The Trojan Sea (9 page)

Washington, D.C.

Stuart ignored the insistent ring and tried to go back to sleep. But he had forgotten to set the answering machine, and the phone kept ringing. Reluctantly he burrowed out from under the covers and glanced at the clock radio beside the bed. It was just after seven o’clock on Sunday morning. He picked up the offending instrument. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Mike,” the familiar voice said, “we’ve got to talk.” It was Jenny. “Where’s Eric?”

“With me,” Stuart said. “I tried to call you, but there was no answer. I left a message on your answering machine.”

“I’m not at home right now,” she said, not bothering to explain why she was out of touch. “We need to talk.”

Her “need to talk” was Jennyspeak for face-to-face. “We’re going down to my folks’ today.”

“We’ll meet you there,” she said, breaking the connection.

“Who the hell are ‘we’?” he grumbled. Unfortunately, he knew the answer; he just didn’t know the name. Jenny was a vivacious woman with long red hair and bright green eyes and, at forty years old, looked like she was in her late twenties. She prided herself on still being able to wear a size-three dress and the briefest of swimsuits, which was, to Stuart’s way of thinking, part of the problem. As long as her body and looks held, she had no intention of growing up.

Eric bounded into the bedroom, carrying a model of the Lightning he had finished the night before. He held up the plane for Stuart’s inspection, proud of his handiwork. “You really like that airplane, don’t you?”

Eric nodded. “It’s different and Gramps says it’s still a real hot rod and maybe someday I can go up for a ride in it.”

Stuart scrubbed his hair. “We’re going to have to teach you about run-on sentences first.”

Eric was undaunted. “And then I can go for a ride? I’ll learn today.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Okay, what would you like for breakfast?”

The four-hour drive to Newport News passed in a heartbeat as Eric kept up a running chatter, his enthusiasm boundless.
What am I doing?
Stuart asked himself.
I’ve got a great kid, and I’m missing him growing up.
He made a mental promise to change that. They turned down the tree-shaded lane near Langley Air Force Base and followed it to the end, where a two-story brick home was nestled in a surrounding garden. Stuart’s mother was standing in her prize roses pretending to work as she waited for her grandson.
Jenny must be here,
he thought. Just being around Jenny upset his mother, a condition both women accepted. Eric jumped out of the car and ran into her waiting arms, happy to be there. Martha Stuart was everyone’s grandmother, graceful in her old age, full of love, and perfectly happy with a name that was constantly linked to the famous homemaker. But as she told everyone, “I had it first.”

“Jennifer’s here,” Martha announced, “with her young man.”

“How young?” Stuart asked testily.

“Does it matter?” She stopped him. “When are you going to put a stop to it?”

“To what, Mom?”

“To Jenny and Barbara Raye’s battle over Eric. He needs a stable home, and you are his father.”

Stuart nodded, accepting the truth when he heard it. He walked inside to meet his ex-wife’s latest lover. Shanker met him at the door. “She’s got a real winner this time,” he said. The “winner” Shanker was referring to was a very likable, handsome, twenty-three-year-old named Grant DeLorenzo. The two men shook hands as Jenny waited impatiently.

“Mike, let’s go outside and talk.” She led the way to the back garden, her legs snapping at her tight miniskirt. She started talking the moment they were out of earshot. “Grant wants to go to Colorado and start a snowboarding school.”

“I imagine that’s already been done,” Stuart said sarcastically. “And I don’t think a resort operator is going to encourage competition.”

She ignored the obvious practicalities. “We need money,” she said.

“And that’s where your mother comes in, right?”

“She wants to keep Eric until we’re established and he can join us. She said she’d help us get started.” It was the old trade-off, Barbara Raye’s money for control of Eric.

“Once she has her hooks into him, she’ll never let go.”

Jenny chewed her lower lip, not liking the truth. “This is so right this time,” she said. “I may never get another chance for happiness.”

“I’m thinking of Eric’s happiness,” Stuart said. “You know how miserable he is around your mother. Go talk to him. He’s never been so happy and content. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I don’t want to risk losing it.”

“So what are you suggesting?” From the sound in her voice, he sensed she was weakening.

