“Leeny? Leeny.” Mace said the name twice, as if he were trying to become used to it. “That’s an interesting name.”
“I’m an interesting woman.” Leeny winked at him, then turned and took the driver’s hand as he helped her from the car.
* * *
—
Rachel leaned back in her seat and checked her watch. Five after seven. Mace McLain was late for real estate finance. It was the first time since the class had begun several weeks ago that this had happened, and somehow she felt vaguely offended, as she had when boys had promised to call in high school at an exact time and then hadn’t.
The noise level in the room was loud as students discussed job offers, other classes, and the cold February weather that had enveloped New York City over the past few days. Everyone in the classroom except Rachel was happy about Mace’s irresponsibility, ecstatic for each minute they didn’t have to face the investment banker, who had turned out to be somewhat of a ballbuster. He asked difficult questions and expected accurate, well-prepared answers in return. And he expected a significant amount of class participation from everyone. No one could hide from his eagle eye.
“All right, all right. Party’s over.” Mace moved into the classroom quickly, smiling broadly, aware of the unanimous disappointment suddenly filling the air.
The class groaned as one.
Rachel sat up and smiled. Her anger at Mace’s tardiness dissipated immediately. She had prepared tonight’s case extremely well and was looking forward to the class discussion, a discussion she anticipated dominating by the end of the two-hour session as the material became more complex and the others faded away, unable to understand exactly where she was going with her line of comments, unwilling to risk trying to stay with her in uncharted territory for fear of saying something stupid.
“Okay. Get your notes out and let’s get going.” Mace’s voice echoed throughout the large classroom. As the students looked away from him in unison for a split second to pull out and arrange their notes, Mace nodded subtly in her direction.
Rachel nodded back. As she did, she felt a rush of relief at the fact that he had appeared. She’d been afraid that Dean Fenton was going to walk through the door at any moment and inform them that Mace would be unable to appear tonight because he had been called to some exotic port of call on a deal. Everyone in the class would have erupted into a loud cheer, except for her. Now they were all irritated and she was happy. Too bad, she thought.
Rachel watched Mace. Perhaps she was beginning to enjoy these classes a little too much. She swallowed. No, there was nothing wrong with what she felt. For the first time she realized that she was actually looking forward to her interviews next week at Walker Pryce, particularly her meeting with Lewis Webster. Mace was right. She was good enough to be accepted at Walker Pryce. She was good enough to be accepted anywhere. In today’s world her family background was irrelevant. She laughed. He had given her so much confidence.
Suddenly Rachel’s body tensed and her smile disappeared. The tall blond woman who had just moved into the classroom was not a student or a professor. Total enrollment at Columbia Business School barely exceeded five hundred people, and almost everyone knew one another, at least by sight.
Leeny Hunt moved to Mace, placed a hand on his shoulder, and whispered something into his ear as he arranged several papers on the black table at the front of the room. Catcalls arose from the classroom’s male contingent.
Mace glanced quickly at the men making the noise, then automatically at Rachel. Rachel looked instantly away from Mace to the desktop, where it was safe.
“Enough, enough.” Mace raised both hands above his head. “Settle down.”
Just as order seemed about to be restored and the classroom became quiet again, one of the more obnoxious marketing majors in the front row, Jake Levin, a large ex-college baseball player, hooted one more time. The class burst into laughter at Jake’s bravado. Even Mace could not keep the smile from his face. Finally, after several moments, the noise subsided.
Mace shook his head at Levin. “Christ, Jake, one would think it had been a long time since you had seen a woman.”
Jake paused for a moment, considering how far to push the exchange. Finally he smiled mischievously. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one like that!”
Again the class burst into applause, and several of the men close to Jake elbowed and pushed him.
