Total Control (15 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

At three o'clock in the morning, Seattle time, the thick clouds spilled open and delivered still more rain to the area. The guard huddled in the small guard shack, his feet and hands close to the floor heater. In one corner of the structure a steady stream of water trickled down the wall, forming a puddle on the ragged green carpet.

The guard wearily checked the time. Four hours to go before his watch was over. He poured out the last of the hot coffee from his thermos and longed for a warm bed. Each building was leased by different companies. Some of the buildings simply stood empty, but all were secure regardless of their contents, with armed guards on-site twenty-four hours a day. The high metal fence had barbed wire at the top, although not the deadly razor wire favored at prison facilities.

Video monitors were discreetly placed throughout the area.

It would be a difficult place to break into.

Difficult, but far from impossible.

The figure was clad head to foot in black. It took him less than a minute to climb the fence in the back of the warehouse facility, expertly avoiding the sharp wire. Once over the fence, he slipped in and out of the shadows as the rain continued to pour down, completely covering the slight sounds that his quick-moving feet made.

On his left sleeve was a miniature electronic jamming device. He passed three video cameras on the way to his destination; none of them captured his image.

Reaching the side door of Building 22, he pulled a slender' wire-like device from his knapsack and inserted it in the sturdy padlock.

Ten seconds later the lock hung loose.

He took the metal steps two at a time after making a visual sweep of the building's interior with his night-vision goggles. He opened the door to a room, illuminating the small space with his flashlight.

He unlocked the filing cabinet and removed the surveillance camera.

He placed the videotape in one part of his knapsack, reloaded the camera and replaced it in the cabinet. Five minutes later, the area was once again quiet. The guard had not yet finished his last cup of coffee.

At the crack of dawn, a Gulfstream V lifted off from the Seattle airport. The black-clad figure was now dressed in jeans and a sweat-shirt and was fast asleep in one of the luxurious cabin chairs, his dark hair falling into his youthful face. Across the aisle, Frank Hardy, head of a firm specializing' in corporate security, and counter-industrial espionage, intently read every page of a lengthy report as the plane soared through the now clear morning sky; the last vestiges of the previous night's storm system had finally pushed on. Inside a metal briefcase was the videotape that had been removed from the camera in the file cabinet. The case was within easy reach of his hand. A steward appeared and poured out another cup of coffee for the plane's one awake passenger. Hardy's eyes rested on the metal briefcase. His brow wrinkled and, from long habit, his fingers traced and retraced the worry lines stamped across his forehead. Then Hardy put the report down, leaned back in his seat and stared out the cabin window as the aircraft headed east. He had a lot to think about. He was not a happy man right now. Both his jaw and his gut clenched and unclenched as the sleek jet raced on.

The Gulfstream hit its cruising altitude on a flight that would culminate in Washington, D.C. The rays of the rising sun reflected off the familiar company logo emblazoned on the aircraft's empennage. The soaring eagle represented an organization like no other.

More recognized worldwide than even Coca-Cola, more feared than most of the world's largest conglomerates--which, by comparison, were aging dinosaurs aware of the constant pull of extinction. It was the complete package as the twenty-first century hurtled toward them, just like the bold eagle symbol that was rapidly making its way into the four corners of the world and everywhere in between.

Triton Global would have it no other way.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A uniformed security guard escorted Lee Sawyer through the massive lobby of the Marriner Eccles Building, the Constitution Avenue home of the Federal Reserve Board. Sawyer thought that the premises were in keeping with the enormous clout of their occupant.

