by Ridge King
“I haven’t seen you since lunch. How’d it go with Norwalk today?”
“I’m going up to Camp David with him tonight. He wants to grill a couple of steaks and get drunk,” St. Clair raised his eyebrows.
“Bonding time, huh?” said Jack.
“I guess so.”
“I can’t see Jeffrey Norwalk getting drunk.”
“And I can’t see him grilling two steaks in the dead of winter outside some cabin in the Maryland mountains.”
“Maybe you’ll have to do the grilling and the drinking,” said Jack.
They both laughed.
“How long will you be in Miami?”
“Just a couple of days. Some business with the Agency and then I’m back up here with Babe for the Ball.”
“OK, son. I’ll let you go. Take care of Sofia for me, will-ya?”
“You bet, Dad.”
They hugged and Jack trotted out to the plane.
As he approached the plane, he saw Rafael coming down the air stairs.
“Everything OK?” asked Jack.
“Yeah. Pilot needs a minute, that’s all. They’re crosschecking now.”
“Glad you came out here.” He touched Rafael on the elbow and they moved away from the loud whine of the jet engines as the pilot throttled up the power.
“You want to talk about that guy we picked up down at Fort Jefferson?”
“I do, yeah.”
“You know, Jack, I had a feeling the guy was a son of a bitch, but Skye was in such a rush to get back to Miami I couldn’t do what we needed to do.”
“When we get back home, I’ll fill you in on all the details, how I know about the guy, all that.”
“I really want to hear all this, Jack.”
“Thing is, I might have to put together a team to do a little underwater intervention.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“You know Duarte came off a narco-sub. But you don’t know that he knows where it is, that he lied to the DEA when they debriefed him after you guys dropped him off in Miami.”
“No shit? How the fuck you know all this?”
“I’ll fill you in when we get home. You and the Coast Guard might be able to help.”
* * *
The interior of the Bombardier had two seats in the aft section that reclined into beds, and this is where they settled Sofia so she could rest. The rest of the party moved forward and kept their voices low.
When Babe and Ramona’s assistant Lourdes got deep into conversation, Ramona turned to Jack after looking over her shoulder to make sure Sofia was asleep.
“You’ll have a little time for me tomorrow, Jack?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got it all set up for you to meet Lucy Azzinaro. She handles most of our international wire transfer activity. She’ll be your eyes and ears inside the law firm.”
“You think it’s possible she might already have a grasp on what Derek’s been up to?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to get into any of this with her. It’s better you bounce this ball along, Jack, not me.”
“That’s what I do—follow the bouncing ball.”
“I wonder where it will lead you,” said Ramona just as Sofia moaned and called out.
Ramona got up to go to her, leaving Jack momentarily alone.
He’d been careful not to mention to his dad any of the work he was doing. He tried to keep everything he did at the Agency strictly confidential, just as it was supposed to be between him and his clients. Babe also knew nothing.
* * *
By the time the Bombardier landed at Opa Locka Airport west of Miami, it was nearly dusk as Governor St. Clair’s limo passed through the private access gate on the west side of the White House used by VIPs who were going to see the President.
St. Clair got out of the car followed by Chief of Staff Francis Clougherty.
“Do you even want me to go in, Governor?” said Clougherty as they approached the side entrance to the West Wing. Two Marine guards snapped to attention and whipped open the doors.
Roebuck was waiting for them. St. Clair turned and shook hands with Clougherty.
“You take the car back, Francis. They’ll see me on from here.”
“The President’s waiting for you, Governor,” said a smiling Roebuck, turning on his heel. St. Clair knew to follow. They went into the Oval Office where Norwalk greeted him. He didn’t even get his overcoat off before an aide slipped a topcoat over Norwalk’s shoulders and they headed out to the South Lawn toward the Sikorsky VH-60N, its rotors whirring in the wind. A smattering of staff and a skeleton crew from the press corps watched them traverse the lawn, the frozen grass crunching under their feet.
St. Clair knew that it would be all over the news tonight that he had accompanied President Norwalk to Camp David. He wondered what he’d tell people tomorrow that they discussed tonight. He thought the best thing to say was, “Strategy. The President and I discussed strategy. No further comment.”
The weather had cleared temporarily, and St. Clair was just able to make out the stunning winter sunset over the Catoctin Mountains as Marine One roared over the tiny town of Frederick, Maryland.
Two other Sikorsky choppers followed them, one a decoy and another carrying staffers and Secret Service personnel.
The choppers landed at the expansive helipad and were greeted by a passenger van and a couple of SUVs and Secret Service agents. Norwalk led the way and St. Clair followed him into a Range Rover for the short drive to Aspen Lodge, the President’s cabin at Camp David.
Inside the living room, Norwalk nodded to a Navy steward.
“Ron will show you to your room, Governor. Meet me back here for a drink after you freshen up.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
He followed Ron down a hallway, noticing that the cabin had three bedrooms on this side. He assumed the President had a master suite on the other side of the building. Aspen Lodge was quite a large house for a little “cabin” in the woods, he mused.