Slowly, as the class settled down for a second time, Leeny began moving toward Jake. As she neared him, the class became quiet until finally as she stood directly before him, hands on her thin waist, the room was completely silent. Her eyes were merely slits as she stared down at him. Very carefully she brought her right forefinger to her tongue, wet it, then leaned over and touched her forefinger to Levin’s shirt. Every eye in the class was riveted to Leeny’s finger as it slid away from Levin.
Slowly a sly smile crossed her face. “Look at what I’ve done,” she said in a husky voice. “Now I need to take you right home and get you out of those wet things.”
For a moment Levin stared at Leeny openmouthed. Then he brought both hands to his chest and slumped back into his seat. The class erupted for a third time as Leeny took several sexy steps away from Levin and back toward Mace. As she reached Mace, she grabbed his hand. Mace simply shook his head and smiled as every person in the class continued to cheer. Every person except Rachel Sommers.
11
Frantically the two terrorists attempted to attach the explosive to the huge natural gas tank even as the Wolverines bore relentlessly down on them. Finally, when the Wolverine captain slowed to kneel, one of the terrorists suddenly wheeled about and released a burst of ammunition from his automatic rifle at the approaching troops. White fire spit from the gun, and instantly the four bullets tore through the captain’s body. He fell, paralyzed from the neck down, but managed to lift his head to watch both terrorists go down in a hail of Wolverine fire. Then his cheek dropped to the pavement, the last breath of life close at hand.
“Turn it off,” Malcolm Becker said quietly, nodding first at Willard Ferris and then at the wide screen in the far corner of the large office.
“Yes, sir.” Ferris pointed the control at the television and the screen went blank. The sounds of screaming voices stopped. “If I do say so myself, sir, I think it was a stroke of genius to put that camera on top of the unit captain’s helmet before the Wolverines went in there.” Ferris snorted with excitement and self-adulation. “God, I love watching that tape.”
Becker stared at the little man. They called Ferris Rat Man at the CIA because of his pointed nose, his scraggly mustache, which in a way resembled rodent whiskers, and his long, curved front teeth, which were constantly in view, a result of his thin, arching upper lip. Becker knew that Ferris was not particularly popular with the others of his staff at CIA because Ferris was a whiny, pushy nag. But the Rat Man was a damn good administrator and loyal beyond question. The director’s word was law at the agency, and the law was that Ferris was to be obeyed, if not respected. The two men had been together since Becker’s days in Vietnam, and they would stay together until hell froze over.
“What a performance,” Ferris continued. “Those guys neutralized the terrorists in minutes, without any problems.”
“Incompetence,” Becker murmured.
“What?” Ferris asked.
Becker rubbed his eyes. “The terrorists should have been able to blow the tank in the time they had. They were incompetent. We were lucky.”
Ferris snorted. “Was it luck that you had a contingent of Wolverines actually stationed in Los Angeles? No way. That was careful planning. You have the Wolverines in Los Angeles, New York, and Chicago because those are primary targets. Within an hour the Wolverines were on site. Actually on-site. If they’d had to come in from another part of the country, maybe the terrorists would have been able to mine the area and de
tonate the bomb. Response time: that was one of the keys. The fact that your men were victorious wasn’t luck.”
“Mmm.” Becker liked the sound of that.
“I love that tape,” Ferris said. “It gives you a good feeling about America. I really think we should show it at your inauguration ball.”
“You think so, do you?” Becker smiled slightly. Ferris was absolutely convinced that Becker was going to be the next president of the United States, and Becker liked that kind of enthusiasm. He appreciated people who exuded confidence, who believed that anything could be accomplished as long as the proper resources and commitment were brought to bear by the right people. Becker knew that the only way to win a tough battle was to have a positive mental attitude. Positive things happened to positive people. This was the gospel according to Becker.
“I do,” Ferris said loudly.
“And what do you think, Major Conner?” Becker turned toward Slade Conner, who sat in a wooden chair near the television they had all been watching, arms folded across his chest.
