Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  She took her place in the menza line with the poor and the homeless. Her shoulder and leg throbbed constantly, bowing her slightly, adding a shuffling gait to her walk. There were hundreds of people and she heard a rainbow of tongues. Volunteers brought food to the tables. Jackie spooned up pasta and broth, then ate every scrap of her roast chicken with peas. When she looked around, no one met her eyes. Even so, she felt a comfortable bond with this place and these people. Her pain might be better hidden, but she understood.

  “Jackie, welcome.” Anna smiled to all the table as she touched Jackie’s good shoulder. “Everything hurts, yes? But while you slept the doctor came, she says all is fine.”

  “This is some operation.”

  “Sant’Egidio started here with this kitchen. Now we are all the world over. We study the Word of God, we pray for peace, we feed the poor, we speak for all who have no voice.”

  “What about the conference in Washington, and the one now in Cairo?”

  “Many conferences.” Anna found cheer in the words. “All are the same. We feed the poor and we pray for peace.”

  After lunch, Jackie used her credit card and the phone in a neighboring café to call Esther. The older woman was suitably horrified by news of her moped attackers, and reluctantly agreed to try to pass on the warning to Wynn. Afterward Jackie found herself unwilling to return to her room and the slats of light and the imprisoning bed. Instead she walked to the church piazza. She moved slowly, favoring her wounded side. She sat on the waist-high bench shelf running along the piazza’s western wall, joined there by dozens of other homeless and lost. The shadows and the church bells were the only clock they needed, counting out just another empty day.

  After a time she stretched out on the stone bench and dozed until shadows draped the square in coming dusk. Upon awakening she crossed to a neighboring alley market and bought an olive ciabatta, cheese, grapes, and bottled water. As she was finishing her meal, the church bells pealed their nightly invitation. She found herself joining the throngs approaching the church, her internal protests the meagerest of whines.

  Anna stood just inside the doorway, smiling a welcome. “You are feeling better?”

  “Not really.”

  “Ah.” The smile gentled but did not fade. “Perhaps you are not just speaking of your outside wounds, yes?” Anna matched her own pace to Jackie’s shuffling gait. “Perhaps the question is not what you face, but what you choose to face alone. You understand?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Of course, life is possible without God. So many desperate people, they survive with nothing but themselves. But hope? Who can stand alone and still know this?”

  Her smile was so infectious, Jackie found the response came easily. “I’m missing the connection here.”

  Anna smiled her down the aisle. “You see? Already you know where you belong.”

  Still more people kept pressing in behind her. Jackie spotted a pew near the front. The Bible reading started, each passage translated twice. An Arab woman sat to one side of her, a bulky man in a tight suit to the other. The singing began, a chant beyond time and space, one almost too soothing for her own good. The choir stood to her left, a few young people who chanted one line and then were echoed by the packed congregation. The responses were great wellsprings of music, free verses of gentle might. Jackie picked up the leaflet with the English words but was afraid to read them. The music alone was already too much.

  Suddenly she was crying. She did not know why, or even for whom. There was no space for reason, scarcely any for breath.

  A hand reached over and patted her shoulder. Roughly she shook her head. The hand retreated, then returned, but only to drop a tissue into her lap. Apparently tears were not new here, nor the desire for solitude in the midst of many. She had heard of tears that held a cleansing, a gladness. And always discounted such words as bitter fable.

  Jackie straightened and used the tissue to wipe her face. She never cried. It was a luxury she could not afford. Which was why these easy tears frightened her so. She sought strength from the incense-laden air, rose, and headed for the door. For a moment she wished she had never heard of Rome.

  JACKIE SEARCHED the overhead signs for the bus to Reagan National Airport and tried to ignore her throbbing wounds. The prospect of seeing Shane again kept her moving forward, glancing at her watch, calculating how much time she had before her connecting flight to Orlando. Which was why she did not see Esther until the woman stepped forward and said, “Let me have that, dear, and sit yourself down.”

  Jackie did not want to meet the woman’s gaze. There was no place here for yet more tears, be they from weariness or pain or what lay ahead. She buried her head in Esther’s shoulder and gripped as hard as her wounded shoulder permitted.

  “Are you exhausted?”

  “Tired, yes. Sleepy, no. All I’ve done for two days now is doze.” She let the older woman ease her down into the wheelchair held by Carter Styles. She smiled at the carrot-headed man. “I really don’t need this.”

  “Indulge me.” Esther took hold of her trolley and led them over to a relatively quiet corner, where she lowered herself into a seat. “Can we see to one other matter before we take you home?”

  “The answer is yes, but I’m headed for Orlando.” She checked the concourse clock. “I’ve got just over three hours to make it to National. Everything leaving from here was full.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t.”

  “I have no choice, Esther.”

  It was Carter who asked, “Hayek?”

  “I might have a lead,” Jackie confirmed.

  Esther rubbed hard at the lines compressed into her own forehead. Carter slipped into the seat beside Esther and leaned forward until his belly rested upon his thighs. “We’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

  “I’m starved for the good.”

