The Inner Sanctum by Stephen Frey Page A
Authors: Stephen Frey
Tags: Fiction, General, Espionage, Mystery Fiction, New York (N.Y.), Business, Washington (D.C.), Bankers, Investment Banking, Securities Industry
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Jesse rose from the chair, retrieved her purse from the hall, then sat back down at the kitchen table.
"What are you doing?" Connie asked suspiciously.
Without answering, Jesse withdrew two hundred-dollar bills from the purse and laid them on the table. "Here, Mom. It won't fix the roof, but it'll help."
"I can't take that, Jesse. You gave me money last month and I swore I wouldn't take any more."
"Just take it."
"But . . ."
"Take it, Mom," Jesse said firmly.
Slowly Connie's fingers crept across the wooden tabletop to the money. "You really are an angel."
The man blew thick smoke into the dimly lighted office. "Do you smoke, Commander Pierce?"
"No, sir."
"Would you care for something to drink?" He motioned toward a wet bar in one corner of the room. "I know you don't allow yourself alcohol, but there are soft drinks as well."
"Thank you, no sir."
The man watched the naval aviator for a few moments as he puffed on the Monte Cristo again. Commander Pierce wore civilian clothes, but his crew cut, steely eyes, and ramrod-straight posture still exuded a no-nonsense military veneer. "I appreciate your flying in so quickly from Nevada. I know it's a long way to come just for a discussion, but this wasn't something I felt we could talk about over the phone."
"Absolutely no problem. It's a short flight in the jets I pilot. And I had other business here in Washington, so it worked out well."
"Good." The man rubbed his lips for a moment before continuing. "We have a situation at Area 51."
"What kind of situation, sir?"
"A situation that requires the skill you and the other men of your unit possess. I have ascertained that someone at Area 51 is passing along highly sensitive information to Senator Malcolm Walker regarding the A-100 project. Information Walker plans to use in an attempt to derail the project."
The commander's top lip curled into a sneer.
"The Navy needs the A-100, Commander Pierce. We all need the A-100," the man emphasized.
"Yes, sir."
"We organized your unit for this exact situation. You know what to do."
"Of course."
The man smiled. "You are protecting your country, Commander Pierce. You are doing the right thing. Sometimes we can't always play by the rules in our effort to do the right thing."
"I understand, sir," Pierce answered resolutely. "What is the traitor's name?"
"Captain Paul Nichols. Do you know who he is?"
"Yes. We'll take care of him."
"Good." The man puffed on his cigar once more. The situation had been addressed and resolved that quickly.
Jesse nodded politely at the receptionist, then moved quickly out of the professional offices and into the hallway. There she leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, and exhaled heavily. The unexpected encounter with Father McCord and the conversation with her mother had rekindled the memories. Thank God Becky had been able to meet on such short notice.
** Chapter 12
Middleburg, Virginia, located thirty miles west of downtown Washington, lay claim to some of the most beautiful and expensive real estate in the East. Handsome stone mansions were set behind miles of six-foot- high white post fences dotting the rolling hills and lush fields of the picturesque countryside.
Middleburg also lay claim to some of the most expensive Thoroughbred horses in the world. For many who lived in this moneyed enclave, breeding horses was a livelihood highlighted by the Triple Crown, the Grand National, or the sale of a particularly fine stallion to a wealthy Arab emir for an exorbitant amount of cash. These people resided on thousand-acre farms, owned many horses, drove old-model Volvo station wagons to town on errands and Rolls-Royces to the fall steeplechases, and waited breathlessly for the spring crop of foals. They never discussed money, never flaunted it, and were never without it. They were the old money.
Jack Finnerty's fifteen-acre farm lay in the middle of this moneyed expanse. At one time his six-bedroom colonial had been a guest house on the
"What are you doing?" Connie asked suspiciously.
Without answering, Jesse withdrew two hundred-dollar bills from the purse and laid them on the table. "Here, Mom. It won't fix the roof, but it'll help."
"I can't take that, Jesse. You gave me money last month and I swore I wouldn't take any more."
"Just take it."
"But . . ."
"Take it, Mom," Jesse said firmly.
Slowly Connie's fingers crept across the wooden tabletop to the money. "You really are an angel."
The man blew thick smoke into the dimly lighted office. "Do you smoke, Commander Pierce?"
"No, sir."
"Would you care for something to drink?" He motioned toward a wet bar in one corner of the room. "I know you don't allow yourself alcohol, but there are soft drinks as well."
"Thank you, no sir."
The man watched the naval aviator for a few moments as he puffed on the Monte Cristo again. Commander Pierce wore civilian clothes, but his crew cut, steely eyes, and ramrod-straight posture still exuded a no-nonsense military veneer. "I appreciate your flying in so quickly from Nevada. I know it's a long way to come just for a discussion, but this wasn't something I felt we could talk about over the phone."
"Absolutely no problem. It's a short flight in the jets I pilot. And I had other business here in Washington, so it worked out well."
"Good." The man rubbed his lips for a moment before continuing. "We have a situation at Area 51."
"What kind of situation, sir?"
"A situation that requires the skill you and the other men of your unit possess. I have ascertained that someone at Area 51 is passing along highly sensitive information to Senator Malcolm Walker regarding the A-100 project. Information Walker plans to use in an attempt to derail the project."
The commander's top lip curled into a sneer.
"The Navy needs the A-100, Commander Pierce. We all need the A-100," the man emphasized.
"Yes, sir."
"We organized your unit for this exact situation. You know what to do."
"Of course."
The man smiled. "You are protecting your country, Commander Pierce. You are doing the right thing. Sometimes we can't always play by the rules in our effort to do the right thing."
"I understand, sir," Pierce answered resolutely. "What is the traitor's name?"
"Captain Paul Nichols. Do you know who he is?"
"Yes. We'll take care of him."
"Good." The man puffed on his cigar once more. The situation had been addressed and resolved that quickly.
Jesse nodded politely at the receptionist, then moved quickly out of the professional offices and into the hallway. There she leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, and exhaled heavily. The unexpected encounter with Father McCord and the conversation with her mother had rekindled the memories. Thank God Becky had been able to meet on such short notice.
** Chapter 12
Middleburg, Virginia, located thirty miles west of downtown Washington, lay claim to some of the most beautiful and expensive real estate in the East. Handsome stone mansions were set behind miles of six-foot- high white post fences dotting the rolling hills and lush fields of the picturesque countryside.
Middleburg also lay claim to some of the most expensive Thoroughbred horses in the world. For many who lived in this moneyed enclave, breeding horses was a livelihood highlighted by the Triple Crown, the Grand National, or the sale of a particularly fine stallion to a wealthy Arab emir for an exorbitant amount of cash. These people resided on thousand-acre farms, owned many horses, drove old-model Volvo station wagons to town on errands and Rolls-Royces to the fall steeplechases, and waited breathlessly for the spring crop of foals. They never discussed money, never flaunted it, and were never without it. They were the old money.
Jack Finnerty's fifteen-acre farm lay in the middle of this moneyed expanse. At one time his six-bedroom colonial had been a guest house on the
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