The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

“Which is presumably why I’m here,” Remy said. “So do I actually meet with Mr. Griggs at some point?”

  Murphy took a few pieces of paper from a drawer and placed them in front of Remy.

  Remy picked them up with his good hand and began to read.

  “This is a non-disclosure agreement,” Remy said. “If you meet with Mr. Griggs today, you’re going to know things that nobody else knows. Things some people would pay a great deal of money to know.”

  Remy read the papers. Carefully. He’d seen enough NDAs during his work with Pulaski to understand much of the language, but the penalties for violating the Griggs agreement were harsher than anything he’d ever seen before. Essentially, if he violated the agreement in any way, he was subject to lawsuits, penalties, death, dismemberment, purgatory, jihad, fire ants, and tar-and-feathering. Not necessarily in that order. Once he signed, everything he learned while in the proximity of Rawson Griggs, his employees, clients, or consultants, or inside any Griggs-owned property, would have to be sealed within his brain until the earth hit the sun.

  “I need to have a lawyer review this,” Remy said.

  “You could,” Murphy said, “but the moment you reenter that elevator, it’ll be the last time you set foot on a Griggs property unless you’re a paying guest. We’ll be generous and offer you a free round of golf if you ever visit the Griggs resort in Palm Springs. But you’ll never hear from me or Mr. Griggs again. We’ll thank you, sincerely, for everything you’ve done for Mr. Griggs and his family. But our business communications will end right here. Right now.”

  “Sounds like you’re strong arming me into signing this agreement,” Remy said. “And I’ll be honest, that really gives me pause.”

  “Listen, Mr. Stanton. I’ve worked for Rawson Griggs for two decades. He’s the godfather to my children. He paid off my student loans from Harvard. By even extending an NDA to you, Mr. Griggs has made a commitment he rarely makes.”

  “What kind of commitment?”

  Murphy smiled. “Sign, and you’ll find out. I won’t ask again.”

  Remy thought about the offer.

  He had two options: leave Kenneth Murphy’s office, take that weird elevator back down to the lobby, get himself a cappuccino, and return to his boring but not altogether terrible life.

  Or he could sign the NDA. It was like that scene in The Matrix where Neo and Morpheus sat in massive leather chairs in a crumbling, dilapidated house as rain sheeted down around them. Morpheus opened his hands, revealing one red pill and one blue pill.

  “This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You take the blue pill—the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill—you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

  “One question,” Remy said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you have a red pen?”

  Murphy smiled and opened up his desk drawer. He fished around then handed Remy a red-capped pen. Remy looked at it for a moment, and then signed Jeremy Stanton on the final page. He slid the papers back to Kenneth Murphy.

  Murphy stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk. He opened the office door and held it for Remy.

  “Come on,” he said. “They’re expecting you.”

  “They? Wait, who is they?”

  Murphy led Remy down the corridor past another bank of offices to another blank door with another card reader. Murphy scanned his ID and opened it.

  Inside was yet another elevator. Remy wondered if the Castle was actually just a massive, billion dollar Rube Goldberg contraption. Murphy pressed his thumb against a touchpad and the elevator opened.

  Remy went inside. There were three buttons: 66, 67, and 68. Murphy pressed 68.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ve seen the brains of the Griggs Organization,” Murphy said. “Now you’re going to see the heart.”

  When the elevator door opened, Remy’s eyes went wide. He’d never seen anything like this before.

  “Please,” Murphy said.

  Remy stepped out of the elevator. And into Rawson Griggs’s apartment.

  It was not an apartment so much as a museum to war. The walls were all dark wood paneling, the plush carpets a rich, blood red. The walls were lined with antique sconces, each one with two candle arms jutting from the mouth of a two-headed lion.

