Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  Was it just two years ago, while gathering his suits for the cleaners, she had discovered the condoms in his pocket? There was only one reason a man who had a vasectomy more than a decade earlier would use condoms. She still felt the ache of betrayal as she watched him in full soliloquy. But the pain had softened. Time had gradually healed it, just as it had for the loss of her brother. Maybe, she thought, she had gotten too close to Harv as well.

  She took a drag on her cigar and blew out a violent line of gray smoke.

  “So what do you say, Jen . . . dear? Dear, you there?” Harv was addressing her.

  “Oh sorry,” Geneva said. “It’s late. My mind was wandering.” “About?”

  She paused, and they looked in each other’s directions in the dark. He turned more toward her, and she heard the stretched fabric make a cracking sound as it strained against the lounge chair’s frame. The light from the Capitol Dome flickered a reflection in Harv’s eyes for the briefest of moments before his face was hidden in the shadows. She knew he was looking at her, and then she heard a soft, invisible sigh. He was still waiting for an answer.

  “You know. That FBI business.”

  “It’s really got you worried,” he said.

  “It’s my life.”

  “Don’t you worry. It’ll be fine.” He reached out and caressed her knee through her robe and then pulled away as if realizing he had overstepped an invisible boundary. They had never spoken of his infidelity, but he must have figured she knew. His behavior was telling. This was the first time he had touched her in a long time. Too long, she thought.

  It was all so humiliating. She wanted more. She wanted to feel alive again and escape this hollow emptiness she experienced with Harv. It was time, she told herself, to confront him about his cheating. Her meeting with Keith had convinced her she must start looking out for her own needs. She blamed herself for allowing men to have far too much influence in her life—whether it was her brother’s death, Senator Bayard’s bribes, or Harv’s infidelities. She had to stop reacting to their behavior and take charge of her own.

  And she’d start with Harv. It was time she told him she was going to find herself a lover.

  13

  As he made his way to his desk, Beck spied Nancy Moore across the massive newsroom in conversation with one of her editors at the copydesk. She was supposed to meet earlier this morning with Managing Editor Robert Ely Baker and her equals about his story. He was curious what they had decided.

  He had barely sat down and managed a sip of his Starbucks before she was hovering over his lair, a desktop hodgepodge of empty Styro-foam cups, stacked newspapers, and file folders. Somewhere hiding in that mess was a computer screen and keyboard.

  “What’s with the necktie?” she asked.

  “I’ve got one of those Georgetown parties tonight.”

  “Got a jacket to go with it?”

  “Somewhere around here.”

  Nancy leaned over his desk and looked at the floor. “Ooooh. Shoes that match. I’m impressed.”

  Beck strained to hide a grin. “ Whose part y?”

  “An old friend from college. She’s got some congressmen she wants to impress.”

  “So what are you? The bartender or the bait?” “I’m the life of the party.”

  “Yeah. Right. Don’t let it ruin your beauty sleep tonight. You look like you need it. You look like shit, and we have a lot of work to do.” “Really, boss, you worry way too much about my beauty regimen.”

  “My pleasure. Always here to help. Anything new on Bayard?” Beck stared at the stack of papers on his desk and shuffled through them. “I’ve learned he’s made a lot of money being a US senator.” “Yeah, so what’s new there?”

  “Well, you asked.” Beck leaned back in his chair, propping the heels of his shoes on the only available corner of his desk. His toe unknowingly skimmed a coffee-stained empty Styrofoam cup, sending it floating in midair and then crashing to the floor—without a sound. Nancy acted like she didn’t notice.

  “Baker wants news. Not the obvious. They all do that. Look, we have a short calendar here. The Republican National Convention starts the day after tomorrow. We all agreed in the editors’ meeting this morning that we’ve got to move quickly if we are going to get a story ready long before the election.”

  “Long before? What’s the rush?”

  “God, it’s so obvious you’ve never covered the political beat. Look, Sherlock, we can’t run a story like this too close to the election. We lose all credibility. It will look like a partisan hatchet job. You don’t think this newspaper will endorse the Republicans, do you?”

  “But the newsroom is separate from the editorial department.”

  “Tell that to the public. Tell that to Fox News.”

  “Shit.” Beck dropped his legs from his desk and sat erect.

  “That pretty much sums it up. Your ass is on the line with this one unless you get the goods on Bayard in time—that is, if he’s on the party ticket. And the odds are he will be. So you’ve got two, maybe three weeks—tops.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “You got it, Watson. Get your butt in gear and uncover my story. And pick up your trash off the floor. You need one of those road signs that barks ‘Beware of Rockslides’ on your desk.” Nancy walked away, stopped, and turned around. “And don’t forget when you’re out there in the real world, you’re representing a great institution.”

  “Which one?” Beck asked. “The newspaper or you?”

  Nancy smiled. “Which one’s more important?”

  “That’s a loaded question.”

  “It’s only your career on the line.”

