Death and Treason

by Seeley James

  “How did you…” The pale man looked too embarrassed to finish.

  “I was in Leipzig with the National Team when I heard they needed to raise funds. I bought the book with the promise to loan it back on demand. Surely your boss told you this story.”

  Everyone looked across the room at Chuck Roche. Dwarfed by the globe, the small man gave it a push with one finger. It spun on silent bearings.

  One of the suits coughed.

  Pia shook her head at Roche’s power play. She faced his assistants. “Since the candidate doesn’t care to greet me, perhaps one of you could explain why he wanted a meeting with me.”

  The pale man blanched with embarrassment; the tan man reddened with anger at her impertinence. The pale one said, “Sir. Ms. Sabel is here.”

  “Is that right?” He turned with a big smile but didn’t move. “How are you, my dear?”

  “You called this meeting.”

  “And so I did.” He smiled and stretched out his arms.

  Pia stood still.

  With an awkward glance at the others, he lowered his arms and crossed the room. He gestured to a nearby photograph of the National Team hoisting a trophy with Pia in the center. “You know how to win. We want to fill the new administration with winners.”

  “The election is days away.”

  “I’m going to win.” He smiled. “We’re very close. Thousands of voters attend my rallies. They’re like rock concerts. You need to be on board so you can bask in my victory.”

  Pia stopped herself from voicing a slew of snarky responses that popped into her head. Kowtow was not in her vocabulary, but she could keep calm. For Dad. “What do you want from me?”

  “For starters, no reporters.” He pointed his cane at Emily, then moved it to Tania. “And no hotheads.”

  “Who you c-c-calling hothead, asshole? You wanna g-g-go a—” Tania stopped when she caught Pia’s icy gaze. With a sheepish shrug, she took Emily’s elbow. “C’mon girlfriend. Let’s g-g-get away from that creepy old m-m-man.”

  “I promised her an exclusive,” Pia said.

  “I said—” Roche glared at Emily “—no reporters.”

  “Journalist,” Emily said. She exchanged apologetic glances with Pia. Then she and Tania left.

  “My men stay.” Roche tapped his cane on the floor.

  “If they were anything to worry about—” she looked the men over with contempt “—they would be on the ground right now.” She crossed her arms. “Is there something you want from me?”

  “A more important question is,” Roche said, “what do you need out of the USA? You can have anything you want: fewer competitors, more federal contracts, inside—”

  “Sabel Industries competes in the fair market. It’s called capitalism.”

  “You can’t be that dumb.” Roche leaned back, twisting his cane impatiently. “Alan didn’t grow a multibillion-dollar business without stacking the deck to win deals. Hell, I’ve leveraged overanxious governors to build out pipelines, eliminate regulations, and toss me tax breaks right out of public funds.”

  “Isn’t that socialism?”

  “Don’t get cute.” Roche looked her over, looking for a way to reset the conversation. “C’mon, join the winning team, Pia. What do you want? You could be the next Secretary of Education.”

  The men in suits coughed. The pale one muttered. “You promised that to Betsy Renard, sir.”

  “Did I? Well, hell, she did bring $200 million to the party. You’re not going to let Betsy be a bigger donor than you, are you?”

  Pia bristled at the name of the billionaire socialite who occasionally traveled in Dad’s circles. The woman wasn’t qualified to teach kindergarten, much less take responsibility for future generations of American children. Anger built like a volcano inside of her. Roche’s campaign rhetoric had echoed unsubstantiated tales of corruption, and here he was, selling cabinet posts.

  But. Kowtow. For Dad.

  “How about those children you’re always talking about. The kids with lousy families.” Roche’s grin spread slowly.

  She felt confused for a moment until she deciphered his words. “You mean foster care?”

  “Yeah, them. You could help them as the…” He turned to his assistants and snapped his fingers.

  The pale man said, “Foster care is under Health and Human Services, sir.”

  “That.” Roche pointed at his man. “Think about all those kids you could cure as the Secretary of Healthy Humans.”

  The pale man cringed. “Health and Human Services, sir.”

  The tan man crossed his arms and grinned like his team was winning a big game.

