Schuman sipped from his cup and narrowed his eyes. “There was a time when I wouldn’t have even considered such a request.” He sighed and pushed his latte away.
Angela smiled softly. “There was a time when no one would have believed it possible that a Jewish American could be elected President. You are polling strong Abe—a double-digit lead over President Taylor. But the election is still many months away. Don’t take anything for granted. You can never have too many backers.”
He stared back at his Chief of Staff, his lips pursed and turned down.
“Besides,” Meyers continued, “once you get elected, you can do whatever you want. No one remembers campaign promises.”
The Presidential election was almost seven months away, and yet Abraham Schuman was the name people were talking about. President Taylor had served well during his first term, and if Schuman had not been so popular, Taylor would have been assured re-election.
Abraham Schuman seemed to be the right candidate at the right time. As Speaker, he remained enormously popular, working to reverse past bickering between his colleagues on both sides of the aisle. He had shepherded a new era of compromise and common sense governance, something the voters had been craving. Plus, it didn’t hurt that Schuman had the backing of the American Israeli Lobby.
The son of Orthodox Jewish parents, Abe did not follow the strict religious practice, although he had visited the Holy Land as a young man. Schuman was the ultimate success story—his parents having emigrated from Europe in the late 40s. His grandparents on his mother’s side, and many extended relatives, were murdered by the Nazis. He often told the story of his losses, his struggles, and finally of his achievements during fundraising events and on the campaign trail. It was a popular tale that never seemed to grow old.
“Fine, I’ll play along. What do I get in return?”
“I threw out a number: five million. She agreed.”
Schuman snorted. “Next time, ask for ten. Speaking of money, how are we doing?”
Meyers carried no notes with her, preferring to work from a near-photographic memory. “Very solid. Your super PAC is pulling in large donations from corporate America and wealthy individuals, and the grassroots fundraising seems to be resonating with blue-collar workers and young voters.”
Abe nodded. “Good.”
“Remember, this evening you are speaking at a dinner at the Hay-Adams Hotel. I’ll make certain Regina has the final copy of your speech on your desk by noon.”
“I still don’t get why you picked the Hay-Adams. It’s so small. You should have booked the Mandarin Oriental.”
“Relax—and trust me. This is about image, and the Hay-Adams is as close to the White House as anyone will get short of being elected. Besides, we sold tickets to enough high-rollers to clear three million. Plus, with the auction of your memorabilia following dinner, we stand to pull in another two to three million.”
Abe smiled. “What would I do without you, Angela?”
“That’s right. Just remember that when you’re elected President. A cabinet position will suit me fine.”
“Secretary of State?”
Angela smiled.
Chapter 13
Washington, D.C.
April 19
He had attended too many fundraising dinners to remember. But what Abe Schuman did recall was that the food was always lackluster. The menu never showed any imagination or originality—chicken, fish, maybe a beef cut of some sort. The quality was subpar, even at five-star venues. If you were lucky, at least it was warm. His basic rule was to eat all the salad and add lots of salt and pepper to the main course.
Tonight, at least the wine was decent.
Abe started with a martini, and then a couple glasses of a full red, a merlot from the Napa Valley. Just enough to loosen him up a bit. Then his speech.
Like the menu, he delivered the usual fare—he could pretty much recite it from memory. But his staff liked to mix it up a bit, knowing the media was always watching and listening. If the message became stale, reporters would focus on that and not the substance.
He found his tempo quickly, and soon the showman part of his personality took over. Abe knew when to pause for applause, when to slap his fist on the podium to underscore his hawkish views on the Middle East. All the while proclaiming he, and he alone, could restore America to its former glory.
He pledged to build up the military, reduce the budget for social programs, and create many new blue-collar jobs.
Abe Schuman cited his years of service in the House of Representatives and his current role as Speaker as ample evidence of his leadership abilities. And he proudly named several pieces of legislation that he shepherded through the House with support from both sides of the aisle. By the time he reminded the audience that it was he who authored the resolution condemning Iran for the senseless bombings in Manhattan, and it was he who spearheaded the appropriations bill for more military aid to Israel, his donors were responding with thunderous applause. And when he pledged to override President Taylor’s veto of the Israeli Security Act, the audience signaled its approval with a standing ovation.
By the time Schuman finished his speech, everyone in the room—all the billionaires and captains of industry—knew that Abraham Schuman was their man to be the next President of the United States. Of course, they already knew that before the speech, which is why they had donated heavily to his campaign.
The only part of these fundraisers that Schuman really liked was the informal mixer after his speech. This was the time when alcohol flowed freely and he could speak one-on-one with various key supporters.
Which is why he was presently speaking with Claude Duss, CEO and principle shareholder of United Armaments.
“I trust you are finding my support… adequate?” Duss seemed to search for the correct word. He spoke with a mild French accent, something he had not been able to shed despite years of living in California. He was dressed in a classic black tuxedo with black tie. Abe knew him to be about 60 years old, and he was remarkably fit, both physically and mentally. He was thin, but not overly so, and had short black hair and a beak-like nose. His wife, a woman 20 years his junior, with blond hair and a tight evening gown, was hanging off his arm.