  Beck detected a smile in her voice. Her deadpan expression gave her away for sure. Their eyes locked. The ridicule in her voice gave him a warm feeling. She was one tough newspaperwoman, and he loved her for it. She had an instinct for the big story and even acquiesced to his messy desk filing system. What more could he ask of her? Well, he guessed, she didn’t have to mother him so or pretend she wasn’t manipulating him to get her way. They were partners in their crazy world, and she never failed to clear a path for him in the minefield of petty newsroom politics. His stories got the same front-page play as the reporters who covered the White House and congressional beats. He knew he was her favorite among the staff. Sometimes he thought she knew him better than he knew himself. It was uncanny how she seemed to always know what he was thinking just before he did.

  Nancy turned away and broke into a purposeful stride. “And straighten your tie before you leave,” she said over her shoulder.

  14

  The pilot had just landed the Gulfstream on a new private runway and guessed it was maybe a hundred miles east of the Andes, give or take ten miles. He sighed, thinking it had been a rough ride and wishing he were still having fun back in Mexico City. He never looked forward to the turbulence caused by skimming over the mountains, and on top of that, he’d dodged two thunderstorms, not thirty miles apart, just before landing. Relieved to finally be on the ground, he sat in a comfortable leather chair, admiring what all of those suitcases of cash could buy, and stared out the window at a strange sight.

  Though in the middle of nowhere in the Amazon rain forest, with lush green jungle not a hundred feet from the runway, he sat in a tastefully decorated, air-conditioned office. It was all part of a small, modern complex connected to the airplane hangar. There was a small kitchen and even a cot in the other room where he could catch some sleep before his next flight.

  It was his first time at this airstrip, but he knew to taxi into the shiny new hangar before shutting down his engines. No satellite or drone in the sky could see the crew on the ground when they unloaded and reloaded the aircraft with a roof over their heads.

  He looked around the room at the expensive furnishings. His cargo certainly could afford a lot of nice things. He hadn’t raised his rates in more than a year, but maybe it was time to talk to them again about more money. They certainly could afford i
t. He was the one taking all of the risk, whether dodging bad weather or suspicious aircraft—to say nothing of the imminent possibility of arrest.

  Movement through the glass caught his eye. Light clothing was the norm in this region of Colombia, but the man standing outside in the white linen suit and white straw fedora was an oddity. Under the gray sky, he looked like a character from one of those exotic black-and-white movies from the 1940s he used to watch late at night.

  The pilot couldn’t understand how the dark-skinned man kept his suit so spotless out in the jungle. The gentleman could have just come from the dry cleaners, but there was no such creature comfort anywhere nearby. All of the other men, packing and unloading the small, battered, Japanese-made pickup trucks, were uniformly attired in stained, sweat-drenched T-shirts and ragged pants.

  The man in white gave instructions to a worker dragging long, green palm fronds and carrying a machete. He obviously had been clearing overgrowth nearby. It must be a constant battle to keep the jungle from encroaching on the runway and grounds, thought the pilot.

  The conversation grew heated. The white-suited man, obviously the supervisor, waved his arms and pointed at the ragtag laborers, but the pilot could hear none of it over the sound of the air conditioner spewing out a steady stream of dry cool air.

  The supervisor waved one of the laborers over to join them. A burly man, with big muscles outlined under his white-turned-gray soaked T-shirt, walked over. The supervisor, now with hands on hips, yelled and gestured. Then he poked his finger in the big man’s sweaty chest. The laborer bowed his head in submission as the yelling continued. Then he looked up, vigorously shaking his head, and appeared to be pleading with the supervisor.

  The supervisor stomped his right foot several times on the newly laid asphalt runway and again pointed at the man, this time with two fingers, as if lecturing him. He then backed away several feet, pulled a gun from his suit waistband, and waved it at the pleading man. They continued to argue, both with arms gesturing wildly in the air.

  The pilot reached into his lightweight, nylon bomber jacket for a cigarette and lit it, once again cursing the nasty habit he had picked up after taking this job. The woman who had approached him at a pilot hangout near Alberta two years ago said she was looking for someone who could fly larger corporate jets from Canada to as far south as Argentina. Triple his pay, the pilot was promised. Shit, he’d never been to South America, but for that kind of money, he was happy to fly anywhere.

  Outside the window, the supervisor waved the gun again and pointed it downward. He shook it, emphasizing the ground. The laborer slowly got down on his knees holding his fingers locked together, pleading. The supervisor walked behind him and kept walking away, but the man on his knees did not turn around to plead more. He just closed his eyes and sobbed. He rocked back and forth with his hands on his thighs and appeared to be praying.

  The white suit signaled the worker who had been clearing brush. The worker walked up behind the kneeling man with his machete and took one lightning-fast, powerful swing.

  The pilot quickly shifted his glance from the window. But that changed nothing. He had to look. Blood flew into the air as the razor-sharp machete made a straight, clean cut. Then the head of the kneeling man tumbled to the tarmac. The man’s body collapsed to the side, almost in slow motion, in the direction of the swing. It slumped on the pavement, spurting blood everywhere, staining the new runway. The machete blade gleamed bright red, and blood splattered all over its accomplice’s filthy T-shirt. He bent down and wiped the blade on the dead man’s trouser leg.