  Words formed in Pia’s head explaining that foster care was not a disease, but the futility overwhelmed her after the first tentative syllable left her lips.

  Kowtow. For Dad.

  Pia took a deep breath. She pulled a less-aggressive face. “Why would a successful businessman like you want to be president, Chuck? I mean, Mr. Roche.”

  He smiled at her flattery and pivoted his cane. “Haven’t you been paying attention?” His voice rose with excitement. “Those damn fools like Veronica are all corrupt. They tax success, for God’s sake. They hold back business with ridiculous regulations. They—”

  “Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers, Washington Mutual, AIG. They were deregulated, and it cost taxpayers several trillion dollars. Deregulation sounds great but never ends—”

  “Don’t argue with me.” Roche flushed. He looked around the room, tugged his jacket and looked up at Pia. “You’re a young, idealistic girl. Think of your future. Imagine the immense power available to people like you and me.” He clenched his fist and shook it between them as he spoke. “People who know how to win at any cost. People who always succeed no matter who’s in the way. It’s the power I deserve. It’s out there, and I can grab it. I can fix everything.”

  “But why you?”

  “You’ve heard my slogan: Make America Rule! Oh, and by the way, I thought it up, you know. No one helped me. That’s all me.” He looked disappointed when Pia didn’t respond. “Everywhere I go, huge crowds are cheering for me. Big audiences, huge rallies, all cheering—me—because they want me to rule America. You should come and hear them. They love me.” He twirled his cane. “You remember what that’s like, right? You used to be pretty good at soccer. They cheer for me the way they used to cheer for you, only louder and harder. I deserve that respect. I deserve that power. Stand on the podium with me, endorse me, and you can hear those crowds cheering for me. It’s intoxicating.”

  “Crowds did not cheer for me.” She stepped close and looked down at him. “They cheered for the team. Coaches, trainers, players, assistants—we worked together to achieve our common goal. The fans knew the training we’d put in and the effort we’d extended and the pain we’d endured. They honored our hard work.”

  “Oh, I see what you’re doing.” He shook a finger at her and grinned. “You’re trying to make me lose my temper. It’s not going to work, little lady. Think about who we are. After thirty years of tax cuts designed specifically to benefit this country’s best owners, about a thousand people now own more of America than the rest of them combined. We were entrusted with this legacy for a reason—because we know how to use it. We’re sponsoring Super PACs across the country. We’re putting our candidates in offices in every state at every level. I’m the crowning achievement of everything we’ve been working for all these years. People like you and me are going to rule, Pia. I am going to rule everything. And you can rule too.” He leaned back and giggled. “At least, rule over Health and Human Servants.”

  “Just go with HHS,” the pale man whispered.

  Deep breath. Kowtow. For Dad.

  She strolled around him, making him twist. “It took years to earn a spot on the National Team. Talent is trained, not born. I have no qualifications—other than being rich—for a cabinet position. You don’t have any qualifications at all for—”

  “Be an ambassador
if you want to be all high and mighty then. England, France, Germania, whatever you—”

  “Not England, sir.” The pale man looked paler.

  “Don’t be a fool.” Roche snarled at his man. “She can give ten times what Goldstein paid for that.”

  “Goldman, sir. And, yessir.”

  As a history major in college, she’d learned about the wheeling and dealing attending all campaigns and legislation. The crass cynicism of Roche’s offer enraged her.

  Pia’s dream-memory resurfaced. She felt herself on a cliff as tons of water assaulted the rock, shooting high in the air above her. Every drop fell back, and the ebb dragged out to sea. A calm and placid pool of blue-green ocean lay below her. She jumped into the water’s warm embrace and felt at one with Mother Nature. Then the waves pounded back in, relentlessly roaring toward the stone, shocking her back to the present.

  She said, “What if I say no?”

  Roche flushed with anger, his skin turned scarlet.

