Political Pressure td-135

by Warren Murphy

  Flicker had to keep the avalanche careening downhill. It had to be perfectly clear to every one of these minor campaigns that there was no time for negotiations. If they insisted on stopping and talking things over, they'd end up left behind, talking to themselves.

  Today, the dramatic events that brought these various entities together to form MAEBE had to now be upstaged by anther dramatic event, and the event had to come now.

  In one short hour, Orville Flicker would be raised up from comparative obscurity among the ranks of top MAEBE brass and, humble but determined, accept the nomination of his party as its candidate for President of the United States of America.

  But Orville Flicker was frightened. He had never once shown discomfort in all his years as press secretary to the state governor who then became President. Even at the press conference after his firing by that -.same back-stabbing, narrow-minded President he showed nothing but self-control and iron resolve.

  But all these past performances had been leading up to today, and in every public appearance he made from now on he had to be better than ever. So what to do about this stage fright?

  What if exposing himself now was a fatal mistake? Somebody had come incredibly close to nabbing Flicker. He had been sitting inside that Victorian monstrosity in Topeka just hours before someone was there to intercept his White Hand cell charged with assassinating that adulterous swine Julius Serval.

  The newspaper accounts were confusing. The reports Flicker received from his FBI sources were more credible and yet more unbelievable.

  There was an angry pounding on the door and a sudden barrage of shouting. Ed Kriidelfisk shoved the door open and squirmed around Cleo, which was no small achievement.

  "Flicker, you fucker!"

  "Mr. Kriidelfisk!" Cleo snapped. "You will not use such language in this home."

  "Go to hell," Kriidelfisk said. "You fucked up, Flicker."

  "Mr. Kriidelfisk, this is your last warning!" Cleo Reubens exhorted, drawing back her heavy shoulder and making sledgehammers out of her meaty fists.

  "Tell the linebacker to get the fuck out," Kriidelfisk growled.

  "You're showing your ugly side, Mr. Kriidelfisk," Flicker said, mustering his cool.

  "Tell the ugly old broad to get out now, or I press 7."

  He held up his cell phone. The color display showed little tropical fishes swimming around in an aquarium.

  Flicker felt his pores open up and his body temperature skyrocketed, but he showed only calm composure when he asked. "All right, Mr. Kriidelfisk, I'll bite. Who will you reach if you press seven?"

  Kriidelfisk's lower lip curled over his chin. "CNN."

  Orville Flicker stifled his hiss of indignation, and he had to force himself to nod.

  "Mrs. Reubens," Flicker said finally, "please leave us."

  Cleo Reubens left the office, closing the door behind her, hard.

  The Flicker house was a large, contemporary home in a clubhouse development in Dallas. The home was huge, and most of Flicker's neighbors were large families with a well-planned social agenda. Flicker had turned most of the house into the headquarters for MAEBE, before MAEBE had its name. Mrs. Reubens had been his housekeeper and had begun handling bodyguard and secretarial duties when the need arose—like now, when Noah Kohd was out arranging the press conference. She was a good soul, and not to be underestimated. She didn't like poor behavior, and she had never known her employer, the good Mr. Flicker, to tolerate profanity in his household. Why he would do so now was beyond her understanding.

  Orville Flicker dredged up a stall tactic from his early days and strolled to the wall, adjusting the air-conditioning to its lowest setting. The chill might make Kriidelfisk less comfortable and ease some of Flicker's unbecoming perspiration.

  Kriidelfisk wasn't going to allow him the dignity of a thoughtful silence.

  "What the fuck happened, Flicker?"

  "I'm trying to find out myself."

  "You fucked me over! I'm out!"

  "Not necessarily, Ed."

  "Not necessarily? Serval gives this speech this morning that makes him look like a hero and a victim all at the same time! He feels so sorry for Ms. Jomarca, and he'll sponsor a gambling addiction support bill in her name when he's reelected! No mention of the cheerleader, says the gunman were all hired by Jomarca. His popularity ratings have gone up ten points since the morning news, and the worst part is they aren't even mentioning my name! I don't even exist! I thought you were supposed to be some sort of a political whiz kid, Orville. You mean to tell me you're so out of touch you can't tell I'm fucked?"

