by Andrew Watts
The balding politician smiled demurely. “Right now, I’m just focused on doing what’s right for the good people of Wisconsin. And as far as elections go, it’s this year’s midterms that I’m thinking about. I’m up for reelection in my own state. I’ve honestly given no thought to any political decisions that may lay beyond that point.”
Of course it’s true, you little prick, but you know I’m not going to say it here on your low-rated cable news show this far out into the future.
The kid tried one more time, probably listening to his producer humming in his earpiece. “Is there any chance you would consider a presidential run in two years, sir?”
Becker would have to tell Ron not to book him with this guy anymore. “Well, I never like to close a door fully—but I mean what I said. My focus is on the people I represent in the great state of Wisconsin and making sure that we combat the horrific threat of illegal drugs poisoning our nation.”
“Thank you for your time, Senator Becker.”
“Thank you.”
A group of reporters stood waiting for him to finish the interview. One of them stuck a recording device up as Senator Becker walked away from the camera.
“Senator, a few questions please.”
Ron Dicks, his chief of staff, said, “The senator won’t be taking any more questions right now, thanks.”
The senator walked away from the scrum of reporters, his entourage of aids in tow. “What’s next, Ron?”
Ron scanned his notepad as they walked, their footsteps echoing in the capital building hallway.
“Sir, you have a hard stop this morning for the Senate Judiciary Committee hearing at ten thirty. Prior to that, you’ve got a strategy session in your office with Sarah.” His chief of staff rattled off several other appointments throughout the day, finishing with, “Oh, and your daughter called, sir.”
“Karen called?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about?”
“She didn’t say.”
They took the underground subway from the Capitol Building to the Hart Senate Office Building and then made their way to his office. His secretary, a matronly no-nonsense woman of about fifty, handed him a list of calls as he walked in.
The senator sat down behind his desk. “Give me five minutes,” he announced to his staff.
“Of course, Senator.” Ron stayed in the room, knowing that the senator needed time, not privacy, which he’d given up decades earlier.
Senator Becker held the landline phone to his ear, dialing the number from memory. When he was president, he wouldn’t dial anymore, he thought. Only a few years away, if he played his cards right.
Aides floated in and out of the office, placing folders in the senator’s inbox and removing them from his outbox. Some whispered into Ron’s ear as the chief of staff waited for the senator to finish his personal call. The secretary came in and placed a china set on the senator’s desk—coffee and tea biscuits with raisins.
Karen answered on the second ring. “Hello, Dad.”
“Karen. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I got it, Dad. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
Senator Becker frowned, sitting down in the chair at his desk. “What did you get, dear?”
“The Oshkosh spot. They had a dropout and chose me at the last minute. I’ll have two performances. You’ll be there, right?”
“You’re performing at Oshkosh? Why, that’s wonderful news. When is your show?”
“Two performances. One earlier in the week, and one at the end.”
“And you’ll dress…conservatively?”
She let out a sigh of exasperation. “Dad…relax.”
Senator Becker flushed, thinking of the outfits his daughter wore when she performed. He was proud that she had reached such a high level in the aerobatics community, being invited to the top air shows in the world. But my God, did she have to flaunt her buxom figure on all those advertisements?
“Let’s just make sure that any publicity you get paints you in a good light. I would hate to think that—”
“Don’t worry, Senator. I understand. I won’t do or say anything crazy. Well, not too crazy.” She laughed, and Becker saw his eavesdropping chief of staff close his eyes, a pained expression on his face. A few years ago, Ron had had to pay a private investigator twenty-five hundred dollars to destroy a set of files from one of Karen’s old boyfriends. The ex-boyfriend had thought he was selling compromising pictures to a tabloid. He was made to turn over all of the files and sign a nondisclosure agreement. Then the PI had scared the hell out of him with what would happen if he violated the agreement. The files had been deleted, but it would have horrified Karen had they gotten out. More importantly, it would have embarrassed the good senator, and probably cost him ten points with suburban moms ages thirty-five through fifty-four.
Karen had been a hellion ever since she was a teen. Her looks had ensured that she never suffered any lack of attention from the opposite sex, and her behavior suggested that she didn’t mind.
“Well, I’m thrilled that you’ll be performing there, Karen.”
“You’re coming?”
“Of course, you know I never miss it.”
“Great. I’ll see you there next week.”
As soon as he hung up the phone, it chimed. Senator Becker hit the blinking light. The voice of his secretary said, “Senator, your next appointment is here.”
Senator Becker looked at his chief of staff.
Ron said, “Sarah.”
“Ah. Yes, please send her in. Clear the room, please. Except for you, Ron.”
The aides shuffled out.
A petite woman in a suit marched in and nodded respectfully. “Good morning, Senator. How are you today?”
“Excellent, thank you.”
She set up her computer on the coffee table, connecting it by wire to the monitor mounted on the wall.
“What have you got for us, Sarah? Any serious challengers pop up while I wasn’t looking?”
