by Rick Pullen
“My hands are tied. I’m hoping you can find the truth.”
That seemed to corroborate what Beck had read about Fahy. He was a man who did not appear to fear taking extraordinary risks to resolve corruption cases. Beck sensed he was Fahy’s last resort. No doubt Fahy had exhausted all other avenues if he was turning to a reporter. Still, Beck wasn’t used to such high-powered people leaking him information. This was no low-level, disgruntled bureaucrat he was talking to.
“You don’t have many friends in this town, do you?” Beck asked.
“A few. It comes with the territory. My office is not popular with either end of Pennsylvania Avenue or anywhere in between.”
“Lonely job.”
“It takes a certain kind of person. I guess I qualify.”
Beck recognized the breed. They shared official Washington’s mutual hostility and respect. In a sense, they played similar roles. But he wasn’t on the public payroll. He didn’t have a boss burying his best work. Beck felt a tinge of sympathy for the man sitting across from him.
“What makes you tick? I’ve read about you. They call you the Boy Scout.”
“Somebody’s got to do the right thing in this town—too few actually do anymore.”
“I get that. I became a reporter for the same reason. Now it seems a bit naive.”
“Maybe we both are.”
Beck shifted his attention to the contents of the large envelope. He involuntarily tapped his foot under the table. He shifted in his seat. It was no longer the strong black coffee that was giving him a buzz, but that old familiar euphoric feeling that the hunt was on. This was better than sex. If he found anything—even the smallest hint of a big story— he knew he would never let it go until he had shredded every outstanding lead, every avenue.
Fahy handed Beck a small folded piece of paper. “If you need to reach me, use this number. Leave a message. Make it sound innocuous, a routine call from a reporter that my department knows I would never return. Make it sound like you’ve never met me. If the voice mail is ever seized, I don’t want it to sound like we have any connection. Leave me a number where I can reach you. I will call you back and make arrangements to meet again, but I won’t discuss this over the phone. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Then we’re done here.” Fahy gulped down his coffee. He shifted in his seat.
Beck then broached the one question he’d been yearning to ask since he had sat down. “Why leak this to me? Why not another reporter?” By handing over that envelope, Fahy must have broken a slew of federal laws and probably violated every legal ethics tenet he’d learned since matriculating law school.
“Reputation,” Fahy said. “I asked around. You’re the most ruthless reporter at the Post-Examiner”
“Ruthless?”
“All right, relentless.”
Flattery bought Fahy two eggs over easy, sausage, uneaten toast, and strong black coffee.
8
Geneva Kemper had finished a quick meeting and was scanning the morning paper when her administrative assistant interrupted to announce a visitor.
A very tall man with a hint of a goatee, probably in his late thirties, strode into her corner office. He had broad shoulders and a small waist. No doubt a fitness buff, she thought.
“Patrick McCauley.” He offered a firm hand as she stood and stepped from behind her desk to welcome him.
Geneva had a strong grip, yet she noticed her visitor did not try to crush her fingers as some men did. A gentleman, she thought. And a nice-looking one.
Though she could have chosen the small conference table in the corner of her office for a visit from the FBI, Geneva preferred her territorial position of power, behind her desk. This was her court.
She watched McCauley quickly scan her grip and grin wall to the left of her desk. There were dozens of obligatory vanity photos of her shaking hands with various senators and congressmen—and even a few presidents—all prominently displayed. He seemed to be looking for someone, but then quickly turned his head and looked straight into her eyes.
“We’re doing a routine inquiry, and I wanted to ask you a few questions,” McCauley said as he made himself comfortable in her visitor’s chair. “I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.” He sounded bored.
“I’m sorry I didn’t return your call yesterday. I was on a flight from Minneapolis.”
“Your corporate headquarters, right?” “I see you’ve done your homework.” “We try.” He smiled.
“I’m always happy to help the FBI.” That was dumb, she thought, but what else could she say?
‘Just so you know, this is a confidential inquiry, so we ask you not to discuss it with anyone. If you feel uncomfortable at any time, however, we can stop, and you can consult with your legal counsel or have one present.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” Geneva leaned back in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. What was this all about?
“Mind if I take a few notes?” He whipped out a small notebook and pen from his suit jacket, not waiting for an answer.
She eyed him but said nothing. He was probably a gym rat—one with a slightly crooked nose, probably earned in a boxing match or a pickup basketball game after work, she thought. His vigor stirred something inside her. It had been a while. She had to remind herself to pay attention to the issue at hand.
“For the record, your name is Geneva Gordon Kemper, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Gordon’s an unusual name for a woman.”
“It was my mother’s maiden name. I’m part Scot. German on my father’s side—the Kemper part. I kept my name when I got married.” “I see. And you’re married to . . .”
“Senator Michael Harvey . . . really, Agent McCauley, you know all of this from your files, I’m sure. I’m a registered lobbyist. My complete background is on file in the Capitol. Let’s skip the investigatory fore-play.” What was this guy up to? Was he hoping she would slip up? Was he trying to catch her in a lie? What was the deal here?
