Blunt had put out a few feelers to some of his trusted private investigators, if anything to see if there had been any buzz about what skeletons were hanging in Peterson’s closet. With a well-documented success story, Peterson’s rise to become a giant tech magnate was nothing new for the American public. But what he did on his rise to the top—or what he did once he got there—was of keen interest to Blunt. Of all the P.I.’s Blunt liked to hire, he knew he could always count on Charles Miller to deliver the goods.
“I got nothing for ya,” Charles Miller told Blunt.
“Nothing? As in nothing, nothing?” Blunt asked, almost pleading.
“Zilch. The guy is as clean as a whistle.”
“Now, you know if a guy is clean, he’s been scrubbing his past.”
“Don’t I know that all too well,” Miller said. “But I can just about guarantee you that you’re going to have to fabricate something if you’re going to catch James Peterson in some kind of scam.”
“Fabricate something? Come on, Charles. You know I’d never do anything like that.”
Miller chuckled. “Okay, J.D. Whatever you say. I’m just telling you this guy has covered all his bases. He must’ve had a cleaning crew working around the clock. I can’t even find a chat room where anyone says something bad about him. No disgruntled employees. No jilted business partners. No messy divorces. Hell, even his adult children seem to like him.”
“That has to be an act.”
“Maybe they want to make sure Daddy doesn’t leave them out of the will.”
“Regardless, there has to be somebody somewhere willing to talk about the monster that is James Peterson, right?”
“I found one lady who seemed mildly interested in sharing her story about working for Peterson, one that she alleged was still filled with unwanted advances and other unseemly activity.”
“So, what happened to her?”
“I’ve got an idea, but not an official story,” Miller said. “On the night we were supposed to meet to document her story, she didn’t show up. So, I got her address and drove to her house where a shiny new Mercedes-Benz was parked in the driveway. I knocked on the door, and she told me that I must be mistaken because she never agreed to tell me any story, let alone say anything negative about her wonderful boss, Mr. Peterson.”
“You really are fighting an uphill battle, aren’t you?”
“It’s what I do all day long.”
“Well, thanks for looking into it for me. If you do happen to hear of something else, please don’t hesitate to call me.”
“You got it,” Miller said before he hung up.
Blunt was left with the silence and the heavy weight that accompanied it to ponder another possible direction. He stared at his phone for a few seconds, lingering on it and playing the conversation over in his head, a conversation he’d yet to have but one he desperately needed to have. He took one last deep breath before picking up the receiver again and placing another call.
“Trevor McDonald,” the man said as he answered.
“Trevor, it’s so good to hear your voice,” Blunt said after removing the cigar from his mouth.
“Senator Blunt, is that you?” McDonald asked.
“Sure as I am sittin’ here.”
“Aww, man. To what pleasure do I owe your call, Senator?”
“What do you think about the Longhorns’ chances of winning the conference this year? That game against Oklahoma was a classic.”
“Hook ‘em, Horns,” McDonald said. “Best damn football team in the land. Who cares what the pollsters think, right?”
“Exactly. If they finish up strong, they’ll be hoisting a championship trophy by season’s end.”
“Now, Senator, you know I’ll gladly talk college football with you any time, but I have a feeling you called for a different reason, now didn’t you?”
Blunt laughed. “Nobody could ever get anything by you, Trevor. That’s why you’re working for the NSA these days.”
“I’d like to think it’s because of all my hard work and dedication that I’m here today.”
“Ah, you know what I mean. You’ve always been so damn tough to sneak anything by. Your father and I could never talk in code around you because you’d figure out what we were discussing in a matter of seconds.”
“So, if you didn’t call to talk about football—”
“All right, I’m getting to my point,” Blunt said. “As much as I’d love to have an hour-long conversation over beer about our beloved football team, I do have some other pressing matters.”
“I’m all ears.”
“That’s a good one, son,” Blunt said. “You really are.”
“I wasn’t trying to make a joke. It’s just an expression.”
“And a fitting one for anybody that works at the NSA.”
McDonald sighed. “Perhaps we should have this conversation over beers later tonight.”
“No, no. I’ll be brief.”
“Go ahead then.”
“I’m doing a little background check on our good friend James Peterson and was wondering if you happened to hear anything untoward regarding the presidential candidate.”
“Senator, you’re not asking me what I think you’re asking?”
“I’m just inquiring to see if there are any chinks in his armor, so to speak. Just wondering if any rumors or stories have flitted across your desk as of late.”
“Look, not to be rude, Senator, but I don’t feel comfortable with this conversation. This isn’t really appropriate—not to mention legal—for me to be discussing with you. Maybe you were used to these kinds of calls when you were on the defense committee, but I think we both know that the information you’re requesting isn’t the kind you can have access to.”
