He took the metal steps two at a time after making a visual sweep of the
building’s interior with his night-vision goggles. He opened the door
to a room, illuminating the small space with his flashlight.
He unlocked the filing cabinet and removed the surveillance camera.
He placed the videotape in one part of his knapsack, reloaded the camera
and replaced it in the cabinet. Five minutes later, the area was once
again quiet. The guard had not yet finished his last cup of coffee.
At the crack of dawn, a Gulfstream V lifted off from the Seattle
airport. The black-clad figure was now dressed in jeans and a
sweat-shirt and was fast asleep in one of the luxurious cabin chairs,
his dark hair falling into his youthful face. Across the aisle, Frank
Hardy, head of a firm specializing’ in corporate security, and
counter-industrial espionage, intently read every page of a lengthy
report as the plane soared through the now clear morning sky; the last
vestiges of the previous night’s storm system had finally pushed on.
Inside a metal briefcase was the videotape that had been removed from
the camera in the file cabinet. The case was within easy reach of his
hand. A steward appeared and poured out another cup of coffee for the
plane’s one awake passenger. Hardy’s eyes rested on the metal
briefcase. His brow wrinkled and, from long habit, his fingers traced
and retraced the worry lines stamped across his forehead. Then Hardy
put the report down, leaned back in his seat and stared out the cabin
window as the aircraft headed east. He had a lot to think about. He
was not a happy man right now. Both his jaw and his gut clenched and
unclenched as the sleek jet raced on.
The Gulfstream hit its cruising altitude on a flight that would
culminate in Washington, D.C. The rays of the rising sun reflected off
the familiar company logo emblazoned on the aircraft’s empennage. The
soaring eagle represented an organization like no other.
More recognized worldwide than even Coca-Cola, more feared than most of
the world’s largest conglomerates–which, by comparison, were aging
dinosaurs aware of the constant pull of extinction. It was the complete
package as the twenty-first century hurtled toward them, just like the
bold eagle symbol that was rapidly making its way into the four corners
of the world and everywhere in between.
Triton Global would have it no other way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A uniformed security guard escorted Lee Sawyer through the massive lobby
of the Marriner Eccles Building, the Constitution Avenue home of the
Federal Reserve Board. Sawyer thought that the premises were in keeping
with the enormous clout of their occupant.
After walking up to the second floor, Sawyer and his escort stopped at a
thick wooden door and the escort knocked. The words “Come in” filtered
out to them. Sawyer moved through the doorway to a large, cozily
furnished office. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases, dark furniture and
ornate moldings made a somber impression. The thick drapes were closed.
A green banker’s lamp glowed on the large, leather-topped partners desk.
The smell of cigars hovered everywhere; Sawyer could almost see gray
wisps of smoke hanging in the air like ghostly apparitions. It reminded
him of the scholarly studies of some of his old college professors. A
small fire burning in the fireplace threw both warmth and light into the
room When a man of massive girth swiveled around in the chair behind the
desk, Sawyer’s attention was instantly riveted upon him. A corpulent
red face housed light blue eyes hiding behind lids reduced to slits by
sagging facial skin and the overgrowth of a pair of eyebrows as thick as
Sawyer had ever seen. The hair was white and abundant, the nose was
wide and the tip was even redder than the rest of the face. For one
brief moment, Sawyer jokingly wondered if he was confronting Santa
Claus.
The man rose from behind the desk, and his big, cultured voice flowing
across the room to envelop Lee Sawyer dispelled all such thoughts.
“Agent Sawyer, I’m Walter Burns, vice chairman of the Federal Reserve
Board.”
Sawyer moved forward to grip the flabby hand. Burns matched the