Home Free (23 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Home Free
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Chapter 22
I
sabelle looked at the sea of white littering the floor in Abner's workroom, a look of pure dismay written all over her face. “What can I do to help, Abner?” she whispered. When Abner didn't respond, she backed up when her cell phone chirped. She continued to move backward as she clicked on the phone to hear Charles's voice. She moved farther back into the hallway to guard her conversation, her gaze on a befuddled Abner as he stirred and moved the papers on the floor.
“Okay, Charles, I will tell him. Is there anything else?” She listened again before she broke the connection. What did it all mean? She hesitated before she advanced into the room again.
Isabelle squatted down next to Abner. “What is all this?” she said, pointing to the mountain of discarded papers.
Abner grimaced as he stroked his chin. “This,” he said, waving his arm about, “is the thirty-seven thousand four hundred fifty-six men and women who live within a fifty-mile radius of Washington and have the initials JJ. As far as I can tell, and I've been poring over this for hours, there is not one name out of the thirty-seven thousand four hundred fifty-six names that fits the criteria your people gave me. Not a single one.”
“I think I can help you out here. JJ stands for Jody Jumper.” She relayed Charles's message.
“There is no Jody Jumper on this list. I can do a hundred-mile perimeter and see if it pops up,” Abner said as he scrambled to his feet and started to beat at the computer keys. He hit the PRINT key and waited. Nothing. He looked over at Isabelle and shrugged. “If there was a name like Jody Jumper in this database, it would have popped out by now. I ran one from the FBI and the CIA. There is no Jody Jumper.”
Seeing his distress, Isabelle winced. “Maybe it's a code name or a nickname. Would that show up?”
“Not really. A name has to be an identity. This is mind-boggling. Who came up with the name?”
Isabelle sucked in her bottom lip, debating whether she should tell Abner what she knew. Finally, she said, “Maggie has a source who got the name from a four-star general.”
Without missing a beat, Abner said, “Then have Maggie go back to her source and ask that source to call the general and ask him if it's a code name or a nickname. Can you do that now?”
Isabelle swallowed hard. “I can do that.” She yanked out her cell phone, scrolled down, and hit the number three on her speed dial.
Maggie picked up after one ring. She listened to Isabelle and mumbled something that Isabelle took to mean she was on it.
Isabelle powered down, looked at Abner, and said, “She's on it.”
Gus Sullivan listened to Maggie's voice mail and winced. How in the hell was he going to call a four-star general and actually get to talk to him? There was no doubt in his mind that he would give it his all, but would he be successful? Maggie was not the kind of person who took no for an answer, and he now knew Maggie didn't know the meaning of the word
defeat
. Maybe he could sweet-talk the general's therapist. He knew for a fact the therapist had the general's number in case of an emergency.
Since it was after hours, he had to call his own therapist at home, something he didn't relish doing. But if Maggie needed him to do it, he would do it. He'd never complained, never bothered his therapist after hours, so maybe he would accommodate him this once and do him the favor.
When he finally reached his own therapist and told him what he wanted, John Long whistled. “Gus, I can't do that. Listen, what I can do is call Jerry Brantley and ask him to call the general and have the general call you. I don't know if Jerry will do it, but I'll give it a try. I'll tell him the general is helping you with your book. Swear to me, Gus, that this is on the up-and-up. I don't want to mess with a four-star by invading his privacy and get written up or even lose my job.”
Gus took a huge deep breath. He was committed now. He was going to have to write a damn book whether he liked it or not. “It's on the up-and-up, John. It's important, or I wouldn't have called you. I don't want to have to wait till next weekend, when he comes in for therapy.”
“All right, I'll call you when I know something.”
Gus struggled back to his room, flopped down, and yanked out his cell. He relayed John's information and said he would call again when he knew something more.
An hour later Gus's phone rang. It was his therapist. “I have bad news and more bad news and a smidgin of good news. You ready, Gus?”
“Yeah, give it to me.”
“It's taken me this long to really track down the information to make sure it was true. When the general left us after his therapy, he slipped on some black ice, knocked himself out cold, and blew out one of his new hips. He had to have emergency surgery, and he's four floors up. You could try to visit him. I don't think the nurses will fight you. Hell, most of those women on that ward were the ones who took care of you when you had your surgeries. Sweet-talk them.”
“Damn,” was all Gus could think of to say. He thanked his therapist, struggled to his feet, and went out to the hall, where he eased himself down into one of the wheelchairs.
