Conspiracy

by Allan Topol

  When they sat down, Fujimura, behind heavy black-framed glasses, studied Taylor. He remembered being struck by her good looks when he met her six years ago during the Kyoto conference on global warming, as well as by her intelligence and her genuine interest in the Japanese way of life. He was impressed that she had not only studied Japanese in college, but had kept up her proficiency with a private tutor since that time. She had grown into an elegant-looking woman, even at eight in the morning, and she had honed her legal skills, which was why he called on her for many of his clients' legal matters in the United States.

  "I'm sorry I was late," Taylor said.

  "I was early. I appreciate your adjusting your busy schedule to meet me on short notice."

  Fujimura nodded to a waiter, who rushed over, took their breakfast order, and quickly departed. "I have a new matter for you," Fujimura said in English that was precise, though a little stiff. "M. H. Heavy Industries wants to buy East Texas Enterprises, a large national gas producer headquartered in Houston. Eight facilities are involved throughout the United States. I would like you to visit each of them within the next thirty days, give me a report on all potential liabilities, and develop a structure for the acquisition."

  Taylor felt her stomach churning. She couldn't possibly do what Fujimura wanted in the next thirty days, not with the campaign going down to the wire. She selected her words carefully. "May I suggest a variation of your proposal?"

  She allowed a flicker of annoyance in his eyes to pass before she continued. "I'll be in charge of the investigation. I'll make all of the decisions and recommendations, but my partner, Philip Harrison, with whom you've worked before, will organize and handle the visits. He'll develop a proposal for structuring the transaction."

  Fujimura's face showed no emotion. "You're my lawyer," he said. "You understand what I want and need. That's why I came to Blank, Porter, and Harrison. There are lots of other lawyers out there." He raised a hand and waved it.

  Taylor's knees were trembling under the table, and she sucked in her breath. That's all I need right now is to lose Fujimura's business. I'll be asked to take early retirement from the law firm. Real early. I've got to find a way to keep it together for another month.

  Taylor forced a smile and pressed ahead. "As you know, Philip is very experienced in this type of transaction. He'll organize his regular team. They're fast and efficient. He'll report directly to me."

  Fujimura deliberately sipped his coffee, considering the matter.

  There was a long silence as Taylor prayed, Let him go along with this.

  Finally Fujimura said, "That'll be fine."

  By the time they had eaten their continental breakfast, he had finished telling her about the transaction. "A box with all of the relevant documents about the acquisition and the plants involved will be delivered to your office this morning," he said. "For much of the next month you can reach me at the Hotel Bel Air in Los Angeles, where I have other business, although I expect to be flying back and forth between Tokyo and Los Angeles a number of times."

  "I'll give you periodic reports of our progress during the month," she said encouragingly.

  "Good. Now tell me about the Mississippi case."

  Taylor relaxed. Here she was on stronger ground. "The briefs are in. I'll argue the case December tenth in the state supreme court."

  "What do you think of our chances?"

  "On the legal merits, I like our case, but I'll warn you, Mississippi is provincial."

  She didn't have to spell out what she meant. Fujimura was used to discrimination against Japanese companies in the American courts.

  He began looking around to signal the waiter for the check, and she could tell that they had completed his agenda. Yet she had another subject to raise with him. Before doing so, she checked the tables on either side. At one of them four men were engaged in an animated business discussion. At the other was a man who appeared to be in his fifties, with a strikingly beautiful blonde who couldn't be more than twenty-five, Taylor guessed. They were holding hands under the table. Harrison frequently lectured her to be careful what she said in public places, but if she and Fujimura kept their voices down, no one else could hear a thing.

  "I read Alex Glass's article in the New York Times this morning about Sato's visit to the shrine and Masaki's death at the rally," Taylor said. "Can you help me understand what's happening in Japan?"

