Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  “Very well, thank you,” Ames replied, striding across the black marble floor and pulling up just short of her. Having no interest in how she was, or to continue the conversation a moment longer, he said, “I have a reservation for two at noon.”

  “Certainly,” the girl replied, her mega-watt smile failing to dim in the slightest. “Would you like to be seated now, or wait for your guest to join you?”

  The man he was scheduled to dine with was certainly not a guest, though Ames didn’t feel the need to make the correction. “Seated, please.”

  Nodding once, the hostess led him down a narrow corridor, small dining rooms visible to either side, most of them already more than half full. Without glancing in either direction, not particularly caring who was present, even less who saw him, he kept his gaze aimed straight ahead, his focus just above the top of the girl’s dark brown hair.

  Moving in lockstep, they bypassed the majority of the building, going nearly to the far back wall, most of the ambient noise around them falling away, before hooking a left and entering a small private room. Consisting of just three tables in an even row, only the center one was set up for dining, already bearing water glasses and cutlery, a basket of bread waiting.

  To either side, the adjoining tables were barren, their chairs removed.

  Just as Ames had requested.

  “Here you are, General,” the girl replied, “your server will be along in a moment to collect your order, I will be sure to bring your guest back as soon as they arrive.”

  “Hmm,” Ames replied, nodding stiffly, waiting until the girl had departed before stepping forward. Grabbing the table by either side, he twisted it ninety degrees so that the place settings were arranged front-to-back with the door instead of perpendicular to it.

  Moving quickly, he slid each of the chairs into position before the respective plates, taking the seat on the far side of the table, his back effectively to the wall, enabling him to see everything that came or went.

  The Char House was certainly a far cry from some of the more posh and trendy restaurants in D.C., the place chosen because it allowed for the sort of privacy that Ames so craved. Never did he have to worry about the prying eyes or ears of some Washington insider, able to conduct business that was best handled far from the public sphere.

  Which for a man of his position, was pretty much all business.

  A regular for more than a decade, the House was grateful enough for his business to cater to every request he made, knowing that the back room was the only acceptable place for him to be seated, that no other guests were to join while he was present.

  Ninety seconds after the general took his seat, a young man with blue-black hair slicked flat to his head and a matching bowtie around his neck entered, bowing slightly at the waist in greeting. “Good afternoon, General. A pleasure as always.”

  “Hello, Richard,” the general replied, refusing to ever employ the man’s given name of Ricardo, “I’ll have three fingers of Lagavulin, water on the side, no ice.”

  “Very well, sir,” Ricardo answered, again bowing slightly and retreating as quickly as he had arrived.

  With both feet planted on the floor, Ames kept his attention on the door, the agitation he felt hidden behind a mask that was decades in the making, the kind of thing forged through some of the worst conditions the world had to offer.

  The call had come in less than an hour before, requesting an appointment he had not planned, did not in the slightest want to take. Knowing it would throw off the schedule he had put together for the day, pushing back his departure at the end of it, he had balked at first.

  If he had his way, the man he was set to dine with would no longer exist, let alone be able to call him out of the blue.

  The fact that he’d had no choice but to accept the meeting rankled him even further, the situation one that he had hoped would be long over by now, though each time he allowed himself to believe that, something else seemed to arise.

  With his bottom flush against the seat and his spine full against the backrest, Ames sat ramrod straight and waited, a pair of countdowns moving in tandem through his mind.

  The first one ended after two minutes, Ricardo arriving with a cloth napkin and his drink, setting the items down and retreating without a sound.

  The second took an additional six minutes, the hostess again appearing, a tall man with receding hair and a few days of growth on his cheeks in her wake.

  “Here you are, sir,” the hostess said, employing the same sing-song cadence she had used on Ames.

  “Thank you,” the man replied, pausing inside the doorway long enough for the hostess to gather the insinuation and melt from view before taking a step forward.

  Ames had first met Leopold Donner twelve years earlier in Iraq, Donner part of a contract group that the CIA had brought in to help assist with security for key personnel in the region. A former Navy SEAL, he had been not long removed from service at the time, the low man on the proverbial totem pole, still getting his legs under him on the civilian side.

  It was that fact alone that had enabled Ames to deal with him, the ways of the military still very much present in the young man, his conditioning impeccable, his haircut tight, his respect for rank and authority without question.

  In the time since all three had slipped to varying degrees, the freedoms of the outside world bringing about changes that Ames didn’t particularly care for.

  “Always with the cloak and dagger,” Donner said, striding to the table and leaning across it, extending a hand toward Ames.

  Rising from his seat, the general accepted the shake, squeezing tighter than necessary, letting Donner know that the comment was neither needed nor appreciated.

  “A man doesn’t ascend-“

  “To your position,” Donner inserted, cutting the older man off. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

  Feeling the acrimony within rising, a flash of warmth hitting the small of his back, Ames released the shake and lowered himself back into his chair.

  “Your time since the service seems to be getting longer every time we meet.”

