by David Pepper
The driver uttered something else in Russian. His comrade responded curtly. The car pulled out of the White Castle, as I continued gasping loudly.
We did not turn back onto I-70 either toward Washington or Youngstown, but hopped on a small road, State Route 30, heading west. The middle of nowhere, definitely an ominous sign. Chief Santini’s warning—never get in the car—echoed through my head.
“It seems you have gotten the message, Mr. Sharpe.” The voice came from behind.
“Yes. You thugs have made it clear.”
“You have a choice: you can make this easy, or you can make this difficult.”
“I walked to the car and got in, didn’t I?”
“You did. Now keep cooperating. It will make things far more comfortable for you, and for Scott.”
Hearing him say Scott’s name was jarring.
“Don’t you ever mention his name again.”
“Don’t do anything that requires us to. Please pass me your cell phone.”
I passed it back over my right shoulder.
That ended all conversation for the next half hour, as we drove west, up and down rolling hills through the steady rain.
As signs indicated that we were approaching a town called Bedford, the man in the back said some words in Russian to the driver. And I discovered that when you think you’re being driven to your own death, every unknown word scares the hell out of you.
The car exited off the main road and made a series of turns on smaller roads. The man behind me was clearly giving exact directions.
I managed a weak grin. They must have a perfect gravesite picked out for me.
* * *
“I just tried him again. Still no answer.”
Scott frantically updated his young wife as he drove back to San Francisco from his office in Palo Alto.
From the time he woke up, throughout the day, and then again on his ride home, Scott had called and texted his dad hourly. He left three messages before the voicemail filled up. He could also see that his dad was not reading his texts. Then he received notifications that they weren’t being delivered at all.
If he knew anything about his father, it was that he returned his calls. Immediately. If he didn’t call back, something was wrong.
After hanging up with his wife, he tried the Vindicator and asked for Andres.
“Mary, it’s Scott Sharpe. I’m looking for my dad and haven’t reached him all day. Did he come in?”
“He hasn’t been here. No one’s seen him.”
“Something’s happened. He hasn’t returned a call all day, and now his phone’s dead.”
Scott recalled Dad’s close relationship with Chief Santini.
“I’m gonna call the chief,” he said, then hung up.
“Chief, I’ve been trying my dad all day. At first, it went to voicemail, now his phone’s dead. Something’s wrong. Really wrong!”
“We know, son. I’ve been trying him too. He was in Pennsylvania this morning, called me saying he was in trouble, and then disappeared. I’ve got the cops in the area looking for him, along with the car that’s been following him. We’ll do an official missing person report in the morning.”
“Please do what you can, Chief. He’s onto something big.”
Chapter 51
WASHINGTON, DC: 161 days after the election
The morning after his abrupt, painful telephone interview with Sharpe, Stanton sat behind his desk, stewing.
He had ably run over, around and through every obstacle that had ever threatened his career. And there had been many. And now some jaded, small-time reporter was going to take him down just as he was coming close to his ultimate goal? Not a chance.
They needed a plan to stave off the damage. And to do that, he’d have to come clean with Young. He called his chief of staff into the office.
Young walked past Arlene Brown and into Stanton’s office. Jim Dennison already was seated in the office. Stanton’s gruff security guy rarely made appearances in the actual Capitol.
“Don, we’ve got a major problem, and I need your help.”
“What is it?”
“That reporter Jack Sharpe somehow figured out that I visited Abacus before the election. He’s clearly going to write about it in the next couple days.”
“What’s he going to say? You just walked through, right?”
“The truth is, from what I saw, it was pretty clear what they were planning. I put two and two together quickly. But I had nothing to do with any of it. I didn’t tell them or anyone else that I knew, and I didn’t communicate with them again. Now, based on some leak, Sharpe looks to be writing a story that says I masterminded the whole thing. Which is complete horseshit.”
Young stared at his boss stone-faced, took a glance at Dennison, and then looked back at his boss. “You mean that you knew Abacus was going to steal the election, and you didn’t do anything about it?”
“Don’t lecture me! I had a hunch, and it turned out to be right. Then I campaigned in places I probably would’ve campaigned in anyway. None of that’s a crime! Now do your job and help me solve this.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Our best defense is a good offense. If we can expose who was behind this, they will rightfully take the blame. Who bought Abacus, ran it for two years, and then sold it to Diebold? Who was that Swedish guy at Abacus, Miller, who kept lying to me? And who’s sending the reporter dirt on me? That’s who put this whole thing together. We have to find them and beat Sharpe to the punch!”
“Well, how are we going to find all this so quickly?”
“I can tell you where to start. With Ariens. The whole reason I went there was a tip from Ariens. He sent a note that arrived a day or two after his funeral.”
This was also something he had never shared before.
“Are you kidding? Ariens tipped you off to it?”
