Impeachment

by Mark Spivak

  The author of the Rolling Stone piece didn’t even fall back on the familiar story line that the brothers were attempting to reshape the government in their own conservative image. Instead, he put a startling theory on the table: The Hafts were committed to fomenting a revolution that would bring down the U.S. government. Only after that revolution was successful, and the society lay in tatters, could they begin to transform the culture.

  At 11:30, Richard walked into his brother’s office and tossed a copy of Rolling Stone on Sheldon’s desk.

  “Ah.” His brother chuckled. “The art of fiction.”

  “Amazing stuff, yes.”

  “Look at it this way: Did you ever think we’d see the day when a pair of rich conservatives were referred to as revolutionaries by Rolling Stone?”

  In fact, the brothers were beyond rich. They were estimated to be worth more than $40 billion apiece, which placed them in the top tier of Forbes’ Wealthiest Americans list, on a par with Bill Gates and Warren Buffet. The true extent of their assets was unknown. Haft Industries was a privately held company, but most experts put their revenues in the range of $120 billion annually.

  “I’ve got a scenario for you,” said Richard. “Let’s have some fun with this.”

  “Okay.” His brother leaned back, half interested and half amused. “I take it this is a ‘what if?’”

  “Very much so, but just hear me out.”

  “Shoot.”

  Looking at the two men, hardly anyone would assume they had control of one of the largest corporations on the planet. Sheldon’s graying hair and wire-rimmed spectacles made him seem professorial and distant. On the surface, Richard was the more assertive of the two, although he consistently deferred to his soft-spoken brother.

  “Ultimately this story doesn’t matter,” said Richard. “Forget that Rolling Stone’s circulation is around 1.3 million. It’s only really important in terms of the possibilities it raises.”

  “And I assume you’ll tell me what those are.”

  “Of course, we don’t want to create a revolution and bring down the government. We want to reshape it for the future. But assume for a moment that Rolling Stone is right, and that our effectiveness has hit the wall.”

  “Well, we don’t know. That’s the thing. Obviously, we’re both disappointed about the outcome of the election, but we can’t tell if it’s a temporary setback or a watershed.”

  “True.”

  “And there’s another possibility, which is that this whole thing has to run its course. Four years from now, people may be just as disgusted with Atalas as we are. They may be ready to accept real change.”

  “We’re not getting any younger, Shelley.”

  “No, but we’re not dead yet, either. Sixty-nine and seventy-three isn’t old by today’s standards. Dad lived to be ninety. Hell, Germans live forever.”

  “Well, let me spin this out for you.”

  “Go ahead.” Sheldon smiled indulgently at his younger brother. “I can see your mind is in hyperspace.”

  “Okay, look.” He leaned forward earnestly. “We’ve been putting money into these campaigns for years—since the 1980s. We’ve had considerable success on the local level, but we’ve never snagged the big prize. The best we ever seem to get is some guy who claims to be a conservative and turns out to be a moderate. But we back these people anyway. Sometimes they get in, but we’re never happy with the results.”

  Sheldon laughed. “I gather you’re talking about the Cane family.”

  “Perfect examples, both of them. Even Reagan wasn’t much better, and he was the best we’ve had.”

  “No argument there.”

  “So how much would you say we plowed into this race to beat Atalas? Two hundred million?”

  “Well, that was just the amount that came from us. It was more than double that, if you count the anonymous donors and the PACs.”

  “And I know that’s not the point. The money doesn’t matter—it’s all generated from foundations and people who agree with us. It’s not principal.”

  “Yep.” Sheldon grinned again. “Dad would be proud.”

  “Absolutely. But at the end of the day, what are we doing? We’re making the TV guys and the consultants rich.”

  “So what do you suggest—that we live up to the Rolling Stone description of us?”

  “We don’t invest in groups that would actually bring down the government, no. But say we took the money and focused it in areas that would throw Atalas into crisis?”

  “Such as?”

  “Here’s an example.” He pushed a sheaf of papers across the desk to his brother. “This is a bunch of guys who basically function as Good Samaritans. They’re organized along the lines of the police, but they’re harmless. They help keep order at public events, escort old ladies cross the street, whatever.”

  “Hmm.” Sheldon’s brow compressed as he read through the report. “The Angels of Democracy. Sounds like a passion play. What’s this about being descended from the Knights Templars?”

  “Who knows? It’s their mythology, as far as I can tell—it gives them a sense of noble purpose and allows them to run around in funny uniforms.”

  “How many are there?”

  “A few thousand, believe it or not. Most of them are concentrated in California.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “But there are branches in a number of major cities as well. Basically, it’s a fraternal organization.”

  “Do these guys claim to have police powers? Because if they do, we don’t want to get within a hundred yards of them.”

  “No, no. As I told you, they’re do-gooders. But their Supreme Commander, Jasper Marshall, is a piece of work. This guy has charisma—six-four, jovial as the day is long, great speaker. He can make a crowd sit up and whistle.”

  “So where are you going with this?”

