by PJ Manney
She stroked his face. “No, you can’t, my love.” Then she kissed him. And he kissed her back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the Capital Grille, a DC restaurant frequented by the denizens of Capitol Hill, Peter and Carter met Josiah Brant in a small private dining room. Peter was not meeting Brant in his capacity as secretary of state of the United States of America. Brant was there as the president of the Phoenix Club.
The men’s club–like interior of the restaurant was everything Peter thought it should be for this kind of conversation: dark with mahogany and leather and old paintings, the smell of charred cow flesh and expensive wine. On his way through the packed main dining room, Carter stopped to say hello to a number of people Peter didn’t know, as well as several he had met last night. The day after an inauguration was always busy.
But in their private room, the sound of deal making between government employees and lobbyists muffled behind closed doors into Washingtonian white noise.
“Thank you for meetin’ me back here in Siberia, gentlemen. I’m an old dog who can’t kick the trick of smokin’ these things with my meals, and they are gracious enough to humor my vices and allow me to break the law in private.” Brant turned to Peter and waved his cigar. “I’d ask if you minded, but I’d smoke ’em even if you did. Maggie says it’s my most unpleasant characteristic.”
Short, stocky, and white haired at seventy-two, Brant had a pleasing face and cherubic demeanor, like a clean-shaven Santa Claus, using his infamous Southern Comfort charm as the velvet wrapped around his iron will. Peter would proceed carefully. After the trio deconstructed the previous evening’s festivities, received their drinks, and ordered their meals, Josiah got down to business. “So Carter told you exactly what about the Phoenix Club?”
“Not much. It’s a men’s club, and it helped him become successful. That’s about all.”
“Is that all you feel about your brethren, Carter? We gave you a leg up?” Josiah’s eyes twinkled in jest.
Carter gave Peter a grimace as thanks. “No, Josiah. I thought you could explain the club better than I. You being so colorfully articulate and the club’s president and all.”
“I love this boy! He gives as good as he gets, even to his elders.” Josiah cackled, but his smoker’s cough got the better of him. When the coughing subsided, he said, “Fair enough . . . fair enough. I will only give you a general idea of the club till we can gauge your interest as serious. As you can imagine, we like our privacy and don’t share our laundry outside our intimates.” Josiah sat back in his chair and puffed on his cigar to gather his thoughts. “The club was founded by our nation’s foundin’ fathers to take care of the best and the brightest and nurture them to become the leaders of tomorrow. It’s a simple mission, and yet one we’ve taken very seriously for over two hundred years. Think of us as national talent scouts. We look for people who not only conceive of positive change, but know how and when to implement it for everyone’s greatest benefit. If I gave you a list of members, which I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t at the moment, you would see the Who’s Who of American business, government, culture, academia . . . You name it, we got it.”
“Does the club have a specific agenda?” asked Peter.
“Only to keep the country safe and strong and movin’ forward by makin’ sure the cream rises to the top and gets to accomplish their goals. To say there was a more specific and permanent agenda would mean we were not open to the shiftin’ winds of change, which are so important to heed in times like these. In fact, I’d say our agenda is all about chartin’ change and . . . surfin’ it, as you California boys say.”
“Josiah thinks that all Californians are surfers,” Carter countered. “I keep telling him that’s a stereotype.”
“Maybe not on literal waves, but on figurative waves, you sure do. That’s what I love about Californians. You’re always lookin’ for what comes floatin’ in on the global trade winds. You got your fingers on the pulse of the planet in ways most other states don’t. My fair state of Alabama, for instance. Best people in the whole world. Salt of the earth. Trust ’em with my life. But my neighbors in Mobile—hell, my own family—ain’t gonna be tellin’ me what the world will be doin’ in five, ten, twenty, a hundred years from now. Or at least not be right about it!”
The waiter arrived with their meals. Steaks, rare, all around. Peter took a deep breath and asked the question that needed asking. “So why me? Why now?”
