by Stephen Frey
“You okay?”
The young girl was looking down at the floor of the narrow hallway leading to the stage. Looking down at the four-inch red heels she was wobbling on. Partly because she wasn’t accustomed to heels this high, and partly because she was more nervous and scared than she’d ever been in her life.
The woman reached out and lifted the young girl’s trembling chin. “You okay?” she repeated.
The girl nodded hesitantly, her arms crossed over her barely covered breasts, her eyes fixed in a stare of resignation, as though she knew she had no choice. There were bills to pay and this was quickest and most lucrative way of satisfying those debts.
“It’ll be all right,” the woman murmured.
“Will it?” the girl whispered.
“Just don’t look at their faces.”
Then the girl was gone. Whisked away by a security guard to the edge of the stage. It was her time.
The woman heard a voice announcing that it was the girl’s first time on stage, then a roar of approval.
“Bastards,” she muttered, hurrying back to the dressing room. She hated seeing that petrified expression of a first-timer. Hated hearing that roar of approval from the animals. Hated knowing that the girl she had just spoken to had now headed down a path from which there was no return. Could she have stopped her? Maybe not, but she hadn’t even tried.
For the first time in her life, the woman wanted out. Not because she was ashamed. For her, this had been the right choice because she was strong and able to disregard the terrible influences that were all around. But it was time to get out. Only a little while longer, she reminded herself, slamming the door of the dressing room behind her. Then she’d be able to leave this behind forever.
As long as the man she’d chosen to depend on came through. It was all in his hands now, and she hated having to rely on anyone but herself.
“Conner?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me again.”
Jackie seemed on edge this time. “What’s the matter, Jo?”
“I reached my friend at Baker Mahaffey a few minutes ago.”
“What did she say?”
“She said thereis a young person named Rusty on the Global Components account.”
Bingo. And a minute ago he’d talked to an Ameritrade broker on their twenty-four-hour help line. The broker had confirmed that Global Components’ stock price had closed at sixty-two dollars a share Wednesday afternoon—just as the e-mail from Rusty had indicated. Conner had no doubt now that Global Components was Project Delphi’s real identity.
“Thanks, Jo.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“One more thing.”
There was a frustrated moan at the other end of the line. “What is itnow , Conner?”
“I want to meet Monday in Washington with that lead partner from Baker Mahaffey.”
“What?”
“You said his name was Victor Hammond. I want you to call right away and set up the meeting.”
“You have some nerve.”
“Please, Jo. You’ve got to do this for me.”
“And you’ve got to tell me exactly what this is all about if you expect any more help from me, Conner,” she said angrily. “Everything. I’m not dialing one more number until that happens, and I’m not promising anything either. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m washing my hands of it.”
“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Okay, go right ahead.”
“I can’t now.”
“Conner!”
“You have to believe me that this is not a good time. But that I will tell you everything.”
“When?”
“Are you working this weekend?” he asked.
“I’ll be here Sunday to finish up some tax work.”
Conner smiled. Jackie was acting irritated so she could wedge herself into the loop. By nature, she was extremely curious. “I’ll come by your office around four on Sunday. But you’ve got to get me that meeting with Hammond.”
There was a long pause.
“What is this meeting supposed to be about?” Jackie finally asked.
“Starting a relationship with Phenix Capital. Let Victor know that Gavin Smith is Phenix Capital’s founder. He may not recognize the name of the firm, but he’ll recognize Gavin. And tell Victor I have a transaction I want to show him. An opportunity for immediate income. He’ll like that.”
Another long pause. “All right.”
“Thanks, Jo.” He was about to end the call when she spoke up.
“Conner?”
“Yes?”
“Do you ever try crossword puzzles?”
“No.”
“Start.”
“Why?”
“It’ll give you a new perspective.”
11
Lucas had always been dedicated to structure. He took five shirts to the cleaners every Saturday morning. On the first Monday of every month, he cleaned the keyboard of his computer and the touch pad of his telephone in his tiny West Wing office with a Q-tip dipped in rubbing alcohol. And every New Year’s Day he went through his perfectly ordered closet and bureau and threw out any article of clothing he hadn’t worn in the last twelve months. Structure gave Lucas comfort.
Just as risk gave him heartburn. He didn’t try to be the center of attention in West Wing meetings. He didn’t play the stock market. And he didn’t enjoy games of chance involving dice and cards, because there were too many factors he couldn’t control. Chess allowed him to plan far in advance without having to worry about luck playing a role. It allowed him to methodically put himself in position to win, while tempting his opponent to take chances born of impatience.
Patiently putting himself in the best position to win while letting others take risk. That was how Lucas had lived his life.
His father had been a dreamer. A small-time attorney who accepted cases based on how much they interested him, not on the potential payoff. As a result, the family had constantly teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. It was Lucas’s mother who’d instilled in him the need for structure—and practicality. She detested living in a drafty split-level home on a quarter-acre lot. Which was why it had always surprised Lucas that she’d allowed him to choose politics as a career after scrimping and saving to put him through Northwestern. She’d made it clear early on that she wanted him to be wealthy, and most of the time you didn’t get wealthy in politics. Not unless you made it to that club Lucas had heard whispers about.
