Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "I'm downtown, not far from you," she told him. "Can you meet me somewhere?"

  He cleared his throat. Sandra knew that gesture. He used it as well as he used the pregnant pause to buy himself a few seconds while he decided what to say. "I'm on my way out right now. Why don't I call you later and we can meet?"

  For a moment she didn't think she'd heard him correctly. He'd rarely refused her requests to talk. No matter what was happening, he'd told her he would always be her father first, a senator second.

  "Sandy, where are you staying?"

  "I don't exactly know."

  "What does that mean?" Concern crept into his voice.

  "Don't worry, Dad. I'm not sleeping on the streets." She didn't know where she would be sleeping. Revealing the in­formation would only cause him unnecessary stress, and she didn't want to do that. He was still her father.

  "Are you with Senator Wyatt?"

  "Not at the moment."

  "You do know where he is?"

  Sandra remembered the call to the pay phone. "I haven't seen him in a while."

  "Sandy, you have to get away from him."

  "Why?"

  "I can't explain it now."

  "Then meet me somewhere."

  Again she heard the hesitation. "All right. There's some­thing I must do first. Then we'll have dinner."

  "Good."

  "Do you have your cell?"

  She glanced at her purse. The red light pulsed indicating it was on. She'd hoped Wyatt would remember she had it and call her. "Yes."

  "Good. I'll call you when I'm free and we'll meet."

  "All right," she said. "Dad, can you make it soon? I don't think we can keep running too much longer."

  "It's nearly over, honey."

  His voice was low and warm, the way she remembered it being when she'd been a gangly teenager and needed to talk to someone. Wyatt had to be wrong. Her father would call. They would meet and everything would be cleared up. She hung up with a smile. She'd tell Wyatt and soon this horrible business would be behind them. She could return to her stud­ies and Wyatt could go back to representing the people of Pennsylvania.

  Sandra frowned. Why did she find the prospect of returning to her everyday routine unappealing?

  ***

  Agent Melvin Norman followed the secretary into the inner sanctum of Director Christopher's private office. He'd been with the bureau for six years. This was his first time on the top floor.

  Clarence Christopher's office was large, but not gigantic. Photos on the wall showed him smiling with various men and women. Norman recognized past Presidents, a few bureau di­rectors, and even a Hollywood movie star.

  "Agent Norman," the director acknowledged his presence.

  "Sir, Ms. Rutledge is in a phone booth at Union Station. Agents have been dispatched to pick her up."

  Christopher shook his head, but otherwise indicated no emotion.

  "She spoke to Senator Rutledge in his office. He's to call her back on a cellular unit."

  "Find the number and have it located."

  "We're already on it sir."

  ***

  Star Wars! Worse than Star Wars. Wyatt couldn't believe his eyes. He'd have sworn this kind of thing had died with the Reagan/Bush administrations. When communism failed, it was no longer necessary, but it seemed as if Chip hadn't re­alized it.

  Wyatt hadn't been sure what he would find when he entered Chip’s office. Only two weeks ago his friend had been alive. Now Chip was gone forever. Would someone else already occupy the office? Would everything be moved and Wyatt’s trip be wasted? Entering the building was fairly easy with the ID, Wyatt found. In light of 911 and the attack on the Pentagon, Wyatt was surprised he’d passed through without detection. In Chip’s office he found the computer still connected, but everything else had been packed. The walls were bare of plaques and photographs Wyatt remembered see­ing on his last visit.

  Three boxes sat on the floor next to a file cabinet. He could see Chip's degree sticking out of one of them. He wondered why they were still there. Why hadn't his sister come to get them or why hadn’t they been sent to his next of kin? He turned away, not wanting to bring forth memories of their past antics or a future they’d miss.

  Wyatt sat at Chip's computer. He'd stolen into his office and turned on the machine. The color monitor beamed his notes over the micro-circuitry, offering the only light in the room. He'd found Project Eagle as a password-protected di­rectory.