  “Tell me. Okay. First, Graham is better. Not great, not even good. But back among the living.”

  “Probably as good as he’ll ever get,” Esther added.

  “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.” Carter took hold of the older woman’s hand and said to Jackie, “And we instituted legal action against the newspaper, the one that ran the story about Graham. Our lawyer’s done some background research. Turns out the paper has a new minority shareholder. Some foreign bank.”

  “Let me guess,” Jackie said. “Banque Royale of Liechtenstein.”

  “Right first time.”

  “They owned the plane that took Valerie Lawry down to see Hayek.”

  Esther said, “You might as well tell her the rest.”

  Carter took time to shape the words. “The Congressman and Senator Trilling were ambushed coming back from what we thought was a secret conference outside Cairo. They’re both okay, but Congressman Bryant’s sister was killed. And our friend Nabil was wounded.”

  “They’re calling Wynn’s flight,” Esther said, using first the seat, then the back, and finally Carter’s shoulder to push herself upright. “You can tell her the rest on the way.”

  WHEN THEY STARTED back across the concourse, Jackie found she could not abide being seated in that wheelchair. No matter how nice it felt to rely on the strength of others, her skin crawled at how people carefully avoided looking down at her. She had spent a lifetime depending on no one but herself. “I’ll walk.”

  Carter merely helped her up, then rolled the chair aside and matched his stride to her own. Esther continued to push her trolley. But when they came within sight of the international arrivals gate, Carter said, “Let’s stop right here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Cameras at ten o’clock. I don’t believe it. Look who’s pushing through to greet the Congressman.”

  Jackie spotted the familiar face. “Is that Governor Wells?”

  Carter offered, “There was a White House meeting of southern governors yesterday.”

  “He couldn’t possibly be using this as a photo op,” Esther said. “
He wouldn’t dare.”

  Wynn emerged through the sliding doors like a man stumbling from his own tomb. Eyes wide but seeing nothing, he lurched forward on unsteady legs. When the first camera flashed, Wynn’s entire body recoiled.

  Grant Wells stepped forward and hugged Wynn. In a flash of assimilation, Wynn took in the entire tableau. Instead of pushing himself away, however, he gripped Grant harder. But not in sorrow. His features stretched so taut the blood was squeezed out, turning his face into a feral mask. His lips drew back fully from his teeth, so that he appeared ready to bite Grant’s head off.

  Jackie saw Grant’s muscles contract and realized the governor was trying to break away. Wynn held him fiercely in place and kept whispering into his ear, twisting slightly so that Grant’s head shielded his own from the cameras. The side of Grant’s face came into view. The governor looked ill. He heaved harder, a convulsive jerk, and broke free. Wynn ducked his head and shoved through the crowd. The governor stared after him, still cringing.

  Jackie walked over so that she fell into step beside him. “Slow down a little. I can’t move that fast.”

  Wynn looked as if he had aged fifty years. “They got you too?”

  “Back and leg. I tried to call and warn you.” When he continued to barrel through the throng, she said, “I have information you need to hear.”

  A reporter appeared at Wynn’s other side. “Congressman, could we please have a statement about—”

  “Not now. Call my office.”

  “Our embassy in Cairo claims it was the work of terrorists—”

  “I said, not now.” Then he saw Esther and Carter. He found enough strength to snarl, “Don’t either of you come near me.”

  Esther began, “I just wanted to say how sorry—”

  “Save it.” To Jackie, “Come on.”

  She took the trolley from Carter and tried to match Wynn’s pace, though his elongated steps stretched her leg until the wound shrieked. “I’ve got to catch a flight from National.”

  “I’ll drop you off.” Wynn hurtled through the doors, not bothering to check for oncoming traffic, ignoring the indignant horn and squeal of brakes. He aimed for the line of limos like a man on a mission. Once there he talked a language they clearly understood, because one driver leaped forward. When Wynn pointed back at Jackie, the driver raced over to take her trolley.

  When she slipped inside, however, the anger and the energy were gone, and she found instead a man who shrank away from her and the surrounding world. “I’m so sorry, Wynn.”

  He waited until the driver had slid behind the wheel to say, “National Airport, then the Willard. And close the divider.”

  Only when the glass panel had slid into place did he speak directly to her. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

  His grief was enough to draw her close. She settled one arm behind him, took his hand, sat there. Let him absorb the fact that she was with him. In the here and now. Gradually the tension seeped away, until he was able to slide down and place his head upon her shoulder. Nestle in. Like he belonged. “I’m so tired.”

  She stroked the fine dark head. “I know.”

  They sat thus, not speaking, through the long ride until the first National sign swept overhead. Jackie pushed at his chest, a gentle nudge, and said, “I have news.”

  Reluctantly he moved away, rubbed his face, and listened as she sped through the detective’s report, the message from the Boatman, the attack. She then went back to her earlier discussion with Esther, and concluded, “Everything is still pointing at Hayek having an agenda and a timetable. That’s the only reason I can think why he’d attack us. It’s not about some amendment. Something else is at work here.”

