“Of course.”
The researcher pushed open the door.
They entered a surprisingly spacious, windowless office, lit solely by overhead fluorescent lighting. In its center a large desk and adjoining side table held three desktop computers with oversized monitors, plus a printer, a communications jammer, and a few other mysterious devices. Behind it, a long, separate table ran almost the length of the room, bearing an array of sophisticated electronic equipment. One wall was crammed with black, four-drawer filing cabinets. Eight flatscreen television monitors hung from another, two airing news channels, the rest displaying the kind of images he suspected were being securely transmitted here from intelligence agencies.
Wonk noticed. “I must request that you avert your eyes from what is on those screens.”
“Roger that. So, where’s this lizard of yours?”
They went to a large walk-in closet with stacked racks and shelves of state-of-the-art electronics. But some items were strewn about, and a few lay broken on the floor. Wonk was too huge to maneuver easily in there. He leaned inside and looked around, then up.
“Oh, there you are, you bad boy!”
Iggy perched defiantly on the top rack. He looked like a miniature version of a 1950s science-fiction monster. At least two feet long, he was bright green, with a toad-like face and a black-banded tail. A row of spikes ran down the length of his back; a flap of skin dangled from his neck; and he gripped the metal rack with what looked like sharp claws.
“I had a friend who had an encounter with a ‘pet’ iguana in Mexico,” Hunter said. “It took twenty stitches to close up his arm.”
“I assure you that Iggy is completely harmless.”
“Maybe. But how about you fetch me a nice thick towel?”
2
It took ten minutes to capture the scrambling animal and return it to its cage in the bedroom. Hunter was sweating from the exertion and downing a second can of cold Pepsi as they got settled in the living room.
“I cannot thank you enough,” Wonk began as he slowly lowered himself into his oversized club chair.
Hunter waved it off. “You’re welcome. Now, what’s the real reason you wanted to meet with me?”
The man took a deep breath and let it out. He took off his glasses and began to polish them with the bottom of his shirt.
“It is about my dear friend Arnold Wasserman. Like you, he is an investigative journalist. I was conversing with him by phone on Wednesday evening. He was excited about his latest project. So much so that he cancelled our regularly scheduled chess match at the Jewish Community Center. Arnold informed me that he had discovered something of enormous importance concerning political money-laundering through the Currents Foundation.”
“Currents? Why does that ring a bell?”
“It was mentioned in passing in the background material we went over weeks ago—the research I compiled about the various CarboNot investors. It is part of—”
“I remember, now. Isn’t that part of the charity network Avery Trammel is involved with?”
“Precisely. Anyway, Arnold said”—he closed his eyes and leaned back, his face tilted toward the ceiling—“‘You will not believe whose money is being laundered through the Currents Foundation—and where it is winding up.’ And then he added, ‘This one is a bombshell. It has major implications for the presidential campaign. I think it is going to blow the whole election race sky-high!’”
He stopped, opened his eyes, looked at Hunter.
“That is exactly what he said. And then—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. Looked away.
“What, Wonk?” Hunter asked gently.
“He said somebody was at the door, and that he would call me right back. He ended the call . . . But he never called me back, Dylan. He . . .” His eyes started to fill with tears.
“What’s the matter?”
Wonk pulled some tissues from a box on the lamp table beside his chair.
“When I did not hear from him, I assumed that some friend must have come by, and that he became distracted. But he never phoned back that night. Nor the next day. I began to call, but no one answered. Not until last night. Only it was not Arnold. It was someone who identified himself as a police officer. The police were at his apartment.”
His voice cracked.
“Dylan, he is dead! His body was discovered drowned in his bathtub. It is in the papers this morning.”
“Oh, Wonk! I’m so sorry.”
He nodded, weeping openly now. “The police statement says it appears to be accidental. That he fell in his bathtub while bathing, hit his head, and drowned.”
“Really? That seems pretty far-fetched.”
“That is what I think, too,” he said, dabbing his eyes and nose.
Hunter got up from the sofa, went over to the man and put his hand on his shoulder. Squeezed. “I can see you were very close friends. This has to be an incredible shock.”
He nodded, tears flowing over his round, pink cheeks.
“Something is not right about this, Dylan. Not just how he died, but when he died. The news accounts report that the coroner places the time of death as Wednesday evening. That would be not long after our phone conversation.” He hesitated. “And not long after he went to answer the door.”
Hunter’s roaming eyes rested on a gold-framed print of Vermeer’s The Geographer, a personal favorite. A scholar, in rapt thought, studying a globe, charts, and maps. Searching for clues about the world. Perhaps experiencing a flash of revelation.
“He begged off on our chess appointment because of the story he was working on. He gave me the distinct impression that he planned to work on it for the rest of the night. But he also was eager to continue to talk to me about it. Perhaps to brainstorm. So why would he end the call to answer the door, promising to return my call immediately—and then go take a bath, instead? Or why would he take a bath instead of continuing his work?”
“And now he’s dead,” Hunter said quietly.
“Dylan . . . I do not like this.”
