“Did you buy any of it?” asked Beech.
“Of course not. I couldn’t get near it. And besides, most of the high-tech and online companies are built with funny money. I stay away from them.”
“What do you prefer?” Beech asked quickly, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Value. The long haul. I’m in no hurry. Look, this is a bogus case brought by some boys looking for an easy buck.” He waved toward Rook, who was sinking in his chair. The Whiz sounded perfectly believable and legitimate.
Rook’s case was built on hearsay, speculation, and the corroboration of Picasso, a notorious liar.
“You got any witnesses?” Spicer asked.
“I don’t need any,” the Whiz said, and took his seat.
Each of the three justices scribbled something on a slip of paper. Deliberations were quick, verdicts instantaneous. Yarber and Beech slid theirs to Spicer, who announced, “By a vote of two to one, we find for the defendant. Case dismissed. Who’s next?”
The vote was actually unanimous, but every verdict was officially two to one. That allowed each of the three a little wiggle room if later confronted.
But the Brethren were well regarded around Trumble. Their decisions were quick and as fair as they could make them. In fact, they were remarkably accurate in light of the shaky testimony they often heard. Spicer had presided over small cases for years, in the back of his family’s country store. He could spot a liar at fifty feet. Beech and Yarber had spent their careers in courtrooms, and had no tolerance for lengthy arguments and delays, the usual tactics.
“That’s all today,” T. Karl reported. “End of docket.”
“Very well. Court is adjourned until next week.”
T. Karl jumped to his feet, his curls again vibrating across his shoulders, and declared, “Court’s adjourned. All rise.”
No one stood, no one moved as the Brethren left the room. Rook and his gang were huddled, no doubt planning their next lawsuit. The Whiz left quickly.
The assistant warden and the guard eased away without being seen. The weekly docket was one of the better shows at Trumble.
TWO
THOUGH HE’D SERVED in Congress for fourteen years, Aaron Lake still drove his own car around Washington. He didn’t need or want a chauffeur, or an aide, or a bodyguard. Sometimes an intern would ride with him and take notes, but for the most part Lake enjoyed the tranquillity of sitting in D.C. traffic while listening to classical guitar on the stereo. Many of his friends, especially those who’d achieved the status of a Mr. Chairman or a Mr. Vice Chairman, had larger cars with drivers. Some even had limos.
Not Lake. It was a waste of time and money and privacy. If he ever sought higher office, he certainly didn’t want the baggage of a chauffeur wrapped around his neck. Besides, he enjoyed being alone. His office was a madhouse. He had fifteen people bouncing off the walls, answering phones, opening files, serving the folks back in Arizona who’d sent him to Washington. Two more did nothing but raise money. Three interns managed to further clog his narrow corridors and take up more time than they deserved.
He was single, a widower, with a quaint little townhouse in Georgetown that he was very fond of. He lived quietly, occasionally stepping into the social scene that had attracted him and his late wife in the early years.
He followed the Beltway, the traffic slow and cautious because of a light snow. He was quickly cleared through CIA security at Langley, and was very pleased to see a preferred parking space waiting for him, along with two plainclothes security personnel.
“Mr. Maynard is waiting,” one of them said gravely, opening his car door while the other took his briefcase. Power did have its perks.
Lake had never met with the CIA director at Langley. They’d conferred twice on the Hill, years earlier, back when the poor guy could get around. Teddy Maynard was in a wheelchair and in constant pain, and even senators got themselves driven out to Langley anytime he needed them. He’d called Lake a half–dozen times in fourteen years, but Maynard was a busy man. His light-lifting was usually handled by associates.
Security barriers collapsed all around the congressman as he and his escorts worked their way into the depths of the CIA headquarters. By the time Lake arrived at Mr. Maynard’s suite, he was walking a bit taller, with just a trace of a swagger. He couldn’t help it. Power was intoxicating.
Teddy Maynard had sent for him.