  Medieval weaponry of all shapes, sizes and time periods hung from the walls. A double-bladed broad sword next to a jeweled scabbard. A bronze-tipped mace hung next to an iron Morningstar. On the opposite wall was a steel war hammer fitted with an ornate wooden handle. In a glass case were numerous metal plates, bent, broken, and pierced, which appeared to be scraps recovered from a shattered suit of armor. Luscious woven tapestries hung from alternating panels. The apartment, if you could call it that, might have been a stronghold for a fifteenth century army.

  “Rawson acquired most of these from the Wallace Collection of London,” Murphy said. “Some he bought from private collectors and estate sales. He’s been collecting for years.”

  “If New York is ever invaded by marauding tribes or aliens,” Remy said, “I’m coming here.”

  “Get in line,” Murphy said.

  Floor to ceiling panoramic windows offered a view of the entire city. Remy had to close his mouth and remind himself not to drool. There was no furniture. This was built as a place to admire, not to rest.

  “Spectacular, isn’t it?” Murphy said.

  “That might be the understatement of the century.”

  “This apartment as it stands took four years to assemble. Every piece of wood, every painting, every carpet, was hand-elected by Mr. Griggs.”

  “That sounds exhausting.”

  “Come. Let’s meet the team.”

  Murphy led him further into the apartment. Remy marveled at the weaponry and antiques. Altogether, it must have cost Rawson millions.

  Murphy stopped at a wood panel with a bronze doorknob in the shape of a snarling lion. “Welcome to the War Room,” he said.

  Makes sense, Remy thought. If you were going to have a war room, you might as well have enough weapons on hand to make Game of Thrones feel quaint.

  “Ready?” Murphy said.

  Remy nodded.

  Murphy opened the door to the War Room and they stepped inside.

  There were a dozen people seated around a large, oval conference table. The room itself was about twenty feet long and ten feet wide, with none of the ornaments or accouterments of the apartment. Conference phones dotted the table. Two pitchers of water sat in the middle, and each seat had a crystal glass in front of it.

  There were no windows. The walls were unadorned other than a few modern sconces. This room was meant for function, not form.

  At the far end of the table, seated at the head, was Rawson Griggs. He wore a black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a bright red tie. An American flag pin was fastened to his lapel.

  Rawson stood up. The room went quiet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you all to meet Jeremy Stanton,” Rawson said.

  Remy smiled meekly. Then the attendees began to clap. It didn’t last more than fifteen seconds, but Remy felt like he’d entered the Twilight Zone.

  A woman seated to Rawson’s left stood up and said, “Thank you for what you’ve done.” She was elegant and athletic looking, in her late forties or early fifties, with shoulder-length blonde hair, wearing large, impossibly bright diamond earrings and clad in a form-fitting lime green pencil suit. Given how toned her arms and torso were, Remy guessed she could power through a Trevor double session without much trouble.

  He wasn’t sure what to say. You’re welcome? That was something you said when thanked for holding a door open. Murphy said, “Jeremy, this is Rebecca Blum. COO of the Griggs Organization.”

  He went around the table to shake her hand. “Remy…Jeremy Stanton.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Jeremy.”


  Alena Griggs sat to Rawson’s right. She was beaming.

  Alena was dressed in a cream-colored blouse with a matching jacket. A thin gold chain dangled from her neck, and she wore a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. She conveyed a rare combination of grace, beauty, and intelligence. Remy was happy to see her again.

  A short, bulldog-looking man with thinning gray hair and a creased, oval face walked over, smiling like Remy was a favorite nephew. He wore a pinstriped gray suit with a pink tie. He extended his hand. Remy thought he recognized the man. Then it hit him.

  Jesus.

  “The city of New York owes you a debt,” the man said. He spoke quickly, with a slight lisp. “Everyone here owes you a debt.”

  “Nobody owes me anything,” Remy sputtered. He took the man’s hand. His grip was iron. “I’m sorry, I’m…you…”

  “Phillip Costanzo,” the man said.

  “Mr. Mayor,” Remy said.

  Costanzo laughed. “Not for about ten years, but I’m glad people still remember my old job.”

  “I would have voted for you,” Remy said, “but I was still in college when you ran and wasn’t eligible to vote in New York.”

