PRECIPICE

by Leland Davis

  Sutherland was taken aback by Harris’ obvious respect for the young river rat. He’d hired the kid after hearing that he was one of the best trainers, but also that he was one of the best at creating crashes for the men to sort out. He’d no idea that the young man’s skills and experience went far beyond guiding rafts in West Virginia. Still, adventuring on foreign rivers was not the same as running a covert black op in a friendly country.

  “Do you think he would do it? And do you think we can trust him?”

  “I think we should at least run the idea by him without any specifics on the mission. Pay him as a consultant like the rest of us. We can get his read on the situation by showing him the imagery and asking if it’s possible. He doesn’t need to know where the images are from or what we’re hoping to accomplish there. If he thinks he can do it, we’ll reassess. If we decide to bring him on board, we’ll explain the mission and the risks, explain his role, and see if he wants to come along.”

  Starting with a feasibility consult was much more to Sutherland’s liking. “Do you think you can approach him and simply ask if it’s possible?”

  “From the way he talked, I think you’re going to have a hard time convincing him not to ask questions or do his own research after dangling pictures of this river in front of him. He lives for shit like that.”

  The corners of Sutherland’s mouth turned up slightly in amusement. He’s not the only one, he thought to himself. He’d spent a career trying to manage enthusiastic operators, and one of the best he’d ever worked with was in the room with him right now. If Chip’s enthusiasm for this mission was half that of Harris’, the hard part would not be convincing him to go; it would be assuring that he showed proper restraint and kept his mouth shut. Still, the fact that Harris had so much faith in the kid after only spending four days with him spoke volumes.

  “So I’ll show him the imagery and ask his opinion on whether it can be done,” Harris summarized.

  “Mind if I come along?” Sutherland’s wheels were already turning, seeking ideas for how he would keep a lid on the increasingly complex operation. He wasn’t ready to leave two highly enthusiastic operators—one of whom he really didn’t know—on their own while discussing something this delicate. “Why don’t you give him a call and see if we can stop by next week when he’s not working.”

  Harris cringed internally. While Sutherland was an excellent coordinator and thinker, his place was behind the scenes, not in the field. He tended to worry about secrecy to the point that he talked around the issue—probably an old CIA habit. His presence would make getting the info they needed at the meeting more difficult, but it was no surprise that Sutherland was going to micro-manage the first mission where he was solely in command. There was nothing Harris could do about it, though. Export Logistics was Sutherland’s brainchild. He was clearly in charge and was also their only connection to the intelligence.

  “OK. What do you want me to do until then?”

  “Get some rest, family time. If this thing is a ‘go,’ you could be getting pretty busy soon.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when we have a time set for the meeting next week.”

  “Thanks, Blake.” Sutherland sat forward, his chair creaking again, and reached across the desk to shake Harris’ wide hand. As Harris headed for the door, Sutherland turned his monitor back towards himself with one hand while he rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand and then replaced his glasses. This was probably going to get far more complicated than they had hoped, he thought. But it always seemed to. He sighed and picked up the file he had been reading earlier, his face pinching as his eyes strained at the small type.

  *

  Moore climbed steadily up a half-pyramid shaped staircase which butted up to the grey granite base of the building, headed for a portal that broke into the white marble façade above. He could never figure out this city’s fascination with stairs. Almost every building had an elaborate set of them. It couldn’t be to raise them above a flood zone; this building was only one hundred sixty yards from the Capitol, which sat atop Capitol Hill—on high enough ground that the swollen waters of the Potomac River could never reach it. It was as if the architects had been playing out some perverse agenda to make men of power step to their tune, climbing the stairs sometimes several times in a day. Because so many government buildings were graced with such stairs, work days could be strenuous for lawmakers in DC.

