WINNER TAKES ALL

by Robert Bidinotto

  Spencer, who had been staring into his coffee cup, raised angry eyes.

  “My God, Avery. That is cold. That ‘lady’ had a name: Patricia Wright. And her baby girl was named Allison. And my remarks weren’t ‘crafted,’ damn it—they were off the cuff, straight from the heart! Facing her husband and their little boy yesterday was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

  Trammel cursed himself for stupidity. Spencer already hated him, so this choice of venue needlessly poured more salt into his ego wounds. He had humiliated the man, and if he kept reminding and threatening him, it might provoke a disastrous rebellion.

  “Carl, I sincerely apologize for my grossly insensitive choice of words. They by no means reflect my true feelings. I cannot imagine how difficult that tragic occasion was for you.”

  “So were all the others I attended!”

  “Come on, you two,” Carver jumped in. “This is a good morning. Let’s not spoil it with misunderstandings. Avery, I went ahead as you asked and contacted the ‘RT’ network producers. They’re eager to do a televised segment with Carl tomorrow afternoon. But what exactly do you think an interview there can accomplish?”

  Trammel picked a tiny piece of lint off the charcoal cuff of his suit jacket.

  “Since the debate, you have all said we must reassure progressives that Carl has not embraced a right-wing foreign policy. Appearing now on Russia’s international television network gives him an ideal platform to make that case. As you know, Moscow has its own worries about the spread of Islamist violence. Carl’s message tomorrow on RT should be that he wishes to cooperate with Putin to fight Islamic terrorism, but with the hope that it will lead to wider peaceful cooperation between our two countries on a range of issues—such as initiatives to reduce our respective nuclear arsenals.”

  “I love it!” Cunningham exclaimed, slapping the table.

  “I’ll second that,” Carver said. “On the one hand, it will remind independents and even Republicans that Carl warned about Muslim terrorism at the debate, while on the other hand, it will let liberals know he’s still committed to a peace-oriented foreign policy vision.” He turned to Spencer. “How about you, Carl. Does that sound like the right angle?”

  Spencer was looking at Trammel and didn’t reply for a few seconds. At last he said, “It makes sense.”

  “Well, then, don’t look so sour about it,” Cunningham said, laughing. “It will definitely continue your momentum in the polls.” His eyes drifted around the noisy restaurant. Then he pointed toward the entrance. “By the way, seeing your private security guys over there reminds me: It’s way past time you accept Secret Service protection.”

  “I just don’t like the idea of a team of people following me wherever I go.”

  “I understand, Carl, but you know it comes with the job. You want to be president, you give up a lot of your privacy.”

  Spencer shot another look at Trammel. “I suppose so.”

  “Good,” Cunningham said, picking up a half-eaten wedge of toast. “I’ll contact them later today.”

  “I meant to ask,” Carver said, “how’s Stu Kaplan working out for you?”

  Cunningham chewed and swallowed, then gestured toward Trammel with the remaining piece of crust. “Avery, your suggestion that we hire Conn’s chief of staff was brilliant. It’s like an official passing of the torch, from Ash to Carl. That’s how everyone sees it.”

  Trammel’s memory went back to that day in the CarboNot conference room, when he first met the man whose eyes reminded him of a barracuda’s. “Lucas and I met Mr. Kaplan some months ago,” he said. “We were both favorably impressed. I am pleased he is proving himself to be an asset.”

  “Oh, God, yes! I have Stu working the Hill, because he knows everybody. He’s getting Conn’s last diehard supporters to come around to us. From what he tells me, we shouldn’t see any of them defect to another candidate. So it should be clear sailing for us through the convention.”

  Trammel saw an opening.

  “Speaking of Mr. Kaplan reminds me of another matter. It goes back to the ‘fracking’ controversy and the Inquirer articles by that right-wing reporter, Dylan Hunter. He is the one who spun all that conspiracy nonsense about Ash Conn.”

