Lucky Bastard

by Charles McCarry

  He said, “Jack, different subject.”

  Jack was surprised, but he nodded amiably. Why, sure, old buddy.

  Danny said, “Did you really fuck Cindy in that strip mine the night I left for ’Nam?”

  As if hit by a sucker punch, Jack said, “Woof!” And then he smiled—his real, original smile this time. “Cindy? Not that I remember, Dan. And, baby, I would remember.”

  Danny smiled, too, and for a long moment held his friend’s eyes with his own. Then he said, “That’s good enough for me, Jack. I’ll take care of the other thing.”

  He took his pad from Jack’s hand, tore off the top ten pages, and, holding the paper in his teeth and tearing with his one good hand, ripped them to shreds. He threw the pieces into the air and limped out of the room. Some of the pieces stuck to Jack like yellow snow as they fluttered downward to the floor.

  Danny went straight to the pressroom and did exactly as Jack had suggested. He added one detail: Jack and Morgan Adams had lost their life’s savings in the bank failure, every penny of the little bit of money they had been able to put aside from Jack’s meager salary for the twins’ college tuition.

  In Columbus, the U.S. attorney, F. Merriwether Street, impaneled a grand jury and called the bank’s surviving officers and directors and its counsel, Danny Miller, as witnesses.

  Within the hour, as he left the hotel for a rally in Cadillac Square, Jack made his first and last public statement on the issue. In response to a shouted question about Danny, Jack halted in midstride and walked back to the cameras. Looking straight into the lenses, he said, “I’m terribly sorry for the folks who have lost money, like my wife and I have. Everything will come out in time, and that’s the way it should be. And though I haven’t talked to him about this, I know it’s the way Danny Miller wants it, because in my heart I believe he has nothing to hide. Danny Miller and I have been friends since before we could walk. He’s my law partner, my best friend, and the most honest and honorable man I’ve ever known. He’s a war hero who sacrificed a brilliant career as an athlete for his country. He could have been in all the halls of fame, but he isn’t and he won’t be because he did his duty to America and bled for every one of us. And I say this to you: If I have to choose between the presidency and my friend, I know that God will give me the strength to choose my friend. That’s all I have to say on this subject and all I’ll ever have to say.”

  2 Every network news show ran Jack’s entire statement, which by coincidence timed out at the exact length of the average stand-up report by a correspondent. A media chorus began to talk and write about Jack’s pluck, about his loyalty to old friends, about his poverty compared to the wealth of his opponents, both of whom were multimillionaires whose fat-cat friends were pouring millions into their campaigns. The miracle, wrote the pundits, was not that Jack, a penniless nobody from nowhere who had nothing but brains, guts, personality, and a smart and beautiful and utterly devoted wife, was losing. The miracle was that he was still in the race. And not only still in the race, but making one hell of a stretch run.

  When the next polls came out, Jack had gained more points and was almost even with the president. The media started doing the same arithmetic Jack had done months before, and press and television began to say, “By God, he might win!”

  Jack knew that he would win. Money was trickling into his campaign from many quarters—big sums, medium sums, small sums. He was already taping his attack ads for the final week of the campaign. For that he needed huge sums.

  3 “This Mr. Gee wants to talk to you absolutely alone,” Morgan had said.

  “Who is he?”

  “A very important contributor.”

  “How important?”

  Morgan had very little patience left. She said, “Jack, do you really want me to spell it out?”

  Jack gave her his full attention. “It’s happened,” he said.

  Morgan nodded. “Why the surprise?”

  “Jeez, Morg, I dunno. Maybe it’s the exquisite timing of the thing. What does Mr. Gee—that’s his name?—want to talk about?”

  Morgan said, “The future, I suppose. Just keep the caddies at a distance.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you have any idea what he wants in return for his largesse?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t talk in the golf cart,” Morgan said. “Or anywhere near it or the golf bags.”

  “You mean they might be bugged?”