INSIDE THE ROOM, a large, square, windowless place known unofficially as the bunker, the Director was sitting alone, looking blankly at a large screen upon which the face of Congressman Aaron Lake was frozen. It was a recent photo, one taken at a black-tie fund-raiser three months earlier where Lake had half a glass of wine, ate baked chicken, no dessert, drove himself home, alone, and went to bed before eleven. The photo was appealing because Lake was so attractive—light red hair with almost no gray, hair that was not colored or tinted, a full hairline, dark blue eyes, square chin, really nice teeth. He was fifty-three years old and aging superbly. He did thirty minutes a day on a rowing machine and his cholesterol was 160. They hadn’t found a single bad habit. He enjoyed the company of women, especially when it was important to be seen with one. His steady squeeze was a sixty-year-old widow in Bethesda whose late husband had made a fortune as a lobbyist.
Both his parents were dead. His only child was a schoolteacher in Santa Fe. His wife of twenty-nine years had died in 1996 of ovarian cancer. A year later, his thirteen-year-old spaniel died too, and Congressman Aaron Lake of Arizona truly lived alone. He was Catholic, not that that mattered anymore, and he attended Mass at least once a week. Teddy pushed the button and the face disappeared.
Lake was unknown outside the Beltway, primarily because he’d kept his ego in check. If he had aspirations to higher office, they were closely guarded. His name had been mentioned once as a potential candidate for governor of Arizona, but he enjoyed Washington too much. He loved Georgetown—the crowds, the anonymity, the city life—good restaurants and cramped bookstores and espresso bars. He liked theatre and music, and he and his late wife had never missed an event at the Kennedy Center.
On the Hill, Lake was known as a bright and hardworking congressman who was articulate, fiercely honest, and loyal, conscientious to a fault. Because his district was the home of four large defense contractors, he had become an expert on military hardware and readiness. He was Chairman of the House Committee on Armed Services, and it was in that capacity that he had come to know Teddy Maynard.
Teddy pushed the button again, and there was Lake’s face. For a fifty-year veteran of intelligence wars, Teddy seldom had a knot in his stomach. He’d dodged bullets, hidden under bridges, frozen in mountains, poisoned two Czech spies, shot a traitor in Bonn, learned seven languages, fought the cold war, tried to prevent the next one, had more adventures than any ten agents combined, yet looking at the innocent face of Congressman Aaron Lake he felt a knot.
He—the CIA—was about to do something the agency had never done before.
They’d started with a hundred senators, fifty governors, four hundred and thirty-five congressmen, all the likely suspects, and now there was only one. Representative Aaron Lake of Arizona.
Teddy flicked a button and the wall went blank. His legs were covered with a quilt. He wore the same thing every day—a V-necked navy sweater, white shirt, subdued bow tie. He rolled his wheelchair to a spot near the door, and prepared to meet his candidate.
DURING THE EIGHT MINUTES Lake was kept waiting, he was served coffee and offered a pastry, which he declined. He was six feet tall, weighed one-seventy, was fastidious about his appearance, and had he taken the pastry Teddy would’ve been surprised. As far as they could tell, Lake never ate sugar. Never.
His coffee was strong, though, and as he sipped it he reviewed a little research of his own. The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the alarming flow of black market artillery into the Balkans. Lake had two memos, eighty pages of double-spaced data he’d crunched until two in th
e morning. He wasn’t sure why Mr. Maynard wanted him to appear at Langley to discuss such a matter, but he was determined to be prepared.
A soft buzzer sounded, the door opened, and the Director of the CIA rolled out, wrapped in a quilt and looking every day of his seventy-four years. His handshake was firm, though, probably because of the strain of pushing himself around. Lake followed him back into the room, leaving the two college-educated pit bulls to guard the door.
They sat opposite each other, across a very long table that ran to the end of the room where a large white wall served as a screen. After brief preliminaries, Teddy pushed a button and another face appeared. Another button, and the lights grew dim. Lake loved it—push little buttons, high-tech images flash instantly. No doubt the room was wired with enough electronic junk to monitor his pulse from thirty feet.
“Recognize him?” Teddy asked.
“Maybe. I think I’ve seen the face before.”
“He’s Natli Chenkov. A former general. Now a member of what’s left of the Russian parliament.”