“Here you are, Governor St. Clair,” said Ron, opening the door to his paneled room.
Ron closed the door behind him, leaving St. Clair alone. He went to the closet and saw that his things, which had been sent over earlier in the afternoon, had been unpacked for him. Toiletries were laid out in the bathroom. It looked as if he’d been living there a week. Pajamas and bathrobe were laid out on the bed.
St. Clair was a rich man in his own right. He lived in a stone mansion on St. Clair Island many would consider as nice if not nicer than the White House. But he still couldn’t get over the lifestyle a President enjoyed. As the governor of Florida, he lived in a bubble, he supposed. But as President he could look forward to living in a bubble made of hard steel.
On the drive over from the helipad, they’d passed several cars and seen thirty or forty people milling about: workers, cooks, servants, laborers, Marines, Navy guards. He was curious how many people actually worked up in this remote enclave. Must be a couple of hundred.
He went into the bathroom and rinsed his hands, dabbing his eyes with water.
Back in the bedroom, he pulled off his suit jacket, removed his necktie and pulled on a burgundy sweater.
Moving back along the corridor, St. Clair returned to the living room just as Norwalk poured a drink at the bar in the corner.
“What’s your poison, Governor?”
“Oh, Scotch. Any kind is fine.”
“We have a well-stocked bar up here at Camp David. Didn’t get much use when Jimmy Carter was President. In fact, I think his wife had them clear away all the booze and only got it out when they had guests.”
“Maybe she was afraid Jimmy would sneak around at night looking for a little nip.”
“I never understood those Carters. The way he used to carry his own garment bag, which was empty.”
“Just for show.”
Norwalk settled into a chair after handing St. Clair’s glass to him.
“Whatever differences among us, we’re all still politicians. Everything’s for show.”
“You have a point,” said St. Clair, taking a sip from his glass.
“I was heading out to Marine One last year and walked over to the press corps cordoned off to the side. One of the reporters asked me why I didn’t wave to them as much as I used to. I remember laughing and telling him, ‘I don’t have to anymore. I got reelected!’ ”
St. Clair laughed. Norwalk was right. Everything they did when in the public eye was calculated to produce a desired effect.
The steward came back into the room.
“Yes, Ron?”
“They said you wanted to cook out tonight, Mr. President.”
“That’s right.”
“There’s a wind getting up, Mr. President. It might be a little cold out on the terrace.”
Norwalk held up his glass.
“Well, if you’ll bring that bottle from the bar and fill up our glasses, I think we’ll be warm enough.”
It turned out the wind did get up. Norwalk himself grilled the steaks—two thick bone-in rib eyes that later proved to be as tasty as they looked.
The wind drove them inside, however, and they feasted on the meat with a mixed green salad accompanied by a nice bottle of old Zinfandel from California’s Heitz Cellar. It was so good Norwalk had Ron break out a second bottle. After Ron opened the bottle, Norwalk sent him out of the room.
“I can see why you like Camp David so much,” said St. Clair.
“You’ll like it, too, Sam.”
“You talk like I’ve already won the election, Mr. President. I haven’t.”
“We’re working hard to get you elected, Sam.”
“I know you are.”
“When you’re President, you’ll find out that Camp David is one of the few places where you can feel really alone.”
St. Clair laughed out loud.
“Alone? Even when we were out there grilling these rib eyes, how many people had eyes on us?”
“Oh, a couple of dozen, probably. Up here, it’s easier for them to keep their distance. Here you can have the impression you’re alone. Even though you never really are.”
“I noticed you sent most of the people that came up here with us back to Washington.”
“Yes. Some of the senior people expect me to have them for dinner, but I made it clear that I wanted to be alone with you.”
Norwalk poured out some more Zinfandel.
“I want to go over our policies one by one—domestic and foreign—just to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“I think we’re in agreement on most everything.”
“Yes, but I want to use this special—and very rare—time with you to give you my deepest thoughts on a wide variety of issues. You’ll disagree with me on some things, and when you’re President, it’s of course your duty to follow your conscious. But I want to use this chance to lay out why I’ve set my policies, to defend them, to sell them to you, if you will, so you will have the complete story.”
“That makes great sense, Mr. President.”
Norwalk held up the bottle of wine.
“We have plenty more of this, and later, there’s lots of Cognac and some really old Armagnac I’d highly recommend.”
“All right, Mr. President, whatever you say. But I do want to ask about Phil Slanetti again.”
St. Clair had had a bug in his ear ever since he met Slanetti after the election night deadlock that threw the decision into the House of Representatives.
“Phil, sure. What about him? You met with him, I know. We talked about him at lunch.”
“I still have an uneasy feeling about the guy.”
“A lot of people have an uneasy feeling about Phil. He’s like a cur dog, however, but tends to get the job done. As a Republican President faced with a Democratic Congress for eight long years, it’s been an uphill battle to implement my policies.”