Slade flexed his hand as he considered the director. Becker’s head was massive, seemingly the size of a bull’s. His dark hair was closely cropped, and as a result, the blue veins of his scalp were clearly visible. Becker’s nose, eyes, and ears were also large, oversized even for his huge face. These monstrous characteristics helped him a great deal when he appeared on television because they made him seem very tall, when in fact he wasn’t. To augment further the powerful image he naturally projected, every day Becker wore his regular uniform of the United States Army, the branch of the service he had commanded before being named CIA director by President Whitman during his first term five years ago.
Becker was a man of conviction and action. He made decisions quickly and acted decisively after consulting with his most trusted advisers. Sometimes he agreed with the consensus, and sometimes he did not. But once the decision was made, he never wavered, never second-guessed himself. He was fiercely loyal to those who were loyal to him and cutthroat to those who betrayed him. He did not mind a different opinion from his own during the decision-making process, as long as it was conveyed directly to him and not behind his back and as long as it was delivered with respect. But once a decision had been made, Becker required absolute commitment to the cause. No second-guessing and no backstabbing. If he uncovered such, you were gone. He was ruthless that way.
He did not mind sacrificing a few good men to achieve an objective either. His army training had long ago purged him of any lingering guilt with respect to ordering young men into combat. Becker considered dying for one’s country to be an honor of the highest degree, especially when that country was the United States of America.
Malcolm Becker was aggressive, direct, and demanding. But despite Becker’s fierce nature and stony countenance, Slade knew of the man’s caring side. He knew of Becker’s deep devotion to the men who served under him and to their families. He knew of Becker’s commitment to those less fortunate than he through his diligent charity work. Those who didn’t know Becker well and hadn’t seen these gentler sides of the man described him as mean-spirited, as a callous, shallow man. Certainly he was aggressive, direct, and demanding, as the director of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States had to be, almost by definition. Protecting the United States of America was no game. But Slade had seen the softer sides since his appointment to Becker’s personal staff six months before. The softer sides did not shine through often, but they were there if you looked long enough and hard enough. It was what made this thing so much more difficult.
Slade smiled. “I agree with Mr. Ferris, General Becker. You should play that tape at your inauguration. There’ll be a lot more hawks there that night than doves.”
“I like it when people agree with me.” Becker pounded his heavy fist on the desk, smiling back at Slade.
“Let’s be analytical, Chief,” Ferris piped up again. Chief was Ferris’s nickname for Becker, and he was the only one allowed to address Becker that way. For everyone else it was General Becker or sir.
Becker leaned back. “Okay. I like it when you’re analytical, Willard.”
“Fine, yes, well, look at it this way, Chief. You’ve got the Republican nomination locked up. The convention this summer will be nothing more than a formality. There’s Morgan, the senator from Texas, and Cain, the governor of Connecticut,” Ferris said. “But they aren’t really players. They have regional support, but that’s about it. They don’t have the national appeal. Not the way you do. Other than Morgan and Cain, there’s no one.”
Becker nodded as he reached into his top drawer for a beloved Monte Cristo cigar.
“So then we have to think about the Democrats,” Ferris continued.
Slade watched Ferris. He was becoming more excited as he spoke, excited at the prospect of becoming chief of staff to a president of the United States. Slade glanced toward Becker, who was already taking his first puff from the Cuban. He wondered whether Becker would levitate Ferris to such a position in the event he did win the position he so coveted or turn to someone with a bit more sex appeal in this age of image. Loyalty might have its limits even for Malcolm Becker.
“It seems pretty obvious that the Democrats will nominate the vice president, Preston Andrews. The polls show him well ahead of any of the other Democrats. And you will crush Andrews in the general election.”
Becker inhaled slowly, then exhaled until his lungs were clear. For several seconds Becker held the burning cigar before his huge face, considering it carefully. “The Monte Cristo Churchill,” he said, “the most popular cigar in the world.” He turned to Slade. “Did you know that John F. Kennedy waited to enforce the Cuban embargo until he could import a lifetime supply of these things for himself and all his friends?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.” Slade smelled the faint aroma of the Monte Cristo for the first time. Though he did not smoke, the scent was mildly pleasing.