  “That’s no excuse,” Costanzo said playfully. “You can always find a way to vote.”

  Costanzo had sadly squandered some of his legacy over the past decade through questionable consulting gigs on behalf of foreign governments, not to mention a very messy public divorce when he brought his mistress to a taping of The Tonight Show.

  Remy wondered just why the former mayor was at the Castle.

  Murphy pointed to an unoccupied chair. “Sit down. Pay attention.”

  Remy sat. He grabbed one of the pitchers and managed to pour himself a glass without making a mess. He was confused beyond measure. What exactly was the purpose of this meeting?

  Murphy took a seat next to Rawson. The man seated on Remy’s left leaned over and whispered, “Jerry Kapinski. Communications director.”

  Kapinski was in his early forties, spoke quickly, and was lean to the point of starvation. He had a close-cropped head of black and gray hair, sunken eyes, and what seemed like permanent shadows under them. A mist of cologne strong enough to repel mosquitos wafted off of him.

  “Jeremy Stanton.”

  “Good to meet you, Jeremy. We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”

  “We are?” Remy said.

  Kapinski just smiled and turned away.

  Everyone took turns introducing themselves. Most were Griggs Organization employees, but several introduced themselves as political consultants.

  Why would Rawson Griggs be meeting with political consultants?

  Remy turned to Rawson Griggs, as did everyone.

  Rawson said, “You’ve all met Jeremy. Now let’s get back to work. My announcement is next week. We have a tremendous amount to do before then.”

  Announcement? Remy thought. He had no idea what this was about. His brain felt like it had been thrown into a blender.

  “Rebecca,” Griggs said, turning to his COO. “What’s the latest polling data on Shaw and Bertrand? Give me some good news.”

  Remy’s eyes went wide. He recognized those names. Now he was starting to understand why he was here, what Rawson’s announcement was, and why Murphy insisted he sign the NDA. If Remy was right, this was huge. Beyond huge. Game-changing.

  “Our latest internal polls show Shaw in her home state with a fifty-seven percent approval rating, forty percent disapproval, eight percent undecided. She’s popular in state, but once you look nationwide, her enthusiasm levels are horrid. Only thirty-one percent of registered Democrats list themselves as ‘enthusiastic’ or ‘very enthusiastic’ about a Shaw presidency. The Democratic Party is trending younger, and less white, and drifting further to the left. Shaw is a sixty-six-year-old center-left hawk, a five-term senator who voted for the war in Iraq.”

  “Not as bad as it could be,” Griggs said. “But we’ll detonate that.”

  “Bertrand looks worse. Forty-eight percent approval rating, fifty percent disapproval, two percent undecided. His support among Conservative Republicans disintegrated after he announced his support of mandatory background checks on all firearm purchases, and closure of the gun show sale loophole. Plus, as a congressman, he supported the auto bailout.”

  “This election is all about the lesser of two evils. People feeling like they have no other option,” Griggs said. “Bertrand will fall further. Shaw is the bigger threat. But we can neutralize them both. I want to detonate both parties.”

  There were a few nervous chuckles around the room. Remy stayed silent.

  Griggs said, “Right now, voters feel their only choices are two of the most unpopular, incompetent candidates in history. There’s more excitement for dandruff than Shaw or Bertrand. Folks are angry. You can feel it every day. People know that these candidates are dog shit, but they’re being told they’re caviar.”

  Everyone at the table nodded in agreement.

  Griggs continued. “And we trust that our internals are accurate? With the amount I’m spending, they’d better be.”

  “They’re solid,” Blum replied.

  “Good,” Rawson said. “I don’t want to see any of our polling fall outside the margin of error. When I pay for intelligence, I expect intelligence.”

  Remy was pretty sure Rawson shot a look at Phillip Costanzo. The former mayor looked down at the floor. Odd, Remy thought.

  Still, the picture was growing clearer.