From the office doorway Lucas watched the sixteen analysts as they sat quietly behind metal desks arranged in two neat rows. Poring through annual reports, proxy statements, and SEC documents covering the forty-three companies. Those critical forty-three companies the jewels had been involved with as board members and senior executives. The analysts were scouring the data for anything that was inconsistent with control guidelines Lucas had provided. Reading and rereading blizzards of reports and jotting down copious notes on legal pads when something caught their attention. Pausing only long enough for a sip of coffee or a bite of bagel, courtesy of the United States government.
The analysts were Georgetown University business school students earning twenty dollars an hour for as many hours as they could log. They thought they were working for a nonprofit shareholder rights group funded by an anonymous benefactor who was tired of watching corporate executives and board members use public companies as personal playgrounds. Lucas suppressed a smile as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his thin chest. They would have been surprised to learn that the anonymous benefactor was actually Franklin Bennett, the president’s chief of staff. With a little help from Sam Macarthur, of course. A man who currently sat on the boards of ten companies and had probably used one or two of them as his personal playground along the way.
Lucas had understood immediately that, by himself, he couldn’t accomplish what Bennett wanted. Not in the compressed period of time Bennett had laid out. There
was simply too much information. He needed help and quickly formulated his plan to use the Georgetown business students. They would be familiar with the documents that had to be scoured, but wouldn’t ask too many questions. They’d buy the story about the anonymous benefactor because all they cared about was twenty bucks an hour.
Lucas was proud of how quickly Bennett had embraced the plan. Of how Bennett had praised him for the way it involved well-trained resources who would do as they were told without suspecting anything. Of how the plan minimized risk.
He grimaced. It minimized risk, but didn’t remove it. If one of the analysts found something, then there would be a problem. He just prayed to God none of them ever knocked on the office door.
A familiar figure appeared at the front of the room and ambled confidently past the unoccupied receptionist desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Reed,” Cheetah called, using the alias Lucas had given the analysts. Only two of the analysts even bothered to look up.
“Good morning.” Cheetah seemed subdued. Not loose like he’d been yesterday afternoon at the apartment. “Come in.” He stepped aside, allowing Cheetah to enter the office first, then dropped a towel down on the floor to cover the small crack at the bottom of the door. He didn’t want the analysts overhearing what was said.
Cheetah nodded approvingly, easing into a chair in front of Lucas’s rented metal desk. “Glad to see you’re being careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Good. Youneed to be. It’s pretty grim in here,” Cheetah observed, checking out the office’s gray, bare walls.
Lucas had set up the operation on the third floor of an inconspicuous five-story building in Rockville, Maryland, northwest of downtown Washington by fifteen miles. He’d rented the space and recruited the analysts a week ago, but hadn’t brought them in until he’d received the “go live” order in the limousine yesterday. This was their first morning.
“What did you mean about needing to be so careful?” Lucas asked.
Cheetah picked up a copy of theWashington Post from Lucas’s desk and held it up, pointing at the front-page picture of the president sitting behind his Oval Office desk. “Did you see that speech last night?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
Lucas shrugged. “And what?”
“And the president isreally going for it with Project Trust. I mean, he’s going after everybody. Corporate execs. The Street. Accountants.”
“Which isexactly what I told you he was going to do yesterday. Why are you surprised?”
Cheetah dropped the newspaper back on the desk. “You didn’t make it clear how far he was going.”
“He didn’t say anything earth-shattering in the speech,” Lucas said, frowning. “Just the standard crap. There were no specifics.” Lucas had recognized Harry Kaplan’s fingerprints all over the speech. It had probably taken him less than five minutes to draft it.
“I’m not talking about the speech,” Cheetah said, his voice low. “I’m talking about what’s going on behind the scenes. I spoke to a couple of my sources last night after the speech. People who matter in the party are very uncomfortable about this. They’re getting the impression that the president is serious this time. So the pressure is squarely on those narrow shoulders of yours to keep this administration in the clear.”
Lucas’s eyes shot to Cheetah’s. He hated it when people said anything about his size. “Everything’s under control,” he said evenly. Pressure was an understatement. He’d gotten only a few hours’ sleep last night.
“Don’t try to fool me with the casual act,” Cheetah said. “You’re so damn nervous about the next ninety days, you probably can’t hit the can when you piss.”
“Why did you want to see me?” Lucas asked quickly, irritated because Cheetah was right. “What was so damn important that you had to see me right away?” Cheetah was going to New York City this morning. He’d called the apartment at the crack of dawn to see if he could stop by on his way to the train station.
“I wanted to see the operation,” Cheetah explained, gesturing toward the door. “And see if anyone had found anything. Anything I need to check out?”
“No, they just got started. Besides, there won’t be anything to check out. You’ll earn your two hundred and fifty grand without lifting a finger.”