While there was a state primary vote in a few weeks that would decide Becker’s opponent for reelection in November, none of the candidates were considered a serious threat. The senator had won each of his last three elections by a minimum of eight points. And the trend was improving.
She lowered her voice. “You asked me to put some polls into the field. Widening the pool of voters past Wisconsin…”
Ron glanced at the senator. The lightbulb went off in his head. This meeting wasn’t about this year’s election. It was about the future.
“Ah. That time already, is it?”
Becker could see the pleased expression in his chief of staff’s eyes. A kid about to peek behind the wrapping paper on the night before Christmas. Which was good, because Ron had been nothing but a worrywart since the news about Joseph Dahlman.
The monitor showed a red, white, and blue elephant on the screen. There were few things more exciting to a political junkie than new polling data. Ron and Senator Becker were about to see, for the first time, what national polls said about his prospects for the next presidential race.
“Well, don’t keep us waiting.”
Sarah tapped a key on her computer and began showing them a series of charts.
“Overall, the news is good. Among likely voters, your name is within the top three potential presidential contenders in your party.”
They went over top-line results for the next ten minutes.
“Nationally, the antidrug message is playing very well,” said Ron.
Sarah said, “Absolutely. That’s what voters know him for. Taking a tough stance on the war on drugs, and helping to fight the opioid epidemic. He’s going to need a message that will resonate with the base if he’s going to make it past a primary. This could be it.”
“Ron here thinks that’s a problem,” the Senator said.
Ron looked uncomfortable. “I’ve made my views clear, sir. I think you risk alienating the people who got you here if you appear antibusiness.
”
“The Opioid Epidemic Act is going to be my signature achievement. You know it’s a winner nationally.”
“It won’t matter if we can’t even get past a national primary…”
“You see what I’m dealing with, Sarah? My own chief of staff thinks my biggest legislative achievement is going to hurt me. Well, fine. Let’s see if I can’t come up with something a little tougher. Something that adds more meat on the bone for the people Ron is worried about losing,” said the senator.
Senator Becker looked at his computer screen on his desk. His Internet browser was on a news website, showing soldiers riding in Humvees in Afghanistan. “What was that the DEA was saying last week when we went to visit them?”
“The director?”
“No. When they took us on the tour? Do you remember, we spoke to an agent that had been down in El Paso about what he needed?” They had been looking for quotes that might help them support point papers.
“He was talking about the US Special Forces down there in Mexico,” said Ron.
“That’s right,” said Senator Becker. “He was complaining about how Mexico wouldn’t let the US get their hands dirty. We send our DEA agents, military personnel, and all those other agencies down to Mexico, not to mention the billions of dollars in foreign aid…but we’re still at the mercy of the Mexican law enforcement agencies. The DEA has to rely on Mexican authorities to make real progress.”
Sarah said, “I’m not sure that I follow, sir. What are you suggesting?”
The senator said, “What if we were able to use American troops to really go after the cartels in Mexico? To take the gloves off. Just like that DEA agent was saying. Now, policy like that, that’s got some machismo, does it not?”
“It does.”
Becker said, “I like this. Let’s spitball it a bit.”
Ron held up his hands, as if painting it on a billboard. “Stopping the opioid epidemic in the United States means taking the fight to Mexico.”
Senator Becker pointed. “And I’m the only one tough enough to send our military down there to do it.”
“Exactly. Brilliant, Mr. Senator.” Ron held up his hands like he was reading a billboard. “If America is fighting a war on drugs, then it’s time we use our warriors,” said Ron, tagline-testing.
“Very nice.” It needed a little work, but Becker liked it.
Sarah said, “Senator, with all due respect, we would need the permission of the Mexican government. They would never go for it.”
Ron and the senator shared a glance.
Ron said, “That’s irrelevant. We’re just discussing campaign communication strategy. It doesn’t matter whether we actually do it or not.”
Senator Becker sighed. Sarah was good at polling, but he would need to replace her once the midterms were over. If she couldn’t grasp the difference between a campaign message and an actual policy proposal…
“Sarah, we’ll need you to market-test it. But my gut tells me that it’s going to be a winner.”
He looked out the window at his office. The worker bees buzzing around the streets of D.C. outside. It was remarkable to think how far he’d come over the years. His meteoric rise since 9/11.
It hadn’t been that difficult, really. Senator Becker knew he had a way with people. Politics was all about winning hearts and minds. Helping all those unsophisticated voters understand what was really good for them, so that more than half of them approved of how he spent their money. It took oratorical skill. Becker was a masterful speaker. It took intellectual flexibility. Becker was a political yoga master. He had switched parties more than a decade earlier, when he’d seen the tides changing. Becker knew that if you wanted to govern, you couldn’t worry so much about ideology, but you sure as hell better care about polls. And right now, the polls told him that he needed to crack down on drugs. It was a winning bipartisan issue. The kind of platform cornerstone that could propel someone into the oval office.
Sarah was nodding. “Alright, I’ll conduct some more focus groups. And perhaps run another poll. I’ll send you a cost estimate, Ron.”