Blunt grunted. “If you only knew. Well, I get it. You’re trying to do the right thing, and I guess I can’t fault you for that. But if you happen to come across something that you think would be useful and want to call me on your own free time, let me give you my number.”
Blunt recited his cell before wishing McDonald a good afternoon. After hanging up, Blunt stood back up and shoved the cigar into his mouth. He chewed on the Cuban tobacco for a few minutes in silence, contemplating his next move.
No one is that squeaky clean.
CHAPTER 7
Washington, D.C.
ALEX LOOPED THE DRONE around the position of Karif Fazil’s suspected hideout in Iraq and let out a few choice words when nothing of interest appeared on the screen. Caves, caves, and more caves. She wanted to lower the drone’s altitude, but if she was right about where Fazil was laying low, she would fly right into an easy shot for one of Al Hasib’s guards. One blast from a rocket propelled grenade launcher and her eyes and ears from the sky would go up in a plume of black smoke.
“Are you sure you’re not seeing anything out there?” Alex asked Hawk.
Hawk, who’d been dispatched to the region, was a quarter of a mile away from the front of Fazil’s suspected underground location. She calculated the distance as the drone circled around on its previous approach.
“I can see the entrance,” Hawk said. “There’s no reason you couldn’t just light it up right now.”
Alex sighed. “This is the last Al Hasib hideout that we have confirmed on the ground. If I obliterate it and he’s not there, we’ll never know where he’ll go into hiding next.”
“But if he’s in there . . .”
“Hawk, I thought you wanted to watch him die.”
“It’s the only way to be a hundred percent sure that he’s dead. Otherwise, we’re left with picking over the bones of a bunch of Al Hasib guards and hoping a DNA test matches. I’d never be sure.”
“Exactly. So, why have me blast this place now?”
“I’m close enough that I could verify Fazil’s identity now while his body was still warm.”
Alex huffed a laugh through her nose. “If I blast this place now, you’ll be lucky to identify him with dental records.”
“At least it would put an end to my visits to this godforsaken part of the world.”
“I’m not doing it,” she said. “Not until you can get a visual on him. It’s too risky.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll get closer.”
“You better make it quick. I can’t keep this drone in the air all day. There are limitations to what I can do.”
“Just fly it elsewhere for a while. Give me some time to work. I’ll notify you as soon as I see something, and then you can come in and finish the job. Deal?”
“These things aren’t solar powered,” she said. “I can’t just fly it forever. At some point, I’m going to have to guide this bird back to the base.”
“You’re gonna have to trust me on this,” Hawk said. “Watch me on the satellite feed. You’ll see just how close I am before I let you know I have visual confirmation.”
“And how exactly are you going to entice Fazil to come out?”
“I’ve got a few ideas—none of which will work if you keep buzzing this drone around his hideout. Are you with me?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take her elsewhere. But you better work quick. Based on my calculations, I’ve got maybe a half hour left before I’ll have to send her back to the base and park her.”
“Roger that.”
Alex typed in a few more new coordinates, sending off the drone in a different direction. All she could do now was wait—and hope.
CHAPTER 8
Washington, D.C.
BLUNT SAT AT THE BAR and glanced at the football game airing on the television affixed to the wall. The Packers were hosting the Redskins on a snowy Lambeau Field. The bartender made eye contact with Blunt before glancing down at his glass.
“Time for another?” the bartender asked.
Blunt swirled the dregs of his bourbon around and shrugged.
“Why not? Looks like I got stood up anyway.”
“Blind date?”
“That might be the only way I get a date these days,” Blunt deadpanned. “She’d have to be blind. I’m not exactly the prettiest thing on the shelf.”
“Love isn’t always about looks,” the bartender said as he placed another glass in front of Blunt.
“But it sure does help.”
“Help what?” asked a man behind Blunt.
Blunt turned around to see Trevor McDonald a few feet away wearing a big grin.
“What?” McDonald asked. “You didn’t think I was going to stand you up, did you?”
“I was beginning to wonder.”
McDonald settled onto the stool next to Blunt and ordered a drink.
“Sorry about earlier,” McDonald said. “If there’s one place you shouldn’t be making plans to skirt the law, it’s inside NSA headquarters.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I put you in a difficult situation, and that’s my fault. You did the right thing.”
“I still don’t feel right about this whole thing, but given the circumstances, I felt like someone needed to know, someone who would actually do something about it.”
Blunt took a pull on his drink. “So, no one at the NSA would take any action on what you found?”
McDonald looked over his left shoulder and then his right before proceeding. “Let’s just say that not everyone there shares the same political views we do.”
Blunt waved dismissively. “It’s not about political affiliation. It’s about doing what’s right. I don’t care what party a candidate is in. If he—or she—needs to be shut down, then someone needs to do it. And it might as well be me.”
“Before I tell you this, you have to answer me one question.”
“Fire away.”
“You’re not just doing this because you’re close with Noah Young, are you?”
