by Stephen Frey
“Shit!” Webb kicked at a twig on the path. His pleasant walk had just been ruined.
Rhodes cringed. Sometimes it wasn’t good to be the bearer of bad news, even if you had nothing to do with it and the information was valuable.
“That bastard. He ought to know when to keep his mouth shut. Christ, it’s a top-secret project and he’s got to be a bleeding heart. He just doesn’t know how the game is played. I can’t stand this new breed of do-gooders and their politically correct platforms. They don’t know what it means to defend a nation. They’ve never had to fight a war.” Webb looked at Rhodes menacingly. He was breathing hard. “The hell with Walker. It doesn’t matter. The plane’s already past the prototype stage. It’s already gone to full production.”
“I guess Walker lost his informant out at Area 51 and got scared that someone might put the clamp on him, so he’s going public as soon as possible.”
Webb nodded. Commander Pierce had done an excellent job of silencing Captain Nichols.
“Walker’s going to try to whip up public sentiment against the project,” Rhodes continued. “Apparently he’s got numbers on how much the A-100 will cost taxpayers.” Rhodes shook his head. “I must say, it’s a huge contract. If Senator Walker doesn’t railroad this thing, GEA shareholders will make out very well. I only wish one of my clients could have had a chance to bid on the plane a few years ago when it was offered, but I never heard a word about it. I’ve been here a long time. Usually I hear everything. GEA must have snapped up the contract very quietly.” Rhodes flashed an accusatory look at Webb. He knew what had happened.
Webb saw the look but ignored it. “I could make things very uncomfortable for Senator Walker. Perhaps I should pay him a visit before the press conference.”
“Walker would wonder how you found out.” Rhodes was suddenly worried. He didn’t want to be brought into this via the front page of the Washington Post. His clients wouldn’t be happy about that.
Webb understood the lobbyist’s concern immediately. “Don’t worry, Phil. Your name will never be mentioned.”
Relief ebbed through Rhodes’s body. Senator Webb had proved to be a man of his word. Anonymity would be maintained. “There’s one other thing you need to know.” Rhodes was willing to talk more freely now that the senator had promised secrecy. “Another reason you really might want to consider taking action against him.”
“What is that?”
“Apparently he has decided to go public with what he knows about the black budget in general. How it works, who is involved. He’ll do it at the same news conference at which he plans to reveal the existence of the A-100.” Rhodes sensed Webb’s anger rising. “I thought you might want to know that.”
“Prick!” Rage erupted violently inside Webb. Then, as quickly as it had exploded, it dissipated. This wasn’t disaster at all, it was the opportunity they had been waiting for.
He turned to Rhodes. “Phil, there’s a very large, very lucrative Army transport helicopter contract on the horizon. I think one of your clients will be very happy in the near future when he wins that contract, which means you’ve just earned yourself a nice fat fee tonight.” Webb clasped the lobbyist’s hand and pumped it hard.
Rhodes smiled at Webb curiously as they shook, uncertain of exactly what had just happened but ecstatic in the knowledge that he had just secured what sounded like a multibillion-dollar contract. “Thank you, Senator.”
“No, thank you, Phil. Take care of yourself. I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”
Rhodes spoke up quickly. “Senator, could I ask you a question before you go?”
Webb nodded.
“Why have you spent so long on Capitol Hill? I mean, you were an attorney before being senator, isn’t that correct?”
Webb nodded again.
“It’s just that you could have made so much more money in private practice, and without all the hassles of public life. Without every joker you’ve ever met looking for a handout. Why do you keep coming back to Washington?”
Webb peered at Rhodes. Rhodes could never know the real truth about the money side. But the question was an interesting one, and its directness had taken him by surprise. “Power,” he finally admitted. It was the first time he had ever answered that query to anyone—including himself.
“What do you mean?”
“The ability to manipulate people. To make them do whatever you want.”
