Ottosson had become a very powerful lobbyist, and CIS gave him carte blanche on which candidates to fund. There were very few politicians in Washington, D.C. who wouldn’t immediately allow Ottosson an audience. CIS had given him over two hundred million dollars to spread among Congress and to state politicians, simply to get their election systems and software in place and, with this war chest, he was very effective.
The Bartlett administration, however, knew that a relationship with Ottosson carried substantial risks, with the main risk being that he was a heavy drinking womanizer, philanderer and occasional drug user. Besides his relationships with those at the very top of the political food chain in Washington, Ottosson was known to have relationships that were too cozy with known underworld figures, international criminals and general lowlifes. His relatability with people from all walks of life was his greatest attribute, but the wallet he wielded for CIS to influence politicians opened doors, even to the Oval Office.
Chief of Staff Weingold scheduled a meeting with Ottosson in a hotel room of the Hay-Adams Hotel, which was one block from the White House and whose rooms overlooked Lafayette Park and the White House. Weingold did not enter through the front lobby of the hotel, but had arranged to be taken in a rear door and up the service elevator by the Secret Service to a large suite. Ottosson was instructed to take the same route. This irritated the Swede; he very much liked to be seen, especially with one of the most powerful political brokers in the country.
“Good morning, Nils,” said Weingold as he welcomed him into the suite, peering at the Swede over eyeglasses pulled halfway down his nose.
“Nice tie,” replied Ottosson in his Swedish accent, noting the red bow tie with blue polka dots accenting Weingold’s bold gray plaid three-piece suit.
“Well, you look pretty comfortable,” noted Weingold half-sarcastically, referring to Ottosson’s casual warm-up suit and tennis shoes. “I have breakfast waiting for us here. Please sit down and let’s get to it.”
They sat down to a formally arranged table with a lavish breakfast spread as aides and Secret Service quietly exited the suite.
“Please give me an update on how the CIS efforts are going in all your remaining target states,” said Weingold.
For the next thirty minutes, Ottosson walked through the remaining obstacles to get CIS systems in place in the remaining states, purposely leaving Texas for last.
“So, tell me, what are your specific struggles in Texas?” Weingold asked.
“Texas is a different animal altogether, as you know, Mr. Weingold. The Texas Crisis, as your folks like to call it, has made my job there much harder.”
“Yes, we know. However, haven’t recent developments there increased your likelihood of success?” pressed Weingold.
Ottosson chuckled as he bit off a large piece of bacon. He took a few seconds before answering. “You mean the dead governor? Sure. Strasburg is definitely our friend, correct?” he said coyly.
“He’s a Republican,” Weingold leaned back and took a sip of coffee, “but he is our friend.”
Weingold leaned back in toward the table from his chair, becoming somewhat more serious, “So tell me, Nils, is there anything the president should know that might come out about this unfortunate plane crash?” he asked.
Ottosson smiled, taking another bite of bacon. “You mean the accident?”
“Of course, the accident,” emphasized Weingold.
“Well, sir, you have the ability to pick up the phone and know exactly what the NTSB has,” Ottosson stated matter-of-factly.
Weingold didn’t appreciate the answer.
“I do know exactly what they have, Mr. Ottosson, so far. What I’m asking you, is there something they might discover that is not yet known to them or to anyone else?”
“If you’re asking me if I am covering our tracks, why don’t you just ask that?” reasoned Ottosson.
Weingold peered around the room and then looked at the ceiling suspiciously.
“Wait, surely your teams cleaned this room. Are you worried about me wearing a wire? Why aren’t we in the West Wing, sir?” pressed Ottosson.
Weingold was not amused and was hesitant to answer such a direct question. “Yes, we take precautions, Mr. Ottosson, but let me remind you who I represent.”
“I know full well who you represent, Weingold, and I get just a little irritated that I have to somehow speak in code when you and others know exactly what we are talking about. If you don’t mind, let’s cut the façade and get this meeting done.”
Weingold stared at Ottosson for a few seconds, somewhat stunned by his candor, then answered, “I would have loved to have met in the West Wing, Nils, but your exploits, such as the recent one you had in Amsterdam, preclude our ability to host you there.”
Ottosson became visibly enraged. “You have people tailing me? What the hell I do in my personal life is my business!”
“It’s also our business, Mr. Ottosson, as long as we are in that business together,” Weingold said calmly.
“Are you threatening me?” Ottosson demanded.
“Not at all. You just seem quite disturbed that we're not in the White House today.”
“The last time I was invited to the White House for a meeting, you had them turn me away at the gate,” Ottosson snarled.
“Yes, that was unfortunate but necessary,” Weingold said. “My apologies.”
Ottosson stared at Weingold, waiting to hear a reason or logical excuse why he was turned away and embarrassed at the White House gates. “Well?” asked Ottosson as he raised both hands, waiting for an answer to the implied question.
“Your personal life is potentially a liability to the president. We need you to finish this project without any scandal or bad press,” instructed Weingold. “Now that that is understood, can we go back to my original question on the accident?”
Ottosson rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “I’ll answer you if you agree to take the surveillance off me.”
