by PJ Manney
It was time for Thomas Paine to become everything Davy Brant was not.
Tom’s chauffeured car pulled up to the fifteen-acre compound on Crest Lane in McLean, Virginia. He rode past many mansions, every one of them owned by a member of the Phoenix Club. McLean, the wealthiest community in America, had been home to almost every major political operative for the past three decades, and Crest Lane was the epicenter of federal power brokers. It was fitting that the kingmaker lived here among his vassals. Blocks away loomed the Central Intelligence Agency’s fabled Langley headquarters.
When he checked the local Internet network, he found governmental blocks and firewalls at every house. Miss Gray Hat had warned him Internet countersurveillance would be fierce, forcing him to shut down his internal system. He was Internet blind with no data or backup for the first time since surgery. It was as unnerving as if he were actually blind, having come to rely on the constant stream of information with just a thought.
A tall red brick wall was topped by an ironwork grill and razor wire. Automatic gates swung open only after two checkpoints with private armed security. Josiah’s army walked the property and a counterassault team was available just out of sight. No one went in or out without permission of the owner. It was the lion’s den here as much as the clubhouse in DC or camp in the Sierras.
Once inside, the illusion of bucolic splendor and peace was maintained throughout, especially when Josiah walked Tom around the graciously designed landscape. “I wish you could see it,” said the proud owner. “It’s more than a dirt-farmer’s son from Alabama needs, but Maggie loves it, and I love her, so, you know how it goes . . .”
Tom sniffed at the air. “I smell . . . honeysuckle? And roses?”
“Yeah. Guess what my nickname for my wife is.” The older man chuckled. “Sometimes my wife ain’t the most subtle. But she’s mighty sweet.” He breathed in the scent. “Yes, I’m a lucky man. From a farm to the army, to Washington, to here. Sometimes have to pinch myself.”
“And I smell and hear a waterway over there.” Tom gestured to the east. “A river?”
“Yep. The Potomac. Other side of the garden ends on a cliff over the river. Nice view of Maryland, I wish you could . . . Oh well.” July in Virginia was steamy. Brant pulled at his sweaty polo collar with his free hand. “Ooh boy, the sun’s gettin’ to me today. Let’s take a load off inside and have a drink.”
They walked along a brick path toward the large verandah that overlooked the river. Josiah studied him.
“I’ve had a lot of personal experience with the blind,” said Josiah, “and you don’t have those obvious physical quirks that can alienate people.”
“Like . . . ?”
“Oh, you know, the head bobbin’ and weavin,’ or the unfocused eyes or lid droop. I’ll be honest, I see ’em a bit, but they’re very subtle. Your head even follows people’s voices. Frankly, only the sunglasses and cane are dead giveaways.”
“Thank you. Were your parents blind?”
“No. My son, Davy.” He studied Tom’s face more closely. “You look so much like someone I knew many years ago . . . Any Central American or Spanish in ya?”
“No, not a bit.”
“Guess everyone has their double somewhere . . .”
Tom hoped Josiah didn’t think too hard about Ricardo Gonzales. “Well, I went blind as an adult and practiced seeming unimpaired, because you’re right, it does make others more comfortable. Part of it may be because I have a peculiar side effect to my blindness called blindsight. Have you heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have . . . We’re goin’ up three stairs here.” They walked onto the large brick patio and inside to an enclosed sunroom at the rear of the house.
“Thanks . . . It’s specific to my kind of blindness. I damaged the optic centers of my brain, not my eyes or optic nerves. That means my eyes work and the image goes to my brain, but there’s nothing there to pick it up. That stop on the vision express is gone. But the next stops that take up the message are still there. And no one really knows how the message jumps over the missing part and why it’s only a few messages and not the rest. At some level, my brain recognizes things I can’t see. So I . . . know things . . . Well . . . ‘know’ is the wrong word. It feels more like a guess. And I would swear to you that I can’t see the thing I supposedly know about, but I must sometimes, because I react to it. It’s almost like knowing I’m blind gets in the way of seeing. Does that make any sense?”
