The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen W. Frey

  “You’ve got to help him anyway.”

  Walker rose from the chair and began pacing again. “I know,” he said, emitting a long, guilty sigh. “And I will. Just let me lay open the black budget first. Then I really will be able to help him.”

  “But I don’t think anyone on Capitol Hill is going to start an investigation on the basis of what you’ve told me,” she reiterated.

  “What do you want me to do, Monique?” His voice suddenly reflected the strain of the last few months. “If I don’t try something drastic, Elbridge Coleman is going to roll over me in November. That’s obvious from the trend in the polls. I need a splash. Something that will take the spotlight away from him and put it on me. Otherwise I’m gone. It won’t matter if I’m politically ostracized or not, because I won’t be around. Look at the numbers.” He stopped pacing and jammed his hands in his pants pockets. “There’s an ABC poll coming out tomorrow that has Coleman five points ahead of me now.”

  “How did you find that out?” she asked quickly. Usually she was able to screen those calls.

  “Peter Jennings, for Christ’s sake. He called me directly for a comment.”

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm.”

  “It’s all right.” He rubbed his forehead for a moment. “There’s one more thing I haven’t told you.” He picked up a paperweight from the desktop, then put it back down. “I have a piece of physical evidence.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yes. It’s small, but it would probably be enough to at least start a Senate investigation.”

  “What is it?” She was suddenly excited. “I mean, if you have something like that, maybe it would be enough.”

  Walker sat back down in his chair and pulled open a desk drawer. He removed a manila envelope and tossed it toward her.

  She grabbed the envelope from where it had landed atop several unread Washington Posts, pulled out the single piece of paper from inside, and read it quickly. Her eyes widened. “This is a handwritten memo from Chief of Naval Operations Ted Cowen to Senator Webb requesting an appropriation from the black budget for the A-100! I mean it actually says the words ‘black budget.’ And it’s clearly addressed to Senator Webb.”

  It was like a gift from God. And just when he had needed it most. “Can you believe it?” Walker asked. “From what I understand, nothing important like that is ever written down when it comes to the black budget. I guess it just goes to show how the Navy’s been ignored over the past few years. Admiral Cowen must not have been aware of black-budget protocol.”

  “Is that definitely Admiral Cowen’s signature at the bottom of the memo?”

  “Yes. No doubt of it. I had an expert examine the handwriting.”

  “But how did you get this?” She could barely contain her excitement.

  Once more Walker thought about Captain Nichols sitting alone in the cell. He would get the man out if he had to call in every favor he had. “From a file at Area 51. It was the last piece of physical evidence Captain Nichols was able to smuggle out before he was silenced.”

  * * *

  —

  At precisely one in the afternoon, Senator Malcolm Walker moved through the wide doorway into the Central Hearing Facility of the Hart Building. The large room was packed, mostly with members of the press. Several reporters nodded or patted Senator Walker on the back as he approached the dais. He had always enjoyed an amicable relationship with reporters—even ones sympathetic to the conservative side who detailed his investment portfolio and school résumé. It was never a good idea to irritate the press, no matter what. Walker had learned this lesson at the outset of his political career.

  He tapped the microphone a few times and smiled at several familiar faces in the crowd. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned his head slightly, tilted it down, and stared directly into the CNN camera. “Thank you for coming today. What I am going to tell you will—”

  “Senator Walker!” A deep voice rose from somewhere in the back of the huge room, interrupting Walker’s delivery.

  Walker shaded his eyes against the bright lights, trying to identify the speaker.

  The Reverend Elijah Pitts began moving toward the podium, flanked by two large young bodyguards. “Senator Walker, for some time we at LFA have been attempting to initiate a dialogue with your office.”

  Walker turned quickly to an aide. “How the hell did they get in here?”

  The aide shrugged nervously, aware that his job was suddenly in jeopardy.

  “Senator!” The reverend used his sermonic voice, wavering his tone for effect.

  Walker spun back around to face Pitts, who had now made his way to within a few feet of the podium through a rapidly parting sea of reporters.

  “I have repeatedly tried to contact you, but you have ignored my calls. You and I have many things we need to discuss about the black community.” He pointed a long finger at Walker. “Why are you ignoring our organization? Why do you ignore Liberation for African-Americans? Have you forgotten your people, Senator?” The last words reverberated dramatically throughout the room.

  Walker whipped back toward the aide. “Where the hell are the Capitol Police? They should be here to take this guy away.”

  “I don’t know where they are, sir,” the young man stammered.

  “Where’s Monique?”

  The aide shrugged.

  “Dammit.” Walker glanced into the CNN camera, then quickly away. He could feel the opportunity to disclose the A-100 and the black budget slipping away. “As I was saying—” he attempted to begin again.

  “Answer me!” the reverend roared above the growing hum of the crowd.

  “Yeah, answer him,” a reporter for The New Republic piped up. “Why won’t you recognize LFA?”

  Camera bulbs began to pop, and Walker felt perspiration forming on his forehead. Suddenly the lights seemed hellishly hot. Never let them see you sweat, he thought. “I am of course happy to meet with the reverend at some point down the road to begin mapping out ways for us to work together.” He turned his head to the side so he wasn’t speaking directly into the mass of microphones.

