Curse of the Afflicted

by David Chill

  Then I threw out some names of leading politicians, asking what they thought of them. The comments were middling, none were igniting much excitement.

  "What about Richard Sudeau?" I finally suggested. "What do you think of him?"

  The reaction was mostly one of silence, the whirring of the air conditioning the only sound in the room.

  "He does look nice," an African-American woman named Tanya finally said. "Like a president ought to look. Like Kennedy. Right out of central casting."

  "But," said Rafael finally. "I don't know much about him. I mean sure, he's the vice president and all. And I did vote for him, but mainly because he was on the ticket with the president. Can't split your vote on that one."

  "Yes, I would agree," said the Middle-Eastern woman named Roo. "No one cares much about the vice president. You vote for the top of the ticket."

  "Heck," replied Ed, the man with the gray goatee, "someone once said the Vice Presidency isn't worth a warm pitcher of spit. No wonder we don't know much about his background. Doesn't matter. Unless he becomes president, of course."

  There were a few smiles, but the discussion reminded me of something I learned in an American History class in high school. Many years ago, there was a politician named Alben Barkley. In the middle of the last century, 1950 or so, a research company conducted a poll in President Harry Truman's home state of Missouri. They asked voters about Alben Barkley, if they knew who he was. The majority did not. The pollsters were surprised at this, but judging by the comments I was hearing now, perhaps they shouldn't have been. At the time, Alben Barkley was actually the sitting vice president of the United States.

  "So, take a look at that description I handed out a few minutes ago," I continued. "About the man who came from modest circumstances. What if I told you that man was Richard Sudeau. That was his story. What do you think of him now?"

  Heads began to nod, as the group re-read the description and re-thought their view of the current vice president. Lips were pursed impressively, chins were rubbed thoughtfully, and you could practically see the collective gears in their heads begin to turn.

  "I had no idea."

  "Sounds interesting to me. But I'd want to know more about him."

  "His background is like my background. I didn't have it so easy growing up. I had to work for everything I got."

  "Damn. How come he don't talk about this? Sounds like he's been hiding something."

  "I thought he was just another rich, out-of-touch politician. Just like all the others. Now I wonder if he's a fraud. This makes a difference."

  Indeed it did. And the more we talked about Richard Sudeau in this light, the odder he sounded to everyone. Inauthentic and confusing, at least to the people who knew a little about him. In some ways it helped that Sudeau's background had been a mystery to most people. In the marketing world, it is far easier to build a brand from nothing than to take a damaged brand and try to improve it. Painting on a fresh canvas is more effective. But it was nevertheless a concern when a candidate who had spent decades in politics had no image. When held up to the light, he didn't so much as throw a shadow.

  Toward the end of the first focus group, one of the clean-cut young men from Yale walked into the room and handed me a note. This was not uncommon in focus group settings. Observers often have special questions they want the moderator to ask, things that might not have been in the plans. I just wasn't expecting this from an intern; I first thought Blair might have sent these in, but judging by the questions, that was unlikely.

  "So," I said, unfolding the note and scanning it quickly. "Let me ask you something else. What do you know about Amber Sudeau?"

  "Who's that again?" asked Rafael.

  "The vice president's wife," I clarified. "Any thoughts about her? Any at all?"

  "She used to be a politician herself, too, right?" said Lizzy, a white woman in her thirties.

  "Oh, yeah," mused Rafael. "Now I remember her name. Amber. Kind of unusual."

  "I like her," said Tanya. "She fits nicely with him. They make a good couple."

  "Is that important?" I asked.

  "Sure is," Ed broke in. "Best decision a man makes is who he marries."

  "You've got that one wrong, Ed. The women are the deciders!" Tanya declared, and everyone around the room started to laugh. "Don't you know that?"

  Ed got a little red in the face, but smiled anyway. "Yeah, I guess."

  We continued to talk about the vice president. The more I probed, the more they liked the idea of Richard and Amber Sudeau in the White House. I passed around a photo of the two of them, dynamic and attractive, and heads began to nod approvingly. The group began to forget about the confusion surrounding Rich's background. They like having a pair of savvy, experienced leaders. Two for the price of one. A man who was born into a heinous situation, but managed to pulled himself out of it. He married wisely. And most importantly, Richard Sudeau reminded them not of themselves, but of what they might have liked to have become in similar circumstances. It almost felt like they could live vicariously through him. I finished by trotting out the projective exercise, asking the group to write down what Richard Sudeau would be if Sudeau were a car.

