Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

“As you know, I’m the mayor’s new chief executive adviser. I am specifically authorized to speak for him.”

  Badde was quiet a moment, then said, “What sort of problem?”

  “It’s about Josiah Cross.”

  “And what about the good reverend?” Badde said, his tone defensive. “He’s an outstanding pillar of the community.”

  There was a pause, and then Stein, his voice incredulous, said, “Have you not seen the news?”

  Oh, hell—now what happened? Badde thought, looking as Janelle Harper stepped into the shade. She was making a stern face while rapidly tapping on the screen of her cellular phone.

  “I saw the news first thing this morning,” Badde said. “Since then, as I said, I’ve been busy with other demands.”

  “Then you’re telling me that you’re unaware of today’s murders . . .”

  That’s it? Just more murders?

  Unless it’s a real bad one, they barely even make the news anymore.

  “. . . and that Reverend Cross and his followers are calling the police killers? In particular, that they have declared highly decorated Homicide Sergeant Payne as ‘Public Enemy Number One’?”

  Badde thought: What is that all about? That would definitely make the news.

  He did not respond.

  “Hello?” Stein said.

  “I’m here. Look—”

  “What about Cross,” Stein went on, “recklessly telling a TV reporter that Sergeant Payne is ‘a trigger-happy cop’ and that his ‘contributing to the bloodshed of citizens in the city was despicable’?” He paused, then added, “Would you say that’s what one expects to hear from ‘an outstanding pillar of the community’?”

  “Look,” Badde said, “I hadn’t heard that. But I don’t see how it could be my problem. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the last I heard, it’s your boss, the mayor, who hires the police commissioner, who reports directly to him.”

  “Actually, the city managing director does the hiring, with the mayor’s approval.”

  “Same difference. That makes Payne the mayor’s problem.”

  “But we’re not talking about Sergeant Payne,” Stein said, hearing his voice rise. He paused, collected himself, and added, “Who, incidentally, Mayor Carlucci doesn’t consider a problem. It’s Reverend Cross.”

  “And?”

  “And you’re on the Public Safety Committee—”

  “Yes,” Badde interrupted, “but I’m not a senior member. I have much greater responsibilities on other committees, which, actually, are what I’m dealing with today. So, can we get to the point of this?”

  “. . . and you’re telling me that you haven’t heard that Reverend Cross, whom you appointed to CPOC, is leading marches protesting Philadelphia’s murder rate—”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Badde interrupted again.

  “Are you serious? I have to spell it out?”

  Stein waited for a response, and when none came, went on: “What’s wrong is that the chairman of CPOC is declaring that the police his committee oversees are killers! And if that wasn’t outrageous enough, apparently you have agreed to speak at his rally this afternoon to build support of that!”

  What rally?

  I didn’t agree to nothing.

  “As a rule, I do try to support my constituents and colleagues,” Badde said, looking out across the airfield and at the Caribbean Sea beyond the palm trees in the distance. “But even if I wanted to attend this rally, today just wouldn’t be possible. There must have been some confusion with one of my office assistants.”

  Stein was silent a long moment.

  “Councilman Badde,” he said, in a measured tone, “I just left an urgent message asking for Cross to call me as soon as possible, preferably before this rally. I have, unfortunately, absolutely no faith that that’s going to happen. Which is why I’ve called you. It is critical that this situation be contained before it gets out of hand. Can I count on you, as a responsible elected official, to arrange for that call to happen? Even better, can you set it up for the three of us to meet today?”

  Even if I could, Badde thought, why would I?

  It sure doesn’t hurt me when Carlucci looks incompetent.

  Especially if his campaign promise of Law and Order crashes and burns.

  “First of all,” Badde said, “I’m out of town, so meeting today won’t work. And, second, as much as I’d like, I just don’t know how I’d help otherwise.”

  There was another long silence, during which Badde thought that he overheard someone in the background speaking to Stein.

  Stein finally said: “I cannot tell you how genuinely disappointed I am to hear you say that. I was just thinking, however, that perhaps Councilman Lane could suggest some ways. One that comes immediately to mind: Cross repudiates the scurrilous message of the police being killers and then resigns from CPOC.”

  Willie Lane? Is that supposed to be a threat? Badde thought, and suddenly felt a chill despite the tropical heat.

  And there’s no way Lenny’s gonna give up his CPOC gig.

  “Resign?” Badde said. “Really?”

  “That of course would be what I consider the best-case scenario. But it doesn’t have to go that far. What he absolutely has to do is stop with the direct attacks on the police department. If he fails to do so, I’ll see that he’s removed for cause from CPOC. And his removal will not reflect well on the council member who appointed him.”

  Badde was quiet a long moment. He looked at Janelle Harper. She was holding up her phone and pointing anxiously at it.

  Damn it! Badde thought.

  I don’t need this attention with everything else I’ve got going.

  I need to think of something. Fast . . .

  “Mr. Stein?” Badde said.

  “I’m here.”

  “I think this might actually be Josiah calling,” Badde lied. “Can I put you on hold a second?”

  “Certainly. Go ahead.”

