I pry my hand free of his. As if to rub salt into the wound, he slaps me hard on the injured rotator cuff in question. I wince.
“You’re...” I stammer. “...you’re Ronald Tusk.”
The President beams. He seems happy to be recognized. I glance up at the portrait over the fireplace. It’s the splitting image. “President Ronald Tusk,” he corrects, giving me a wink.
“You work for Red Shield,” I say.
The mood in the room suddenly shifts.
A man in a tuxedo – I think he’s the Secretary of State – coughs uncomfortably. I’ve obviously spoken the unspeakable. I look between the gathered men. No one dares look me in the eye.
“Can I have the room?” the President announces. People leave, including the woman with the earbud. But not everyone. When the door to the library closes, I assume those left in the room are Tusk’s inner circle.
“What’s that you say, Mr. Gant?” the President feigns deafness, cupping a meaty paw to his ear.
“You’re the President of the United States and you work for Red Shield.”
“Wrong,” Tusk replies, pointing a finger at me. “I’m the President of the United States. I work for the American People.” Tusk circles around his desk and drops into the large chair behind it. He begins to organize things on the desk, shifting the letter opener, moving a stack of papers.
I’m worried that he’ll notice the missing baseball. I’m not sure why. I have no idea what I plan to do with it. But I figure it’s best to keep him on his back foot. Distracted. “Cut the crap,” I attack. “We both know what this is all about.” I wish that was true. On that score, the President has me at a disadvantage.
“Good,” Tusk nods not looking at me. “Then we can talk business.”
“You need my Megalytics.” At the very least, I know that. “Well, I can’t help you.”
“Yes you can,” a man in a tuxedo to my left says. “And you will.”
“I won’t help you or Rothschild,” I say. “You can tell him that from me.”
Again, I’ve said something wrong. The President looks up from his desk and between his advisors. They all look bemused. Damn! I’ve put my foot in it. What did I say that was wrong?
“Mr. Gant,” the President looks me straight in the eye. “Your country needs you. Are you or are you not a patriot?”
“This has nothing to do with the country,” I dismiss. “If you needed me on official business, you wouldn’t have had your goons jump me in the subway.”
Tusk shrugs off this accusation. “Okay, maybe my people were a little heavy-handed, but time is short.” He reaches for a remote on his desk and turns on the large, flat screen television.
It’s a twenty-four hour cable news channel. One sympathetic to the President. They’re covering some story about a drop in the stock market. An unprecedented dip in after-hours trading. Experts are mystified.
So this does have something to do with the Fed. I wasn’t far off the scent.
“This,” Tusk points at the screen with his remote. “This is what you’re here to fix.”
Now’s the time I usually give my standard proviso: that Megalytics doesn’t work with money. But I don’t think Tusk is the kind of guy who listens to explanations. “I’m sorry,” is all I say. “I can’t help you.”
Tusk throws down the remote angrily. He’s back on his feet, turning red-faced. “Okay, now it’s time for YOU to cut the crap!” He circles the desk and pokes me hard in the chest with a meaty finger. “We have top men on this – very smart people – and they all say this...” He points the fat digit at the TV screen. “...is exactly what your Megalingticks is for!”
“Megalytics,” I correct. That’s a mistake. “I don’t know how to help you!” I blurt, trying to recover. “I know nothing about economics.”
“Oh, we’ve had our eye on you. Been keeping tabs on you for years, sunshine. Don’t think we don’t know what you’ve been up to...”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I look around the room, helpless to understand exactly what’s going on.
“You think we’re stupid, huh? Dumb?”
“No, no!”
“You think we can’t figure this stuff out for ourselves?”
“No - I mean, yes. I mean...” What do I mean?
“Sure, we can fix this. Make the economy beautiful. Prime the pump. Get America moving. Only eggheads like you keep knocking us back. Not giving the little guy a fair shake. Well, now it’s time for you eggheads to pull your weight. You know math, right, smart guy?”
“Sure, but-”
“And ain’t this math?”
“Well, yes, but-”
Tusk clicks his fingers. As if by psychic command, the doors to the library open, and the three dark-suited agents step in. “Okay, maybe we need to give you time to think this whole thing over. We’ve got Caribbean accommodations just waiting for smart guys like you. Maybe sweating it out in Gitmo will inspire you. I’d think long and hard on how you can be helpful.”
Tusk heads back to his desk and drops heavily into the chair.
“You can’t throw me in Gitmo!” I protest. “I’m an American citizen!”
“You’re a Russian spy, caught snooping around a Presidential estate,” Tusk wags a finger at me. “At least, that what it looks like to me.”
“Snooping? Your goons dragged me here. Against my will!”
“Perhaps not Russian,” the man in the tuxedo interjects. “I don’t think we’d want to bring up the Russian angle. How about North Korean?”
“Erh...” Tusk shrugs. “...he don’t look North Korean. In fact, he sort of looks like...” The President chuckles.
“No I don’t!” I scream in frustration.
“Okay, okay,” Tusk relents. “We’ll just go with North Korean...”
“No you won’t!” I exclaim, but the agents are already dragging me from the room. “I’ve never even been to North Korea!”