  “Okay, this is a hypothetical. Say we fund these guys, really fund them. They get to the point where they’ve got maybe ten thousand people around the country, organized into squads. Then we give them missions to enhance our agenda.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. We station them on the Mexican border to enforce our immigration policy. We have them guard the construction of the Trans-Canada pipeline. That kind of thing.”

  “And how does that throw the government into crisis?”

  “I’m thinking off the top of my head. Say we pick a situation that will put Atalas into turmoil, demonstrate how weak and inept his regime is. I have no idea what, but we’ll find something. Then we get him impeached. It’s not hard to do. The Republicans control the House, remember. If Bill Hampton could get impeached for fooling around with an intern, we can get this guy and make it stick.”

  “And then we’ve got his bozo Vice President. He’s just as bad.”

  “As I told you, Shelley, it’s a hypothetical. We’d have to work out the details. Obviously, we’d have to find some way to get rid of him as well.”

  “I don’t know.” His older brother shook his head. “This is awfully risky, Dickie. For starters, we’d have to make damn sure the money couldn’t be traced back to us.”

  “Whoever’s trying to trace it now isn’t too sharp. Nobody has the slightest idea how much money we spent this year. You read the Rolling Stone story. They don’t have a clue.”

  “Even so.” Sheldon removed his spectacles and wiped them with a cloth, a reflexive action when he was analyzing a situation. “We could afford another two hundred million, but it’s still a lot of money.”

  “Particularly when you lose.”

  “Yes. So you have to wonder exactly what Democracy Unchained did for us, other than blow our cover to the outside world.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  “Anyway.” Sheldon felt himself smiling and try
ing not to. “You’ve raised a possibility. And an intriguing one, I have to admit. It goes against our traditional way of operating in the political arena. We’ve always set up the think tanks and foundations first to formulate the policy, then looked for politicians to carry the message.”

  “That’s exactly my point. Maybe someone else can carry that message more effectively.”

  “Let’s look into it. You say this guy is a good speaker. Get some video of him, and we’ll review it together. Let’s see what he’s all about.”

  “Actually,” said Richard, “I’m already working on that.”

  Chapter 3

  Chester Wallko looked up from his desk in the Senate Office Building and stared at a picture of a pig.

  The picture graced an overhang that covered the sitting area of his spacious office and was visible only to him. It had been drawn years ago by a political cartoonist in his native Indiana and was given to him as a gift when he became President Pro Tempore of the Senate and Chairman of the powerful Foreign Relations Committee. The animal was depicted in hot pink. It had sprouted a set of wings and was flying over the landscape of Washington, D.C. The cartoonist was inspired to create the drawing after the frustrated Senator had declared, years before, that “a moderate Democrat will hold another position in this government only when pigs fly.” It was Wallko’s habit to glance at the picture several dozen times each day.

  “So give me your thoughts, Chet. Can we count on you for this?”’

  Across the desk from Wallko sat Joel Gottbaum, chief political strategist for President Atalas. The public perceived Gottbaum to be the person who got Atalas elected, while many in Washington viewed him as the power behind the throne.

  “I honestly don’t know, Joel. I’ll have to review the options, do some research. You know how I operate.”

  “That’s not what I was hoping to hear.”

  “Well, I’ll buy you a donut and a cup of coffee if it’ll make you feel better. But I can’t give you a snap answer on whether I’d support a more open relationship with Cuba.”

  “Why not?”

  “For starters, they were Communists the last time I looked.”

  “Give me a break, Chet—this isn’t the 1950s. I think they’re about as Communist as Google at this point.”

  “On the highest levels, maybe. But the majority of the population is living below the poverty line, as you’re well aware. They don’t have freedom of speech, or freedom of much else. The regime’s human rights record is terrible. I thought that was supposed to be important to you guys.”

  “It is, absolutely.” Gottbaum’s tone was patient and measured. “That’s exactly why the President believes we should open a relationship with them. It will lead to trade and tourism, and ultimately lift up conditions for the Cuban people.”

  “Forget the donut and coffee. I’ll buy you a fucking violin.”

  Wallko was almost as well-known on the Hill for his characteristic bluntness as he was for his moderate ideology. The son of a steelworker, he might have turned out to be a Republican had it not been for the strong union genes in his DNA. By the time Khaleem Atalas vaulted into the Oval Office, some of Wallko’s positions made him seem stranger than a flying pig within his own party: he was pro-life, hawkish on defense, and cautious in fiscal matters. All those beliefs played well back home in Indiana, but in Washington he was regarded as a quaint anachronism. The ranks of moderate Democrats and liberal Republicans had been shrinking for decades. The two groups of endangered species held many convictions in common, and increasingly found themselves forming coalitions on important issues.

  While Wallko’s brutal honesty sometimes created problems with the public, it endeared him to his Senate colleagues, most of whom secretly harbored the desire to speak their mind. Their affection for him was the primary reason he had been elected President Pro Tempore—an honor that by tradition should have gone to Marcus Kaplan, who became the majority’s longest-serving Senator after Curt Bassen was elected Vice President. Wallko’s contrary nature galvanized him to conduct a vigorous and successful campaign for the position, which he didn’t even want: His primary motivation was to send a message to the newly-elected Khaleem Atalas that the Democrats’ slim Senate majority was no guarantee of a rubber stamp.

