Blinding Fear (27 page)

Chapter 40

As their armored limo moved easily through the slightly controlled chaos of Manhattan, Claire began to feel slightly better about their circumstances. Since they’d left Herc’s mountainside house in Nevada and arrived at LaGuardia three days prior, there’d been no attempts on their lives—at least none that she was aware of. While in flight, Kay had arranged for a limo, bodyguards and booked them into four luxury suites at the Westin Times Square Hotel. Their pricey rooms, which were considerably larger than Claire’s one-bedroom apartment, were only two blocks from The Sentinel Building.

They all relaxed in their rooms for several hours following Anaya’s funeral. During that time Claire pulled together the comprehensive presentation she knew she would have to make before the board of directors. Normally, they would have walked to their evening appointment, but Herc had insisted on taking the armored limo. After catching a quick bite to eat at a local deli, they again found themselves ensconced in a bulletproof cocoon on their way to what could be an appointment with the entire world’s destiny.

After the five minute ride from the hotel the limo pulled up directly in front of the impressive front entrance of The Sentinel Building. Nobody made a move toward a door as their driver/bodyuard got out and carefully surveyed the sidewalk and street for any immediate or potential threats. After several moments he opened the passenger door on the sidewalk side and said, “Things look okay, folks. Just the same, once you exit the vehicle, please move quickly to the building’s entrance, then to the elevators. Do NOT stop for anything or anybody!”

Claire, Herc, Kay and Ranjit slid out the door and fast-walked across the sidewalk, through the main entrance, across the massive lobby and to the elevator banks with their bodyguard rushing to lead the way. He pressed the “Up” button and stood with both hands on his hips, carefully scrutinizing everybody nearby. When an elevator car arrived he held the door open from the outside as his charges stepped in. When several other people wanted to get on he held out a beefy hand to stop them. “Sorry folks. This car is reserved. Thank you for your patience.” He then stepped on and pushed the “50” button.

At the fiftieth floor the bodyguard stepped out first, looked in both directions of the elegantly decorated corridor, then silently gave them permission to exit the car with a brief wave of his hand. He pointed to their left. “The boardroom is down this way, folks. Please follow me.” He led the way toward a pair of very-expensive, exquisitely finished wood doors that spanned the ten-foot wide corridor from wall to wall. Although she’d never had the opportunity to visit the boardroom, Claire had heard they were made from solid, Indonesian golden teak and together cost more than $20,000. The guard quickly walked ahead and opened the right-hand door that had “The New York Sentinel Boardroom” laser-cut into its surface.

Claire led the way through the door into a modest office that most Sentinel employees referred to as the “Outer Sanctum.” Ahead of them were another set of double-doors that led to the boardroom itself—the “Inner Sanctum.” To the left, was a beautiful walnut desk with an equally beautiful, perfectly coiffed, perfectly tailored, young receptionist working at a computer terminal. She looked up as the group entered.

“Ah, you must be Claire McBeth,” she said with perfectly annunciated diction and lyrical clarity. “We’ve been expecting you.” She looked at the others with a touch of confusion and displeasure. Claire couldn’t help but notice her eyes lingering on Herc for a second more than the others. “And these gentleman are......?”

“My associates,” Claire replied. “They’re with me to help explain my article to the board.” She gestured slightly toward their bodyguard. “This gentleman is head of our security detail.”

“I see. Well, I’m pleased you’re on time. The board has other items on their agenda this evening. They’ve asked me to tell you to be succinct and expeditious in your presentation.”

“Of course.”

“You may go in.” She gestured toward the inner doors in the same fashion as a model pointing to the next big prize on “The Price is Right.” “Your......guard may stay here with me.” She then pointed to a comfortable-looking, wingback chair opposite to her desk. He surveyed the room one more time and sat down.

“Thank you.” Claire said as she turned the heavy brass door knob and walked in.

The room looked exactly as she’d imagined. The walls were decorated in the same teak as the outer doors. Numerous, large paintings of what Claire guessed were previous Sentinel owners and chairmen going back into the 19th century adorned the walls. Lush, cream-colored, wool carpet blanketed the floors. The wall opposite the entry doors was entirely glass—although she guessed it might be a material other than glass—from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, allowing views of the spectacular, New York evening skyline to fill the room. Heavy but beautiful, dark green blackout curtains were drawn to one side. Four, grand conference tables formed a rectangle around which were seated the seven members of the board. She had seen all of their pictures at other times and could name them. There was also another somewhat younger man, seated several chairs away from the main group that Claire didn’t recognize. He did, however, have the “look” of an attorney: Impeccably tailored “power” suit, $200 hair cut, $2,000 fine leather briefcase and an expression of arrogant confidence.

At the table directly in front of the windows sat a grey-haired man that Claire immediately recognized as the 89 year-old Rudolph Spielman. He appeared tall, although very thin and quite pale. His hands were studiously folded in front of him on the exquisitely finished table.

Claire looked at Herc and saw he was apparently preoccupied by the wall of windows. He stood still staring at them with a concerned expression. At any other time she would have asked him what was bothering him but decided this time would not be the best.

“Since you’re the only woman joining us I can only assume you must be Claire McBeth.” Spielman said. His voice was clear, his gaze direct. “Please be seated.” He pointed to the chairs at the table nearest the door. As the four seated themselves, Spielman continued. “I assume, Miss McBeth that you, at least, recognize most of those seated before you, except for the gentleman to your left. I will introduce him in a moment. But......we weren’t expecting any other visitors. Would you please introduce them to us. And I trust they are here for a very good reason.” There was more than a hint of displeasure in his voice.

“I must apologize for surprising you in this manner, Mr. Spielman, but these gentlemen are essential in laying out the background and providing additional supporting detail for my article. To my left is Kayode Seok, he is.......”

