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would’ve called me if he was really concerned. He sure wouldn’t have sent somebody like you. The Hunters keep family matters in the family. What’s the deal, Clyde? What in hell are you up to?”
“You don’t have no reason to talk to me like that, boy. It’s pretty simple, let’s just say I’m trying to warn you to get out of the creek before the dam breaks.”
“Look, old man, your concern is touching, but knowing what I know about your business, I wouldn’t believe you if you had your damn tongue notarized. You haven’t lifted a hand to help anybody, including my daddy, since I’ve known you. Not unless there was something in it for you.”
“Let’s not get personal, my boy,” Clyde said. “But if you know me so well, then you know that I’ve got as many connections as you and your daddy. You may think you’ve got everything in hand, but there’s some stuff happening now that you ain’t even considered. Whether you know it or not, you could use some help, and I’m the man that can supply it.”
“Is that a threat, Clyde? You about to drop a dime on me? Or are you just fishing and hoping to buy into something that you don’t know shit about?”
“You was always a clever boy, K. J. You figure it out. But as an old friend of the family, I’m telling you to watch your back. You’re dealing with some ruthless folks. Your daddy and your highfalutin’ lawyer brother ain’t gonna be able to protect you. I’m not even sure that I can.”
“Spit it out, Winston. What are you—”
“Stay clear of the Vietnamese girl. I’m just warning you for your family’s sake—especially with your brother planning to run for gover-nor some day, and maybe even the Senate. If anything blows up, everybody is going to get hurt. You don’t have to admit it or deny it, all I come to say is that folks are worried and some folks are hoppin’ mad.”
“You know, I don’t think anybody’s worried except you, and I’m not falling for your scam. My business is my own, and I’m advising you to stay out of it.”
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Clyde started to speak again, but before he could utter another word, K. J. turned and abruptly stormed away, leaving the old man standing alone. As far as K. J. could see, there was no need to continue the conversation. He was convinced it was a shakedown and, until he discovered exactly what the old man knew, he wasn’t saying anything else. Klaus had been evasive, but he had warned him that things might get sticky. Still, K. J. hadn’t expected it to happen this quickly. He had also been told not to panic—just wait and ride it out. But with Clyde sniffing at his heels, he felt he had to do something. At least get on a secure phone, make some calls, and attempt to protect himself. For that, he couldn’t return to his ranch. He had to get to his hideaway, the condo he kept under an assumed name in Arlington for anonymous trysts or just to cool out and disappear. With the exception of Sally Brierton, the cute cocktail waitress he picked up at Avanti, and a few high-class call girls, no one even knew he owned it.
K. J. was headed toward the exit when Brigette intercepted him.
“What’s the hurry?” she asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.
Anyway, I thought we were going to get together later.”
“We’ll have to take a rain check; something unexpected has come up. I have to leave.” He pulled away from her and started toward the door, then, thinking about their earlier foreplay, turned back. “You know, you could come with me. After this is settled, I’ll need some TLC.”
“I’d love to,” she said, “but I have to get back to the booth. I’m talking to a buyer. Besides, don’t you think one of us should stay here and keep an eye on the goods? Why don’t you call me when you get on the road—we’ll arrange something for later.”
“Sounds like a plan, honey. See you later.”
K. J. hurried to the check-out desk, tossed his room key at the clerk, and told her to check him out of his room and put the bill on his tab.
“And buzz valet parking, have them bring my car around,” he said, striding toward the entrance.
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Outside, he paced nervously as he waited for the car. He wasn’t sure how he would solve this, but he knew he had to get back to Klaus and find out more. If that didn’t work, he’d have to go even higher. He felt that he’d been played into a corner without wiggle room, but he was sure he’d survive. Ever since his college days on the football field, he’d managed to find a way to get over no matter what the odds were. This was no different, he told himself.
The green Porsche screeched to a halt in front of the hotel and a pimple-faced teenager stepped out smiling as if he’d just been to Dis-neyland. K. J. sneered at him but still slapped a ten-dollar bill in his hand before sliding into the driver’s seat. He had just bought the Porsche to replace his year-old Ferrari, and he didn’t appreciate the way the kid handled it. He lit a Cuban cigar before angrily pulling away from the hotel onto Akard Street.
“Damn Germans just make a more reliable car than the Italians,”
he said aloud when he finally steered the green beauty out onto Inter-state 30 and headed west toward his Arlington retreat. The rush of afternoon air, warm but dry, and sight of the long, flat expanse of highway ahead, eased his tension a bit, so, despite his problems, he decided that seeing Brigette later was not a bad idea.
As he shifted into fifth gear and eased the speedometer up past seventy miles per hour, he reached into the glove compartment for his cellphone. The car had just reached eighty when he pressed the talk button and dialed Brigette’s number. The phone rang twice before he heard a loud popping noise underneath the car. Instinctively he pressed his foot to the brake, then began frantically pumping them when the car didn’t respond. Before he could swerve to avoid the colli-sion, the Porsche slammed into the back of the slower-moving U-Haul truck ahead of him. The truck was driven twenty-five yards before it came to a halt with the totaled sports car buried in its rear end.
