“How far did you get in the book, Al?” I said.
“It’s basically done. It’s also on my thumb drive. My editor, if you can call him that, was basically an ideological clearinghouse for the goals of Bartholomew and the NFL. I’m going to suggest that you guys find me another pseudonym and I’ll write a book tearing the shit out of the Impossible War. Better yet, find a well-known political author and I’ll work with him or her. Maybe it’s something your wife would like to write, Matt. My name doesn’t need to appear.”
I told Al that I’d pass it by her, but I had no plan to make it happen, and I know Dee would agree. Putting a target on Dee’s back was not on my list of things to do.
“Al,” said Bellamy, “what’s your overall take on this, now that you’ve seen the NFL from the inside?”
“Bartholomew wants power, gentlemen. It’s really that simple. Since I escaped I’ve caught up on the news. As you may imagine, outside information, including Internet access, is bottled up on ‘the compound.’ So this fucker is way ahead in the polls for the next presidential election, way ahead. He and the NFL have changed appearances and tactics, as you’ve probably noticed. They’re no longer the secretive organization that we used think of. They’ve come out into the sunlight and are selling their shit to a lot of people. Just like Hitler with his ‘Stab in the Back’ speeches in the 1930s, Bartholomew has convinced a lot of Americans that the government is letting them down, and he and his gang are going to do something about it.”
Chapter 54
I walked into our apartment at 6:30 p.m. I couldn’t wait to tell Dee all about my meeting with Rick Bellamy and the surprise visit from Al Yamani. I had convinced Bellamy to get Dee a Top Secret security clearance, and he readily agreed. Dee’s my most trusted advisor, and the smartest. She needs to know what I know.
She walked up to me, threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me. Dee’s way of welcoming me is a routine that never gets routine.
“Matt, baby, sit for a minute. I know you always want to shower after a plane ride, but just sit with me and have a cup of coffee. I have something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Sure, honey, what’s up?”
“Matt, I want you to run for president.”
“Dee, you’ve gotta be joking. My term of office is up in three months and I’m counting the days till I step down.”
“I’m not talking about the condominium board, I’m talking about the country.”
“What?”
“Matt, I want you to run for President of the United States.”
Surreal is an overused word. People use it when they simply mean “mysterious.” It’s the feeling you get when your world is suddenly out of its normal focus, blurry because everything is not what it seems to be, sort of like Salvador Dali’s melting pocket watch. Surreal is the only way I can describe my feeling after Dee said that.
“You’re kidding, yes?”
“No I’m not kidding. I was in the audience when you gave that speech before the Senate Intelligence Committee last month. I sat there looking at my husband and I started thinking, this is one of the best leaders in this entire country. Yes you, handsome. You had those people in the palm of your hand, and you only had two days to prepare for the talk. You’re not the type to sit by as the country turns to shit, and your speech made that clear.”
“Honey,” I said, “when did you come up with this idea?”
“It’s crossed my mind a few times, but this afternoon nailed it for me. Max Fleming—yeah him—The Chairman of the Republican National Committee, stopped by my office this afternoon. He used to hold my teaching post at Northwestern and he said that he just dropped by to say hello. So he put out a feeler, which I’ve been waiting to tell you about. He flat out asked me if I thought that you may be interested in running for president.”
“The head of the RNC put out a feeler to you this afternoon?”
For some reason, I have a habit of repeating what somebody said when my brain is on overdrive.
“And he didn’t stop there, Matt. He hinted, without coming right out and saying it, that Sam Baxter, Chairman of the Democratic National Committee would consider cross-endorsing you if you ran. They both realize that they have a lightweight group of potential candidates to run against Martin. Fleming and Baxter aren’t just a couple of politicos. They’re patriots and they’re scared shitless about what a Martin administration could mean for the country.”
“Why are you crying, Dee?”
“I’m crying because I’m feeling emotional. I’m crying because I know you’d be the best president this country has ever seen. God knows what the political map will look like after Bartholomew Martin shreds it. Matt, you can save this country.”
I felt like I was going to pass out. Dee, my Dee, sat there talking about me running for President of the United States. I glanced at my watch to make sure it wasn’t melting.
“Dee, you’re serious, aren’t you? Do you really have that kind of confidence in me?”
“Yes, I do. You have no idea how much confidence I have in you. I’m never shy about telling you that I love you, but I seldom say how much I admire you. Yes, I admire you, Matt. You have greatness in you, honey, you just do. When I watch you in front of a jury, I’m looking at a guy who knows how to reach people’s minds and touch their hearts at the same time. I felt the same way when you gave that speech before the Senate committee. Matt, you’re a magical communicator. So here’s my take on this idea. I think that the country is going to get fed up real fast with Bartholomew Martin and his band of Brown Shirts. According to the polls, he’s served the American people a stinking pile of bullshit and they’re buying it. He’s capitalized on primordial fears and just like any dictator, he gets results. Honey, mark my words; people will tire fast of that prick. So how’s this for an idea? You meet with Max Fleming and let’s start thinking about the election. Matt, honey, lead us. Lead the American people away from the cave we’re headed toward.”