“I don’t like it either, Wonk.”
“I wanted your confirmation that I am not just imagining things, before I go to the police and tell them what I know.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Hunter thought rapidly. “Don’t talk to the police or anyone else. At least, not yet. From what you say, Arnold believed he had a huge, high-stakes political story. One that might blow the election sky-high, he said. If that’s true, then some people would have a strong motive to stop him before he could go public. And if they are that desperate . . .”
He paused to let the implication sink in. Felt Wonk shudder.
“Here’s what I think you should do, instead. Find out whatever you can about the Currents Foundation. But be cautious about it. Don’t call or email anyone there, or ask them direct questions. Don’t let anyone know you’re looking into it. Keep a low profile, and don’t leave any tracks back to you.”
He gave the shoulder another squeeze.
“Meanwhile, I’ll poke around on my end, too. I have an assignment for Bronowski—ironically, it’s election-related, too. But I’ll carve out time for this.”
“He was a dear friend, Dylan.” Wonk looked up at him. “But so are you.”
TEN
Hunter left Interstate 66 in Manassas. It was almost another mile to the turnoff for the Helm International Resort. Half a mile beyond were the traffic booths.
A chartered bus sat on this side of the barriers, and next to it a knot of about twenty people stood waving signs. Four Virginia State Police troopers stood between the protesters and the traffic backed up at the booths. The booth farthest right and nearest the demonstrators bore a sign: “Official Business and Employees Only.”
He angled his Forester toward that lane, drifted up to the booth, and lowered his window. From here he could read the banner on the side of their bus: The Caring and Sharing Alliance.
A guy with a bullhorn led them in a sing-song chant:
“Cage the Wolf! Cage the Wolf!”
“Hello, sir,” the young female attendant greeted him. “Sorry about the noise. May I help you?”
“Dylan Hunter, with the Capitol Inquirer. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Mr. Helm.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, double-checking her clipboard. “I was told to expect you.”
She instructed him where to proceed and park, but asked him to first move ahead and stop his car for inspection. Four uniformed Secret Service officers with a dog waited beside a black SUV. One watched him carefully while a second approached to check his ID again against his own list of authorized names. A third led the explosives-detecting canine around his car, and the fourth made the circuit in the opposite direction, inspecting the vehicle’s undercarriage with a large mirror on an extended handle.
They waved him through and he continued into the resort. The grounds were expansive and lush, filled with trees, flowers, and ponds. He drove past part of its renowned 36-hole golf course, then turned down an oak-lined boulevard toward pillared, classical-looking buildings on a distant rise. More signs directed him into an underground garage. He descended three levels and parked. At the elevator, two more Secret Service officers sent him through a body scanner before phoning in his arrival.
Hunter emerged onto the top floor of the resort’s headquarters, whose exterior—he discovered later—blended in with the ancient Roman architectural features of the surrounding structures. The woman at the front desk directed him down a hallway. He went through another Secret Service checkpoint outside the office of the company’s president and entered the waiting room. There the boss’s secretary announced his presence.
A moment later, Roger Helm, president and CEO of Helm International Resorts—and Independent candidate for President of the United States—emerged from his office.
2
Helm was a tall, square-jawed, broad-shouldered man of fifty-nine. His thick hair, combed to the side and almost white, retained only hints of blond. His eyes, deep-set and intensely blue, exuded an alert intelligence.
They exchanged greetings, smiles, and a firm handshake. Helm led him into a large, surprisingly spartan office that offered few clues about the private man. But two others stood waiting: one large, red-haired, and ruddy-faced; the other dark, slender, and dressed nattily. Helm led him first to the big man.
“Mr. Hunter, I’d like you to meet Emmett Ragan. Emmett, this is Dylan Hunter from the Inquirer.” While they shook hands, Helm added, “Emmett is founder and president of Ragan Analytics—the company providing data management and analysis for my campaign. He’s also a long-time friend, and one of my earliest and most generous backers.”
Helm introduced the other man as Stanton Ott, his attorney. They sat on a small sofa and club chairs around a low table bearing a beverage service and fruit.
“My staff tells me you’re interested in the politically inspired attacks on my campaign contributors,” Helm began.
“That’s right,” Hunter said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “My editor and I think it’s an important story, possibly with broader implications.”
Helm’s eyes narrowed. “If you do, then you’re pretty much alone among the media. But from what I’ve read of and about you, Mr. Hunter, you enjoy being a maverick.”
“Being a maverick is just a consequence of what I do—not the objective.”
“What’s your objective?”
He took a sip before answering. “Old-fashioned journalism. I enjoy digging up and reporting important facts. Especially important concealed facts. That makes me a maverick only because too many in the media engage in selective concealing.”
“What do you mean?” Ott prompted.
“A lot of Beltway reporters have political or ideological axes to grind. Rather than report the facts, they spin slanted narratives about the facts. They turn the daily news into morality plays, and cast them with their own sets of heroes, villains, and victims.”
Helm nodded. “I’ve been on the receiving end of such ‘narratives,’ as you call them, for most of my career. But now they’ve targeted my supporters, too. Like Emmett here.”
