congress and at the Pentagon.”

  “Then why isn’t anything done?”

  “Because many people are getting rich off that fat DOD budget. It’s a gravy train.”

  “That’s a powerful accusation.”

  “One I intend to prove.”

  “Tough words,” the host crooned. “One more question before we take the phone call, Senator.”

  “Certainly, Cynthia.”

  “This is difficult, but as a reporter I need to ask. Why has the November Senate election for your seat suddenly become a race? Why has Elbridge Coleman, the Republican candidate, been able to close the gap in the polls lately, if you talk so much common sense?”

  Walker had hoped to get through the interview without fielding that one. He wanted to tell the host about the establishment machine he felt certain was doing all it could to defeat him. But he didn’t have names or money trails or anything else that would prove his suspicions. And if he blamed Coleman’s recent success on some faceless group, it would sound like the rantings of a loser. “It’s just a blip. Come November we’ll still be in Washington.”

  “I’m glad you’re confident.” The host raised an eyebrow as if she wasn’t certain Walker should feel so secure. “Now for the phone call.” The host looked away. She knew Walker wasn’t going to be happy about this development, but Night Speak needed ratings and this was sweeps week. “On the line we have the Reverend Elijah Pitts, leader of the Maryland-based Liberation for African-Americans.”

  Walker rolled his eyes and grimaced. In only a few years LFA had risen to prominence by spearheading initiatives designed to assist economically depressed areas. Bringing more government money to poor neighborhoods, bringing jobs to those same neighborhoods and monitoring fair hiring practices were just a few of Reverend Pitts’s favorite causes. In fact, he and LFA had assisted blacks and whites. But Walker’s research showed that many suburban whites mistakenly viewed LFA as militant. So he and his staff had decided to maintain as much distance as possible from Reverend Pitts for fear of losing the white bloc Walker so desperately needed to defeat Coleman and win reelection. Walker gave the host an icy stare, but she simply smiled back.

  “Good evening, Reverend Pitts. Thanks for being on with us tonight.”

  “It’s always a pleasure, Cynthia.” The Reverend had been a guest on Night Speak several times. He paused. “Hello, Malcolm.”

  “Hello, Reverend.” Walker forced himself to be polite. They knew each other well, having attended many public functions together. Walker tapped his chair nervously. Pitts was always trying to corner Walker into publicly endorsing LFA. But that, the pollsters had determined, would spell disaster. “How are you this evening?”

  “Fine, Senator,” Pitts said in an equally cordial, equally forced tone. “I’ve enjoyed listening to your words of grandeur this evening.” Sarcasm seeped into Pitts’s voice.

  “Mmm.”

  The host smiled. Things were becoming interesting.

  “But, Malcolm,” the Reverend’s tone became paternal, “you need to pay more attention to your core constituency. You need to build a bridge to LFA. Together we could really accomplish some of your grand design.”

  “I think you and LFA have done some very postitive things for Maryland.” Walker glanced at the clock on the wall. Only one more minute and the host would have to sign off. But the second hand seemed to be going backward. “Some very positive things.”

  “You are skillfully avoiding the issue. Of course, you’re a skillful politician so what should I expect? Embrace LFA, Senator Walker. Together we can be even stronger. Right now! On the air tonight!” Pitts thundered.

  Walker cleared his throat. Thirty seconds.

  “Malcolm.”

  “Reverend, we should get together and discuss our views. Perhaps you should come to Washington.”

  “Malcolm!”

  “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have, gentlemen,” the host cut in. “Thank you, Senator Malcolm Walker, for being our guest on Night Speak.”

  Walker’s shoulders slumped as the woman signed off. He’d be more careful about doing these call-in shows in the future.

  Chapter 7

  Roth cased the room quickly, sweeping the gun from left to right, left eye closed, right eye staring down the sleek barrel to the small sight, and then beyond to the gray and green shapes perfectly defined by the night-vision goggles he wore.

  Bookcase to the left. A desk beneath a bay window in the center with the chair pulled out and no one in the cr
awl space between the drawers. A large leather chair in the far corner next to the desk and a closet to the right, door closed. But nothing human. He checked the crawl space again just to make certain. There was no way the person could have left here in the short time it had taken him to move inside the house.

  His eyes shifted to the closet. That had to be the answer. Somehow the prey had sensed his presence and in a pathetic effort to escape death had hidden in the most obvious location. As if it wouldn’t be the first place he would check. But it was the only place to hide, and as Roth well knew, survival was the most powerful human instinct.

  He trained the Magnum on the closet door, not taking his eyes from the knob as he moved silently to the wall beside the door. He was ready for the prey to burst from within in an attempt to gain the advantage of surprise.

  Roth reached for the knob, then pulled his hand back from the brass as if he’d received a shock. He wanted to take the person alive, then perform the execution at a remote location and leave no trace of his presence here for the investigation that would inevitably follow. But this mission was too important to risk any possibility of failure. If he tried to take the prey from the house alive, there was that slim chance it might escape. He had to kill it here. There was no alternative.

  With the left side of his body pressed against the wall next to the closet, Roth reached out with the gun in just his right hand—exposing only his arm as a target in case the prey had a weapon—and pointed the barrel at the door, then fired three times into the door exactly four feet above the floor in a neat pattern across the wood. In rapid succession the bullets smacked angrily through the door just a few inches apart.

  Instantly something behind the door fell heavily to the floor. Roth ripped at the knob and hurled the door open. On the floor lay a laundry bag. It had dropped from a hook on the back of the door, its string neatly cut by one of the bullets. Roth cursed softly. The prey had not been so stupid after all.