the plane crash was not alluded to, although the story did mention that
he was listed as a passenger on the in-fated flight but had not been on
board. People could read the huge gaps between the lines on that one,
Sawyer concluded. Sidney Archer’s recent activities were also
prominently mentioned. He looked at his watch. He was going to pay
Sidney Archer a second visit. And despite his personal sympathy for the
woman, this time be wasn’t leaving until he got some answers.
Henry Wharton stood behind his desk, his chin sunk down on his chest as
he moodily contemplated the cloudy sky outside his window.
A copy of that morning’s Post was lying face down on his desk; at least
the vastly disturbing headlines were out of sight. In a chair across
from his desk sat Philip Goldman. Goldman’s eyes were focused on
Wharton’s back.
“I really don’t see that we have any choice, Henry.” Goldman paused, a
slight look of satisfaction escaping from his Otherwise inscrutable
features. “I understand Nathan Gamble was particularly upset when he
phoned this morning. Who could really blame him?
There’s talk that he may pull the whole account.”
Wharton winced at the remark. When he turned to face Goldman, his eyes
remained downcast. Wharton was clearly wavering.
Goldman leaned forward, eager to press this obvious advantage. “It’s
for the good of the firm, Henry. It will be painful for many people,
and despite my differences with her in the past, I would have to include
myself in that group, not least of which because she is a particularly
strong asset for this firm.” This time Goldman succeeded in restraining
the smile. “But the future of the firm, the future of hundreds of
people, cannot be sacrificed for the benefit of one person, Henry, you
know that.” Goldman leaned back in his chair, placing his hands in his
lap, a placid expression on his face. He managed a sigh. “I can take
care of it, Henry, if you would prefer. I know how close you two are.”
Wharton finally looked up. The nod was quick, short, like the abrupt
plunge of the ax it clearly was. Goldman quietly left the room.
Sidney Archer was picking up the newspaper from her front sidewalk when
the phone rang. She raced back inside, the unopened Post in one hand.
She was fairly certain it was not her husband calling, but right now she
could be absolutely certain of nothing. She tossed the paper down on
top of other editions she had not read yet.
Her father’s voice boomed across the line. Had she read the paper?
What the hell were they talking about? These accusations. He would
sue, her father proclaimed angrily. He would sue everyone involved,
including Triton and the FBI. By the time she got him calmed down,
Sidney managed to open the paper. The headline took her breath away, as
though someone had stomped on her chest. She tumbled into the chair in
the semidarkness of her kitchen. She quickly read the cover story,
which implicated her husband in stealing immensely valuable secrets and
hundreds of millions of dollars from his employer. To top it off, Jason
Archer clearly was also suspected in the plane bombing, his motive
presumably to convince the authorities he was dead. Now the world knew
him to be alive and on the run, according to the FBI.
When she read her own name about halfway down the page, Sidney Archer
became violently sick to her stomach. She had traveled to New Orleans,
the story said, shortly after her husband’s memorial service, which the
story made seem highly suspicious. Of course it was suspicious.
Everyone, Sidney Archer included, would find such a trip fraught with
dubious motives. An entire life of scrupulous honesty had just been
irreversibly destroyed. In her distress she hung up on her father. She
barely made it to the kitchen sink. The nausea made her dizzy. She
poured cold water over her neck and forehead.
She managed to stumble back to the kitchen table, where she sobbed for
some minutes. She had never felt such hopelessness. Then a sudden
emotion invaded her body. Anger. She raced to her bedroom, threw on
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