  “If somehow we lose our connection, I’ll call right back,” Badde said, then flipped the phone closed, breaking off the call.

  —

  H. Rapp Badde Jr. and William G. Lane had more than a little in common, beginning with the fact that both their fathers had been city council members, then served back-to-back terms as mayor of the City of Philadelphia.

  When the senior Lane had left office—after midway through his term having been named as one of the top five worst big-city mayors in a U.S. News & World Report magazine cover story—the senior Badde won election to his seat. While a distinguished newsweekly publication later had not labeled Badde among the nation’s worst mayors, his failure to improve on his predecessor’s contemptible record had many saying that Badde certainly had, at least in one unfortunate sense, lived up to the family name.

  It was no secret that both sons aspired to become mayor, and, like their fathers, had taken the first step of being elected to the city council. And that, also like their fathers’ rivalry, they kept a wary eye on the other.

  Philadelphia had seventeen total city council members, ten of whom were elected to represent their respective districts, and the remaining seven, to promote a balanced racial representation, were elected to “at large” seats.

  As the first order of business upon beginning their term, the seventeen members voted who among them would serve as the city council president. Among other duties, the council president selected who would serve on which of the council committees—more importantly, who got appointed chair of each committee.

  As there were far more committees than council members, the members were appointed to as many as ten committees each. Juggling the demands of multiple committees—which covered all city business, from oversight of the international airport and the ship docks on down to ensuring the filling of potholes and the collecting of refuse—was an exh
austing, if somewhat impossible, task.

  Thus, there existed a mutually agreed upon, though unspoken, compromise—each member concentrated the vast majority of his or her energy on the committee that he or she chaired.

  They would of course show due diligence. They sat in on meetings of all the various committees, sometimes even asking a pertinent question or two. In the end, though, the members usually followed the lead of the committee chair, whose expertise on the given subject they said was to be commended.

  “Usually followed” because, occasionally, there was—there naturally had to be—dissent. It came in the form of “no” votes—after, perhaps, some calculated political theater, the raising of voices during debate, say, or even the leaking of embarrassing memos to the media. It all was accepted as the cost of doing business—unless, however, the “no” votes were too many and caused the chair of the committee not to accomplish what he or she felt necessary.

  And that inevitably would lead those who had voted “no” to suffer a similar fate in the committee of which they were chair.

  It was then possible that bigger and bigger waves of childish tit-for-tat “no” votes could roll through many other committees, threatening to bring city business to a halt.

  Well before that happened, it was the responsibility of the city council president to step in, first attempting to get the various factions to make amends, then, failing that, going so far as reassigning members to different committees.

  Including, if necessary, an adult variant of the parental disciplinary tools of “time-out” and “grounding”—the removal of the committee chairs themselves.

  William G. Lang had been voted by his peers as the city council president, and in that capacity Lang, quickly collecting political favors, had awarded the chairmanship of the City of Philadelphia Housing and Urban Development Committee to the city councilman (at large) who had requested it, one H. Rapp Badde Jr.

  —

  “Rapp, this is not good,” Jan Harper said, waving her cell phone in front of his face. “I’ve gotten a bunch of e-mails asking for confirmation if you’re going to appear at”—she paused, and then read from the screen—“‘the rally where Reverend Josiah Cross will talk about today’s murders and his calling Philly cop Matt Payne ‘bloodthirsty’ and ‘Public Enemy Number One.’”

  “I know. That’s why this”—he held up his Go To Hell phone, mocking her—“was Carlucci’s new adviser calling.”

  “Don’t you be a smart-ass with me, Rapp,” she said, narrowing her eyes and slightly cocking her head. “This ain’t gonna be my cross to bear, if you get my point. When the hell did you say you were going to participate in something like that? What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “That’s right. You certainly weren’t thinking.”

  “No, I mean I wasn’t planning I’d be at that, or any other, damn rally. I’ve got too much other stuff going on. I just now heard about it from this new guy Stein. And I need to call him back quick. What he said was . . .”

  When Badde finished repeating the conversation, Jan shook her head.

  “How do you get involved with all these jackasses like Cross?” she said, her tone disgusted. “Okay, here’s what you’re going to do, first call back Stein and then . . .”

  —

  Two minutes later, Badde was back on his Go To Hell phone, and the moment Stein answered, he announced: “Okay, Monday afternoon is Feed Philly Day. I’ll be back for that, and we can meet then.”

  Stein did not immediately reply.

  “I’m sorry,” Stein then said. “You said Monday afternoon is what?”

  “It’s our annual Feed Philly Day. We park a delivery truck full of frozen turkeys in front of the Word of Brotherly Love, and pass them out to the citizens. And we—are you aware that there are people who don’t even have a stove or oven, and many more who may have one but can’t afford the power to use them?—we will serve a thousand holiday dinners at the fellowship hall. Do you know what a difference that makes in the lives of our citizens, especially during the holidays?” He cleared his throat, then self-righteously added, “That’s how one who truly cares is supposed to reach out and make a difference in the community, something beyond the usual constituent services.”

  Stein was quiet a moment.