Minutes later, he was on the surgical floor and schmoozing with the nurses on duty. He stated his business and waited. “I can wait if he has visitors, or I can come back, but it's not easy. I just need to ask him a question if he's awake.”
A chubby nurse with fire red hair laughed and said, “Oh, he's awake, and he's been cussing up a storm since he came out of recovery. His wife said she wasn't listening to him anymore and left. He might be glad of the company, but you know the rules, Gus. I have to ask him first.”
Gus slouched in the wheelchair as the nurse walked away on her rubber soles. He hated the squishing sound they made. To him, the sound was the same as nails scratching a blackboard. The nurse stepped to the door and beckoned him forward. Gus sent the chair down the hall at a fast clip. He couldn't believe his good luck.
“He's a little groggy, but he's up to speed. He wants some Jack Daniel's, and if you are packing some, hand it over right now.”
“Sorry. I came empty-handed,” Gus said as he sailed his chair through the doorway. The nurse laughed as she closed the door behind her.
Inside, the general looked smaller than he did when he was in the rehab room. Gus hated seeing all the tubes and monitors. “Hi, sir. Sorry to see you back here.”
“No sorrier than I am, son. One minute I was upright, and the next minute I was kissing the ground. Didn't even see that patch of ice. Enough of me. What are you doing up here? Didn't you spend enough time here? How'd you find out I was even here? Never mind. News travels fast in a hospital, just the way it does at the Pentagon. They're going to kick my keister out now.”
“I hope not,” Gus said sincerely.
“They will. I should have retired last year, but I couldn't bring myself to walk away. The board will just tell me to leave, and I won't argue. Now, did you just come to visit, or do you need my help on something?”
“Both, sir. I'm sorry I don't have any Jack Daniel's. Maybe tomorrow I can get a friend to smuggle some in. I was going to start on my research, and I can't find anyone who knows anyone named Jody Jumper. I tried Googling it, but nothing came up. Is it a nickname?”
“That's been his name for as long as I can remember. He works in some dark, strange places, was the story I got. In the bowels of buildings where no one goes, and he's free to do whatever the hell he wants. That's called real power, son, when you don't answer to anyone but yourself. The story I was told was, when he crawled out for air, he would jump all over the place. Stupid, if you want my opinion, but there you have it. He's worked everywhere, State, Treasury, and I think he did a stint at the Office of Management and Budget. I told you previously this guy knows where all the bodies are buried. He's your Alan Greenspan, Ben Bernanke, and Tim Geithner, and then some, all rolled up into one. The son of a bitch is a sneak. No one likes him. He doesn't answer to anyone, not even the president, and do not ask me where he got his power, because I don't know.”
“What's his real name?”
“Owen Orzell.”
Gus thought he was going to black out in relief now that he had a real name. He could hardly wait to get back to his room so he could call Maggie. He hoped she would do that cooing thing in his ear.
The general's eyes were drooping. Gus hoped he didn't fall asleep on him. “Can you give me a clue as to the best way to get in touch with him? If I'm understanding you correctly, the man is invincible as well as invisible.”
“Stalk him, son, would be my advice.”
“But, sir, I need a jumping-off place. A go-to person who can tell me where he hangs his hat.”
“Son, I can't help you there. Maybe you could hire one of those fancy D.C. private-eye firms.”
Gus started to say something, but then he realized the general had fallen asleep. He offered up a crisp salute, turned his chair around, and headed for the door. He had to struggle to get the door open, but he managed. At the nurses' station, he stopped to say good night and to thank the red-haired nurse. “The general fell asleep.”
The nurse nodded. “He's on some pretty powerful pain meds. Take care, Gus. Come back and visit, and I don't mean operation-wise. The general will be glad of the company. His wife . . . she doesn't stay long. Hospitals depress her, she said. All they do is fight. At least they did when he came in for his initial surgery. Shhh, don't say anything.”
“My lip is zipped,” Gus said as he wheeled himself to the elevator.
Back in his room, he whipped out his cell, called Maggie, reported his news, and waited to see if she would coo in his ear. She didn't; instead, she hung up on him. He was so disappointed, he wanted to bawl. Instead, he brushed his teeth and stripped down. He was in bed with the lights out ten minutes later. Maybe he could dream that Maggie was cooing in his ear.
Isabelle relayed Maggie's information to Abner as Maggie was giving it to her over the phone. Abner's fingers flew over the keyboard. He sat back and waited. It took exactly forty-seven minutes to gather the information on the phantom known as Owen Orzell.