  Spencer nodded. “That guy smeared the reputation of a good man. He’s lucky Ash died before he could file a lawsuit for defamation.”

  “Well, I am sorry to report that Hunter is at it again. And this time, it appears that we”—he nodded at each of them—“are his new targets.”

  “What?”

  “I am afraid it is true, Carl. In fact, he has interviewed some of my associates, and he even visited me late last week. He is tracking the flow of contributions into our campaign and drawing outrageous inferences.”

  “Such as?” Carver asked.

  “Such as the fact that you work for this campaign, Lucas, and simultaneously for various political advocacy groups that attack Helm—groups funded through the Currents Foundation, to which I contribute. Hunter finds something sinister in all this. It is the usual conspiracy-theory tangle of ridiculous insinuations and paranoid speculations. However, their validity is not the point. The point is, he has established for himself a high-profile media platform, and a lot of people believe his rubbish. If he is not dealt with, pro-actively and soon, I fear that he may force us on the defensive and kill the momentum we have been building.”

  “What can we do about it?” Cunningham demanded.

  “Your mention of Mr. Kaplan reminded me that he and my own staff investigated Hunter’s background during the fracking controversy, and discovered an intriguing fact: All records about him go back no more than three or four years. They learned that there is no such person as Dylan Hunter. And yet he possesses authentic ID cards under that name.”

  Carver looked surprised. “How is that even possible?”

  Trammel interlaced his manicured fingers and rested his hands on the table.

  “One possibility, accepted by my sources, is that this man is an employee of some government spy agency, or perhaps a hired contractor working undercover. We think he is trying to disrupt political candidates and causes that his ‘handlers,’ whoever they may be, consider to be a threat.”

  “That sounds crazy!”

  “Not if you trace his activities, Carl. Last year his articles successfully targeted the MacLean Foundation and a network of organizations and individuals striving to bring progressive reforms to the criminal justice system. Next, he attacked the alternative energy movement and its champion, Senator Conn. His articles successfully stymied efforts to halt fracking, created chaos within the environmental movement, and smeared a Democratic presidential candidate. Now, he is coming after progressive foundations and nonprofits generally, and a second Democratic candidate specifically. But before you ask—no, I do not believe the Republicans are behind this. I think it may be a faction deep within the intelligence community.”

  “If what you say is true,” Carver said, “then why can’t we just expose him?”

  Trammel pointed at him and smiled.

  “Exactly, Lucas. This ‘Dylan Hunter’ or whoever he is, and the forces behind him, have been succeeding only because they operate in secrecy. But even though my people have not been able to find out who he really is, we possess some crucial advantages over him. He already has made many enemies among fellow reporters. They would be eager to investigate this man’s real identity. The best case for us is that they will uncover something unsavory and scandalous. At very least, they will force him onto the defensive or into hiding. Either way, exposing his phony identity will stop his attacks on this campaign and our network of supporters.”

  “So where, when, and how do we begin?” Cunningham asked.

  “You and Carl should proceed with the existing campaign plan,” Trammel said. “Meanwhile, I shall share what I have learned and suspect with Lucas. After that—”

  “—leave things to me,” Carver finished, with the smile that never
reached his eyes.

  2

  Emmalee put the plates and silverware from her breakfast into the dishwasher. Though it wasn’t full enough to run yet, she turned it on anyway.

  Some noise to break the endless silence in the empty apartment.

  Restless, she moved to the living room. She had already checked the morning TV listings, and nothing appealed, so the big wall screen hovered dark and empty. Scanning the bare walls, she reminded herself she needed to make another shopping trip for some prints. Maybe a colorful throw rug for the center of the floor, too. And a few cheery pillows for the bland beige sofa, where bulging plastic bags from her Saturday excursion to Georgetown shops still waited for her attention. Avery had given her a healthy checking account and paid off her credit cards, so she could get whatever she liked.

