by Jake Aaron
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“Sam, have your people learned anything more on the death of Congresswoman Paige?” Jesus shook his head in disgust.
Beau wanted to give his friend Sam time to think. “Not to interrupt Sam, but this is a helluva note… Reminds me of that punch line that I hope never applies to the United States, but given current events… Hey, this is good whiskey… The joke is that during the Troubles, Mick in New York says his uncle Aidan liked living in Northern Ireland because it was a very, very safe place to live. ‘Really,’ replies his buddy Shawn, ‘what does he do?’ Without skipping a beat, Mick shoots back, ‘Oh, he’s the rear gunner on a bakery truck.’’’
The table roared at the old joke. Everything is funnier with fermented barley dimming the brain.
“Nothing like good Irish whiskey to bring out the homeland blarney.” John bowed for bringing in the ambrosia.
Sam was grateful for the time to decide what he should and should not release in this setting. He trusted every man in the poker group implicitly. Here was the last bastion of trust between differing personalities and belief systems, very much unlike today’s Washington, DC, political climate. However, he knew nothing is ever really off-the-record. Words have wings: Husbands trust their spouses, spouses trust their best friends. What had Ben Franklin said? Oh yes, Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead… He nodded knowingly to thank Beau for the extra time to compose his thoughts. “We had what looks to be a carefully crafted terrorist attack. I can’t comment on whether we had any specific intelligence pinpointing the Congresswoman as a target…”
Justice Jesus was used to asking questions. “The news said she had protection at the time. What happened?”
“Frankly, the threat against big spending congresspersons caused us to watch over the Congresswoman. I have to take responsibility for the agents’ lack of vigilance at the scene…”
Beau interrupted, “I have to wade in here, and I must tell you the facts of playing defense. If a wrongdoer is willing to pay the price, it is extremely difficult, maybe impossible to thwart him, especially if the only guards are in plain sight.”
“That is food for thought for the protection details,” Sam went on. “And we will take a hard look at how we protect in the future… The Secret Service will be enhancing FBI efforts going forward. The President just ordered it. And the team of two agents currently working the case will have eight more investigators assigned directly to it.” Sam ended with authority.
Congressman John McClain could read a room. “Sam, just for the record. In case you’re still keeping files like J. Edgar Hoover, I did not ask any questions.” All laughed. “In all seriousness — I’d say seriosity if I were kidding, there is a pall across the Congress. I mean the mood is morbidly grim. My colleagues are all skittish. Who would believe death threats to Congress over spending? Spending is our job.”
Nate did not smile. “It’s classic: Scarcity of resources leads to conflict. Symptomatic of our great deficits, our demands exceed our resources. We overspend on the nonessential and unproductive, and cut back on the necessary and economically leveraged. When any organization has its resources cut back, there are always problems. My brother is in computer sales. A slash in his company’s budget has killed bonuses and salary increases. Heck, his district sales manager blames my brother personally for what is in fact a national drop off in demand for that productive sector… My brother wishes he were that powerful. Anyway, layoffs are in the cards, so to speak… The military is no exception, budget cuts for us have demoralized my people… We’re all going to have to live with the new reality: We just can’t do ‘business as usual’ and keep spending the way we have.”
Sam nodded, “I’m with you, Nate. Congress must stop overspending.”
Hoping to keep the group from getting too serious, Jesus mused, “We don’t need no stinking reality… Maybe Congress can just repeal the laws of economics.”
“Jesus, those laws — are they constitutional amendments or routine appropriations bills signed into law?” John frowned in feigned earnestness.
Beau smiled, “This group reminds me of my minister’s talking about his difficult congregation: “These are the souls that try men’s times.”
Nate led the toast, “I will drink to that. In fact, I’m good with almost anything, as long as we five can meet on an occasional Friday night… John, bring a kevlar vest.”
“Nate, I don’t need a kevlar vest. History is on my side.”
“So is the mob you have promised bread and circuses. John,” Nate jabbed, “are you leading the lemmings or following them?”