  “No one survives saying ‘no’ to me.” Spittle flew from his lips; his blood vessels pulsed to the surface of his thin skin. “I’ll cancel Sabel Satellite’s federal contracts. You’ll close the division in a week. I’ll regulate Sabel Capital into oblivion.” He stepped toe-to-toe with Pia, his wild, angry eyes flashing up at her. “I’ll have the FBI investigate your little security company. Sabel Tech will roil under NSA scrutiny. You’ll be ruined.”

  Behind him, the pale man palmed his face. The tan man crossed his arms and gloated.

  Kowtow. For Dad. Pia softened. “Those are serious abuses of power. I should be careful.”

  “Damn straight.” Roche gave her a venal smile. “I’ll put you down for a hundred million for starters. We have a lot of work to fix this mess. There are a lot of simple solutions to things like healthcare and—”

  She just couldn’t do it.

  She said, “Simple answers to complex problems only work in simple minds.”

  Dad would have to do his own kowtowing.

  “How dare you?” Roche hoisted his cane and held it in one hand like a club. “You’re making an enemy—”

  “My enemy is Strangelove.” She watched his eyes flare at the mention. “He’s playing you.”

  “No, he’s … ehm, who did you say?”

  Pia held her phone up with a picture of the Russian agents in Jacob’s hotel room. “These men said they arranged secret meetings for Watson and Strangelove.”

  “Everybody out.” Roche glared at his men. They scurried away, their fancy shoes slipping on hardwood floors like dogs on wet tile.

  “Watson works for you.” Roche backed up a yard from her.

  “Weekdays, but he works for you on the weekends. You’ll issue him an IRS 1099 for consulting work at the end of the year, so don’t try to deny it.” She crossed her arms. “We have Strangelove’s handwritten notes about #HuntersFail.”

  Blood pumped blue and red beneath Roche’s colorless skin like an anatomical animation. She could almost see his synapses firing as he struggled to find an answer. Then he relaxed and came back. “You have nothing. If you did, you would’ve given it to that lügenpresse bitch of yours.” He pointed his cane at the door through which Emily had left earlier. “You’re young and petulant. I’ll overlook everything you’ve said—if you sign on now. This is your last chance. Want in?”

  “No.”

  “You’re just as stupid as your old man.” Roche turned on his cane. He marched halfway to the door, then stopped. “By the way, that little stunt with your Zurich files was clever. Too bad none of those companies exist anymore.”

  “What will Viktor Popov say about you?”

  “You’re going to tangle with him?” Roche strode out, tapping his cane with each step. “He’ll save me the trouble of dealing with you.”

  CHAPTER 31

  We arrived in DC an hour before dawn. The Russian we’d captured in Denmark was turning into an albatross. We had no idea how to explain his presence to Homeland Security. The pilot wouldn’t touch him. So, I came up with a plan.

  Miguel and I went through Customs and came back to drag the guy from the cargo hold to Miguel’s G63.

  We pulled around behind the car barn at Sabel Gardens and deposited the sleeping Russian. After pumping six Sabel Darts into the guy over the last twenty-four hours, we were slightly worried he might overdose on snake venom. Then we remembered he was one of the guys who tried to kill us in an unsportsmanlike ambush. The few lucid moments we had with him, he stuck to name (Pavel), rank (corporal), and serial number. All of which made himself a worthless hostage.

  We propped him against a tree in some soft grass.

  Miguel drove around to the front. “Was all this crap really necessary?”

  “Detective CJ is after my ass. If I show up with a kidnap victim slung over my shoulder, he’s going to think I had something to do with it.”

  “You had everything to do with it.” He parked by the grand staircase. “I still say we should pin a note on him and drop him at Viktor’s crib.”

  Mercury leaned between the front seats. That’s why Pia-Caesar-Sabel likes you better than Monster Slayer here. He’s always thinking about fun things to do with your victims. That’s just tactical thinking. You’re smart, you listen to my strategic thinking. Keep on that road, my brutha.

  I said, Frankly, I don’t get what’s so strategic about it.

  Holy Mother of Bellona, dude. I gotta explain everything to you—twice. Your people find the guy and turn him into the cops for B and E. The cops are going ask the Russian Embassy about him. Viktor Popov will have to explain how this man got in the country. Why he wasn’t listed on the diplomatic manifests. What job he has in the Embassy, shit like that. Even if Viktor is a hands-off boss, he’s gonna know who the guy is and who brought him to the States.