“But do you think I’m qualified?”
“Matt, you’re a real war hero, the most decorated Chicago resident since World War II. You’re a successful and famous attorney, a deputy FBI agent, and a Washington big shot as a Deputy Secretary, a sub-cabinet officer. And based on that speech you gave before the Senate, you’re one of the best orators in the country, if not the best. Do you think juries award your clients zillions of dollars because they like the color of your shoes? No, Matt, it’s because you persuade them, and they believe in you. When you’re in front of a crowd, you’re enchanting. Also, you formed a foundation, one of the best funded charities in the nation, and one that’s squeaky clean. Hell, when you travel on foundation business, you even pay for the expenses out of your own pocket. And there’s another thing about you, Matt; you’re drop-dead gorgeous, and women make up a majority of the electorate. Yesss, baby. Let’s think about it!”
“Honey,” I said, “you’re overlooking something. Remember I was once an alcoholic and a drug addict. You can’t hide stuff like that.”
“Matt, that’s perfect, don’t you get it? It’s just perfect. You don’t want to hide it, you want to shout about it. Sin and redemption—people eat that up, like a page from classic heroic literature. You hit a bad time, confronted your problem, and overcame it. That will become part of your image. The story, the true story, of how you faced your demons and slayed them will make people love you.”
Dee’s explosive enthusiasm was starting to percolate. She stood up, grabbed a baseball and hurled her fastball at a chair in the corner of the room. Then she did a cartwheel. Then she sat on my lap, and kissed me. I think Dee liked this idea.
***
A hot shower always helps me think, to sort out whatever was buzzing through my head. But this shower was different. Despite the soothing water, my mind was still a jumble of competing thoughts. Dee wants me to run for president. Me. President of the United States? I put on a pair of fresh jeans and a sweatshirt, my normal evening-at-home wardrobe.
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Dee put out a tray of raw vegetables and cheese slices on the kitchen table. We usually eat light in the evening, and she didn’t want to fuss making a dinner. She had bigger things on her mind. I glanced over at the dining room table. It was covered by a large map—an electoral map. Professor Dee was on the case.
“Honey, do you think that this idea is possible? Hell, I’m unknown politically. Martin looks like he has a commanding lead in the polls, along with the dreck running for the house and senate from his party.”
“Matt, I think you’ll be amazed at how well you’ll poll. You may be unknown politically, but you’re not unknown, especially after that speech you gave last month. Is it a long shot? Yes, it is, but think long term. If you get defeated, the country will know you by the time the next election rolls around. Hey, you’re not even 40 years old yet.”
***
“So let me tell you about my meeting with Rick Bellamy today, Dee. It has something to do with what we’re talking about. We had a surprise visitor—Al Yamani.”
“Oh my God,” Dee yelled. “Where was he?”
I filled Dee in on my long meeting with my old client, and his stories about “the compound” in Kurdistan.
“The NFL has changed, Dee. As we all know, they’ve come out of the shadows, and they’re starting to play rough, and not just with radical Islam. Bartholomew wants power, and he seems like he’s on his way to getting it. Remember my friend Tony Drucker from the Wall Street Journal? He wrote an article that was critical of Bartholomew Martin and his NFL. Now Tony’s dead. And now you and I are talking about opposing Martin in his run for the White House.”
I walked into our den and opened my desk drawer.
“Here, try this on, Dee.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a newly designed shoulder holster that Woody gave me. It’s supposed to be very comfortable, especially for women. I want you armed at all times.”
Chapter 55
The helicopter gunship descended to a landing zone in Erbil, the capital of Iraqi Kurdistan. An assistant opened the door and Bartholomew stepped onto the ladder. The gunship was a Eurocopter Tiger, built in 2003. The NFL purchased the aircraft from a German arms dealer. Six more were on order.
The two men strode into a small building next to the airstrip. Bartholomew felt uncomfortable in this part of Kurdistan. He hated the Iraqi government, and looked forward to the day when he would consolidate the different regions of Kurdistan into one, an autonomous region that he would rule.
The assistant opened the door to the building and they were greeted by a comforting blast of air conditioned breeze. William Cunliffe, Bartholomew’s top aide, awaited him.
“Good morning, Bartholomew, tea?”
“No, William, I don’t want tea, I want answers. Explain to me, in detail if you will, how our guest, Albert Yamani, has managed to escape.”
“Yamani was in a vehicle with two of our most trusted guards when they came upon an American Army post,” said Cunliffe. “Yamani simply walked over to an American vehicle and climbed in. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“And the two ‘most trusted guards,’ William? Tell me about them.”