“Sure does,” said Josiah. He took Tom to the back of a comfy, down-filled chair and placed his hands on the top, so Paine could feel his way down the arms to take a seat.
On the glass-and-metal coffee table, family photos stood five deep, with pictures of Josiah, Maggie, and their children and grandchildren. A photo from the ’90s of an unhappy young man, about twenty-five years of age, took center stage. He looked like a genetic amalgam of the Brants, wore no sunglasses, and his eyes were half-closed and unfocused. He was blind.
Josiah sat down with an audible “Ahhhh . . .” in a matching chair, his eyes catching the sad boy’s picture and momentarily reflecting the same sadness. He broke the minitrance, yelling, “Two beers, Octavia!”
“Yessa, Mr. Brant.”
“How did your son deal with his blindness?”
“Lost his sight as a boy, so knowing what he once had, always felt sorry for himself, but never got the gumption to make the best of it. I suppose bein’ the son of a famous person is difficult. But Davy never cottoned to the idea of a legacy. Fought me all the way. What kids never realize is you do these things partially for them. But he didn’t want any of it . . . or me. Wallowed in time-wastin’ and destroyin’ his mind with online garbage. Gave him the best therapies and education money could buy.”
Tom smiled. Josiah didn’t reveal to him that Davy was his father’s prisoner. “He’s lucky he has you as a father. I didn’t have one, and it made a tough situation even harder. I’m sorry to hear he had such difficulties. It didn’t have to be that way.”
For the first time, Josiah gave Tom a covetous stare. A glance back at Davy’s photo brought a disturbed sigh. “Such a waste of skin. You two could not be more different. You got more charisma than a dozen revival preachers put together. Wish I had a son like you . . .” Josiah shook his head to stop the memories and coughed. “I’d appreciate your discretion in this. It’s a skill sorely lackin’ nowadays. But Bruce filled me in on what motivated your break of silence . . .”
“He seems to think you might be able to help. And here I thought he hated me.”
“Hate’s a strong word, Tom. Let’s say he’s jealous of your ability to draw positive attention. Hell—any attention!” He chuckled. “You made a mighty big splash very quickly. And that means you’re somethin’ special.” The old man’s smile gleamed. “What made ya so willin’ to come out in the open in such a way?”
“I’ve had two attempts on my life already. That’s why I live mostly on the move, with bodyguards and staff. I was hoping becoming a public figure might provide some protection from certain former business associates.”
“That’s debatable,” said Josiah. “If the Russians want you dead, you’re dead, if for no other reason than to send a message they are not to be crossed. And don’t keep up a brave front just for me. I know you’re in a heap of trouble! Who do you see as the key player, who’d call off the dogs?”
Tom looked appropriately frightened. “Vasily Grigorii.” Miss Gray Hat and Dr. Who had created a paper trail to the shadowy, hermetic oligarch that would stand up for at least a month of investigation. If Tom needed more time than that, he would have failed in his attempt to stop the club. “Do you really think you can do this?”
Josiah laughed. “Son, I’ve done a lot more difficult things in my time. I don’t know Grigorii personally, but I’ve got a handful ’a young bucks who deal with these Russian thugs daily.”
A middle-aged black woman in a housekeeper’s uniform carried two frosted mugs and two lagers
on a tray. As she poured the first glass, Tom asked, “Octavia, would you just hand me the bottle, please? It’s easier that way.”
“Of course, sir.” She passed the full glass to Josiah and a bottle to Paine. His hands and lips were covered in artificial skin that would mimic his avatar’s own for longer periods of time than the acrylic gloves the 10/26 terrorists used.
“Thank you,” said Tom.
“I’m happy to help in any way I can. But we got a problem . . .”
“Beyond my problem?”