  He lowered his head and peered at her through those thick glasses. "Your question implies that the two are related, that someone from Sato's crowd was responsible for Masaki's death." He sounded defensive, which didn't surprise her. She was a foreigner asking him about a Japanese internal matter. Though he was sophisticated and spent considerable time in the United States and Europe on business, he still had that clannish allegiance to his island home.

  Treading carefully, she said, "According to the article, the police cannot account for the cause of the fire."

  Fujimura held out his hands. "It's still early in the investigation. Too early to draw any conclusions."

  "Fair enough, but let me ask you this: If Senator Boyd is elected, do you think he will have to deal with Sato as the next Japanese prime minister?"

  Deep furrows appeared on Fujimura's forehead. "I don't know," he said softly, trying to mask his concern. "Our economy has been bad for so long that people are becoming desperate. You're a student of history. You know that desperate people sometimes turn to people with radical solutions. A month ago I would have told you that Sato had no chance."

  "And now?"

  "As you Americans say, it's too close to call."

  * * *

  "We're in big trouble," President Webster said as he tossed the results of the latest Wall Street Journal poll on his desk in disgust. "Jesus, I can't believe we blew that big a lead."

  Seated at his desk in the Oval Office, the president scanned the three men in front of him: Hugh McDermott, the attorney general and the president's campaign manager; Darren Boudreau, the president's political adviser; and Pug Thompson, in charge of special projects.

  In contrast to the scholarly Boudreau, on leave from his job as a political science professor at Georgetown, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, Pug Thompson was a street fighter. That was how he had gotten his nickname, trying to escort a recalcitrant witness out of a congressional hearing room after the chairman ordered the guards to lock the doors. Thompson had decided to punch his way out. Both he and the witness escaped the room, but Thompson suffered a broken nose in the process. It had been poorly set, and it was now the first thing anyone noticed when they looked at him.

  "It's the economy," McDermott said. "But there's no need to panic. The average of the six private polls we ran in the last week shows us down by only two percent, with a margin of error of one to three. Virtually a dead heat. Isn't that right, Darren?"

  Unconvinced, Webster scowled. "What bothers me is the trend. We lost ground last week in practically every part of the country. It definitely wasn't a good week for us."

  "You've still got the advantage. You're the incumbent," McDermott replied calmly. "Let's stick to our game plan. All you have to do, Bill, is continue to act presidential. Just do your job. I promise you that next week the numbers will be different."

  "You're betting I can turn it around in the debate Monday night?"

  McDermott nodded. "I know it. I got a report from someone who attended the dinner last night in Chicago where Boyd spoke. The guy's losing it. He wasn't focused. Something's bothering him. When he gets in front of that national audience at the debate, he'll come off like Nixon in the first Kennedy debate. You mark my words."

  Thompson shook his head in disbelief. These guys were delusional. "I feel like a minority of one, but I think something more radical is required."

  "Like what?" Webster asked.

  Thompson was ready. "Sticking to the issues and acting presidential isn't doing the trick. The economy's killing us, and we're losing ground fast. My proposal is th
at we move away from the issues, and we attack Boyd personally."

  Furious, McDermott shot Thompson a dirty look, but he turned away. "How? For what?" McDermott asked, sounding skeptical and annoyed.

  "We've got two possibilities," he continued. "One, we've got reason to believe that when Boyd's oldest son, Donny, was a student at the University of California, Santa Barbara, he was arrested on a marijuana possession charge after the cops raided a frat-house party. It was all kept quiet. The kid did public-service work, and the misdemeanor conviction was expunged. But we can find witnesses, pay them to come forward, and resurrect it. It would make Boyd look like a fraud with his big campaign promises about a war on drugs and a new crime bill."

  "Great," McDermott said scornfully. "It would also give Boyd's camp every parent in America who's upset about what his child has done, which is almost everyone with kids. Whose side are you on?"

  Pug looked at the president and Boudreau for support, but all he found was an expressionless silence.

  "Number two," he continued, "we begin carefully and systematically leaking information to the press that Boyd, who holds himself up as a great family man, has been having an affair for the last ten years with his adviser, Taylor Ferrari."