Abner was so gleeful, Isabelle couldn't help but laugh. “Is this our reading material for the evening?”
“It is. And it will wrap up my assignment for your . . . people. Then we can start to enjoy the Christmas season.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Abner, but my job will just begin once you turn over all your information to . . . my people. But I am sure I can squeeze in some quality time with you,” she teased.
Abner pretended to pout. “Enough time to take the shuttle to New York, to Rockefeller Center to see the tree and ice-skate. I do it every year. Then I go to see the Rockettes and do some Christmas shopping. I've been doing it for years, but I thought it would be something you would enjoy.”
“Absolutely I would enjoy that. I love New York, but I wouldn't want to live there,” Isabelle confided.
“We'll make it work,” Abner said confidently as he parceled out the papers he was plucking from the various printers. “Let's make a fire, have some wine, and go through this stuff. Then we can do other things. I'd like to turn this over to your people first thing in the morning. Be sure to thank Maggie for her due diligence.”
“Why don't you thank her yourself? She's not your enemy, Abner. She loves you like the brother and the friend you are. Don't be stubborn. Friends are hard to come by these days, especially good friends, the kind you can count on through thick and thin. I'm going to feel really bad if you two don't make peace. She is my friend, Abner, and that is never going to change.”
“I'll call her tomorrow.”
“No, you should call her tonight.”
Abner sighed and reached for his cell. He punched in Maggie's number. “Hey, Maggie. It's Abner. I just wanted to thank you for the heads-up. I was chasing my tail on that JJ business. I got everything you guys want and need. I'll turn it over in the morning. I just wanted to say thanks. You doing okay, Maggie?” He listened, then laughed. “Good luck.”
“You were right, Isabelle. I'm glad I called. She was really nice, and she thanked me. She said she's in love with a guy in a wheelchair.”
“She is. He's going to get out of the chair in a few months. Even if he doesn't, she'll be with him. I think it's wonderful.”
“I agree. Maggie is one of a kind.”
“That she is.”
“But then so are you, Isabelle Flanders.”
Isabelle laughed. “Tell me more. I love to be flattered.”
“How about . . . ?”
Chapter 23
T
he ice storm that descended on Washington, D.C., and lasted four days, according to the weathermen, was the worst storm in over forty years. The nation's capital shut down; government workers were furloughed because of road conditions, heating problems, and loss of power. A generator was a luxury if one was fortunate enough to find one. Salt and sand were also luxuries that couldn't be had. Sanitation workers were working double shifts and could barely keep their eyes open when they did report to work. Even the news anchors were unshaven and wrinkled when they faced the cameras to offer grim hope that it would all soon be over.
And when it was over, it rained, which caused flooding. Then it started to snow late Sunday afternoon, when the Sisters had all made it safely out to Pinewood for dinner. The talk was mostly about the weather until after dinner, when Isabelle presented Abner's report.
The group was clustered around the table in the war room. Everyone was present except Nellie and Elias.
The boys, honorary members of the Sisterhood, were in awe that finally, they were being permitted to sit in on and participate in a working meeting. They were stunned when Charles said their input would be appreciated.
Charles stepped down from the dais, where he usually held court. In front of each chair was a copy of Abner Tookus's report. “It's all some heavy reading, so I thought Isabelle could give us a short summary, and you can all follow with the report.”
Isabelle didn't bother to stand up and address the group. She leaned back in her chair and said, “The short version is that Maggie found out, thanks to Gus Sullivan, that JJ is Owen Orzell. That's what took so long. With that information, Abner was able to develop the information you see in front of you. JJ, or Jody Jumper, is or was a less-than-endearing nickname given to Mr. Orzell by people in the Treasury Department. There's a picture of him in the file, and it is not a good one. Mr. OO, as Abner calls him, seems to have an aversion to the camera. It was the only picture he could come up with.
“Mr. OO is all over the map. Sometimes he's at Treasury, sometimes, at the State Department, and sometimes, inside the E-Ring at the Pentagon. He's one of those people who is so ordinary, you don't look at him twice. That's Abner's assessment. He was not able to find any association with the men on your list. Daniels, Gray, Maris, or Logan. There were meetings scheduled with all five men, but it was always recorded, and those meetings didn't bear any fruit that Abner could find.