After walking up to the second floor, Sawyer and his escort stopped at a thick wooden door and the escort knocked. The words "Come in" filtered out to them. Sawyer moved through the doorway to a large, cozily furnished office. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases, dark furniture and ornate moldings made a somber impression. The thick drapes were closed. A green banker's lamp glowed on the large, leather-topped partners desk. The smell of cigars hovered everywhere; Sawyer could almost see gray wisps of smoke hanging in the air like ghostly apparitions. It reminded him of the scholarly studies of some of his old college professors. A small fire burning in the fireplace threw both warmth and light into the room When a man of massive girth swiveled around in the chair behind the desk, Sawyer's attention was instantly riveted upon him. A corpulent red face housed light blue eyes hiding behind lids reduced to slits by sagging facial skin and the overgrowth of a pair of eyebrows as thick as Sawyer had ever seen. The hair was white and abundant, the nose was wide and the tip was even redder than the rest of the face. For one brief moment, Sawyer jokingly wondered if he was confronting Santa Claus.

The man rose from behind the desk, and his big, cultured voice flowing across the room to envelop Lee Sawyer dispelled all such thoughts.

"Agent Sawyer, I'm Walter Burns, vice chairman of the Federal Reserve Board."

Sawyer moved forward to grip the flabby hand. Burns matched the six-foot-three Sawyer in height, but carried at least a hundred more pounds on his frame than did the powerfully built FBI agent.

Sawyer took the leather chair indicated by Burns. When Burns sat back down, Sawyer noted that he moved with a grace that was not uncommon to large men.

"I appreciate your seeing me, sir."

Burns shot the FBI man a penetrating glance. "I take it that your agency's involvement in this matter means it was not merely a mechanical or other similar problem that befell that plane?"

"We're checking through all possible scenarios. Nothing has been ruled out right now, Mr. Burns." Sawyer's features were impassive.

"My name is Walter, Agent Sawyer. Since we're both members of the sometimes unwieldy system known as the federal government, I think that allows us the pleasure of a first-name basis."

Sawyer grinned. "Mine's Lee."

"How can I help you, Lee?"

The clatter of freezing rain assaulted the window and a chill seemed suddenly to pervade the air. Burns rose and walked over to the fireplace, beckoning Sawyer to pull his chair over. While Burns placed some small pieces of kindling taken from a brass bucket onto the fire, Sawyer flipped open his notebook and briefly studied some notes. When Burns sat down across from him, Sawyer was ready.

"I realize that a lot of people have no idea what the Fed does. I mean people outside the financial markets."

Burns rubbed at one eye and Sawyer almost heard a chuckle escape the other man's lips. "If I were a betting man, I would be inclined to lay money on the fact that fully half the population of this country have no idea of the existence of the Federal Reserve System, and that nine out of ten have no clue as to what our actual purpose is. I must confess I find that anonymity enormously comforting."

Sawyer paused and then leaned toward the older man. "Who would benefit from Arthur Lieberman's death? I don't mean personally, I'm focusing on his professional side. As chairman of the Fed."

Burns's eyes widened until the slits reached the shape of half-moons, about the limits of their range. "You're implying that someone blew up that plane in order to kill Arthur? If you don't mind my saying so, that seems awfully far-fetched."

"I didn't say that was the case. That is, we're looking at everything right now." Sawyer spoke in low tones, as though he feared he would be overheard. "The fact is I've combed through the passenger manifest and your colleague was the only VIP aboard. If it was a deliberate sabotage, then one reason that jumps out would be killing the Fed chairman."

"Or just a planned terrorist attack and Arthur simply had the misfortune to be on board."

Sawyer shook his head. "If we are looking at sabotage, then I don't believe Lieberman being on the plane was a coincidence."

Burns leaned back in his chair and slowly put his feet out toward the fire. "My God!" he finally said as he stared into the fire. Although he would have looked quite at home in a three-piece suit replete with watch chain, his current attire--camel-hair sport coat, dark blue crew sweater with a white button-down shirt collar peeking out, gray pleated slacks and comfortable black loafers--did not look so out of place on his frame. Sawyer noted that the man's feet were surprisingly small for his size. Neither man spoke for at least a minute.

Sawyer finally stirred. "I know I don't have to tell you that anything I say to you tonight is extremely confidential."

Burns's head swiveled around to the FBI agent. "Secrets are something I am quite good at keeping, Lee."

