by Dave Edlund
The Prime Minister cleared his throat. “So, let’s be candid, shall we? After all, this is a secure line. I have already taken on substantial risk by instructing one of our Mossad operators to plant those Iranian grenades in New York a couple months ago. That request came from Ms. Meyers, if I remember correctly.”
Angela cleared her throat. “Yes, you are correct, Mr. Prime Minister. It was a useful measure to bolster opposition to Iran and strengthen popular support for Israel leading up to the vote on the Israeli Security Act. As you know, the Act was authored by Speaker Schuman.”
“I see. And now you are asking if I will send a team to help you again. Agents who will not be easily identified by their fingerprints. Agents who are unknown to your law enforcement and government. Am I correct?”
Ellison exchanged a quick glance with Angela Meyers, and a small grin formed. “Yes. You are correct. It is merely an insurance policy, and I suspect your National Security Adviser would agree that this is a prudent measure.”
Yossi didn’t accept this simplistic explanation. “You would not require a covert team if there was no risk. We must consider this request with the understanding that these are loyal Israeli lives we are placing in jeopardy.”
“True. However, Mossad operators accept risk every day. Israel has many enemies—your country is surrounded by hostile nations. The Prime Minister and I share a dream of a time, very soon, when Israel will be so powerful as to vanquish your enemies for good.”
“Yossi and I will work out the details,” Feldman said, ending the debate. “I’ll provide Yossi’s email contact. Please coordinate directly through him. Now, I presume that is all?”
“Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. I’ll work out the details with Mr. Winer. And I promise to see you in Tel Aviv when the aircraft are delivered.”
Chapter 12
Washington, D.C.
April 19
Whenever he was in town, Abraham Schuman arrived at his office at 7:00 a.m. sharp. Today was no different. Dressed in a dark gray suit with white shirt and vivid blue necktie, he entered the outer office just as an antique American tall-case clock chimed the hour.
Although Schuman had several thousand square feet of rented office space nearby to manage his Presidential campaign, he seldom set foot there, preferring the familiarity and luxury of his Congressional office.
The outer office was understandably large—as Speaker of the House, Schuman was afforded an expansive piece of prime real estate. A hallway extended to the side where a half-dozen offices were located for his staffers. Two Chippendale sofas occupied the center of the room, facing each other with a cherry-wood coffee table separating them. The walls were paneled in oak that had taken a honey-colored patina over the years.
The office walls were adorned with original oil paintings of various historic battles from the War of 1812 up through the First Gulf War—gifts from the largest employer in Schuman’s district.
Angela greeted her boss. She looked like she hadn’t slept more than a few hours, which was pretty close to the truth. Her eyes were puffy and her clothes wrinkled from napping on the sofa in her office.
“Morning, Angela. Looks like you had a late night.”
She faked a smile. “Good morning, Abe. Yes, very late. Some last minute complications with your energy bill,” she lied.
“Everything okay?”
“Nothing to worry about. A last minute trade of favors with Representative Cartwright. He promises to deliver enough votes from the left to pass the bill. I think the Senate will go along without significant modifications.”
“Good. So long as you didn’t have to promise my firstborn.”
It had been a slow but steady climb that landed Congressman Schuman second in line of Presidential succession. Abe had hired Angela Meyers to be his office manager when he was first elected to represent California’s 17th District, encompassing a large portion of the south bay area just north of Silicon Valley. Abe’s hair was beginning to gray when he first entered office; now that process was completed. The bulge around his waist was a direct result of too many meals at Capitol Hill eateries. He was especially fond of late nights at the Dubliner Grill, or enjoying a slice of aged beef and fine French Bordeaux at the Capitol Grille. Naturally, his constituent donors always paid.
Angela followed Abe into his office and prepared two lattes from the top-end Italian espresso machine built into the wet bar. While she was making the coffee drinks, Abe unloaded his brief case and fired up his computer.
He was just checking his schedule when she placed the cups on his desk. “Senators Robinson and Putnam are meeting with me at 10:00 a.m.?”
“Yes, here in your office to discuss their rider on the appropriations bill. And you have lunch with Becky Winwood—she represents Winwood, Stuart and Kolb, a lobbyist for several of the major investment banking firms.”
Abe rolled his eyes at the statement. He didn’t like the way that the large Wall Street firms played the game and believed their reckless and greedy actions had directly cost his constituents—and Americans across the country—an incalculable amount of money.
“And what is she asking for? Or need I ask?”
“As you know, President Taylor has been pushing for banking reform. So far, it has just been speeches, but he has promised to introduce a bill by the end of summer if Congress doesn’t take meaningful action first.”
“Let me guess. Ms. Winwood wants me to block any bill from moving forward in the House.”
“We’ve been over this, Abe. You need the support of Wall Street without appearing to be in their pocket. And the big firms are promising to make sizeable donations to your super PAC.”
Schuman sipped from his cup and narrowed his eyes. “There was a time when I wouldn’t have even considered such a request.” He sighed and pushed his latte away.