“Ain’t you from Berkley?” Tusk dismisses. “Pretty much the same deal.”
Chapter 13
“Caltech!” I manage to shout before the library doors close. I’m left staring at the beautiful wooden paneling, until one of the agent pulls me away, roughly.
Two of them virtually carry me off by the arms. The third pushes open a side door and leads us all down a poorly lit corridor. Men in white jackets are rushing back and forth, carrying trays of appetizers and drinks. I can hear the noises and smell the smells of a busy kitchen somewhere deep inside the house.
I won’t be leaving by the way I came in. Front doors, I get the feeling, are for those who please the President.
The corridor banks left, then right, then descends a flight of stars. I struggle against the hands holding me, pulling loose. “I can walk,” I say. The agents don’t protest, stepping back and letting me continue under my own power.
I reach into my jacket pocket and put a hand on the baseball.
I really have no idea why I took it. It was an impulse, a last-second decision I can’t undo. But now I turn the ball over in my hand, surely smearing whoever’s signature is on the ball. What the hell am I going to do with a baseball, I ask myself. I have no clue. But I surly have no interest in a one-way trip to Gitmo. I assume it would be one-way. It would have to be one way. Gitmo isn’t exactly the sort of place American citizens get to come home from.
I briefly consider throwing the ball at the back of the agent’s head in front of me. That might knock him out, but that would still leave me two agents, each with a black handgun holstered under his jacket, to contend with. Bad idea. But I need to think of something, and I need to think of something quick. They’d made the mistake of not cuffing me and there is the general chaos of the party to consider. Later on, there’d be cuffs and shackles and black bags over my head, but right now...
And all I have is this stupid baseball. Why didn’t I take that damn letter opener? I could have stuck that into one of the agents and grabbed his gun. With a gun, I could h
ave shot the other two agents. I could be halfway to California already. But no, I had to pick the baseball.
Way to go, smart guy.
At the bottom of the stairs, we take another corridor toward the back of the mansion. If it’s possible, there’s even more men in white jackets here, exchanging empty trays for full ones. There are a dozen or so service carts all lined up along one side of the corridor. They’re covered in pristine white table clothes, each carrying two of those large, silver serving troughs you get breakfast out of at a hotel. We pass them, and I can smell the warming food. Beef, if I’m not mistaken. Each platter has a small Sterno can under its belly, keeping everything warm.
That gives me an idea.
I stealthily take the baseball out of my pocket. I look up over my head. Sprinklers. Everything looks up to code in Tusk’s palatial mansion. In my right fist, I grasp the baseball in a tight knuckle ball. I’ll have only one chance; I’d better make it count.
At the end of the corridor, there’s a door. When the agent in front of me pauses to reach for the handle, I make my move. I spin on my heels, bring the baseball back, and throw it. A perfect pitch. The ball sails back down the hall and collides with one of the great silver serving trays. The tray gongs like a bell, the ball ricochets off, and...
...nothing. The tray wobbles a bit but decidedly refuses to fall over. The baseball bounces on the ground, rolling to a stop. The two agents behind me look back, watching the path of the baseball, and then turn to each other in total incomprehension. When they look back at me, they’re angry, reaching under their coats for their guns.
Then something happens. Finally. And I wish I could take credit for any of it. It really turns out to work pretty well. But it’s all dumb luck. Chance. At least, I think it is…
Down the corridor, totally ignorant of my scheme to upend things with a baseball, the men in white jackets rush to and fro, getting ready for another round of drinks, or a second course, or something. One catches my baseball with his toe and sends it sailing down the corridor. It hits another waiter right in the ear, sending his full tray of champagne flying. There’s an almighty crash as the crystal hits the floor, instantly followed by a second waiter pratfalling on the spilled champagne. He back flips into the line of waiting service carts, loaded with the heating trays. They topple over, one after the other, like dominoes. Thud, thud, thud, with the last going over the edge, tipping its Sterno heater out onto the white tablecloth. That catches fire, fast, and flames lick up the side of the corridor wall. One final waiter adds fuel to the fire, literally, as he tries to extinguish the small blaze with pitcher of some drink he’s carrying. That is a bad idea, as his drink is something well over one-hundred proof. The whole thing goes up in a great ball of flames, sending white jackets toppling like a seven-ten split.
It’s like watching a Rube Goldberg machine unwind. I watch it all, helpless to intervene. The explosion, the heat, the screams of pain, and the subsequent deluge from the sprinkler system, cause the two agents to pause, their guns half-raised.
They turn to behold the chaos. That moment of inattention is all I need.
The third agent is behind me, blocking the door. But I have no intention of escaping that way. The two agents in front of me have their backs turned. I plow heedlessly forward, tackling them both, stumbling and slipping in the torrent of falling water. I run toward the smoke and fire. The agents go over, face first to the floor. Nobody has a hand on me, as I dive down a side corridor, away from the devastation.
I take a door, then another, then sprint across a busy kitchen. There’s a pair of double doors, and I’m in the corridor again, well past the burning service carts and smoldering white jackets. I stop running, walking casually away from the explosion. Another turn and I come face-to-face with a rack of white jackets – just the jackets, this time, no people in them. I quickly pull off my bespoke, Savile Row tweed and exchange it for one off the rack.