“Also known as Natty,” Lake said proudly.
“That’s him. Hard-line Communist, close ties to the military, brilliant mind, huge ego, very ambitious, ruthless, and right now the most dangerous man in the world.”
“Didn’t know that.”
A flick, another face, this one of stone under a gaudy military parade hat. “This is Yuri Goltsin, second in command of what’s left of the Russian army. Chenkov and Goltsin have big plans.” Another flick, a map of a section of Russia north of Moscow. “They’re stockpiling arms in this region,” Teddy said. “They’re actually stealing them from themselves, looting the Russian army, but, and more important, they’re buying them on the black market.”
“Where’s their money coming from?”
“Everywhere. They’re swapping oil for Israeli radar. They’re trafficking in drugs and buying Chinese tanks through Pakistan. Chenkov has close ties with some mobsters, one of whom recently bought a factory in Malaysia where they make nothing but assault rifles. It’s very elaborate. Chenkov has a brain, a very high IQ. He’s probably a genius.”
Teddy Maynard was a genius, and if he bestowed that title on another, then Congressman Lake certainly believed it. “So who gets attacked?”
Teddy dismissed the question because he wasn’t ready to answer it. “See the town of Vologda? It’s about five hundred miles east of Moscow. Last week we tracked sixty Vetrov to a warehouse there. As you know, the Vetrov—”
“Is equivalent to our Tomahawk Cruise, but two feet longer.”
“Exactly. That makes three hundred they’ve moved in during the last ninety days. See the town of Rybinsk, just southwest of Vologda?”
“Known for its plutonium.”
“Yes, tons of it. Enough to make ten thousand nuclear warheads. Chenkov and Goltsin and their people control the entire area.”
“Control?”
“Yes, through a web of regional mobsters and local army units. Chenkov has his people in place.”
“In place for what?”
Teddy squeezed a button and the wall was blank. But the lights stayed dim, so that when he spoke across the table he did so almost from the shadows. “The coup is right around the corner, Mr. Lake. Our worst fears are coming true. Every aspect of Russian society and culture is cracking and crumbling. Democracy is a joke. Capitalism is a nightmare. We thought we could McDonaldize the damned place, and it’s been a disaster. Workers are not getting paid, and they’re the lucky ones because they have jobs. Twenty percent do not. Children are dying because there are no medicines. So are many adults. Ten percent of the population are homeless. Twenty percent are hungry. Each day things get worse. The country has been looted by the mobsters. We think at least five hundred billion dollars has been stolen and taken out of the country. There’s no relief in sight. The time is perfect for a new strongman, a new dictator who’ll promise to lead the people back to stability. The country is crying for leadership, and Mr. Chenkov has decided it’s up to him.”
“And he has the army.”
“He has the army, and that’s all it takes. The coup will be bloodless because the people are ready for it. They’ll embrace Chenkov. He’ll lead the parade into Red Square and dare us, the United States, to stand in his way. We’ll be the bad guys again.”
“So the cold war is back,” Lake said, his words fading at the end.
“There’ll be nothing cold about it. Chenkov wants to expand, to recapture the old Soviet Union. He desperately needs cash, so he’ll simply take it in the form of land, factories, oil, crops. He’ll start little regional wars, which he’ll easily win.” Another map appeared. Phase One of the new world order was presented to Lake. Teddy didn’t miss a word. “I suspect he’ll roll through the Baltic States, toppling governments in Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, etc. Then he’ll go to the old Eastern bloc and strike a deal with some of the Communists there.”
The congressman was speechless as he watched Russia expand. Teddy’s predictions were so certain, so precise.
“What about the Chinese?” Lake asked.
But Teddy wasn’t finished with Eastern Europe. He flicked; the map changed. “Here’s where we get sucked in.”
“Poland?”
“Yep. Happens every time. Poland is now a member of NATO, for some damned reason. Imagine that. Poland signing on to help protect us and Europe. Chenkov solidifies Russia’s old turf, and casts a longing eye westward. Same as Hitler, except he was looking to the east.”