  Wyatt thought he'd discover the password quickly. He and Chip had known each other forever, but it took him much longer than he expected. Finally, he found it. Opening the directory, he discovered only one file was readable. The others were encrypted. Gibberish flowed like lightning across the Pentium-powered screen. The idea of copying the files came on the heels of seeing the backup directory on the screen. It was empty when he opened it. Chip was meticulous about making sure he didn't lose data due to a hard-disk crash. He was, however, tied into a network. That would be backed up nightly and he'd have no need— Wyatt didn't complete the thought. If Chip had no need to back his own files, why did he have a backup directory? What had been inside it? Someone else had been here, Wyatt thought; been here and taken what Wyatt was looking for.

  There must be other tapes, he thought. Pulling the drawers open, he found only a few paper clips and an array of disks scattered in the bottom.

  "Thank God!" he prayed. Wyatt quickly signed into his email account and began attaching and sending the direc­tory to a personal Internet site he set up for personal use. It took twenty minutes to complete. His palms sweated as he worked. Pacing the room, his heart pounded as if he could force the process to complete faster than the drive could han­dle it. The sun kept sinking, darkening the room except for the light produced by the monitor. Wyatt wondered what time the guards began rounds. Would someone come in and find him? Computer piracy would be added to the lists of crimes he'd committed by just being in the building. And he still had to get out. He'd wanted to leave with the crowd during rush hour, but he hadn't finished.

  He also hadn't called Sandra. Chip appeared to have high-tech equipment, including his phone. The Pentagon probably had the best phone system in the world. Chip's phone had several extensions on it Wyatt recognized words like CAMP, FLASH, and FORWARD from his own phone back in the Senate Office Building. He knew when he picked up the re­ceiver his secretary and several of his aides knew he was on the phone. He couldn't take the chance that someone might notice the light from an extension of one Chip Jackson, re­cently deceased.

  Finally, the last message finished. He was done.

  Before turning the machine off he checked for other refer­ences to Project Eagle. He found none. Flipping the switch, the screen went black. The only light seeping into the room came through the vertically slated blinds. Wyatt checked the outside, finding nothing but the incessant traffic on Route 1 whizzing by at speeds in excess of the legal fifty-five miles per hour.

  His time was up. He had to get out now. When he turned back to the room he could see everything outlined in the dim­ness; the desk, the computer, the boxes on the floor. He lifted Chip's degree which had hung on the side wall next to a book case a few weeks ago. The trustees of Morgan State University certify that Edward Jackson has satisfactory completed . . . He knew the words by heart The two of them had been ec­static about graduation. They were going to conquer the world. Now Chip was dead and he was a fugitive from both the law and some unknown assailant.

  Wyatt slipped the frame back in the box and straightened. He looked at the wall, seeing more in his mind than through his eyes, the place where citations for community service work had shared space with certificates from continuing education programming and computer software classes. Turning away from the memories, Wyatt started for the door. The anteroom remained empty as it had been when he arrived. He cracked the door to the hall and peeped out. The hallway was clear. He prayed his thanks and stepped onto the polished floor.

  He
walked down the hall, forcing his steps to be unhurried. He made it through the first security checkpoint. The activity in the ring was busy and hurried. People passed him as they scurried to whatever emergency was at hand. Wyatt hoped it wasn't him. Continuing, he walked until he was in site of the exit. Darkness had fallen and he could see his reflection as he approached the door. Just a few steps away and he'd be out, clear of the building and out of imminent danger.

  Ten feet from freedom a colonel stepped in front of him. He stopped, his feet spread apart, his arms behind his back.

  He rocked slightly back and forth. "Senator Randolph, wel­come to the Pentagon."

  ***

  When Sam Parker blocked his exit, Wyatt thought his life was over. His stomach sank. He swallowed hard over the lump clogging his throat and waited, waited for men to grab each of his arms and restrain him. Instead, Sam stepped for­ward and pumped his hand as if they were old friends who hadn't seen each other in a long time. Together they left the building and walked to Sam's car, parked in the first lot.

