The Liberty Intrigue

by Tom Grace

  Her back bore the faded reminders of distant abuse, scars the plastic surgeons had softened but could never fully erase. As he slowly eased the zipper up, Ross paused and kissed a scar at the base of her neck. Niki did not flinch and murmured a soft sound of pleasure.

  “All set,” Ross reported. “Mom wanted the tie shot?”

  “That is what she requested.”

  Ross turned up his collar and set a patterned silk tie around his neck. He tried to suppress a smile as Niki shot away with her camera, and he fumbled the knot and had to start over.

  “This is the one part of the job I will least enjoy,” Ross said, failing on the second attempt.

  “You’re just nervous,” Niki said as she set her camera on the bed. “Allow me.”

  Ross clasped his arms behind his back, standing tall. She adjusted the tie’s length against his torso and then expertly wound the cloth into a classic four-in-hand knot. Niki surveyed her handiwork, and then finished the job with a gold tie tack.

  “You’d make a fine valet,” Ross mused as he looked in the mirror.

  Niki returned her camera to its case and came back to Ross with the gold watch that he had exchanged for her freedom. He had not worn it since that day in the desert when he had given it to the slave owner Mustapha.

  “Twice this watch was given for a noble purpose,” Niki said solemnly, “and now it has returned to you. Please wear it tonight for Maggie and for me.”

  Ross held out his left arm and allowed her to slip the gold linked band around his wrist. He felt the weight of the timepiece and recalled the day he received it and the day he gave it away. He glanced at the watch face and noted the moment.

  “Thank you. Now it’s time we got going. There’s a room full of people downstairs, and a nation beyond, waiting for me.”

  Niki kissed his cheek, and then moved toward the bed to retrieve her camera.

  “Leave it,” Ross said. “There will be plenty of people taking pictures. And as of now, you are no longer my official photographer.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No,” Ross replied as he opened the suite door for her, “but there is another job opening I would like you to consider.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-ONE

  “… and we must fight to hold the gains we have made for working men and women, for the poor and the disadvantaged. This campaign is over, but the struggle remains and we must move with progress and commitment toward an ever-brighter future.”

  “I wish to express my deepest gratitude to all of my supporters—you were the bedrock beneath my feet during these most challenging, most exhilarating years of my life. Thank you, God bless you, and may God continue to bless the United States of America.”

  The capacity crowd in the resort ballroom cheered and applauded as the former President concluded the second-most-anticipated speech of the evening. The image of the defeated President then faded from the projection screens that flanked the stage. Denby stepped back into the light, microphone in hand, beaming his broad, infectious smile.

  “Like most of you, I have been longing to hear our President make that speech since the day he was elected,” Denby told the crowd. “Today, the people of this great nation told the politicians in Washington the direction that defines positive progress, and it’s one hundred and eighty degrees from where we’re currently headed. And without any further ad-libbing from me, it is my honor and distinct pleasure to introduce the next President of the United States, Ross Egan!”

  Egan stepped into the spotlight smiling and waving to the crowd as the band launched into a swing version of “Hail to the Chief.” He shook hands with several people along the edge of the platform and then embraced Denby at center stage. Denby handed Egan the microphone and stepped back into the shadows, leaving the new president-elect alone to bask in the adulation.

  “Thank you!” Egan said over the din of applause and cheering, which only made the friendly audience increase their volume.

  “Egan! Egan! Egan!” the crowd cheered.

  “Thank you!” Egan shouted again, smiling and motioning with his free hand for quiet. The crowd joyfully disobeyed the request and gave the man of the hour a five-minute standing ovation.

  “Thank you so much for the enthusiastic welcome!” Egan said. “Governor Oates, or should I say Vice President-Elect Oates, and I are simply overwhelmed with the results of this election. The American people have, in record numbers, put their confidence in Lila and me, and we promise that we will do everything we can to deserve it.

  “Just a short time ago, I received a phone call from the President congratulating me on my victory and offering his full support and that of his administration during the transition. It was a hard-fought, passionate campaign and I thanked the President for his service to the country.

  “In the coming weeks, the Vice President-Elect and I will set to work on getting our administration up and running by Inauguration Day. We will be meeting with the leadership of the next Congress to establish our legislative priorities. We will also be finalizing a number of Executive Orders that I intend to sign shortly after I am sworn in. There’s a big job ahead of us, but we have all proved that America is more than up to the challenge.

  “I am pleased to report that tonight I offered what I consider the most important post in my administration to a highly qualified individual, and that my offer was accepted without hesitation. And there will be no confirmation problems with this appointment either—which is great because I intend to put this talented individual to work on Inauguration Day. The post I’m referring to is that of First Lady.”

  Many of the women in the ballroom cheered loudly, recognizing quickly what Egan had just revealed—America was in store for a presidential wedding.

  “My reign as an unmarried president and supposedly the world’s most eligible man will be thankfully brief,” Egan said, and then he turned and extended his arm to the right. “I am pleased to introduce to you and the country the future First Lady of the United States, Niki Adashi.”

  As Niki stepped into the light and joined her fiancé on stage, the band launched into a soulful rendition of “America the Beautiful.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As an author, I get by with a little help from my friends. I am deeply grateful to the many generous people who lent a hand in the effort to tell this story.