“Well, son, it’s more a lack of a problem. I’ve learned it’s important to leave as few skeletons in one’s closet as possible. Everyone has ’em, and they jump out and squeal ‘Boo!’ at the most inopportune times. With the exception of your Russian friends, I can’t find any of your skeletons, which is unusual, or even a hidden closet, which is downright bizarre. Everything we’ve found on you adds up. It’s what we haven’t found that concerns me. And I don’t like surprises.”
It was time for Paine to dance. No matter how well or deeply one built a false identity, there were some things that couldn’t be recreated if people dug enough, like the web of friends and family that provably went back to childhood. And Josiah could dig as far as it was possible to go.
“There are things I decided the world didn’t need to know about me. I’ve had to walk away from a lot of my life to get free of the garbage.”
“And that garbage is . . . ?”
“No one becomes a billionaire following the Golden Rule. You of all people know that. Most people in my position don’t care what others think—look at Bruce—but I always did, because I understood the ramifications. The fact you found nothing means I’ve succeeded. If you couldn’t uncover my past, there’s no reporter or government that will. I’m a free man in an age where information exposure is slavery to the IT gods and those who serve them.”
“So when do I get your story?”
“Whenever you want. But it’ll have to be to you alone, on my boat. I don’t want a recording or witnesses. I know you have to be careful, Josiah. So do I.”
“Where’s your school teachers and transcripts?”
“I was homeschooled and skipped college for the school of hard knocks.”
“The girl whose teenaged heart you broke?”
“I was shy. Didn’t really date until much later.”
“You got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“Nope,” Tom laughed. “Just a lonely, late bloomer.”
“Well, you sure caught up.” Josiah scrutinized the steamy lawn outside as a guard patrolled past with an automatic rifle. “You spent an awful long time away for a man who claims to love this country.”
“Blindness was a great shock for me, as it was for your son. I needed time to run away. But I overcame that. I want to come home and be of service. And I can’t think of anyone better to guide me.”
“If we can help you avoid your Russian friends.”
Tom grimaced. “Yes.”
“You got plans?”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s plain to me that, with the exception of yourself, there’s a vacuum of smart and effective political leadership in this country. You say I’ve got charisma. I’ve been told that a lot. I’m thinking of running for office. Maybe governor, senator. California’s up for grabs either way. I’d base my campaign on Teddy Roosevelt, a man not afraid to stand up for his constituents, but seen by the people as above corruption. A protector of their interests. Intelligent, but fun. Outrageous in an aspirational way to reach young people. I can do all that, if they can get over my blindness.”
Josiah sat quietly for a moment, nursing his beer. “What do you think of our great nation’s electorate?”
Tom sighed, “Well . . . I’ve seen this all over, not just here. Our world’s changing so fast, we can’t leave the big decisions to an undereducated populace anymore. They aren’t up to the job, especially if our dialogue with them has no relation to reality to begin with.”
“You’re a wise man, Tom. Let’s toast. To a new world,” said Josiah, lifting his glass.
“To a new world,” replied Tom, lifting his bottle.
They both took a sip.
“But no one said politics was wise,” said Josiah. “And charisma isn’t enough. Do you think you can set aside your wisdom to do what needs to be done?”
“Wasn’t it Will Rogers who said, ‘A fool and his money are soon elected’?”
Josiah roared his trademark laugh. “I like a man who shoots when he sees a turkey!” Then he guffawed louder. “If you’ll pardon the expression!”
“I don’t think I’d give me a gun anytime soon. But I understand your metaphor,” said Tom, grinning. “And, please, allow me to help you: I may not make him everything you hoped he’d be, but I think I can help your son.”
Josiah looked at Davy’s photo again and stopped laughing. Tom could see the tumblers click into place inside the older man’s head: Tom was his second chance at fatherhood. He went pale and shaken, this meant so much to him, and tried to conceal it with graciousness. “Thank you. That would be the greatest gift of all. In the spirit of new . . . opportunities, I have a few in mind. Bruce and I are members of a very special club that might help you find your place in life. I know you’d just love it. Great bunch of fellas. Really the best and the brightest. I promise to save your hide from those pesky Russians, but you’ve got to make me a promise, too.”
