The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen W. Frey

  Chapter 2

  One day was much like another to an IRS revenue agent. There were audits, reviews, and paperwork today, just as there had been yesterday, just as there would be tomorrow. Jesse sighed as she surveyed the mess covering the top of her desk. It never got any better. No matter how hard she worked there was always more to do.

  She leaned back in her chair and scanned the front page of the Wall Street Journal. A short article about the initial public offering of a high-tech company caught her eye. The company had raised $400 million dollars yesterday by selling 40 percent of its stock to public investors. The entrepreneur who had started the firm ten years before could retire forever if she so desired. And the investment banking firms managing the transaction—Goldman Sachs and Merrill Lynch—had earned almost $25 million in underwriting fees.

  Jesse shook her head as she surveyed her small, drab office. Investment banking in New York City. Now that would be exciting. Her $28,000-a-year government salary would be a drop in the bucket to those people.

  It wasn’t that she was greedy. It was simply that she knew what it meant to go without, and it wasn’t any fun. She had grown up in Glyndon—a rural town north of Baltimore—with her nine brothers and sisters. While her classmates had spent weekends buying clothes, records and tapes, she had worked at a local stable making money to help put food on the family table. Her father—a lineman for the phone company—worked hard, but with so many mouths to feed a lineman’s pay didn’t go far, even with the overtime. And her mother had stayed home to care for the children and pursue her lifelong dedication to the Catholic Church.

  Jesse reread the article. What would it be like to earn several hundred thousand dollars a year? Was it such a bad thing to want that?

  “Jesse?” Sara Adams leaned into the office and knocked on the open door.

  “Hi, Sara. Come in.” Jesse put the paper down. She disliked being interrupted during her morning perusal of the Journal, but her expression gave away no hint of irritation. She made it a practice to be as polite as possible. Treat others as you would have them treat you, her mother had always said. Jesse had always followed that advice.

  “Reading about investment bankers again?” Sara pointed at the Journal as she sat down in a chair before the desk.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I saw the article on Goldman and Merrill taking that high-tech firm public. I know how much you want to do that.” There was distaste in Sara’s tone.

  “Is that so wrong?” Jesse sensed the resentment.

  “From what I’ve heard, the people working at those investment firms in New York are driven by nothing but money. It’s a dog-eat-dog world in a dog-eat-dog city.”

  “So you don’t think I’d survive?”

  “Forget about survival, I’m talking about quality of life. All they ever do is work. Fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. They’re miserable, even if they don’t realize it. Just as you would be if you got a job up there.” Sara adjusted an earring. “And any free time you had would be spent in that cement jungle called the Big Apple. You were raised in the country, for crying out loud. In Glyndon, Maryland. You’d hate New York City.”

  “I could do it,” Jesse said quietly.

  “You’re one of the nicest, most genuine people I’ve ever met. Why would you compromise yourself? Just for the money?”

  “Is it so bad to want comfort? To want a few nice things? I’d like to be able to help my mother out, too. She’s getting old, and it’s hard for her to stay in the house now that she’s alone. She needs to be in a retirement community, but she doesn’t have the money. God knows I can’t provide that for her on twenty-eight thousand a year and take care of myself too.” Jesse’s frustrations rose to the surface.

  “How are you paying for school?” Sara was relentless. “It’s got to be costing a lot of money.”

  “Loans.”

  “So you might be making more money when you graduate, but you’ll have all those loans to pay off.”

  “It’ll be worth it in the long run.” Neil’s words from last night.

  “Be happy where you are with what you have. Take the time to live a little.” Sara’s face brightened. “Speaking of which, I want you to come with me tonight to the Mount Washington Tavern. This new guy I’ve been dating has a cute friend. I told him all about you, and he wants to get together. He’s a banker, Jesse. You know, stable with money. The type you ought to be dating these days.” Her tone grew maternal.

  “I’m sorry, Sara. I’d like to come out with you, but on short notice we’re having a guest lecturer tomorrow night in one of my classes. The woman is a legend in the financial community, and I need to prepare. I don’t want to look foolish in front of her if I’m asked a question.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You never have time for yourself. It’s rush, rush, constantly. You’re going to drive yourself crazy going to business school three nights a week just to make it to New York. It can’t be worth all the stress.”

  “I think it is.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. You couldn’t leave the branch.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You wouldn’t be able to tell Neil Robinson you were resigning. You’re his golden girl.”

  “He respects your work just as much as he does mine, Sara.”

  “He wouldn’t want to hear you were leaving,” Sara said firmly.

  “I think he’d be happy for me.” She didn’t want to tell Sara the extent of Robinson’s support. Sara might get the wrong idea. “He’d encourage me to go to New York.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Sara hesitated. “Look, I know I sound negative. I’m sorry about that. I know you’re working really hard with the job and school, and I admire your drive and determination.” The hard edge in her voice faded away. “Come out with us tonight,” Sara urged. “We’ll have fun. Besides, you need to get back into the dating scene. We’re both going to be thirty pretty soon, and it won’t be easy to find a husband after that. Look at the statistics.”

