The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

Re: Partnership Opportunity

  From: Jack@mccallenresources.com

  To: alex.beria@petromica.com

  bcc: OGMLawyer@hotmail.com

  Date: Mon, 17 Nov 5:53 am

  Dear Mr. Beria,

  Thank you for your recent email.

  Based on my initial research, I agree that Petromica and McCallen Resources appear to be a good match. My company has the leasehold assets, combined with over fifty years of on-the-ground experience in West Virginia and Ohio, which would assist your company in expanding into Appalachia. Petromica has the financial wherewithal to help us fully develop the properties we currently have under lease. At first glance, pairing our companies’ strengths seems a no-brainer for both firms.

  The spreadsheet attached to your email accurately reflects our current financial state. Accordingly, if Petromica remains interested in exploring a partnership along the general parameters outlined in your email, I’d be happy to discuss ways we might move forward with such a venture.

  Should you desire to discuss this matter in greater detail via telephone, feel free to contact me at the office or on my cell. See the attached vcard for those numbers.

  Thanks for your interest in doing business and I look forward to hearing from you.

  Very truly yours,

  Jack McCallen

  Managing Member,

  McCallen Resources, LLC

  P.S. How long have you been with Petromica? I couldn’t find anything about you on the company’s website.

  Nicely done, Rikki thought to herself. Despite his pressing financial problems, Jack expressed his interest in Petromica’s proposal without seeming too eager. Jack sent the email to her via blind carbon copy, so Beria would not know he had involved his attorney so early in the negotiations. All-in-all, a fine performance.

  Seeing no other messages of interest, Rikki signed out and headed upstairs toward the shower. So far, this was shaping up to be a very interesting Monday.

  CHAPTER 24

  VIENNA, VIRGINIA

  MONDAY NOVEMBER 17, 8:05 A.M.

  Yuri Petrenko reviewed the daily planner on his smartphone. As he took a drink from his cup of steaming hot black tea, he cynically realized all of the tasks cluttering his calendar were best classified under the heading, “Taking Care of Mazniashvili’s Shit.”

  The boss paid him handsomely, however, so Yuri did not complain. But Petrenko did find the sheer scope of Mazniashvili’s business interests maddening. The man had his finger in everything under the sun and, as his unofficial “fixer,” Yuri’s energies were necessarily directed across a spectrum of enterprises just as far-ranging.

  His phone vibrated and his calendar faded from the screen, replaced by a phone number from the 304 area code.

  “Hello?” he asked, recognizing in his own voice the faintest remnant of the Russian accent that once heavily tainted his words. A Bluetooth device was wedged in his mangled left ear, empty space protruding below it where an earlobe should have been.

  “Yuri, my friend! It’s Dick Bowen here. How’s the weather over in D.C.?”

  Looking out his living room window, Petrenko saw light gray skies stretching from horizon to horizon over a row of townhouses. His Audi’s windshield was covered with beads of water and a fine mist continued falling from the sky. “Shitty. What’s up?”

  Bowen coughed. “The current project should be completed at half the original estimate. Have your investors wire their money to the account we discussed on Friday.”

  Yuri manipulated his phone, grumbling beneath his breath. Political code-talk drove him bonkers. Using coded language had been necessary when he ran ops for the Spetsnaz. To communicate otherwise would have subjected him to deadly serious risks like falling into the hands of Chechen rebels.

  The mere thought of his two tours in Chechnya made him shudder. Those crazy Muslim bastards were hardcore. If a sensitive political communication here in the United States was intercepted by the authorities, he might do a stint in prison for bribery. Probably be deported, too. Whoopty-friggin-doo.

  If the Chechens had intercepted an uncoded message, the repercussions would have been much worse. Being sodomized with a bayonet was just an appetizer on their smorgasbord of torture techniques. Being fed his own testicles after they were pulverized by a sledgehammer (while still in his scrotum, of course) … Avoiding that was worth using code words.