Josiah smiled. “Smart boy. Thanks to Carter, we know what you’re developin’. We want it to succeed. All this nano-nonsense will blow over eventually, and I’m not gonna let China run away with the biggest technological advantage since the computer.”
“You really think it’s that important?”
“Son, put all those ideas you’ve got in your head together, and I think you can change the world. We want to see that happen. Here. At home . . .”
Carter interjected, “And I brought it up before. And you shot me down.”
Josiah laughed. “We got plenty of members who don’t think they’re club-types. They learn the club is what you make it.”
Peter hadn’t eaten since hors d’oeuvres last night, and he dug in with zeal. “So if I join, how do you nurture my supposed talent?”
“What do you perceive as your biggest disadvantages?” asked Josiah in return. His T-bone was still sizzling, and he patiently waited for the meat to cool.
“Well . . . right now it’s a two-front war: my reputation and my finances.”
“Let’s start with your reputation. It’s no surprise that I know everythin’ about you. You figured out mighty quick you were under surveillance. But I think you can appreciate why the government had to do it. So, it should be equally unsurprisin’ that I’ve read your FBI and NSA files in preparation for our lunch. Forgive my bluntness, but I know your past, your present, and most probably, your future. And given everything I’ve seen, I know you’re . . . all right. It wasn’t your fault. Certain parts of the government know that, too. However, let me be clear: That doesn’t mean that you’re out of the woods. People have been made scapegoats for far less. Politics is a brutal game, and you’re just pigskin for our football.”
A chill ran through Peter’s body. Being spoken of so arbitrarily, as though his life and the truth didn’t matter, reminded him why he had never liked politics.
The older man finally dug in to his steak. He enjoyed it tremendously, chewing with noisy gusto. “I won’t lie to you, son. You’re screwed. You’ve got good legal counsel, but that doesn’t mean squat against the DOJ. And even if you are acquitted, you know your Psych 101. If I see a headline that says, ‘Terrorist Suspect Found Not Guilty’ and your picture’s next to it, all I remember is ‘Terrorist . . . Guilty’ and your face.” Josiah paused and took another mouthful of meat.
“So how would joining the club help me?”
Josiah noticed his cigar was near its end. He stubbed it out in the ashtray and removed a cigar storage tube containing another from his inner breast pocket. “Simply put, most of the people who’d mess with your life would do so for no other reason than to boost their own approval ratings back home. They see you as a steppin’ stone to higher office. We can stop that ’cause you’re a Phoenician now. I hate to be so bald about it, but there it is.” From his hip pocket, Josiah removed a guillotine cutter and quickly and cleanly snapped off the head of the new cigar and flicked it into the ashtray.
Peter’s meat didn’t look so appetizing anymore.
Josiah lit his cigar and drew deep with great satisfaction. “Now on the financial end, the advantages to all of us are simple. Carter here tells me you two are goin’ to buddy up on a new venture. I hope you don’t mind, but he’s told me a little bit about your idea, and I think it’s just dandy. So one of the ways we reward our members for havin’ dandy ideas is by financin’ them ourselves. As you can imagine, the club has been around for a couple hundred years of staggerin’ economic growth and amassed a substantial endowment of
its own, which it invested into the companies of its worthy members from the very beginnin’, not only allowin’ some of the most successful corporations in history to come into bein’, but bringin’ back dividends into the club coffers.”
“So would you compare yourself with, let’s say, Harvard’s endowment? What’s that now, about fifty billion?”
Josiah cackled and coughed. “That’s gimcrackery, son! Let’s just say whatever you need, we can provide.”
Carter leaned into Peter. “This is why you needed to talk to Josiah. It’s one thing for me to say that I’ve benefited from this. It’s another for him to offer it to you officially.”
Carter’s mysterious business history became clear. Why he wouldn’t discuss his plans. Why he acted paranoid. Everything had been a big secret. Because it had to be. Carter’s charmed life was courtesy of the Phoenix Club.