  McDermott raised his eyebrows. "Has he?"

  Pug looked at Boudreau, who responded, "We don't know for sure. I told Pug that they're very close."

  "Meaning you don't know at all."

  "They spend so much time together," Pug fired back, "people would believe it."

  McDermott felt the perspiration under his arms beginning to wet his shirt. Jesus, he did not want a public morality issue raised under any circumstances.

  "That is one shitty idea," he said. "Forget it. If we don't have the facts, it'll boomerang. The press will figure out where the rumors came from."

  Pug refused to back off. "We could hire a detective to see if the facts are there."

  "NFW. No fucking way. Who's paying you? Boyd? Stuff like that will only lose votes if it comes out."

  "Good God," Pug said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're holier than the pope."

  Wanting to shift away from an escalating verbal battle, McDermott turned toward the president. "It's your call, Bill," he said. "Personally, I vote for sticking with the current game plan and tabling these ideas for now, but you're the boss."

  The president rolled the issue around in his mind for a moment and wrinkled his nose. "I'm with Hugh on this. No dirty tricks. We'll win this fair and square, or we won't win."

  McDermott wasn't surprised. Twenty years ago, when he was a powerful and savvy Chicago lawyer, well connected in state Republican politics, he took a young legislator, a diamond in the rough, from a small town in downstate Illinois out for a drink. Right from the start, McDermott knew that William Webster was a straight shooter, as well as having the charisma and political instincts to be governor.

  "Can you stick around for a while, Hugh?" the president asked. "I've got a short call to make. Then the two of us need to talk."

  "I'll be happy to. Just let me walk out with Darren and Pug for a minute. I'll be right back."

  From the reception area outside the Oval Office, McDermott led Thompson into a small working room across the hall that was empty. The A.G.'s face was flushed with anger as he kicked the door shut. "Don't you try any crap like that again. I told you, run the ideas past me first."

  "Okay, okay," Pug replied. "I've got the picture."

  "And I'll tell you one other thing: I don't want you or anybody who works for you pulling off any of these schemes or any other stuff like that without approval from me. Is that clear?"

  "I wouldn't consider it, boss," Pug said.

  McDermott moved in close. He stuck out two fingers and shoved them hard against the middle button of Thompson's white shirt. "I have this campaign under control. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, if you follow orders and do things my way, Webster will get reelected and you'll get a good job in the next administration."

  "I'm trying to give us a little insurance."

  "We don't need it, asshole. You go off on your own, like the Lone Ranger, and you're out of the campaign on your ass. Also, I'll see to it that you never work in this town again. You can trust me on that."

  Pug pulled back. "Okay. I got it. By the way, nice suntan you have, boss. Must have gone south for the weekend, eh?"

  McDermott's face grew beet red. He slammed Thompson hard against the wall. "You'd better not be spying on me."

  Though Pug could have knocked McDermott down with a single backhand swipe, he refused to fight back. He had done his damage verbally.

  After pulling himself together, McDermott went back into the Oval Office. The president was still on the phone. "Tell him that I'll meet with the Russian ambassador at ten in the morning," Webster said. "I can't do it this evening." He replaced the phone in its cradle. "Jesus, Hugh, that was Perry in London. The Brits are anxious for me to meet with the Russian ambassador in Washington, the one whose name I can never pronounce, to get some info about Lernov, the new Russian president. But I doubt if he'll know anything. If he did, he wouldn't tell me anyhow."

  "The Lernov thing's got everybody jumpy."

  "What do you think I should do about it?"

  "Not a damn thing until after the election. Except..."

  "Except what?"

  "Get some TV time one evening next week after the debate to make a speech assuring the American people that you're in control."

  "The Democrats will scream that it's political."

  "It is, but so what? Fuck 'em. You're the president. You get the advantages of the incumbent."

  "Good advice. I'll do it. How about sitting in on my meeting with the Russian ambassador tomorrow?"