  Petrenko shook the image from his mind. “I can do that. But first, our investors need to know their money’s not being wasted.”

  “We still might have to spend the amount we discussed on Friday,” Bowen replied. “We don’t want to run out of money if our new estimates prove overly optimistic.”

  Yuri paused, wondering if Bowen was telling him the truth. The boss was not afraid to spend money to accomplish his goals, but he was a stickler when it came to tracking his investments. If Yuri could not account for the money, he knew Mazniashvili’s retribution would make the Chechens’ treatment of Russian prisoners look like a Sunday School picnic.

  “I’ll wire the money this morning,” Yuri said. “But only after your bank sends me written confirmation the wire is reversible. The funds will be available in that account, but they may not be disbursed without my personal approval.”

  “What the hell do you mean? You can’t do that!”

  Yuri took a deep breath, summoning the reserves of patience and willpower that had served him so well in the military. The resolve that helped him learn how to speak English more fluently than most people who learn it as their native tongue. The determination that allowed him to survive the grueling Spetsnaz selection course and all the physical brutality, mental abuse and sleep deprivation it entailed. The patience and stamina required to lie awake, camouflaged in a freezing-ass ditch for almost forty hours, until he finally got the chance to blow out a Chechen rebel commander’s brains with one clean shot from his sniper rifle.

  “It is our money, Mr. Bowen,” he said bluntly. “And I’m not going to release it to you carte blanche. Accept our money on our conditions or call someone else who’s willing to wire you millions of dollars without strings attached. Your choice.”

  A full 30 seconds elapsed before Bowen responded. “Fine. I’ll have the bank send you a fax. But remember West Virginia is the only state still in play in this election. And if your boy wants to keep Jonathan Royal out of the White House, he better whip out his checkbook.”

  Yuri smiled. “Mr. Bowen, we are fully committed to helping Senator Wilson win West Virginia. Trust me.”

  CHAPTER 25

  MINGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 12:45 P.M.

  The demand for seats inside the courtroom was so overwhelming the county staff had worked all weekend trying to fashion a system that would appease as many people as possible. The end result, however, had pleased no one while angering quite a few.

  West Virginia media outlets were allotted twenty seats at the canvass, which got the national press corps grumbling about “home cooking.” When Williamson’s newspaper and AM radio station received two of those spots, the rest of the state’s media got peeved.

  The national TV networks were positioned at the back of the courtroom in a space 15 feet wide by 8 feet deep where they placed two cameras whose video and audio feeds would be shared by the world. Foreign TV reporters, whose viewers were just as interested in the canvass as the American audience, were clustered together in an identical strip of floor space immediately adjacent to their American counterparts. However, that space was occupied by twice as many reporters speaking twenty different languages. Dave had no idea how those people could possibly concentrate with so many conversations taking place in such a small area.

  A well-behaved mob of photographers sat and squatted on the floor between the Commission’s platform and the tables where the campaigns’ lawyers were seated. With their powerful cameras honed in on the platform, the shutterbugs studiously attempted to
avoid hindering the lawyers’ field of vision while maintaining a clear view of the three commissioners.

  Newspaper and magazine reporters, as well as radio journalists, had been assigned all of the seats on the left wall of the courtroom plus many on the right. The remaining fifteen seats were reserved for lucky members of the general public selected in a random drawing the previous night.

  Dave glanced down at his watch. It was 12:50 p.m. Ten minutes to go.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Spence whispered into his cell phone before snapping it shut.

  “Who was that?” Dave asked.

  “Melissa,” Spence replied. “My girlfriend.”

  “You have a girlfriend?” Dave deadpanned.

  Spence looked wounded. “I’ve been known to be popular with the ladies,” he blurted.

  Dave laughed. “Must not be much competition around here.”

  Realizing his leg was being pulled, Spence’s face relaxed. “Ha ha ha. Very funny.”

