The Inner Sanctum by Stephen Frey Page B

huge Auchincloss estate, which now bounded Finnerty's farm on three sides. Four years ago, Finnerty had purchased the property to mark his election as president of General Engineering & Aerospace, the huge defense conglomerate headquartered in the Washington suburb of Falls Church.
    Through brilliant afternoon sunshine pouring down from a cloudless blue sky, David Mitchell eyed the Finnerty stable, blue and white racing colors flying from the weather vane. The stable was two hundred yards away from the house, across neatly manicured lawns. He shook his head. This place seemed almost surreal, it was so beautiful. But would he really want to deal with the snobbery and false pretenses of this life? He laughed. Who the hell was he kidding? It was exactly what he wanted, why he was willing to take these huge risks. This was financial security. All he had ever wanted.
    David's expression turned sour. God, the waiting was killing him. The test flight was supposed to have taken place yesterday and Finnerty was to have called from Nevada to relay the good news. News that the A-100 was a monstrous success, and that it would only be a matter of time before GEA's stock price lifted off into nosebleed territory. Only a matter of time before David could walk into Art Mohler's office and drop a newspaper story concerning the A-100 and its powerful effect on GEA right down on Mohler's antique desk.
    But Finnerty hadn't called from Nevada. Instead his secretary had called, inviting David to Finnerty's home for a face-to- face meeting. That couldn't be a good sign, could it? A face-to- face instead of a simple phone call. Maybe the test flight hadn't gone so well after all. Suddenly a tidal wave of doubt rushed over him.
    "Good afternoon, Mitchell." Finnerty moved into the room from the study, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
    It occurred to David that he had rarely seen Finnerty without his arms crossed. "Hello, Jack." He always addressed Finnerty by his first name even though Finnerty always used David's last. David assumed Finnerty's use of last names in conversation--even when addressing close associates--was a habit with its roots buried in his military days.
    "Sorry to keep you waiting." Finnerty spoke in a precise, nasal voice tinged with the hint of a New England accent. He was a fair-skinned man with short red hair reflecting his Irish ancestry via Boston. A former Marine made good in the corporate world, he spoke in rapid bursts, supremely confident of his observations and analysis.
    "It's all right." But David's tone was measured. He wanted Finnerty to understand that he was irritated at not being called from Nevada yesterday.
    "How's Wall Street?" Finnerty took David's hand and gripped it tightly.
    David withdrew his hand quickly. He hated the way the guy always tried to tear fingers off when he shook hands, as if it was some kind of macho game to see if he could bring pain to your face. "I've told you before, Jack, what I do isn't considered Wall Street. As a portfolio manager I buy what Wall Street sells."
    Finnerty tilted his head to one side and smiled his I-don't-give- a-crap- and-didn't-really- expect-an- answer smile. "Buy side, sell side, who the hell cares? It's all money, and money is Wall Street to me." Finnerty hesitated. "I don't have time to worry about Manhattan smoke and mirrors. I build military equipment for the United States government." He set his jaw. "And I do a damn good job of it."
    "The stock market thinks otherwise," David replied coolly, unimpressed with Finnerty's bluster. "The stock was at twenty-five when I persuaded my people at Sagamore to buy the new issue from GEA. Now it's down to twenty-one and a half as of this morning. You told me this was a sure thing, and so did that damn godfather you sent me to."
    The pressure had to be eating Mitchell's guts out for him to cut to the chase so quickly, Finnerty surmised. "You know it's been a tough time for the defense industry, what with all the budget