“Yes, yes,” Spielman interrupted, smiling ever so slightly and gently waving a wrinkled hand. “No need for his introduction. All of us here know Mr. Seok by reputation and deed. Please continue with the rest.”

“Okay. To my right is Ranjit Javad. He was a Threat Analyst for the NSA. Next to him is Herc Ramond. He is VP for launch systems and the chief pilot for KS Space Tourism.”

“Thank you,” Spielman said. “Now, allow me to introduce my colleagues. This is my daughter Francis Spielman Schultz.” He reached to his left and gently touched the shoulder of an older, but very-gracefully aging woman who smiled warmly but said nothing. “To her left is her brother Linus.” He looked to be a younger version of his father, with a stern but polite look on his face. “To my right is my youngest son Michael. Unless I’m mistaken, Michael has worked with Mr. Seok on some worthy causes here in our city.” Claire assumed he must have taken after his mother. He was considerably overweight.

“It’s been my pleasure,” Michael Spielman said, “to have collaborated with Mr. Seok on several projects. I hope to continue to do so in the future.”

“It would be my pleasure as well,” Kay politely replied.

“At the other table to my right are Arthur Weisman and James Golden, senior counsel and counsel respectively for the board. To their right is Lynette Heisinger who acts as our chief financial advisor. And finally, the man I said I would introduce later: This is Gerald Cutler, White House Counsel and Chief Legal Advisor to the President.”

Claire was stunned and glanced at Herc, Kay and Ranjit. They were doing the same with each other and her.

There was a slightly smug look on Cutler’s face but he said nothing.

Herc leaned to Claire and whispered, “Preemptive first strike.”

Claire was almost too surprised by Cutler’s presence to speak but finally gathered herself. She could feel white-hot outrage beginning to boil deep inside but knew she had to maintain an outward appearance of absolute calm. “You implied, Mr. Spielman, that you were......surprised by my friends being here. I must say that I am as well with Mr. Cutler. For reasons I will explain in a moment, I find his presence here to be outrageously obscene! In fact, he is quite literally a clear and present danger to us!”

Cutler snorted with derision. “Oh, please Miss McBeth. Spare us the Tom Clancy melodrama!”

“Mr. Cutler!” Spielman replied. “We allowed you to be here as a courtesy because you said Miss McBeth will claim she has government documents in her possession that are forgeries. When the appropriate time comes we will examine what evidence she has to support the basis for her article. You will then have the opportunity to ask her and her friends questions, but.......not before!”

Cutler was clearly undeterred and simply said, “Of course.”

“Good. Now, if you would, Miss McBeth, please explain with as much specificity as you can what your article will be about as well as any supporting documentation and evidence you may have.”

Claire tried to gather her thoughts, now scattered by the shock of seeing Cutler in the room. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I can only assume Mr. Spielman that Mr. Cutler has already given you some idea of why I’m here.”

“He has. And as you may imagine he has quite emphatically denied and attempted to refute what you are about to present.”

“All right. I’ll lay it out anyway, but please, be patient. This will take some time.”

“We understand, Miss McBeth. Although we do have other items on our agenda, given the magnitude and seriousness of what Mr. Cutler has said, we will do our best to ensure you have time to complete your presentation.”

“Thank you.”

For the next hour or so—as carefully as she could—she chronicled the harrowing events of the previous week. At crucial points she asked her companions to provide facts and details, although the majority of that was filled in by Ranjit. Periodically, various board members asked for clarification or elaboration of details. As the presentation evolved and progressed Claire could see from their questions and comments they were beginning to believe what she was saying. She could also see Cutler taking notes. Frequently he shook his head, frowned, smirked or even snorted out loud, eliciting additional rebukes from Spielman.

At one point she used the boardrooms TV monitor to show the computer simulation Herc had developed of the asteroid’s trajectory as it neared and finally hit the Earth. She also presented internet news accounts of Frank Whalen’s and Rich Halpren’s murders, as well as the attempted murder of Ranjit’s family and the strange, and as yet unexplained death of the junkie perpetrator. Her account of the confrontation with Quinten Gnash in the Lubbock hospital drew looks of stunned disbelief from all the board members. Cutler simply shook his head and frowned again. In addition, she detailed their speculations about the explosion in Cambridge and the premature, unneeded resupply of the International Space Station. She even explained their suspicions about the six-person team headed to the ISS in a week or so.

As she sat back in her chair for a moment to collect her thoughts, Cutler blurted out. “Wild speculation! Pure coincidence! Gross exaggeration! Some of this garbage is outright lies!”

“Just what would I have to gain by lying?!” Claire shot back.

“A bombshell story on the front page of the Sentinel! Your fifteen minutes of fame! A promotion or big raise. A Pulitzer! Who knows! What I do know is so far you’ve presented not one shred of hard evidence that connects this administration to any of the supposed crimes you have so flamboyantly described! We don’t even know that Mr........Javad really was an NSA employee!”

Ranjit immediately pulled out his old NSA ID and passed it around for everyone to see. After all had seen it there was nearly unanimous agreement that it appeared real. Cutler refused to even look at it. “Easily forged!” was all he would say.

“Either you’re incredibly naive, just plain stupid or again trying to divert attention away from your boss!” Ranjit snapped. “That ID has a built-in microchip and holographic image, as well as other highly classified security features that make it impossible to forge!”

Cutler refused to answer, staring out the windows instead.

“Although I definitely do not agree with Mr. Cutler’s assessment of your presentation,” Spielman interjected finally, “I must agree with his statement about the hard evidence. I was led to believe you have a document that may be the ‘smoking gun’ we need. Is that so?”