“He sure did. My guess is that it was one of his clients. One who had a huge amount at stake in last November’s election and wanted us in charge. Ariens either was in on it or figured it out.”
“Congressman, he represented so many special interests, and we helped so many of them. Still, I have no idea how we will get around the fact that you knew this was happening.”
A few moments of silence followed, and then Young followed up with a question.
“So Simpson’s memo was real, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.” There was no point in denying it any longer.
“And did she really die shortly after giving it to you?”
“Yes she did.” He shook his head as he said it, knowing how bad the timing was.
Young paused for about ten seconds, looking like he wanted to ask the obvious follow-up question. But he never did.
“And no, I had nothing to do with it!” Stanton shouted.
* * *
Young immediately called Janet Compton of the Ariens Group and set up a meeting. The two had worked together for many years, and in the past six months, Stanton and he had been a huge help to her clients.
That afternoon, they grabbed coffee at a Starbucks a few blocks from her office. He was sitting at a small table, tall caramel macchiato in hand, when she walked through the door. Two minutes later, she joined him.
“How are you, Don?”
“Busy as always. You?”
“Great.”
The pleasantries ended.
“I have something serious I need to talk to you about.”
“What is it?”
“The congressman is very concerned about this revelation that last year’s election might have been stolen.”
Compton’s head shot back three inches. “I thought you guys said that was all some conspiracy theory.”
“We did, but I’m afraid it’s not. You may or may not know this, a
nd please keep it confidential, but before he died, Oliver sent the congressman a note about Abacus.”
“Excuse me? You can’t be serious.”
“Stanton says Oliver sent a note telling him to take a close look at Abacus. That he clearly knew what was happening. And the congressman wanted to know if you might know more about this.”
“And why would the congressman have kept this to himself until now?”
“He says he didn’t know what to make of what Oliver wrote. And when he passed away, Stanton never focused on it again. Obviously, the Youngstown Vindicator story changed that.”
“Well, I can tell you this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“My question is, among those you represent, is there anyone you can imagine would’ve been tempted to try something like that? Or who had the capacity to do it? Oliver must’ve been tipped off by a client.”
“Don, you know I cannot reveal client confidences. That reporter from the Vindicator asked me the same question days ago, and I told him the same thing.”
“Janet, this is more important than your client relations. This is about our country and our democracy. Among your many industry groups—the oil and gas people, the banks, others—you can’t think if any that might have tried to do this? They all got so much out of our win last year.”
“And I can confidently tell you that none of our clients is threatening our democracy. Don, I’m not going to sit here and speculate with you about any of them.”
“So Oliver didn’t mention this to anybody?”
“No. But you know we represented Diebold for many years. It could be that his industry knowledge tipped him off to something irregular. Diebold lost a lot of accounts to this Abacus outfit, I know that.”
Young knew this was nonsense, but he was impressed that she stuck to her guns. Compton would clearly tell no one about who was behind the plot. Was even willing to lie before doing so.
As they wrapped up, she ended on a cordial note.
“Tell the congressman we want to be helpful, but we certainly aren’t going to hang any clients out to dry. I also want to make clear that Oliver Ariens would never have been a part of any plan attacking our Congress, our democracy. He believed deeply in our system, despite its flaws.”
“Of course we know that, Janet. Thank you for your help.”
The two parted ways.
He reported in by phone as he drove his BMW up Independence Avenue back to Capitol Hill.
“I pressed her hard. She’s a vault. Won’t say a word.”
* * *
Stanton was still in his Capitol office when Young returned.
“You look excited, Don.”
“I have an idea.”
“You figure out who did it?”
“I didn’t, and I honestly don’t think we’ll have time to.”
“It’s obviously one of Ariens’ clients,” Stanton said, impatiently.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I just met with Janet Compton. Not at all helpful, clamming up as soon as I brought this up. And the problem is Ariens had so many clients, there’s no good way to figure out which one might have done it. She also reminded me that Ariens represented Diebold. So he might have found out through that representation alone.”
Stanton rubbed his hand through his hair, still agitated.
“So what’s your big idea?”
“We don’t need to know who did it. We can just say Ariens did.”
“Blame it on Oliver? You’re talking about my lifelong friend here!”
“Why not? We know he knew about it. He represents some of the most serious industries in the world—very unpopular ones, many with a stake in the November election. We can say he was at the heart of the plot, call for an investigation by Congress, and let some special committee do the digging from there. If we do it ahead of Sharpe, we take away his story.”
“Why would anyone buy that Oliver did it? Seems far-fetched.”
“Are you kidding? The only people despised more than politicians are lobbyists. And he was the king of all lobbyists, representing all the worst industries. The press and voters want to burn guys like Ariens at the stake. Trust me, if we point the finger at him, it will stick. Then we call for an investigation of all his clients. Shit, we may actually find out who did this.”
