“Oh, not all that many I guess.” Grover swiveled around in his chair and started shuffling papers from one pile to another and then back again on his desk.
“How many?”
Grover rolled his eyes up to look at the ceiling and shuffled harder. “So… let me think. Five, six, you know, a few… or maybe thirty?”
“Yow!”
Grover swiveled back. To his relief, he saw that Frank’s reaction had been triggered by Molly taking a giant leap from the top of his bookshelves to the back of Frank’s chair.
“Bad Molly! That’s no way to treat a guest!”
Grover plucked the cat off the chair as Frank, rubbing the back of his neck, cautiously sat down again.
“There, there. You’ll have the whole office back soon.” He was planning to hold the cat in his lap to prevent further mischief, and then thought better of it. He placed it back on top of the bookshelves.
Frank turned sideways in his chair so he could keep an eye on the cat. “Well, I guess that’s okay if all you’re talking about is minor changes. They were minor changes, right?”
“So… I guess that depends on what you mean by ‘minor.’”
“Well, what did you mean when you said ‘minor’?”
“Well, you know, maybe adding a new scene here and there.”
“A whole new scene? Like what? Did you just make them up?”
“Uh, not always. Maybe most of the time. So okay, I might have made up all of them up. But they were all true to what was going on at that place and time.”
“I can’t believe you did that! Give me an example.”
Grover perked up. “Well, here’s a really good one. So you were all alone out in Nevada, right? Up in the clearing on that mountain pass a million miles from anyone else? Well, you killed this rabid wolverine that was attacking you at your campsite with one shot – right between the eyes! That one came off really well!”
Frank was appalled. “I don’t think they have wolverines in Nevada!”
“Oh they must. Publishers use fact checkers, and he would have flagged that right away. At least they usually do. I think.”
“I’m going to be a laughing stock!”
“Look, maybe I did take a little bit of license, but I did email them to you. And here – take a look at the sales figures – maybe that’ll make you feel better.”
He handed a spreadsheet to Frank who ignored it while he continued to rant at Grover. When he did finally glance at it, he stopped speaking, and his eyes grew very wide.
* * *
Throughout the campaign, Henry Yazzie had told himself not to fall into the trap of thinking his chances might be real. Even when his standing in the polls started going up and up, as if drawn along by an invisible hand.
Still, when the money started flowing in from individual voters, and not just the CCA, it had been hard not to think something historic might be happening. Day after day, he was whisked by faceless teams of handlers from one stump speech to the next, and the crowds just kept getting larger. But he had been adamant with himself. He’d gone into this campaign knowing it was impossible, and he was not going to allow himself to be taken in by all the hoopla and attention. Still, he had thrown himself into the effort with everything he had to give, day after exhausting day. He didn’t want anyone – especially himself – to ever have any doubt on that score.
When at last the voting began and the news media entered into its final frenzy, he could control his enthusiasm no longer. Finally, he was convinced that a dramatic change in his life was about to occur…
But alas, it was not to be.
He sighed. Good God, he was tired. It had been such a long, long race. What he really wanted to do was just go back home; sleep in his own house, see no one and do nothing until he felt physically and spiritually restored.
But then, as he had every morning since Election Day, he surrendered to an enormous grin. Sure, nothing had changed. He was still being whisked around the country by nameless teams of handlers. But now they called him “Mr. President!”
* * *
Richard Fetters looked out the window of his study, where driving sheets of sleet were encasing the neglected bushes in coffins of ice. It was early afternoon, but already it felt like it had been a very long day. His phone was always silent now, his email reduced to a trickle of insignificant chaff. The smell of failure lay upon him, and in politics, no stench was more retchingly absolute than that of defeat.
He turned to the pictures over his desk and studied them: the victorious young man in the first; the calculating professional on the rise in the second; the powerful Cabinet Secretary in the third, ready to make his mark on the nation and the world; the cocky CEO making his fortune in the last. He was in his mid-sixties now, and had staked everything on this election; exploited every connection he had, cashed in every chit he had banked during a long career. He doubted there would be another celebratory picture to add to the tableau.
He sat down at his desk. What next? Maybe it was time to get away; go back to Colorado, where he’d spent his youth. Take stock. He couldn’t go fly fishing at this time of year, but he could ski. He hadn’t done either in decades. Something in his life would come along next.
He turned on his computer to see where he might want to stay, automatically checking his email first. The only message he found was an email informing him that he would shortly receive a summons from the Federal Election Commission, and instructing him to restrict his travel pending its receipt.
* * *
Otto Barbash was feeling out of sorts. It wasn’t the loss of the election as such; failure had been a guest at his table in the past, though rarely. One moves on.
But he was not used to being talked about in other than an admiring way. Lately he had begun to suspect that some in his social circle – and especially those he had persuaded to become major contributors – were holding more than the loss against him. Even at his club, he had noticed the occasional gesture in his direction, followed by side-long looks and laughter.