  "A Cadillac," said Lizzy. "Something old school."

  "I think a Mustang," Ed offered. "From like the sixties."

  "Maybe a Nissan 350Z. Kind of like the old sports cars, but updated for today."

  "That's great," I smiled.

  I started to thank the group and prep them to leave, cautioning them not to say anything on the way out because there was a new group sitting in the waiting room, ready to come in. I didn't want the new group to overhear what we had been discussing over the past two hours. Then one of the interns walked into the room and handed me another note. It directed me to ask the same projective question of Amber.

  "A Prius. Love the whole idea of that car. Good for the environment."

  "A Tesla. New and exciting," Tanya gushed.

  "She'd be something classy," Ken said. "Like an Audi."

  "Maybe," Ed laughed and winked, "something with a nice, roomy back seat."

  A burst of laughter erupted, albeit more from the men in the room. The women mostly rolled their eyes.

  "And just what are you really saying, Ed?" asked Lizzy in a playful way.

  "Oh, well judging from her picture," he responded. "For a gal her age, she's kinda hot."

  I smiled paternally, quickly thanked the group, and got them out of the room before any more salacious and potentially degrading comments could be uttered. I again admonished them to be quiet until they reached the parking level, and I dismissed them with a reminder to stop by the front desk and pick up their check. Smiling at them as they departed, I gave silent thanks that for a few hours I was able to put aside my troubles and concentrate on something else. Work can sometimes be a blessing.

  The second group dredged up more of the same attitudes, initial indifference to Richard Sudeau, the perception of him as a product of an indulged upbringing, a sycophant perhaps, but certainly an elitist. They exhibited the same surprise at his actual background, and gravitated toward the same solidarity, skeptical but open to considering him. And yet the best thing about Rich Sudeau was again his wife, not well known, but oddly well liked. The vice president was surely going to be pleased with what these groups were saying, even though they were twenty responses culled from focus groups, far from a valid, quantitative sample. But focus groups offered something that raw numbers could not: a visceral response, a shift you could see, hear, feel, and practically taste. The reaction in the back room was jubilant when I walked in at the end of the second group.

  "Bravo!" crowed Blair. "Great job!"

  Wanda smiled. "That was amazing. I never thought I'd hear that the best thing about a candidate was his wife!"

  "You never know," I smiled.

  A cell phone jingled, an electronic version of one of those old-fashioned rings that sounded like it was emanating out of a phone from a half-century
ago. One of the interns answered and held it outstretched.

  "It's Randy Greece. He'd like to speak with you."

  I took the phone and said hello.

  "Ned, that was fascinating," he gushed. "Really happy at the results. Very encouraging. Loved it. Listen, I just got off the phone with Rich. He'd like to debrief with you."

  "Sure, patch him through."

  "No, no. He's in L.A. And not too far from Westwood, he's staying at the Century Plaza. He wants to meet in person. It's five minutes from you."

  "He didn't watch the groups?"

  "Nope, he's been at a fundraiser tonight. But he just got back to his suite. He's waiting for you."

  "All right," I said, thinking we could just as easily have talked on the phone, but when the vice president asks you for something, especially when he's about to become a high-paying client, you do what he wants.

  "He's pretty tired, so don't spend too much time there. Just give him a quick recap."

  "All right."

  "Oh, and one other thing," Greece said.

  "What's that?"

  "He said he just wants to speak with you. No one else. Come alone."

  Chapter 12

  The vice president heard the series of cracks, the sudden, unseen danger, but he had no time to react. In a split second his body was jerked back against the sliding glass door. And then suddenly, he was on the ground gasping for air. The cracking noises stopped and it became eerily quiet. He rolled on the floor of the balcony, his legs banging against the metal railing as he thrashed desperately, gravely, trying to breathe. His lungs strained, and he worked with all his might to inhale.

  This wasn't supposed to happen. He was meant to become president, it was his destiny, his reward for everything he had endured. This was not the way his final seconds were supposed to play out. He tried in vain to cry out for help, but no sound emerged. He tasted the blood in his mouth. He saw the darkened sky, a murky gray path, devoid of stars. And then quietly, slowly, the L.A. night began to slip away from him ...