  To Edwin Feulner and his brilliant team at the Heritage Foundation for an insider’s look at Washington and a laser-like view of the issues that challenge our nation; the always Honorable Daniel Ryan for his constitutional insight and all things legal; Jim Brandstatter for putting me on the O-line for the big play; BJ Keepers for helping me shoot straight; Bob Johnston for drinks and cigars at the Winston Churchill Bar; David Limbaugh for his timely editorial help and the gift of his excellent book Crimes Against Liberty; Dean Karayanis for an insider’s look at talk radio; Don Povia and HHR Media Group—publicists extraordinaire in media new and old; Brian Farkas for his unflagging support and insatiable enthusiasm for this book; Mike Cox and Stu Sandler for their political insights; Marcie Gates and Joyce Brewster, my early readers; Tina Bibbs and my sharp-eyed Kathleens for their careful read of the page proofs; and to Zingerman’s Roadhouse and Connor O’Neill’s—a pair of fantastic Ann Arbor eateries that kept my writing fueled with pimento cheese burgers and salmon boxties.

  A special thanks goes also to: my agent Esther Margolis and her out-standing group at Newmarket, and my superb editor Jack Langer.

  I follow the advice Mark Twain gave to Rudyard Kipling: “Get your facts straight first, and then you can distort ’em as much as you like.” Any errors resulting from my ‘distortions’ are my own.

  And always, I thank my family for their love and encouragement.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  I drew on a number of fascinating resources in the writing of this book that I recommend for anyone interested in further reading on the history and issues presented.

  The Declaration of Independence
>
  The Constitution of the United States of America

  The Federalist Papers, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, & John Jay

  The Art of War, Sun Tzu

  We Hold These Truths, John Courtney Murray, S.J.

  The Road to Serfdom, F.A. Hayek

  The Fatal Conceit, F.A. Hayek

  Rules for Radicals, Saul D. Alinsky

  Getting America Right, Edwin J. Feulner & Doug Wilson

  How Capitalism Will Save Us, Steve Forbes & Elizabeth Ames

  Economics in One Lesson, Henry Hazlitt

  Liberal Fascism, Jonah Goldberg

  Meltdown, Thomas E. Woods

  Liberty and Tyranny, Mark R. Levin

  Crimes Against Liberty, David Limbaugh

  The Founders’ Key, Larry P. Arnn

  Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

  Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Columbia Pictures (1939)

  The Sting, Universal Pictures (1973)

  I must also note that Joan Saccary’s anecdote in Chapter 20 is taken almost verbatim from Hillsdale College President George C. Roche’s remarks introducing keynote speaker Governor Ronald Reagan at the 1977 Ludwig Von Mises Memorial Lecture.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tom Grace is the internationally bestselling author of The Secret Cardinal, Fatal Orbit, Dark Ice, Quantum, and Spyder Web. His books have been translated into several languages, pirated, and placed in the library at the South Pole. He is an architect in private practice with projects ranging from private residences to genetic therapy labs. He lives in Michigan with his wife and children and is at work on his next novel. To learn more about Tom Grace, visit www.tomgrace.net.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  An interesting thing happened during the production of this book. Two very talented and experienced freelance editors turned down the opportunity to work with me on The Liberty Intrigue. Both thought my novel was engaging, well-written, and timely, but both declined due to the same pre-existing condition: liberalism. The idea of a likable conservative protagonist was too great a leap of imagination, even in a work of fiction. One apologetically offered that he would like to refer me to a conservative editor, but he didn’t know any. When it comes to cultural bias in the media, I think that says it all.

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  OCTOBER 2017

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEW YORK CITY

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 11:25 P.M.

  DIE BABY KILLERS

  The graffiti was crude and unimaginative. The words were scrawled across a ten-foot section of the corridor wall in tall letters the color of blood. Drips ran down from the thick spots where the vandal activist started and stopped his strokes. The scent of aerosolized acrylic lingered in the air.

  Security guard Burt Dobbin pressed a finger to one of the spots—the paint felt tacky. He wiped the residue on the wall and pressed the send button on the microphone clipped to the epaulet of his uniform.

  “Charlie, you copy?”

  “Yeah,” a voice crackled back.

  “I’m on six, main corridor near the conference room. Some nut job musta got in and spray painted a nastygram on the wall.”

  “How the—? Hold on, I’m toggling the cameras.”

  Dobbin could hear Charlie Sparks breathing over the walkie-talkie. “Perimeter looks clear. Same with the stairwells.”

  “I take it this death threat wasn’t here during your rounds an hour ago.”

  “Hell no.”

  “Well, call it in to Central, double check the doors, and get up here. We need to do a room-by-room sweep.”

  Ten minutes later, Dobbin’s partner on the night shift scaled the stairs to the top floor of the six-story commercial loft in the heart of Manhattan’s Tribeca District. The nineteenth century warehouse building had fallen on hard times, and then found new life with a renovation that transformed it into the national headquarters of Heartland Family Planning.

