She checked the rearview mirror. It was too dark to identify the car behind her, but she was sure it was the same one she'd noticed since she'd left the District. Sandra shuddered again. Could it be Sam Parker? Had he told them the truth or did he just want to find the stones? Was someone tailing her? Initially Wyatt hadn't wanted her to go alone, and right now she saw the merit in his concern. Was it Wyatt? Had he somehow gotten a car and followed her?
She was headed to the FBI training facility at Quantico. Pressing the accelerator, she eyed the needle as it passed seventy. The car behind her maintained its distance. She slowed. It slowed.
Her heart jumped into her throat and fear sent a shiver down her spine. She was in this one alone . . . and she didn't like it. Exactly as she'd tried to explain to Wyatt. If she left him, he'd have no backup. No one to help him out of situations. She glanced at the phone. Who could she call? Wyatt had no transportation. Her father hadn't given her a number. She didn't trust Sam enough to use the number he'd supplied. He could be driving the car behind her.
Gripping the steering wheel as if her life depended on it, she continued for several more miles. Cars and trucks joined the parade, some passing her, spewing excess water and reducing visibility, some leaving the highway at various exits, but the single car kept a steady pace as if it was connected by a tractor beam. The rain intensified, plopping large drops of water against the windscreen. Sandra was forced to slow down. She didn't want to cause her own accident. Glancing in the mirror, she saw the car behind her slow to maintain the same distance.
She tried to decide what she should do. Should she get off the highway, continue to Quantico, or pull into the next state police station? Her options were limited. She wasn't familiar with this part of Virginia. Getting off could put her on a dead-end road and she didn't want that kind of end. Going to the police would mean turning herself and Wyatt over without any leverage, since they didn't know where the stones were. Her only option was to continue to Quantico. She was heading for the FBI facility. If she'd get any protection at all, it would be there.
By the time she neared Quantico the road junctioned. The car following her turned to take that route. Sandra let her breath out. She felt as if she'd been holding it for miles. The relief was almost delirious.
When she pulled into the parking lot next to the main training building, she had her nerves under control. The rain slowed and changed wet snow. At least it wasn’t hail, she told herself. Maybe the change was an omen that things were getting back on track.
She parked under a bright light as Wyatt had instructed her. If anyone tampered with the car they would be in plain sight and under surveillance by the many concealed cameras positioned about the grounds.
Before she pushed the door open she dialed Wyatt at the hotel. The phone rang several times, but no one answered. She wondered where he'd gone. He hadn't mentioned anything to her about leaving. Fear attacked her and she took deep breaths to calm herself. Had he taken matters in his own hands? Had he left her, moved to another place in a misguided attempt to protect her? Like the missing stones, she could do nothing about Wyatt at the moment.
The first flakes of snow bit her in the face as she exited the car and set the alarm. Large, fluffy, and beautiful, ice crystals caught in her hair and on her coat, but she didn't want to see them. She wanted a pleasant, uncomplicated ride back and snow would hinder her progress.
She checked the perimeter, looking for the cameras but seeing none. She knew they were there, knew that someone concealed inside the huge whitewashed building had observed her since she turned into the road leading to the training facility.
She saw her father as she pushed in the heavy glass doors that led to the reception area. The seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation took up the entire wall behind the reception station.
"Sandra!" he called, straightening up from a conversation with the officer at the desk and coming to her.
Sandra stared at him for a moment. Before her was the man whose arms were always open to her, the man who'd held her hand when she visited Santa Claus, who'd lifted her into his arms when the monstrous figure of Mickey Mouse waved his giant hand at her. This man was not sinister or evil. He was her father. Sandra took a step forward, then ran into his arms.
"Dad!" she cried. "It's so good to see you." Tears misted in her eyes and clouded her vision. The words seemed so inadequate for what she meant. He'd been her friend, mentor, and confidant for as long as she could remember. In the past week she'd missed not having him to talk to and explain the horrible things that had happened to her and Wyatt.
"Hello, Ms. Rutledge," the officer said. She recognized him but didn't remember his name. "I was sorry to hear about Mr. Taylor."