  “We’ve had tough sanctions on them for 50 years, Chet. They haven’t worked. How long should we keep this going?”

  “Until the regime is toppled, I guess. Isn’t that why the sanctions are there in the first place?” He glanced up at the pig. “Okay, here’s track two: last I heard, they were committed to undermining the United States by any means possible. Am I wrong, or have they said that repeatedly?”

  “They say things, we say things. Let’s not confuse rhetoric with policy.”

  “You’re a political operative, Joel. How do you think this will play in the heartland? How do you think it will play in Miami?”

  “We’re not worried about Miami at this point.”

  “Maybe not, but the next Democrat to run for President might want to carry Florida.”

  “Cuban immigrants in Miami were never going to vote Democratic. Not in a million years.”

  “You’re probably right.” Wallko looked at his watch. “We’ll have to wrap this up in a few minutes, fascinating though it is.”

  “I appreciate the time.”

  “You want to give me the closing pitch?”

  “Sure.” Gottbaum grinned. “Cuba’s small potatoes—you and I both know that. It’s an island nation with a population of 11 million, and one of the last three or four Communist states left in the world. But the opening to Cuba is symbolic, and it’s the first step toward a dramatically different U.S. foreign policy. The step after that is the big one: a treaty with Persepostan that will lift sanctions, normalize relations, and limit their nuclear program.”

  Persepostan had been a close ally of the U.S. until 1979, when a spontaneous revolution had dethroned the American-backed dictator and installed a strict Muslim state ruled by clerics. As relations with the West deteriorated, the new government had actively pursued a policy of acquiring and refining nuclear technology. The regime insisted that the goal was to provide alternative sources of energy. Since Persepostan was one of the most oil-rich nations on the planet, most observers felt their real goal was a weaponized nuclear arsenal.

  “It’s inevitable, Chet. We can’t have a radical Islamic state in the Middle East that hates our guts and has atomic weapons. Somebody has to do it, and we want it to be us. And don’t tell me it can’t be done. Nixon reached out to China, remember.”

  “Very eloquent.” Wallko rose to his feet. “The way things are going, I’d be more concerned about the New Caliphate. If they keep beheading a few dozen people each week, the body count will eventually be worse than a nuclear attack. And you won’t be able to make a treaty with them, either.”

  “That’s another conversation.”

  “So it is.” The two men shook hands. “Send the President my regards.”

  Chapter 4

  Jasper Marshall stood erect, his bulk towering over the podium. His bald head gleamed in the bright lights of the hall, and his baritone ricocheted against the concrete walls.

  “Back where I come from, we have a saying.” He gave the audience a radiant smile. “We say you have to stand on the tops of the redwoods if you want to see the horizon. And that’s good advice, after all—I’m sure most of you folks here tonight would like nothing better than to climb to the summit of the universe and behold all the marvels below.

  “But you know what? Things aren’t that simple anymore. The wisdom I grew up with in the Northwest just isn’t enough to meet the challenges of today. And why not? Because the government is cutting down those redwood trees, folks, and they’re making it illegal to climb the ones they still allow us to have.”

  “That’s damn right,” yelled a man wea
ring a John Deere cap at the back of the room. The crowd murmured appreciatively.

  “Now I think everyone here knows that it doesn’t matter how many times you write your Congressman—things aren’t going to change. A lot of folks are sitting around waiting for the government to empower them, but people in Washington just aren’t listening to us anymore. We’re talking to them, but nobody’s home.”

  “You tell ‘em, Jasper,” said a woman with a beehive hairdo.

  “And that’s exactly why I founded the Angels of Democracy twelve years ago. Some of our country’s leaders may have experience and wisdom, but many of them lack the courage and vision to bring the great promise of this country to life. They need our help. They need the help of every man, woman and child in this room. They need our help to ensure domestic tranquility, to make sure every citizen achieves greatness, and—most importantly, folks—to see that the spirit of the law is applied along with the letter of the law.”

  Jasper took a dramatic pause.

  “Are you ready to help them?”

  A hundred voices shouted in unison, and fists pumped in the air. He had them now. The room was filled to overflowing, and several dozen people stood at the rear. This had been carefully engineered: Marshall always told his staff to book a room smaller than the crowd he expected. And even though this rally was being held in an auxiliary building at a high school just south of San Diego, about 15 miles from the Mexican border, the densely packed crowd gave the impression that Jasper Marshall was commanding an exciting and exploding movement. In fact, he had traveled to San Diego to address the hundred or so local members of the Angels of Democracy and hoped to pick up a few recruits in the bargain. The rally was open to the ranks of the curious, and there was little doubt that curiosity was on the rise.

  “Now some people ask me why we need an organization like the Angels of Democracy. Some of these folks are just cynics and nay-sayers, but many of them truly don’t understand. We have the police to protect us, they say, we have the fire department to put out our blazes, and we have some very good people donating their time and resources to charity. So why do we need the Angels of Democracy?