  Grabbing the back of the chair before him, Donner jerked it over to the side of the table, placing himself so he could see the door and Ames both in his periphery. “And your time in seems to get longer every time we meet. You thinking of hanging it up anytime soon?”

  Already feeling a strong dislike for the man beside him, not particularly caring for the new seating arrangement or the line of questioning that was occurring, Ames fixed a glare on Donner.

  “I assume you did have some purpose in calling and asking to meet here today?”

  Eschewing the question, Donner raised his chin a few inches, pushing his voice up several decibels, and said, “Hey, Ricky! Can a fella get a beer in here?”

  Appearing an instant later, as if teleported into the room, Ricardo stood in the doorway, his hands again clasped behind his back, his body stooped forward just slightly at the waist.

  “Of course, sir. What would you like?”

  “Anything in a bottle,” Donner replied. “None of that on-tap stuff for me.”

  “Certainly,” Ricardo said, again disappearing as quickly as he had arrived, much in the same manner as he had with Ames.

  Watching the sequence with a look of bemusement on his face, Donner kept his attention on the door, Ames feeling his aggravation grow with each passing moment.

  “Again I ask, you did have some purpose in calling and inviting me here today, correct?”

  Aware that he was being baited, the general watched as Donner took his time twisting his attention back to the table, the same half-smile still in place.

  “Relax, you’re a government employee. There’s nothing that can’t wait a few extra minutes.”

  More heat flashed to Ames’s face, his upper lip growing moist, his features hardening.

  The lunch outing was not something he had planned, a perfectly decent salad and sandwich both still stowed in the lunch sack in t
he bottom drawer of his desk.

  Donner had one minute to start making sense, or he would leave the still untouched scotch on the table and stick his cohort with the bill.

  Seeming to sense the line of thought that was playing out beside him, or at the very least having the common sense to realize when he was in danger of overplaying his hand, Donner raised both his hands in concession, the smile falling away from his features.

  There he remained, silent, as Ricardo delivered his beer, paying the bottle no mind as they waited for the room to be theirs again.

  “Have you seen the news this morning?” Donner asked, dropping his tone slightly, for the first time giving Ames the impression that there was some actual reason for their meeting.

  “Not since breakfast,” Ames replied, leaving any response at that.

  Shifting onto his left haunch, Donner pulled a smartphone from the side pocket of his cargo pants and placed it on the table between them. Tapping at the screen a few quick times in sequence, he twisted the item so it was facing the general.

  “This just went live a little over an hour ago.”

  Ignoring the handful of questions that instantly came to mind, Ames slid his attention from Donner to the phone, a video display consuming the entire screen.

  The angle of the image was from on high looking down, the camera work a bit shaky, the color a tad distorted as if being shot beneath bad lighting. In the center of the screen was a middle-aged woman with sharp cheekbones and a burgundy coat, graying hair pulled back behind her head.

  Never before had Ames seen her in his life.

  A moment later sound became audible, starting with basic background noise before the woman started to speak, her voice low, just barely perceptible.

  “Senator, when you were a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, you voted to send soldiers into Afghanistan.”

  Feeling his breath draw in sharply, Ames flicked his gaze to the doorway, seeing nobody, before glancing back to the phone. Still far too early to know what he was seeing or why it was brought to him, he couldn’t deny the palpitations running over his scalp, making his steel-grey flattop itch.

  Once the question was asked, the camera shifted slightly, moving from the woman across a wide desk, finally coming to rest on a man that Ames was infinitely more familiar with.

  “Yes, that’s right,” the man replied.

  Again the camera tilted away, this time returning to the woman. “One of those soldiers that went over was my son, and the favor I’m here to ask you today is, can you tell me if his death meant anything at all?”

  Abandoning his position against the back of the chair, Ames leaned forward, folding his arms before him and resting his weight on his elbows. Only vaguely aware of Donner beside him, or even the restaurant they were now seated in, he kept his entire focus on the screen, awaiting the response.

  “I...I...” the man began, his voice breaking just slightly, before finishing, “I don’t know.”

  The video ended less than a second later, the sharp jerk of the angle making it appear that whoever was doing the recording had just been cut off, a staffer stepping in to save their charge.

  Waiting another moment, Ames stared at the phone, making sure the video was complete, before raising his gaze to Donner.

  “This was taken this morning?”

  “That’s right,” Donner said. “And unless I’m mistaken, that was Senator Jackson Ridge.”

  Using his forearms for leverage, Ames resumed his previous position. “I know who it was.”

  Raising his eyebrows slightly, Donner retrieved his phone, pocketing it away. “And then you also know-“

  “That the man was a tremendous pain in the ass,” Ames said. “Yes, I remember that as well.”

  Hooking one arm over the back of his chair, Donner extended the other and grabbed his beer, grasping it by the neck. “This video is going viral. I thought you might want to take a look.”

  While his first response was, as always, disgust – at the man sitting before him and the situation as a whole – Ames couldn’t rightly argue that it was wrong for him to have called.

  In situations such as this, erring on the side of caution was always the better approach.

