by Mark Spivak
“This is a camp that’s being constructed about forty miles north of Nogales. It’s an aerial shot, but if you look closely, you’ll see that it’s a very large facility. This one will hold at least ten thousand people, and it’s one of three being built at the moment. The tents appear to be filled with bunk beds. There’s a series of prefab buildings which we suspect may house washrooms and kitchens.”
“Where’d you get these photos?”
“This was taken by a CIA drone. We have a series of them, if you’d like to see them.”
“I like you guys, but I have to tell you that you’re on very thin ice here. I can just see the headline in The Washington Times: Democratic National Committee Authorizes Aerial Surveillance of Right-Wing Groups.
“There’s nothing illegal about this, sir,” said Schmidt. “It’s all kosher. The DNC took some of their concerns to the Department of Justice, and the DOJ requested the aerial surveillance. We have no idea what these camps are for. As far as anyone knows they could be terrorist training locations, so the CIA was totally justified in photographing them.”
“Listen,” said Wallko. “As I told you, I don’t always see eye to eye with the Haft brothers. But they’re not terrorists, regardless of what that article in Rolling Stone said.”
“No one has any idea if these camps are definitely linked to their involvement with the Angels of Democracy. But everybody seems to agree that they’re worth monitoring.”
“Well, you were right.” Wallko looked at Linda Buckmeister. “This is definitely interesting.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dalborn.
“And I assume you have some definite proof of a link between this Marshall character and the Hafts?”
“Absolutely,” said Schmidt. “About three months after the election, Marshall and his second in command, Joe Guthrie, visited the Hafts in St. Louis.”
“How do you know this?”
“We had people check all the commercial airline manifests between southern California and Missouri during that period. The two of them flew on JetBlue. They rented a car at the St. Louis airport. When they turned in the vehicle, it had less than 100 miles on it. It’s 39 miles from the airport to Haft Industries. We figure the rest of the mileage was driving to and from a hotel, out to dinner, that sort of thing.”
“Damn, you’re good.”
“We have good people.”
“Still, that doesn’t make sense. If the Hafts wanted to meet with those guys, why didn’t they send a plane for them? Why have them fly commercial, knowing it could be traced?”
“We assume it was a mistake. Maybe they’re getting sloppy.”
“No, no. Sheldon Haft doesn’t make mistakes. If he had them fly commercial, there was a reason for it. It was part of a plan. Just like all the donations to the Angels of Democracy, and the pictures of the tent cities you just showed me—if the DNC discovered it, that means the Hafts wanted it to be discovered.”
“You probably know more about this than we do, sir. We’re just doing the detective work.”
“Well, good job.” He rose and shook hands with them again. “I’d like you to stay in touch and keep me in the loop on this. Linda will give you my cell phone number so you can keep me updated.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Excellent.” Wallko smiled. “And don’t start taking aerial shots of my house, either.”
Chapter 15
Khaleem Atalas and Bethany Hampton sat in very different postures on opposite ends of a sofa in the Oval Office. The President leaned backward in a relaxed pose, a pillow propping up his half-recline. Hampton sat erect on the edge of the cushion, as if wearing a back brace. She cradled a set of files on her lap and occasionally referenced them as they talked.
“So,” asked Atalas, “what have your preliminary discussions been like with the Cuban diplomats?”
“Very smooth thus far—no glitches. They’re very pleasant and polite. It’s a different culture, obviously.”
“I would imagine. My guess is that you’ll be called to testify before Congress about this.”
“Testify about what, for God’s sake? All we’re doing is exploring options to normalize relations.”
“Well, you know how they feel about me.” The President flashed his trademark toothy grin. “Their theory is that if you keep turning over the ground, you’ll find a snake sooner or later.”
“They’ll have to look awfully hard to find one here, sir.”
“Agreed. And Bethany, please stop calling me ‘sir,’ at least when it’s just the two of us.”
“You know the theory—if you do it in private, someday it’ll slip out in public. It’s just out of respect for the office.”
“Understood. If you do get called, just continue to stress all the points we’ve emphasized thus far. The existing policy has had fifty years to work, the policy has failed, and it’s time for a change. There will be enhanced communication and a limited amount of trade and tourism. Overall, the thaw in relations is a win-win for the Cuban people, something that will improve their standard of living and help bring them into the 21st century.”
“I know the drill.”
“What does your husband think of this?”
“He’s all for it. Truth be known, he probably wishes he had done it himself. But he would have been afraid of the political blowback, for one thing. And of course, by his second term he was so deep in scandals that he had less and less time for foreign policy initiatives.”
“He could have pulled it off. He’s one of the most skilled politicians I know.” Atalas grinned again. “Along with you, of course.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m afraid I wasn’t quite good enough.”