"So getting back to my question: Who benefits?"

Burns considered the query for some moments and then took a deep breath. "The United States economy is the largest in the world.

Hence, as America goes, so goes the world. If another country hostile to America desired to damage our economy or disrupt the world financial markets, perpetrating an atrocity such as this could well have that effect. I have no doubt that the markets will take a staggering blow if it turns out his death was premeditated." The vice chairman shook his head sadly. "I just never thought I would live to see the day."

"How about anyone in this country who might like to see the chairman dead?" Sawyer asked again.

"As long as the Fed has existed there have been conspiracy theories painted so vividly about the institution that I'm quite sure there are more than a handful of people in this country who take them, however nonsensical they are, quite seriously."

Sawyer's eyes narrowed. "Conspiracy theories?"

Burns coughed and then loudly cleared his throat. "There are those who believe that the Fed is actually a tool for wealthy families around the globe to keep the poor in their place. Or that we take our marching orders from a small group of international bankers. I've even heard one theory that has us being the pawns of alien beings who have infiltrated all the highest positions of government. My birth certificate says Boston, Massachusetts, by the way."

Sawyer shook his head. "Christ, that's pretty wacko."

"Exactly. As if a seven-trillion-dollar economy employing well over a hundred million people could be secretly run by a handful of waistcoated tycoons."

"So one of these conspiracy groups could have plotted to kill the chairman in retaliation for perceived corruption or injustice?"

"Well, few governmental institutions are more misunderstood and feared out of ignorance than the Federal Reserve Board. When you first mentioned the possibility, I said it was far-fetched. Having thought about it for a few minutes, I have to say my initial reaction was probably not correct. But blowing up a plane..." Burns shook his head wearily.

Sawyer jotted down some notes. "I'd like to know more about Lieberman's background."

"Arthur Lieberman was an immensely popular man in the major financial circles. For years he was one of the top moneymakers on Wall Street, before turning to public service. Arthur called things as he saw them and he was usually right in his judgment. With a series of masterful maneuvers, he shook up the financial markets almost from the moment he became chairman. He showed them who was boss." Burns stopped to put another piece of wood on the fire.

"In fact, he led the Fed in a way that I would like to think I would if ever given the opportunity."

"Any idea who might succeed Lieberman?"

Burns shook his head. "No."

"Around the time he left for Los Angeles, had anything unusual occurred at the Fed?"

Burns shrugged. "We had our FOME meeting on the fifteenth of November, but that was a regularly scheduled event."

Sawyer looked puzzled. "FOME?"

"Federal Open Market Committee. It's our policymaking board."

"What goes on at those meetings?"

"Well, in a shorthand version, the seven members of the Board of Governors and the presidents of five of the twelve Federal Reserve Banks look at all pertinent financial data on the economy and decide whether any actions are required with respect to money supply and interest rates."

Sawyer nodded. "When the Fed raises or lowers interest rates, for instance, then that affects the entire economy. Contracts or expands it."

"At least we think so," Burns replied sardonically. "Although our actions have not always had the results we intended."

"So was there anything unusual at this FOME meeting?"

"No."

"Nevertheless, could you give me a rundown of exactly what was said and by whom? It might seem irrelevant, but getting a motive could really help us track down whoever did this."

Burns's voice went up an octave. "Impossible. The actual deliberations of FOME meetings are absolutely confidential and cannot be divulged to you or anyone else."

"Walter, I won't push it now, but with all due respect, if any information discussed at these meetings is relevant to the FBI's investigation, rest assured that we will have access to it." Sawyer stared at him until Burns dropped his gaze.

"A brief report detailing the minutes of the meeting is released six to eight weeks after the meeting is held," Burns said slowly, "but only after the occurrence of the next meeting. The actual results of the meetings, whether any action was taken or not, are released to the news media the same day."

"I read in the paper where the Fed left the interest rates the same."

Burns pursed his lips and then eyed Sawyer. "That's right, we didn't adjust the interest rates."