The Voter File

by David Pepper

  Druffel’s cheeks reddened again. “I run circles around that hack. And because we have the White House, believe me, we’re able to get great talent in all these positions.”

  “Any examples?”

  “Oh, we’ve brought in a great group of people. Top to bottom.”

  He walked through a number of their new hires: the former digital director of the Florida Democratic Party, two from winning Senate campaigns, and three from President Moore’s campaign.

  Cassie listened intently, recognizing every person from her research even if he didn’t name them.

  “Impressive. I read that you’ve been able to swipe some talent out of Silicon Valley as well.”

  “We grabbed two from Google and three from other start-ups.” He walked through their backgrounds.

  “Were they able to transition to the political world?”

  “Seamlessly. They’re bringing new innovation to our work, in addition to building partnerships with their former employers. And are really shoring up our security infrastructure.”

  He was bringing her where she wanted to go.

  “Speaking of security, do you worry about security risks when you’re bringing on so many new people?”

  He leaned into the table and stared right at her. Like his counterpart, he took this issue seriously.

  “We do an extensive background check on everyone we hire. Plus, it’s a small digital team: we’re in each other’s faces all day every day, so I see everything.”

  “You ever flag anyone?”

  “We’ve rejected a few people after some bad references. And one foreign national didn’t check out.”

  “How do you do background checks on people right out of school? With such thin résumés and work histories.”

  “We do the best we can. But they’re lower-risk. First, they’re the least skilled, so they wouldn’t be able to do much damage even if they wanted to. Second, like I said, I can see everything everyone does anyway. Plus, these new hires are actually the most eager to impress. They’ve been great.”

  “All of them?”

  For the first time he hesitated, looking at his near-empty stein. “Not all. You always make hiring mistakes. Or sometimes things don’t work out.”

  Cassie’s research had found that three Democratic tech staff had left in the prior nine months.

  “A guy named Pierre Porter left after about a year. What happened there?”

  He didn’t miss a beat.

  “Pierre was a rock star—one of the Silicon Valley guys. But his wife wanted to move back to the Bay Area. He landed a good job and we stay in touch. His company may actually do some work for us if they don’t get bought out first.”

  “What about John Sebring?”

  “Super guy. He got recruited to run one of our main vendors, but we still work with him every day.” He laughed. “Sebring now makes twice as much as I do.”

  “How about this woman, Natalie Hawke? She was here for about eight months and then left.”

  Druffel shifted in his chair. “Oh, Natalie. I almost forgot about her.”

  He looked over at his press person. She shrugged, apparently unconcerned.

  “Natalie was young, green. A really sweet person. But she had some personal issues that made it tough for her. So we had to part ways. I’m sure that happens in your business, too.”

  He tipped the stein vertically and finished his second beer.

  Cassie waited for him to put the glass down. “What were the issues?”

  “I really can’t get into that. Personal stuff. We sign agreements when people leave. But we wish her well.”

  “She landed some data job at a New York think tank.”

  “Did she?” His orange eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. “Good for her.”

  “Yes. Some institute that researches politics and economics.”

  Cassie paused to observe his response. No reaction at all.

  “Does it worry you that people who had full access to your voter file are now working elsewhere?”

  “We shut down all their access right away. There’s no way they can get back in. And if you’re referring to Natalie, she was as junior as it gets here, and struggling with even that. It’s good she’s somewhere with a slower pace.”

  “But wouldn’t she, or anyone, have learned your systems after months here?”

  “Sure, the basics. Actually, in her case I’m not even sure if she learned those. Either way, we cut you off when you leave. The key is ongoing access, and when you leave, you lose that.”

  CHAPTER 50

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  Streaks of red spiraled down the sink’s basin and curled into the drain.

  Plastic gloves had kept Arman Kasabian’s hands spotless, but the knife needed a good cleaning. He let the water run after the last speck of blood dropped from the serrated teeth, rinsing the sink’s enamel surface back to an ivory white.

  He was outside Madison, at the first rest stop on the way out of town.

  He looked up from the sink and stared straight ahead, studying his face in the mirror. His frown twisted the lower half of his scar.

  His mother had always implored him to choose an occupation he enjoyed. But he’d ignored her. Not practical advice in the third-world poverty he’d grown up in. Although at moments like this, when his mood darkened, her words rang true.

  Instead of listening, he’d pursued an occupation he was good at. Using the skills he’d spent years honing—not because he’d chosen to but because he’d been forced to—it was the only vocation that would take him anywhere.

  His first love had been soccer, the sport he and his brothers had grown up playing because it required nothing but an old ball. Back in his small mountain village, they didn’t even have a goal; they’d just draw lines in the dirt and rule out any shot higher than the tallest player. They’d play until dark, sleep, then start up again the next morning. In between games, they’d talk about someday competing in a World Cup together. Given the turmoil of their region, they just didn’t know for what country.

