“Give it up, Mac. Nothing happened, except that we’re stupidly saying too much on a non-secure line. Fix it.”
“Sir…”
“Goddammit, Mac, fix it! I don’t want calls like that.”
“Yes, sir.”
He heard the Washington end of the call go silent and folded the phone, fighting a flash of anger and struggling to concentrate on any deeper meaning. Whichever way he looked at it, the implications were disturbing.
This has nothing to do with personal insult. I touched an exposed nerve, and this was the reaction.
He turned and looked back, startled to see his house less than a hundred yards behind him. An AWACS was lifting off from Runway 05 and clawing for altitude, the throaty roar of its engines trying unsuccessfully to distract him.
Mac resumed walking, calculating a path to the jogging trails around the base. He’d been given a direct order to “fix” the upset, which meant apologize and withdraw his demand for information. He could do that on the cell phone in a few minutes, but first there was something more important to figure out. The front-door approach had backfired. The information he needed would now have to be obtained clandestinely and fast, and that meant he needed unofficial help.
He closed his eyes for a few strides, then opened them and picked up his pace as he remembered the presence of a pay phone just ahead.
A pay phone would be a lot safer. He picked up the receiver and dialed a carefully memorized number.
THIRTY FIVE
SATURDAY, DAY 6 SHILSHOLE MARINA BALLARD, WASHINGTON 9:02 A.M.
In the master bedroom of her yacht, Gracie O’Brien swam slowly back to consciousness from a deliciously sensuous dream and stretched luxuriously in the king-size bed, letting the feel of the satin sheets she loved extend the fantasy a few more seconds.
The ceiling was arched with rich, oaken beams, giving the central below-decks room an appropriately nautical feel. She’d visited the factory, studied the plans, and knew the beams were fake, but the effect was perfect. She loved waking up to the gentle motion of the yacht in her owner’s stateroom, and loved even more the fun of climbing up to the open flying bridge in the morning with a cup of coffee and the breeze in her face.
For no particular reason, Gracie looked at the phone to the left of the bed, her eyes fixating on it just before it rang.
She reached for it, loving the feeling of sliding her trim body across the sheets again as she caught sight of the time and felt a burst of guilt.
Omigod! Nine already!
The plan had been to get up at seven, exercise, and get back to work for the Rosens. The possibility that April or Rachel might be on the other end of the ringing phone crossed her mind as she pulled the receiver to her ear and rolled to a sitting position.
“Hello?”
“Gracie?” The voice was deep, somewhat gruff, and the owner clearly unhappy, all of the conclusions conveyed in a single word.
“Yes?”
“This is Ben Janssen, your managing partner.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Janssen. Good morning.”
“Well, not so good as all that, Gracie. I’ll be frank. I’m pretty pissed off at you right now.”
She felt a wave of adrenaline course through her bloodstream, mental cautions mixing with conflicting loyalties underlaid with an intense desire not to be in trouble with her firm.
“Why, Mr. Janssen? I mean, I’ll apologize in advance for anything I’ve done wrong, but—”
“Look, there are protocols in a major law firm, young lady, especially when it comes to asking big clients for favors, and you didn’t just cross the line, you blew across it.”
Gracie fought to keep her voice even and friendly, but she could feel her stomach fluttering, the vibrations threatening to rattle her diaphragm and progress to a shaky voice. “You mean Bernie Ashad, sir?”
“Of course I mean Ashad, for God’s sake. Who the hell told you it was okay to go shaking your cute little tail at one of our most important clients to get him to help you on a completely personal matter? Hell, I ought to can your ass right here, right now.”
“Mr. Janssen, in no way did I — as you put it — shake my tail at anyone, least of all Mr. Ashad. I—”
“I don’t care what the hell you told him.”
“Sir? Please! You’ve launched a full-scale attack on my actions, along with some rather raw sexual innuendos, and I believe I should have the opportunity to defend myself.”
There was momentary silence on the other end and she could hear the receiver being shifted to his other ear.
“All right. Go ahead.”
“Thank you. The facts are, sir, that I had a call from Mr. Ashad on Tuesday wanting to set a time for a conference call between us on the lease for the commercial property in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I’ve been working on, and one of the times he suggested conflicted with the personal matter you referred to. I had requested and received approval from Dick Walsh to be gone that afternoon, and I requested we set the conference time two days hence. He said that was fine, remarked that I sounded worried, and asked why. We’ve met and had dinner as lawyer and client, and I believe he respects me. I told him in very brief detail about my best friend’s problem — her father’s problem in Alaska — and he kept pressing me for details. I provided those details. I volunteered one thing and one thing only in that call, and that was the fact that I was in need of finding a salvage firm that could raise a sunken aircraft. He said his equipment was too big and far away, but he knew just the man to call in Valdez, and I later acted on that recommendation.”
“Yeah, well, then you apparently asked him to go fish out some airplane for free.”
Gracie could feel her insides vibrating with tension and fear, but she fought hard to control her voice, barely succeeding.
He is not going to make me come apart!
“Mr. Janssen, that is entirely incorrect. I would never do such a thing, and I can’t believe Mr. Ashad would say I did.”
Janssen was silent, practicing his well-honed ability to draw out statements people didn’t want to make. April cautioned herself not to fall for it.
“What happened,” she continued, “is that Mr. Ashad called me on Wednesday and asked how things were going with the Alaska dilemma affecting the Rosens. I appreciated the call and I told him about it briefly, and I also discussed his business and the progress of the lease negotiations. When we finished with the subject of the lease, he asked me to call him if I needed any more help or advice for the Rosens. On Friday, having been given leave again by Dick Walsh to go file for a TRO against the government for Captain Rosen, I took Mr. Ashad up on the offer, and called and asked him if the Rosens could hire his people for a salvage operation. That’s ‘hire,’ Mr. Janssen, not ‘donate.’ He wouldn’t hear of it. He said he’d been surprised to find one of his ships was sailing through the area, and if I’d give him the coordinates of the wreckage, they’d see what could be done. I again promised normal compensation by the Rosens and he told me their money was, as he put it, ‘no good,’ and that all he expected was my letting him take me to dinner the next time he’s in Seattle. When I had dinner with him before, he was a perfect gentleman and there was no hint of sexual interest or intent, nor is there now, so I agreed.”
“Are you through?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.
“I’m… finished relating to you precisely what happened, sir. And may I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Does any of what I just told you vary in any particular from what Mr. Ashad has told you?”