Abe smiled and raised his wine glass in a mock salute to Duss. “My super PAC appreciates your generous donations. My staff informs me we are well ahead of President Taylor in the total amount of funds raised to date. Thanks to substantial donations such as yours, the super PAC is flooding the networks with ads in the states holding upcoming primaries. Of course, this is only what I am told by my staff. Naturally, I have no direct dealings with the super PAC—that would be illegal.”
Duss dipped his head. He would never verbally acknowledge gratitude. His peers—CEOs of blue chip American companies—universally saw Duss as ruthless. Unwilling to accept a good deal, he had to have the best deal, looking to get the last nickel on the table during a negotiation. Winning did not seem to be important to Claude Duss; destroying his opponent was everything.
The son of French parents, he had grown United Armaments from a small manufacturer of light weapons and guidance systems to the dominant defense contractor in the world through acquisitions and behind the scenes deals—payoffs and bribes that resulted in lucrative sales to many African and Asian countries. Along the way, he gained control of the Board of Directors and ensured that his stock holdings remained undiluted as new shares were sold.
By conservative estimates, he was worth about five hundred million on paper. Others pegged his net worth well north of two billion. Either way, what he was spending on Schuman’s campaign was peanuts.
But money wasn’t the only contribution from Duss and United Armaments.
“I was actually referring to our other business concerns,” Duss said.
Schuman glanced at a party of five nearby. They appeared to be engaged in conversation, but one could never be too cautious.
“Shall we take a short walk?”
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Again Duss nodded, his wife following in obedient silence.
Once they were clear of potential eavesdroppers, Abe continued. “My chief of staff is in charge of the affair, as I’m sure you know. She and one of your executives—Mr. Ellison, I think—are in regular contact.”
“Yes, I am aware of the measures you’ve taken to insulate yourself—”
Schuman interrupted. “As well as you.”
Duss smiled. It reminded Abe of a snake. “Naturally. A wise move.”
“If you are asking about my position vis-à-vis Israel, I’ve tried to be very clear. This has been a cornerstone of my campaign, and one that seems to resonate well with the voters. As you know, I led the Republican effort to nullify the nuclear treaty the present administration negotiated with Iran.”
“As I recall, your leadership failed.”
Abe sighed. “The math is quite simple. There were too many Democrats supporting the President’s agenda. It was not possible to pass the legislation. However, public opinion has turned against the President. The street bombings in New York a couple months ago have been attributed to terrorists sponsored by Iran. Combined with Taylor’s anemic support for Israel, we have a vastly different political climate than what existed when he returned billions of dollars in hard currency to Iran and negotiated away Israel’s security.”
“I’m not interested in excuses. I have made a significant investment in you—and like all my investments, I expect a generous return. So far, your efforts to pass legislation favorable to my interests have been, at best, neutral—neither positive nor negative. You must do better.”
Schuman glanced over his shoulder, ensuring no eavesdroppers were close by. “There are other ways to achieve our mutual goals—perhaps even better ways.”
“Yes.” Duss smiled again, and Abe fought back a shiver. “Mr. Schuman—Abraham—the United States and its allies appear to be locked in an intractable ongoing state of regional conflict in the Middle East. Recently, the Russians have decided to jump in as well. Many people see these events as awful, barbaric, filled with human suffering and loss, a failure of diplomacy and humanity. But in every failure there is opportunity. You understand, don’t you?”
“Claude, my family has deep connections to the Jewish State. My grandparents suffered at the hands of the Nazis because of their faith. I have given my word to support Israel through what we all expect will be trying times ahead.
“Turmoil in the Middle East is as constant as the passage of time. Regime change has led to political vacuums. Governments are toppling at an alarming rate, and ideological leaders are replacing presidents and kings.
“The Middle East is, historically, a collection of tribes and religious subgroups of Islam. Sectarian movements overlay state borders, creating further unrest and mixed allegiances. If you ask me, the English and French really messed it up when they redrew national borders in that part of the world following the First World War.”
At the mention of France, Duss returned an icy glare at Abe.
“There’s only one way to fix that mess,” Schuman concluded.
Duss nodded to his wife, and she slipped away in search of a glass of Champaign.
“I imagine you are referring to the vote to override the Presidential veto. I understand this legislation is significant, more than just an appropriations bill.”
Schuman nodded. “Indeed. It is the essential first step in my plan to bring stability to the region and ensure Israel, as a nation, can thrive.”
“I see,” replied Duss. “And President Taylor appears to be anti-Jewish by vetoing the bill, even though the language you drafted is untested.”
“Not only anti-Jewish,” Schuman explained, “but weak, pursuing foreign policy that is not supported at home.”
“Some might view your bill as usurping Constitutional authority from the Executive Branch.”
“Perhaps,” Schuman answered with a sly grin. “But that’s beside the point. The voting public is not educated in Constitutional law. No, this is politics—it’s about persuading enough voters to support my position, and my candidacy. That wind of support is blowing strongly in my favor, and it will propel me to the White House this November. I promised you an override of Taylor’s veto—and you’ll get it.”