John took a deep theatrical breath, then began, “Seriously, the question of spending is really one of where you draw the line, isn’t it? It’s not as simple as ‘we don’t need no stinking big government.’ It boils down to individual groups, categories, and ultimately bills that need to be considered. I’m not some left-leaning ideologue. I take issues as they come. I try to be fair. I listen to all sides. I look at the pros and cons. I consider what’s best for the nation… Then I vote for whatever will get me reelected.”
There was a short pause while the other four digested John’s candor. Then simultaneously each card player erupted in laughter.
Nate waited for the guffaws to fade. “No joke. When austerity is the cure, it takes statesmen and a well-informed, intelligent electorate. I currently see neither… Shall we drink to the children?”
“Nate,” John shot back, “we could toast big business, big oil, big bankers, the rich, or the military industrial complex. None of those has too good a ring to it, though, does it? I’m not going to apologize for coming down on the side of the little guy or gal or the children. When we have evil corporations exploiting labor, polluting the environment, and stealing the wealth of the Nation, there has to be some accountability. When big interests are ripping off the fruits of the middle class’s labor, there needs to be social justice.”
“As you said,” Beau reminded, “John, you have voted for each of those entities you badmouthed when you needed to, in order to get re-elected. We’ve pursued justice since the founding of the country. Isn’t social justice just another carve-out you and your fellow travelers exploit for accumulating power? In my book, social justice is pretty much another term for socialism. Clever, by half, to put a new name on a failed ideology.”
“At worst, social justice is a mirage. If you try to get specific, it disappears. It appeals to the the hearts of the naive and ill-informed. It is ephemeral. It has a different meaning to everyone. A great slogan, an impossible agenda,” Sam offered. “Of course, that is my humble opinion.”
“Let’s toast rich children,” Jesus laughed. “Why do I always have to play Solomon?”
The ensuing laughter would not have occurred if the five knew what the following month would bring.
Chapter 23
November 16
District of Columbia — Alexandria, VA — Springfield, VA
As Congress reconvened in November, Ron Kelly, a Rutgers School of Law grad, faced a close challenge in the upcoming election. The unfortunate death of Congresswoman Paige got his attention, but he knew his life’s purpose of staying in office also faced a death threat. He knew he was completely unsuited for any other work in the world besides politics. He decided the feds could protect him and went ahead with his plan to sponsor a $175 billion algae biofuels subsidy. The Washington Log spun this news around the bravery of Ron Kelly standing up statesmanlike despite the unsourced threat against representatives headlining: “Congressman Unafraid!” — just as Congressman Kelly had hoped.
Ron’s life was constant upheaval and chaos. As the younger brother, he grew up drawing greater attention in his family with his spontaneity and extraversion. His constancy of purpose could be timed in minutes. In the family dynamic, he filled the role of being the polar opposite of his more reliable and achievement-oriented sibling. He balanced the tendencies of his older brother Phil. Today, he thrived
on the drama of running for office. He hated schedules and would be “on the street” without the attention of his chief of staff and mothering wife. Like most politicians, he was narcissistic. He was truly an adult child.
Ron was three years younger than his clearly more disciplined brother. The older five-foot-eleven Phil Kelly was a tenured mathematics professor at Dartmouth. Phil was an ambivert who needed the balance between quiet study and the more chaotic classroom. He lived a predictable routine that gave him better footing to deal with the unexpected. As with Cain and Abel, sibling rivalry fated Ron’s personality. Instinctively, toddler Ron knew he could not compete with his older brother’s intellect and discipline. He went for the immediate gratification from others’
laughter and approval.
Being a big-government liberal fit Ron like a glove. It was liberating. One was free of the shackles of hard choices, concern for balancing the budget, and constraints of long-term responsibility. It was free-form life. His colleagues and supporters were fun-loving. At cocktail parties, they were more uninhibited by old Puritan moralities than their conservative counterparts. Recent polls showed increasing favorability for government subsidies by most subgroups, as long as their subgroup benefitted. Everyone felt entitled, he thought cynically. The revelry and profligacy would never end. He was born for this season in America.