“I hope so,” Cheetah said. “Okay, then I’ll keep checking out the five subjects through my—”
“The jewels,” Lucas snapped. “The jewels.”
“Right, the jewels.”
“Is that really all you wanted? Just to see the operation. Is that why you came all the way out here to Rockville?”
Cheetah didn’t answer for a few moments, then slowly shook his head. “No. There’s something else.”
Lucas had heard a different tone in Cheetah’s voice. “What?”
“I found out that you’re West Wing.”
“Congratulations. I’m sure that was tough. So?”
“How much contact do you have with Franklin Bennett at home?” Cheetah asked.
“Not much,” Lucas admitted.
“Did you know him before you came home?”
“No.”
Cheetah hesitated.
Lucas sighed. “Look, I’ve got a lot of work—”
“I’ve been suspicious of Franklin Bennett for a long time.” Cheetah glanced at the towel running along the bottom of the door. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“What about?”
“This operation.”
“Why?”
“I know a lot of people inside the party. Deep inside it.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And there are those who question Bennett’s motivation for setting up this thing.”
“You told people about this operation?I ordered you not to discuss it withanyone .”
“Easy, Lucas. Give me a little credit. The people I spoke to don’t even realize what I told them. Or what they told me.”
“Uh huh. So why do these people question Bennett’s motivation?” Lucas’s mind was racing through the possibilities. He’d been in politics for twelve years, but all that time had been spent in midlevel positions. Suddenly he was in the big leagues, and there were smiling assassins everywhere. “I don’t understand.”
“Maybe this operation is really just cover,” Cheetah suggested mysteriously.
“Cover?”
Cheetah ran his hands through his red hair. “You have to understand how Franklin Bennett operates. Bennett spent twenty years in special forces before cycling out into a corporate career. The first six he was boots on the ground in hostile countries. The last fourteen he was involved with top secret projects. He’s a master manipulator.”
Lucas frowned. “His résumé doesn’t indicate that. It just says he was a regular Marine.”
“He wasn’t a regular Marine, I assure you.”
“How do you know?”
“I can also assure you he didn’t say good-bye to the intelligence community after he entered the private sector,” Cheetah continued, ignoring the question. “Just like he didn’t say good-bye to the private sector when he became the president’s chief of staff.”
“What do you mean?”
“When he left the military, he took a post as a senior vice president for a communications equipment manufacturer named International Telephone and Wireless Corporation.”
“I’ve heard of ITW. So?”
“In addition to manufacturing, ITW operates a services division responsible for all telecommunications wiring and installations at every important foreign embassy in Washington, D.C. And another division that does the same thing for embassies of countries deemed unfriendly to the west in Ottawa, London, Paris, Madrid, Bonn, and Tokyo. You’d never know it, because those two ITW divisions aren’t identified in any corporate information or in any SEC reports.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Like I said, you have to understand how Bennett thinks if yo
u’re going to be in business with him—and survive. He’s always operating with several agendas. You can never be certain which one is real and which ones are decoys, simply providing cover for the primary mission.”
“Are you saying that this operation might be cover for another agenda?” The words seemed to stick to Lucas’s tongue.
“Maybe. Or maybe your operation involves the real agenda. It’s just that the real agenda isn’t what he’s told you.”
“Spell it out.”
Cheetah leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. “If you’re trying to get elected, what’s the only platform younever run on?”
“Raising taxes,” Lucas replied automatically. During his years in Washington Lucas had been involved in two campaigns. He knew the answer to that one cold.
“Right. And why?”
“Because people always vote with their wallets,” Lucas answered. Like he was reading from a campaign textbook.
“Exactly. When it comes down to it, human beings care more about money than any social issue. Because they care more about themselves than anyone else. It’s human nature,” Cheetah said matter-of-factly. “Everybody in this country, rich or poor, believes he or she ought to be paying less taxes.”
“Agreed. But what does that have to do with me?”
Cheetah nodded at the newspaper lying on the desk. “The president launched the opening salvo of a very ambitious plan last night. Project Trust. My contacts tell me the president’s planning things behind the scenes that will drastically change the lives of a lot of important and influential people. People who want the system to stay the way it is. Executives who like running billion-dollar companies any way they want, granting themselves stock options, bonuses, perks, and loans whenever they want to. Wall Streeters who would look at increased government regulation with about as much enthusiasm as they would a rectal exam. Accountants who’ve been able to pry their way into some pretty lucrative consulting work over the last decade and who are now going to be frozen out of it just as the getting is getting good. Ordered by the government to go back to the basement, put on the green eyeshades, and be satisfied making six figures, not seven.” Cheetah paused. “The president is going to radically change the corporate landscape. Gold mines are going to turn to salt mines. Easy street’s going to turn into panhandle alley. He’s going to take these people who consider getting paid five million bucks a year their birthright, and make it a challenge for them to earn a hundred grand. Which still sounds like a lot to you and me, but wouldn’t support their lifestyles for more than a few weeks.Now do you understand what I’m saying?”
