Royce cleared his throat. “Young lady, I am a man with many friends, several of whom share the name Frederick. But I can assure you that there is no Freddy Allen among them.”
Bingo. “All right.”
Art had caught it, too. It was amazing how the simplest of things could give someone away. But this was not the place nor the time to pursue it any further. In fact any additional questioning was useless for the moment. But not for long.
Frankie looked to her partner. “Is there anything else you need to ask?”
“No. Not right now.” He turned to Royce. “We may have some more questions, though, if any new information comes up.”
“Of course,” Royce said, nodding obligingly. “I will cooperate in any way I can.” He pushed off one arm of the sofa, coming to his feet. “Knowing that my former employee decided to go into so sordid a profession leaves a black mark on my judgment. I want to exorcise that, if possible. For my own peace of mind.”
“Of course.” Art and Frankie stood, each politely thanking the CEO of Royce Pharmaceuticals for his time, and, silently, for much more. They left his office and followed the same security guard who had escorted them in back out, exiting the headquarters of the multimillion-dollar corporation into a blustery fall breeze that had kicked up while they were inside.
“He was lying through his teeth,” Art said once outside. “Hey, good snare, partner.”
“Would you call someone named Frederick Freddy if you didn’t know them?”
“He didn’t call Richard Dick,” Art answered. “Now all we have to do is find out how and why this guy was mixed up with Allen.”
Whatever the executive’s motivation was in becoming involved with Kostin and, she was sure, Freddy Allen, one obvious connection to the affair was very apparent to Frankie. “Money, partner.”
“But why?” Art wondered. “I want to know everything we can about this guy. Especially about his finances.”
“His visit to Russia, too,” Frankie suggested.
“Good idea. Have the liaison group in D.C. run that down if they haven’t already,” Art directed. “Have them find out how long this trip he took was in the works, who his contacts were, where he went, et cetera.”
“Will do,” Frankie said, unlocking the Chevy and getting behind the wheel. Her right hand went immediately to the heater.
“This whole thing doesn’t feel right,” Art said as he closed the passenger door. Scared wasn’t the word to use, at least not yet.
Harback gestured once again to the slate-gray unit after finishing his spiel. “SunSnow knows how to make things right.”
“That’s an understatement,” Stanley commented, looking over the layout of the area and the entire system. Simple in some respects, but for his purposes there was still the nagging problem of getting to this point without sounding any alarms in those workers who were bound to see something. Whoever was going to actually place the stuff couldn’t just ask Harback to…or could they? “Ray, this is absolutely what I think my clients in Thailand are going to need. Your setup fits the bill as far as I can see. You know, what would really help is if I could get some pictures of this level and the main system. Stills and video so I could ship them over to the architects and engineers in Bangkok to convince them. Is there any way I could send a couple of my guys up next week sometime to take some shots?”
“Sure. No problem. I’d be glad to point out what they should be shooting.”
Stanley patted the bigger man appreciatively on the shoulder. “You may have just saved my clients a hefty refit.”
“No problem at all.”
“Well, there will be a very generous consulting services fee coming your way.”
Harback chuckled, the joviality drowned out by the constant noise. “I appreciate that.”
“Is Wednesday all right with you?”
“The day before Thanksgiving?” Harback asked, mentally checking his schedule. Most in the building would be heading out early that day. The load on the systems would be minimal. “Morning okay?”
“Eight would be good,” Stanley said.
“Perfect.”
Stanley reached his hand out, shaking Harback’s firmly. “Perfect.”
Harback escorted his guest back to the ground floor and noted the appointment. Stanley thanked the man one final time, sincere in his appreciation. If only he knew, Stanley thought with a smile as he crossed the lobby, his eyes squinting at the glare from the front—
“Damn,” Anne Preston said, her armful of books now at her feet after the collision.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” Stanley apologized, squatting to help the lady pick up her books. “I didn’t see you. The glare kinda blinded me.”
“It was an accident,” Anne said. “I should have seen you.”
“No, I was…” Stanley looked up from the floor, seeing the lady’s face for the first time. She’s African. He hadn’t been this close to an African in years. In fact he couldn’t remember touching an African woman, even accidentally like this. “I… I’m sorry. I… I’ve gotta go.”
Anne gathered the books as the young man handed them to her with haste. She stood from a crouch and watched him hurry from the building as if he’d just seen a ghost, then let the strange incident fade as she continued on to her twelfth-floor office.
SIX
Bulls
The forty-hour week, legislated many years before for the benefit of American workers, was but a long-forgotten dream for those gathered in the Oval Office this Saturday morning. There was coffee in a shining server, which rested on a silver tray at the center of a low table. Two platters, one of fruit slices and the other stacked with croissants, were on either side of the tray, and from the two couches and the single highback chair that framed the arrangement hands would occasionally reach in and partake of the light morning meal.
The president, sitting straight in the highback, held a saucer on his lap and sipped at the cup of Colombian blend as the man who would run his campaign for reelection, once the bid officially got under way the week after Thanksgiving, ran through a thumbnail sketch of the strategy developed over the summer months. Listening with the president were the secretary of state, the White House chief of staff, and National Security Adviser Bud DiContino, three men he saw as a troika of wisdom and honesty that could be relied upon without fail.
The outline of the route the campaign would take through the electoral minefield, presented by Earl Casey, the presidential campaign general chairman, was given as a courtesy to those men closest to the chief executive.
It was laid out for their perusal, comment, or criticism, and, as expected, it focused heavily on domestic issues. The voters, burned by promises of such in the past, as well as a still sluggish economy that refused to rebound to prerecession levels, were as skeptical as they had ever been, Casey told the group. As a political operator Casey was the best, saying what needed to be said, seeing what warranted attention, and spinning what required finessing. This was his first presidential campaign, but seven sitting governors owed their positions to the man, and the Democratic strategists had convinced the president that Casey and the team he could assemble were the ones who could keep the party in the White House for four more years.
Bud DiContino, however, saw some wrinkles in the carefully crafted plan.
“What about the unexpected?” The NSA asked. He saw Jim Coventry’s head move slightly in agreement.
“In what form?” Casey responded.
“Well, take what’s going on now for example,” Bud said. “Say that a week before New Hampshire we find out that this Kostin fellow is actually a Russian spy sent here to supply homegrown terrorist groups with nerve gas.”