“Why would he want Poland?”
“Why did Hitler want Poland? It was between him and Russia. He hated the Poles, and he was ready to start a war. Chenkov doesn’t give a damn about Poland, he just wants to control it. And he wants to destroy NATO.”
“He’s willing to risk a third world war?”
Buttons were pushed; the screen became a wall again; lights came on. The audiovisuals were over and it was time for an even more serious conversation. Pain shot through Teddy’s legs, and he couldn’t keep from frowning.
“I can’t answer that,” he said. “We know a lot, but we don’t know what the man’s thinking. He’s moving very quietly, putting people in place, setting things up. It’s not completely unexpected, you know.”
“Of course not. We’ve had these scenarios for the last eight years, but there’s always been hope that it wouldn’t happen.”
“It’s happening, Congressman. Chenkov and Goltsin are eliminating their opponents as we speak.”
“What’s the timetable?”
Teddy shifted again under the quilt, tried another position to stop the pain. “It’s difficult to say. If he’s smart, which he certainly is, he’ll wait until there’s rioting in the streets. I think that a year from now Natty Chenkov will be the most famous man in the world.”
“A year,” Lake said to himself, as if he’d just been given his own death sentence.
There was a long pause as he contemplated the end of the world. Teddy certainly let him. The knot in Teddy’s stomach was significantly smaller now. He liked Lake a lot. He was indeed very handsome, and articulate, and smart. They’d made the right choice.
He was electable.
AFTER A ROUND of coffee and a phone call Teddy had to take—it was the Vice President—they reconvened their little conference and moved forward. The congressman was pleased that Teddy had so much time for him. The Russians were coming, yet Teddy seemed so calm.
“I don’t have to tell you how unprepared our military is,” he said gravely.
“Unprepared for what? For war?”
“Perhaps. If we are unprepared, then we could well have a war. If we are strong, we avoid war. Right now the Pentagon could not do what it did in the Gulf War in 1991.”
“We’re at seventy percent,” Lake said with authority. This was his turf.
“Seventy percent will get us a war, Mr. Lake. A war we cannot win. Chenkov is spending every dime he can steal on new hardware. We’re cutting budge
ts and depleting our military. We want to push buttons and launch smart bombs so that no American blood is shed. Chenkov will have two million hungry soldiers, anxious to fight and die if necessary.”
For a brief moment Lake felt proud. He’d had the guts to vote against the last budget deal because it decreased military spending. The folks back home were upset about it. “Can’t you expose Chenkov now?” he asked.
“No. Absolutely not. We have excellent intelligence. If we react to him, then he’ll know that we know. It’s the spy game, Mr. Lake. It’s too early to make him a monster.”
“So what’s your plan?” Lake asked boldly. It was quite presumptuous to ask Teddy about his plans. The meeting had accomplished its purpose. One more congressman had been sufficiently briefed. At any moment Lake could be asked to leave so that another committee chairman of some variety could be shown in.
But Teddy had big plans, and he was anxious to share them. “The New Hampshire primary is two weeks away. We have four Republicans and three Democrats all saying the same thing. Not a single candidate wants to increase defense spending. We have a budget surplus, miracle of all miracles, and everyone has a hundred ideas about how to spend it. A bunch of imbeciles. Just a few years ago we had huge budget deficits, and Congress spent money faster than it could be printed. Now there’s a surplus. They’re gorging themselves on the pork.”
Congressman Lake looked away for a second, then decided to let it pass.
“Sorry about that,” Teddy said, catching himself. “Congress as a whole is irresponsible, but we have many fine congressmen.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Anyway, the field is crowded with a bunch of clones. Two weeks ago we had different front-runners. They’re slinging mud and knifing each other, all for the benefit of the country’s forty-fourth largest state. It’s silly.” Teddy paused and grimaced and tried to reshift his useless legs. “We need someone new, Mr. Lake, and we think that someone is you.”
Lake’s first reaction was to suppress a laugh, which he did by smiling, then coughing. He tried to compose himself, and said, “You must be kidding.”
John Grisham Page 2