Chapter 16
Voices rich in gospel song rose from the choir as the Reverend Elijah Pitts moved deliberately across the church’s rostrum toward the raised pulpit. As he climbed the first of fifteen steps leading to the apex, the all-black congregation stood, raised their hands above their heads, and joined the choir.
When he reached the pulpit and stretched his arms out toward them, the celebration reached a frenzied crescendo. Men, women and children sang, clapped and swayed rhythmically to the piano so intensely that conversing with even the person immediately to the left or right would have been impossible. But it didn’t matter. No one wanted to talk. They were there to see Elijah Pitts, supreme leader of the organization known as Liberation for African-Americans, and all eyes were upon him.
LFA had existed for only three years, but already numbered over half a million members. Its purpose was simple—to promote the advancement of Maryland’s African-American population through nonvio-lent means. And in thirty-six short months, with the charismatic Reverend Pitts at the helm, LFA had become a force to be reckoned with.
Pitts raised his outstretched arms slowly and leaned back until he was facing heavenward. Bodies quivered and voices sang, until they could sing no louder. Only the reverend’s bodyguards—twenty large young men dressed in dark suits, dark bow ties, white shirts, and dark glasses, positioned before the stage—did not join in the rapture. They stood perfectly still, hands crossed before them, faces expressionless.
Pitts brought his arms down and three hundred voices fell suddenly silent. “Brothers and sisters, I am honored to be here this evening.” His voice was deep and mesmerizing. A woman in the front row screamed his name, then collapsed, but he took no notice as one of the bodyguards picked her up and carried her away. “Each time I see a congregation like yours, I am elated. I see that what was only a dream three years ago has become reality. Children, we are half a million strong now. We cannot be ignored. Our voices are being heard loud and clear in Annapolis and, more important, in Washington, D.C.”
A great cheer arose from the throng.
The reverend motioned for quiet again. “When we founded this organization, people ignored us.” His voice began to quake. “Rarely did I have my telephone calls returned. Rarely was I asked to join a panel or sit on a committee that was making decisions involving our people. Rarely was I asked for advice.” He stopped orating for a moment, then began nodding. “Now we have the power.”
Amens ascended from several in the crowd.
The reverend’s expression became triumphant.
The cheers grew louder.
“Now we are so busy I must ask my assistants to attend functions for me. Now we always have our telephone calls answered immediately without having to await a call back.”
People were jumping up and down, screaming his name. He had to yell to be heard even through the microphone. “And it is all because of people like you,” he roared. “Congregations like yours all across this great state of Maryland. We are being heard! We are a force! We will prevail!”
The applause thundered up to him. He took one step back on the pulpit, bowed slowly, then descended the stairs as the choir broke into another gospel tune. At the bottom of the stairs he proceeded back across the stage, turned and waved to the screaming crowd as he reached the far side, then disappeared behind a purple curtain.
“Beautiful performance, Reverend.” Derek Holmes, vice chairman of LFA, embraced Pitts as the reverend passed between the curtains. Holmes led the reverend through a gauntlet of bodyguards and well-wishers backstage to a
small door at the side of the church, where a limousine waited.
Once inside the limousine, Pitts reclined on the bench seat. “When is the next meeting?” he asked Holmes, rubbing his eyes.
“Nine o’clock,” Holmes replied. “We’ve got plenty of time—it’s only eight-thirty now.” The reverend had just finished his fourth engagement of the evening and there were still four more to attend. “Are you all right?” the younger man asked.
“Fine!” Pitts said loudly, sitting back up as the limousine pulled away from the church. “Absolutely fine. Just needed a few seconds’ rest and now I’m ready to go.”
Holmes was constantly amazed at the energy level Pitts—now sixty-one—could maintain. “Why don’t you catch twenty minutes of sleep? I’ll wake you up when we get to the next stop.”
“Nonsense, that would be wasted time. Besides, there’s something we need to discuss.” Pitts watched the lights of downtown Baltimore flash by.