  As he closed the stair door behind him, Sparks swiped a card key through the jamb reader to set the door into alarm mode. The illuminated display changed from green to red. He then joined his partner by the defaced wall.

  “Damn,” Sparks hissed through his teeth.

  “We set?” Dobbin asked.

  “Main floor perimeter is locked down. The elevators are parked on one, and if they pop a stair door without a card key, we’ll hear about it.”

  “Good. Let’s start with the conference room and work our way around.”

  Sparks nodded. The pair drew their side arms and moved into position on the strike side of the door to the floor’s large conference room. Sparks swiped his card key to unlock the door. On Dobbin’s signal, Sparks grabbed the lever handle and opened the door. Sensors inside the room detected the sudden motion and the lights suspended over the conference table flickered on.

  They entered and visually swept the room, their eyes tracking in concert with the barrels of their Sig Sauer P250s. Both signaled a thumbs up, confirming that the room was clear. Sparks locked the door as they exited and the pair moved on to the next room.

  The sixth floor housed the administrative offices for Heartland Family Planning, a nationwide network of clinics and counseling facilities offering a full range of women’s reproductive health services. No patients or clients visited the Tribeca facility. This building housed all the back office legal and administrative functions associated with the specialty healthcare provider.

  The guards searched counterclockwise around the floor, checking the offices belonging to Heartland’s senior staff and finding nothing amiss. Halfway through their circuit, Dobbin led the way through the open office area that served as the antechamber to the chief executive officer’s inner sanctum. Finding no one hiding under the desks, the security guards moved up to an imposing, wood door.

  Sparks again cleared the electronic lock, opened the door, and followed Dobbin in. As the senior man, Dobbin believed in leading by example, especially with a new guard like Sparks, who had only spent a few weeks on the job. He took two steps into the room, then felt his partner move up into position behind him.

  The city glistened through the arched windows of the large office. And as the lights came on, Dobbin saw a can of spray paint on top of the CEO’s glass and steel desk. He took a step toward the desk, quietly thankful for the open frame construction that offered no place of concealment. The office smelled of fresh acrylic and a single word clung wetly to the glass desktop: MURDERER.

  “Our perp must still be in the suite,” Dobbin said, just above a whisper.

  Then everything for Dobbin went black.

  Sparks watched his partner collapse onto the carpeted floor, the unconscious man’s awkward descent ending with a muffled thud and the clatter of his dislodged sidearm. A satisfied smile curled in the corners of his mouth—his time playing the role of Charlie Sparks was now over and Byron Palmer’s real work could begin.

  The device in his hand bore a passing resemblance to a Taser, though its technological innards were considerably more sophisticated. A fan of Star Trek from his youth, Palmer called his invention a disrupter, because it did exactly that to the low-voltage current that powers the human body. It was much like flipping a switch and, depending on the intensity, the effect could be temporary or permanent.

  Palmer left his former partner where he fell and sat behind the CEO’s desk. During his rounds over the previous weeks, he had loaded select computers with keystroke traps, collecting legitimate user names and passwords. Bit by bit, he fashioned a temporary identity with unfettered access to the wealth of information stored in Heartland’s data center. He slipped a flash drive into the USB port and the programs it contained came to life. A window opened on the CEO’s flat screen monitor displaying the status of Palmer’s data mining effort. Satisfied that all was performing as planned, he left the office whistling the dwarf’s work song from Disney’s S
now White.

  In addition to scouring Heartland’s electronic archives, the programs Palmer unleashed tapped the building’s security network, bypassing live camera feeds with prerecorded imagery. He made his way through the building to the loading dock. Just outside the service door, he found the pair of homeless men that he had befriended over the past few weeks.

  “Look, it’s Charlie,” one said warmly, his face expectant like a dog’s upon the return of his master.

  Both men staggered to their feet, hopeful for another few dollars to see them through the coming day.

  “Hey fellas, real cold out tonight. Wanna step inside and warm up a bit?”

  “C-can we?” one asked, surprised by the offer.

  “Sure. I’ll kick on the dock heaters.”

  Palmer led the two men through the open door. Once inside, he quickly stunned both with the disrupter. He then stripped the men and dressed the one closest to his height and build into an identical guard uniform. The other wino he clad in activist chic—used jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and a careworn army field jacket. Palmer stuffed the threadbare, grimy rags he had peeled from the men into a large black trash bag that he then set beside the loading dock door. He loaded the two men on a dolly along with a pair of backpacks and checked his watch—right on schedule.

  Once on the sixth floor, Palmer set the stage. He laid the fake guard on the floor outside the door to the CEO’s office, where Palmer had stood when he incapacitated Dobbin. He dragged the faux activist into the office, setting him against the credenza between two of the arched windows, and placed both backpacks on top of the desk. From one, he removed a pair of jeans and other layers appropriate for this time of year in the city. He quickly changed clothes and stuffed his uniform into the empty backpack.

  Palmer waited for the computer to chime, then withdrew the flash drive, and tucked it into his pocket. He saw the fading remnants of the programs erase themselves and knew that all traces of their actions would disappear from the internal network. His last act in the room was to reach into the second backpack and activate a timer. He slung the backpack containing his uniform over his shoulder and departed.