  She eyed the sound system, but turned away. It had been playing non-stop for the past week, and it only deepened her depression. Music excited her, made her want to move, made her want to be with people. The sound of it here, now, would just remind her that she was alone.

  Still in her bathrobe, she folded herself into a big upholstered chair, drew up her legs, wrapped her arms around her knees. Being alone was a feeling she had never gotten used to. She’d never had to. From childhood, she was always complimented for how pretty she was, and her looks had won her constant attention, many friends, and later, many boyfriends.

  Seizing the attention of boys, then men, was easy. Skirts and dresses that displayed her showgirl legs and ass never failed to catch their interest. Then, just widening her eyes a bit would hold them like a magnet. They always told her how cute she was when she wrinkled her nose, so she did that a lot, too.

  God, men were so easy.

  Or had been. Now, not so easy. Easy to bed, sure, but not easy to keep. She still had her looks, and she could still get laid anytime she wanted, just by sliding onto a hotel bar stool. But she was no longer a hot young dancer, and the city was filled with hot young women on the make. The men who counted wanted their arm candy to be young—girls in their twenties. And she’d just had her thirty-ninth birthday. Women like her were just a one-night stand.

  She hugged her knees tightly. Losing Ash, she had been thrown back into the market—and things were so different now. For the first time in decades, she was alone. And scared.

  When Avery swooped in so unexpectedly, it seemed like a miracle. He was impossibly rich and powerful. Despite his age, he was in decent shape and horny as a goat. The only problem was, he was married to a famous movie star. And she didn’t want to be his Other Woman. There was no future in that. Maybe not even much of a present, either. It had been a week since Avery had been with her—last Tuesday, the day after all that horrible terrorism.

  That Monday morning she had heard an echoing boom and went out onto the balcony, where she saw drifting smoke and heard gunshots and sirens all over town. She’d spent the rest of the day watching the nightmare unfold on TV. The Metro was shut down and the streets blocked off, so she couldn’t go anywhere, and she was frightened because Avery wouldn’t answer his phone or return her calls. Not until Tuesday morning, when he phoned to explain he had been tied up in meetings and the chaos, but wanted to see her that night.

  He arrived in a great mood, bringing her flowers and two bottles of Dom Perignon—the special Charles & Diana edition, which she later learned was incredibly expensive. He was cocky and boastful; he said he’d “finally closed the investment deal of a lifetime, which was about to pay off handsomely,” and told her he wanted to celebrate. So they did.

  But even though he promised to see her again this past weekend, she hadn’t heard a peep from him since. He hadn’t even bothered to answer her calls or text messages.

  Shopping binges hadn’t lessened her loneliness or anxiety; they only seemed to make them grow. And the gnawing fear now made her mind race. Had she done or said something wrong? Maybe his wife had found out about them. Or maybe he had some kind of problem with Carl Spencer, after that little episode. That bothered her, too. She’d given the senator a great time—and her phone number. So why hadn’t he called, either?

  Almost a week, now. She hadn’t been alone this long in years.

  What the hell was going on?

  She unfolded herself from the chair and padded over the cold wooden floor to where she’d left her cell phone on the dining room table. There were no replies to her messages.

  She tapped in his number. Finally, he answered.

  “I am with some people and cannot speak to you right now.” His tone, cold and remote.

  “But you haven’t answered any of my texts or—”

  “I shall call you when I can.”

  And then he was gone.

  She stared at the blank screen. Then set the phone down on the table.

  Then sat down there herself, growing even more fearful.

  After a while, the fear began to turn to anger.

  3

  Cronin finished the call with a lieutenant from the Pennsylvania State Police barracks in Clarion, then rolled his chair back from his desk. He tapped the notepad in his lap with his pen, thinking about what he had learned.

  The grotesque bindings that were used to nail Boggs’s forearms to the tree kept just scraps of his arms and hands intact, which explained how the neighbor’s dog had found his hand. Besides that, there wasn’t much left of the corpse. Bear and fox tracks were all over the place, so the exact cause and time of death were unknown.

