Stephen Frey (26 page)

B
o stood by the same chair in the Waldorf lobby where he had met Michael Mendoza only a few days before, waiting expectantly, worried that somehow she had become caught up in what was going on. His whole body relaxed out of relief when he spotted her. “Ashley,” he called quietly.

She hurried to where he stood, then dropped her suitcase and hugged him tightly. “What's wrong?” she asked. “Why did you want me to come to the city so quickly?”

“Before I can answer that, I need to ask a question of my own.”

She said nothing, but looked up at him curiously.

“Last night you were about to tell me why you left for Europe after college and never came back.”

Her eyes dropped to the carpet.

“Please tell me now,” Bo said.

They'd been apart for years, but she still recognized that tone in Bo's voice. He would not be denied an answer this time. “This is still hard for me to talk about.”

“I understand,” he said compassionately, “but I really need to know.” He had called Ashley two hours ago, insisting that she pack her bags immediately, get to the train station near the estate without alerting anyone, and meet him here. He had already gotten her a room under a false name. She wouldn't be going back to Connecticut. Very soon it wouldn't be safe for anyone there. “You said you had an affair when you were very young,” he pushed. “When you found out we were adopted.”

“Yes.” Tears filled her eyes. “He was my first. It lasted only a week, then he wanted nothing to do with me. I was nothing more than a conquest for him,” she said sadly.

“Who was the affair with?”

She covered her eyes. “I'm so terrible.”

“No, you aren't,” Bo said gently, pulling her close. “Tell me, Ashley.”

She took a deep breath. “It was Michael. Michael Mendoza.” She put her hands to her face. “Ginny was always so nice to me and that's how I repaid her. I'm terrible. I'm so ashamed.”

Bo pulled Ashley to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “It's all right. Michael is the one who ought to be ashamed.”

R
on Baker stood at the podium beneath white-hot lights, shielding his eyes as he looked out at a sea of reporters. He was already sweating profusely despite the fact that he had taken his place behind the microphone only a few moments before. “Can I have some quiet?” he pleaded over the hum of speculation circulating among the press. There had been no advance word from Baker's campaign staff as to the nature of the announcement. “Please!” Slowly the room settled down. “Thank you. I will read a prepared statement and answer no questions.” Baker reviewed the words on the index cards one more time. He was nervous as hell. “For personal reasons, I am withdrawing my bid to become my party's nominee for the office of president of the United States,” he said, his voice rising as reporters began shouting questions. “From this day on I will do whatever I can to help the candidacy of Reggie Duncan. I believe Mr. Duncan will be a strong leader of this country. He has earned my support, and yours. Thank you!” Baker tried to ignore the pandemonium as he trotted for a door held open by two aides.

T
hree thousand miles away, in Manhattan's city hall, the detective—backed by a number of high-ranking local and federal law enforcement officials—tapped the microphone in front of another large throng of reporters. Just like the reporters attending Ron Baker's news conference, these people had no idea what was coming. However, their sources had told them that the announcement, to be made by a joint task force of the New York City Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, would be a blockbuster.

“For the last several days,” the detective began slowly, “we have been conducting an investigation into what we had originally believed was a routine break-in and robbery attempt at the offices of Reggie Duncan's campaign headquarters in Harlem. Several nights ago we apprehended a man fleeing those offices.” The detective took a deep breath. He knew what he was about to say would touch off a firestorm. They had considered trying to keep a lid on the investigation for at least twenty-four more hours, but experience told them that someone would leak the information soon. It was simply too hot, and they wanted to make certain they were controlling the flow of information. “It turns out that the man we apprehended was on the payroll of Paul Hancock's campaign. He was—” But the detective's voice was drowned out in a roar of chaos as the press began screaming questions and at the same time madly dialing cell phones to report what they had just heard to their offices.