He looked up from his notebook and into her eyes. “Do you know Senator David Bayard?”
“Of course. He’s chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.” “Ever give him any political contributions?”
“All the time. Serodynne has numerous Pentagon contracts. I give both personal and Serodynne political action committee contributions to Senator Bayard’s campaigns and also to every member of the committee. It’s all in the public record.”
McCauley adjusted his athletic frame in her chair. “Have you ever been to an out-of-town retreat with Senator Bayard or his staff?”
“Not that I can remember. I’ll be happy to check our records if you’d like.” What was he fishing for?
“Have you ever socialized with the senator?”
She explained her husband dealt with Senator Bayard as part of his job, but they did not routinely socialize privately as a couple with the senator and his wife.
“Have you ever heard of his retreats with lobbyists in the Caribbean?”
“No, but I wish I had. I’d love to find some excuse to do business down there, especially in the colder months. Although now that it’s August, I feel Canada calling.”
McCauley exaggerated a polite grin, a sure sign her clumsy attempt at humor fell flat, Geneva thought. She needed to not overreach.
Keep your answers simple, she told herself.
McCauley looked down at his notes and continued in his dry monotone. “Have you ever been to the Caribbean?”
“Sure, my husband and I have been all over—the Bahamas, Aruba, Puerto Rico, Grand Cayman, Saint John, Saint Bart’s, Saint Martin, Anguilla. I think that covers the past twenty years.”
“When was the last time you were in Grand Cayman?”
“Hmmm. Five years ago maybe? Yes. I think it was about that long ago. Why?”
“The senator apparently has invested in some commercial property down there. I was wondering if you or your comp
any had ever done business with any of his Caribbean investments or businesses.”
“I never knew he had anything going in the Caribbean. I’ll have to ask him about it.” Geneva instinctively leaned forward, clasping her hands together on her desk. She noticed McCauley eyeing the large diamond on her left hand. She instinctively covered it with her right. She wondered where this was going.
McCauley then grilled her on her out-of-town business trips, none of which were tied to Senator Bayard and all of which she assumed he was already familiar with from examining her lobbyist filings at the Capitol. She hedged on dates and specifics, not wanting to be caught in any discrepancies. She couldn’t believe the FBI would come after her for some minor travel infraction. Would it?
“I go to New York on a fairly regular basis,” Geneva said. “I meet with investment bankers quarterly. In fact, I’ve got an appointment with them tomorrow. They want to keep up with our government contracting so they can tell their clients we are still a good investment. Just routine stuff.”
McCauley leaned forward in his chair, his big, dark eyes almost penetrating her. “Serodynne Corporation is competing with the Lamurr Technologies for a big contract on some new drone technology for the air force. Yes?”
“Well, that’s certainly no secret. It’s a one-hundred-billion-dollar, seven-year deal. Certainly would be our largest contract ever. Serodynne and Lamurr are the only two companies in the US with the capacity to manufacture them.” Was this what this interview was about? Geneva was careful not to bite her lip or show any sign of nervousness.
She shifted into lobbyist infomercial. “In fact, I believe we have a much greater capacity than Lamurr to meet the Pentagon’s target dates. I’ve made sure to mention that to the generals, the Pentagon contracting office, and several members of Congress. Our contracting team is all over it.”
“So you think your chances are good?”
“Of course.” Geneva’s mind started to race. What was he after?
“So Serodynne doesn’t do any business with Senator Bayard?”
“No. Our only financial connection with him is political campaign contributions. We’re as generous as the law allows.”
That was the second time he’d asked that question. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and rested her elbows on her desk.
“Are you aware of any financial relationship between the senator and Lamurr Technologies?” he asked.
“If I were, I’d pick up the phone and call you. Not only would it be unethical and illegal, but it would be against Serodynne’s best economic interests to compete in some rigged bidding contest. What do you know that I don’t know?” Geneva twisted her diamond ring.
“Like I said, this is just a routine review. Since the senator is running for president, the crazies come out of the woodwork, forcing us to scrutinize all of the potential candidates’ finances a little closer. You wouldn’t believe all of the crackpots out there with conspiracy theories. I’ve been in the agency for thirteen years and, every four years, it’s the same thing all over again.”
Crazies. Yes, she’d met a few in Washington during her career. But was McCauley being honest or was he trying to conceal what he was really up to?
McCauley rose from his chair. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time, but I may be back in touch with you with some follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”
His gaze penetrated her. Another place, another time, she told herself, but not under these circumstances.
“Not at all,” she blurted out a little too loudly.
“But if you would keep our conversation between us, the bureau would appreciate it. We are still looking into this matter.”
“I understand, but I may need to tell our corporate counsel. We are a publicly traded company.”
They shook hands again, and his handshake was once more cordial and not overbearing. Geneva closed her office door behind him and leaned against it, breathing deeply. She stared at the wall and then sat back in her chair.