  Sheldon breathed steadily as he climbed. It had gotten easier in the five years since he’d become a regular at the Senate Staff Health and Fitness Facility, which was conveniently located right here in the Russell building with his office. Although few knew it, American taxpayers had spared no expense in revamping the facility less than a decade ago. The result was an exclusive, senators-only retreat right here on the hill, part health club, part spa. As many deals were made in its steam rooms and saunas as in all of the committee rooms combined. He would walk back downstairs to the first floor and do some work on the stationary bike this afternoon, after his expected 4 o’clock call from his daughter. Her calls kept him motivated to hit the gym, and she knew it; she always called with enough time left in the day for him to work out after she prodded him.

  Moore made his way into the building and was grateful that he wouldn’t have to ride the elevator to reach his suite. Although his office was on the third floor, so was the entrance on this side of the building due to the slope of Capitol Hill—and those infernal stairs. Avoiding the elevator also meant there was less chance of being cornered by a lobbyist or one of his colleagues. One inescapable truth about being a US senator was that everyone wanted something from you. Most senators thrived on this attention, but Sheldon preferred to be left alone if he could manage to avoid contact. He was already starting to fantasize about no longer being in the Senate now that a way out had presented itself.

  He trudged down the hall and found the door to his suite, then forged in and called an affectedly cheery “good mornin’” to his receptionist, Candace. The mousy little brunette was a sweetheart, although Moore found it sad that she had come from Montgomery to Washington looking for a career in politics and ended up answering telephones and making coffee. Such was the nature of this town, he admitted to himself ruefully: sweethearts seldom made it far.

  He strode determinedly across the room, taking a wad of message slips that Candace handed him on the way by. He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around voicemail, so most of his messages were delivered the old fashioned way. He opened the heavy wooden door leading into his office. Ortiz was sitting in front of Moore’s desk, the tapping of his thumbs on the keys of his Blackberry rising to a frantic pace when he heard his boss enter. The stuffy office was still decorated in the same sparse, military manner as it had been during Moore’s father’s time: flags, medals, old pictures of the Colonel with his army buddies, pictures with presidents. The only concessions to the new occupant were a few pictures of Sheldon’s wife and daughter, as well as a couple of hunting photos that hung in an out-of-the-way corner. Moore settled resignedly into a leather chair that consumed even his massive frame and was again overcome by the feeling that he was a little boy sitting at his father’s oversized wooden desk. He had been thinking of redecorating for two decades now, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to wipe away this last remaining sanctuary of his father’s memory. He would probably only have to spend another fifteen months in here, anyway.

  Ortiz finished typing, dropped the phone into his pocket, and looked up. “Welcome home. You get anything?”

  “Three Sundy mornin’, and two more in the afternoon,” Moore drawled, putting the emphasis on after instead of on noon. “It’s haaard huntin’ with only one gun in the field. Woulda got at least one more if you hadn’t called, though,” he said, looking pointedly at Ortiz.

  “Sorry I interrupted your bird murders, but do you want the money or no?” Ortiz was irritated by his boss’ lackadaisical approach to the lucrative d
eal he had arranged. This senator had no respect for his own power, and Ortiz was continually frustrated by his squandered opportunities for increased influence. In truth, Ortiz thought Moore was an idiot. But this idiot was his current meal ticket, and he’d come a long way since signing on as his aide. Brought on four years ago in hopes that his insight would bring votes from Alabama’s burgeoning Hispanic population, Ortiz had risen quickly through the ranks. As Chief of Staff he was now essentially performing most of Moore’s duties for him besides voting in the Senate chamber, shaking hands, and kissing babies.

  “All right, all right, I want it. How much are we gettin’?” Moore grumped.

  “I told him we need six million. Héctor says they’re only offering five, but I told him there was no way you would go against your party for less than six.”

  “You think he’ll do it?”

  “Héctor said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  Moore grunted. “And you get a million bucks of it?”

  “I deserve it. Without me and my cousin, there’s no deal.”

  The senator begrudgingly acquiesced.