  "Your distinguished secretary of state doesn't like it when I poach."

  "Don't worry about Tom. I'll tell him I want you there. I feel more comfortable with your advice."

  McDermott glanced at his gold Franck Muller. He knew that the president had a state dinner tonight. "There was something you wanted to talk to me about after the others left?"

  "Oh, yeah," Webster said, remembering where they were before his phone call. "You want a drink?"

  "Why not? It's about that time of the day."

  Just off the Oval Office was a small pantry. McDermott poured scotch over ice in two glasses, added a splash of water, and handed one to Webster.

  "To your new job," Webster said, raising his glass and taking a long sip of the drink.

  McDermott was puzzled. "What new job?"

  "You're going to get your wish. What do you want most in life?"

  "The Supreme Court."

  Webster clinked his glass with a smile. "Not just a seat. You'll be chief justice."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. Gerhard Hall invited himself over this morning for breakfast. He didn't want anybody to know why he was here."

  "He's resigning?"

  "Not yet." His face grew darker. "He was diagnosed with advanced lymphoma. It's unclear how much longer he has."

  "When's he going to resign?" McDermott asked anxiously.

  "March first unless he just can't function before then."

  "That bastard!" McDermott cried out.

  "Yeah, I know. He wants Boyd to make the appointment if he wins. Hall was up-front about that. He knows I'd pick you, and he's not one of your biggest admirers."

  McDermott sipped his drink, finding it tasted bitter. "It's not just me," he said. "He thinks Boyd would appoint some candy-ass liberal. Somebody who's soft on abortion and thinks it's a good idea to keep the criminals on the streets so they can commit more crimes."

  "Well, there's only one way to solve that problem. Isn't there?"

  "Damn right. You get a second term."

  The president finished his drink.

  "You want another?" McDermott asked.

  "I'd better not. It's tuxedo time. If it's Thursday, then it's the king of Sweden, and I've got to pre
side over the usual gathering of penguins and fancy ladies."

  "In Washington they're called women."

  "I know that. But where I come from, they're still ladies, and there's no press around now. Don't worry; I won't let that one slip."

  They both laughed loudly. McDermott rose and started to leave.

  "Listen, Hugh, there is one other thing." The president hesitated. "God, I hate asking you this."

  "Don't worry. Fire away."

  "Let's assume I win, and you get the nomination for chief justice of the Supreme Court. Do you envision any trouble during the confirmation hearings?"

  McDermott was blindsided by the question, but he kept his emotions under control. Don't show a thing, he told himself. You're a good poker player. You know what it's like to keep raising when all you've got is a pair of deuces.

  "What do you mean, trouble?" McDermott asked.

  "Well, you know what's happened with some Supreme Court nominees during the congressional hearings. I just don't want to cause any problems for you."

  "Oh, those kinds of problems," McDermott replied, forcing a natural-sounding laugh from his mouth. "You don't have to worry about me. Personally, I've got nothing to worry about. And politically—"

  The president interrupted. "Politically I don't see a problem. You've been close enough to the middle of the road as attorney general to satisfy a sizable number of Democrats in the Senate."

  "Happily, I'm clean as a whistle."

  Chapter 8

  It all fits together, Cady decided, once again eating a turkey sandwich for lunch at his desk. The evidence against Senator Boyd was clear and convincing. He should convene a grand jury, issue Boyd a subpoena, and see what the senator did.

  But he wasn't ready for that. What was bothering him was that the facts in the documents fit together too neatly. Who was it—he tried to remember, maybe Anatole France—who wrote that the best evidence was perjured evidence because it had no loose ends?

  Taylor had said to him, "A man's running for president. You're about to wreck his life and hand Webster the White House for four more years."

  Maybe she had a point. Doerr was conveniently staying out of the whole business. McDermott had added Pug Thompson to their campaign team, and that guy was capable of anything. McDermott was bad enough by himself.