  Flicker nodded, trying to come up with an angle to spin this on. He had not expected Kriidelfisk to show up at his house, and now he knew why he had not been able to reach the MAEBE candidate at home all morning. Flicker's prepared appeasement deal was clearly inadequate now, but what was the right way to go? What was the right message to give a mutineer? Should he reward the man for his insubordination and threats of extortion? Or should he...?

  "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Flicker, you idiot?"

  Orville Flicker smiled. It was the confident smile again. He had just decided the perfect way to handle this backstabbing, foulmouthed Benedict Arnold.

  "Mr. Edward Kriidelfisk, you are a man of deep convictions."

  "I don't need your crap, Flicker."

  "But you do need a job, Mr. Kriidelfisk, and in fifty minutes I'm beginning my campaign for the presidency."

  Kriidelfisk waited to see where this was headed.

  "I need a vice president, Mr. Kriidelfisk."

  The independent politician from Kansas chewed on that. He said cautiously, "Are you saying you want me to be your running mate?"

  "We had planned to hold off on declaring a vice presidential nominee. We didn't want it to look as if we planned it. But the series of events of the past twenty- four hours were pure happenstance in the eyes of the public. You're the right man who came along at the right time, through the quirks of fate."

  Kriidelfisk nodded, a new light gleaming in his eyes. "Yeah. It's perfect."

  "Will you take the job?"

  "Yes, certainly, Mr. Flicker!" Kriidelfisk said, re- learning his manners in an instant. "I'll be honored to stand at your side."

  "There is no better man for this role, Mr. Kriidelfisk," Flicker said, standing up smoothly. They shook hands formally.

  "Thank you, sir."

  Flicker checked his watch. "We're short on time. Let's get you to wardrobe."

  25

  The Air Force officer couldn't wait for his passengers to leave. They gave him the heebie-jeebies.

  They were killers. He knew it from looking at them. Especially the younger one. He could swear that guy had pupils shaped like skulls.

  The small man was Korean. He had told the steward that much during their conversation, which was nothing short of an interrogation.

  "I'm sorry, sir, I just don't know," the steward had said. "You would need to ask the Air Force. They're the ones who maintain this aircraft."

  "This is not like most Air Force jets," the Korean had said accusingly.

  "We use it to transport visiting dignitaries. Heads of state, foreign diplomats, those kinds of people," the steward explained for the fourth or fifth time.

  "If one were to choose to dwell in such a craft, would there be a large staff required?"

  "I don't really know, sir."

  "There would be a pilot needed."

  "Yes. And a copilot."

  "I would need no copilot," the Korean man said disdainfully. "One pilot is sufficient."

  "I think there are FAA regulations about that," the steward suggested.

  The Korean was extremely suspicious. "And the FAA, they are likely to come about often, demanding compliance?"

  The Air Force officer said, "Uh, well, probably."

  "Bah!" the Korean exploded. "This is a nation of nuisances! Permits and officials and pencil-pushing fools! It is no wonder some men of wisdom see
the need to disembowel the bureaucracy!"

  This was an alarming and vaguely threatening display of temper and the Air Force officer wished he hadn't heard it, since it was probably something he wasn't supposed to know anyway. He tried to look noncommittal.

  The Korean finally stopped staring at him and said, "Fine. I will acquiesce to this demand for a copilot, but only if he will handle janitorial services, as well."

  "I do not know what the FAA would have to say about that, sir."

  "Let them say whatever they like. I will never pay for a pilot who does not pilot unless he serves some useful function."

  The steward wished his copilot would announce the beginning of their descent or that a sudden thunderstorm would break out or that the rudder would sheer off—anything to save him from the terrible old man.

  While he was thinking it, his wish came true. The Korean was gone.