"Thank you," she said, swallowing the lump that lodged in her throat each time someone mentioned Jeff. She felt responsible for his death. If she hadn't asked him to look at the stones he might be alive today.
"He was here the day before he died. He had dinner with Mr. Desque."
"Lance—"
"Come on, honey," her father interrupted. "We'll go somewhere and talk."
He took the identification badge from the officer and, hugging her about the shoulders, led her away. They moved though a maze of hallways and doors. On the second floor he opened a door that led into an apartment. Overstaffed sofas faced each other floating in the large room defined by glass tables and lamps. A small dining area had been set up at the end of room. A dinner table with candles and flowers waited for them. The room was light and comfortable. The walls had matching pictures of a garden in full summer bloom. Somehow Sandra knew they were soundproof.
"Why are we having dinner here?" she asked when she'd taken her coat off and laid it over a chair near the door.
"I'm working here for the time being and I need to be up early in the morning. I thought it would be convenient."
Convenient and isolated, she thought. It wasn't unheard of for members of Congress to assist with FBI training. Brad Rutledge had been on the training staff for several years before seeking his first seat in Congress.
He crossed to the dining area and held the chair out for her. It was a deep maroon velvet with a firm, cushioned bottom. Sandra wondered where they'd come from and why they were in a training facility.
"Did you have a difficult drive?"
"No," she said, deciding not to tell him about the car she thought was tailing her.
"Good," he smiled. "Now, what would you like to eat? You can order anything your heart desires."
"I'm really not that hungry. I have some questions and I'd like to get them answered."
"You look thin."
She'd hoped he wouldn't notice her weight loss, but parents notice everything, her mother had once told her. She supposed it was only natural.
"I had the chef prepare your favorite foods. Why don't I ask them to serve us?"
Sandra nodded. She tried to relax as her father picked up the phone and spoke into it without dialing a number. Several moments later the door opened and in came a white-clad waiter with rolls and water and a small tossed salad with fresh Russian dressing. Sandra found she was hungrier than she thought. The salad was followed by lobster tails, broiled to perfection, a baked potato so flaky it melted in her mouth, and broccoli that had to be fresh off the farm. She refused dessert but accepted the cup of flavored coffee.
When her father leaned back in his chair she figured she'd waited long enough. It was time for some answers.
"Dad, are you guilty of treason?"
Bradford Campbell Rutledge let out a whoop of laughter that benefitted the soundproof room.
"What has Randolph been filling your ears with?" ,
"He's told me about Project Eagle and he thinks you're the ring leader trying to find the components and sell them to the highest bidder."
"Sandra, you know I would never do a thing like that," he said soberly.
She'd always believed her father was above reproach, but life ha
d taught her that everyone had a price.
"Are you involved, in any way, with Project Eagle?"
He hesitated. She tensed, knowing the gesture. Why was he playing a game with her? Why didn't he just tell her the truth?
"I'm chairman of the defense subcommittee. I'm privileged to a lot of projects. Eagle is only one of them."
"What would you do if I told you I have the missing parts and I could give them to you?"
He leaned forward. "Give them to me, Sandra." His voice was low, as if they were conspiring to do something. "I'm the only one who can get them to the right people."
"The right people! People who can eavesdrop on the world. Suppose they don't like what they hear? Are they going to react?" Anger made her speech rushed. "Will people suddenly disappear without cause? Dad, this is a Big Brother machine." She took a deep breath and calmed herself, then continued in a voice both quiet and deadly. "You've always hated the thought of too much interference by government. It's one of the ideals you campaigned with. People voted for you because they thought you'd keep control of all the computer networks and centralized identification systems. Now you're involved in a system that can tap into any home in the world." She spread her arms, encompassing the room. "Project Eagle can obliterate the ability of people to talk to each other in whole sections of countries. Why did you let such a system be built? We thought you were looking out for the people."
"Sandra, I can't discuss this with you. It's classified information."
"Well, declassify it. I'm already owner of the one vital part that allows everything else to work. Without it, all you have is a massive paperweight."