“Mr. Ottosson, you’re a key player in our overall strategy for this country,” Weingold told him. “You, and everyone else associated, have to realize that not one single piece of this strategy can be revealed, not to anyone. You know as well as anyone the stakes involved. The surveillance is really for your safety, and it will be over when the project is over.”
“You need to call off the dogs, Mr. Weingold. I have a certain lifestyle, but it doesn’t impede my work. I’m getting incredible things done for you and this president. So don’t you dare threaten me!”
Weingold was fully cognizant that Ottosson had single-handedly changed the election system with his CIS war chest and his lobbying efforts at both the congressional and state levels. He also knew the job wasn’t quite done; he needed Ottosson until their goals were completed. “Okay, I get it,” he said. “Just remember that anything you do reflects on the president. Please, I’m asking you to limit your indiscretions.”
Ignoring the last request, Ottosson continued, “Can we get back to the business at hand?”
Weingold didn’t immediately respond as he stood and went to pour himself some coffee from the cart that had been rolled into the suite.
“Fine, Mr. Ottosson. Now, tell me about the last remaining project we have at hand. Is it set? Do you have all your pieces in place?”
“Madison has had the most advanced planning I have ever been involved in. I’m going to ask one last time. Mr. Weingold. Are you and President Bartlett absolutely sure you want go through with this?”
Ottosson purposely referenced the president in this question. Never before, in any conversations regarding Madison did anyone, not even Ottosson, utter the president’s name in reference to this operation. Weingold glared at Ottosson for even mentioning the president in the same breath as Madison.
“Well, excuse me,” said Ottosson sarcastically, knowing full well that, if Weingold knew the details about Ottosson, Bartlett would surely know.
“I wanted to have this face-to-face m
eeting with you so that I can be assured no detail has been too small to ignore, that no additional resources are needed, and that this will come off exactly as planned and as you have laid it out for me,” pressed Weingold.
“So that you can be assured? You mean so Bartlett can be assured!” chuckled Ottosson.
Weingold was getting exasperated. He wondered why Ottosson was so intent on bringing the president into the discussions; it made him very uncomfortable. He had not had the Secret Service agents pat the Swede down for a wire or recording device, but he sure was going to have it done before Ottosson left the suite.
“The president isn’t part of these discussions. I’m not going to state it again,” said Weingold.
“Fine. Just know that Madison is scheduled, is on track, and will be executed as planned, just in case anyone else besides you wants to know.”
“That’s great. These nut jobs in Texas who are setting off bombs at IRS offices play right into the narrative. I am worried, however, that the FBI or ATF will make arrests before Madison goes down. Those guys are the perfect patsies,” worried Weingold.
“We can’t change the Madison date. Can’t even think about it at this point. You have to remember what Madison is designed around and its effect. If anyone had the power to slow down an investigation or pause arrests, who would that be other than you?” Ottosson laughed out loud, incredulous that Weingold would even suggest a date change to Madison when one phone call to the FBI director could delay the IRS bombing investigation. “My suggestion to you, sir, is to have the Oval Office get daily briefings on that investigation. You have been granted the perfect opportunity. Don’t waste it.” Ottosson smirked at the consternation on Weingold’s face.
“We won’t,” said Weingold, standing to shake Ottosson’s hand, indicating the meeting was over. “Hang on for just a minute. I’ll be right back.” Weingold left the room.
Two Secret Service agents entered the room and stood by the door. Ottosson was not amused.
“Where the hell did he go?”
“Mr. Weingold had to leave. We will escort you out the same way you came in. However, we are going to pat you down and scan you before you leave this room,” said one of the agents.
“Are you serious?” Ottosson sneered and raised his arms. “Go ahead.”
As one agent physically patted down Ottosson, the other disappeared into another room and came back with an electronic wand, similar to the wand the TSA uses at airports, but much more sophisticated. This wand was designed to pick up any listening devices or electronics on the human body or clothes.
Ottosson was not happy about this apparent mistrust by Weingold, but he made small talk with the agents as they scanned him.
“That damned thing won’t make me impotent, will it, gentlemen?” laughed Ottosson, but the agents did not respond with in-kind laughter.
As they scanned down his legs, Ottosson worried the agents would notice a bead of sweat forming on his right temple.
The agent looked Ottosson in the eyes, then noticed he was beginning to perspire slightly, a sure sign of stress, maybe more.
“You seem a little nervous about getting checked for a wire, Mr. Ottosson.”
“Ha, no. I’m just no fan of these gadgets you guys are using near my family jewels. I’ve heard they cause cancer.”
“I doubt you have anything to worry about,” answered the agent.
“I hope not,” said Ottosson as he was led through the door and down the service elevator with the same agents and whisked away in the same unmarked SUV he had arrived in.
As Ottosson sat in the backseat of the SUV, he let out a deep breath. The Secret Service agents did not detect the high-tech listening device, made of ceramic and carbon and the size of a thumbtack, sewn into the toe of each of his shoes. The device had been given to him by Vasily Volkov, who told him, “Don’t ever go into a high-level meeting or any other government function without recording it. If you can do it without being detected, the information you get could save your life someday… but it could also get you killed.”