  “Will you invite me onto your stage as a sign of brotherhood? Will you invite me up there today? Right now?” the reverend yelled.

  Walker gave the CNN camera one more forlorn look. The tape of this news conference was going to be broadcast on the evening news over and over in every home in America. He swallowed hard. If he displayed overt unity with LFA, he could easily lose a substantial block of white voters. On the other hand, if he didn’t embrace Pitts now, he might lose his core black constituency. Not that they would vote for Elbridge Coleman, they just wouldn’t vote at all. Which would be just as devastating. Suddenly there was no way out, and Malcolm Walker felt the floor beneath his feet thinning to tightrope width.

  “Ask me to join you on the dais, Senator Walker. Show me you respect our people.” Pitts launched a deadly arrow at the stage.

  And it might as well have been real. Walker felt pain, as if an arrow had actually seared into his chest. Slowly he nodded, then smiled a broad, political smile. “Join me on the stage, Reverend Pitts.” It was the only option. He couldn’t turn his back on LFA in such a public forum and expect to hold together his black support. He would simply have to engage in damage control later and hope for the best.

  Pitts stepped up onto the podium, where he took Walker’s wrist and raised his arm in triumph. For several minutes they stood together, arms held high together as hundreds of cameras clicked.

  Senator Webb watched from the doorway as Walker’s campaign disintegrated. Doub Steel’s secret support of LFA had suddenly earned a destructive dividend, as had Webb’s control of the Capitol Police. His ability to direct the building’s guards to permit the good reverend into this room had allowed a stake to be driven right through the heart of what remained of Walker’s campai
gn. Webb smiled as he turned away and headed for his office in the Capitol.

  Chapter 24

  “You are a very beautiful woman. It’s been a pleasure meeting you tonight.”

  The cozy, candlelit table was tucked into a corner of the tasteful Four Seasons private suite. “I don’t feel very beautiful,” Monique said softly.

  Senator Webb slid his hand slowly across the linen tablecloth and patted her delicate fingers. “Well, you are. You’re one of the most exquisite women I’ve ever seen,” he said in an exaggerated Georgia drawl, watching her hair shimmer in the candlelight. “Phil Rhodes told me you were very attractive, but I had no idea. I’m very glad he arranged this meeting.” Webb picked up a sterling silver pot. “Would you care for any more coffee? Any dessert? I’d hate to think dinner was over.”

  If this interlude could have been over before it began, that wouldn’t have been soon enough for Monique. “No thanks,” she said politely, trying to act as if she were enjoying herself.

  Webb could see that the lies and deceit were taking their toll on Monique, but that was all right. It would only serve to make her more vulnerable, more malleable. There was no escape from this, and he could see in her eyes that she had already realized that. “Rhodes mentioned that you might have something for me.”

  Monique hesitated a moment, then reached down to her purse leaning against one leg of the table, and pulled out an envelope. “Here.”

  Webb calmly took the envelope, extracted the single sheet of paper from within, and perused the handwriting quickly. “Is this the original?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there any copies?”

  “No. That’s the only record of Admiral Cowen communicating to you about the black budget.”

  “How did Senator Walker obtain this?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Captain Paul Nichols?”

  “Yes.” The young pilot was sitting alone in the bowels of Area 51. She had given him away to Rhodes, and for what? A few extra dollars and the chance to save herself the embarrassment of having her pictures exposed to the world. She brought her hands to her face. Captain Nichols had two children and a wife who had no idea what had happened to him.

  “Thank you, Monique.” Webb slid the envelope and its precious contents into his suit jacket. “I will make certain there is a bonus in your account tomorrow.”

  “Keep your damn money.” Monique stood up and threw her napkin on the table, disgusted with herself and the temptations to which she had so easily yielded. “I’m leaving.” She turned to go.

  “Stop right where you are.” Webb’s voice turned unfriendly. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “What?”

  Webb sipped his coffee. “You can leave when I say you can leave. And not before.” He placed the cup down and smiled. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on those perfectly tapered legs. “Take your clothes off.”

  It was her worst nightmare. “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Mmm.” Webb took off his suit jacket as he stood. “Maybe.” For a split second his mind wandered to the other members of the inner circle; to his detachment of young military disciples at Area 51—led by Commander Pierce—who had instilled the fear of God and the devil in Captain Nichols; to his beautiful home on the lake in Georgia; and to his massive Swiss bank account. He had built an incredible life by doing just as he was doing now. Manipulating. Cornering people until they had no choice but to obey. Maybe he was a little insane. But no one could argue with his success. His focus snapped back to the woman. “Take your clothes off now. Don’t make me say it again.”

  She held out her hands, palms up toward him. “You’re crazy. I’m out of here.”

