The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen W. Frey

“Hi, Jesse.” David let go of her hand gently. Blond, blue-eyed, and sweet. Unlike the others he had been forced to converse with for the last hour, this one was worth writing home about.

  “Jesse, I think you might enjoy talking to David for a few minutes about Sagamore.” Elizabeth had barely finished speaking when she began to cough deeply.

  “Are you all right?” the professor asked, startled at the intensity of the attack.

  “Yes,” she gasped. “I’ll be fine. I just need a drink of water.”

  “Of course, Elizabeth. Come with me and we’ll get whatever you need.” The professor took her by the arm.

  Elizabeth coughed again several times, then turned to Jesse. “It was wonderful meeting you. I look forward to seeing you at Sagamore when you visit.”

  “Thank you. I hope you feel better.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She stepped over and patted Jesse’s hand. “Good-bye.”

  “Bye.”

  David hesitated for a moment as Elizabeth and the professor moved away. “So what can I tell you about Sagamore?” He looked past Jesse as he took a sip from his glass, trying to seem distant, not wanting her to detect his immediate interest.

  Jesse gave David a quick once-over. He was handsome—jet-black hair, effortless smile, a dimple in his left cheek, and a healthy glow indicating that he took care of his body. But everything about him screamed establishment. From the dark three-button suit with inch-and-a-half cuffs on the pants to his expensive tie and short haircut, he seemed a model conservative. She laughed to herself. Given her meager upbringing, she ought to be drawn to this man like a bee to nectar. Men with money promised financial security, something she had never known. But she usually found these types so boring. They loved sports, their possessions, and themselves, and she needed much more than that. She needed excitement, a man who would share life with her and show her the world.

  But maybe she should listen to Sara’s advice about dating men who offered financial stability and not worry so much about intangibles. She glanced at David again. He certainly emitted that conservative air. But there was a hint of mischief in the glint of his eye. And now that she looked at his haircut carefully, she noticed that it bordered on punk. The sides and back were cut a bit too short and the top a bit too long. She liked that. “How much money does Sagamore have under management?” she asked innocently, knowing how closely guarded a secret that was.

  David shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he said pretentiously, then broke into a wide grin. “Because I don’t know. They don’t tell the rank and file like me important things like that. They just tell us to make money.”

  Jesse covered her mouth and laughed. So he didn’t take himself too seriously. She liked that too.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours later, as they moved through the double doors of the reception room toward the waiting limousine, Elizabeth put a hand on David’s forearm. “I noticed you and Jesse Hayes had quite a discussion after I left.”

  “That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Yes. My first impression is that she would fit in well at Sagamore when she graduates. What do you think, David?”

  “I think she’s bright and aggressive.”

  “Exactly.” Elizabeth waved good-bye to the professor one more time as the driver opened the limousine door. “David, I want you to get to know her. Take her out for dinner a few times, on the firm of course. Find out if she’s really for us.” She winked at him. “There aren’t enough female portfolio managers at Sagamore.”

  David smiled and tilted his head to one side. This wasn’t going to be a bad assignment.

  Chapter 9

  The room, utilitarian and plain, was buried deep within the building. And for good reason. The people who met in this inner sanctum required absolute secrecy and isolation in order to plan their strategies. Enemy listening devices could be anywhere, even hidden in vulnerable areas close to the chamber. And if those devices picked up anything, it could prove disastrous.

  Members accessed the massive building through public entrances under the veil of ethical designs, but typically their intentions were far less noble. On the occasion of a meeting, each individual was quickly led from unrestricted areas into obscure corridors and secluded stairways by escorts who themselves were not fully aware of the true purpose of the individual’s presence.

  The room was fortified by subtle but effective defenses. There were no windows because high-technology audio-detection equipment could sense the minute vibrations of glass panes produced by even muted conversations and translate the vibrations into words. Tiny speakers placed at uniform intervals within the walls of the room produced white noise to negate bugs that adversaries might have managed to plant in the hallways and rooms just outside the chamber. Before each assembly, an intelligence expert swept the room’s interior for listening devices. Those in attendance were electronically frisked before they were allowed entrance. And during meetings, members sat close together at a small table, spoke in low voices, and listened to an opera or symphony as they strategized. The preventive measures seemed extreme, but, as yet, there had never been a security leak.

  The chairman acknowledged each of the other members, then turned toward the individual who sought membership and said in a low voice, “Please give us an update.”

  Elbridge Coleman, Republican candidate for the United States Senate, nodded. “The latest CNN/Time magazine poll will be released tomorrow morning. Our campaign people have already obtained the results through our friend at CNN. The results show that I’m now two points ahead of Malcolm Walker. Specifically, if the election were held today, I would receive forty-six percent of the vote while Walker would take forty-four.”

  “That leaves ten percent undecided,” the chairman noted.

  “Yes, that’s right.” As Coleman responded, he heard someone else in the room make a comment but could not discern specific words. The room’s acoustics were terrible. It was another built-in defense mechanism. “Excuse me?” Through the low light he made eye contact with the individual he believed had spoken.