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FIVE
Washington, D.C.—Thursday, July 19
C o ng res s m a n D av e Ha m l i n (R-Idaho) stood in front of the wide, triple-paneled mirror in the immaculate art deco men’s room at Georgia Brown’s, the upscale soul-food restaurant on 15th Street in downtown Washington. As the elected representative of the Second Congressional District in Idaho, Hamlin was a first-term congressman. In most Washington circles, he was both an anomaly and a curiosity. And for many members of the Congressional Black Caucus he was an embarrassment. The Caucus, however, had little choice in accepting him. He was, after all, black, or, as he insisted, brown.
Staring into the mirror now, his reflection appeared blurry and distorted, and he wavered unsteadily as he blinked his eyes and leaned closer to the crystal-clear glass. He was drunk. Smiling, he peered at his image, and in a deep baritone voice intoned, “My fellow . . . Amer-16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 52
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icans.” He repeated the phrase several times and laughed as the sound echoed throughout the empty room.
“My fellow Americans,” he began again, “I come before you to stand behind you . . . to tell you something you already know.”
Then, straightening his black bow tie and adjusting the lapels of his tux, his expression shifted. He thought of all the occasions when he had been and would again have to be perfectly serious despite having had a few too many cocktails. He pulled his shoulders back, drew himself up to his full height of five-seven, and set his round, bloated face in a mask of statesmanlike propriety. “My fellow Americans, I come before you tonight, at this historic juncture in our great nation’s political l
ife, to announce my candidacy for president of the United States.
I am deeply humbled by your unwavering support. . . .”
He smiled at the authoritative timbre of his voice, the ease with which he could shift and project deep sincerity even when, as now, he was thoroughly intoxicated. And if things kept going his way, he might have to speak to the American people in exactly that manner. Congressman Dave Hamlin was convinced that he had been chosen to undertake the historic journey that had started back with his election as the first and only African American ever to be elected president of a senior class at Mountain View High School in Twin Falls, Idaho.
Today that journey had been fueled considerably. Earlier in the day an aide had informed him that his support for the current farm subsidies bill had elicited a huge contribution to his political action committee by the owners of a major midwestern agricultural cartel.
The beauty of his position was that the general public would applaud him for supporting the nation’s small-farm owners. It couldn’t be better, he thought; he was indeed blessed. Yes, throughout his life, doing the right thing had been extremely profitable for him. And, except for the unsettling call from New York City four days ago, even the FBI or the CIA could not have found a happier, more self-satisfied American than thirty-nine-year-old Dave Hamlin.
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Dave Hamlin was a marvel in American politics, having been elected to Congress from a district that had a white population of 472,644, and an African American population of only 2,258, or about 5 percent. There were also ten times as many Hispanics, three times as many Indians and Eskimos, and twice as many Pacific Islanders and Asians as blacks. Hamlin, in fact, was married to a Native American woman and had three teenage children by her. His family had remained in Twin Falls, and here in Washington he was enjoying his freedom and status as the representative of his diverse constituency. It was quite a feat for a small-town boy whose classmates had begun calling him “Tater” in high school.
They had meant it derisively, noting that he was about the same color as an Idaho spud. And, when he squinted, they said, his head resembled one—a cheerful, smiling tuber shaded by a ring of close-cropped curly hair. The name had stuck through high school and college, where he had been a star in track and football at the University of Idaho. And now, without knowing about its school days origin, some of his colleagues, including members of the Black Caucus, also used the name, but only behind his back. Dave Hamlin didn’t mind—not at all.
He had accepted it good-naturedly in high school and later, when he ran for office, embraced it. He had discovered that public humility, even if you didn’t mean it, was very attractive to voters. And if you were from Idaho, what better nickname than “Tater.” But beneath the jolly, self-effacing demeanor, Hamlin was as ambitious and slick as any politician in Washington.
He was still smiling broadly as he returned to his table, noting the chest-high curling cherry-wood partitions that divided the room and the sculpted bronze ribbonlike ornaments suspended from the ceiling.
His date, Christine Spivey, pulled his chair away from the table so he could sit. A large, luscious, butter-colored woman with lots of red makeup and thin black eyelashes, the thirty-one-year-old lobbyist had been appointed the task of getting close to the new Idaho congressman 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 54
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and of making sure he met some like-minded people among Washington’s elite.
“I just love this place. I just love it,” he gushed to his dinner companions. At the table were Senator Ray “Pancho” Hernandez (R-Texas), Congressman John Durham (R-Pennsylvania), and their wives.
It was Hamlin’s first visit to Georgia Brown’s, and he was thoroughly impressed. They had come to the elegant restaurant after leaving a giant Republican fund-raiser at the Omni-Shoreham Hotel where none other than President George W. Bush put his hand on Hamlin’s shoulder and said: “We’re counting on great things from you.”
Hamlin had flashed his reassuring don’t-worry-I’m-your-boy smile at the president and winked, which led “Dubya” to pause and note that Tater was the kind of American he could count on.