  But all that fun and banter ceased in their early teenage years, when the older men of the town ripped away the frayed ball and replaced it with their first rifles. They started killing not long after that, as they’d been trained to do. And they killed all sorts of people. Men, women, old people, children. “As long as they are Azerbaijanis, kill them,” they’d been instructed.

  Of all his friends, he’d killed the most. He didn’t enjoy it. But he was good at it. The best aim. The fastest. The most methodical.

  And he’d benefited from another skill. He was a survivor, good at anticipating danger and escaping death, unlike too many of his friends, including his own two brothers. He still remembered crying as their limp bodies were lowered into shallow holes he’d helped dig, months apart. But after those two burials, and those of his other soccer mates, he had never cried again. He’d grown harder.

  As he came of age—transitioning from conscripted warrior to hired gun—the younger the person he killed, the darker his mood afterward. At least the elderly had had the chance to live a full life. To love. To raise children. To understand joy. And while it was not his place to judge his prey, he at least found solace knowing the older ones must have done something to spur his assignment. Somehow they had sealed their own fate.

  But young people? Like his brothers? They hadn’t yet lived. And they’d done nothing to deserve it.

  Which was why he now saw such a deep scowl in the mirror.

  Looking up from a couch in his small apartment, the former campaign manager of the new Wisconsin Supreme Court justice had a far younger face than he had expected. No older than his mid-twenties. Certainly not a child, but young. And the rounded eyes of surprise had made him appear more youthful.

  The target had known nothing about the plot
. Or the recent activity in the campaign’s voter file. But he did possess the one piece of information Kasabian needed: the identity of the digital manager of the campaign.

  Once Kasabian had entered the apartment and demanded that name, the young manager’s fate was sealed. But his refusal to answer only made things worse, forcing Kasabian to use the knife’s serrated edge. The young man had never endured true physical pain before—so soft, these Americans—so he’d given up the name and other information quickly. Then Kasabian had ended his pain. Mercifully.

  Kasabian cupped his hands under the faucet, lowered his head, and splashed cold water onto his face. Turning away from the mirror, he walked out of the bathroom, out of the building that housed it, and back to the Jeep. The tension within him eased as he moved to his next assignment—at the least, someone older.

  After closing the Jeep door, he took out his phone and opened the app he’d been instructed to use to communicate his progress.

  The name is Victoria Justice.

  He pulled out of the rest area, heading for his new destination. Thankfully, the town called Waterloo was also in Wisconsin, less than an hour away.

  CHAPTER 51

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Where to, honey?” the driver asked as Cassie shut the door behind her.

  It had started drizzling at the end of her discussion with Dan Druffel, so Cassie had grabbed an Uber home.

  “Not far. P and Connecticut.”

  “Sounds good, sweetie.”

  “Honey” had sparked a head shake. But now “sweetie,” too? Her teeth clenched in anger. At what age would this garbage from older men end? One more comment, she vowed, and she’d get out.

  Long ago, way before Republic, she’d committed to do her part to end the verbal injustices young women faced daily. As a young reporter at the Boston Globe, the indignities had come hourly. “Sweetie.” “Young lady.” “Darlin’.” Always accompanied by a big, awful smirk. As if they had been talking to their teenage granddaughter, not a professional journalist. And back then, it wasn’t only the Uber drivers but her editors, fellow reporters, sources—and the big shots she was assigned to cover.

  Three months in, she decided to correct her bosses. “Unless you’d call Bob your honey, too,” she’d say, gesturing at a male colleague, “please stop calling me that.” One comment at a time, she’d respond. Some would roll their eyes, but few would say it again. And if they did, she’d repeat her line, wearing down even the worst offenders. Especially after she’d landed a few front-page scoops, establishing herself as a journalist to be reckoned with, they’d heeded. In the newsroom, at least, the comments died.

  But she did not correct her sources or the big shots she interviewed. Because she’d learned early on that enduring their comments often delivered a payoff in the form of interviews with older men who avoided her more senior, male colleagues. When these men observed her youth and her gender, they saw sweetness. Weakness. They detected no threat. So they’d agree to interviews and pollute the conversation with every patronizing put-down imaginable. But she went along with their outdated notions, playing the naïf they’d pegged her for while taping and writing down every word they uttered. She smiled, listened, and politely nudged them along through her questions as they talked and talked and talked.

  By the time they were done talking, and she had published her stories, they’d learned a tough lesson. About her. About the unleashed power of a young woman. But for some, the lesson came far too late. A governor in jail. Three top officials resigning, cutting deals, testifying against their old boss. Then two state senators and a city councilman falling, along with a long line of other lower-profile officials. They’d all honeyed and sweetied their way right out of office and behind bars.

  Fortunately for the Uber driver, he didn’t say another word.

  But the memory made her relive her chat with Dan Druffel.

  He’d treated her with respect. Like an equal. But of course he’d known who she was going into the interview. Her round hazel eyes and short hair still made her look youthful, but her role at Republic gave her a stature that minimized the patronizing talk.