  Wynn still had not spoken when the driver asked over the intercom, “Excuse me, which airline?”

  “United.”

  “Then we’ve arrived.”

  They pulled to the curb and halted. Wynn gripped her hand. “Stay here.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I need you, Jackie.” The entreaty cost him dearly. “Please.”

  Gently she released her hand from his. “Later maybe.” She moved for the door, fleeing temptation. “Right now I’ve got to catch this flight to Orlando.”

  He craned over, asked through the open door, “What’s so critical about right now?”

  She reached back in and touched his face. Gave him a sad, sad smile. “Tomorrow is visiting day.”

  34

  Saturday

  SATURDAY MORNING Jim Burke had one of the company limos take him downtown. The car smelled faintly of cleanser, stale ashes, and other people’s sweat. Burke stared out the windows at soporific downtown Orlando, the world caught in another ritual feast.

  Yesterday and again that morning he had met with Hayek over the debacles in Rome and Egypt. Hayek had shown genuine pleasure over how wrong things had gone. His only sign of frustration had come not over the attacks themselves, but rather over their inability to track down the Brazilian banker. Burke tried not to give it all much thought. The potential deviations were too great. He would follow orders and expect all to be made clear soon enough. With Hayek, it was simply the way.

  First Florida was one of the state’s oldest banks, and its Orlando headquarters looked the part. The squat stone behemoth took up almost an entire block, a cross between the Treasury Building and a demented mausoleum. Burke climbed yard-wide stairs and gave his name to the security man guarding mammoth brass doors.

  Burke despised the board members on sight, pinstriped losers hiding their nervousness behind golf course laughter. They clutched to the premise that since he had come to their offices, he was the one being welcomed into the club.

  “Jim Burke, do I have that right? Bob Carlton, President of First Florida. Can’t tell you what a pleasure it is, yessir. A real pleasure.”

  Burke accepted the handshake. “Right.”

  “When my secretary said you sounded American, I thought to myself, this is too good to be true.” He was all teeth and rosy cheeks and tight, worried eyes. “I mean, it’s all well and good to have the Banque Royale of Liechtenstein buy us out—did I say that right? But communication between people who know their own turf is easier. Makes for less chance of a false start here.”

  Robert Carlton the Fifth was the great-great-grandson of First Florida’s founder, and as far removed from the first Carlton as modern Orlando was from the pioneer settlement of the midnineteenth century. Carlton the original glared down from an ornately framed portrait on the wall, obviously enraged over what his progeny had done with his creation.

  “What say we get to business.” Bob Carlton beamed his other board members into their seats, keeping the head of the table for himself, holding out the chair to his right for Burke. “I think you’ll find this comfortable, James. Or should I call you Jim?”

  “Mr. Burke will do just fine.” He took a seat in the center of the table, switching the top position from the head to his own chair. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”

  “No problem. Harry, swing on over here by me, why don’t you. That’s great.” He slumped ponderously into his chair. “What say we get you up to speed on all our operations and—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Burke shoved away the bank’s embossed leather portfolio. He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket, set it on the table, and sent it shooting towards the bank’s CEO. “This is for you.”

  Robert Carlton the Fifth stared at the envelope as he would a snake. “Mind telling me what’s going on here?”

  “Everything in there should be self-explanatory.” Burke settled back and waited.

  The silver-haired gentleman did his best to glare down the table, but there was too much fear in his eyes. “We had an agreement. There would be no radical changes.”

  “Just read the letter, Mr. Carlton.” When the chairman’s trembling fingers finally managed to tear open the envelope, Burke turned and said to the others, “Your new owner intends to leave the
board as is and raise salaries by twenty percent. The only change we wish to make at this time is an increase in Interbank trading operations. We also want a place made available on the board for your Vice President of Capital Markets.”

  Carlton looked up. “Capital Markets?”

  The board secretary offered, “Thorson Fines, sir.”

  “I know perfectly well what the man’s name is. Now look here, Mr. Burke. This really won’t do.”

  “It is not a request.”

  “We’ve kept that department only to service the needs of several of our larger customers. Our Capital Markets operation is minuscule.”

  “That is about to change.”

  “With what?” Carlton bore the look of a man whose world had been grabbed and shaken for the first time in a very long while. “You can’t expect us to take money that’s been entrusted to us because of our conservative lending and investment policies—”

  “Which have consistently lost you money.” Burke had had enough. “Thorson Fines is now a member of your board. You will be receiving an inflow of new investment capital. This meeting is over.”

  “THORSON FINES?” Burke waited in the doorway until the man hung up the phone. “Jim Burke. Appreciate your coming in on a holiday like this.”

  “You’re the rep from Liechtenstein?” Thorson rose reluctantly to his feet. “I’m surprised they sent an American.”

  “The merchant bank has just one customer. Its owner.” And a brass plaque on the front wall of a fine old building. Burke shut the door behind him, walked over, sat down without bothering to offer his hand. This was a man with months of hostile frustration to talk away. “For all intents and purposes, your new boss is an American.”