  "You've got to be the craziest man on earth," Sam told him as they left the parking area and joined the traffic. "What did you think you were doing, breaking into a government build­ing?"

  "I didn't break in." Wyatt checked the sandstone-colored building they'd just left. "I thought you'd turn me in," he said, returning his gaze to Sam.

  "You're lucky I saw you before someone else did."

  Wyatt wasn't sure. He and Sam had known each through Chip. The three of them had spent a lot of time together, but he wasn't sure how things stood now that Chip was dead. Wyatt had called Sam, but Wyatt didn't know if his agreement was fully trustworthy. When he found the security badge he'd decided to go it alone.

  Sam worked in the same area as Chip -- computerized defense systems. That was about as much as Wyatt knew.

  "Chip was my friend, too, and I want to know who killed him," Sam said.

  Wyatt checked Sam's expression closely. He didn't know if he was telling the truth or not. “What has the Pentagon said about it?"

  "They issued the standard condolence statement and said the investigation was underway. That’s usually where it ends unless the family begins to make noises."

  "They dropped it?"

  "Not altogether. Officially the department isn't saying a thing, but behind the scenes I hear snatches of conversation, see an occasional memo. Except for trying to find you, noth­ing is open. Of course, the grapevine says Chip sent you something. Only a few of us actually know what it was."

  So Sam knew about the stones. Is that why he'd helped him get out of the Pentagon? Was he trying to get them back?

  "You want to know if it’s true?"

  "I already know it's true," he laughed. "If you didn't have them, you wouldn't have taken such a big risk to get into Chip's office."

  "How did you know I was there?"

  "Where else would you go?"

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "Relax, Wyatt." He glanced at him. "I'm on your side. If I wanted to turn you in, I could have done it when you phoned."

  "Why didn't you?" Wyatt asked suspiciously. "You're a ca­reer soldier. What you've done could get you court-martialed, drummed out of the service with no pension and no benefits." Wyatt didn't mention it could also get him killed. "Why would you want to put all those things on the line to help me?"

  "Because Chip is. . .was my friend, too," he repeated. "And I don't like what I think they're going to do to him."

  "What is that?"

  Sam sighed heavily. He turned the car onto the Beltway and headed toward Maryland. Wyatt waited, his patience slip­ping away.

  "They're setting him up to be the scapegoat . . . and you, too. You're a wildcard. They hadn't counted on Chip taking the stones or sending them to you. I also think my involvement is also on the line."

  "How are you involved?" Wyatt asked.

  "Chip and I were working on the same project. We were at different points and didn't know about the other. We're only allowed to discuss our work with someone who knows about it. For weeks we didn't see each other, although we worked in the same building. By chance we met at the end of the lunch hour one day and I happened to mention that the Eagle was driving me crazy. I was more than a little surprised to find out he knew what I meant. We talked later, away from the Pentagon, and found out we were working on the same thing, but mine was a device to sabotage foreign communi­cations, while his was a linking mechanism to use the com­bined power of separately orbiting satellites."

  "That's what the stones do?"

  Sam stared at him. "You don't know? Chip didn't tell you what you're holding?"

  "No."

  Sam pulled into the driveway of his house and cut the mo­tor. He didn't move to open the door, but turned to look Wyatt directly in the face.

  "Project Eagle is a communications device that can eaves­drop on anything from a single phone to the entire world."

  Chapter 9

  "Dad?" Sandra grabbed the ringing phone and shouted into the receiver. She'd been waiting all afternoon for him to call. Wyatt hadn't answered any of her attempts and she was so angry she could eat nails.

  "You called your father?" Wyatt's voice was reprimanding.

  "Wyatt! Where are you? I've been out of my mind with worry."

  "So out of your mind you called your father?" he shouted.

  Her anger intensified. He'd been missing all day. She didn't know if he was alive or dead and he was shouting at her. "What did you expect me to do? You weren't where you were supposed to be. I called that number over and over and not once did you answer it."

  She heard him take a long breath. It was calming also to her. "I talked to my father this afternoon."

  "What did the senator have to say?"