“Well, I was a lucky guy. Don’t forget that.” Five years earlier, Atalas had defeated Hampton in a bitter primary contest, practically coming out of nowhere to win the Democratic nomination. “Things could easily have turned out differently.”
Bill was the only one who saw it, she thought. He kept warning me about this guy, and I ignored him. Had I listened, I’d be sitting here now, but Atalas wouldn’t be Secretary of State. Housing and Urban Development, most likely.
“You mentioned political blowback,” she said. “Are you concerned about Florida next time around?”
“Not really. Joel believes that none of the Miami Cubans were ever going to vote Democratic anyway, and I think he’s right. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely. There might be a few demonstrations when we open the embassy, but I’m sure no one there will be under sixty.”
“Speaking of opening the embassy.” The President fiddled distractedly with his pants cuff. “Are we closing in on a date?”
“Sometime in the late spring, I would think.”
“Let’s keep it formal but low-key. No big contingents of U.S. personnel—just you and a small group of aides. On their side, the Cubans will be very careful who they allow to attend.”
“Agreed.”
“How are we coming along on the back-channel talks with Persepostan?”
“It’s agonizingly slow. The gist of their position is they want us to immediately lift all the sanctions, give them foreign aid, and allow them to continue with their nuclear program.”
“Shit, let’s give them something nice for Christmas, too.”
“We have the edge on this. The sanctions are killing their economy. They can still keep a lid on things, but the situation is dicey when they look five or ten years down the road. The majority of the population is under twenty-five, and they have no jobs and no future. The leaders of the original revolution are now older than dirt.”
“I’m told their biggest employers are the army and the secret police.”
“That’s correct, and that’s part of the problem. They’ll have to sell any deal they make to the army, and those guys aren’t going to junk seve
ral decades of nuclear research. The only things the clerics have going for them at this point is the complete blackout on information from the outside world, and their ability to arrest anyone who looks at them the wrong way.”
“Sounds like it’s not going to be easy.”
“Not in the least. Our only hope for any meaningful concessions is to keep the sanctions in place for a while, or even tighten them.”
“I want you to keep trying.”
“I will. But you know that the Israelis will go crazy over any type of deal, no matter what it is.”
“What else is new?” The President shrugged. “They go crazy about something roughly once a month.”
“And don’t expect the Gulf states to be thrilled, either. Particularly Saudi Arabia.”
“Things are different now. We’re very close to being self-sufficient on energy. And not only are we hardly importing any oil from the Gulf, but the price has dropped dramatically. These guys don’t have the money and the leverage that they were able to use on the Cane family. I’m confident that I can handle the Saudis.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“The real problem, when you look down the road, is Persepostan. They’re supporting the New Caliphate in Sumeristan, and they’re determined to completely destabilize the region. At the same time, they’re resolute about getting a nuclear weapon. We can’t bomb their nuclear program out of existence, because we can’t figure out where half of it is, and the half we know about is buried so far underground that we’ll never get to it. So the only solution here is to have some sort of treaty with them and work from within on slowing down their nuclear ambitions—even if it means easing the sanctions and allowing the regime to tighten their control on things.”
“Well, I’ll keep trying. Just don’t expect anything in the immediate future. And if we do get any sort of movement, it’s likely to be crumbs. Initially it won’t be anything to base a treaty on, and it certainly won’t be anything that Congress would swallow easily.”
“Just stay with it. You’re doing a hell of a job, and I appreciate it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Not as good a job as you would have done as HUD Secretary, you arrogant piece of crap.
George Bindleman settled into an armchair in the Capitol Hill townhouse of Ken Breslaw, one of his oldest and closest friends. Back in college, the two had been known as The Odd Couple, displaying an improbable bond between a raging liberal and a third-generation conservative. Bindleman had gone to law school after graduation while Breslaw headed directly for the Hill, where he worked for a variety of organizations funded by Sheldon and Richard Haft. He was currently Assistant Director of Americans for a Free Society—and widely regarded as a man to watch.
“So what’s up?” asked Bindleman. “Obviously it’s some-thing momentous, since you didn’t want to meet in public.”
“I just thought we’d be more comfortable here, given the delicate nature of the discussion.”
“Nice place.” He glanced around at the paneling. “I see that working for the Antichrist is profitable.”
“Genuine Chesapeake Bay hardwood.” Breslaw grinned. “You know there’s nothing I love more than the opportunity to cut down a few trees.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Seems like we’re constantly realizing that we have more in common than we thought. We actually see eye to eye on a number of important issues.”
“I don’t recall, but I’m sure stranger things have happened.”
“Take Democracy Unchained, for example. I know you think it was a disaster.”
“Was and is. Looking at the last election, it gave your employers the license to spend a boatload of money. Didn’t help, though.”
“No, it didn’t, but they would have spent that money anyway.”
“Probably so.” Bindleman stirred his drink. “But you’re correct. The decision wasn’t in anyone’s best interest. Gilliam wouldn’t vote for it today, if he had the chance to revisit it.”
