Chapter 4 - The Enemy Inside the House
Lauren never reached the airport.
Her car was found abandoned inside a parking garage near Georgetown.
The passport was gone.
One phone remained beneath the passenger seat.
The second disappeared with her.
By noon, Whitmore Global's share price had plunged.
Grant stood in his office watching numbers bleed across the television.
His board demanded answers.
Investors demanded reassurance.
Reporters crowded the sidewalk.
But Grant was thinking about one thing.
Camille.
For sixteen years she had been the person standing between him and his worst impulses.
He had spent the last year resenting her questions.
Now he understood those questions had been the last guardrails around him.
His general counsel, David Chen, entered carrying a folder.
“We found something.”
Grant turned.
“Lauren?”
“Not exactly.”
David placed an employment file on the desk.
“Lauren Pierce didn't come to Whitmore through ordinary recruitment.”
Grant frowned.
“I hired her.”
“You interviewed her. Someone else put her name in front of you.”
“Who?”
David slid over an email from six years earlier.
The recommendation came from Malcolm Vane.
Grant's expression changed.
Malcolm had once been Grant's closest business partner.
Twelve years earlier, they had fought over the company's direction.
Grant bought him out.
Malcolm walked away with eighty million dollars and enough bitterness to last several lifetimes.
“He recommended Lauren?”
“Indirectly. Through a recruiter he controlled.”
Grant sat.
The conspiracy suddenly extended backward six years.
Meanwhile Camille was examining the same connection.
Marcus Reed projected corporate records onto a screen.
“Pierce Holdings received transfers from three entities connected to Vane Capital.”
Camille frowned.
“Lauren was working for Malcolm?”
“Possibly.”
“Why?”
Governor Brooks's counsel answered.
“Whitmore Global is positioned to dominate the transportation technology market if tomorrow's consortium bid succeeds.”
Camille understood.
“Destroy Grant's eligibility and someone else gets the contracts.”
“Exactly.”
“And Vane Capital owns stakes in competitors.”
“Substantial ones.”
Camille stood.
“So Lauren manipulates internal documents, uses Grant's credentials, creates the appearance of corruption, then waits for the investigation.”
Reed nodded.
“There's another layer.”
He displayed an internal memo.
Camille read it twice.
Her stomach tightened.
It contained references to her.
Not Dr. Camille Whitmore.
Target C.
Dates followed.
Her lectures.
Meetings.
Even restaurant reservations.
Someone had been monitoring her.
“Why me?”
“Because,” Reed said, “you were the one person most likely to recognize irregularities.”
Camille remembered Lauren's careful politeness over the years.
Birthday flowers.
Christmas cards.
Compliments at company dinners.
Lauren hadn't merely befriended Grant.
She had studied Camille.
Her phone rang.
Grant.
Camille almost ignored it.
Then she answered.
“I found the Vane connection.”
“So did we.”
Grant fell silent.
“You already knew?”
“Yes.”
“Camille, somebody has been watching you.”
“I know.”
Grant's voice hardened instantly.
“Where are you?”
“Safe.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It is the only one you're getting.”
“Camille, this isn't about our marriage.”
“Exactly.”
“I can put security around you.”
“I already have security.”
That wounded him more than it should have.
Once, Grant had been the person she called when she felt unsafe.
Now he wasn't even entitled to know where she was.
“There's something else,” Grant said.
“What?”
“Malcolm Vane contacted me yesterday.”
Camille froze.
“When?”
“Before the gala.”
“What did he want?”
“He congratulated me on the infrastructure bid.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“I thought he was mocking me.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Grant searched his memory.
“He said, ‘Enjoy the ride. You won't recognize the destination.’”
Camille's face changed.
“Grant, where are you?”
“My office.”
“Leave.”
“What?”
“Now.”
A deafening crash interrupted him.
Glass exploded.
Grant dropped.
A heavy object had smashed through the office window.
Security rushed inside.
Grant looked across the carpet.
It wasn't a bullet.
It was a brick.
Wrapped around it was a photograph.
Grant picked it up.
Camille.
Taken outside her university office.
A red X had been drawn across her face.
On the back were four words.
SHE SHOULD HAVE STAYED QUIET.
Grant stopped breathing.
“Camille.”
“What happened?”
He couldn't answer.
“Grant?”
His hand trembled.
For the first time since building his empire, Grant Whitmore was genuinely afraid.
Not for his company.
Not for his money.
For her.
“I need you to listen to me.”
Camille heard something in his voice she hadn't heard in years.
Fear.
“Grant?”
“They sent me a photograph of you.”
Silence.
“What kind?”
He swallowed.
“A threat.”
Camille's composure cracked for half a second.
Grant continued.
“I don't care what happens between us. I don't care whether you ever come home. But please, for once, let me protect you.”
Camille looked toward Reed.
He had heard enough to understand.
“We'll relocate you,” he said.
Camille nodded.
Then she spoke into the phone.
“I have protection.”
“Camille—”
“But Grant?”
“Yes?”
“Get out of that office.”
He stared at the shattered window.
“Why?”
“Because if Malcolm wants you frightened, this isn't the attack.”
Grant looked at the photograph again.
Camille's voice dropped.
“It's the warning.”
That night, Grant was moved to a secure apartment.
At 2:17 a.m., the Whitmore Global data center went dark.
Six years of internal records began deleting themselves.
Someone inside the company still had administrator access.
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And when technicians traced the login, the account name on the screen made Grant's blood run cold.
CAMILLE.WHITMORE.