  Morgan simply stared. Would he never learn to be serious?

  Jack said, “What about the clubs? Are they clean?”

  Morgan said, “Just be yourself, Jack, and it won’t make much difference what anybody has on tape.”

  At the Pebble Beach golf course, one of the most beautiful in the world, Mr. Gee waited near the first tee. Unlike most of the unctuous Orientals who had given money to the Jack Adams campaign, Mr. Gee was dour and ponderous. He was very tall and rawboned for a man of his race. He reminded Jack of a Chinese F. Merriwether Street. Mr. Gee watched impassively as this comical thought brought a furtive smile to Jack’s lips.

  To the Secret Service men Jack said, “I’ll drive the cart. Stay well behind. Kibitzers make him nervous.”

  “How many holes, sir?”

  “Nine, max,” Jack said. “Then I get an urgent phone call. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack, who had been too poor as a boy to learn bourgeois games, had taken up golf as a member of the Gruesome and, to his own great surprise, had found that he had a talent for it. If he was not quite a handicap player, he was a long way from being a duffer, especially when it came to the short game. For the first two holes Mr. Gee said nothing. He was an involved, determined player who hit tremendous drives off the tee but had less luck with short irons and putter. These were the best parts of Jack’s game, and he sank a picture-perfect chip shot on the second hole.

  “Hot damn,” Jack said with boyish enthusiasm. “Want to bet twenty on who’s closest to the hole?”

  Mr. Gee hit his own shot. It went clear over the green and plopped into a sand trap. He smiled and said, “Welcome to the country of the blind.”

  The ball that Jack had just taken out of the cup dropped from his hand and rolled across the green. Hoarsely, he said, “What did you say?”

  Mr. Gee said, “Peter said you were easily startled. Keep walking. We’ll leave the cart to your servants. I have something to explain to you.”

  In fluent but heavily accented singsong English, Mr. Gee explained that the twenty-seven-million-dollar lump sum Jack had received in the spring came from him and some associates in China. “Through Peter, of course,” he said. “We regret that the transfer was so clumsily handled. It had nothing to do with us. There were special circumstances having to do with the chaos in Russia at the time.”

  “What did Russia have to do with it?”

  Mr. Gee ignored the question. “The clumsiness will not happen again. At this moment, the sum of thirty million dollars is being made available to you. It is in the process of being broken down into more manageable increments and emanating from many different American banks. This process should be complete within one week.” He smiled again. “But I think you already know that.”

  “Very generous,” Jack said, as if acknowledging a detail—as, in a way, he was. “Please make sure it comes from many different donors.”

  For the first time, Mr. Gee smiled. “There are many, many Chinese in the world. A restaurant in every American town. Do not worry.”

  “Fortune cookies, eh?” Jack said.

  Mr. Gee smiled; dark wayward teeth. “That’s a good one.”

  “The restaurateurs”—Jack put an incorrect n in the word—“all have my sincere thanks. What do you want in return?”

  Such crudeness. Mr. Gee sighed. They were approaching the fourth tee, with the Secret Service men trailing along in the golf carts. “Ah, Jack, what do we want?” he said. “That we should be friends—friends in Peter’s sense of th
e word.”

  “No problem, but be specific. What do you expect from me?”

  “Not military secrets. We know you are not a spy. What we want is the advantages of your friendship. In return for our wholehearted support until, as they say, the end of time. Of course.”

  Jack said, “You’re being too subtle for me, Mr. Gee. What’s your first name?”

  “I’m just Mr. Gee, Jack. We don’t really have first names. It’s too early for a shopping list.” Mr. Gee searched Jack’s incredulous face. “But, Jack, I must know—is all this agreeable to you?”

  “You say Peter set this up. But how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  As if he had been waiting for this question, Mr. Gee handed Jack a cellular phone. “This is a scrambler phone, brand-new type, absolutely secure, Jack, very latest software from the mysterious East.” He smiled, tight-lipped. “So you may say whatever you like. The correct number has already been punched in. Please press SEND.”