  I said, You sure this is going to work? I mean the part about pissing off Popov so he’s off-balance?

  Mercury said, Have I ever steered you wrong?

  A whole series of bad ideas came to mind—but I let it go. You can’t blame an out-of-work god for losing track of advances in morality. Which is why I rejected his first idea: give the Russian a cardboard sword and let him fight Miguel to the death. Gladiatoria munera is not considered a sport anymore. Legally, anyway.

  As we went inside to report to the boss, she came up the path on her morning 10K in full Olympian mode. She barreled toward us like a cheetah chasing down dinner. Every muscle rippled beneath her spandex. I stepped back. She slowed just before impact and met us at the back door.

  “Your girlfriend is nice,” she said between pants.

  “I’m glad you had a chance to talk to her.”

  “I didn’t really,” she said. “But Tania and Emily don’t like her, so she must be nice. Oh, and, she’s visiting for the weekend.”

  “Wait, what? Didn’t she have to go to Milan in a big hurry?”

  “Monaco. Fund-raiser for foster kids. My foundation sent enough to keep them going another year. Which gave her time to visit with us.” Ms. Sabel smiled and squeezed my arm.

  Mercury stepped up behind her. You should mention that you don’t even know her last name, homie.

  I said, What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other—

  Mercury said, Don’t even.

  “Why doesn’t Tania like her?” I asked.

  “Jealous.” She turned and went inside. We followed. “I’m sure you want to spend some time with her, so take a couple days and show her the city.”

  “She’d be target practice for Viktor Popov,” Miguel said. “That Belenov dude knew us on sight. They’ve been studying our profiles.”

  She cringed at the reminder that we were the subjects of intense Russian scrutiny. We stopped in the vestibule between her gymnasium and the main house. Ms. Sabel grabbed a towel from the rack by the door and wiped her face.

  Sylvia wandered in looking like someone trying to get out of a maze. She was still wearing her red dress.

&
nbsp; “Time zones always get me turned around.” She looked at the three of us, then checked the time on her phone. She pointed an elegant finger around us and offered a tentative guess. “You too?”

  “You have a keen eye for fashion,” Ms. Sabel said to her. “Would you do me a favor and take Jacob to New York for a makeover? We can’t take him anywhere dressed like that.”

  I looked down at my t-shirt. US Army Rangers/Because even SEALs need heroes.

  Sylvia gave me the once-over. “Sure. When?”

  “Now.” Ms. Sabel and I said in unison.

  We gave each other an embarrassed glance for sounding too eager. We were both anxious to get her out of there. Neither of us felt the need to explain the danger.

  Ms. Sabel faced me. “I need you to meet with Kasey Earl. He’s been calling and texting non-stop. By then Bianca’s team should have some leads from Stavanger for you.”

  “Hours? I thought you said I could have a couple days.”

  “Days, hours, minutes, whatever.” She shrugged. “We have to expose the connection between Roche and Strangelove since it doesn’t look like we’ll crack the Pozdeeva code in time. Oh, and Watson lands on a commercial flight later, but I’ll handle that one.” She leaned in and whispered. “Show her a good time, buy her a few outfits and whatever else she needs. Expense it. Take the jet.”

  She exchanged it’s-been-funs with Sylvia and trotted down the hall. Miguel did the same and left in the opposite direction.

  Which left Sylvia, designer dress and all, with me in an odd corner of a mansion the size of a stadium. It was the first time we’d been alone since our first meeting. She clutched her clutch and twisted her feet and looked around, her gaze finally coming back to me. She pointed at the space Ms. Sabel left. “She’s amazing. Knows all the statistics about foster care. There are so many kids who never get a stable home, just shuffled from one house to the next every few weeks. When they turn eighteen, society forgets about them.”

  I just stared, transfixed by those eyes. And that smile. And those—

  Mercury said, Yo, Casanova, try talking to her. I hear women like that a whole lot more than being gawked at like a sex object.