What just happened? She was well paid to play political chess in this town and be three moves ahead of the competition. She hadn’t seen this one coming. What was the senator up to? What was going on in the Caribbean? Was her contract bid in jeopardy because Lamurr was paying off the senator? It had to be the contract, she thought. If Lamurr had an inside track with the senator, years of her work would be wasted. Her job would be in jeopardy. She shuddered and sat at her desk, her face in her hands.
Washington was a dirty town where people didn’t always play by the rules, but this . . . this was beyond anything she had ever dealt with. She brushed the hair out of her face and picked up her desk phone. She dialed Minneapolis headquarters. She recounted her conversation with McCauley to Serodynne’s legal counsel, Sue Nijelski.
“Don’t say a thing about this tomorrow when you meet with the investment bankers,” Nijelski said. “Nothing has been confirmed. You don’t know for sure anything is going on. The last thing we need is for our stock to crash based on false rumors. You need to find the truth.”
After some pleasantries about Nijelski’s husband’s latest wine find, they hung up.
Geneva sat at her desk in thought. Find the truth. How in the world would she do that?
Geneva’s administrative assistant buzzed her. “Your brunch is in twenty minutes.”
McCauley’s bombshell had totally disoriented her. She had forgotten about meeting with Ellen Elizabeth. She needed time to focus, but now was not the time. Geneva grabbed her handbag and jacket and raced out the door.
9
Throughout brunch with her college roommate Ellen Elizabeth Howard—one of many Washington hostesses who greased the wheels of politics by throwing parties and fund-raisers for the powerful at her Georgetown home—Geneva couldn’t get the conversation with the FBI agent out of her head.
“What’s bothering you?” Ellen Elizabeth finally asked, her husky Georgia drawl lingering a half step behind her. “Apparent, huh?” “Duh.”
“Its just work. I’m trying to figure out my next move. I had a disturbing meeting just before I came here.” She didn’t want to talk about the FBI, not even with her best friend. “Ellen Elizabeth, how long have we known each other?”
“Geneva—” Ellen Elizabeth paused and tilted her head. She had a curious look on her face. “What do you mean? Since college of course. And then when we both worked on the Hill for those two obscure congressmen.”
“What ever happened to them?”
“I think they both were disappointed—or maybe overwhelmed— and went home after a few years.”
“That’s unusual. They didn’t cash in.”
“Jen, why are you changing the subject? Why are we having this conversation? What happened to you today?”
“I don’t think I can look at another blue pinstripe suit.” Geneva looked away from her friend and stared blankly across the dining room.
There was a long pause as she fumbled for her water glass and took a sip.
“Need to talk? Jen, you know I’m always available if you need to talk.”
“I appreciate that. I’m just stumped about what to do right now.” Geneva secretly examined the large gold bracelet her husband Harv— she always called him Harv—had given her on her thirty-fifth birthday. It glistened in the sun’s light, which filtered through the large palms by the window, shielding the restaurant’s patrons from the street. Her bling reminded her of an earlier, happier time.
Today, the two friends met at the new bistro in Washington’s Penn Quarter, only a few blocks from Geneva’s condo. After scrutinizing the lavish brunch menu, they each ordered a different version of Eggs Benedict and a glass of champagne. Glancing around the bistro, Geneva noted it was similar in design to the latest stark, modern interiors favored by designers in their never-ending quest to set the latest trend. Eating out in Washington was similar to its pandering politics. It was all about the fashionable experience, she thought, and had little to do with the actua
l ingredients.
“Are you okay with your job?” asked Ellen Elizabeth. “You know, you’ve talked for years about hanging up your lobbyist spurs. Is it time? Do you still think about that?”
“Too often, but things aren’t great between Harv and me right now, and now I have to deal with these problems at the office. I’m tiring of the Washington conceit. But if Harv and I don’t work out, I can’t afford to quit right now.” There. She’d said it. She’d bottled up feelings about her marriage struggles for too long.
“I didn’t know it was that bad.” Ellen Elizabeth spoke slowly. Her eyes narrowed, and she reached across the table and placed her hand over Geneva’s.
“He’s a lovely man,” Geneva said, “but I need to be desired again.”
“I’m sorry, Jen. I hope you can work it out. Maybe a new job would help your relationship. Maybe get out of this rat race. Why not give it up? Try something else?”
“What would I do?”
“Retire to that beach you always dream about.” “At forty-two?”
“People do it all the time. No more Armani suits. Just a teeny-weeny bikini—or for you, something less—much less.”
Geneva grinned at the thought. A vision filled her mind of lying naked under a clear blue sky on some private beach feeling the warm sun radiate on her bare skin with the sound of gentle waves lapping the shore. What a cliche, she thought.
But it was her cliche. It was her ambition, and that’s all that mattered. She desperately needed to clear her mind and get off the Washington treadmill while she was still young enough to enjoy life. She’d seen enough of the never-ending churn of the struggle for power.
And yet now she faced the possibility of losing the biggest deal of her life and being forced out of her job, and she realized she couldn’t afford to leave. And she was all too aware she’d become too comfortable with a life she despised. She enjoyed the perks of power and money like everyone else, yet she yearned to go back to something simpler.