  “First you push it through the transportation committee,” Ortiz went on. “It should get through the House, no problem.” Ortiz didn’t tell Moore that the House Transportation Committee Chairman’s campaign fund was also being paid a total of one million dollars in various small donations to make sure the bill cleared.

  “And you’re sure this trucker guy—Cardenas?—is good for the money?” Moore was still having trouble believing that a Mexican transport magnate could shell out that kind of cash.

  “When it clears your committee, he’ll put two million in the offshore account that I set up for you. Once the bill passes, he’ll wire the rest. If the bill doesn’t pass, you keep the two million as long as you get it through the transportation committee. But it’s gonna pass,” Ortiz said reassuringly. He was sick of pandering to this man, but it was almost over. He would pocket his cut of the money and be on to bigger and better things after the senator was gone. And Moore would definitely be gone if he voted against his party on this one. Maybe Ortiz would even run for congress himself. With his connections, he could probably make a lot of money as a legislator. The million he would get from Moore plus the million that Héctor had already arranged for him would be good seed money for a campaign. He had no problem playing both sides on this one, and nobody would be the wiser.

  “OK, as long as yer sure he’s good for it, I’ll vote,” Moore rumbled with an air of finality. “What else is on my list for today?” He was ready to move on, committed to his course of action and trusting that Ortiz would handle it. The less Sheldon had to think about it, the better. He’d kept his nose completely clean the entire time he’d been in the Senate; there were no improprieties, no secret trysts, no stained dresses in his closet. He felt like he deserved to walk out of here with something to show after twenty-four years of faithful service, but he also didn’t want to dwell on his first—and hopefully only—iniquity.

  “You have a Homeland Security meeting at eleven that you really should make an appearance at. And at two there’s that sixth grade class from Mobile coming by on their Washington field trip. You remember—Paul Jenkins’ daughter is in the class, and he asked if you would talk to them for a few minutes about what you do as a senator.” Jenkins was a reliable and significant campaign donor as well as a respected pillar of the Mobile social elite, so it was more of a command than a request.

  Sheldon groaned and wondered if 9:15 was too early for a drink. His cardiologist had told him that two drinks a day were beneficial, and in the southern tradition he’d assumed that if two was good, four was better. So having six on some days would probably not kill him. This might be one of those days, especially since his head was already hurting from having a few too many at the Sky Club in the Atlanta airport last night. His plane had been delayed for maintenance about four bourbons worth, and his departure gate had been changed three times while he waited. Screw Delta.

  A timid knock sounded at the door, and Moore called out that it was OK to come in.

  Candace scurried in, her extended arm carefully holding up a brim-full, steaming mug of coffee so as not to spill it. She placed the mug next to her boss and smiled. “It looked like you needed one.”

  Coffee was a better idea than whiskey, Moore admitted to himself. He picked up the mug and gingerly sipped the scalding, mud-colored brew. He couldn’t take it without cream and sugar, but the skim milk Candace put in there tasted like shit. His doctor insisted that skim milk was all he was allowed. He considered walking the five steps to his credenza to add a splash of Basil Hayden’s to it, but Candace’s squeaky voice was already chirping, giving highlights from the stack of message slips which Moore had not yet read. Putting fine whiskey in coffee with skim milk would be a crime, anyway. He blew gently on the coffee then sipped it again, sat back, and rubbed a hand wearily over the peak of his bald scalp, resigned to another long and tiring day in the halls of power.

  *

  Samantha rolled over, momentarily disoriented, and tried to figure out where she was. The smell of dirty laundry, spilled beer, and cologne made her stomach churn. She was in Brett’s room in the fraternity house, she remembered. She moved her raspy tongue around in her mouth, trying to work up a bit of moisture. As she lifted herself up, a sharp pain that seemed to originate from the backs of her eyeballs shot through her head. She turned to sit on the edge of the bed, dropping her bare feet to the floor with twin thuds. She rested her throbbing forehead in her hands, shielding her eyes from the sunlight streaming in through the thin curtains. Brett groaned and rolled over on the bottom bunk behind her, reaching out to put a hand clumsily on her back. She winced as another wave of stench wafted from the twenty empty beer cans arrayed on the coffee table in front of her next to an empty Rumpleminze schnapps bottle, an empty baggie frosted with white dust, and two rolled up twenty-dollar-bills. This wasn’t her.