“They have been ‘repurposed,’ Bartholomew.” Martin was almost fanatical about people using exact language when giving a description of anything. But he grew fond of the word repurposed. It had a much more pleasant sound than killed.
“You are aware, William, that Yamani was one of our most valuable ‘guests.’ He had finished the first draft of his new book, The Impossible War, a critical part of our educational program. Witherspoon, our new publishing arm, is ready to publish it, and we are going forward with the plans. But Yamani is now gone, along with valuable information about us. We can assume that he has escaped to America. I want the highest degree of surveillance in searching for him. He’s no doubt in the Witness Protection Program. Our sources tell me that the WPP has hardened its security since our two colleagues escorted Yamani and his friends from an FBI safe house to the compound here in Kurdistan. William, finding Yamani is an absolute top priority.”
“I shall personally see to it, Bartholomew.”
***
“William, to change the subject, please talk to me about the American political landscape.”
“Although the election is a year from now,” said Cunliffe, “the poll numbers show you and the Freedom from Terror Party with an amazing lead.”
“The word ‘amazing’ is an opinion, William. “Please give me specific data.”
“The polls from the major networks, as well as the cable networks of CNN and Fox, all show you as number one with 51 percent, leading the closest rival by an average of 14 points. Governor Frank Simon, the Republican hopeful, is second with 21 percent, and Senator Kurt Lysle, the Democratic front runner, in third with 9 percent.”
“Are there any other likely candidates from either party, William?”
“Bartholomew, I know that you don’t like to talk about rumors, but you should hear this. Matthew Blake, a Chicago lawyer and Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security, may be preparing a run for president. This isn’t widely known, and the press hasn’t touched it yet.”
“William,” Bartholomew shouted, “do you know who this man is?” Bartholomew follows a self-imposed rule never to raise his voice, but his emotions let go after Cunliffe told him about Matt Blake.
“I’m sorry, Bartholomew, but I know little about the man. I’m studying him now.”
“Matthew Blake was the attorney for Albert Yamani in that trumped-up mall bombing case,” Bartholomew said. “He also represented Albert in negotiating his first book deal with Random House. I think it’s safe to assume that Mr. Yamani has met with Mr. Blake or is meeting with him right now. So Albert Yamani, a man who knows the secrets of NFL, is now in the confidence of the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security, a man who may be planning to run for president. William, I want you to present me with a plan to handle this situation. I will meet with you again tomorrow, and I expect a detailed outline of your action steps.”
“Yes, Bartholomew. I know it will start with Mr. Yamani being repurposed once we find him. ”
Chapter 56
“Mrs. Blake, your targets are in place. You may commence firing when ready,” said the FBI shooting range safety office.
The last place I expected to be was an FBI shooting range. I’m a pretty good shot with a pistol, having been taught by my father years ago. But I don’t like the feeling of firing a weapon, especially because I knew that it was not a casual exercise. Matt convinced me that I should carry a gun at all times, and even gave me a lovely new shoulder holster for comfort.
Besides the range safety officer, I had my own personal FBI weapons trainer assisting me. The trainer, Agent Gil Fremont, concentrated my efforts on a draw-and-shoot drill. I would start with my back to the target, then draw my pistol from the shoulder holster as I spun around. At the same time I would go into a crouch and fire two shots at mid-torso on the target. I had to admit to myself that I was getting pretty good at this crap. Dear diary—brace yourself.
I never tell Matt anything but the truth. That’s the way it is with us. After more than three years of marriage I love him as much as ever, but now, of course there’s a new dimension to our relationship. I’ve managed to convince Matt to run for President of the United States. And some people, specifically Bartholomew Martin and his lot, hate that idea. That’s what the weapons training was all about.
Two days ago Matt and I met with Max Fleming, Chairman of the Republican National Committee. Max was the man who floated the idea by me first, and he requested that I be with Matt when we met.
Max Fleming could be described as an “old school gentleman,” not some cigar chomping political operative. He’s a tall man, at 6’1,” about 60 years old with gray flecked brown hair. He had a reputation for wearing impeccable designer suits on all public occasions. We met at his office in Washington D.C.
Max walked
over to the coffee service and brought a tray to the conference table.
“Matt,” said Fleming, “I know you’re wondering why I floated this idea to you through Diana. I did it for two reasons. First, I know Diana as a sharp-minded intellectual, a gal who knows how to take sensitive information and run with it. Also, it’s an open secret that you two have a close marriage, and who better for me to get to the source with my message? Bottom line, Matt, you’re a man uniquely situated to run for the top office. You’re a war hero, a successful lawyer, a government official, and a terrific public speaker. You’re somewhat unknown, but so was Abraham Lincoln at one time.”
The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) Page 23