“My relationship with Noah Young is incidental in this case,” Blunt said. “I’ve heard some pretty rotten things from insiders on James Peterson. He puts on a good face, but behind the scenes, he’s a ball buster. It’s his way or the highway.”
“That seems to be a common trait among self-made billionaires.”
“It’s also the recipe for disaster when it comes to dealing with a divided electorate and a world rife with terrorists who know how to push all the right buttons. I’d give him six months before he has the world at each other’s throats and ready to start the next big world war.”
“So you think you can stop him?”
“Depends upon what kind of information you give me tonight.”
“Well, you’re going to love what I’m about to tell you.”
Blunt arched his eyebrows and gestured for McDonald to continue.
“Okay, no one else at the NSA seems to be very concerned with the incidental information I’ve collected on Peterson, but I think it’s quite serious.”
“How so?”
“He’s meeting with a Russian ambassador in a few days.”
Blunt took another pull on his drink. “And why were you listening in on this particular ambassador?”
“He’s proposing a deal to Peterson in exchange for help with the election.”
“Financial help?”
McDonald nodded. “That’s the rumor. We haven’t been able to confirm it.”
“So, you exposed him?”
“It might seem politically motivated at this point, but there are some people I know who seem genuinely concerned with the possibility that Peterson could find his way to the Oval Office.”
“Count me among those who are concerned.”
“I thought you might be, but I’m very serious. There are some other things happening that I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
“What kind of things?”
“The kind of things that could land a man in federal prison for a very long time.”
“Peterson?”
McDonald stared at his drink and didn’t say a word.
“Someone close to Peterson?”
McDonald remained quiet, staring up at the television.
“Okay, fine. You don’t want to talk about it in public. I understand. But you need to give me something to go on rather than a vague and cryptic comment. If I’m going to hunt, I need to know what I’m hunting for.”
“Just expose Peterson for the fraud that he is,” McDonald said. “That will save everyone a lot of trouble.”
Blunt smiled. “I can do that. All I need from you is the pertinent information to make it all happen.”
* * *
NOAH YOUNG HAD YET to move into the White House, deciding to remain at Number One Observatory Circle. The official residence of the vice president located on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory was quaint and less monitored. While a stunning home on the inside with all the bells and whistles one would expect, the house appeared rather modest on the outside. Young contemplated moving into the White House permanently, but he decided against it when his party gave him the green light to take Michaels’s place on the ticket. The last thing Young wanted was to come across as an entitled politician. Being well within his right to live there, but refusing to do so out of respect for Michaels’s family and for the office itself played well with the American public. But Young had his own reasons for refusing his rightful residence.
The vice president’s home had far more latitude in what Young could get away with. Making secret phone calls and directing intelligence gathering ops at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue required stealthier moves than Young was accustomed to making—and he knew that. He preferred to handle the dark matters of running a campaign away from the limelight.
He slipped into his study and dialed the number of a former Air Force friend who was working in private security in the nation’s capital.
“This is Geller.”
“As in Frank Geller?”
“Noah Young? Is that really you?”
Young chuckled. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Only a couple decades or so,” Geller said. “I would ask you how you got my number, but I doubt there’s much th
at the acting president of the United States can’t get if he wants it.”
“Some of the stories you hear are highly exaggerated, trust me.”
“Well, how the heck are ya? I just can’t believe you’re the president now.”
“Acting president,” Young corrected. “I still have some work to do if I’m going to become a permanent fixture in the Oval Office.”
“Yeah, I saw the latest polls. Things aren’t really going your way, are they?”
“According to my campaign manager, I’m being punished for all of Michaels’s sins, complicit or not. But all is not lost just yet.”
“So, how do you plan on turning that around?”
“Funny that you should ask,” Young said. “That’s actually the reason for my call.”
“If you’re looking for my vote, I promise you’ll get it.”
Young laughed softly. “Actually, I’m looking for something even more helpful than that.”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to do something for me that will stop James Peterson from becoming president.”
“I gathered as much, but I hope you’re not suggesting that I do something to harm him physically,” Geller said. “I know I got into a few tussles when we were serving together, but those days are long behind me.”
“Not anything physically, but definitely something that will harm his political campaign. Or to be more blunt—shine a light on what he’s really up to.”
“You want me to sabotage the election?”
“No, no. Just listen before you start making a thousand wild guesses.”
“Okay. I’m all ears.”
“Good,” Young said. “Peterson is aligning with some of our foreign political foes. And doing so makes him susceptible as President. We just need to nip it all in the bud so we don’t have to spend the next four years wondering if Peterson’s allegiances lie elsewhere. I have it on good authority that he’s secretly meeting with a Russian ambassador tonight. I’m not privy to the nature of their conversation, but I know it doesn’t look good. He’s hiding this meeting from the reporters covering his campaign and making sure it’s completely off the books.”
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