The wipers brushed away an easy snow, and the big tires gripped the pavement as they thundered away from Dulles on the long access highway, using the emergency lane to pass other cars that could not get out of the way fast enough.
“Dead, huh?”
“Yep. We’re going over to check it out. Police are saying he caught a bullet in the throat.”
“Want me to program the address on the navigation system?”
“Don’t bother. I went to the Naval Academy, remember? This little town is just south of Annapolis, and I used to sail down in that area. We’ll be there in thirty minutes.” Sybelle was a lead-footed speeder, more reckless pilot than safe driver, and with plenty of horsepower at her command and not caring about the dismal miles-per-gallon rate of the large car, they soon were out of the airport and headed east.
Swanson settled in for the ride. The seat was lumpy. “So bring me into the loop. What’s up?”
She flicked her dark eyes at him for a microsecond, then back to the highway. The snow had been cleared, but patches of muck and ice hugged low places in frozen puddles. “Don’t know too much more than I told you on the phone. Sir Jeff said this guy, his name is … was … Norman Haynes, was an experienced auditor for one of the big accounting companies, with a lot of contracts abroad, including Sir Jeff and Excalibur Industries. Did you know him?”
“No. I’m not involved in the day-to-day business stuff.”
“So just what do you do as a senior vice president there, besides make a lot of money to spoil your surfer chicks?”
“Sybelle, get back to this story. Please.” She was jabbing his ego. Kyle Swanson was already wealthy, and someday he would inherit the company, but he would not discuss that with anyone, even with himself. Talking about money embarrassed him, which was why Sybelle enjoyed doing it.
“So this number cruncher Haynes dropped by London on his way back from Egypt and met privately with Sir Jeff. Said he had been spooked by his trip to Cairo,” she continued.
“I imagine all of Egypt is a pretty spooky place right now. Revolutions are messy. People take their families and assets and run away to safe havens.”
“Not necessarily.” Summers blew past a snowplow that was kicking up a thick storm of road gunk behind it. “Instead of being on the ropes financially, the company where he was running an audit, the Palm Group, had money pouring in.”
“So what? Investors looking for an edge is nothing new. Make a bet on a developing nation that is in the shitter, and when the economy turns around, you make a fortune.”
“This apparently went beyond risk-reward. Haynes found discrepancies and refused to approve the books. That’s a pretty big deal. Other companies and banks won’t do business with a firm blacklisted by its auditors. Bonds won’t sell, banks won’t lend, and customers won’t buy. One of the Palm Group vice presidents actually threatened him.”
That got Kyle’s attention. “Threatened him? Most companies try to keep auditors happy. What the hell did he find?”
“Iran. Big money coming in from Iran.”
Swanson thought about that for a while as the snow danced before the headlights. “I don’t know much about the auditing game, except that accountants can face prison time for divulging the private results of their work or making money from their inside knowledge.” He shifted in his seat, but comfort was impossible. “So our boy Haynes went against the ethical code of his profession and confided that Iran is in the playpen. It would have taken a lot for him to put his career at risk. Meaning he may have stumbled upon a national security issue for the United States.”
She nodded. “The bad news is that he would not say exactly what he knew. The Palm Group security people had taken his computer, his briefcase, and all of his notes and papers, claiming his access was voided by his refusal to sign off. Haynes, like most accountants, had a better than average memory, and he convinced Jeff that he recalled most of the important material and would divulge everything in a private meeting with an appropriate American authority. That was to be us.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“Yes. We had the Lizard start a file on Haynes and tag him in the system, so the 911 call from his wife pinged the Web, and cop radio chatter confirmed it was a homicide. They’ll already be at work by the time we get there. The background file is in your door pocket.”
Swanson picked up the folder and punched on the visor light. As usual, the Lizard had put together a thick dossier on short notice. Norman Haynes grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Ohio, and was a good athlete and student who enlisted to be an Army grunt and earn money for college. He drove a 3rd Armored Division tank in Desert Storm. After that, he traded Army green for Yale blue and picked up a degree in economics. The man was totally clean, made good money over the years, and was a registered Republican, married with three children in college, and cleared to audit military contractors. A high security clearance.
“How much longer?” Kyle asked.
“Twenty minutes,” Sybelle replied.
“I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we get there.” With that simple statement, he eased the lumpy seat back and closed his eyes. Hard years in the field had taught him how to sleep anytime, anywhere, whenever he could. The growling roar of the big V-8 engine was like a lullaby for him as it ripped along Highway 50 toward Annapolis, and he set his mental alarm clock for twenty mikes.
“Know what I’m thinking?” Sybelle asked.
“Nukes.” He did not even open his eyes.
“Yeah.”
“We’re here,” Sybelle said as she steered onto Dietrich Way. Swanson opened his eyes and smelled saltwater. It was easy to identify the correct address, for every light was burning in a two-story white Cape Cod — style house and around the snow-covered grounds. Emergency vehicles of every sort were parked haphazardly, and Sybelle shut down her own flashers as she coasted to a stop at a checkpoint at the end of the long driveway.
A young patrol cop with a plastic cover over his hat approached, his eyes sweeping the car, driver, and passenger.
Sybelle had the window down and both of their creds extended as he arrived. “Lousy weather for standing post,” she said with a smile of sympathy.
“Yes, ma’am. It truly is. Can I help you?”
“We need to talk to whoever is heading the investigation. I see local and county cars, so who’s on top?”
The policeman studied the badges. “You from Homeland Security? What’s your business here?”
“Do you have Beyond Top Secret clearance?” It was a quick turf battle that she won by answering his question with one of her own. She retrieved the credential wallets and tossed them to Kyle, then laughed to break the tension. “Don’t worry, Officer, we come in peace, not to bigfoot your investigation. In fact, we just want to provide some off-the-record information to your detectives.”
“Yes, ma’am. Follow the drive up to the house, park on the left, and I’ll radio Detective Payton that you’re on the way.”
“We can find him,” she said. “Keep us off the radio. Thanks. In fact, you never even saw us tonight.” There was no “please,” the smile had vanished, and the window buzzed up again. The automobile ground on, following the ruts made by the earlier arrivals. She parked beside the band of yellow crime scene tape.