  He poked his head out of the galley and saw that the Korean had somehow, in under a second, made his way to the far end of the cabin and snatched the phone out of the hands of the white man, who was some sort of servant or indentured assistant, from what the Korean had said.

  "Emperor Smith, I crave a moment of your time," Chiun announced into the phone.

  "I'm sorry Master Chiun, but not right now. We may have a new investigative trail and we must have it thoroughly explored before you and Remo land in San Francisco."

  "This is quite important, Dr. Smith."

  "Now is simply not a good time, Master Chiun."

  Remo went to a seat near the front and reclined his seat. "Do not disturb," he told the steward when the young officer peered out of the galley. "I'm napping."

  "We'll be landing in less than twenty minutes, sir."

  "En. Ay. Ping. Napping. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Remo closed his eyes and couldn't help but overhear the awkward conversation behind him.

  "Please hang up, Emperor Smith."

  "Pardon me?" Dr. Smith asked.

  "If you will not afford me the time to discuss the matter, then I must discuss it with other parties. Please hang up, then you may begin your very urgent business and I will go about mine."

  "What other parties will you be discussing this with, Master Chiun?" Smith asked.

  "I am not at liberty to say."

  "What is the nature of this business?"

  "If you are not ready to commence with a full discussion of this matter, then I must keep it confidential, Emperor."

  Chiun waited. He was very good at waiting. Smith was also skilled in this regard. But Smith was a child next to the manipulative skills of Chiun.

  "Master Chiun," Smith said finally, "our current situation requires all my concentration. If we can delay this discussion just a little while longer, I will give it my full attention."

  Chiun was silent.

  "That is my promise to you," Smith added formally.

  "Very well," Chiun said imperiously, and hung up.

  26

  Bruce Griffin threw up some more and watched it swirl down the drain in the running water. Just like my career, he thought, and grabbed the phone from his pocket on the first ring.

  "It's Clayton."

  Griffin's heart started pounding. He hadn't expected the old newshound to return his call. They weren't exactly friends.

  "Clayton, you've got to hear me out," Griffin said. "I know we can make a deal. You have got to kill that story!"

  "No deals, Bruce. You know I don't work that way."

  "Bullshit! Just tell me how much."

  "I'm not selling out," Clayton said.

  "Like you've never killed a story for cash," Griffin said, sneering. "I know for a fact you're retiring on your payoffs from the Scarpessi Family."

  "I think we're done talking, Bruce," Clayton said.

  "Clayton, wait!"

  But he was talking to himself.

  Bruce Griffin swore and stared at the phone, thinking fast. Clayton had clearly not been ready to deal, so why had he bothered to return the call?

  Because his phone was bugged? Yes, he was trying to prove to somebody that he wasn't playing dirty pool. Maybe, Griffin thought, he could get the newspaper editor to talk in private and there would still be time to kill the story.

  Adam Clayton was pacing his office when he spotted a familiar figure coming at a half jog across the sidewalk eight stories below.

  Stupid bastard. Clayton dragged on his jacket and headed for the door, taking the stairs to avoid running into the state representative. He got down to the fourth floor before he changed his mind. He had to at least warn this poor slob that he was on somebody's hit list.

  Clayton raced back to the eighth floor and spotted Griffin fidgeting outside his office, demanding answers from the receptionist. Clayton got his attention with a wave and Griffin came fast to the door to the stairs. Griffin started to whine, but Clayton cut him off with a quick set of instructions.

  Ten minutes later they rendezvoused and were sitting side by side at the counter at D-Burgers, a 1950s-style diner that had been around so many years that the worn- down look was no longer artificial.

  "Griffin, you gotta cut some sort of a deal with me,"

  Clayton pleaded after the waitress poured them steaming hot coffee that was older than her current wad of gum.

  "No deals."

  "You gotta—"

  "Shut up and listen, asshole," Clayton said. "You got worse problems than you know. Somebody is going to try to kill you. Tonight, maybe. Not until the story is out, anyway."