As Young walked through his reasoning, the congressman calmed down. He weighed the unappealing prospect of betraying his best friend against the benefit of getting out of a nasty jam here. As the latter began tipping the scale, he nodded slowly. So much for loyalty when it conflicts with survival. Plus, Oliver was six feet underground.
“That might work. It’s the best shot we have. Let’s think through how we do this, and talk later this evening.”
“The key is that we beat Sharpe to the punch. Get the Ariens theory out there first. Nail the whole thing to him right away. Everything Sharpe writes after that gets lost. And everything he brings up, we bring back to Ariens and whoever was behind Ariens, Joanie Simpson included. But we have to frame it all first, and fast! And I’ve got a plan on how to do it. Let me make a few calls.”
Stanton still doubted whether this would be enough to trump Sharpe’s story. In addition to targeting Ariens, they might have to silence the reporter some other way. But that was a conversation to have with Dennison, not Young.
As Young stepped out of Stanton’s office to put their plan together, the ex-cop remained.
Chapter 52
PENNSYLVANIA: 161 days after the election
Never had such a loud noise so cheered my mood.
Trapped in a car in the middle of nowhere. Russian henchmen to my left and behind me. One armed. I worried the fatal moment was imminent. After all, Kelly also met his brutal demise in a car in the middle of the Keystone State, about sixty miles east of where I now found myself. And why the hell else would we be driving into Bedford, Pennsylvania?
The sudden roar of jet engines overhead answered my question. With thick clouds only 2000 feet above the ground, I couldn’t see the plane, but it was clearly low, either taking off or landing. Small signs along the road now pointed the way to the Bedford County airport, and the Suburban followed them all.
I breathed a sigh of relief. We were heading to an airport.
“You are going on a long journey,” the man behind me said. “But don’t worry; if you cooperate, it will be a comfortable trip.”
“Thanks for the suspense,” I responded, not caring if he understood.
Five minutes later, we drove up a dirt driveway, past an open gate, and directly onto the tarmac. A small fleet of single- and double-prop planes sat in two rows. A plane buff, I recognized some old Cessnas, a Cirrus, two King Airs, and a couple Pipers. Standard for a small airport.
Less standard, sitting off on its own, was the Gulfstream. Jet black. Clearly the plane that had just landed, and as sleek and luxurious as a private jet could get. Fifty million at least. If this was indeed my final day, this was a far better way to go.
The car stopped eight feet from the jet. The passenger in back climbed out of the car and boarded the plane. A tall, blonde man greeted him inside the open door. The two talked for three minutes, and the Russian passed my confiscated cell phone to the blonde. He then descended the stairs and climbed back in the car.
“We will stay here. Please board and Mr. Holmberg will join you for the journey, along with the pilots.”
“Glad they’ll be with us,” I joked. At this point, given the threat to Scott, there was no reason to behave badly. If I lived through this, I’d have a hell of a story. I opened the door and boarded the plane.
The blonde man greeted me inside the plane’s cabin, out of the rain.
“Welcome, Mr. Sharpe. I am Stefan Holmberg, and will be with you for our flight.”
“Nice to meet you. What is your accent? Doesn’t sound Russian like t
he other two.”
“No questions, please. Come back and have a seat. Please make yourself comfortable. There’s a loo if you need to use one, and a towel to dry off. And the seats fold into beds. Our flight will last around six hours, so sleep if you wish. We will be taking off in five minutes.”
“Whatever you say.”
I took him up on his bathroom offer, toweled off a morning’s worth of rain, sweat and blood, and sat down halfway down the cabin, in a left window seat facing forward. Then I looked around. Just like the outside of the plane, the inside gave no indication of its owner. But with lush carpeting, dark leather seats, a pullout desk, a mini-bar, and a large monitor at the front of the cabin, it was certainly the nicest mode of transportation I had ever traveled in. This might be the most luxurious room I had ever been in—it just happened to have wings attached to it.
As promised, the plane taxied to the airport’s only runway in five minutes. None of the small planes would fly in that weather, so we took off immediately. The thrust from the jets pushed me back against my seat, although the plane was virtually silent through its powerful acceleration and steep lift-off. We burst into the low ceiling about five seconds after takeoff, and two minutes later, banked steeply to the right. The sharp maneuver marked the signature of former military pilots, trained on precise moves as opposed to passenger comfort. But the best airmen money could buy.
The Gulfstream climbed through several layers of thick, wet clouds, bouncing much of the way, and finally popped out into blue sky and bright sunlight at 31,000 feet. Nine minutes later, we plateaued at 38,000 feet.
The cabin monitor displayed a map, showing us heading northeast at 475 knots, backed by a 90-knot tailwind. We passed north and west of Wilkes-Barre and Scranton.
While the map didn’t show our destination, the relevant data all pointed in one direction.
Six-hour flight. Heading northeast. 600-knot groundspeed.