“You may be surprised to learn that there are people on the other side who feel the same way. People at the very top of the food chain, in fact.”
“No way. You’re bullshitting me.”
“Not at all. The decision is irrelevant to the Hafts—as I said, they have the machinery to spend money and influence the system either way. It may be helpful to a lower-level conservative donor, but it doesn’t really affect them in the least.”
“Well, you’re probably right, and that’s interesting to know. But Democracy Unchained is now law, and we can’t reverse it. Don’t think we’re not trying. We just can’t find a case that gives us the right loophole to seize on.”
“God, you guys are thick.” Breslaw shook his head. “The loophole is right under your nose, and you don’t see it. Maybe you’re looking too hard.”
“Sure. And you know what it is?”
“We think we do. Mind if I enlighten you?”
“You expect me to believe that you’re going to give away the store? I may be a Democrat, but I’m not stupid.”
“I’m a patriot, George, just like the Hafts.” He winked. “Pull your chair closer, buddy, and listen up.”
Chapter 16
Kevin Lapham walked into the private jet terminal at Midway and shook hands with Charles Gardiner.
“Chuck, shall we go for a stroll?”
“It’s raining.”
“You won’t melt.”
Lapham borrowed two umbrellas from the desk agent and the men walked out onto the tarmac. Gardiner had the gait of an ex-athlete, as well as the self-assurance of someone who could easily walk through brick walls. A former Army Ranger, he had put himself through college after mustering out of the service. Lapham was fond of referring to him as the “thinking man’s thug:” a guy who was comfortable supervising both roughnecks and philosophers.
“Tell me, have you given any thought to your golden years?”
“I’m not retiring,” said Gardiner. “Certainly not yet. Unless you’re firing me.”
“Absolutely not. But if this next operation pans out, you’ll be able to hang it up and relax on a beach in Costa Rica.”
“Nah, there’s too many people like me in Costa Rica. What have you got for me?”
“As I told you, this is top secret. We’re not having this conversation.”
“Okay. I’ll pretend I don’t know that you’re building three tent cities near the Mexican border.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Give me a fucking break. Those camps are secured at night by a handful of minimum-wage security guards. Any Marine just out of boot camp could crawl in there on his belly and photograph the entire place.”
“And I gather you’ve done this?”
“Don’t worry about me. Worry about the people you don’t want to see it. For your next trick, do something really subtle. Parade a dozen elephants down Michigan Avenue at high noon.”
“The camps aren’t confidential. Anybody could be building them. And it’s not illegal, either.”
“Keep it up, and you’re going to attract media attention.”
“Maybe that’s what we want.”
“And what about these jokers riding around in their Hummers, playing with their night vision equipment?”
“They’re in training.”
“Training for what?”
“None of your business. Let’s focus on the part of this that concerns you. Sometime in the next year, we’d like to see the Vice President leave office.”
“Are you kidding? The guy was just reelected.”
“This is true.”
“If you want me to get some dirt on him, that’s going to be a tall order. The way I hear it, he’s a Boy Scout.”
“There has to be something. There always is.”’
&
nbsp; “Damn, I don’t know. The guy doesn’t even drink. He’s married, and from all accounts takes it seriously. Not only is he probably too old to screw around, but it’s not like he has tons of spare time.”
“Well, there has to be something. We’d like to see him out of the picture.”
“No way.” Gardiner stopped walking and stared at Lapham. “You’re not telling me to take him out, I hope? Because that would cost so much that I’d be able to buy the entire country of Costa Rica.”
“Of course I’m not suggesting you take him out. I doubt that it’s possible, and it’s certainly not desirable.”
“Anything’s possible.”
“All right, look: there’s a long-range plan in place that I can’t divulge to you. It’s too delicate, and there are too many moving parts. But for the scenario to work, he has to bow out of the picture. There must be a way to make that happen.”
“Boy.” Gardiner shook his head. “I’d like some of whatever they’re smoking out in St. Louis.”
“I never said this was coming from St. Louis.”
“Sure. You’re just wandering around the country, making all this wild shit up.”
“Yes and no. Things get handed to me in the broadest possible terms. The thoughts are ideological and speculative, not concrete—at least not in this case. It’s a very broad agenda, and the gulf between idea and actions is frequently very wide.”
“Spoken like a true politician.”
“So why don’t you nose around a bit, see what you can find out? The usual research rates will apply.”
“Sure. I’d just love to get inside the head of someone who has the leisure time to dream up this stuff.”
Lapham slapped him on the back. “After you become President of Costa Rica, you can tell me what it’s like.”
Peter Schoenfeld poked his head into the office of Kenneth Jablonski, The Washington Post National Editor.
“Morning, Kenny. You wanted to see me?”
“Close the door, please.”