The detective shook his head as he watched members of the press strive to be the first to report the incredible news. Then his expression turned grim. Over the last two days he had received information definitively linking the man they had arrested outside Reggie Duncan's office to Paul Hancock. Detailed information from an anonymous source. It had been too easy, he thought, as if someone inside Hancock's campaign was trying to take the candidate down.

“
E
rnie Lang.”

“That's me. What the hell do you want?” Lang asked without looking around. He was Warfield Capital's chief technology officer and he was hunched over a keyboard entering the last of a pile of sensitive financial information into the firm's network. His lair was a large, windowless room located one floor below the firm's trading floor and executive offices. “I don't have time to be interrupted,” he added loudly, spinning his chair around toward the voice. “How the hell did you get in here any—” He stopped cold. “I . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Hancock. I certainly didn't expect to see you down here.”

Bo smiled reassuringly. “No need to apologize.”

“What can I do for you, sir?” Lang asked nervously.

Bo closed and locked the door. “Everything concerning Warfield's portfolio is on our network, correct?” he asked, taking a seat beside Lang, scanning the room to make certain they were alone.

“Yes.”

“How up-to-date is the network?”

“Up-to-the-minute,” Lang said proudly, delighted by the chance to show off in front of one of the Hancocks. “The system is tied directly to the trading floor as well as the other departments. As soon as an investment is made, I know about it.”

“Good.” Bo put his hand on the young man's shoulder. “What we're going to talk about tonight is extremely confidential. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I think so.”

“Let me be perfectly clear so there are no misunderstandings later.”

Lang nodded. “Okay.”

“I am going to ask you to perform what I believe are several fairly simple data-mining requests. You will not discuss what we talk about with anyone. It's as simple as that, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are we
crystal
clear on that?”

“Yes.”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“Can we perform these data requests transparently?”

“You mean—”

“I mean, can we log on without creating a record? I don't want anyone to know we went into the system.”

The young man nodded slowly. “It will take some doing, but I can go back in when we're finished and erase our tracks.”

“Good.” Bo nodded at the keyboard in front of Lang. “First of all, I need to see if a wire transfer has arrived at one of our Chase accounts.”

“That's easy. We're directly linked to Chase's computer.” Lang tapped on the keyboard, flashing through several screens. “Here's a list of all our accounts over there, Mr. Hancock. Which one do you want to examine?”

Angela, Mendoza's aide, had called Bo on his cell phone only a few moments after he'd let Frank Ramsey up off the ground in Central Park. As Bo watched Ramsey jog away, she'd confirmed that she was wiring Warfield five hundred million dollars as he had requested. “That one,” Bo said, pointing at a string of numbers on the screen.

“Jesus,” Lang exclaimed as the account detail appeared on the screen.

Bo smiled to himself. There it was. A half-billion-dollar deposit. “Now I need you to locate a specific investment in our portfolio.”

Lang hesitated. “Excuse me, sir, but you can do that from the personal computer in your office. The network is set up so that you and Mr. Ramsey can get to everything,” he explained. “You and he are the only ones with that kind of universal access, except for me, of course. I'm happy to help you, but you can review from upstairs all assets and all liabilities including a full list of institutional investors who are funding us. We've been over that before,” he said deferentially, not wanting to irritate Bo.

“I know that, but I'm having trouble finding one investment that I'm certain is in the portfolio. It isn't showing up on my screen when I search.”

“Perhaps it's been sold and you weren't informed,” Lang suggested, tapping on his keyboard to bring up the system's main menu. “Once investments are sold, you wouldn't be able to access them on-line. After an investment is sold, the record of its being a Warfield asset is stored in a data bank off-line. I'd have to dig it up for you, but that wouldn't be hard.”

“I don't think it was sold.”

“What kind of investment is it? What sheet should I be reviewing? Can you tell me that?”

“The private equity sheet.”

“That's sector Q,” Lang muttered to himself, entering a data request. Moments later an alphabetized list of names appeared on his screen. “Here we go. What's the specific name of the investment?”

“RANSACK.”