  “You go anywhere near that door and first thing tomorrow morning Malcolm Walker will be informed that you stole this memorandum and delivered it to unfriendly factions. He’ll be informed that you gave Captain Nichols’s name to Phil Rhodes as your boss’s contact at Area 51. And that you have accepted money in exchange for both the Cowen note and the information regarding the Air Force pilot. Finally, he will receive the pictures I believe were taken of you with a certain blond woman. Pictures Phil Rhodes and I have enjoyed reviewing several times already.” His eyes roamed her body again. “Oh, yes. The Post, the New York Times and Penthouse will also receive those photographs.” Webb smiled evilly. “Now, if you want to leave, you may.” He gestured toward the door.

  Monique’s eyes filled with tears. The trap was closing in around her. “You wouldn’t.”

  Webb laughed. “How long have you been in Washington, Monique? Almost six years, right? And you haven’t learned how the game is played yet? No wonder Senator Walker is lagging behind Elbridge Coleman in the polls. His damn chief of staff doesn’t understand the rules.” He moved behind Monique and rubbed her shoulders, then slowly began undoing the buttons down the back of her dress. “You know I wouldn’t hesitate to relay all of the information to Senator Walker and the press. And it’s not as if Phil Rhodes or I have done anything wrong. The axe will fall on your neck, not ours.”

  “Please don’t,” she begged as he undid the last button.

  But Webb paid no attention to the entreaty, sliding the dress off her arms and down her body until gravity pulled it to the floor. “God, you are beautiful.” Quickly he unhooked the bra and stripped it from her chest, then pulled the lace panties down her legs until they too fell to the floor. “Come with me.” He took her wrist roughly and led her to the king-size bed. “Kneel down on the floor and lean over the bed.”

  Monique obeyed dutifully. She had no doubt Webb would follow through on his threats, and she could not have Malcolm finding out what she had done. That was the bottom line. So now she would pay for her moment of weakness.

  “Good girl.” Webb stripped off his clothes quickly and knelt behind her. God, it was an aphrodisiac to have this much power over someone. To have someone respond to your every command exactly. It was all about the money to a point, and then when you had enough, money became pointless and power became the only thing. The power to make people do what they didn’t want to do. The power to force them to please you. He couldn’t remember being so aroused before in his life.

  He had never used his position on the Hill to curry female favors. He didn’t want anything out there anyone could use against him. But now he was in his last term, and it no longer mattered as much.

  As he entered Monique he suddenly knew there would be many more times. It was like the laboratory rat exposed and instantly addicted to liquid cocaine, his mentor had explained to Webb long ago during Webb’s first term. You’ll know it’s dangerous, but once you give in to the temptation you’ll need it as much as the air you breathe or the food you eat. And the mentor hadn’t meant simply the physical act of sex. It was the power and domination that made it so exhilarating. There could be no substitute for power. Nothing else that could make you feel so alive. Nothing that could make the blood pound so ferociously.

  Chapter 25

  First Maryland Trust’s nineteenth-floor lobby was sparsely decorated and the furniture worn and out of date. This was a back-office floor of the state’s largest bank, an operations area not often graced by high-powered visitors, so the bank’s executives did not spend generously on accouterments here.

  “May I get you anything while you wait?” The receptionist smacked gum as he talked.

  “No thanks,” David answered. It was funny how people always spent money to impress people they didn’t know, he thought to himself as he stretched in the uncomfortable chair. Lobbies outside the offices of the professional staff were probably decorated with expensive antiques and tasteful paintings. But the back-office people—the backbone of the entity—who kept money flowing in and out on a daily basis were greeted every morning by peeling gray wallpaper, metal furniture, and a receptionist who smacked gum. There was a lesson to be learned here
, but he was too tired to think about it.

  “How’s the weather out there this afternoon?”

  Great. A chatty receptionist. “Hot and humid.” He kept the response brief, hoping the man would get the message.

  “It’s really August weather for Baltimore. Usually by this time in September we don’t get days like this.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “David!”

  Johnny Antolini was coming through the swinging door leading to the back offices. David rose from the chair and met Johnny in front of the receptionist’s desk.

  “How the hell are you, David?” Johnny asked as he pumped David’s hand.

  “Good.” Johnny had been David’s best friend in high school, and though they had drifted apart as their careers diverged, they had managed to maintain at least sporadic contact. “You saved me,” David said quietly, motioning toward the receptionist.

  “Oh, you mean Chuckie?” Johnny asked loudly, pointing a thumb at the young man, who was still smacking his gum loudly.

  David brought a finger to his lips subtly.

  But Johnny was not to be deterred. He turned toward the gum smacker quickly. “Yo, Chuckie. You can’t be harassing our guests here. We don’t get too many of them anyway. Leave them alone, will you? Don’t talk so much.”

  Chuckie looked up unhappily as David cringed. Johnny hadn’t changed at all. He was still as direct as ever.

  “Just kidding you, Chuckie boy.” Johnny reached over the desk and slapped the young man hard on the back. “Come on, David, let’s go.” Johnny pushed through the door to the back offices and led David through a maze of desks to one in the middle of the floor. “Have a seat, buddy.” He pointed at a chair beside the metal desk.

  Several other employees sat very close to Johnny’s space. He and Johnny would enjoy little privacy here, David saw. “Could we use a conference room?”

  Johnny laughed. He moved to an older woman sitting at the desk next to his and put a large hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got no secrets here.”