Angela smiled softly. “There was a time when no one would have believed it possible that a Jewish American could be elected President. You are polling strong Abe—a double-digit lead over President Taylor. But the election is still many months away. Don’t take anything for granted. You can never have too many backers.”
He stared back at his Chief of Staff, his lips pursed and turned down.
“Besides,” Meyers continued, “once you get elected, you can do whatever you want. No one remembers campaign promises.”
The Presidential election was almost seven months away, and yet Abraham Schuman was the name people were talking about. President Taylor had served well during his first term, and if Schuman had not been so popular, Taylor would have been assured re-election.
Abraham Schuman seemed to be the right candidate at the right time. As Speaker, he remained enormously popular, working to reverse past bickering between his colleagues on both sides of the aisle. He had shepherded a new era of compromise and common sense governance, something the voters had been craving. Plus, it didn’t hurt that Schuman had the backing of the American Israeli Lobby.
The son of Orthodox Jewish parents, Abe did not follow the strict religious practice, although he had visited the Holy Land as a young man. Schuman was the ultimate success story—his parents having emigrated from Europe in the late 40s. His grandparents on his mother’s side, and many extended relatives, were murdered by the Nazis. He often told the story of his losses, his struggles, and finally of his achievements during fundraising events and on the campaign trail. It was a popular tale that never seemed to grow old.
“Fine, I’ll play along. What do I get in return?”
“I threw out a number: five million. She agreed.”
Schuman snorted. “Next time, ask for ten. Speaking of money, how are we doing?”
Meyers carried no notes with her, preferring to work from a near-photographic memory. “Very solid. Your super PAC is pulling in large donations from corporate America and wealthy individuals, and the grassroots fundraising seems to be resonating with blue-collar workers and young voters.”
Abe nodded. “Good.”
“Remember, this evening you are speaking at a dinner at the Hay-Adams Hotel. I’ll make certain Regina has the final copy of your speech on your desk by noon.”
“I still don’t get why you picked the Hay-Adams. It’s so small. You should have booked the Mandarin Oriental.”
“Relax—and trust me. This is about image, and the Hay-Adams is as close to the White House as anyone will get short of being elected. Besides, we sold tickets to enough high-rollers to clear three million. Plus, with the auction of your memorabilia following dinner, we stand to pull in another two to three million.”
Abe smiled. “What would I do without you, Angela?”
“That’s right. Just remember that when you’re elected President. A cabinet position will suit me fine.”
“Secretary of State?”
Angela smiled.
Chapter 13
Washington, D.C.
April 19
He had attended too many fundraising dinners to remember. But what Abe Schuman did recall was that the food was always lackluster. The menu never showed any imagination or originality—chicken, fish, maybe a beef cut of some sort. The quality was subpar, even at five-star venues. If you were lucky, at least it was warm. His basic rule was to eat all the salad and add lots of salt and pepper to the main course.
Tonight, at least the wine was decent.
Abe started with a martini, and then a couple glasses of a full red, a merlot from the Napa Valley. Just enough to loosen him up a bit. Then his speech.
Like the menu, he delivered the usual fare—he could pretty much recite it from memory. But his staff liked to mix it up a bit, knowing the media was always watching and listening. If the message became stale, reporters would focus on that and not the substance.
He found his tempo quickly, and soon the showman part of his personality took over. Abe knew when to pause for applause, when to slap his fist on the podium to underscore his hawkish views on the Middle East. All the while proclaiming he, and he alone, could restore America to its former glory.
He pledged to build up the military, reduce the budget for social programs, and create many new blue-collar jobs.
Abe Schuman cited his years of service in the House of Representatives and his current role as Speaker as ample evidence of his leadership abilities. And he proudly named several pieces of legislation that he shepherded through the House with support from both sides of the aisle. By the time he reminded the audience that it was he who authored the resolution condemning Iran for the senseless bombings in Manhattan, and it was he who spearheaded the appropriations bill for more military aid to Israel, his donors were responding with thunderous applause. And when he pledged to override President Taylor’s veto of the Israeli Security Act, the audience signaled its approval with a standing ovation.
By the time Schuman finished his speech, everyone in the room—all the billionaires and captains of industry—knew that Abraham Schuman was their man to be the next President of the United States. Of course, they already knew that before the speech, which is why they had donated heavily to his campaign.
The only part of these fundraisers that Schuman really liked was the informal mixer after his speech. This was the time when alcohol flowed freely and he could speak one-on-one with various key supporters.
Which is why he was presently speaking with Claude Duss, CEO and principle shareholder of United Armaments.
“I trust you are finding my support… adequate?” Duss seemed to search for the correct word. He spoke with a mild French accent, something he had not been able to shed despite years of living in California. He was dressed in a classic black tuxedo with black tie. Abe knew him to be about 60 years old, and he was remarkably fit, both physically and mentally. He was thin, but not overly so, and had short black hair and a beak-like nose. His wife, a woman twenty years his junior, with blond hair and a tight evening gown, was hanging off his arm.