“So then we understand each other.” Duss leaned in close enough to smell the sour taint on Schuman’s breath. “I will not be disappointed.”
Abe felt his mouth go dry, and he gulped the remainder of his wine. “The votes are lining up. Soon, I will bring the matter before the House.”
“Good, because I suspect you know what happens otherwise,” Duss replied.
Silence hung heavy as Schuman tried to read Duss, an impossible task. “There’s much at play here,” Schuman said. “Has Ellison kept you informed?”
Duss remained impassive other than a raised eyebrow, his eyes stygian black voids.
With a dramatic sigh, Schuman said, “Look, we have to be careful; discretion is of the utmost importance. That’s why my Chief of Staff is liaising with Cliff Ellison, creating a buffer to insulate the two of us. You do understand the big picture?”
“I think you are getting to the point. Please. Continue.”
Abe’s eyes shifted right and left, ensuring they were well away from curious ears. “Prime Minister Feldman and I share a common interest.”
“Pray tell.”
Abe answered unapologetically. “The map of the Middle East must be permanently altered to ensure future peace and sustainability.”
“Tell me,” Duss said, “do you think the American public will support a full-scale war?”
“We’ve been in a near-constant state of war since Bush was in office. So what’s new? Taylor’s popularity has been slipping steadily since he pulled support for the Israeli Security Act. And did you hear the political pundits from both sides skewer him the day after his veto? Americans just don’t agree with lifting the sanctions on Iran and essentially giving the Ayatollahs a green light to develop or acquire a bomb.”
Impassively, Duss glared back at Schuman.
He nudged Duss toward a deserted corner. “Trust me. The pieces are falling into place. Once I’m elected, my first official action will be to correct decades of failed foreign policy.”
This time, when Claude Duss smiled, it was genuine. “That will be good for business.”
“So I trust I may count on your continued support?”
Duss extended his hand. “Of course. Cliff Ellison will keep me informed of his conversations with Ms. Meyers. Now, I should find my wife. One so beautiful should not be left alone for long.”
After he’d crossed the room, Duss switched off the micro recorder in his jacket pocket.
Chapter 14
Bend, Oregon
April 19
What Peter needed most was time. He’d taken Kate to his home above EJ Enterprises last night following the incident with the FBI agent. They made small talk while Peter prepared a light meal—microwaved soup-in-a-can, cheese, and carrot sticks. She picked at her meal, finally pushing it aside. “I’m scared. Maybe I should go to the police.”
“They can’t protect you, Kate. We don’t even know who is behind this. There could be informants within the Police Department.”
She stared back, exhaustion and fear etched on her face. Peter showed Kate to the guest suite down the hallway from the kitchen, and then excused himself, bidding her goodnight.
Making sure Kate’s door was shut, Peter then opened the hidden door built into the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the great room. He unlocked the gun safe and retrieved a Remington 12-gauge riot gun with one hand and a box loose-filled with 00 buckshot shells with the other. He was working his jaw as he stuffed shells into the tubular magazine. When it was full, he jacked one into the chamber and then pushed in a replacement. His anger was simmering, threatening to boil over. He needed to control his emotions.
Think. His home was on the second and third floors above EJ Enter
prises, which meant that a forced entry was, for practical reasons, most likely limited to the front door or the door connecting to the staircase that led down to his business. Fortunately, both doorways joined to the great room. “Well Diesel, this is where we make our stand,” he said to his ever-present companion.
Peter nudged one of the stuffed chairs in front of the fireplace, turning it so he could easily watch both doors. Then, resting the shotgun against the chair, he laid a fire in the hearth. There was enough seasoned wood stacked next to the fireplace to last all night. Next, he lit several survival candles and placed them at the corners of the room. The candles would burn for 10 to 12 hours and, combined with the firelight, would illuminate even the darkest recesses of the great room should the power be lost—or deliberately cut.
Peter had only met Kate Simpson on two occasions. Yet strangely he felt a connection to her, and the experience was foreign—forgotten. Was it only that they had both shared a tragic loss, or something more? Focus. Don’t go there—not now.
“Well Diesel, looks like we have a job.” Peter placed a couple of large logs on the growing fire and then relaxed into the soft chair. With the shotgun across his lap, he kept running the facts over and over in his mind. He felt himself moving over the edge, into a familiar space where everything was black and white, good and evil. He shuddered to recall some of the violent deeds he’d carried out when in this mental state—when forced to devolve from civilized behavior and the rule of law.
Diesel had already sensed his master’s anxiety and edge. The powerful pit bull—normally extremely friendly and docile—sat at the base of the chair, muscles tense, his ears alert and eyes moving rhythmically from one door to the other—then back again.
Neither Peter nor Diesel would get any rest as darkness settled in. Kate couldn’t have been better protected if a platoon of SEALs was camped out in the great room.
Throughout the night, Peter sat in that chair in front of the fireplace—occasionally stoking the fire, the pump-action 12-gauge never leaving his grip, and Diesel vigilant at his feet. If anyone tried to enter, they would be stopped—gravely wounded if not killed—before they cleared the threshold.
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