“Unless they did kill Ludlow,” Theresa pointed out. “Then they should know exactly what kind of bank it is.”
Kessler started, his lanky body twitching as if she’d applied a shock. “Mark Ludlow? Is he dead? I thought you said no one’s been hurt.”
Frank outlined the morning’s murder investigation for Kessler and Cavanaugh. The vice president had only met the man twice, so he could not positively identify the Polaroid photo of the victim. Frank put in a call to Ludlow’s fifth-floor office, where a secretary, waiting to be evacuated by the Fed security force, told him that Mr. Ludlow had not arrived for work. “Unless you’ve got two Mark Ludlows,” he said to Kessler and the rest of the group huddled around the reading table, “I’m guessing he’s dead, and I’m guessing he got that way because of something to do with those two guys in the lobby across the street. What did Ludlow do for you? Why would they target him?”
“He’s a bank examiner, division of consumer affairs. He monitors banks’ operations regarding credit, truth-in- lending laws, interest rates.”
“So maybe he found out something about a bank that they wanted to hide,” Cavanaugh suggested.
“No,” Kessler said immediately. “Ludlow would have shared any information with the division head. He just got here-Ludlow, I mean. He transferred from the Atlanta bank, not a month ago, so he’s still learning our idiosyncratic little ways of doing things. Any officer at the banks we govern would know that killing Ludlow wouldn’t hide damaging information, and besides, banks don’t do things like that.”
Theresa caught a grin before it made it to her lips. She couldn’t smile. Paul might end up dead.
Jason worked on a different theory. “They must have tried to make Ludlow tell them how to break into the bank.”
Cavanaugh drummed his fingers along the phone receiver, frowning in thought. “But why pick a guy who’s only been there a month?”
“There weren’t any signs of torture on the body,” Theresa said. “The killer hit Ludlow in the head a few times, and that was that.”
Frank took out a cigarette but refrained, under Ms. Elliott’s wary eye, from lighting up. “Maybe he had enemies in Atlanta and they followed him here. But then why rob the bank? Some sort of afterthought?”
“He told them something before he died,” Jason said. “Something worth breaking into a Federal Reserve for.”
“What’s happening over there today?” Cavanaugh asked Kessler. “What’s special?”
The man shrugged. “Nothing. The daily routine: financial analyses, a meeting or two. Banks might come in for some cash transactions, but nothing all that big, except-” He stared at the portrait of Clio, but the muse seemed to make him uneasy and he turned to Apollo and Hyacinthus instead.
“Except?”
“The money shred.”
The room’s occupants waited for the man to explain about destroying what they all worked so hard to accumulate.
“We handle sending out new currency from the Bureau of Engraving in D.C., and the worn-out bills come to us to be destroyed, shredded. We exchanged old notes for new for the Bank One system yesterday. The old money will be shredded this after-noon-or would have been.”
“How much money are we talking?”
“In addition to what we usually have sitting around, probably about seven or eight million dollars.”
The room grew even more hushed, no doubt as people tried to picture $ 8 million. Just sitting around.
“Would Ludlow have overseen this?” Frank asked.
“No. It’s got nothing to do with him. He probably couldn’t even find that area of the tunnels if he went looking for it. Besides, most of the process is done by robots.”
“Robots?” Frank tapped his unlit cigarette on the table. “Like R2-D2?”
“More like forklifts without drivers.”
Cavanaugh leaned forward. “And old money wouldn’t have sequential numbers, would be nice and innocuous- looking to use. Let’s assume that’s what these guys are after. What route would they need to take to get to the money?”
“From the lobby? There isn’t one. They’d have to take an elevator from the employee lobby, and I thought you said security had that blocked off.”
“They have it covered,” the negotiator clarified. That, Theresa thought, must be the hallway and elevator bank behind the hostages, past the information desk.
“Then, from the elevator, they’d need a key card to get past the double doors on Sublevel One, and then another to get into the shredding room without setting off the alarm. Not to mention the fact that all these areas have cameras.”
“They can’t be too concerned about that.” Cavanaugh gestured toward the television monitor. “We already have them on camera.”
The vice president turned to stare at the sight of his employees crouched on the floor, hands behind their heads. He half stood, then sank back into the hard wooden chair like a deflating balloon.
Maybe not. “How are you picking up this video?”
“Streaming Internet link,” Jason said.
“This is being broadcast over the
“It’s triple-password-protected, and all three will be changed as soon as this is over. Don’t worry.”
The librarian spoke up again. “We have wireless Internet connections all over this building. Will that interfere?”
“No. It’s on the same server, but it’s a secure link.”
Theresa’s head swam.
“Don’t be afraid, Theresa.”
It took her brain a moment to realize that Cavanaugh had spoken to her, and it shocked her gaze away from the TV monitor. “What?”
“I said, don’t be afraid.” The smirk had left. His dark eyes appeared somber, and for a moment her soul felt the fleeting touch of comfort. Maybe he really was all that they said he was. Maybe Paul would be fine. “We’ll get him out of there. I’m guessing these guys have figured out that they’ve shut themselves in a box and are already praying for a way to open it. With luck we’ll be out of here by lunchtime. There’s just one thing, though. I need you to leave.”
This must be what it felt like to be sucker-punched. “What?”
“I can’t have emotional people in here. I need to concentrate on the hostage takers and on them alone, if I’m going to get Paul out of there.” His voice remained calm, hypnotic, and if she didn’t take care, she’d find herself agreeing. “I can’t have your reactions distracting me.”
“I won’t react.”
“Theresa-”
“No, I mean it,” she insisted, unable to stop the babbling undercurrent from her words. “I was married for fifteen years. I learned how not to react, believe me.”
“Theresa-”
“I’m sure Jack Sabian would want me to stay.”
The weight of his ambitions slowed him, but only for a moment. “I’m the conduit to the guys holding a gun on Paul, Theresa. You don’t really want me distracted, do you?”
He had a point. But she kept her gaze steady, the way she did with defense attorneys and Rachael’s band director. “You need me. I’ve been closer to them than you have. I may have inspected their handiwork this morning. I’ve sat in their car. I know who drove, and that he likes cinnamon Tic Tacs and country music. I need to be here.” Theresa turned back to the television monitor, as if this ended the discussion. Hah. She should win all arguments so easily.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him watching her, until a shuffling sound of collective movement erupted from the staff offices in the next section. Apparently the power discussion had been concluded and a decision reached.