  Ten minutes later, the three commissioners took their places on the platform. Sitting in the middle of the table, Mark Monroe banged his gavel three times. “I hereby call this meeting of the Mingo County Commission, sitting as a Board of Canvassers, to order. Madam Clerk, will you please call the roll?”

  Sitting at a small clerical desk at the far right end of the platform, the County Clerk stood up, holding a yellow legal pad. “Commissioner Monroe?”

  “Here,” he quickly answered.

  “Commissioner Thompson?”

  Staring out over the courtroom, Ruth Thompson looked petrified and her eyelids twitched. “Here,” she responded.

  Well, that sounded hesitant, Dave thought. God only knows how she’s going to vote.

  The Clerk scribbled on her pad. “Commissioner Warner?”

  Pete Warner, the Democrat who not-so-secretly supported Governor Royal’s campaign, cleared his throat. “Present,” he replied loudly.

  “All three members of the Commission being present, we have a quorum,” the Clerk declared and sat down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mark Monroe, and I am the President of the Mingo County Commission. I want to thank everyone for their patience this afternoon. We’re running behind schedule and I apologize for the delay.”

  As Monroe continued talking, Dave’s attention drifted away. He felt sure the hearing itself would be brief as things could only unfold a few ways. First of all, Monroe personally could not advance any motions during the canvass because he was serving as the Commission’s presiding officer. He could second a motion to use the backup data to calculate vote totals cast on the disputed machines, but he could not put such a motion on the table. Pete Warner opposed taking that route, so if any such motion would be made, Ruth Thompson was the only person who could do it.

  On the other hand, Warner tended to move quickly and aggressively when the Commission was divided on an issue. Under such circumstances, he almost habitually threw a motion on the table hoping Ruth Thompson would second it, because when Warner was at odds with another commissioner, it was usually Monroe.

  Warner’s voice interrupted Dave’s train of thought. “We’ve gone over this repeatedly,” he said, leaning forward with his forearms resting on the desk. “Both sides have their points, but there’s no point talking this thing to death. I’ve been a Democrat my whole life, but I don’t buy the argument that the results we got on Election Night aren’t any good because these memory cards aren’t working now. That doesn’t explain why no malfunctions were detected on Election Day. If the cards weren’t doing what they were supposed to do, the vendor should have found those problems and alerted us. They didn’t.

  “Thus, despite my loyalty to my party, my constitutional duty requires me to move that we accept the initial returns reported on those machines and have the final results of the county’s canvass tabulated on that basis.”

  Dave watched the audience literally turn its attention toward Ruth Thompson. She scanned the courtroom and then Dave suddenly found himself locking eyes with her. Leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest and his legs kicked out in front of him, Dave smiled peacefully.

  Vote whichever way you think the law requires, he mentally willed the Commission’s swing vote. If God desires it, Governor Royal will win the White House. If not, he won’t.

  Dave thought he saw the woman nod. Then she bucked herself up in her chair and said, “I second that motion.”

  The audience began to hum as it processed her action. Dave felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Commissioner Monroe’s mouth hung open beneath his moustache and his eyes looked glassy. Ten seconds later he still had not uttered a word.

  “I believe the motion has been made and properly seconded,” Pete Warner noted. “Will the chair call for a vote on the motion?”

  Monroe whirled to face Warner. Ten more seconds elapsed. Then he exhaled softly and rotated his chair ninety degrees to the right, facing the audience. “The motion has been duly made and seconded. All those in favor will signify by saying ‘Aye.’”

  “Aye,” Warner and Thompson declared in unison.

  “All those opposed to the motion will signify by saying, ‘No,’” Monroe continued. “No. By a vote of two-to-one, the motion carries. The county’s canvass will include the initial returns reported by the Gilbert and Matewan precincts, including those from the nine machines with malfunctioning memory cards. Madam Clerk, please calculate our final results on that basis.”