“Look at Carter. Look at all of us. Without the club as financial partner, moral support, or ideological guide, we might be midlevel bureaucrats. Or unsuccessful entrepreneurs. Instead, we’re the Fortune 500 and the nation’s leaders. And we stay that way. We believe you have what it takes to be one, too—if you’re still interested in joinin’ our little endeavor.”
“It’s an amazing offer, sir, really amazing, but with investment and ownership comes control. How do you control your companies? I’ve experienced being owned by someone else, albeit for a short time, and that loss of control and the subsequent loss of my company was a terrible experience. I never want that to happen again.”
“The best thing that ever happened to you . . .” sniffed Carter.
“I have to agree with Carter, son,” said the older man.
Carter leaned forward. “This is the kind of opportunity that rarely comes more than once in a lifetime, Pete. But I don’t want you to think you’re relying on our promises. It’s all written in a proper contract, which you and your attorney will examine, and you’ll see that the club is strictly hands off. And for good reason. If you’re special enough to be asked to join, we believe you are more than capable of running your company as you see fit. Granted, some mistakes have been made in the past . . .”
Carter and Josiah shared a look, and Josiah sagely nodded and said, “You’ve read about them over the years. We do our best to mitigate the damage, but a train wreck’s a train wreck. Even though we start off with the best information available, any organization can be taken advantage of from time to time. But ninety-eight percent of the time, we’re correct in our assessment.”
Carter leaned forward and spread both hands on the table. “You and I both know that we have what it takes to do this right. And the club is a silent partner, because they know after years of investing that groundbreaking, out-of-the-box innovation rarely comes from a committee process or anxious overseers. It still usually comes from individuals like you who experience the ‘Eureka moment’ and have the ability to see it through.”
“Are the companies public or private?” Peter asked.
Josiah said, “Depends on the situation. Not only does the club invest its endowment, but individual members can invest in whatever business opportunities interest them. It’s a remarkable investment pool.”
“But if the company is public, isn’t that considered insider trading?”
The two Phoenicians shared a laugh. “First of all,” Brant pointed out, “few start out as public companies, so SEC laws do not apply. If they get so big or have a need for funds so large that it makes a public offerin’ necessary, the chairman of the SEC is a member. Problem solved.” Brant leaned over the table and winked at Peter. “But you didn’t hear that from me.” His eyes twinkled again. He was Saint Nicholas with the world’s biggest checkbook.
Peter sat back, his jaw slack and his eyes slightly out of focus. The Phoenicians looked at each other, and Brant guffawed.
“I think we poleaxed our boy, here!” Brant said and slapped Peter’s shoulder. Hard.
Josiah Brant was right. Peter’s head spun. If he joined this club, what could be possible? And there was Carter. He was happy. He was successful. He had never indicated that the road he took was a difficult one. Just one he had to keep secret. If Peter could only make the choice to join and ignore what he perceived as questionable practices, he would be saved. They could start their family. And be happy. But what was the cost?
Brant stubbed out his cigar. He’d only smoked a third of his second one. “Maggie only lets me smoke two a day. Gotta ration these precious jewels out.” He slipped the partially smoked cheroot into the tube and back into his jacket, patting his chest where the cigar lay. “A man must protect his petty vices from those who would relieve him of them.”
“So what do you think?” Carter asked Peter.
“This has been a most . . . remarkable lunch. But I need to think about it.”
“Such a careful man,” said Brant. “That’s no bad thing in this crazy world. Carter will speak to you tomorrow about it, and if you’re still interested, he’ll give you the time and place of your initiation, and he’ll be there to hold your hand as your sponsor.”
That stopped Peter. “What kind of initiation?”
Both men gave sly glances at each other and snickered, acknowledging an inside joke. Carter replied, “Don’t worry. We haven’t lost anyone.”
Brant rose from the table and the young men followed. He shook Peter’s hand with real warmth and sincerity. “Son, I’m sure by the end of the week I’ll be sayin’, ‘Welcome to the club.’ ”
As Josiah and Carter strode through the room, the palpable power they exuded was enviable. Both made a couple of stops and waved or acknowledged others, but moved quickly to the front doors to collect their coats from the maitre d’.