"You can't keep it, Sandra." He paused again. "I didn't want to tell you this, but Senator Randolph is the traitor. He wants the parts to sell to a foreign power. Right now the Japanese are interested, although the Iranians and several of the republics in the new Soviet Union are making noises."
"I don't believe you!" Sandra stood up so fast the chair fell over behind her. She gave it only the slightest glance before glaring at her father. "Wyatt would never do that. He’s trying desperately to find a solution to the ownership of the parts."
She said she didn't believe him, but was it true? Could Wyatt's reason for trying to keep her away from her father have been because she'd learn the truth? What was the truth? She no longer knew if she could recognize it.
Wyatt said he loved her. And she loved him, too. Oh, God! She wanted to cry. She couldn't be in love with a traitor.
"Sandra, he's lying. You can't believe anything he says. Look how he grew up. He's been poor all his life. His mother teaches school and his father is a carpenter."
"Both very respected professions."
"Do you know the kind of money he could command if he sells those diamonds? The amount of power he could garner? He’s never even seen as much money as selling the component will bring him."
"Then why hasn't he already sold it? Why did he show up at the cabin looking for you with a hole in his side and blood spurting out like water tumbling over Niagara Falls?"
"I don't know. When he first talked to me—"
"Wyatt said he never talked to you," she interrupted. "He left you a message."
"That's right. He wanted to talk to me. Later we did talk. He's misguided, Sandra. He thinks I'm the cause of his misery. He wants me to go public with the news that Project Eagle exists, that no one is safe from its span."
"No one is." Sandra was confused. She didn't know who to believe. Her brain told her what her father said about Wyatt couldn't be true. He'd never lied to her. Some of what he said made sense. The amount of money a government would pay for the system would be enough to cause anyone to think of selling it.
"What about you, Dad? Was the amount of money so great you couldn't resist? Is Wyatt the one telling the truth?"
Brad Rutledge looked at his daughter as if she were the enemy. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing." He got to his feet like a sleeping giant coming to life. "I am your father." He stamped each word out as if he were working a teletype machine.
"Yes, you are!" she shouted. "And as my father it was your job to teach me and to live up to the ideals you tried to instill in me. Yet, tonight you've denied, evaded, and sidestepped every question I've asked you. You've told me. . .nothing." She stopped suddenly. A light bulb ignited in her brain. The room was soundless. Their anger hung between them. "You didn't bring me here to get information from me, or even to make sure I was safe. You wanted me away from Wyatt.”
"Sandra, I did—"
"What have you done to him?" She remembered trying to reach him on the car phone.
"As far as I know, Sandra, he's safe. I promise you."
"I don't know if I can believe you anymore." She backed away from him. She had to get out of here. Something was awfully wrong and she didn't understand.
"Sandra, don't go like this." She stopped, but more at the shrill sound of the phone ringing than his words. They both looked at the white instrument as if it could speak.
After a moment Brad Rutledge walked over and lifted the receiver. Sandra listened to the one-sided conversation. "Yes, sir. . .no, sir. . .she's here, sir. . .yes, sir." Without a salutation he hung up. "Who was that?" she asked.
“The President of the United States."
Sandra rolled her eyes. "Is he part of this, too?"
Chapter 13
Wyatt strapped on the backpack and bent to tie his sneakers. With Sandra gone he had time to do some snooping. They'd agreed the best way to find the stones would be to discover what Jeff had done in the days before his death. He couldn't stand being in that room knowing she was leaving and might not come back.
It could be a trap like he'd told her. It could also be the best thing that had happened to her since she got involved with him. He had to do something to keep his mind off Sandra and what was happening to her.
9-5-1-4-7. The number ran through Wyatt's mind like an unrelenting song. What could Jeff have meant? He'd told them he hadn't given away the location of the stones. Not even he and Sandra knew where Jeff had hidden them. The most likely place was either his house or his office. He hadn't died in either place, but both could be under observation by the local authorities or some other far more threatening agency. He'd have to be careful. Blend in and at the first sign of trouble, forget the whole thing.