Six-foot-two Ron also fit other aspects of the psychological profile of a politician. He could turn on charm and intimidation at will. He instinctively projected empathy and compassion to crowds and constituents, or perhaps that was their projection. He would take credit for any and all successes, and blame all failures and shortcomings on others, especially his masochistic staff. A teflon chameleon he was.
In days the House would vote on Ron’s bill, and Ron felt like celebrating his coming triumph. For weeks there had been two pairs of federal agents watching his coming and going. Security for the “at risk” political class was ramping up. That kept his nerves under control as his admirers kept greeting him with, “How brave you are!” Yet on another level, he complained of “living in a bubble and now having this constant security surveillance.” He felt claustrophobic. “I can’t even blow my nose in private!” he told his secretary. He needed some escape from the microscope of the press and the noose of strangling protection.
Publicly Congressman Kelly professed to miss his family who resided back on a gentleman’s farm in rural New Jersey. However, with Ron, out of sight was often out of mind. He could not wait to see Michelle, his shapely, five-foot-four blonde mistress. Michelle’s 31-year-old spirit energized the 45-year-old. He had not seen her for over a month due to the protection he needed — and hated.
After lunch Ron called Michelle on a burner cell phone that rang the throwaway cell he bought her. “Hi, Babe, a reminder on tonight at the usual place, as we discussed. I’ll get away when I can. You know I have four chaperones. I could be late.”
“You’ve got it, darling. Be there when you can. I’ll be there sevenish. I miss you!”
“Me, too.”
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A disguised man listened to this conversation on a cell phone via a bluetooth headphone at Michelle’s favorite Starbucks. He sipped his venti black Sumatra and appeared to be solving a crossword puzzle. He had watched Ron’s and Michelle’s moves for the past three weeks for routines, habits, and quirks — always in disguise. On the first day of watching Michelle, he was behind her in line at this Starbucks near her workplace. She liked to pop in around 3 P.M. for an afternoon pick up. Here he had cloned her cell phone’s SIM card. It was a piece of cake. Thereafter, his burner cell phone allowed him to listen to all of her cell phone calls.
As a result, six days ago the man heard Congressman Kelly use his throwaway cell phone to leave a message on her throwaway cell, “Michelle, miss you, babe. Escape the Capitol next Friday eve? Room service, champagne, and the best of company! Bye, love.”
The weak attempt to code the Capitol Escape hotel destination made the disguised man smile. As a congressman, you know the government has the capability of recording all your conversations, he thought. Within hours, the stealthy man had posed as a carpet cleaner when he called, “Capitol Escape front desk? I’m sending a man to steam the carpet tonight after midnight behind the counters. We missed that area during the cleaning of the lobby carpet last week. Does that work with you?” At 1:17 AM, the carpet cleaner stuck a miniature electronic bug below the concierge desk.
Congress must stop overspending.
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Ron Kelly’s chief of staff Mike Tarbox drove him to a crowded upscale bar on the way to Ron’s condominium in Alexandria at 5:00 P.M. Mike was the designated driver for the pair. That meant Mike would drink less and take the hit, if necessary, on a DUI rather than the Congressman. Ron chose a just-vacated table three-quarters of the way to the back of the bar.
Mike ordered, “40-year double Master of Malt straight up, rocks on the side, for my friend. I’ll have a double tequila — neat. And sides of calamari and jalapeno poppers.” Mike made sure his drink cost much less than Ron’s to show respect, no matter that it would be on the expense account for “office meetings.”
Two federal agents in Kelly’s protective detail picked a commanding position at a table near the entrance. “Two club sodas,” one agent ordered. The other agent tried for humor, “And make mine a double — on the rocks!” The waiter offered a forced smile. He had only heard that one seventy times before but showed amusement for his tip’s sake.
Meanwhile, a third agent waited outside in the driver’s seat of a parked Crown Victoria stopped short of the bar’s entrance. His partner watched on foot in the alley to cover the rear entrance to the bar. The partner laughed to himself, this flew in the face of all the cop shows on television where law enforcement seldom foresees danger escape routes via the back door until too late.