  Jack did as he was told, and Peter came on the line in the middle of the first ring. “Hi, Jack,” he said. “What can I do for you?” Jack was hearing this voice for the first time in fifteen years, but its sound was unmistakable.

  Jack said, “I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Let me start things off then,” said Peter. He confirmed the financial terms of the deal in exactly the same terms as Mr. Gee had. “This will make it possible for you to achieve your goal, don’t you agree?”

  “Maybe,” Jack said. “But the question is, what happens then?”

  “They will want what any investor wants. A fair return. Certain advantages. Certain opportunities. An assurance that your military technology will never be better than theirs.”

  “How can I guarantee that, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Use your imagination. Let’s just say they look forward to a mutually satisfactory working relationship.”

  “Peter, you’re making me very nervous.”

  “I’m sure I am. But I am also saving your sweet American ass, probably from prison and the disgrace of the family name. And if I may remind you, the two of us, plus that other person you know, are also saving, in the only way possible, the thing we set out to do together all those years ago: making the United States into a just society and the hope of the world.”

  “Right.” Jack’s tone was flat.

  Peter said, “You can, of course, refuse.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Well, you might not be elected president, though knowing you I wouldn’t bet on it. You’re the real thing, Jack. Remember where you heard it first.”

  “That’s your threat?”

  “Who am I to threaten anybody?” Peter asked. “But Mr. Gee and his associates are realists—it’s a national characteristic—so they demanded insurance. They feel that you owe them. I’m afraid I had to give them the photos we looked at together in Moscow all those years ago. You do remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “And some other material. So being elected might not be much of a guarantee that you would ever serve.”

  “Assuming you can find somebody to believe a mad Russian.”

  “You’d be surprised, Jack. In certain American circles I am regarded as a very reliable witness. Think it over. Remember who your friends are and who your friends have always been. Then do what’s best for Jack. Follow your star. That’s all I ask.”

  Jack said, “Same deal as always, right?”

  He handed the phone back to Mr. Gee. The two men gazed long into each other’s eyes.

  Mr. Gee said, “Before I hang up, I think it would be nice to tell Peter your decision.”

  Jack nodded, one quick jerk of the head. “I’m so glad,” said Mr. Gee. He spoke a single word into the phone, then clicked off. “What can you tell me about the next hole?” he asked.

  Jack did not hear him.

  “Two iron?” Mr. Gee asked, examining his ball, which had landed near a tree.

  “Three wood, maybe,” Jack replied. This was mischievous advice, but Mr. Gee pulled the club from his bag.

  He hit the three wood. The ball dropped toward the green, landed at its far edge, bounced high, and trickled over the lip of the green into another trap.

  “Shit!” said Mr. Gee.

  “Bad dream,” Jack said. “Guess you were right about the two iron.” He hit a perfect shot with that club—onto the green, six feet from the cup. They walked on.

  “One more thing,” Mr. Gee said. “On October twenty-ninth, something will happen in China. This will have a bad effect on the U.S. economy. Only temporary. But this event will make the president look stupid and put you over the top in the election, only five days later. Correct?”

  Jack said, “What do you mean, something will happen in China?”

  “Better you do not know the details. It will be a nice surprise. But take nothing for granted. Campaign hard. Spend all the money. Go for it.”

  “I’ll do that little thing,” Jack said.

  Mr. Gee shook Jack’s hand. “True friends,” he said.

  “To the end,” said Jack, remembering his perfect shot with the two iron. He grinned at Mr. Gee. Star Wars, he mused. He let his innermost thought show: I can always drop one on Beijing if I have to. He smiled at Mr. Gee.

  “You look like your real father when you smile,” Mr. Gee said. “However, don’t think like him, okay? He was a very impetuous man.”