  Jesse wadded up the napkin and tossed it at Sara. “God, you are a perfect revenue agent, aren’t you? So caught up in statistics and probabilities.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” Helga Ketzer’s thick German accent preceded her through the doorway. “Here is the file you wanted, Jesse,” she said loudly, moving into the office. Helga, the secretary Jesse shared with several other revenue agents, was short, stout, and opinionated. She placed the heavy file on the desk and turned to go.

  “Wait a minute, Helga,” Sara called. “We need your opinion on something.”

  Helga turned back around. “Yes?”

  “Don’t do this, Sara,” Jesse implored. She hated being the center of attention, even with people she knew well.

  Sara ignored the plea. “We were just talking about Jesse’s love life, Helga.”

  “Please don’t,” Jesse begged.

  “And I was saying how she needed to start dating again,” Sara continued. “How she needs to find someone.”

  Helga put her hands on her hips and looked at Jesse. “Yes, child, you must find a husband soon. It’s such a waste for you to be alone. You are so nice, and beautiful. Well, you could be beautiful.” The older woman brought her hands to her mouth and laughed. “Did I say that?”

  “Excuse me?” Jesse managed a smile through her embarrassment.

  Helga moved close to Jesse. “You have natural beauty. Blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and beautiful skin. But you need to pay more attention to yourself.” Her voice became more forceful. “You always wear your hair up in a bun. Let it down once in a while. Use some makeup. And these clothes you wear, they are so loose and baggy. Let men see what you have. A little cling on a curve never hurt. You know that’s what they see first. It’s a shame but it’s true.”

  “Helga!” C
olor rose to Jesse’s cheeks.

  Helga pointed at Sara. “Jesse, you should do as Sara does. Wear makeup and fix your hair.” A sly smile crossed the older woman’s face. “Of course, if you fixed yourself up, you would have the men’s undivided attention, so perhaps Sara wouldn’t want you to do that.”

  “What?” It was Sara’s turn to be embarrassed.

  Jesse laughed quietly. Helga was a piece of work.

  “Sorry, Sara, I call things as I see them.” And Helga was gone, humming to herself as she walked away.

  Sara stood up, as if to follow Helga. “Sometimes that woman makes me so mad.”

  “Hey, you invited her into the conversation,” Jesse pointed out. “Besides, she just likes to talk. You know it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. She said you would have the men’s undivided attention.” Sara made a face as she moved toward the door. “Hey, how about a little clothes-shopping at lunch? I heard about a great new boutique in the Galleria.”

  “Sounds fun.” Sara was always shopping. She had inherited $20,000 from her grandmother last winter and was burning through it quickly.

  “Well, I guess I’d better get back to work.” Sara sighed. “We’ll talk more about tonight at lunch. We haven’t gone out at night together in a long time.” She hesitated. “I miss that.”

  “I’ll tr—” Jesse’s computer interrupted her, beeping three times in rapid succession, indicating that she had a new E-mail. She tapped on the keyboard and retrieved the message.

  “What does it say?” Sara paused at the door. “Is this evidence of an office romance I don’t know about? Are you exchanging secret E-mails with someone?”

  “No, it’s about a meeting I have to attend later today.”

  “Well, that’s not very interesting. See you at lunch,” she called as she walked out.

  “Right.” Jesse made certain Sara was gone, then her eyes raced back to the screen.

  If you are reading this, something has happened to me. You must pick up where I’ve left off.

  Go to the Greyhound bus station in downtown Baltimore. Find locker 73. The combination is 22-31-7. Inside is a key to my house on the Severn River near Annapolis. The address is 6 Gull Road. In the lower left-hand drawer of the desk in the den is a file of information I have obtained regarding a U.S. Senate race. There is a cover memo on top of the file outlining certain suspicions I have about the race. It’s being manipulated by outside interests. The supporting documentation will explain.

  Get there as fast as you can. I’ve never told anyone about my house on the river, but they will still find out about it quickly enough because they can find out anything about anyone. They are that powerful. I’m sure they’ve already been through my home in Baltimore. Be careful. Trust no one.

  Neil

  For several moments Jesse didn’t blink as she read the message over and over. Finally the words blurred on the screen. And then she smiled. Of course. The day after tomorrow was her birthday. Her coworkers were setting her up. They were going to have a wonderful time watching her run out of here and surprise her at Neil’s river house, or maybe at the bus station.

  Suddenly Jesse heard a sharp cry from the hallway, then Helga appeared in the office doorway, hands over her mouth.

  “My God.” Helga’s cheeks were wet with tears.

  “What is it?” Jesse flipped off the computer screen. Helga sobbed, unable to speak.

  Jesse rose from her chair. “What is it, Helga?” she asked more firmly, moving out from behind the desk to comfort the older woman.

  Helga dropped her hands from her face. “I have terrible news,” she said hoarsely. “It’s Neil Robinson. He died of a heart attack last night in the lobby of the Hyatt Hotel.”