“Mr. OO did have a meeting six months ago, back in June, a luncheon meeting with Jason Parker. Abner found that out strictly by chance because he does the security for the Occidental Restaurant, where all the power brokers like to go and be seen. When he was running the tapes, he just happened to see the two men. We have to decide what that means. When I left, he was working on doing a ‘deep hack job,' as he put it, on Jason Parker. He promised to download it and send it on if he came up with anything that will help us.
“Abner said that there is no such thing as full disclosure among the agencies. Each agency guards its turf ferociously. Abner found four funds that are monitored and that Congress knows about. Standard, nothing wrong there, all agencies abroad have them just the way we do, but there is accountability.
“For the most part, no questions get asked when those monies get disbursed. The
big
fund that seems to be in question and guarded by Mr. OO . . . On that one there are no leads, no trails, no numbers to follow. In other words, for all intents and purposes, it simply does not exist. At least on paper or in a file somewhere. Abner and a lady who needs to remain anonymous are the ones who wrote the software for the CIA. If Abner can't find it, it isn't there. Which brings us to the question, where is it?”
Everyone started to jabber at once. The questions flew all over the room.
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Millions with an
M
or billions with a
B
?”
“Is it in a bank or a brokerage house?”
“How can someone hide that kind of money?”
“Is there just one signatory on the account?”
“In this day and age, how could any agency not have safeguards in place and allow just one person to control that kind of money with no accountability?”
Annie bristled. “If that fund is so secret, and the president wasn't aware of it, how did she find out? Why did she set up that nonexistent agency that she wants us to work for? Why did she give us the gold shields? We were to name our own price, and she didn't quibble about it, according to Lizzie. Of course we haven't been paid the money up front, like we requested.”
“We haven't done a job yet, dear,” Myra said.
Ted Robinson cleared his throat. “Maybe when she tried to get the money to transfer it from the other agencies, since she seems to be in the dark about the
big
fund, there wasn't enough, then somehow the four different agencies let it slip that she should tap the
big
fund as opposed to their own. Think about it. It makes sense. The CIA is the eight-hundred-pound gorilla here. That's just my opinion,” he added as he looked from one face to the other.
“You know what, Ted? That makes real sense,” Jack said.
The others agreed.
“Maybe we should arrange one of those Come to Jesus meetings with those guys,” Bert said.
“And that would be what exactly?” Kathryn asked.
“Get Daniels, Maris, Logan, and Gray in a room someplace. Sweat them. Or do it separately.
Before
you go after Mr. OO,” Bert said.
“That makes sense, too,” Jack said as he looked around at the faces watching him the way they had homed in on Ted.
“It's counterproductive to go through the four agencies. Let's cut to the chase and go after Mr. OO,” Nikki said. “Let's make a plan. What do we have, Isabelle, in the way of an address for Mr. OO?”
“Abner did find one. It's on page three.”
The only sound in the room was the sound of pages turning.
“It's a run-down three-story brownstone on Kilbourne Place in Mt. Pleasant,” Charles said. “Unless it's a decoy, and we won't know for sure until we investigate. I can have one of my people on it within minutes. What say you all?”
In unison, they all said, “Do it!”
Charles moved quickly back to his workstation and typed out a directive. He was back within minutes. “One hour to put my people in place, another hour to infiltrate the building. We should hear something in a little over two hours. Remember now, it's Sunday, so if Mr. OO is in residence, all we can do is surveillance, which means my people will be in place to follow Mr. OO in the morning, when he goes to work. If he's home, we'll know something in a little over an hour.”
“Then let's spend the time studying this report,” Yoko said.
“As we read it, let's throw out questions to each other,” Alexis said.
“First, let's see exactly who Mr. OO is. Let's all read his profile, then run it up the flagpole,” Myra said. The room went silent as all eyes turned to the briefing materials Abner had prepared.
“As long as it isn't that
other
pole,” Nikki quipped.
The room went silent again as more pages turned. Soft murmurs could be heard as the group digested what was on the written pages.
Charles waited until Yoko, who was the last to finish, turned the final page. “Comments please.”
“I think the guy is stealing from the fund he controls,” Jack said.
“I think he leads a double life,” Ted said.
“Where did he get the money to buy a three-floor brownstone, run-down or not?” Kathryn asked.
“It's in a run-down neighborhood, and it's a cover,” Bert said. “I think he has some fancy digs somewhere else,” he added hastily.
Esposito spoke for the first time. “Do you want me to go up there and take some pictures? If Ted is agreeable, we could talk to some of the neighbors, maybe say the
Post
is running some kind of special something or other. People love getting their pictures taken and being in the newspaper. We could even do a Google Earth thing right now if you all want to see the neighborhood.”