  4 Ten days remained in the campaign. Using Mr. Gee’s money and the last reserves of his own energy, Jack launched his trademark end game: the last-minute blitz of television commercials and a flying, fifteen-state speaking tour. The country resounded to the strains of “Jack, Jack, Jack!” Jack Adams girls danced at the rallies. The commentators spoke of a rising fever of enthusiasm in the land. Maybe it was too little, too late, they said, but you had to hand it to Jack Adams: He never gave up.

  Jack’s numbers went up, but not quite enough. At midweek he was a little more than one point behind the president in the polls. Jack was saying nothing new, doing nothing different. He had just stepped up the intensity.

  Morgan told him he was off-message. He was not hitting the issues. The core constituency was disturbed. Jack had heard all this before, and always at the wrong moment—the last moment, when none of that shit mattered.

  “Morg,” he said, “I just can’t give twelve speeches a day and argue with you, too. My throat feels like I’ve been gargling paint remover.”

  But she kept after him, ticking off a long list of ideas he had not mentioned in weeks, positions he had abandoned, verbiage he had pruned from his political vocabulary.

  “It’s a fucking sellout,” she said. “The troops are mad as hell.”

  Jack said, “Morgan, lighten up. I’m just trying to get elected.”

  “By sounding like Barry Goldwater?”

  “Duplicity in the name of victory is no crime.”

  “Duplicity is one thing,” Morgan said. “Treason to the Left is another. You’re not supposed to bamboozle the good people. You can’t be elected without your own constituency.”

  “They’re your department,” Jack said. “Always have been. Go talk to them.”

  Morgan’s temper kindled. Jack was patronizing her. “No,” she said. “That’s not the way it’s going to be.”

  Jack simply stared at her.

  Morgan said, “You agree? I can’t leave without an answer.”

  Jack said, “You want an answer? Okay, here it is. You’re out, Morgan.”

  She blinked theatrically—something else Jack had seen too many times. “Out?” she said. “Out of what?”

  “Out of here,” Jack said. “Out of the campaign. Out of my hair, you pain in the ass.”

  “Who the fuck says so?”

  “Morgan,” Jack said, “go away.”

  “You don’t tell me what to do. As far as I know, the rules haven’t changed.”

  “Right,” Jack said. “As far as you know.”

  “What’s t
hat supposed to mean?”

  A cellular phone rang in the far corner of the vast hotel suite. Trixie Wang stepped from behind a Chinese screen with the phone in her hand. “It’s for you,” she said to Morgan.

  Morgan lifted the phone to her ear and heard Peter’s voice. “Hi,” he said, as if they had spoken only the day before. “I have some new instructions for you.”

  “Over the phone?”

  “It’s okay. Special phone.”

  In a few sentences, Peter told Morgan that from now on she would have no contact with him, or with anyone representing him. Peter was taking away Morgan’s power over Jack on the very day before Jack took power. She realized that I had told her the truth about Peter’s purposes and Jack’s future.

  Too late.

  Barely able to breathe, Morgan said, “Peter, what are you telling me?”

  “That phase one is over,” Peter replied. “You’ve done wonderful work. It’s time to say thanks and make an honest woman of you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to step back. Retire. First lady is a full-time job. From now on, being first lady is your only job.”

  “First lady?” Morgan said. Her voice trembled. Her face twisted like a child’s. Listening, watching, Jack had never thought such reactions possible. Fighting for self-control, she said, “Peter, please don’t do this to me.”

  Peter said, “Comrade Colonel, an operational decision has been made. The case has been given to another handler. You have a new assignment. There is no appeal. Do as you are ordered. Goodbye.”

  Having ruined her life by informing her of a promotion in an organization that no longer existed, Peter hung up. For several heartbeats, Morgan listened to the dial tone. Then she handed the phone back to Trixie, who regarded her with a blank face. The inscrutable East. Then Morgan realized the truth. Trixie had taken over. She was the new Morgan. The truth, the monstrous reality of it, penetrated Morgan’s consciousness with the force of a bullet shattering bone. She put her face in her hands and wept like a woman.