The People's House

by David Pepper

  I had barely glanced at him when I first observed the tape, distracted by Kelly. But now I eyeballed the man more closely. The cap hid much of his face, but he looked familiar. Height and build especially.

  So I fast-forwarded for a good deal longer, trying to find the man again. And at four o’clock, he reappeared. No cap this time, but the rest of the outfit was the same. He was leaving the building, a decent-sized bag in his right hand.

  Blonde hair. Buzz cut.

  I recognized him immediately.

  It was my air-mate to London, Stefan Holmberg.

  This was the first and only evidence directly connecting Kazarov and his operation to Abacus. And it was definitive.

  From his look and accent, it was clear he was Scandinavian when we first met on the Gulfstream. So when Dennison mentioned in passing Stanton’s complaint about a “lying Swede,” Holmberg’s face immediately popped into my head.

  And lo and behold, here he was, overseeing their last day at Abacus, keeping intruders like Kelly away, and cleaning out any evidence linking the vote-stealing plot back to Kazarov. Back to Marcellus.

  After exiting the building, Holmberg never walked back in. It was moving day, after all.

  * * *

  I calmly shut the laptop and took my time to savor a meal I’d eaten 1,000 times before. I even ordered another biscuit for the road, along with another cup of coffee.

  As I paid at the counter, the banner Chicago Tribune headline six feet away screamed the latest on the scandal: “Irene Stanton Bombshell: Husband Tied to Staff Death; Harassed Aides for Years.” I didn’t buy the paper since I knew what the story would say. But good for Mrs. Stanton.

  Instead, I walked outside after Gracie handed me my change. Climbed back in the pick-up, and got back onto I-80. “Take It Easy” echoed through the truck cabin.

  I drove west. No turning back.

  Of course it had its flaws, but in all other ways, my story was perfect. It did everything I wanted done, everything I needed done.

  It took down a scumbag. A real scumbag. Who deserved everything he got from the Turner-Sharpe one-two punch, and whoever else had piled on. He was the worst kind of partisan, just like the guy who had beaten Dad years ago. He mistreated women, abused women—his own staff. As one of the most important members of Congress, he watched gleefully as a plot to steal an election played out. And he sought every ounce of benefit possible from that plot, including a path to the presidency.

  And then at the last minute, to try to get out his jam, this scumbag tried to frame an honest man, his own friend, who likely died trying to stop the scandal from happening. If I rushed the final days of the story to head off Stanton’s desperate attempt to preempt it, Stanton had no one to blame but himself for the slightly inaccurate result.

  Would Stanton ever be convicted for either Simpson’s or Kelly’s death? Of course not. No one would be. Professionals clearly killed them both—professionals who left no trace of their handiwork and no connection back to who hired them. But if the scandal permanently cast a dark shadow over Stanton, he deserved it, even if he hadn’t ordered the killings himself. It was his unwillingness to stop the plot that led to those deaths.

  At the same time, the story—my version of the story—preserved the new economic hope of the Valley and eastern Ohio. The pipelines, the growth, the jobs would continue to move forward. This was great news for the communities up and down the Ohio, as long as the environmentalists were wrong, and as long as the region avoided the same fate as Titusville. If Marcellus went down in the scandal, all that potential would fade.

  Equally important, I finally had my story on gerrymandering, and it kick-started the best chance for real reform in decades. Having seen and talked to so many politicians over the years, I could separate rhetoric from sincerity. When we had talked, Marshall and Williams struck me as deeply committed to fixing things. Their joint press conference left me with the same confidence. This was the best moment, offering real hope, in a long time. The kind of bipartisanship Dad would’ve led.

  Kazarov was right. Complicating the clean Stanton story line with the jarring introduction of a foreign-led plot would end the rare moment of hope, of reform, before it even began.

  And Scott was safe. Scott and Jana and the little one coming. The story as written guaranteed that. Too much nuance would have guaranteed the opposite.

  Finally, heading west into Iowa, the final words Arlene Brown had spoken to me echoed in my ears. That God had granted her a second chance to stand up for Joanie Simpson. To make up for her failure.

  She was right.

  This story, written exactly as is, gave me my chance too. The chance, after so many years, to stand for something.

  For Joanie Simpson. For Meredith. For Scott, and his safety, his family. For myself. For a better politics. For a better country.

  And for Dad.

  I wouldn’t change a word.

  Epilogue

  LONDON: 14 months before the election

  The sun was on its way up in London. An unusually pleasant Friday morning.

  Kazarov, sitting only with Kondrakov, worked through breakfast. Small slices of orange salmon and green capers on square, dark bread slices occupied most of a circular plate between them.

  It was their usual gathering time and Kazarov’s usual meal, but this was a far more important meeting than most.

  Kazarov shook his head in disappointment.

  “This man is weak,” Kazarov said. “I expected more from a powerful congressman. Someone who wants to be America’s President.”

  They had just listened to the tape of the conversation between Stanton and his young researcher from a few hours before. She had revealed the plot she had discovered, handed a written report to her boss, and left without it on her. She was visibly relieved on the ride home.

  And they listened as Stanton, always within range of his briefcase, did absolutely nothing after she left but mutter to himself.

  “She’s smart,” his security chief said. “She figured so much of it out.”

  “And he is spineless,” Kazarov said again. “He does not have the strength to stop our plot, but he also does not have the strength to eliminate her. We will have to do his work for him.”

  He disliked the prospect of more violence.

  But this also posed a critical moment for another reason. The girl figured out their plan so easily. Too easily.

  “Someone will discover Abacus, and the role it will play. That is nearly certain. We must prepare accordingly.”

  His security chief had already read his mind. As Kazarov talked, Kondrakov scattered large photos from Stanton’s Abacus tour on the table where the two men sat. Kazarov was now doubly pleased that Stanton had visited the facility, and that they recorded every moment of his visit.

  Kazarov placed his wiry second finger on one of the photographs, about an inch below Stanton’s face, pointing directly at the congressman’s chin.

  “How have discussions proceeded with his security man and the chief of staff?”

  “Both are demanding. But both despise the man, which will help. The security man is a former police officer, a true professional. He has already been helpful. Of course, each will look out for themselves first, but they can be trusted to help at key moments.”

  “Good. Please keep me informed,” he said. “We have observed him for long enough.”

  Harking back to his naval warfare lore, he described the moment when a torpedo, seeking a target, homes in on the heat of the closest vessel. It is the moment where one vessel is sure to be destroyed, and any other vessels, even those nearby, are spared.

  “After the election, a torpedo will surely launch. It will seek a target. It may circle near us. But beginning today, and after the election, we will project enormous heat onto Mr. Stanton. When he finally discovers he is the target, it wil
l be too late.”

  As it always did for Oleg Kazarov, everything from that day forth went almost exactly as planned.