  Annabelle Shaw was a Democratic senator from Kentucky. Richard Bertrand was the Republican governor of Louisiana. They were currently the frontrunners to be named their respective parties’ nominees in the upcoming presidential election, just over seventeen months away. The sitting President, Owen Gladstone, a Democrat, had near-record disapproval ratings. His social positions had left people enraged, his economic policies had left millions unemployed, and his foreign policy had the country on the brink of another Cold War.

  Democrats were in a bind because Annabelle Shaw was running to succeed a historically unpopular member of her own party. It would be tricky for her to distance herself from a disastrous administration while also rallying her party’s base to the cause.

  As for Bertrand, he headed up a Republican Party so fractured that Owen Gladstone was reelected despite a basement-dwelling thirty-three percent approval rating. Bertrand was a thirty-year politician: old, white, patrician, stuffy. A moldy relic and antithesis of the country’s shifting demographics. As one GOP strategist had put it, “It’s not just that the party trips over its own feet. It trips, and then knocks everyone else off a cliff.”

  “The bottom line is, people,” Rawson said, “I don’t just want to win. I want to eradicate everyone else from the playing field.”

  Remy looked around the table. The entire brain trust of the Griggs organization was assembled. The former mayor of New York offering his guidance. The polls. The consultants. The “announcement” that was clearly a very big deal.

  All of it coalesced clear as day. Remy realized exactly what was going on.

  Rawson Griggs is going to run for President.

  And he’s going to win.

  Remy spent the next four hours getting a crash course in politics. They reviewed polling data, demographics, favorability numbers, Q ratings, and a slew of other factors that had his head spinning. People were broken down by race, ethnicity, religion, background, voting history, everything but boxers or briefs—though Remy wouldn’t have been shocked if they’d polled that as well.

  The Griggs team had vivisected an entire country with geometric precision. All fifty states, comprised of three thousand one hundred and forty-one counties, mapped out by race, gender, income, age, and more. Thousands of hours of research, all dedicated to answering one simple question:

  Could Rawson Griggs be elected President?

  Their conclusion? It was possible. Very possible.

  Remy decided long before the meeting ended that he wanted t
o be a part of this, needed to be a part of this. Rawson Griggs was starting a revolution.

  Finally, Rawson stood up and stretched. He did not yawn. He walked around the table, shaking hands, thanking everyone for their efforts. He told the consultants he would let them know whether he’d decide to pay their fees. Remy wasn’t sure if he was kidding.

  Excitement coursed through Remy. He’d never felt this kind of enthusiasm before. He was given a taste of the greatest drug ever, one he didn’t have to inhale or inject. The pain had disappeared. He felt like he could rip the sling off and bench three hundred pounds and then run a marathon.

  As people filed out of the War Room, Alena Griggs came up and wrapped her arms around Remy, catching him by surprise. She looked tired but radiant.

  He hugged her back with his good arm, wincing slightly as she pressed into his bad shoulder.

  “I’m really glad you came,” she said. “I was hoping you would, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “You and your dad made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Remy said.

  “People have before,” she replied. She leaned in closer, until he could feel her breath on his neck. “But not many. And they’re all sleeping with the fishes.”

  Remy laughed. “This is all…I can’t even describe it. How long have you known?”

  “Things have been getting serious for the last six months. That’s when he hired the consultants and pollsters and brought Costanzo on board. But truthfully, I think he’s been wanting to do this his entire life.”

  “I’d hate to be the people who run against him.”

  Alena laughed. “Me too. And I know him better than anyone. How’s your arm?”

  “Depends on the day. And time. And the weather.”

  “Well, take of yourself,” she said. “We’re going to need you at full strength.”

  “Full strength for what?” Remy said.

  She shrugged and winked at him. Was she flirting? Was he?

  “Good to meet you, Jeremy.” Rebecca Blum interrupted them. “Will we be seeing you again?”

  “Not sure if that’s up to me,” he said.

  “Rawson says you’re a fighter. We need more fighters. So I’ll cross my fingers.”