  “All right,” Stein finally said, “I’ll be there. But today is Saturday. What about today’s rally? I’m not at all suggesting the rally should not take place. It is certainly the mayor’s position that there are too many murders, and that if Reverend Cross can help address that—and address it constructively—everyone will be better off.” He paused, then in a stronger tone went on, “But the mayor will absolutely not tolerate the targeting of the police department and its officers. This demonizing is destructive. And besides being ethically wrong, it’s also factually incorrect. As chairman of CPOC, Cross must know how few homicides are actually committed by police each year and that—at least in the last ten years—all have been cleared as justified.” He paused again, then added, “Since you’re on the Public Safety Committee, you should know how many.”

  There was a long moment’s silence, and when Badde realized that he was expected to answer, he said, “Well, not off the top of my head, but I’m sure you can tell me. As I said, I’m deeply involved with other city committees and can’t be expected to remember all the minutiae from every one.”

  He’d pronounced minutiae “minn-you-tee-uh,” and now could be heard softly uttering, “Huh? It’s ‘min-eww-sha’? Oh.” Then in a louder voice said into the phone: “Such minutiae from every one.”

  “Only nine all this year,” Stein said, and then blurted, “And that’s hardly trivial information. So you need to rein in your goddamn man. And now.”

  “What I can do,” Badde said after a moment, “is call and attempt to persuade Reverend Cross to focus on the wider topic, and not the department.”

  “Fine. You do that. And have him return my call right after you do. Now, I’m going to touch base with Councilman Lane, whom I know is very concerned about today’s events.”

  From the far side of the airplane, Badde heard a vehicle approaching. When he looked to the nose of the jet, a shiny gold Jeep Wrangler with oversized tires rolled into view, then stopped near the tip of the wing.

  “I’ll make the call,” Badde said into the phone, “and get back to you.”

  Badde listened, heard nothing, then realized that Stein had hung up.

  Jan, he saw, was surveying the Jeep. The sport utility vehicle had had its doors removed and there was no top, only a foam-padded roll-bar above the seats. Neat lettering along both sides of the hood read QUEENS CLUB, A ROYAL YELLOWROSE RESORT.

  He also quickly noted that the driver, in her late twenties, was stunning.

  She had a rich chestnut tan, and her short blond hair had been pulled back into a tight ponytail that bounced with the vehicle. She wore what appeared to be a nautical-themed uniform that consisted of tight navy shorts and a sheer white short-sleeved captain’s shirt (each epaulet had gold stars pinned to it) that fit very snugly over her ample bosom. Badde looked—and looked—but could not see any suggestion of a suntan line.

  She hopped out and waved as she walked toward them.

  “Welcome to paradise!” she said. “Mr. Santos has been expecting you. I’m to take you to Queens Club.”

  Jan Harper had somewhat expected to hear an English accent. She knew the Caymans were, after all, a British territory, and the woman looked as if she’d be equally at home in, say, London’s trendy Notting Hill. What came out of the woman’s mouth, however, made Jan think she sounded Russian.

  At least, she’s Eastern European something.

  But she could pass, on looks alone if she kept her mouth shut, for a Main Line wife at the Merion Golf Club.

  Or one at Rittenhouse Square.

 
I guess that’s why she does look so familiar.

  Jan studied her.

  Wait. That’s it—the bar in Vista Fiume!

  But you’d think I would’ve remembered that accent, especially because of Yuri.

  The new five-star “River View” took up half of the entire thirty-seventh floor of Two Liberty Place, the city’s third tallest tower that was midway—a few blocks—between Rittenhouse Square and City Hall. The fashionable restaurant and its enormous lounge featured panoramic views of the city and its iconic rivers, the Schuylkill and Delaware. It, and its moneyed international clientele, had set the new standard for late nightlife in Philly.

  Janelle knew it was owned by a company controlled by the international investor Yuri Tikhonov, in large part because he also held, through shell companies, forty-nine percent of Diamond Development, which was in partnership with the Philadelphia Economic Gentrification Initiative.

  Tikhonov—a wealthy forty-eight-year-old Russian rumored to have high connections in Moscow from his time in the intelligence agency Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—had struck fear in Badde in early November at Vista Fiume when he very quietly announced, stone-faced, that “friends” had taken care of three people who were holding up the final demolition for their PEGI-sponsored project.

  Badde, incredulous, asked how. Tikhonov, his tone matter-of-fact, replied that it had been done by injecting them with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant with a short half-life that could stop the heart and become undetectable after an hour.

  Badde, not knowing what to believe at the time, now knew one thing for certain about the dead men—the cause of their deaths, from the start listed as “unknown,” remained unsolved.

  And that—having initially wondered why Tikhonov would share such a damning admission—in turn had caused Badde, with bile suddenly rising in his throat, to decide that the Russian’s purpose had been coldly calculated.

  Tikhonov was quietly suggesting that such “friends” could visit Badde, and anyone else, if they displeased the former spy. And, as with the three holdouts, there would never be any way to link Tikhonov to the act.

  “I think we’ve met?” Jan asked, but she made it sound more of a statement.