I double back and join the line of waiters not actively fighting the fire down the corridor. When it’s my turn, I pick up a tray of drinks and head back out into the party.
Chapter 14
I might as well be on another planet. Brown skin, white jacket: the perfect one-percenter camouflage. At a party like this, nobody pays attention to the staff. The agents could spend the whole night searching for me and never find me on the party floor. I serve my drinks and make my way toward the back of the mansion. When my tray is empty, I slip out onto the grand veranda and find a tray of appetizers to carry.
The party is raging out there, too, all the way down to the Long Island Sound. Boats are puttering around in the water, decked out in lanterns and lights. I mingle, but my appetizers are less popular than the drinks. I still have half a tray by the time I reach a hedgerow south of the veranda. I scoop up a handful and shove them in my mouth, tossing the tray away into the hedge.
Out of sight of partygoers, I circle around the house, away from the water. The ground is wet here, and my shoes sink deep in the mud. Oh, my poor shoes. I look down in disappointment. Is there no indignity too vile?
Heedless to the cost, I push on and soon can make out the glass outline of the conservatory in the darkness. Through the glass, I see the lights are still on in President Tusk’s office. Moving as silently as I can, I slog through the mud, toward a window in the building proper.
The lead-paned window is slightly ajar. When I’m near, I hear the sound of the cable news channel coming from inside. Tusk is still watching the news, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, fidgeting with the remote control. The news isn’t good. The stock market is still crashing, unlikely to recover. Experts are baffled. Democrats are blaming Republicans, Republicans are blaming Democrats. In a matter of hours, whole fortunes have been wiped out – people’s savings, retirement funds gone. Crowds are taking to the streets in protest. The National Guard has been called.
I linger at the window. There’s nothing left for me to see inside, but the news on the television is disconcerting. What the hell is going on and exactly what do people think I can do about it?
Nothing, I tell myself; this is all some sort of stupid misunderstanding. I’m just about to back away from the window, when I see the headlights of a car approaching the conservatory. I duck down, hiding in the bushes. Perhaps I lingered a little too long.
The car stops, the headlights die. A door opens. Shoes crunch against the gravel then thunder on steps, up into the greenhouse. Then there are voices inside Tusk’s office.
“What the hell are you playing at?” a woman’s voice demands. I almost leap up out of my hiding place. It’s Eve! I’m sure of it. More cautiously, I leave the cover of my bush and return to the window. Inside, it’s Eve, dressed in a different but equally stunning, evening gown.
“What? What?” President Tusk says, defensively. He doesn’t get out of his chair.
“I had everything under control,” Eve continues, angrily. She throws her purse down on Tusk’s desk, and pulls her shawl off her shoulders. She tosses this onto her purse. “And then you come barging in with your Praetorian Guard–”
“Oh,” Tusk dismisses, waving the remote at Eve. “Your little Mission Impossible fantasy was never going to work. We’ve wasted precious time that we just don’t have.” Tusk points the remote at the TV, turning up the volume.
“It was working!” Eve stamps her foot, furious. “I almost had him, back there at the helicopter.”
“He jumped!” Tusk laughs.
“Yes!” Eve stops herself, spitting mad. She takes a second to calm herself down. “Yes, he jumped. You and I both know that jumping was always a calculated possibility. The Rubric indicated a sixteen point-”
“Ah, your Rubric is full of crap,” Tusk interrupts. “Sixteen-point four percent chance that wonder boy there would be a red smear on the sidewalk of New York? Well, he ain’t. And I’ve had enough of your Foundation and its infernal math. I’m taking over from here.” Tusk turns his attention back to the TV.
�
��You idiot!” Eve snatches the remote from the President’s hand, turning off the television. “You know our plan had the best probability of producing results! In the shortest time! And now, what are we going to do?” She points at the silent television. “With people already out in the streets!”
“Ah, he’ll come around,” Tusk dismisses, trying to snatch his remote control back.
“Come around? Come around?” Eve is incensed. “You can’t just waterboard him into helping us!”
“I don’t know,” Tusk shrugs. “It works with the Syrians.”
“And to bring him here of all places? And today of all days? Are you insane?”
“Look! You’re not calling the shots here!” Tusk yells back, finally getting angry.
But I’ve stopped listening. I’m backing away from the window. I’m numb from the neck up. The intense feeling of elation I’d felt, realizing that Eve was still alive had quickly vanished into a horrible pit in my stomach. Tusk and Eve are working together. The whole evening had been some sort of game to get me to help them with...what? The news says the stock market is crashing. And I’m somehow supposed to stop that? With my Megalytics? No, it’s all insane. I just want to get away. I begin to squelch away in the mud.
“What’s that?” Eve says inside the library. I freeze, mid-step. “What are those lights?”
I look back through the window. Eve has noticed the fire alarm lights flashing.
Tusk shrugs. He, of course, has no idea.
On cue, the three dark-suited agents burst through the door. They’re sopping wet from head to toe.
“He’s gone,” one says.
“Find him!” Tusk jumps to his feet.
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