Perhaps he should not be surprised. With the election over, the gentlemen and women of the press were readjusting, as they always did, to the eternal turn of the news cycle. The end of the election left a void that needed to be filled with new political content. It also left those who had been on the campaign trail scrambling for something else to put under their bylines. Thankfully, there was Randall Wellhead.
Now that Wellhead was no longer protected by his handlers, journalists could walk right up to him on the street, or at the coffee shop where he went every Monday to look accessible to the people. And God bless him, he would say the most outrageous things, offering them up like a department store Santa Claus rewarding a line of children. Reporters delighted over each new present they received, and rushed to share their good luck with anyone who would read about them. Which was everybody.
* * *
George Marchand was accompanying Frank as he walked to his first book signing, something Frank had been dreading since he’d signed his publishing contract a year before. He had barely known what to say to his own co-workers after fifteen years of inhabiting the same grid of cubes. What would he say to a room full of strangers − or worse yet, three random bookshop visitors who happened to notice the sign? He’d been counting on Grover to do most of the talking at these events – and he had, while Frank was off gallivanting. But that afternoon a hairball had taken a wrong turn in Molly’s gut and he was still with her at the vet’s. Frank was grateful for the distraction of George’s company, and also anxious to hear what George had learned since Election Day.
“So at this point, the President can’t do anything but keep everything hushed up. I bet he’s kicking himself now for not blowing the lid off when he could. Whatever his handlers might have thought before, now that he’s lost a fraud-
free national vote no one is going to want to hear anything from him about the primaries.”
“Amazing. So how about the hackers? Have you caught any of them?”
“With all the hysteria on Election Day, the hackers – or I should say the people who were paying the hackers − got sloppy with their communications. Once we found the hackers overseas, it was easy to follow the breadcrumbs back to the people pulling the strings. We’ve got evidence that would hold up in court to convict all three groups that were out to fix the election.”
He saw that Frank looked concerned. “Don’t worry about Josette and her friends. We can’t prosecute any of the hackers in the open without risking everything coming out, including how little the government did to stop them. In the case of Josette, it would also embarrass the French government. Right now that wouldn’t be helpful to our foreign policy. We will let them know privately about some ‘cybersecurity persons of interest’ they should keep an eye on, so Josette had better be on her best behavior for a good long while. If I were her, I wouldn’t be in any hurry to go home.”
“Does she know that?”
“Yes. I paid her a visit to let her know where things stand – for now. Let’s just say that her Green Card will self-destruct if so much as a single text or email strikes the NSA the wrong way, and that anything they see will be passed along to their friends in France.”
“I guess she can’t hope for more than that,” Frank said, wondering how that message was sitting with her. “So who were the other two?”
“I’m relieved to say that neither was the President or his party.”
Frank stopped short, forcing a pedestrian to jump sideways to avoid a collision.
“Are you kidding? You thought the President might have been one of them?”
Marchand smiled and pointed up the street. “C’mon. You don’t want to be late for your first book signing.”
“But really – you thought the President might try to hack an election?”
“Yes, really. Or at least his campaign manager. Either way, no one would ever be able to trace it back to the President. People play for keeps in this town, if you haven’t noticed. Anyway, as we always assumed, the other two groups had something to do with Wellhead and Yazzie. But it looks like both candidates were in the dark, thank goodness. Otherwise, we’d really be in a bind about what to do.”
“So who were they?”
“One was Richard Fetters – Wellhead’s politico running mate. He was planning on being the power behind the throne. According to some intel we picked up, he might have been planning on being even more. But we’re not exactly sure how he intended to pull that off. He was the one that had you yanked off the street, by the way.”
“He was? And you’re going to let him walk, too?”
“Oh, now, I didn’t say that. He was shipping a whole lot of campaign cash overseas to his hackers, and he couldn’t put that down in the finance reports candidates are required by law to file. Before we’re through, we’ll have documented a long list of money laundering, currency trading and campaign finance laws violations. I doubt it’ll take him long to decide that accepting a quick, quiet plea deal would be a smart move. He should be Uncle Sam’s guest at a minimum security federal prison for a good long time. And he’ll have to agree to never be involved in an election again.”
“Well, the longer the stay the better. And the last one?”
“Oh, the last one! Now, he turned out to be pretty interesting – a casino manager on a reservation out west who was Yazzie’s campaign finance director. Guy named Ohanzee White Crow. Quite an impressive guy in his own way, but ruthless. We’ve got more than we need on him already, so we grabbed him quick. We had White Crow tell Yazzie that ‘sudden medical issues’ will prevent him from playing any role in the new administration. That’s got to be a pretty bitter punishment for White Crow right there, but he’ll be off the street for quite a while as well.”
“Speaking of off the street, what about Marty? Has he had his parole hearing yet?”