For the first time in their long relationship, Stuart pressed his advantage. “Look, Washington is no place to raise a kid. So why doesn’t he stay here with my folks until I can get out of the Air Force? Mom and Dad are all for it.” She stiffened. “Jenny, your mother lives in Connecticut, and I’m not going to let him leave the state.” He was surprised by the force of his own words, and thanks to the divorce laws of Virginia, neither he nor Jenny could take Eric out of the state without the other’s permission.

“What about me?” she wailed.

Stuart sighed. “The money, right?” A little nod from Jenny. “Why don’t I help for a while? Say, a thousand dollars a month until you’re settled in.”

“That’s not very much,” she said.

He hated himself for buying his son’s happiness, but he didn’t want to take on Barbara Raye and her money. “It’s all I can afford.”

Much to his relief, she nodded, accepting the deal.

The Pentagon

Stuart had barely settled into his desk Tuesday morning when Peggy Redman’s voice came over the intercom. “He wants to see you immediately.” She didn’t have to identify the “he” nor what “immediately” meant.

“What’s bugging the good colonel now?” Stuart asked.

“He doesn’t need a reason,” Peggy replied, breaking the phone connection. Stuart bounced from his chair, grabbed his uniform coat, and hurried out of his cubicle. Halfway there he deliberately changed his mind and paid a visit to the men’s room. He finally sauntered into Ramjet’s office six minutes later. The colonel waved him to a chair before Stuart could report in, an unspoken acknowledgment of Stuart’s changed status. Until Ramjet had the new constellation of who was “in” and who was “out” nailed down, he stayed in a deep defensive crouch. When it was safe, he would set matters right and crunch the appropriate heads. With any luck, Stuart’s would be the very first.

“Mike,” Ramjet said, all smiles and flashing teeth, “we got a disconnect. No big deal, but I would like to keep it from happening again.” He tossed a thin document across his desk for Stuart to read. It was the survey sent out to the oil companies. “Since you are the office of primary responsibility for this, and you work for me, I should have signed off on this before it went out.” He leaned across his desk, his hands clasped in front of him. “Mike, we’ve all got to be playing from the same sheet of music or we all look bad.”

Stuart wanted to remind him that General Butler was the daddy rabbit for the survey and he was reporting to Butler, even if temporarily, on this project. “I didn’t know there was a problem,” Stuart hedged. “I did forward it to you.” He almost added “as a courtesy” but thought better of it.

“I sent it back to you,” Ramjet said. “Somehow it ended up on General Butler’s desk without my concurrence.”

Stuart shook his head and tried to sidestep the issue. “Sorry, sir. I was on leave, and it never came back to my office. By the way, any feedback yet?”

Ramjet’s face turned red as his blood pressure skyrocketed. Feedback was the last thing he wanted. His jaw worked as he forced into his voice a friendliness he didn’t feel. “No, not yet. But I’m worried the oil companies will respond negatively to your survey and complain to their friends in Congress.”

“Any response to the survey on their part is voluntary,” Stuart reminded him.

“Be that as it may,” Ramjet concluded. “I’ll be the one taking the heat if anything goes wrong.” He kicked back in his chair, his teeth grinding.
No little turd like you is going to make an end run around me and ruin my career!
he raged to himself. Again he tried to sound friendly. “Mike, we’ve all got to be team players on this. I would appreciate it if it doesn’t happen again.”

Stuart knew he was dismissed. “Yes, sir,” he said. He stood and quickly left the office. He shot a glance at Peggy Redman, an unspoken understanding between them. The flap over the survey was a minor bureaucratic squall, worthless in itself but typical of how careers were made or broken.

Ramjet waited for Stuart to close the door before he picked up the phone to call officer assignments at Randolph Air Force Base outside San Antonio, Texas. It was time to sideline Stuart before he could do more harm.

Dallas

The corporate offices of RayTex oil were not what the two FBI special agents had expected. They’d inadvertently gotten off the elevator on the floor immediately below the top floor and stumbled into the working offices. The staff bustled with friendly activity and flowed between functional but cheerfully decorated offices. Down the hall an open door revealed a spacious day care center for children. “My wife would love to work here,” the junior agent said.