  The man in the white suit, now some thirty feet away, had never looked back. He walked up to the five-man crew, who had all paused outside the hangar, watching. They were stunned. They edged back as the supervisor approached. He clapped quickly, signaling the bewildered men to get back to work unloading their trucks. They jumped immediately, disappearing into the hangar.

  It was as if nothing had happened.

  The pilot had never seen a man murdered in cold blood before, and so brutally. He looked for an ashtray. There was none. Then he saw the sign on the wall. “No Smoking.”

  He quickly mashed his cigarette on the side of a metal trash can and looked through the window again at the supervisor, careful not to glance toward the lifeless body on the ground. What had the poor bastard done to deserve this? Probably stolen a few extra dollars for his family.

  Well, at least he now understood how the supervisor kept his white suit spotless. And no, now was not the time to ask for more money.

  15

  Geneva took a taxi straight from work to Ellen Elizabeth’s. She never considered driving herself since parking in Georgetown was practically nonexistent. She kept extra clothes in her office closet for the numerous evening political fund-raisers, charitable events, and cocktail parties that were part of the grease that kept Washington running. Over the years, she had learned to make her eveningwear easy. She wore a black suit to the office and simply changed from a gray blouse to a black one— one revealing a little cleavage. A little bling and sexier pumps, and she was ready to go. The men got off easy. They went straight from the office dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and power ties.

  Tonight she was hoping her outfit would accomplish its intended purpose and help her attract a certain man. She felt a bit nervous, almost like being on a first date. How did she even remember that feeling from so long ago? Yet this was a first date of sorts. It was a recruiting mission, although she had no clue what she was doing.

  By the time she arrived, ten people mingled in their red, white, and charcoal gray as a butler led her into Ellen Elizabeth’s old Georgian mansion. Geneva stepped gingerly, her high heels clacking on the marble checkerboard entryway. Guests gathered in the main living room across the large entry hall from a temporary bar set up in the dining room.

  She saw the graying eminence of Congressman Kelsey Joy, holding court in the corner under a large tapestry clinging to the wall, and recognized a couple of congressional staffers chatting in the middle of the room. Joy, a middling member of one of the agriculture subcommit tees, was of no concern to her, so she stepped onto the oriental rug that defined the living room and reintroduced herself to the staffers. She made small talk for five minutes and then excused herself, saying she needed to find the bar. Geneva had learned to talk with the unimportant people before finding her way to the bar—her excuse to cut the conversation short and move on. She thought of it as her updated rendition of looking over someone’s shoulder for the most important person in the room—a Washington tradition.

  She spotted Beck Rikki across the entry hall in the dining room. He looked taller and more slender than he appeared on television. She had heard the television camera added ten pounds. Apparently, it was true. At least this wouldn’t be painful. From a distance, he was a bit of a hunk.

  Rikki was in an animated conversation with a CNN senior producer, a petite, attractive woman Geneva recognized, but whose name momentarily slipped her mind—a gaff not acceptable in her line of work. Then they split. The producer made a beeline for a political consultant who had just entered the room. Beck headed toward the bar. An interesting juxtaposition of styles, thought Geneva. Who really was the more aggressive journalist?

  Geneva wondered if she could drop hints to Rikki about Senator Bayard being on the take. Would Rikki bite? She’d not really dealt with reporters before. Was it like lobbying a congressman? Could she show her hand? She knew one thing. Reporters, especially investigative ones like Rikki, always seemed to suspect everyone’s motives. Politicians didn’t care as long as you handed them a check.

  Nice hair, she thought. A little shaggy on his collar perhaps. But what was with that droopy brown mustache? Tall, maybe a little over six feet, he appeared to have a nice butt beneath his charcoal-gray suit jacket. And the way he walked. She tried not to stare as he strode across the room toward the bar, his gait like a panther—smooth, effortless, in charge. From this distance, he reek
ed of confidence—a brash journalist for sure. She hadn’t paid much attention the few times she had spied him on some cable news show, usually to talk about a story or book he had just written. But now she was intrigued.

  She stepped through the foyer and took a few steps toward the bar. “Hi, I’m Geneva Kemper,” she said, extending her hand.

  Rikki turned to her, switching his mixed drink to his left hand. “Oops, sorry,” he said, reaching out to greet her. “Beck Rikki.”

  His hand was cold and clammy. Geneva recoiled momentarily, then realizing he was juggling a cocktail, recovered: “You’re with the Post-Examiner?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I’ve read your byline. You do good work.”

  “Thanks. I recognize you from somewhere, but I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

  “I’m Geneva Kemper, with Serodynne Corporation. I’m a lobbyist.” “Ah yes. Aren’t you married to—” “Senator Mike Harvey.”

  “I’ve read about you in our Style section,” Rikki said. “But I promise, I’ve never written a word of it.”

  “Your paper has been very kind to me. I have no complaints, except maybe for the photographs. Your photographers never get my best side.”

  “From where I stand, I’d say the photographers don’t have to worry about that.”

  “You’re flirting, Mr. Rikki.”

  “Guilty as charged again.”

  They made direct eye contact, followed by a short moment of silence. His eyes were pale blue. Was he staring at her? She looked away and began to grin. Wow, this was going to be fun. He’s attractive and charming. She felt her jitters relax.