  “What is the poll’s statistical margin of error?” The voice was only slightly louder this time.

  “Plus or minus four points,” Coleman replied calmly.

  “So we can’t yet be certain of a lock on the seat.”

  Coleman smiled politely despite his irritation at so obvious an analysis as well as use of the word “we.” He could not argue the fact that they had a large stake in what was going on, but it was his sweat staining the campaign trail. “No, we can’t.” Coleman tugged at the sleeves of his suit coat. He was tall and thin, with a trustworthy face and a strong natural presence. Handsome, but not obnoxiously so. “I think it’s important to remember that just a month and a half ago, at the end of July, we trailed Walker by five points. We’ve gained nine points in only forty-five days.” Coleman was careful not to allow irritation to leak into his tone. This was a beauty contest, and they could kick him out of the show at any time, so he would mind his manners. Swallowing his pride was a small price to pay for admission into this circle. “The trend is excellent. We have significant momentum. I believe by this time next month, for all intents and purposes, Walker’s Senate seat will be mine. His campaign will be dead in the water. The November election will be only a formality.”

  “You and your campaign staff have performed admirably, Elbridge.” The chairman sensed Coleman’s slight vexation. “We do have momentum. We simply want to make certain it is maintained at its current level. We must finish strong. We all have a great deal riding on this.”

  “Of course.” Coleman nodded deferentially to the chairman. He appreciated the compliment regarding his and his staff’s performance. He hesitated, looking at each of the members in turn before speaking again. “We are running very strong and Malcolm Walker is running scared. That’s the bottom line.”
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br />   “Fine, fine.” The chairman was obviously pleased. “And you have plenty of money left, Elbridge?”

  “My campaign treasurer assures me that the after-tax proceeds from the initial public offering of Coleman Technology will be more than sufficient to fund the remainder of the campaign. And, of course, forty percent of the stock remains in my name. We could liquidate some of that in a private sale at any time if we need more money for the campaign.”

  “Very good,” the chairman said. Everything was proceeding as planned. “That will be all.”

  Coleman recognized his cue to exit. He stood up, nodded respectfully at each of the members, and walked toward the door.

  “Elbridge,” the chairman called quietly.

  “Yes?” Coleman hesitated for a moment.

  “Please tell your guide to use the Potomac exit.”

  “All right.” He turned, moved through the door, and was gone.

  The chairman swiveled around to face the others. “I think we should feel very good about Mr. Coleman’s campaign. As we all know, there are never any sure things in life, but this would appear to be as close to a lock as possible. We have two other campaigns in preliminary stages out West, but I don’t think we’ll ultimately need them.”

  “We should turn up the heat on the other front too,” a voice broke in quickly. “We need to make absolutely certain we win this election. We’ve set this thing up and spent a great deal of money on it—let’s use it.”

  The chairman nodded. “I agree. I’ve waited on that because it’s our ace in the hole and I didn’t want to use it too early. But I think you’re right. It’s time. We’re close enough to the election now that Walker wouldn’t be able to mount an effective counteroffensive. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “Thank you,” said the member who had made the suggestion, acknowledging the chairman’s assistance.

  “There is something you need to know.” The chairman’s voice became serious. The others recognized the tone and were instantly uneasy. “We’ve had a small security leak.” All eyes were suddenly riveted to the chairman’s. “As you are aware, two nights ago we took care of our problem at the IRS. Gordon Roth silenced Neil Robinson. Permanently. As it turns out, Robinson’s suspicions about Elbridge Coleman’s campaign were even more accurate than we had originally believed. We should be elated that Robinson is now out of the picture.” The chairman paused. “Unfortunately, Robinson was more resourceful than we had anticipated.” The man knew this little missile was going to cause a nuclear explosion. “I think Robinson was actually able to pass his suspicions about Coleman on to someone after Roth killed him.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” one of the others asked. “How could Robinson pass on suspicions after he was killed?”

  “A few days ago, perhaps in response to Mr. Roth’s repeated telephone contact, Robinson prepared a short memorandum briefly referencing his suspicions about an unidentified U.S. Senate race. It was stored on his hard drive.”

  “But I thought we had gotten to his office before anyone else did. I thought we had confiscated his computer’s hard drive and all his disks.”

  The chairman nodded. “We were there the morning after his death. Unfortunately it didn’t matter. Robinson used an option in the IRS branch’s local area network system to send the memo from his computer to another one on a delayed basis. If he didn’t disengage the option within a specific number of hours of logging off his computer, the memo would be sent automatically. Until yesterday when he arrived in the morning he shut off the time delay release simply by logging on. Obviously, yesterday morning he didn’t log on, so the memorandum was automatically sent out to its predetermined destination. We got there, but too late to stop the memo from going out.”

  “So then we should be able to follow the electronic path, shouldn’t we? We’ll simply determine the memo’s destination and take appropriate action immediately.”