  Sandra heard the dark censure in Wyatt's question.

  "Not much. We agreed to meet later for dinner."

  ""You didn't tell him where you were?"

  "No, at the time I didn't have anyplace to tell him. I just found a room. He's going to call me later."

  "How?"

  "On the cell phone—"

  "Listen to me, Sandra. You're in immediate danger. I want you to get out of there, now!"

  "Wyatt, you're not making any sense. Do you know how long it took me to find this room? I'm not—"

  "Sandra!" he shouted. "Get out of there, now! Go to the Lincoln Memorial. I'll meet you there."

  "Wyatt, why—"

  "I'll explain later. Turn off the phone and go. Promise me you'll do what I ask?"

  Sandra paused. She wasn't used to following orders. What was wrong with Wyatt?

  "Promise me?"

  "All right," she conceded. “I'll come."

  "Now, Sandra. Time is not on your side."

  "All right, I'll do it, now. I don't understand, but I'll do it."

  Sandra switched the phone off and grabbed her back­pack. Slinging it onto her back she took the canvas bag she hadn't unpacked and started for the door. She peeped through the curtain and saw nothing. If it had been Wyatt's plan to frighten her, he'd done a good job. She opened the door and went out. Taking a route away from the registration desk she reached the end of the motel complex. Hearing something behind her, she turned the corner and stood against the wall. Cautiously, she looked back. Two men with guns drawn flanked the door of her room.

  Clamping her hand over her mouth, she stopped the shriek that struggled to escape. Her other hand went to her stomach, which flopped as if she'd gone over the top of a roller coaster. Sandra crouched against the building. Her knees threatened to buckle. Who were they? Who'd sent them? They kicked the door in and rushed inside, one going high, the other flipping over inside. The force of their movement gave her feet the ability to move. She ran to the backside of the building and couching below car level, worked her way to the street. Afraid to look back, she went into the subway system and jumped on the fast moving car. Sandra didn’t know where it was going or if it would take her clos
e enough to the Lincoln Memorial for her to meet Wyatt. Escape was on her mind. Evading the two men was more important than determining a direct route. By the time her breathing returned to normal, she removed her cell phone, unhitched the battery and threw the device in the dark water.

  She ran then walked, her breathing audible, her heart thundering. By the time she arrived at the memorial, she was holding her sides, trying to keep the pain inside. She held to the side of the steps, walking without rushing up the marble stairs to the landing. Pausing, she stole inside the hushed quiet temple honoring the sixteenth President of the United States. Her head whipped from side to side as she scanned the cavernous room. Wyatt wasn't there. He hadn’t said to meet him inside. Only that she should meet him here. He could be anywhere. She’d naturally come up the steps. All tourists came inside, but Wyatt was probably downstairs, concealed in one of the areas that led to the gift shop or the public rooms.

  Sandra was close to tears. Her life had been turned upside down. There was no one she could trust, not even her father. That bothered her more than Wyatt’s disappearance. He was the only person she'd told about the phone other than Wyatt. Yet, he hadn't come to her. Men with guns had come. Sandra trembled. She needed something familiar, somewhere she could relax and put things in order. She went to stand between two of the thirty-six columns representing the states that com­prised the union when Lincoln was President. The Colorado marble was cold to her touch, but she needed the coldness to stabilize herself, help her to calm down. Men with guns had been after her. What would they have done if Wyatt hadn't insisted she leave the room? Would she be dead now? Would they try to force Wyatt's location from her or would they assume she knew where the stones were and try to extract that information?

  She shivered in the cold dimness of late afternoon. Her shoulders began to shake with the beginnings of hysteria when strong arms caught her and turned her around.

  "Wyatt!"

  She threw herself into his arms, wrapped herself around him, clung to him like she could merge her body into his. The solid feel of his chest against her cheek calmed her hysteria. Her body moved and her hands moved over him, convincing herself he was there. That she was found him and she was safe in his arms. She pressed herself closer, forgetting the words he'd said about her father's involvement, only needing the strength he offered and she readily took.