“Oh?”
“Yes. We need to talk about Malcolm Walker.”
Holmes had anticipated that the topic would be Walker. Senator Walker had become an obsession with Elijah Pitts over the last few weeks. “What about him?”
The reverend stretched for a moment. “I told that congregation back there that we always have our phone calls returned nowadays, and that’s true except in one case. That case is Malcolm Walker. He has continued to try to maintain his distance from us.”
“But you know why,” Holmes said. “He believes if he is linked too closely to LFA in the minds of white voters, they will turn against him in the November election. And he’s probably right. The conservative media have successfully painted us as antiwhite, even though that tag couldn’t be further from the truth. Whites make up seventy-six percent of Maryland’s voting population, and Walker needs to keep the white vote he won six years ago to defeat Elbridge Coleman. It’s just a numbers game. He can’t win if he loses that white constituency.”
The reverend was unsympathetic. “He is a United States senator. One of the most recognized black men in this country. He needs to give us respect, publicly.”
Holmes said nothing. Pitts had broken into his sermon voice, and Holmes knew this was a subtle signal not to interrupt.
“Walker likes the title ‘senator’—no, cherishes it,” Pitts interrupted himself, “and all that goes with it. Derek, LFA has become a most powerful organization in Maryland, the state that gives him the title of senator. I could turn many of his voters against him, at least half a million, and take the title away. He is in a dead heat with Coleman right now. If he lost LFA, he would lose his seat. He must realize that I hold the power, not him. All I ask is that he give us the respect we are due.”
Holmes was tired of this conversation. They had engaged in it one way or another every day for the last week. “Why do you want him in your pocket so badly?”
“Because of what he could do for us. Think of it.”
“Reverend, we’ve done fine without him so—”
“He could take us to the next level,” Pitts interrupted the younger man. “He could bring us into the major leagues. Perhaps help us go national. He should be doing all he can to help his people.”
“I think he is, but he needs to win the election to keep doing that. That is how he can best serve us.”
“He needs to recognize his power base, as do all politicians.”
“Let Walker win in November,” Holmes said gently, “then try to forge the relationship.” It was his job to counsel, even if the reverend did not agree. That was what Pitts had said at the beginning of all this.
“I won’t have a stick after the election, Derek. No leverage. He could ignore me at that point.” Pitts pointed a finger at the younger man. “You worry me sometimes. You need to be more politically astute.”
“I’m as politically astute as anyone,” Holmes retorted. “I can’t believe you said that. You told me to always voice my opinion, no matter what, as long as I was in your presence alone. That’s what I’m doing.”
Pitts looked at Holmes defiantly for several moments, then his expression softened. “I’m sorry, Derek. You’ve always been my strongest adviser. I appreciate that.”
Holmes tried to swallow his resentment. “Why have you become so obsessed with Senator Walker?” There was still a trace of annoyance in his tone.
The reverend put his head back and closed his eyes.
“Reverend Pitts,” Holmes persisted. “Why?”
“Have you reviewed our finances lately, Derek?” The reverend’s tone was measured.
“No. I believe in division of labor. That isn’t my area of expertise, so I stay away from it.”
“We have a thousand dollars in the checking account. That’s barely enough to pay for this limousine tonight.”
Holmes’s mouth fell open. “Just a thousand dollars? How is that possible?”
“It takes money to run this organization, Derek. Lots of it. We’re growing so fast that congregation donations aren’t enough to sustain us. Someday they will be, but not yet.”
“All the same, I don’t see the connection between our need for cash and Malcolm Walker.”
The reverend hoped he wasn’t as transparent as he felt. “Our backers, the people who gave us seed money three years ago and who have kept us afloat since that time out of the generosity of their hearts and the courage of their convictions, have made it known to me that they want concessions from Walker now, while I can influence him. They have withheld their monetary support until I can forge that closer relationship with the good senator. They don’t share your view that it should wait until after the election. They want it to happen before.” Pitts paused for a moment. “We have to get that money soon, Derek. Very soon. I have a lot of people depending on me.”