“You can always tell a woman’s touch,” the senior agent allowed, alluding to L.J.’s reputation. A junior engineer escorted them to the top floor, which was in total contrast. Dark-suited men and women moved quietly through exquisitely decorated offices.

Lloyd Marsten came out of his office to meet them, further impressing the two agents. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “But I was on the phone with Miss Ellis. She’s in St. Louis; otherwise she would be most interested in talking to you.” They shook hands as the agents introduced themselves. He led them into his office and motioned them to sit down. “How can we help you?”

“Obviously,” the lead agent said, “we’re here about the bombing Saturday night in Miami.”

Marsten sat behind his desk and steepled his fingers. “Right. RTX Farm Supplies. One of our subsidiaries.”

The two agents flipped open their notebooks and held their matching silver ballpoint pens at the ready. “Then, RTX
is
owned by RayTex Oil,” the junior agent said. It wasn’t a question.

“Certainly,” Marsten replied. “RTX is a contraction of RayTex. Most bizarre. Why would anyone want to blow up a liquid-fertilizer storage tank?” As he had worked with the FBI before, he didn’t expect an answer. The FBI gave something up only to get more in return.

“We were hoping you could supply an answer to that question, Mr. Marsten,” the senior agent said, starting to play him.

Marsten considered his answer. “Perhaps they thought nitrates were present and hoped to spark a sympathetic explosion on the order of the Oklahoma City bombing.” The agents wrote furiously in their notebooks while Marsten plotted the sequence of his next moves. “That suggests, at least to me, that they didn’t understand chemical fertilizers.”

“So you don’t think it was an inside job,” the senior agent said.

“It may have been,” Marsten replied. “But if an insider was involved, she didn’t deal with product.”

The two agents exchanged glances. “You said ‘she,’” the senior agent ventured.

So a woman was involved,
Marsten thought. He loved dealing with the FBI. They were so good up to a point. Then they became quite transparent, if you knew how to play the game. It was time to dangle some bait. “Would it help in your investigation to see the personnel files for RTX?”

“That might be useful,” the senior agent replied.

Marsten reached for his computer keyboard. “I’ll see what I can do, but we’ll have to work around the privacy statutes.” He faked a sigh. “So misguided. They only help the criminals.” He typed a command into the commuter. “Ah, yes, here we go.” Then, almost conversationally, he asked, “Can you tell me anything about the body discovered at the scene?”

The agents leaned forward in anticipation. If it was an inside job, quick and complete access to raw personnel files could be a major breakthrough. “Most unusual,” the junior agent said. “It was a woman. The preliminary examination of the body and personal effects indicated she was probably a Latina. But we can’t be sure.” It was a deliberate ploy to lead Marsten on. The FBI’s initial forensic analysis of the body, clothes, shoes, hairstyle, dental work, and contents of the stomach had confirmed that the deceased was a Latin American female in her late twenties, had had two abortions but never given birth, and was not a manual laborer.

Marsten looked at them in amazement. “Really? According to the
Miami Herald,
a Middle Eastern group claimed responsibility. I’ve never heard of them.”

The junior agent nodded in agreement. “Neither have—”

A sharp look from the senior agent cut off his partner. Marsten caught it and hit the print button on his computer. The printer in the credenza behind his desk hummed quietly as he waited for the printout. He handed them a thick stack of papers. “Here’s everything we have on the employees at RTX,” Marsten told them. “I do hope you’ll maintain our confidentiality.”

“We do appreciate your help,” the senior agent said. Marsten escorted them to the door. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we have something definite.” They shook hands, and Marsten watched them walk to the elevators.

“Of course you will,” Marsten said softly. He returned to his office and sat on the couch, deep in thought. He was a good CEO because he anticipated problems and instinctively understood what L.J. wanted. At the top of her priority list was the safety and well-being of her employees, and she expected him to respond accordingly. He probed his memory, looking for connections. Was the bombing of RTX Farm Supplies related in any way to the series of refinery accidents that had plagued the industry since the late 1990s? While he had no proof, he suspected they were not accidents. Was it the handiwork of the environmental extremists like Earth First? He wasn’t certain, but knowing L.J., he knew she would expect him to act on his suspicions. The adage “Better safe than sorry” had real meaning for her.