“Anything,” said Tom, breathlessly.
“Just promise to trust me and do what I tell ya. You can ask any member of the club. I’d never steer you wrong.”
“It’d be an honor to be guided by you, sir.”
“We don’t have much time till the club’s next powwow. I’ve got to go to a PAC fund-raiser in your hometown tomorrow night, and I’d love you to meet some ’a my boys. A few might even be neighbors. Could I entice you and your lady friend to be guests at my table?”
“Of course. And what’s the name of your club?”
“The Phoenix Club. Ever hear of it?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Tom and Talia cut striking figures as she led him around dozens of ten-seat tables in the Crystal Ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hotel. He, distinguished in a sleek, minimalist tuxedo and she, exquisite in a floor-length halter gown and killer jewels. Josiah stood and waved from his seat front and center to the stage. Tom checked his system of ear jacks, patching into the wireless system of government microphones set in the centerpieces of each table and around the room’s periphery. He recorded all conversations through the course of the evening, just like the government.
Josiah pumped Tom’s hand and slapped his back with great enthusiasm. “Can’t wait to introduce you to everyone! Hon? Come on over!”
Tom and Talia shook hands with Maggie Brant, an imposing older woman who stood at least six inches taller than her husband in a Nancy Reagan-esque red dinner suit, less steel magnolia than Teflon southern pine; and David and Danielle Davis of Beverly Hills and Malibu, a petite and perfectly toned couple of indeterminate age and most-determined demeanor. Lobo and Vera outblinged the room.
Between Lobo and Tom, two empty seats loomed like ghosts. He knew who would fill them, like he knew lots of things lately without evidence. But could he pull off his act if the people who knew Peter Bernhardt best sat next to him?
Bruce leaned sloppily over the empty chairs after three straight vodkas. “That was some soiree, Tom. You made every tabloid and soc-net-site this side of Mars.”
“Thank you.”
“Still waiting for my invite to your rust bucket.”
“It’s a mess since the party, at least that’s what Talia says. Soon as it’s shipshape, you’ll be the first to know.”
A steady procession of people paid tribute to Josiah and said hello to the others at the table. Most were eager for an introduction to the media’s latest sensation, Thomas Paine. Everyone’s subtle alienation of Vera indicated that the men had
either slept with her or knew her profession, and the wives and girlfriends envied her beauty and despised her unmistakable courtesan air.
Lobo flagged down a waiter for another drink. He stared for a blurry moment at Talia. “Hey, Brooks, better watch my mouth, huh? Or you’ll try to make me the laughingstock of the Valley. Again. Don’t know why you bother. No one gives a shit. You turn off your interviews. You’re too pretty for analysis, anyway. Puff pieces are more your speed.”
“No need to bait me, Bruce,” said Talia. “I’m retiring. No more stories.”
Tom interjected, “Talia’s changed my life so profoundly that I refuse to be without her. And since I can afford to take care of her, why should she ever be a journalist again?”
“That’s a great idea!” exclaimed Josiah. When other men murmured agreement, Danielle Davis burst out laughing.
Amazonian Maggie Brant couldn’t help but chuck a spear at the downed fawn. “I’m real surprised a woman of your generation, so clever and independent,” saying the last words like she was anything but, “could become so old-fashioned and embrace family values so quickly.”
“I admit,” said Talia, “my working life was extremely hard and gave me few tangible rewards. But it wasn’t until meeting Tom that I realized how fulfilled I could be just being there for someone else.”
Danielle leaned into her husband and stage-whispered, “His money didn’t hurt, either. Welcome to the club, honey.”
Talia stared Danielle right in the eyes. “His money was the only thing that made me hesitate becoming involved with him. In my experience covering the rich and famous, too much money makes most people very ill-mannered, and sometimes, even a little morally suspect.” Her eyes twinkled. “One of my favorite proverbs is, ‘With the rich and mighty, always a little patience.’ ”
