by Watteau, Fragonard, even a Poussin.
Alcoves held marble statuary and portrait busts with neo-classical themes, Greek gods and goddesses, nymphs and warriors.
Richly ornamented drapes screened the windows, filtering out the morning sunlight. A crystal chandelier hung down from the ceiling, its radiance augmented by strategically placed floor lamps and indirect wall-mounted pinlights and spotlights.
Glass-fronted cabinets contained shelves lined with rows of volumes handsomely bound in gold-embossed leather bindings. There was an antique desk the size of a pool table. Standing in front of it with his hands held behind his back was Cabot Huntington Wright.
Wright’s age was somewhere in his fifties. A leonine head was mounted on a pair of broad shoulders. His square-shaped torso hung straight down from those shoulders, presenting a solid, wall-like front. A superbly tailored summer-weight dark blue suit could not disguise the fact of his spindly legs, giving him a top-heavy appearance. His feet were small and narrow.
Lead-gray hair was brushed straight back from the forehead, giving his sleek hair the aspect of a metallic cap. His face was spade-shaped, with the hint of double chin. His upper lip sported a neatly clipped silver-gray mustache of the type that Jack associated with old- time bank presidents and district attorneys.
Wright was the director of the Masterman Trust, a philanthropic foundation with a billion in assets that were disbursed to a variety of do-good organizations, from cultural centers to soup kitchens. He was president of the executive committee in charge of holding the trust- funded Round Tables, and a multimillionaire in his own right.
He crossed to meet Jack and Armstrong as they entered. He said, “I am Cabot Wright.” His voice was deep, resonant — rich. Like him.
Jack said, “I know, I’ve seen your picture in the papers.” He said, “You must be Agent Bauer. Don Bass told me to expect you.” Anne Armstrong said, “Agent Bauer is on loan to us from the Los Angeles branch.” Wright said, “Glad to have you aboard. We can use all the help we can get.”
He and Jack shook hands. Wright’s palm was smooth, uncallused, but there was strength in his grip. Wright said, “Good to see you again, Ms. Armstrong.” He indicated the man in the tortoiseshell glasses, said, “This is Brad Oliver, my executive assistant.”
Brad Oliver had a thicket of oily, wavy black hair parted on the side, pale waxy skin, and a cleft chin. He made no move to shake hands. He said, “Hello.”
Wright said, “Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting. Sky Mount is an absolute madhouse today, buzzing with activity. Everyone on my staff seems unable to do without an urgent last-minute consultation with me and they all want to see me at the same time.”
Anne Armstrong said, “That’s quite all right, Mr. Wright. We appreciate that you’re a busy man.”
Wright said, “I’m sure you’re busy too, with far greater responsibilities.” He gestured toward a group of club chairs facing his desk. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”
Jack and Armstrong seated themselves. Jack’s chair was straight- backed and thickly cushioned, so comfortable that he wouldn’t have minded having one in his living room at home.
Wright said, “May I offer you some refreshments?”
Jack said, “Thanks, but Ms. Clary has already seen to that.”
“Ah, one can always trust Marion to observe the amenities. She’s a pearl.”
“She certainly seems to know her Sky Mount.”
“She’s our ultimate authority. I go to her when I need to know any esoterica about the layout.” Wright went behind his desk and stood in front of his chair without sitting down. “Well. I understand you’ve got some updates for me this morning.”
Jack said, “Shouldn’t we wait for Don Bass? That’ll save us from having to do a double briefing.”
Wright said, “Quite so. Oliver, go see what’s keeping Bass.”
“Yes, sir.” Oliver turned, exited via the double doors, closing them behind him.
Wright sat down. He picked up what looked like an antique letter opener from the desktop and toyed with it, weighing it in his hand. “Are you a history buff, Agent Bauer?”
“Some.”
“Then perhaps this should interest you. This letter opener was once the property of Marshal Fouche. Do you know of him?”
Jack nodded. “He was Napoleon’s spymaster.”
Wright smiled, pleased. “And before that the spy-master of the French Revolution. One of the greatest intelligence officers of all time. He survived both the Terror and the Empire, living to see Robespierre go to the guillotine and Bonaparte go into exile at St. Helena.”
He handed the letter opener to Jack. It was sharp-pointed and slim- bladed, as much dagger as letter opener. Wright said, “Imagine, if you will, the secret correspondences numbering in the hundreds, the thousands, all laid bare to Fouche’s inquisitive eye by that instrument; the missives of kings and queens, popes and generals, royalists and revolutionaries.”
“It’s a real collector’s item.” Jack handed it back to Wright. Wright said, “Perhaps you recall Fouche’s famous maxim: ‘The art of the police is in knowing what not to see.’ ”
“That might have served him well in the Napoleonic Empire, but it’s not so apt for today.”
“I’m keenly interested to know what you have seen.”
Oliver returned with Don Bass in tow. Bass headed the Brand Agency security presence at Sky Mount. He was middle- aged, beefy, with short, curly brown hair topping a head shaped like a cured ham. He had baggy spaniel eyes and a meatball nose; his face was jowly and his wide mouth turned down at the corners. He wore the standard outfit sported by plainclothes Brand operatives, a blue blazer with the company emblem blazoned on the left breast and khaki pants. Big feet were encased in extra-wide, thick- soled shoes. His blazer was rumpled and his pants needed creasing. He carried a dog-eared brown leather briefcase.
He knew Anne Armstrong; he and Jack were introduced. He pulled a club chair up to Wright’s desk and plopped himself down in it.
Brad Oliver hovered around the edges of the scene, notepad and pen in hand. Wright said, “That will be all for now, Oliver; you may go.”
“Yes, sir.” Oliver went out.
Wright said, “So. What are the latest developments in the Prewitt affair?”
Wright already knew about the abandonment of the Red Notch compound and the disappearance of the Zealots. Jack told of his and Neal’s night trip to the site; of the discovery of Lobo; of the shooting deaths of Lobo, Neal, and the rifleman; and of the rifleman’s partner’s getaway. Those were facts. He said nothing about Lobo’s tale of hog-faced demons and the green cloud. That was hearsay, and he didn’t want to whip up a storm of excitement and possible hysteria on an as yet unverified account, especially his suspicions that some kind of chemical weapons might have been used on the night of the vanishment. Time enough to open that can of worms if and when CTU forensics turned up actual evidence of such substances. He was keeping quiet until then to avoid stirring up a panic.
That went double for Chappelle’s SIU detecting the sinister short-selling pattern. That would stay secret until events necessitated otherwise, and he saw no sign of that need yet. The intelligence was an ace in the hole, a trump card that might precipitate the final denouement, and he would keep it well hidden up his sleeve in readiness for the showdown.
Jack finished his self-redacted account of the proceedings. That was the time for Anne Armstrong to speak up if she wanted to surface the possible CW involvement but she remained mum on the subject. If she was in on the secret intel about the recent shorting on the market, she kept it to herself.
Don Bass said, “How do you read it, Jack?”
“I think that the Zealots’ disappearing act was accompanied by violence. Maybe there was a schism in the sect, some doctrinal or procedural disagreement that led to a falling out between two or more factions.”
“Two or more? How do you figure?”
“Notice the timing. It’s surely no coincidence that the disappearing act came on the eve of the Round Table. It’s possible that one faction of the Zealots was in favor of a violent action against the conference, another was against it, and a third was neutral, just sitting on the fence not wanting to take sides. Things came to a head and