Now Hamlin smugly scanned the menu in front of him. He had thought of soul food as simple fare, collard greens, chitlins, corn bread, ham hocks, and such, but the menu here was as sophisticated as the decor. He considered the overall possibilities but finally chose horse-radish- and peppercorn-crusted filet mignon with pan-bronzed scal-lops, whipped potatoes, and spinach. Wow! he thought. Putting the menu aside, he sat back and surveyed the well-heeled, multi-ethnic crowd that surrounded them as the others ordered.
When the waiter left, Christine Spivey, Rowena Hernandez, and Connie Durham excused themselves to go to the ladies’ room. Hamlin watched Spivey’s sensual walk and he thought of the trucks that he sometimes saw on highways with a WIDE LOAD sign across the back.
Her hips moved fluidly beneath the silk fabric of her tightly fitted, flowered evening dress. Yes, indeed, he thought, this night looked very promising.
Spivey stopped and spoke to several patrons, introducing her companions, as they strolled through the restaurant. She was well known among Washington politicos and special-interest groups. Not only did she know where many of the capital’s skeletons were hidden, but she 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 55
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also knew how to connect people with the people they needed to know, which meant that she needed to know everyone who was anyone in the town. And tonight, as usual, she was busily working the floor.
Just before entering the rest room, Spivey excused herself from the congressmen’s wives. She called her boss, the lobbyist Emanuel Epstein, on her cellphone, and informed him that both Durham and Hamlin were in pocket to support the diamond embargo bill. “In fact, they’ve both promised Representative Tony Hall that he can count on them,” she said. “But it’s going to take more than I have to offer to get Hernandez’s support for the trade sanctions bill.”
“What’s Hernandez’s problem?” Epstein asked as he paced impatiently across his suite at the Watergate Hotel. “What do you think it’ll take?”
“Don’t worry,” Spivey said, “I’ll figure it out.”
Back at the table, Dave Hamlin was involved in a lively conversation with Durham and Hernandez. He looked up when a tall, elegant man with smooth ink-black skin passed and tapped him on his shoulder. It was the controversial Sierra Leone businessman, Ezekiel Kwabena. He wore a colorfully embroidered, silk kaftan over neatly pressed trousers and a white shirt and tie. When he took a seat at a table near the rear of the restaurant, his piercing eyes and toothy, milk-white smile were directed at Hamlin. Within minutes, the congressman rose and went over to greet Kwabena. After a brief discussion, he and Kwabena returned to the table where Hernandez and Durham were seated.
“Ambassador Kwabena, I’d like you to meet Congressman John Durham of Pennsylvania and Senator Ray Hernandez of South Texas.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the African said, flashing a broad, clever smile.
“I’ve been talking to the congressman and the senator about the grave import of the house action relating to the diamond trade, Ambas-16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 56
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sador,” Hamlin said, assuming a solemn air. He called Kwabena ambassador even though he knew he wasn’t the country’s official representative. In fact, the businessman was more influential than the ambassador. He had connections that extended from oil- and diamond-field power brokers to the highest corridors of the presidential palace.
“Good! Good! We must have a concerted effort,” Kwabena said, extending his hand as Durham and Hernandez rose to greet him.
“I have been telling these gentlemen that we must take a stance
that ends the misappropriation of funds by rebel forces in neighboring countries yet preserves the legitimacy of Sierra Leone’s diamond trade on the international market,” Hamlin said. “We need to get on the right side of this issue. A general boycott of the diamonds or even hasty legislation that usurps the country’s involvement in the certification of its own resources would seriously undermine the sovereignty of the nation. I’ve assured Ambassador Kwabena that our aim is to stop the mayhem without jeopardizing the independence of his nation.” Hamlin flashed a conspiratorial smile at Kwabena before turning back to Hernandez and Durham. “I’m sure you gentlemen agree.”
“The brutality is unfortunate,” Kwabena said. “It has left a distorted image of our country when, in fact, it is the—”
Seeing that the African was about to launch into a tirade, Hamlin interrupted him. “The bill in Congress now,” he said, “would require importers to provide certification of origin for rough or polished diamonds before they can be sold in the U.S. But, as written now, it would place Sierra Leone’s fate squarely in the hands of De Beers, the conglomerate which controls the world’s diamond production, and the Belgian Diamond High Council, an organization whose past record with respect to sanctioning illegal African diamonds is, at best, questionable. In effect, gentlemen, we would be imposing a kind of economic colonial rule over the duly elected officials of Africa’s free nations. And that is a situation we must avoid at all costs. No, I am con-16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 57
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vinced that we should seek a less politically damaging solution to this situation.”
Hamlin looked at his colleagues expectantly.
“Well . . . I, uh, I of course favor an approach in which the diamond industry becomes involved in rallying public support for the fight against rebel factions and the wholesale slaughter of civilians,”
Hernandez said finally. “Otherwise there is a risk of backlash among Americans who buy about fifty percent of the world’s diamond production. Still, I’m not sure of the government’s proper role here.”