  The state representative stared at the political editor of one of the largest newspapers in the city of San Francisco.

  Clayton glanced in his direction, then stared into the black gruel in his cup as he scalded his lips on it. "Don't look at me—we don't know each other," Clayton growled.

  Griffin looked into his own cup and Clayton risked a glance. "You look like shit."

  It was no exaggeration. Clayton's hair was disheveled and crusted with something. There were stains on his crooked, wrinkled tie, which was now soaked at the bottom in very bitter coffee. And there was a smell. The state representative had been driving the porcelain school bus.

  "What'd you expect when I find out my life is about to be ruined?" Griffin demanded. "What do you mean somebody is going to try to kill me?"

  "Kill. Murder. Bang bang. What's not to understand?"

  "But why?"

  Clayton shrugged and filled his mouth with more black liquid.

  Griffin was looking at him again. "You know why," he stated. "Tell me why."

  "I don't know."

  "Yeah, you do."

  "Just tell me. Is it revenge, 'cause of the guy that died in the accident?"

  Clayton laughed. "Is that what you call it? An accident? You drank a fifth of bourbon and decide to go for a drive, and it's an accident when somebody gets squashed at a crosswalk?"

  "That's the reason?"

  "No, asshole, it's not revenge." Clayton realized he and Griffin were now having a very public conversation. Shit. All he wanted to do was warn the guy! "Listen, I'm doing you a favor by telling you to get the fuck out of town now 'cause somebody is going to try to make you dead. What you do with this advice is up to you, but my part is done."

  Clayton tossed some bills on the counter and walked back to the office, fast. His old wing tips had new soles that made satisfying clops on the sidewalk and people got out of his way.

  Why did he have to be the one to figure this out? How come some other schmuck couldn't have been the one to connect the dots? Why him?

  It was the story of a lifetime, sure, but it was a story that no reporter could break, because he'd be dead before he wrote it.

  Whoever these guys were, they had to be the toughest sons of bitches who ever got together to represent the people of the United States of America. But sure as shit- tin' they had done it, and from coast-to-coast, anybody who got in their way was getting carefully executed.

  What made t
hem so damn hard to spot was that these guys killed about ten times more people than was necessary for their immediate goals. So they needed to off a city planner in Baton Rouge, they would kill a few cops, a sheriff, a small-town mayor and assorted others while they were at it. It helped obfuscate their real intention and it helped clean up the scum.

  Because they had two goals: one was to get their people elected, and the other was to clean out a lot of the dirty-handed public officials.

  Adam Clayton received a phone tip that opened up Bruce Griffin's sordid past. Clayton got one of his best political reporters to do the research, and pretty soon the entire ugly affair was exposed.

  Clayton had the story ready that morning, and everybody was getting excited. Ruining somebody's career was always a big rush. The promotional spots would start running in prime time.

  But something was bothering Clayton about the anonymous tip. He looked into it, looked at some of the other killings that had been going on. The connections were being made. Who's Killing The City Slackers? was the headline in Indianapolis. But nobody guessed how far the murder spree extended.

  Oh, maybe some of the federals had figured it out, but they weren't going public with it yet.

  Clayton figured it out over his salami sandwich at lunchtime and pretty soon he knew who was sponsoring the killers.

  There had to be a lot of killers. Groups of them, working across the country, and then with a jolt Clayton made the connection between the killing spree and the murder, that very morning, of Mrs. George.

  Soon more people would die in this city. Anybody whose salary came from the taxpayers and who had been accused of some sort of underhanded business was in deadly peril. The list was pretty damn long, and as soon as Clayton's expose ran on tonight's TV news and in tomorrow's paper, Representative Bruce Griffin would be on the list, too. Clayton would have helped murder him.

  MAEBE. What the hell kind of name was that for a political party anyway? Sounded like a neighborhood watch committee or something. And yet, whoever pulled the strings over at MAEBE had to be the coldest, most heartless son of a bitch who ever ran for public office.