  “It isn’t that simple,” the chairman cautioned. “Robinson had arranged for the memo to be sent to an IRS central processing unit in Florida first, then had the CPU send it back to Baltimore.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “To hide the identity of the receiving party, I assume. If he had sent the memo directly through the branch’s local system, it would have been easy to pinpoint which personal computer it went to. But by sending the memo to the CPU in Florida first and then back to Baltimore, he was able to cover his tracks. We were able to determine which cell the memo was sent to, thanks to a systems person at the IRS who is on our payroll. However, the CPU erased the link from the cell to the specific receiving computer.”

  “What’s a cell?”

  “A group of personal computers, a department.”

  “So which department was it sent to?”

  “The revenue agents.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Then we need to check each of their computers.”

  “We already have. No results. Whoever received the memo was smart enough to erase it from his or her computer memory and not make a copy. We checked the printer logs as well.”

  “How do we know that what Robinson sent by computer had anything to do with the Coleman campaign?”

  “We don’t,” the chairman responded. “I’m guessing, but it’s a damn good guess. We found a hard copy of an unaddressed memo among Robinson’s possessions stating that if the party to whom it was sent was reading it, something had happened to him. It asked for the person’s help, then gave directions to a small house he owned on the Severn River. In the house there was to be a file of detailed information about a Senate race he believed was being manipulated. And thanks to the conversation Roth had with Robinson at the Hyatt, we all know which campaign Robinson was referring to. I strongly believe it was this same memo that was sent electronically the morning after his death.”

  “Where was the hard copy of the memo found?”

  “In the suit Robinson was wearing when he died.”

  “What?” The members’ anxiety was instantly heightened.

  “Yes. It was as if Robinson was thinking of giving the memo to someone before he met Gordon Roth at the Hyatt. A coroner at the city morgue found the memo in Robinson’s coat pocket. Fortunately we were able to get to the hard copy before anyone else did. We got to the coroner too. Just to be careful.” It was a damn good thing Roth was so efficient.

  “Have we retrieved the file from the Severn house?”

  “We tried, but someone beat us to it. Almost certainly the same person who received the delayed computer correspondence from Robinson.”

  “So what the hell are we going to do?”

  The chairman brought his hands together. “Systematically figure out which of the twenty-two revenue agents received the correspondence from Robinson, then take the appropriate action. And pray to God we find that person before that person finds us.” His expression brightened. “Fortunately, we have the means to do so. Whoever beat us to the file at the Severn house inadvertently left us a trail. One we can follow quickly. And I assure you we will.”

  The others nodded their assent.

  The chairman glanced up. “As you’ve no doubt noticed we are missing a few members this evening. They are at Area 51. Keep your fingers crossed that all goes well tonight with the A-100.”

  Chapter 10

  The A-100 prototype climbed sharply from Area 51 into the darkness just settling over Nevada. The plane was commencing its fourth and final scheduled test flight. Contingent upon successful completion of this last mission, the defense firm that had secretly been awarded the huge contract could begin full-scale production of the new Navy fighter-bomber immediately. It was a contract worth almost $150 billion over the next seven years and would make the firm one of the biggest in the defense industry.

  The landing gear r
etracted into the jet’s fuselage as tires lost contact with pavement, creating the perfect attack profile—low and practically devoid of right angles. Sleek configuration, combined with the unique composite skin of the craft and the jamming devices on board, made the A-100 almost immune to enemy radar detection.

  As he felt the familiar thud of doors closing over landing gear, the aviator relaxed into his seat and began his first in-flight safety and security check. It would be a constant process until he had touched down at the target two hundred miles to the north.

  Commander Richard Pierce enjoyed a reputation as one of the most experienced fixed-wing pilots in the entire United States Navy. He was as calm and cool under pressure as they came. But despite his glittering combat record and many test-flight hours at the controls of this and other prototypes, he had been anxious all day. This particular plane was worth almost $500 million, and, more important, represented the Navy’s attempt to reestablish itself as an equal and indispensable member of the armed services triumvirate.

  Without the “black wing”—as Pierce had nicknamed the A-100—the Navy might ultimately be forced to cede deep-strike missions to stealth bombers of the Air Force, an action that could make $5 billion aircraft carriers vulnerable to reelection-minded politicians searching for ways to cut federal spending and earn points with their constituents—ways that could have a domino effect in terms of new destroyers, new cruisers, and, most important, budget dollars.

  The Navy is comprised of three parts, subsurface, surface, and aviation—in which carriers are included. Air Force and Army brass constantly questioned the need for the surface and aviation components of the Navy given the high-tech abilities of guided missiles. They argued that surface vessels and aircraft carriers were easy targets and therefore obsolete, hoping to claim a huge piece of the $90 billion Navy budget for themselves if it became available as a result of their backroom maneuvers. Without the A-100 the Navy might become only a bit player in the $300-billion-a-year defense game. With it, the Navy could justify its surface and aviation operations and would be back on equal footing with the Air Force and the Army.