The Path of Silence

by Edita A. Petrick

  “Give us a month,” Field replied. I wondered what he had based his estimate on—other than blind faith and luck.

  “Hartill,” the Chairman said, turning to an executive standing nearby. “Contact Washington, New York, Miami and Los Angeles. Halt all work. Do not release the staff, merely reassign them to other duties. Make them understand that it’s temporary but utmost discretion is required.” He looked at me. I read him correctly.

  “For now, that’s satisfactory,” I said and smiled.

  Hartill was the one I had shocked in the hotel by asking him whether he was the hotel security. He was already on the phone, connecting to another banking stronghold.

  “I understand that you were going to appoint a liaison who would represent your interests and pass on your instructions,” Field said. He looked down the length of the table.

  “I prefer to stay close to the issue while in Baltimore.” The Chairman’s mouth twisted in a peculiar smile. “I assumed that the FBI would enjoy working with me. There’s less chance of misunderstanding, misinterpretation of directives.”

  “The FBI does,” Field nodded solemnly.

  I looked at Ken. He hurriedly assured the Chairman that the Baltimore police were honored to work with him in such difficult circumstances.

  “To have a liaison is still a good idea,” I said. “We need details that are far removed from the top operating levels.”

  “So you think that I don’t know enough about what’s going on at my own financial institutions?” he said, challenging me. His eyes were no longer frozen in crystal.

  “You certainly didn’t know that one of the experts on that team was wired with a bomb, sir.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “He was your employee.”

  “He was your citizen,” he shot back quickly.

  “Don’t bother saying that I failed to protect, sir.”

  “Don’t bother saying that I failed to change, officer.” He was in good form tonight.

  I laughed.

  “One moment.” He raised his hand. Hartill was trying to get his attention. Our conversation was a quick tattoo, polite and rich in what the French called “éclair sarcasm”.

  “You certainly don’t stand in danger of drowning in diplomacy,” Field whispered with heavy resignation.

  I was trying to come up with a crack when I heard Hartill’s report. Something caught my attention.

  “Blank concurs that we should halt the project but he thinks the reasons and the intimidation method should be publicized, not kept quiet. He thinks for now the project members could be reassigned to studies and issues that deal with tax havens and harmful tax practices.” Hartill shrugged apologetically, as if to show that he was only a messenger. He was still holding the phone. He had covered the mouthpiece with his hand, waiting for instructions.

  The Chairman turned to us. “What would we gain from publicizing what’s been going on?”

  “The media has already stirred the public with their detailed reports of these executions,” Field replied. “The police have been flooded with calls from anxious citizens who think they may have a bomb planted in their chests. Hopkins will be empty if such news continues. Other medical institutions may find themselves under similar scrutiny and beleaguered with demands from ex-patients, for explanations, medical exams—removal of life-saving devices.”

  “Which means the FBI and the Baltimore Police Department would come under fire. Their competency would be questioned in terms of what they’re doing to apprehend these evil masterminds who appear to have such a powerful weapon that they can execute any citizen, any time, without the authorities knowing how to stop them.”

  “That’s already happening.” Field’s voice hardened. “We’re following all available leads. The arrow is pointing at the financial sector—Tavistock.”

  “I’ve pledged my cooperation,” the Chairman said and his face split in a cynical smile. “I’m halting the project. It’s not a mere face-saving gesture. There’s an upcoming summit meeting in Copenhagen where all the attendees will have an opportunity to discuss a range of measures to fight money laundering. I will be expected to defend my decision to halt what promised to be a very powerful answer—aimed not just for national but global acceptance and implementation. If I keep it a secret that I have suspended the project and announce it at the summit, don’t you think it would cause me a great deal of discomfort and embarrassment?”

  “One month is not going to inconvenience or embarrass you that much, sir.”

  “One month, Inspector, is a large setback for a project that has a tight schedule.”

  “You won’t have a schedule to keep if you run out of experts willing to work on it under these conditions. Publicizing what’s happening is not the answer. It’s free publicity—for the villains, endorsing their skill and craftiness. They’re moving their operations. The Baltimore mission is accomplished. After that, we may have an avalanche, one major banking and political center after another.”

  My father clenched his jaw and turned to Hartill. “Ask Blank what he thinks that publicizing will get us.”

  Hartill obeyed. He listened, with a tightening expression.

  I reached over and plucked two sheets of paper from Field’s notepad. I hurriedly scribbled a few words and passed it to Ken. I waited until he read it. His eyes widened and he nodded. I scribbled on the other sheet and swished it down the table to land in front of the Chairman. I motioned for him to read it. When he did, he leaned back, frowning, then said to Hartill. “Tell Blank that I’ll call him back with my final decision.” He waited until Hartill hung up and turned to me.

  “Why did I just dismiss my Chief Economist and Financial Officer in Washington after having roused him from bed at this hour?”

  “Probably because you want to start up the project again and live through it,” I said.

  He just stared at me. For once, he seemed to have nothing to say.

  “Who is Blank?” I asked.

  “Socially, politically or businesswise?” he responded with a tight smile.