  She looked at the clock: 12:27. She could still make it to her 2:15 class. She’d have to hurry for the call, though. She stood up and wobbled for a moment before catching her balance. She was wearing only one of Brett’s fraternity t-shirts, which hung down to the middle of her slender thighs. She rooted around in the rubble on the floor and found her jeans, pulled them over her thin, bare legs, and stuffed the bottom of the oversized t-shirt into the top of her pants to take up some of the bagginess. She went through her checklist. iPhone and keys were still in her pocket. She had no idea where her underwear and shirt had gone—she’d worry about them later. She bent to fetch her sandals, which she could see under the edge of the glass-topped coffee table, and the lightheadedness from bending over combined with another wave of beer-can-stench to make her gag. She took a moment and braced her hand on the table, shaking, then impulsively grabbed the two rolled twenties and stuffed them into her pocket as she slowly stood back up.

  “Where you goin? Come back to bed,” Brett moaned from the shaded cavern of the bottom bunk.

  “I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a 2:15. And I have to call my dad at one. It’s Tuesday.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Daddy’s little girl. Call me when you get outta class. Stuart’s coming by later…” he left it open ended, an invitation.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, I have to study,” she deferred, momentarily ashamed to even be here.

  He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head.

  Samantha headed for the door and stopped cold when she saw her image in the mirror tacked to the inside. Her long, thin, blonde hair was a rat’s nest of tangles sticking out in all directions. Her skin was pasty, and the black pits under her eyes made her look like a zombie. The baggy t-shirt ballooned out above the top of her jeans, obscuring her shapely figure. She thought she looked like a shabby homeless person. She ran her fingers through her hair, wincing as she pulled out the tangles and smoothed it against her pounding head. Why did she even hang out with Brett? She didn’t belong here. She stepped into the
hall and slammed the door behind her a little bit harder than necessary to get his attention. This was all his fault. This wasn’t her.

  Outside, she kept her head down as she made her way across campus. Fucking California sun never quits in fall, she thought. It was eighty-seven degrees out still. What was wrong with this place? It wasn’t this hot in DC in October. She missed the crisp mornings and fall colors. That was about all she missed, though. She’d chosen Stanford because it was as far from DC as she could get while still meeting her mother’s Ivy League standards. She was especially happy to escape the DC culture and her place in it as ‘the senator’s daughter.’

  She ducked into the campus grocery to buy a Cherry Coke to settle her stomach, grateful for the moment of reprieve in the air conditioning. Feeling a little better, she sipped her Coke on the five-minute walk to the arched portal into the courtyard of her dorm. Her footsteps echoed loudly in her head, and she was acutely aware of the raspy sound of her own breathing. She felt like she was walking beside herself. She made her way across the courtyard, skirted the fountain, and entered a vaulted lobby that felt more like it belonged in a church than a dormitory.

  Back in her room with thirteen minutes to spare, Sam splashed some cold water on her face. There wasn’t time for a shower. Her suitemate was nowhere to be found, which was a relief. She was embarrassed enough that she’d had to walk across campus looking like this, embarrassed by what she had done last night. Little miss perfect would never understand. She pulled off Brett’s t-shirt and her jeans and threw them in the hamper, pulling on some pajama bottoms and her own clean tank top. She could still smell alcohol sweating through her clammy skin, but at least she didn’t feel quite as dirty. She collected her thoughts as she slumped onto her bed and finished the last of the cherry Coke, wishing she could simply will away the headache for a few minutes while they talked. She’d have to fake it, but that was her specialty.