  “Going viral,” Ames said. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning it will be everywhere in time for the evening news,” Donner replied. “Maybe even enough to cause the old fart to start rattling some cages, stirring up a lot of trouble for us.”

  Mulling the information over for a moment, Ames replied, “You are aware that as of right now he has less than a day left in office, right?”

  “I am,” Donner answered.

  Nodding grimly, Ames fell silent, continuing to process the information. For as much as he wanted to lash out at Donner, to tell him that this entire meeting was nothing more than a fool’s errand, paranoia from perpetually covering their back trail, there was a certain kernel of logic to what the younger man was saying.

  At the very least, the situation would be worth monitoring for a couple of days.

  “Jackson Ridge hasn’t been much of a factor for years now.”

  “Right,” Donner said, “not since his parents passed. Just the same, with this being his last day, he might try to turn this into something. Go out with a bang and all that.”

  Again Ames forced himself not to scowl, hating the use of clichés, but knowing they did sometimes serve a purpose, this being a prime example of such an instance.

  “Who’s the woman?” he asked.

  “Dunno yet,” Donner replied. “I figured I would run this by you before I started having anybody dig into it.”

  Looking away from Donner, Ames shifted his attention to the door, allowing his focus to blur as he chewed on the new information.

  “Don’t just use anybody. Do it yourself, report back to me every two hours until we know this has passed.”

  Chapter Four

  “I am so, so sorry,” Susan Beckwith said, the fourth such apology since they’d left the office. “We were told that she was here to comment on some state park that you had helped secure funding for. Where in the hell she got that-“

  Pulling up abruptly in the middle of the hall, the stop so sudden Beckwith nearly collided into him, Jackson Ridge turned to face her, his body parallel to the wide hallway spread to either side.

  “She got that,” Ridge said, “because I was on that committee and I did vote to send troops to Afghanistan. Her tactics might have been off, and her approach less than sincere, but all things considered, I’d say we could cut her some slack, don’t you?”

  Shifting slightly, he took another step down the hallway.

  “Yes, but sir,” Beckwith began, starting alongside him as well.

  Pulling up a second time in as many minutes, Ridge smiled slightly and said, “And while you’re at it, cutting yourself some wouldn’t be a bad idea either, Susie.

  “The woman lied to gain access. You did your job, you had no way of knowing that would happen.”

  Reaching out, he patted her lightly on the arm, the long ago accepted signal that he was releasing her from his side for the time being, and turned back down the hall.

  The Senate Dirksen building was considered by some to be the lesser of the two structures housing the offices of Senators, most sitting members squirreled away in the newer, more posh Senate Hart building right next door.

  To Ridge, it had always been more of a badge of honor, the aging brick and dark color schemes much more in line for an old soldier like him, certainly a better representation of the people of Wyoming.

  Pushing his hands into the front pockets of his slacks, he put his feet along the seam in the tile floor running through the middle of the expansive hallway, the events of the previous hour running through his mind.

  To say that he had been dreading the ordeal would be an understatement. Many sitting congressmen viewed dealing with the media as something approaching a sport, a back-and-forth affair that they derived no small a
mount of pleasure from.

  Ridge had never had such a view on the matter, a stance that was more than matched by the opposing side. Each armed with a healthy amount of wariness, the two worked with each other when they must, avoided when they could, always with a large dose of wariness.

  Never, ever was the slightest molecule of trust present.

  For Ridge, that belief had been earned a lifetime ago, having been on the front lines in Vietnam, returning home to find the story that had been shared with the public was a far cry from what was actually occurring.

  Since arriving in D.C., his thoughts had only become stronger, having witnessed decades of hyperbole and spin, the ways in which much of what occurred in the country each day was now dictated more by the court of public opinion than any actual meritocracy that might exist.

  Despite that, he had rather enjoyed the event up until that question was lobbed his way. The red-haired woman was nice enough, placing a question out there for him that allowed poking a bit of fun at his transplanted home, even allowing her to get in on the action with a nod to the place he would soon be returning.

  The rancher was even better, setting him up to remind everybody of his roots, his very reason for getting involved in politics to begin with.

  Things had turned south with the third woman, though, of that there was no doubt. The question was one he was not prepared for, certainly not the sort of thing Beckwith or his staff would have ever allowed inside the door.

  Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to harbor the slightest bit of ill will toward the woman, respecting her for asking the question, finding it hard not to believe that if he were in her position he wouldn’t be doing the exact same thing.

  The problem, as always, was with the pack of jackals standing behind her, catching every word of the interaction on tape, taking the opportunity to start firing questions his way as well, each more pointed than the one before.

  “Afternoon, Jack,” a voice said, pulling Ridge from his thoughts, causing his pace to slow as he strolled forward. “Heading in the same direction I am, I’m guessing?”

  To his right, the owner of the voice stepped out into the hallway, a man in his mid-forties with a blond flattop and fleshy face, his prodigious midsection extended nearly four full inches over his belt. Bypassing a suit for khakis and a sport coat, he extended a hand as he stepped from his office, closing the gap between them.