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Socially, R. Bishop Blank may be included in a foursome when our President wants to play a round of golf. He’s a godfather to his eldest daughter and an old, valued family friend—mine and his.”

  “Do I know him?” I could still recall most of his valued old friends. I didn’t remember anyone named R. Bishop Blank. Then again, it was always my brothers who were involved in the financial and political aspects of Tavistock business. I was kicked out of two posh private schools and escaped being saddled with a criminal record in Europe and North America only because Tavistock lawyers knew how to bribe the right officials.

  “From 1980 to 1984, he was an Economic Attaché, an advisor, posted in Caracas, Venezuela, through the Inter-American Development Bank, though it was called something else back then. From 1985 to 1989, he was a member of the task force for the Business Council for International Understanding, training and enhancing trade literacy of the US Foreign Service. That job placed him in five Latin American countries and made him a lot of friends in the State Department. From 1990 to 1995, he served as our Ambassador to Colombia. He’s a distinguished member of the Council of American Ambassadors. In 1996, he returned to his roots and until 1999, he was with the State Department, Senior Assistant to the Under Secretary for Economic, Business and Agricultural Affairs. When the Under Secretary retired, for medical reasons, he stepped into his position and ran the business until 2006 when he decided to leave the political scene and enter the private sector. He spent five years on the West Coast in corporate finance then came over to Tavistock. He has been my Chief Economic and Financial Officer for more than ten years. If I had to pick my successor tomorrow, he would be my choice. He is certainly someone you wouldn’t want to annoy without a good reason.”

  I looked at Ken.

  “Maybe you’re wrong,” he murmured.

  “Anything’s possible but I don’t think so,”
I said quietly. I returned to the interrogation. “Sir, does your officer attend the economic summits?”

  “Of course. He’s one of the two Vice-Chairmen of the Advisory Committee on International Economic Policy. Six months ago, he presented a paper on Corporate Ethics and Guidelines for Multinational Enterprises at the Advisory meeting. These are open to the public.”

  “Mr. Hartill,” I turned to the executive. “What was Mr. Blank’s explanation, regarding the publicizing of what’s been happening at Tavistock?”

  Hartill looked at his boss. He received a nod and replied. “We would project confidence that we have uncovered the root of the threats and thus will be vigilant from now on. Releasing details would also stave off embarrassment and explanations that would have to be made later on at the summit. This way, all the stakeholders would have been alerted to the threat and prepared with suggestions as to how to prevent similar occurrence in the future, elsewhere.”

  “In other words, Mr. Blank thinks it would be ideal if we warned those who are behind the murders that we know the motive, where it’s leading and that we can’t do anything about it. He thinks it’s an advantage to release details and advertise concerns,” I summarized. I knew that Hartill would feel that I had taken liberties with what he’d said.

  “I don’t believe those would have been his intentions,” he objected huffily.

  “Mr. Hartill, silence can be revealing. However, silence can also be interpreted or misinterpreted. Either way, there’s no disclosure, only uncertainty. What Mr. Blank proposed, would eliminate uncertainty. Revealing details is a message to them. We have surrendered. We have no clue. You’re free to close the Baltimore episode, stamp it successful and move on to the next target. That target is almost assured to be equally successful. A precedent has been set. As a police officer, I would never make it that easy for any criminal,” I finished crisply.

  Hartill looked at his boss who sat rigid, like a statue.

  Finally, my father leaned forward. “You would have made a good lawyer,” he murmured. When I made no comment, he continued, “Should I abstain from public functions for a while?”

  “Your old friends know you well, sir. It would be wise to keep up appearances.”

  “He would certainly have the connections—and the detailed knowledge it takes…” His voice trailed off. I knew whom he meant.

  “You gave us one month, sir,” I reminded him.

  “How certain do you feel…”

  “I’m not a gambler but it would be a safe bet.”

  “It’s hard to believe… I just can’t imagine… Not like this…”

  “It’s not hard to believe. The world is made of wheels within wheels. All such activity runs on money. The stakes must be very high, that’s all.”

  “What are the stakes? It can’t be prestige and power. There’s plenty of that where he is.”

  “Maybe not as much as he would like.”

  “I just can’t believe…” He shook his head and clenched his jaw, as if grinding the words he’d left unsaid.

  “Who’s your greatest enemy these days, sir, businesswise?” I asked. He flinched.

  “Congressman Gerold Appleby, the Chairman of the House Committee on Financial Services has been a real pain lately. He must have a lot of free time, because he’s embarked on a personal crusade to check our internal accountability regarding the release of funds available for withdrawal. His platform is that the banks have been stretching the legal limit and in many cases, exceeded it, to increase their profits. He’s really eager to expose financial crime. He’s also charged up about predatory lending.” He shook his head, to banish what I knew had caused him many sleepless nights.

  “It’s comforting to hear that Congressman Appleby strives to earn his pay,” I remarked. “However, how would you feel, sir, if at the touch of your fingers, you could send Congressman Appleby the same kind of greeting card as the one you received in your suite? And how would you feel, if you knew that the next set of numbers you could tap on your phone pad, would see Congressman Appleby lying prone, wherever he happened to be, his chest looking like a lawnmower had run over it?”