The senator nodded. “Excellent. Thank you, Sarah. That’ll be all for now.” The messaging might need some work, but they could try a few things. It was still early, but the time to get his ducks in a row was now.
A minute later, Sarah was out the door and Becker was alone with his chief of staff. The chime on his phone and a blinking light told him that his next appointment was ready. He pressed the button and said, “Give us a moment, please.”
Ron was taking notes in his leather binder, muttering something to himself. He repositioned his glasses and wrote some more. Becker had worked with him long enough to know to leave him alone when he was like this. This was what Becker referred to as one of his genius moments. It was the way he made his calculations. At last he looked up and took his glasses off.
“I like it. I think it will play well. The libertarians will like the fact that we’re not putting our troops overseas and instead focusing on something closer to home. The base will like it because it uses our troops to damage a clear villain. And everyone will like it because it takes a strong stance in the war on drugs.”
“Now I know you’re lying. There’s never a time when everyone likes it.”
“Everyone that matters,” Ron said.
Senator Becker said, “It’ll be a gamble. I’ll be like a peacock with my feathers out during the primary, which I know worries you.”
“Maybe, sir, but—”
“I know what you’re going to say. We’ll need to consider the increased scrutiny we’ll be under.” Becker gave Ron a knowing look.
“I am sorry for any problems I’ve caused us, sir. I should have been more careful.”
The senator ignored him. “Even the hint of impropriety can get blown out of proportion. The opposition research we’ve faced thus far will be nothing compared to a presidential campaign.”
“The contributions were from a 501c. The FEC has no ability to link it back to—”
“You received death threats.”
“Sir, they were trying to play hardball.”
“Your lobbyist friend is dead.”
Ron paused, choosing his words, then said, “Sir, if you want me to go to the police—let them know that you had no knowledge of any of it…I’ll fall on my sword, sir.”
Becker slammed his hand down on the desk and pointed at Ron. “Don’t be naïve. Saying that won’t make a difference in the papers.”
Ron looked like a beaten dog. “Sir, you could always call off the vote. Or amend the bill to be friendlier to the…investors.”
“I’m not going to be bullied. People buy into my agenda. Not the other way around.”
“Sir, I never meant to suggest that your strategy wasn’t the right choice.”
“You leaned on me, Ron.”
“Sir, I gave you sound counsel.”
“Which happened to align with the direction Dahlman and his backers were pushing you.”
“Sir, this bill is counter to many of your own previous stances. My advice lined up with your own—”
Becker cut him off. “Things change. Now I need to know you’re loyal to me.”
“Of course, sir.”
“If people start poking around, this could get ugly.”
“I understand.”
“Your professional relationship with Dahlman can’t become an issue for me.”
Ron reddened. “Yes, sir.”
Becker said, “You know as well as I do that those clients of his play by a different set of rules. Well, now we’re not in their favor anymore. We obviously can’t go to the authorities because we don’t want them digging around and finding out who you’ve been drinking beers with at Bullfeathers.” He leaned forward and whispered, “But for God’s sake, they just shot someone dead. Now I need you to clean up this mess. Figure it the hell out.”
Chapter 8
Renee, Trent, and Max said their goodbyes to the Carpente
r family and flew to Virginia. From there they were picked up by a sleek private jet.
“Courtesy of Charles Fend,” said Max with a wink.
Trent whistled. “The royal treatment. Please give my thanks to your dad.”
Max said, “It’ll help us fit with our cover. The wealthy playboy that I play so well, my trophy girlfriend, and our private security man slash luggage boy.”
“Trophy girlfriend?” Renee asked.
“Well, I didn’t want to say eye candy. I thought you might be offended.”
Trent said, “I’m fine with you calling me a luggage boy as long as there’s some free booze on board. Hell, usually when they have me fly, the rear ramp gets opened and they ask me to leave halfway through the flight. This should be much better.”
Max turned to Renee. “It’s important, in the world of spy tradecraft, that you fully embrace the transformation into your cover assignment. You’ll need to act like a devoted, fawning girlfriend who completely worships and adores her man.”
Renee blinked. “That sounds awful. Why can’t I just be myself?”
Two hours later, the jet was headed southwest. Trent slept in the rear of the cabin, aided by two glasses of bourbon on the rocks.
Renee sat in a cream leather chair opposite Max, chewing gum, her thin MacBook Pro on her lap, white earbuds in her ears. Max recognized the pattern. She was in work research mode. Hyperfocused learning, she called it. Conducting her due diligence at the beginning of a new project.
“Look at this.”
She turned her computer so that he could see the screen. “Do you know that since 1999, over half a million people in the United States have died from drug overdoses?”
“Half a million?”
“Yes. And the overdose deaths are rapidly increasing—mainly due to the rise in opioid addiction.”
Max had been reading up on the cartels on his tablet. Encrypted intel documents sent by Wilkes.
“You know we won’t be able to solve the opioid crisis, right? That’s not what this is about, Renee.”
She ignored him and began typing, her fingers racing over the black keys.
“Hello?”
“Wait,” was all she said.