“Matter of fact, yes. I was able to tell the parole board that I had a job waiting for him as a cybersecurity consultant, and that impressed them. He’s working for me now, and I think we’ll all feel more financially secure knowing I’ll be able to keep an eye on him.”
They had reached the book store.
George looked at his watch. “Looks like we’re here just in time. I’m afraid we can’t let you get a book out of this adventure, but you can plan on a nice termination bonus from your no-name agency. Oh – I forgot about Butcher.
“Turns out Butcher has a gambling problem. White Crow had him in his pocket. We also learned that White Crow was in cahoots with Fetters − until he double-crossed him. Then Butcher double-crossed White Crow. Ratted him out to Fetters, not knowing that Fetters was hacking the election, too! Yeah, it is pretty complicated. There’s more to it, but we’ll have to cover that later. You’ve got some books to sign!”
With that, Marchand shook Frank’s hand and abandoned him on the threshold of his debut as a celebrity author.
* * *
Frank scanned the busy store for the marketing intern he’d been told would be waiting for him. He wasn’t sure what someone from a publishing house should look like, but his general expectation ran towards thick glasses and mousy hair tied back in a bun. No one in view seemed to meet those criteria, but while he was waiting a very attractive young woman in her late twenties caught his eye as she hurried into the store. Now she was approaching him and reaching out to shake his hand.
“Mr. Adversego! My name is Lila Carberry. I’m so pleased to meet you! I loved your book! I read it almost all in one sitting, and I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you! I’m not quite sure what you say to someone who saved the world from nuclear destruction, so I guess I’ll just say ‘thank you so very much!’”
Normally he would go to great lengths to avoid calling attention to himself. But as her lovely face continued to radiate unabashed admiration he felt a sudden inclination not to disabuse her of her opinion. He settled for ignoring her last statement.
“That’s extremely kind of you – I’m glad you enjoyed it. I really can’t claim much credit for the book, though. Mostly I just talked and Grover wrote. Of course, I… I revised and approved everything he wrote.”
“Oh, but still! All of the insight and ingenuity you used to foil the plot! And the chances that you took! I’m sure I wouldn’t know what to do if I was attacked by a rabid wolverine!”
“Almost everything. Look −,” he pointed at his watch. “Shouldn’t we get started?”
“Of course you’re right. Let me check in with the store manager and see where they want us to set up.”
He watched as she walked to the front desk and spoke to someone at a register; he pointed her towards someone else. As Frank waited, he found himself comparing her to Josette; a bit taller, with quite an appealing figure. Blond hair, carefully cut and styled, and a strikingly attractive face. Judging by her clothes, her parents must be helping her out financially. Not much money to be made as an intern.
The manager was speaking with her now, looking down occasionally at a computer screen. Now the manager was shaking her head. Lila walked back to him, her face burning.
“I don’t know what to say. There’s been some sort of mix-up. The store manager thinks you’re supposed to be here on Thursday night, not tonight. I really don’t know what to say,” she repeated, her voice quavering.
“Please − don’t worry about it. To tell the truth, this isn’t the kind of thing I look forward to.” She still looked crestfallen, so he added, “And I didn’t turn down any other plans for this evening anyway.”
“That’s really very kind of you, but still, I really do feel terrible. Look – I was supposed to offer to take you to dinner after the book signing.
You, know, to discuss how it went and go over your schedule. Why don’t we still do that – well, most of that − tonight? Since you’re free?”
“Uh, so, sure. I guess that makes sense. Did you have any place in mind? We could get a sandwich right here at the book store cafe. How about that?”
She laughed. “No way! Your book is flying off the shelves! As your publisher, we want to treat you like the author of a book we’re very proud to have brought to market! I made reservations already at a restaurant nearby. I’ll call to see if they can take us earlier.”
What could he say? Nothing, of course, so he allowed her to lead him out the door while she called ahead.
“They aren’t quite ready for us, but they should be soon,” she reported. A few minutes later they were approaching the entrance to an obviously expensive restaurant.
“Have you been here before? It’s only been open a few months, but it’s been a big hit. I like it a lot.”
“No, I guess I’ve missed this one.” He tried to say it as if missing a trendy new restaurant was a rare event in his life. “It looks nice.”
He followed as she entered and walked up to a hostess standing between the dining room and the bar. It was hard to hear her over the sound of the after-work crowd in bar.
“It won’t be too long. We can wait in here,” Lila said. She led him to a couch along the wall, attracting the appreciative notice of several men standing at the bar. One gave Frank a quizzical look, likely doing the math to guess whether Frank was a lucky guy or just her father. Being neither, he continued his poodle-like pursuit of Lila with his ears burning.
A waiter materialized at her elbow almost immediately.
“Nice to see you back. It’s a Mojito, right?”
“Yes!” She favored him with the kind of smile any man would happily receive in lieu of a sizable tip.
“And for you?”
The Lafayette Campaign: a Tale of Deception and Elections (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 2) Page 37