Chapter 47
“Crisis is the rallying cry of the tyrant.”
- James Madison (1751-1836)
Father of the Constitution, 4th US President
Author of the 2nd Amendment
Texans typically don’t see a break from the summer heat until well into October. But, on this mid-September Saturday, a small cool front swept in, bringing temperatures down, lowering humidity levels, and giving most of the state relief from the searing ninety-degree heat. By Texas standards, temperatures in the mid-eighties were a welcome relief.
The break in temperature was perfect for the massive annual Children’s Literacy Festival that had grown into the largest of its kind in America. Originally founded to encourage literacy awareness, the festival had morphed into a combination of concerts, food trucks, vendors, and arts and crafts in a carnival-like atmosphere, all geared toward children.
The festival had been moved several times to accommodate the growth of the two-day event. It now occupied a sixty-acre site south of downtown Dallas, where families could park their cars in a field and walk to the event. Organizers believed attendance at this year’s event would easily eclipse the record attendance from the previous year.
Families began streaming into the festival early on Saturday morning when the gates opened at 8:00 a.m. The line of cars waiting to get in created a traffic jam on the frontage roads off Interstate 20.
Among the vehicles already parked in the vendor parking was an unmarked white cargo van. The four occupants of the van had already entered the festival to work in different food trucks.
Mindful of security concerns, the organizers had erected metal scanners and bag checks at four different entrances to the festival. Even the vendors and their workers and volunteers for the event were required to enter through a specific entrance with a scanner. All four of the occupants of the white van passed through security the opening morning with no problem. None of them carried anything but a cell phone and keys to their food trucks. In the days before, the vendors had brought their food trucks and trailers onsite and set them up, stocked them with supplies, and were ready for the onslaught of the crowds wanting to taste their fare.
Vasily Volkov took a set of keys out of his pocket and opened a food truck he had purchased for the event. Volkov’s food truck was called Cajun Delight, indicating that the truck offered food from southern Louisiana, very popular in Texas.
Volkov’s three crew members worked to get the food ready for the event, boiling crawfish and preparing redfish, red beans and rice, seafood gumbo, and other Cajun dishes. To anyone observing the food truck, Volkov’s crew conducted themselves in the same way as any other of the one hundred or so food trucks on the festival property.
As the gates opened and families began streaming in, the food trucks began to get busy as families got hungry while they enjoyed the rides, music, attractions and artisans. The festival had launched without a hitch and, by mid-afternoon, estimates were that the crowd onsite would swell to more than thirty thousand. The festival had hired off-duty sheriff’s deputies and constables, but most of the security inside the festival came from a contract security company and were commonly referred to as rent-a-cops.
At each entrance point, a large sign with black letters on white backgrounds indicated the festival was a “gun-free zone” and that any firearms were prohibited, including prohibition of firearms carried by those who lawfully held a concealed carry permit in Texas.
Wherever one looked, families with children of all ages, including some in baby strollers, could be seen enjoying the beautiful weather. There were balloons, stuffed animals, ice cream, funnel cakes and soft drinks. Music blared from four different stages around the grounds, and cartoon characters roamed the grounds to greet children and have their pictures taken.
Of course, politicians couldn’t miss the opportunity to be seen at the official kick-off of the event on the main stage, and s
everal websites broadcast uninterrupted footage of the event from cameras strategically placed throughout the grounds.
Volkov’s crew in Cajun Delight was busy serving up food to customers, and two lines formed with at least ten people in each line almost constantly, as it was very popular.
“Maybe I should be Cajun chef?” joked Volkov in his deep Russian accent to his crew, who laughed out loud. Most of the food being served in his truck was bought from another source, just reheated in the food truck.
All the food trucks cooked their food with propane gas, and they all used various sizes of propane tanks, either on the ground right beside the rear of the trucks or on racks welded to the back to hold the tanks, some as large as one-hundred pound capacity.
At exactly 3:00 p.m., Volkov looked back at his crew and announced to the people in line that they had run out of food, to the groan of those who had been standing in line. He pulled down the shades of the two large open windows where food was served and money collected and already pre-printed on the shades, it said, Sorry, Cajun Delight is Temporarily Out of Food! Check Back with us Later!
Volkov and his crew had rehearsed the next few minutes dozens of times. One of the crew opened the back door and took the latch off a welded platform holding four one-hundred pound propane canisters and swung the platform close to the door. Two others hustled two of the canisters into the food truck, then swung the platform back out and shut the door.
The canisters had a precision cut, barely visible to the naked eye, near the top, machined for screw-on and screw-off. The crew frantically unscrewed the tops off both canisters.
Volkov reached down into the first canister and pulled out four sets of black overalls that had a State of Texas patch on both shoulders, with a skull and crossbones below it. Light-weight carbon fiber bullet-proof panels were sewn into the fabric on front and back. Each crew member removed his tennis shoes and hurriedly put the overalls on over his work clothes. Then they put on black tennis shoes that were also stored in the canister. Next, four ammo belts at the bottom of the first canister were pulled out, each carrying six magazines holding dozens of .223 rounds of ammunition each.
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