Becker nodded. “Oh, yes.” He laughed. “That’s how the world really works.” Becker turned back toward Ferris. “Willard.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Let’s not mention that civilian’s name in here again if at all possible. Mr. Andrews is our enemy.”
“Yes, sir.” Willard used the more formal address of sir as his eyes dropped to the carpet.
Becker inhaled again from the cigar. “It’s just that I detest the man. He has been after President Whitman for five years, since I started here, to cut CIA funding, and he has clearly never been an advocate of the Wolverines.” Becker nodded at the television screen.
“I think ‘not being an advocate’ is a nice way to put it,” Ferris said, sneering. “It must have crushed him when those people took over that gas storage facility in Los Angeles and the Wolverines responded so effectively.”
“Yes, and we have Major Conner to thank for the success of the Wolverines,” Becker said, turning again toward Slade and nodding.
Slade nodded back. Five years before, at the direct request of the newly appointed director of the CIA, Slade had transferred from the Marines to take charge of a new counterterrorist task force that Becker wanted to initiate. In response to stepped-up instances of terrorist activity within United States borders—the World Trade Center bombing, the Oklahoma City bombing, a car bomb explosion on Pennsylvania Avenue just outside the White House, and the takeover of a Chicago hotel in which a contingent of U.S. senators were staying—President Whitman had secretly directed Becker to form the antiterrorist attack group because of what the president grudgingly agreed was total ineptness at the higher echelons of the domestic law enforcement agencies. In turn Becker had tapped Conner to select, train, and lead the elite strike force to be known as the Wolverines.
Initially President Whitman had wanted to allow the FBI to maintain responsibility for reacting to domestic situations. But Becker forcefully argued that the FBI was not equipped or trained
to handle the kind of high technology firepower a crack terrorist squad would employ, that as an ex-commander of the U.S. Army he, and therefore the CIA, was in a much better position to guide the Wolverines. Just as important, Becker reasoned with Whitman, most domestic terrorist plots would originate in countries unfriendly to the United States, in countries in which the CIA was operating. The CIA would have better information about who was involved in an attack, about the strength and profile of the attackers, and so on. Again, the CIA was therefore in a better position to handle the attacks. Ultimately Whitman had agreed to a trial period. The L.A. situation had pushed the president over the edge.
Setting up, arming, and training the Wolverines had been an extraordinarily expensive proposition, and Vice President Andrews had been one of Becker’s most outspoken critics, citing the tremendous cost of the Wolverine Project.
For several years the project did appear to lack merit. Billions of dollars seemingly poured into a bureaucratic black hole. There were no terrorist incidents on U.S. soil. Bashing Becker for the Wolverine Project became popular with his enemies. But three months ago extremists had attempted to take over simultaneously the control towers at each of New York’s three major airports—Kennedy, La Guardia, and Newark—so that they could watch fuel-starved planes actually drop from the night sky onto New York City unless they were given what they wanted. Then the L.A. attack had occurred. In both cases the Wolverines had used the latest high technology weapons, superior training, and old-fashioned bravery to eradicate the terrorists quickly without the loss of a single civilian life.
Now Malcolm Becker was the toast of Washington, as well as of every small town and large city from the Atlantic to the Pacific. He was appearing on the front pages of major newspapers and magazines around the globe, and he appealed to the American people. He was a throwback, a cool, tough John Wayne type who wasn’t going to allow gun-toting foreigners to come into his country and disturb his way of life. He conveyed a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners attitude that played well. He was a tough negotiator and cool under fire. A man completely convinced that his views were the right ones, a man who seemed to be able to lead not only the CIA but the country as well. Becker was a man on a mission, a man who would stop at nothing short of the presidency, and would do anything to get there. Slade was well aware of that.
The Vulture Fund Page 11