Derek Holmes was quiet as he analyzed what he had just heard. He had never met these angels the reverend constantly referred to, and as far as he knew, neither had anyone else at LFA other than Pitts. Now he wanted answers, because suddenly he realized the angels’ motives might not be as pure as had so often been advertised. “Who are these people, Reverend Pitts?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we get their money.”
Holmes shook his head, trying to understand the reverend’s consistent avoidance of the question. And then suddenly the awful truth became clear, and Holmes turned away so the reverend wouldn’t see the shock in his eyes.
But Pitts had seen Holmes’s expression and sensed that the younger man had made the connection. “Derek,” he said gently. “Sometimes we all have to compromise ourselves in the short run to attain our long-term goals. Compromise and contradiction are an inescapable reality of our existence. A part of life we can’t avoid. We just do the best we can, and get on with it. That is what I do. That is what you must do.”
Chapter 17
The Corsica River was only ten miles long, but was broad and deep enough in its channel to allow even large sailboats access at low tide. The Corsica snaked its way west out of Maryland’s Eastern Shore, emptying into the Chester River, which itself emptied into the Chesapeake Bay a few miles farther west. At its headwaters the Corsica was only a small stream, but like most rivers here, as it became tidal, it widened quickly until it stretched several hundred yards across in most places.
Jesse stood next to David on the sailboat’s bridge as he carefully steered the thirty-seven-foot Dickerson through the choppy waters and the darkness, navigating by moonlight and a yellow running lamp at the bow. They had rented the exquisite craft—decked with teak and trimmed with mahogany—this morning at a Baltimore marina and had enjoyed a beautiful Saturday sailing the Chesapeake. Now they were headed to a place on the Corsica owned by a friend of David’s to stay the night.
The original plan for the day had been to return to the marina by dark, but the weather and the wind had been perfect, and by late afternoon they had found themselves far down the bay—too far from the marina to make it back by dark. David had made
a quick call to his friend on his cellular phone, and now they were navigating the Corsica, scanning the banks for the lights of the house.
David had been less than forthcoming about what to expect from his friend’s home, but had promised running water and—because Jesse had made it clear that they would not be spending the night together—separate bedrooms. Jesse had been hesitant to accept another invitation to be with David so quickly, but it had turned out to be an excellent opportunity to learn more about Sagamore. And, she had to admit, she had enjoyed a wonderful time.
“A penny for your thoughts, Jesse,” David said softly. “You’ve been awfully quiet for a while.”
She pulled up the collar of the cardigan sweater draped over her shoulders. The air had turned cool since sunset. “I was just thinking.”
“What about?”
“Sagamore and the fifth anniversary. The things you told me the other night at dinner. Things you told me today.”
“Don’t get too worked up about all that. I probably shouldn’t have said anything, really.” He flicked a mosquito from the back of his hand. “Look, it’s a good place to work. They expect a lot because they pay a lot. It’s just capitalism.”
“No no, I’m glad you told me. It didn’t scare me off.” She put her hand on the boom to steady herself as the boat swayed from side to side with the chop of the river. “I don’t get scared off easily.”
“Good.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” she murmured.
“What do you mean?”
“I probably won’t get an offer.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” David squinted through the darkness, trying to locate the next buoy upriver. He turned his face toward her for a moment to speak, his eyes still focused on the dark water ahead. “Red right returning, correct?”
“Aye.” David had proved to be a good sailor. “Do you really think Sagamore will make me an offer when I finish business school?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“But based on what I saw during my visit, the firm is looking for blue bloods. Like you. I don’t fit the profile. I didn’t go to an Ivy League school. My family doesn’t belong to a country club. I don’t even know how to order wine. You saw that the other night.”