  Chapter 3

  The Hughes Building—a modern, glass-encased edifice—rose fifteen stories above the heart of Towson, an upper-middle-class Baltimore suburb located just north of the city limits. On a clear day David Mitchell could see Baltimore’s skyscrapers rising out of the downtown area twenty miles from his ornate top-floor office. He could see Glen Owens too—the poverty-stricken east Baltimore row-house neighborhood where he’d grown up.

  When David had first joined Sagamore Investment Management Group four years ago, he’d brought his widowed mother up to his tastefully decorated office to see its dark wood paneling, antiques, and rich Oriental rug. The blue bloods had enjoyed the apple-pie gesture—and his mother’s polyester pantsuit—but David paid no attention to their snobbish smirks as she turned away after shaking their hands. She wanted to see what her youngest son had made of himself, and he wanted to show her.

  David had kissed her good-bye in the lobby after her short visit. She had been so proud. He shut his eyes tightly. What would she think of him now if she knew? He hated to think about it.

  Sagamore managed almost $200 billion and would have ranked as one of the country’s largest investment funds, except that the firm shunned publicity and didn’t publish the figure. In their endless search for financial information, Forbes and Fortune used every means available to determine the number, but only a few people at the firm knew, and they would not divulge it during the infrequent interviews they gave the press.

  Sagamore did not accept money from just anyone, and so it didn’t have to make the public filings required of Fidelity, Vanguard, and the other huge money managers. Sagamore took cash exclusively from wealthy individuals and corporate pension plans in private transactions, and only after the executive committee deemed the investor worthy. The investor list was a closely guarded secret too, known only by the same short list of people who knew the amount of money the firm managed.

  Investors had to pass an extensive application process before Sagamore would accept their money, but it was worth enduring such unusual treatment because of the firm’s extraordinary success. Begun in 1979, the firm had struggled initially. But in the last fifteen years it had beaten the return on the Dow Jones Industrial Average every year, and usually by a wide margin. A million dollars invested with Sagamore in 1984, its first year of stellar results, would have been worth almost $100 million today.

  David had joined Sagamore at twenty-eight, upon earning his M.B.A. from the University of Virginia. After two grueling years of the case method he had graduated number three in his class. Numbers one and two had hurried to Wall Street, but Sagamore had enticed David home to Baltimore with a generous compensation package, the important attraction of avoiding the hardships of a New York City lifestyle, and the implicit guarantee that the pressure to perform at Sagamore would be nothing compared to what was required by the Street. David particularly liked that aspect. It wasn’t that he couldn’t take the pressure, he simply had no desire to devote every waking hour to his job.

  As was customary at Sagamore, he had spent a year as a portfolio assistant, then become one of fifteen full portfolio managers, initially responsible for $5 billion dollars of the firm’s money, then, six months later, $10 billion. The work was stimulating, exciting, and, though the senior people had advertised differently during the recruiting process, every bit as pressure-packed as a Wall Street position.

  Every portfolio manager’s performance—no matter how senior the individual—was reviewed monthly and rated on an absolute basis against the Dow Jones index and on a relative basis against other Sagamore portfolio managers. On the first day of each month the firm sent an E-mail message to all employees ranking the portfolio managers from first to last based on their previous month’s performance. Too many months on the bottom half of the list meant intense scrutiny from the executive committee and the very real possibility of being fired from the high-paying job.

  This acute pressure led to a variety of consequences. Ulcers were commonplace. At least five of the portfolio managers regularly visited psychiatrists. And since David had joined Sagamore, two men in their early fifties had
committed suicide—one with a closed garage door and a running car motor, the other by leaping from the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.

  The bottom half of the monthly E-mail list was a nasty place for a Sagamore portfolio manager. David had found himself mired there shortly after becoming a manager and had been unable to escape since. He gazed at the skyscrapers in the distance. He would be out of the lowly position soon—as long as tomorrow went well.

  “David?”

  David continued staring out the window, lost in thought.

  “Little brother, I apologize for rushing you, but I’ve got to get back to the garage.”

  David turned away from the window and sat down in the desk chair. “Sorry, Will. I’ve just got a few things on my mind.”

  “I understand. You’ve got a lot of pressure on you here.” Will was the oldest of the four Mitchell brothers. Will had never gone to college and was now a mechanic, as were the other two brothers. David was the only one who had made it to college—and out of Glen Owens. “You know I hate asking you for this.”

  “I know.” This was difficult for both of them. “How much do you need?”

  Will picked at the grease lodged beneath his fingernails. Finally he glanced up at his brother, then looked away. “It’s just so stupid. I should have had insurance on the damn car. But I’m trying to save money, what with the twins and—”

  “How much do you need to fix it, Will?” David interrupted. He didn’t have time for this.

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “Okay.” Being constantly strapped for cash could break a person’s spirit more effectively than a physical beating. David had seen it break his father. Now the same thing was happening to his older brother.

  “Hello, Mr. Mitchell.”

  David recognized Art Mohler’s tight-jawed, upper-crust voice immediately. Mohler was Sagamore’s senior portfolio manager and one of three members of the executive committee—the delegation that ran the firm and kept its important secrets. He was the man to whom David and the other portfolio managers reported. The bane of their existence.