“Tell me about that, Mr. Ragan,” Hunter said, taking out a pen and notepad.
The big man set his cup on the table.
“I’ve been supporting my old pal here”—he hooked a thumb at Helm—“months before he decided to run. Because I believe in him, and in what he stands for. My company did the initial polling and demographic analysis that persuaded Roger he had a real shot at the White House.”
“Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered to run,” Helm interjected.
“Then, a month ago, this group, the ‘Caring and Sharing Alliance,’ held a news conference and released a report about ‘Roger Helms’s Billionaire Bosom Buddies.’ My name was the first on their list.”
“I saw some of that group outside the gate just a few minutes ago,” Hunter said.
“That’s when the media also began to refer to Roger as ‘the Wolf of Washington,’” said Ott, the attorney. “And all at the same time—as if it was centrally coordinated. Of course, the nickname is a smear. Roger’s a political novice who’s never spent time in Washington.”
Hunter glanced at Ragan. “I gather that news conference was just the beginning of the harassment you’ve experienced.”
“To say the least. President Glover said at a news conference he hoped Congress would finally get serious about ‘the corrupting influence of corporate money in politics.’ That same afternoon, right on cue, a senator and congressman from his party announced hearings about it, and demanded the IRS and Justice Department investigate possible ‘violations’ of campaign finance laws by me, my company, and others who contributed substantially to Roger.”
Helm said, “That’s also when the demonstrators began showing up here, and outside Emmett’s offices. And at the businesses of others on that ‘Bosom Buddies’ list.”
“And that’s not all,” Ragan added. “Last week, I got this in the mail.” He reached a big hand into his jacket, pulled out a folded paper, and handed it to Hunter.
It was a certified letter from the IRS—notification of an audit.
“Emmett is not the only one to receive one of those,” Ott said. He drew a similar letter from his briefcase and slid it across the coffee table toward Hunter. “So has Roger. So, in fact, have all the contributors named on that ‘Bosom Buddies’ list. All within days of each other.”
Hunter nodded slowly. It seemed like a replay of the organized campaign against businessmen and property owners in northwestern Pennsylvania.
“As Mr. Ragan said—right on cue.”
“That certainly appears to be the case, Mr. Hunter,” Ott said. “Somehow, it is all being coordinated.”
“Any idea who’s doing the coordinating?”
“One name keeps coming up. He seems to be linked to a lot of this,” Ott said. “Lucas Carver. He runs a—”
“I know who he is,” Hunter interrupted, recalling a file Wonk had compiled for him. “I’ve seen recent examples of his handiwork.”
“But we don’t really know for certain who is behind this,” Helm added. “We were hoping you might look into that.”
“Of course I’ll look into it.”
3
The meeting broke up a few minutes later, but Helm asked Hunter to stay behind after the others left. He poured them both another round of coffee, then sat back and appraised Hunter with those narrowed, intense blue eyes.
“How much do you know—or think you know—about me, Mr. Hunter?”
“You want me to recite your bio from memory?”
A little smile played on Helm’s lips. “I’m curious to see if you’ve done your homework.”
Hunter shrugged.
“You’re the son of an Indiana district attorney. But you were bitten by the entrepreneurial bug in high school. You worked summer jobs in a real estate office, putting money aside to invest in property. You ‘flipped’ your thir
d fixer-upper house by the time you entered the University of Chicago, where you studied economics and business administration. But besides being financially ambitious, you’ve also always been intellectually curious, too. You told one interviewer you were a voracious reader, and that you studied classical economists while continuing to build your property portfolio.”
“You have done your homework. Please continue.”
“After graduation, you married a girl from this area—”
“Helen.”
“And you relocated your business here. And you became hugely successful. Your real-estate business grew almost exponentially, year after year. Ten years ago, people urged you to share your success secrets and business philosophy. That’s when you wrote The Win-Win Way. Which became a New York Times bestseller.”
Helm smiled. “Readers have been very kind to me.”
“Anyway, somewhere along the way, you came up with this idea of creating a nationwide chain of internationally themed resorts. You started here, putting your flagship property within easy reach of Washington. But about that time, you started to get politically outspoken, too.”
Helm nodded. “I was angry about all the regulatory burdens that slowed my company’s progress. And the taxes that drained our expansion capital.”
“Most political observers say the turning point for you, politically speaking, was when you attended that televised White House business roundtable three years ago. President Glover gave this speech about his policies, and when they opened it for Q&A, you challenged him. You had him trapped there, with all the TV cameras running. He couldn’t ignore you, or cut you off, or leave without looking like a coward. You made him look like a fool.”
“That wasn’t much of a challenge. I had the assistance of the fools who taught him in college.”
“Regardless, you embarrassed the sitting President of the United States, right in his own home. And that’s when people started pressuring you to run for the presidency yourself. There was that cover story about you in Newsweek: ‘The New Reagan?’ But you refused all the overtures from the Republican Party.”
WINNER TAKES ALL Page 9