Carter grabbed Peter’s arm. “I’m tagging along with Josiah to a State Department meeting, as an industry expert. Not so coincidentally, it’s about nano, and you’ll be a topic of conversation. Do you mind getting a cab back?”
“Oh God, no, you both do whatever you have to. We’ll see you at dinner. And Carter? Thanks, man.”
Carter gave him a heartfelt smile, and Peter watched through the glass door as he escorted the secretary out to his limo and joined him in the backseat.
The maitre d’ approached Peter. “Will you be needing a cab, sir?”
Grainy snow blew in gusts off dirty snowbanks, and the few hardy souls walking looked like they’d prefer a root canal. California had made him soft and forgetful of East Coast winters. “Definitely. The Hay-Adams, please.”
“I just called one for the Hay-Adams. It’s right outside. Would you mind sharing?” The maitre d’ nodded to someone behind Peter.
“Of course, it’d be a pleasure,” said a female voice. He turned to see a beautiful, redheaded woman smiling enigmatically at him. It was the bombshell. From the ball.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They sat in the backseat, his hands kneading his overcoat’s fabric until he saw his clenched fists and relaxed them. It wasn’t only her beauty that made him tense. Sitting side by side, it was hard to look her in the eyes, but he had a great view of her legs. They were hidden last night under her long gown, but today she wore a short, fitted black skirt suit. Her ankle-length fur coat, which looked like sable, slipped open to both sides. Her legs, silky in sheer black stockings, crossed at the thighs. They were splendid legs: long, slender, and curvy, ending in high-heeled black suede pumps with girlish bows at the toes. But it wasn’t just the sight of her that made his heart race. This woman crackled with energy. Cut off from the driver by foggy and scratched bulletproof Plexiglas, her vibe rattled around the claustrophobic confines of the backseat and stunned him.
She followed his line of sight and looked back up at him. Moving close, she whispered, “I can read your mind.” Warm breath tickled his ear in the chilly air of the taxi. Hair on the back of his neck stood on end. And that wasn’t the only part.
“You don’t have to. What I’m thinking is obvious,” he surprised himself by saying
. “That’s not mind reading.”
She smiled. “But I can read your mind. For instance . . .” She studied him for a moment. Her frank gaze virtually undressed him. “You’re . . . a . . . scientist or technologist of some sort?”
“So that proves you have ESP?”
She clapped her hands excitedly, like a little girl. “I was right!”
Was it possible she had never seen any news item on Biogineers or Bernhardt’s involvement? “You’re sure you’ve never seen me before?”
“Positive. Last night was the first time.”
“Not even on CNN?”
“Nope.”
“So how did you know I was in science or technology?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson.” She scrutinized him carefully. “You’re trying to fit in to DC, but you don’t. Wrong shoes. Wrong shirt and tie. Wrong suit. It actually looks good on you, so it wasn’t bought here. Your hair’s too perfect—you had it cut for last night. And you run your fingers through it in a way that meant it used to be very long, very recently, so you’d work where long hair was acceptable. You don’t believe in the paranormal. You’re an observer, not an instigator. You have the remnants of a Tri-State New York accent. Maybe time on the West Coast? Oh, and I’ve seen you two days in a row in the company of a biotech venture capitalist who lives in San Francisco. But you’re too old to be his type. And you’ve got a wedding band. So if I go for the cliché, you’re a Silicon Valley biotech something or other who had to scrub up and make nice with the newly appointed natives. Although I’m still trying to figure out how Secretary Brant fits into the picture.”
Peter twitched nervously, a fresh sweat breaking out. “That’s definitely not ESP. You’re a detective. Who are you?”
She raised her right hand in an oath, putting on a solemn expression. “I’m not a detective, I promise.”
“And how do you know . . . ?”
“Carter Potsdam? Everyone inside the Beltway knows him. He makes sure of it,” she said. “You seem to know him well.”