Abe smiled and raised his wine glass in a mock salute to Duss. “My super PAC appreciates your generous donations. My staff informs me we are well ahead of President Taylor in the total amount of funds raised to date. Thanks to substantial donations such as yours, the super PAC is flooding the networks with ads in the states holding upcoming primaries. Of course, this is only what I am told by my staff. Naturally, I have no direct dealings with the super PAC—that would be illegal.”
Duss dipped his head. He would never verbally acknowledge gratitude. His peers—CEOs of blue chip American companies—universally saw Duss as ruthless. Unwilling to accept a good deal, he had to have the best deal, looking to get the last nickel on the table during a negotiation. Winning did not seem to be important to Claude Duss; destroying his opponent was everything.
The son of French parents, he had grown United Armaments from a small manufacturer of light weapons and guidance systems to the dominant defense contractor in the world through acquisitions and behind the scenes deals—payoffs and bribes that resulted in lucrative sales to many African and Asian countries. Along the way, he gained control of the Board of Directors and ensured that his stock holdings remained undiluted as new shares were sold.
By conservative estimates, he was worth about five hundred million on paper. Others pegged his net worth well north of two billion. Either way, what he was spending on Schuman’s campaign was peanuts.
But money wasn’t the only contribution from Duss and United Armaments.
“I was actually referring to our other business concerns,” Duss said.
Schuman glanced at a party of five nearby. They appeared to be engaged in conversation, but one could never be too cautious.
“Shall we take a short walk?”
Again Duss nodded, his wife following in obedient silence.
Once they were clear of potential eavesdroppers, Abe continued. “My chief of staff is in charge of the affair, as I’m sure you know. She and one of your executives—Mr. Ellison, I think—are in regular contact.”
“Yes, I am aware of the measures you’ve taken to insulate yourself—”
Schuman interrupted. “As well as you.”
Duss smiled. It reminded Abe of a snake. “Naturally. A wise move.”
“If you are asking about my position vis-à-vis Israel, I’ve tried to be very clear. This has been a cornerstone of my campaign, and one that seems to resonate well with the voters. As you know, I led the Republican effort to nullify the nuclear treaty the present administration negotiated with Iran.”
“As I recall, your leadership failed.”
Abe sighed. “The math is quite simple. There were too many Democrats supporting the President’s agenda. It was not possible to pass the legislation. However, public opinion has turned against the President. The street bombings in New York a couple months ago have been attributed to terrorists sponsored by Iran. Combined with Taylor’s anemic support for Israel, we have a vastly different political climate than what existed when he returned billions of dollars in hard currency to Iran and negotiated away Israel’s security.”
“I’m not interested in excuses. I have made a significant investment in you—and like all my investments, I expect a generous return. So far, your efforts to pass legislation favorable to my interests have been, at best, neutral—neither positive nor negative. You must do better.”
Schuman glanced over his shoulder, ensuring no eavesdroppers were close by. “There are other ways to achieve our mutual goals—perhaps even better ways.”
“Yes.” Duss smiled again, and Abe fought back a shiver. “Mr. Schuman—Abraham—the United States and its allies appear to be locked in an intractable ongoing state of regional conflict in the Middle East. Recently, the Russians have decided to jump in as well. Many people see these events as awful, barbaric, filled with human suffering and loss, a failure of diplomacy and humanity. But in every failure there is opportunity. You understand, don’t you?”
“Claude, my family has deep connections to the Jewish State. My grandparents suffered at the hands of the
Nazis because of their faith. I have given my word to support Israel through what we all expect will be trying times ahead.
“Turmoil in the Middle East is as constant as the passage of time. Regime change has led to political vacuums. Governments are toppling at an alarming rate, and ideological leaders are replacing presidents and kings.
“The Middle East is, historically, a collection of tribes and religious subgroups of Islam. Sectarian movements overlay state borders, creating further unrest and mixed allegiances. If you ask me, the English and French really messed it up when they redrew national borders in that part of the world following the First World War.”
At the mention of France, Duss returned an icy glare at Abe.
“There’s only one way to fix that mess,” Schuman concluded.
Duss nodded to his wife, and she slipped away in search of a glass of Champaign.
“I imagine you are referring to the vote to override the Presidential veto. I understand this legislation is significant, more than just an appropriations bill.”
Schuman nodded. “Indeed. It is the essential first step in my plan to bring stability to the region and ensure Israel, as a nation, can thrive.”
“I see,” replied Duss. “And President Taylor appears to be anti-Jewish by vetoing the bill, even though the language you drafted is untested.”
“Not only anti-Jewish,” Schuman explained, “but weak, pursuing foreign policy that is not supported at home.”
“Some might view your bill as usurping Constitutional authority from the Executive Branch.”
“Perhaps,” Schuman answered with a sly grin. “But that’s beside the point. The voting public is not educated in Constitutional law. No, this is politics—it’s about persuading enough voters to support my position, and my candidacy. That wind of support is blowing strongly in my favor, and it will propel me to the White House this November. I promised you an override of Taylor’s veto—and you’ll get it.”
“So then we understand each other.” Duss leaned in close enough to smell the sour taint on Schuman’s breath. “I will not be disappointed.”