  “Powerful?” He spoke the word with impact, as if firing a bullet into his archenemy.

  “More than that,” I said in my closing argument tone. “In control.”

  Chapter 27

  It was three o’clock in the morning. Field drove. None of us felt like talking. Tomorrow, we would have to go visit the Mongrove psychiatric facility. Field would come too but first he had to understand the connection between Blank and the psychiatric facility. I didn’t have the energy to brief him now.

  I told Ken to call Brenda.

  “It’s late. She’ll be asleep,” he murmured.

  “Do you know where she is and where’s she’s taken my kid?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  Brenda was a practical woman. She was in my house, waiting to pick him up. Ken’s Malibu hadn’t been returned yet.

  Brenda must have been watching for us from the living room window.

  “She’s asleep,” she said, as she came down the steps to greet us. “She’s into drawing family trees. I couldn’t even interest her in a TV show. I’ve never seen a child so keen on homework.” She laughed and went to hug Ken.

  I introduced Field and they shook hands. He’d parked the car on the street so Brenda could get her car out.

  “Thanks,” I told her as she collected her purse and keys.

  “Any time I’m free.”

  I watched them leave and was about to wish Field good night, when he cleared his throat. “I’m too tired to talk about work. I need to get some sleep,” I said.

  “So am I,” he intoned.

  “I’m also too tired to think of anything else,” I said, sharpening my tone.

  “So am I.”

  I laughed. “I gather that you’re too tired to drive.”

  “It’s a long way back to the waterfront.”

  “I have a guest room,” I capitulated.

  “Great. I would have settled for the porch if you didn’t.”

  “You used to.”

  “Only because your roommate was a dragon.”

  “You haven’t changed.”

  “No. I never gave up hope.”

  “Guest room!” I turned and headed inside. As he walked behind me, I heard him murmur. “A month ago, I would have never dreamed that I’d be sleeping in your house.”

  Chapter 28

  Mrs. Tavalho arrived at seven o’clock. She awakened Jazz, fed her breakfast and had her ready and waiting for the school bus before she woke me up.

  “An overnight guest, a colleague,” I murmured lamely, motioning at the closed door of the spare bedroom where she slept on overnight stays. She smiled, briefed me on the state of my child and her readiness to depart and said she would fix breakfast—for two.

  I rapped hard on the door, fervently wishing that the man had changed. Fate did not oblige.

  “Field, wake up!” I had to grab his shoulders and roll him over, just like the good old days. Once I’d run through the exhausting, ancient morning ritual of trying to get him up—tapping his head, flicking his ear, pulling his toes—and was about to smack his ass, he stirred.

  “I know you’re awake. You’ve had more than five hours of sleep. That’s all that a working FBI ace deserves. We have another hellish day ahead of us,” I said, giving him his daily horoscope. My memory slipped. I made one tiny mistake. I didn’t jump back.

  His arm shot out, encircled my waist and all but slam-dunked me down beside him.

  “Fine. I can brief you lying down,” I snorted, knowing it was useless to fight his strength, especially in the morning.

  Those turned out to be my last words for a long time.

  “Field, for God’s sake!” I gasped, when he gave me a chance to breathe. “I have to see my kid off to school.”

  “So this is what fatherhood’s like,” he groaned. I laughed, freed my hand to be able to m
otivate him into releasing me and slid out of his unwilling arms.

  Jazz was still on the porch, sitting on the steps, hugging her knees.

  “Sorry I overslept.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I know you’re tired. Is he here?”

  “Who?”

  “Field, from your work.”

  I was about to open my mouth to explain, when his voice sounded from behind me.

  “Good morning. Sorry I had to cut dinner short last night. The Laserquest offer still stands.”

  She lifted her head, grinned at him and said that her friends would be happy to hear that. We saw her off to the bus and then went inside to a royal breakfast spread.

  Mrs. Tavalho went to do the laundry and I briefed him on everything, from our visit to Patterson in Mongrove, to our interview with Daniel Kane. He reached for the phone while I was still speaking. I served him a “What now?” look.

  “Olsen. District Attorney’s office. We need a legal document, a court order, to avoid nasty confrontation in the facility.”

  “What for?”

  “To obtain Patricia’s case file and medical records.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Do you think this Patterson could be Dr. Martin?” he asked after he made the arrangements. The question froze my hand as it reached for my coffee cup. The unruly blond shag whipping with authority as Patterson shook his head, sculpted in my mind even as I considered Field’s question.

  “He’s too young, Field, surprisingly so to be a Chief Resident doctor in such a large State facility. Besides, a company staff physician would be a general MD, not a specialist. Patterson has to have quite a few letters and titles after his name. Clinical psychiatrist would have to be one of them. He didn’t give us his business card but he has to be qualified to hold that job. A general practitioner, a mere MD, would not get that position.”

  “Quite a few company doctors have several specialties, including industrial and accident therapy and quite possibly psychiatry, or at least mental rehab. The nature of our stressful work environment these days demands it,” he said.