  However, just beyond the clearing where the body was discovered, they found ATV tracks—at least a few that hadn’t been obliterated by the spring rains. The staties figured out the tire model from the tracks, then checked out which models of ATVs used those. The lieutenant told him they had just compiled a list of customers in the area who during the past five years had bought ATVs bearing that brand of tire.

  On a hunch, Cronin asked, and the lieutenant promised, to fax him the list of customer names.

  He checked the time. Two ten. He rubbed his eyes, then got up from his desk and headed to the break room to grab a cup of coffee.

  When he returned ten minutes later, somebody had dumped the fax on his desk.

  He sat, took a sip, then removed the paperclip holding on the cover sheet.

  The list of names wasn’t long, maybe forty or so. He scanned it idly, with no expectation that any name would jump out and mean anything to him.

  Then his eyes paused on a surname that tickled his memory.

  Where had he seen the name “Adair”?

  He had a vague recollection that it was related to something in one of Hunter’s articles.

  He took another big gulp, then opened a desk drawer and pulled out the fat file folder containing the reporter’s various newspaper clippings. He started reading.

  Forty minutes later, he felt the tell-tale tingle that a cop always gets when he hits paydirt.

  He thought about how he should proceed with this. That took another half hour.

  Just after three-thirty, he wandered over to Erskine’s cubicle.

  “Paul, I just got a message from home. Looks like there’s a situation I need to attend to.”

  Erskine spun around in his chair, a look of concern on his broad face. “Somebody sick?”

  “No, nothing like that. And it’s not the marriage or anything. It’s . . . just complicated. Anyway, I have some vacation days due, so I can afford to take a little time off. Can you cover for me for a few days while I’m out? My current case files are on top of the desk.”

  Erskine pulled his bulk out of the chair and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Sure, buddy. I’ll have them route your calls to me. Take whatever time you need. Hope it’s nothing serious. Call if you want to talk.”

  “Thanks, Paul. I owe you one.”

  As he walked away, Cronin felt like hell. Again.

  He wondered why he felt he had to keep this stuff private—why he didn’t want to share with his partner what he was learning. Pa
ul was such a great guy. He didn’t deserve this disloyalty.

  He stopped back at his desk to retrieve Hunter’s file, then headed for the exit.

  Once he got home, he’d have to gas up the car, then check and see what kind of motel reservation he could get around the Allegheny Forest.

  THIRTY-ONE

  It was the end of a long day, and Avery Trammel sat enjoying a glass of brandy in the study of his Watergate apartment. He felt fatigued but content.

  One week after the attacks, it appeared the official investigations were concluding that the four terrorists were a homegrown Islamist cell radicalized via the internet. The captured terrorist had clammed up under the counsel of his lawyer. No one had yet made any link between them and Shishani. Even if they did, the Chechen had no direct connections to the SVR or Moscow. The few media reports so far indicated the police suspected him of being a drug courier, killed in some transactional dispute. With luck, his murder would not rise to FBI scrutiny; they were too preoccupied looking into the terrorism.

  As for the campaign, it was finally getting traction. Maestro was superb at orchestrating media responses, and the press were giving Spencer lavish praise and attention. They had been hostile to Helm from the beginning, but now, under Lucas’s subtle guidance, their criticisms had risen in a crescendo.

  The main weakness was the candidate himself. Lucas and he wished that Spencer had more credibility as a committed progressive. If he could arouse the base, they could easily close the gap with Helm in the polls. But they had to work with the candidate they had, and so far, things were getting back on track.

  As he felt the brandy blaze its course down his throat, Avery Trammel finally dared to think his lifelong mission just might succeed.

  Over the decades, as he meticulously planned and brilliantly executed each step of the plan, he often wished he had someone in whom he could confide fully. Sokolov knew of his activities and appreciated him, but strictly as a fellow professional. Lucas was a close friend, but there was too much he could never be told. That was even more true of Julia.