  The Clerk nodded curtly, rose from her chair and exited the room. For three long minutes, the Commissioners sat silently while the audience murmured to one another in excited but hushed tones and reporters whispered into their microphones.

  Finally, the Clerk returned, holding a thin document. Clearing her throat, she spoke into her microphone. “The official general election results are as follows: For president and vice president, 5,886 votes for Senator Wilson and Governor Vincent; 5,107 votes for Governor Royal and Senator Johnstone; 28 votes for the Libertarian nominees and one write-in vote.

  “For United States Senator, there were….”

  The Clerk continued announcing the results, but the audience was already filing out of the courtroom. A few local Democrats scowled, shaking their heads in disgust.

  Monroe banged his gavel once, returning Dave’s attention to the platform. “You’ve heard the final election results,” he announced gruffly. “Does anyone have a motion to make?”

  Warner said, “I move that the Commission declare these figures to be the official results of the general election, thereby concluding our work as the Board of Canvassers.”

  “Subject to the right of any candidate to request a recount,” Monroe interjected. “Correct?”

  Warner’s jaw clenched. “Correct. Although I don’t see what purpose would be served by having the machines count those ballots again.”

  The blank look on Monroe’s face reminded Dave of an old Hollywood western card shark. Whatever his cards were, they were held close to his chest.

  “I just want to make sure we do everything by the book,” Monroe replied. “The statute says candidates have 48 hours to decide if they want a recount, and we can’t certify the results until then. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “So moved,” Ruth said.

  “And seconded,” Monroe added. “All those in favor?”

  “Aye,” all three Commissioners declared.

  “The motion carries. The Mingo County Commission sitting as a Board of Canvassers will stand adjourned until we reconvene on Friday, November 21st at 9 a.m. for the purpose of certifying the results of the election.”

  Monroe pounded the gavel three times, pushed his chair away from the desk and stormed toward the exit. Leaning down toward Ruth Thompson as he passed, Monroe’s voice was almost inaudible over the P.A. system.

  But if Dave’s lip-reading was accurate, he would have sworn the man had growled, “You’re gonna regret screwing the party li
ke this, I promise.”

  CHAPTER 26

  RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 10:30 P.M.

  Dave stared vapidly at the logs crackling before him. An icy bottle of Yuengling sat on the table between him and Jonathan Royal, the current occupant of this fine governor’s mansion.

  Royal had installed the small fire pit soon after taking office nearly eight years earlier. Traditionalists denounced the move, arguing the fire pit clashed with the Victorian ambience of the Executive Mansion’s Southern Garden. A few architecture professors accused him of insufficiently revering the building’s history, sniffling that such a trait might bode ill for his prospects in office, when he would have to compromise with those who opposed his positions.

  Royal gave not a damn about such criticisms. It was his house, he argued. If he had to live in the place, he was going to enjoy it. Plus, the fire pit was removable and if the next occupant of the mansion didn’t like it, he (or she) could get rid of it.

  For the next two months, regardless of the results of the election, Royal could satiate his desire to unwind by the fire at the end of the day. And on a clear, beautiful night like this one, with a cold beer in one hand and a fine cigar in the other, Dave was not inclined to argue with the man’s thought process.

  “How ya like that stogie?” The fire’s glow danced along Royal’s face as he awaited an answer. In the distance, strolling atop the red brick wall surrounding the garden, a Secret Service agent aimed to make sure no one offed the candidate.

  Holding the cigar lightly, Dave blew out a plume of smoke and gazed appreciatively at the cigar’s label. “Cohiba Sublimes. I’m sure some of our friends in South Florida would argue we shouldn’t be propping up Cuba’s current regime by spending money on these things.”

  Royal chuckled. “Probably. But what’s the point in being President if you can’t smoke Cubans every now and then?”

  “True, but we’re not home free yet. I feel better about our chances now, though I have to admit that when the time came for Ruth to vote today, it took everything I had to smile and look relaxed. Until she actually said, ‘I second that motion,’ I was scared shitless.”