Wyatt jogged in the falling snow. Anyone seeing him would think he was a student training for the track team. He was too thin for football, but in the dark looked young and agile enough to pass as a student. The fact that he exercised regularly was on his side. He only hoped his period of inactivity and the tender ache in his side didn't show to a scrutinizing eye. Luck was with him when he saw a couple of guys with Howard University Athletics Department written on their jackets jogging in his direction. They passed him without a nod. He hung back as if he were with them but not as well-conditioned and able to keep to such a fast pace.
He passed Jeff's house without a glance. The windows were dark, giving the place an empty, unlived-in look. When Wyatt reached the alley that had eluded the police and allowed him and Sandra to escape a week earlier, he checked his surroundings and quickly turned into it. He stopped, pressing his back against the wall of the first house. His breath congealed in the cold air as he watched and waited for anyone to follow him. Assured he was not being tailed, he continued his jogging until he reached Jeff's backyard.
Peering through the window of the garage, he found the sports car in place. No lights shone on the back of the house and he found it easy work to jimmy the lock and get inside. From the backpack he pulled a flashlight and began his search. The place had the definite stamp of police on it. It wasn't likely they'd left anything for him to find. He was hoping to find the stones, but he only expected to locate a date book or some type of calendar. He moved slowly from the living room and dining room through the kitchen, opening drawers, checking inside canisters and ice trays. He found nothing. Upstairs was the same.
Jeff ‘s computer equipment occupied one bedroom. Most of what was on it was the same gibberish as was on the disks in his backpack. He found a few games and a file of letters addressed to Jeff’s sister in Baltimore, but nothing to help him with the disappearance of the stones. On impulse he looked in the computer address file for Jeff’s sister's phone number and address. Neither had 95147 in any part of it. The basement and the attic proved the same fruitless effort.
Wyatt let himself out as he'd come in. Snow continued to fall while he was inside. He wasn't sure if he'd look suspicious jogging in the snow, so he walked to the campus. Cars passed on the major thoroughfare and students rushed toward their dorms. He fit in and no one noticed him. The closer he got to the campus, the more students were on the street. Several classes must have ended recently.
He stopped at the light on 4th Avenue across from the wrought-iron gates leading to the main campus. Two students joined him as they waited for the light to turn green.
"We wondered how long it would take before you came, Senator Randolph."
Wyatt jumped at the voice and the mention of his name. He jerked around to find two men on either side of him and one directly in front. Wyatt didn't recognize any of them. The one in front spoke. "Would you come with us, please. There are several questions we'd like to ask you."
***
"Damn!" Sandra cried. The car skidded across the road as she sped out of the FBI compound. Her father and several agents had chased her as she traversed the hallways to find an exit and get back to her car.
Tears blurred her eyes and snow impeded her travel, but she defied caution and tore up the winding road. Behind her, cars scrambled to stop her. The surprise exit gave her the minutes she needed to get away. If she could make it out of the small town and back to the highway she could evade her assailants in the traffic.
"That's what they expected," she said out loud. They would expect that she'd head for the highway. If they were smart there would be cars blocking that direction. She didn't know the country. She could get lost if she tried a different path. Well, she'd just have to get lost. Wyatt had been right. It was a trap. She wouldn't do what was expected. This time she would do something unexpected. She abruptly turned into the small town. Thankfully, other people had been on the roads. They were deserted, but their tracks in the snow covered the four directions. Sandra turned left and followed a narrow winding road. Checking behind her, she found no lights reflected in her mirror. She kept going, hoping this would lead somewhere. A Virginia state road sign stood on the right, but it was covered by the blowing snow. The route number was partially visible. She read a three but it could just as easily be an eight. The rest of the number was obliterated. She didn't know where she was or where it would lead. Pushing ahead, she slowed and followed the road. When it ended she turned right, hoping that was north. The road wasn't well traveled and the car slipped and slid over the icy ground like a kid on his first pair of skates. At this rate she'd never make it back to Washington. If she was lucky she wouldn't pitch into one of the ditches and if she wasn't she'd be caught by one of her fathers’ men. Then she saw the sign for a motel.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 52