  But the way Dan Druffel had described the last woman she’d brought up, the young one who’d left after less than a year, sounded all too familiar.

  She reviewed her notes, studying the words he’d used to describe Natalie Hawke. Sweet. Green. Young. He hinted that she’d had emotional problems—that it was good she’d gone somewhere with a slower pace. Having placed her in that frame, he’d clearly dismissed her as any type of threat.

  Just like those Boston big shots Cassie had taken down.

  Druffel wasn’t stupid, but neither were those men from her Globe days. On the contrary, they were whip smart and appropriately paranoid, on guard against any political enemy. They suspected the worst of everyone and protected themselves accordingly. But when it came to young women, they had a blind spot. They hadn’t seen Cassie coming, and she’d taken advantage of that.

  The car came to a quick stop in front of her building.

  “We’re here, sweetie,” the driver said, Cassie’s right foot already planted on the curb.

  Despite her vow, she said nothing back to him as she shut the door.

  He’d been too helpful.

  CHAPTER 52

  WATERLOO, WISCONSIN

  A cloud of dust kicked up at the end of Lute Justice’s long driveway, interrupting the otherwise perfect view of the sun’s slow descent.

  With only two months to go, Lute was committed to enjoying every sunset left. The sun would still go down after he moved, of course, but not over his own fields. So sunsets would never be the same.

  Sitting on his old wooden bench outside his back door, Lute trained his gaze away from the sun and onto the visiting vehicle.

  It was a black SUV. No, a Jeep. A clean one. Which definitely meant it was no one he knew.

  But that didn’t trouble him.

  The last time a strange car had arrived unannounced, clean and polished like this one, it was that fancy New York lawyer whose client would keep Lute living well the rest of his life.

  Plus, he hadn’t talked to a soul since Tori and that old reporter had left, unless talking to heifers counted. So company, even mysterious company, provided a nice break.

  He stayed glued to the bench as the Jeep made its way up the long hill, dust and dirt billowing behind it like a rooster’s tail. It proceeded more slowly than most visitors, even the New York lawyer. The driver was probably taking in the fields. Or perhaps the jostling of a true dirt road was getting to him. City slickers weren’t used to that.

  When the car reached the flat part of his driveway, which he’d once measured as twenty-one yards away from the house, Lute stood up, his knees cracking like knuckles. When someone approached your home in Waterloo, especially a stranger, that was the polite thing to do.

  Standing up also provided his first look at the driver. Through the lightly tinted window, he couldn’t make out much but jet-black hair, a wide, square jaw, and dark sunglasses. Lute didn’t trust people who wore sunglasses when they weren’t needed. The only way you could size up men was eye to eye, and the dark shades got in the way.

  The Jeep came to a stop earlier than Lute expected. Several car lengths away. Earlier than made sense. The engine was shut off. Then nothing. No movement. No sound. The driver simply remained seated in the vehicle, facing forward. He appeared to be looking at Lute, but even that wasn’t clear. Damn sunglasses.

  Lute took a cautious step toward the car.

  That’s when the car door opened.

  A polished black dress shoe was planted on the ground under the door, followed by the other shoe. A thick head then rose above the open door, same dark hair, same sunglasses, same broad jawbone atop a narrow neck. But most prominent of all was a newly visible feature, a thick purplish scar running from the
man’s right ear down to his chin, jagged and thick like a crevice. This was a violent wound, a wound of battle, which meant the man was not just another lawyer.

  Clasping his hands together, Lute took a step back.

  The visitor’s left hand appeared around the side of the Jeep’s door, slamming it shut and revealing a full view. He was no more than six feet tall, and his large head now looked oversized on an otherwise slight build. He dressed as slick as the car, reminding Lute of a cop from the old show Miami Vice: dark blue jeans and a gray tweed sport coat over a black, collarless shirt.

  Unfortunately, he shared another trait with Miami Vice. Resting in his elevated right hand, a black Glock was pointed right at Lute. Even more ominously, a cylinder extension doubled the length of the gun. A silencer.

  “Now, wait a second, mister,” Lute said, taking another step back while raising his hands in the air.

  Lute had been around guns his whole life. So as soon as the man lifted his left hand to join his right, pushing the gun up and extending his arms forward, he knew.

  Three rapid puffs of smoke burst from the front of the silencer.

  CHAPTER 53

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Are you really going to keep working?” Rachel asked impatiently, standing over Cassie’s right shoulder in her sweatpants and long-sleeved T-shirt. “You’ve been going nonstop.”

  After putting Aiden to bed, Cassie sat back down at the kitchen table and opened her laptop, a Diet Coke at her side.

  “This won’t take long. I promise.”

  “Right.” Rachel headed into their bedroom.

  Cassie reopened the document she’d created earlier in the day.

  Natalie Hawke. Young woman. New hire at the Democratic Party. Left early after having convinced the bosses that she was harmless.

  If Cassie’s hunch was right, there’d be a similar narrative on the Republican side.