The cabbie met his eyes in the mirror.
“Here’s five bucks. Can I please use your cell phone?”
The cabbie reflexively moved the phone from the center console where it lay and placed it on his lap. “No,” he said. “Use your own phone. I saw it in your hand.”
“I can’t. That probably sounds crazy, but it’s really complicated. C’mon, five bucks for one phone call. Two, actually.”
The cabbie was clearly uncomfortable with this. “I will take you to a pay phone.”
“No, no, no. You’ve got that look in your eye. The second I step out of your cab, you’ll drive away.” David pulled another bill from the wallet. “Here, then. Twenty-five dollars. For two phone calls. I could call the moon and you’d still make a couple of bucks. All I need is directory assistance and then a local call. I swear. C’mon, please let me borrow your phone.”
The cabbie studied what he saw in the rearview mirror, his eyes leaving David only to check his progress on the road. “Fifty,” he said at last.
“Fifty! For a phone call?”
“Twenty-five for the call, twenty-five to use my phone.”
This was outrageous. No wonder the world was at war with these guys. David went back to his wallet and retrieved the appropriate bills. As he handed them through the opening, he also handed the driver his iPhone. “Here,” he said. “A little extra something for your effort.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The universe that Jonathan Grave cared about resided on Virginia’s Northern Neck of the Potomac River in a waterfront burg named Fisherman’s Cove. He’d grown up there, and as a teenager he’d fled from there, only to return many years later to prove the old saw, “lo the memories be painful, there’s no place like home.” Or something like that.
Commercial fishing still thrived in the Cove, as did the dozens of businesses that supported fishermen and their families. Thanks in no small part to anonymous deep-pocketed finagling by Jonathan over the years, the big box stores that had consumed so much of tranquil America were still far enough away to give local small businesses an even shot. Tourists streamed to the Cove during the summer months, but those who were looking to stay in a major chain hotel had to shift their sights to local establishments, including a few bed-and-breakfasts that reset the definition of peace.
There was a nightlife if you knew where to look for it, so long as said nightlife didn’t extend beyond 10:00 P.M. Monday through Thursday and midnight on Friday and Saturday. Fisherman’s Cove was the wrong place to go looking for nightlife on Sunday.
The two most impressive structures in Fisherman’s Cove were Resurrection House — a residential school anonymously endowed by Jonathan Grave for the children of incarcerated parents — and Saint Katherine’s Catholic Church, Saint Kate’s to the locals. The two buildings sat adjacent to each other on Church Street, on the long hill that led down to the waterfront. At the end of the block, facing Water Street, sat the three-story converted firehouse that served as Jonathan’s home on the first two floors, and as headquarters for his company, Security Solutions, on the third.
To their major corporate clients, Security Solutions was a high-end private investigation company that specialized in getting information that few others could obtain. It was all done legally, but it was also done aggressively, using means that sometimes pressed and bent — but never broke — the letter of the law. When a billion-dollar merger was in play, a board of directors could never have enough information, and information was what Security Solutions specialized in.
Those were the very sorts of investigations that bored Jonathan Grave to the point of misery. His passion lay exclusively with the unspoken, covert part of the company’s operations — the part about which even his most experienced investigators — employees who had been with him for years — knew nothing. Jonathan was reasonably sure they suspected, but they all knew to keep their mouths shut and to not ask questions.
Jonathan’s 0300 missions — hostage rescue missions, in the parlance of the Unit, with which he’d served for many years — were run out of the Cave, the half of the third floor to which only a handful of people had access, and which was guarded 24/7 by retired military policemen whose longtime specialty was convincing people to stay out of places where they did not belong. Building security had been heightened enormously after an unfortunate incident several years ago when an intruder had been able to make his way inside and nearly killed Jonathan’s most valued employee.
This evening, Jonathan sat with Boxers and Venice Alexander in the War Room, the Cave’s high-tech teak conference room, talking through this business about the First Lady, trying to cobble together some semblance of a plan.
Jonathan had known Venice Alexander (it’s pronounced Ven-EE-chay) since she was a little girl, the daughter of his family’s lead housekeeper. Separated in age by an improper number of years when he was in his teens, he’d enjoyed the crush she’d had on him, and he’d been moved by the emotion she’d shown on the day he moved out.
While Jonathan was off saving the world in the United States Army, Venice had become something of a wizard — and, strictly speaking, a criminal — in things computer related. In the early days of Security Solutions, as soon as it became apparent that advanced computer skills were needed, Venice had been Jonathan’s first choice. Now, she pretty much ran the place, stimulating ones and zeroes to accomplish amazing feats.
“I don’t understand why there’s been no ransom demand,” Venice said. She looked like she wanted to be typing something on her terminal, but was frustrated that she didn’t know what to type.
“And no announcement to the media,” Boxers added. “If this was a bunch of terrorists, it seems to me that they’d be all over the airwaves announcing their prize.”
“I agree on both counts,” Jonathan said. “And those two things together tell me that this isn’t your standard kidnapping.”
“Did the White House people give you any theories at all?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No. In fact, they seemed sort of intent on not going there.”
Venice cocked her head.
Jonathan elaborated. “Call it intuition. They want us to do our own legwork. I don’t know why.”
“Didn’t you say they promised to share all the intel they gathered?”
Boxers chuckled. “Promises from a politician. Now there’s something to take to the bank.”
“Ven, I know you must have done some research since our phone conversation,” Jonathan said. “What have you come up with?”
She beamed. Finally, a chance to play with the computer. “Let’s start with the troubling details,” she said. “In the aftermath of nine-eleven, you can’t scratch your ear or pick your nose in Washington without it being recorded by a camera. But guess what.”
Jonathan was way ahead. “None of the cameras near the Wild Times Bar were working.”
“Right. Now, that could be a coincidence—”
“But I don’t believe in those,” Jonathan finished for her.
“Exactly.”
“I sense that you have a theory,” Jonathan said.
Venice’s smile grew larger. “Look at the big screen.” Her fingers worked the keys. At the far end of the rectangular conference room, an enormous television screen came to life. There was no sound, but the images showed a list of news stories from various periodicals.
“Last night’s outing to the Wild Times was far from Mrs. Darmond’s first extracurricular nighttime adventure.” She clicked through the headlines.
First Lady Startles Crowd at Georgetown Nightclub
Anna Darmond Steps Out