Charles immediately clicked on the big-screen TV hanging on the wall. The room grew quiet the way it always did when Lady Justice, scales in hand, appeared on the screen. Charles pressed more buttons, then clicked and clicked. “There it is! That is Mr. OO's address.” He pressed another button, and the picture became so clear, they could see vehicles and the license plate numbers on the cars.
“No pedestrians are out and about. Of course, the weather could have something to do with that. So, ladies and gentlemen, do we want Mr. Esposito and Ted to take a trip to Mt. Pleasant?”
“Tomorrow morning would be good,” Maggie said. “People do not like to open their doors at night to strangers. Sometimes, they even call the police.”
Charles nodded. “We should be hearing from Avery Snowden's people shortly. Go back to Mr. OO's profile.”
Annie flipped pages. “Here we go. Mr. OO was born and raised in Boston. He attended Boston University. He was the valedictorian of his class. He got a master's at twenty-one and had his Ph.D. at the age of twenty-four. Smart man. Both his parents were professors at Boston University. Equally smart, so it's easy to see where the man got his brains. He's forty-nine years old. He'll turn fifty in February. Maybe he's having a midlife crisis,” she said, tongue in cheek.
“He went into government service early on and has stayed on the government's payroll. As to where he got the money to buy the brownstone, it looks like he bought it about fifteen years ago, when his parents passed away. Their estate passed to him, and it was rather robust. There isn't much activity in his brokerage account, which also came to him from his parents. It's all invested in safe, conservative holdings. Once in awhile, he makes a modest investment in stocks, but never more than five hundred shares at a time. I don't see anything here that raises a red flag.”
“It says here that Mr. OO had a close friend in college. Joel Jessup, who was a financial wizard much like Mr. OO. Abner scanned a picture of him from his college yearbook. Big guy. Just as brainy as Mr. OO. His peers wrote messages in the book and almost all of them refer in one way or another to gambling. One even said in the years to come, he would take over Las Vegas. Another message referred to him as Mr. Lucky. I guess that's why he and Mr. OO were such good friends. Before you can ask, neither man is gay. Both dated heavily when they were in college. Nothing serious for either man. Mr. Jessup died in a skiing accident in Austria nine years ago. Mr. OO was with him but not skiing that day. They had just traveled from Monaco because both men liked to gamble. Mr. OO was feeling poorly that day, and that's why he didn't go skiing,” Yoko said.
“How did Abner get all this?” Bert asked, awe ringing in his voice.
“You don't want to know, so don't ask,” Isabelle snapped. “You wanted information, you paid for it—or, at least, you will pay for it, I trust—and here it is, so stop right there.”
“Okay, okay,” Bert said, looking at Kathryn, who was glaring at him as much as to say, “You're here, but you have to keep quiet.” Bert's lips snapped shut.
“Is that when Mr. OO went to ground and became a recluse?” Alexis asked.
“Yes,” Charles said, reading ahead.
“Maybe he wigged out at the loss of his best and only friend,” Nikki said.
“More than likely,” Myra said as she fingered the pearls at her neck. “Neither of them was married, is that right?”
“No, dear, neither man was married. Mr. Jessup ran a think tank in Washington. He was very wealthy, according to his financials,” Charles said.
“When he died, where did his money go?” Ted asked.
Charles smiled as he looked down at the papers he was holding. “To Mr. OO.”
“Do Mr. OO's financials bear that out?” Annie asked.
Charles smiled again. “No, they do not. That has to mean Mr. OO has another bank or brokerage account somewhere else. Under another name would be my guess, or possibly a corporation offshore, which is more likely. The man is considered a financial genius, so bear that in mind.”
“I guess, then, we have to pay Mr. OO a visit and get our information firsthand,” Nikki said, her eyes sparking dangerously.
The Sisters hooted their approval of her suggestion.
“Uh-oh, what's this on the next-to-the-last page?” Jack said, holding up a sheet of paper. “Oh, I see, it's Abner's personal note that he thinks the CIA is in danger of either being divided up, castrated, or put out to pasture. Can that be?” he asked, a dumbfounded look on his face.
“In this day and age, anything is possible,” Charles said. “The current administration has had nothing but trouble since Martine Connor took office. It's almost as if her administration is out to get her and destroy her in the process. I'm going to take that one step further and say it's because she is our first woman president. That should get you ladies all fired up,” he said quietly.

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