“I understand that.”
“Phil is a fanatic, intensely loyal. He can be—sometimes unpleasantly so—persuasive.”
“I want you to tell me more about Phil and what he’s up to. I have a right to know.”
Norwalk regarded the man carefully.
“Yes, you do.”
They had finished dinner and while Ron and another steward cleared away the dishes, they moved to two large chairs in front of a crackling fire in the living room where Norwalk poured out generous portions of the aged Armagnac.
“This stuff will warm the cockles of your heart, Sam.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. President.”
“I hadn’t planned on divulging any of this to you, Sam, but you’re about to inherit the world’s toughest job, and you’re man enough for it. I hesitate to involve you in this because I originally wanted to keep you and your people at arm’s length from Phil’s activities.”
“All right.”
“When I had that tough reelection campaign four years go, I told Phil to start building secret files on every member of the House.”
“I remember—they did think the Electoral College would be deadlocked.”
“Throwing the election into the House.”
“Something that didn’t happen four years ago, but did happen this year.”
“Yes. It didn’t happen to me, but it did happen to you. We never used the information in those files. But I called Phil in on election night and asked him about them and he told me he’s been keeping those files current, so he’s going to use the dirt in them to persuade members in swing delegations to vote for you instead of Thurston.”
St. Clair sat quietly for a moment. He didn’t like a single word he was hearing.
“Phil never mentioned anything like this, Mr. President.”
“No, I told him not to. It’s a mountain of secret information we call the Keystone File. No one knows about it.”
“I can see why. Not even Eric Stathis?”
“My chief of staff is the last person I’d want to know. No one. Just me, Phil and now you. Eric Stathis is too honest.”
And by inference, St. Clair thought, he wasn’t. So this is how you get to be President, he thought. By blackmail and extortion.
Over the next hour Norwalk explained to St. Clair all the dirty details contained in the Keystone File.
They’d almost finished the fine bottle.
“As I recall, you served me a very good one of these when I visited you at Flagler Hall a couple of years ago.”
“That’s when you came down to convince me I should run for President.”
“That’s right. And you did.”
“You can be very persuasive, Mr. President.”
“When I have to be,” the old man smiled, holding his glass filled with the amber liquid up against the roaring fire.
“Yes, you were the seventh President to visit Flagler Hall, starting with Teddy Roosevelt.”
“I don’t feel so special now.”
“Well, you ought to, Mr. President.”
“Why?”
St. Clair laughed.
“You were the only one of seven ever offered that Armagnac.”
Chapter 21
Lucy’s Confidential Files
Jack pulled into the bayfront parking lot at Monty’s in the Grove, got out and walked down the boardwalk onto the outdoor deck overlooking the marina. He saw Ramona Fuentes with another woman at a table under one of the thatched roofs all the way down by the water. It was four in the afternoon, so the usually busy Monty’s was dead quiet, just a few people in shorts and t-shirts from the boats hanging around at the bar eating greasy chicken wings and slamming back beers. A persistent whirring sound came from two dozen ceiling fans that kept the air moving. The sun sparkled off the waters of Sailboat Bay. It was hot, especially for November.
“Hope I’m not late,” he said as he came up to the table.
“Not at all,” said Ramona. “We just got here ourselves. This is Lucy Azzinaro.”
L
ucy shook Jack’s hand and Jack could feel a certain electricity pulse through his hand into his body. It was just something he couldn’t put his finger on, but Lucy undeniably had something, a strange kind of sex appeal. None of this came from her looks. She looked a little like a poor woman’s Gloria Estefan, who in Jack’s opinion looked like a common maid who might well be working as a hotel cleaning woman as sitting in her Star Island home eating bon-bons. Lucy was short and looked like she was always struggling with a weight problem, like Gloria, with that same straggly dark brown hair that no amount of styling could really control. She had penciled in eyebrows higher than her normal eyebrows, which had been shaved off. She had a weak smile that always looked forced. She was an altogether unattractive woman, but she had a certain something that made Jack feel she was a champion in the sack.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. St. Clair,” she said with a disarming smile.
“Everyone’s heard a lot about Jack Houston St. Clair,” said Ramona with a smirk. “Sit down, Jack.”
Jack took a seat next to Lucy as a waitress ambled over. Jack saw the women were drinking iced tea.
“Beck’s beer. You ladies having something to eat?”
“No, we’ve had lunch.”
“I’ll have a dozen oysters then, on the half shell, extra lemon and extra horseradish.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought it would be better if we met outside the office. It’s like a telenovela in there, all the drama,” said Ramona.
“You’ve talked to Lucy about what I need?”
“I didn’t get into too much detail, but yes. Jack’s interested in the transactions and wire transfer activity between us and Dade International Bank, Lucy.”
“I see,” said Lucy quietly, casually throwing a glance at Jack. “It’s just a series of wires to vendors.”
“What’s the volume?”
“Millions. Tens of millions. Depends on the month.”
“Same payees?”