_______________
The waiter delivered the scotch and tequila. Ron grinned, “Did you hear the one about the connoisseur who orders the 40-year-old scotch?… The bartender pours a 10-year-old scotch out of view with an aside to a patron, ‘The snob’ll never know the difference.’ The connoisseur takes a drink and insists, ‘Take this back. It’s 10-year-old scotch. Get me the 40-year-old scotch!’ The bartender tries again with 15-year-old scotch. Same thing — the connoisseur rejects the 15-year-old scotch and demands the 40-year-old. The bartender gives it one more try with 18-year-old scotch. The connoisseur says, ‘Damn it, get this 18-year-old stuff out of here. I want my 40-year-old scotch!’ Patrons gather around to observe the next tasting. This time the bartender serves the 40-year-old scotch. The connoisseur says, ‘That’s what I’m talking about. This is 40-year-old scotch!’ An old vagrant three-sheets-to-wind observes this. He leaves the crowd and comes back with a snifter of amber fluid. The drunk geezer offers, ‘How old is this?’ The connoisseur sips, savors, then spits out the amber fluid, ‘This is piss. Why the hell did you do that?’ The homeless man says, ‘I know it’s piss. I just want you to tell me how old I am.’”
Mike had heard the joke many times before, but he dutifully laughed as if he were hearing it for the first time. Ron proudly basked in his successful recollection and delivery. It didn’t really matter if Mike thought it was funny, just that he acted as if it were. It didn’t matter if Mike liked him, just that he acted as if he did. Ron and Mike sipped and laughed.
I can’t wait to get out of here, Ron thought. He stepped up his situational awareness looking for an opportunity. Town hall meetings kept him sharp for reading the room. In this respect, he was as good as any undercover operative. He knew subconsciously where everyone was, when they moved, and when the tenor at any table changed.
Thinking Ron’s defenses might be down on Friday, Mike remarked off-handedly, “You know, Ron, this cheap ethanol is almost enough to make me keep working for you… Don’t get me wrong. I look good in Jacques Penney. I love McDonald’s. But my $130K a year around this burg just
doesn’t cut it.”
Knowing he needed to keep Mike’s expectations in line, Ron smiled. “Bonus and all, you make as much as I do.” Both knew this was not true. Ron had a total compensation in excess of $285K, not including capital gains on projects and stock purchases where he had advance knowledge to invest. “Have another tequila, Mike. You deserve that.”
“Seriously, Ron, I love working for you. And some of the perks like this rotgut aren’t too bad either.” Truth be told, he liked tequila, especially this one, more than expensive scotch. “You certainly are earning your money with this nutcase threatening Congress. I think I’d be drinking quadruples instead of doubles if I were you.”
“And yet you sit right next to me,” Ron chuckled.
“Hadn’t really looked at it that way. I see what you mean. Should I be concerned?”
“I was concerned. Nothing has happened of late. We have doubled protection details jumping through hoops. It may be battle fatigue, but I’m starting to think the whole thing is overblown. I think the danger has passed,” Ron observed smugly. “The press will do anything to sell a newspaper!”
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Two dark-skinned Mediterranean-looking men entered the dimly lit, busy bar together, whispering to each other as they approached Ron and Mike. The two loitered, trying to find an open table. They blocked the two federal agents’ view of Ron. Behind the two trench-coated figures, everything looked normal. The situation was not lost on Ron.
“Mike, check this out,” Ron began, handing his cell phone to Mike to look at a picture of his kids. As Mike looked down, Ron stood abruptly, knocked over their table, and bellowed,“Allahu Akbar!” Allah is greater.
The two agents had increased their scan rate in the direction of the two dark-skinned men interfering with their view. They first caught the commotion in their peripheral vision as they heard the foreboding phrase. The agents jumped to their feet and sprinted toward Ron. There was chaos as the agents knocked over empty chairs and rocked tables in their way as they charged toward Ron. While they took down the two dark-skinned men, Ron grabbed his briefcase and moved swiftly to the rear hall of the crowded bar. Mike foggily tried to focus on the takedowns off to his right.