  Two blocks away, the Assassin watched it all through the night vision scope mounted atop his M107. In most jobs, he normally took out his target with just one shot, but this assignment was different. There would only be one opportunity, and it would never present itself again. The moment could not be squandered, a clear kill was an absolute must. He had quickly squeezed out four rounds, connecting on all four. He had nailed a head shot, followed by three rounds which had torn through the upper torso. He allowed himself a long moment of self-congratulations, ogling his prey, knowing he had completed the job and it was a job well done.

  The Assassin stroked his fake black beard, taking pains to make sure it was still pressed tightly on his face. And with that, he left his rifle sitting on the bi-pod, but moved it a few feet away from the window. The FBI would be here soon enough, it would take them a few hours, maybe until the morning, when the sky would lighten again. There were, after all, only a few select spots where a sharpshooter could have nested. And once someone noticed the gaping hole in the window, the Feds would be all over this spot. He took one last look around the office.

  The sniper rifle and the bi-pod would be left behind, souvenirs for the FBI. They would lead the agents down a primrose path to nowhere. There were no fingerprints on them, no DNA, and they were in no way traceable back to the Assassin. These models retailed for ten thousand dollars apiece, but they had cost him nothing. That was an advantage of having once worked for the Company, where he had discovered a small cache of weapons being stored by one of the Mexican drug cartels. These rifles never found their way onto the inventory sheet, in fact he still had one more sitting quietly in a safe house near Juarez. The cost of leaving evidence on the floor of the crime scene tonight was minimal. The bigger risk would be if he were caught carrying his equipment out of the office building. Leaving the evidence behind meant any connection that could be linked back to him was purely circumstantial. He just needed to exit the building posthaste, but without being perceived as hurrying.

  The Assassin moved swiftly to the elevators and pushed the down button, but there was no response. Strange. He jogged back up the stairs to thirty-four and accessed the elevator there, riding it down to the plaza level, removing his latex gloves on the way. He placed them in his briefcase, snapped it closed, and put his black-framed glasses back on. He made sure to give a weary smile to the security guard, and mentioned to him it had been quite a long evening of work. A different Secret Service agent stood nearby, observing his movements, but stifling a yawn. Across the lobby, another agent was sitting on a chair, sipping coffee out of a Styrofoam cup.

  Signing out rapidly with his own pen, he scribbled the name Richard Cheney. He smugly thought this was a nice touch. He also wrote the first three names of the law firm that had the gilded logo next to it, along with the exact time of his departure. Ten fifty-six. No one bothered to inspect what he wrote. Walking quickly out into the night air, he waited for the light to change on Constellation Boulevard. It was off to the parking garage in the mall now, where he had left his rented black Mercedes. He liked Los Angeles. The patchwork sprawl of the city was disorienting to some, but he found it comforting. He could rent a luxury car, and no one at the rental counter would remember him. No one would think he was special. Everyone seemed to live stylishly here, whether they could afford to or not. He blended in well.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two men, Secret Service agents for sure, racing from the hotel grounds toward the office tower. He smiled to himself as the light changed and he calmly entered the crosswalk. He'd be in the garage in a matter of seconds, and by then, he'd have disappeared into the wind. But as he crossed the street, he noticed a silver BMW stopped at the light. The woman behind the wheel was looking over at him, the hint of recognition on her face. Their eyes locked for a brief moment and he thought he saw her lips part in recognition. No, this couldn't be. No one could recall him with the beard. Or the glasses. They couldn't possibly. Except maybe someone who had known him from years ago, back when he worked for the Company. When she worked for the Company as well. The woman looked at him hard, and she looked at him for a long second, before finally turning away. The Assassin felt his gut tightening as he walked quickly into the parking garage. He no longer felt like congratulating himself. He really wished he had that little Ruger thirty-eight special in his pocket. He had a new problem now. A big one. A problem that needed an immediate fix.

  * * *

  The Century Plaza Hotel is a local landmark. It is a sweeping, curved building along a short stretch of parkway called Avenue of the Stars. In the grassy area in front of the hotel is a spectacular fountain, rhythmically shooting two dozen streams of water high into the air. The Century Plaza was once among the preeminent hotels in Los Angeles, and even though newer, more fashionable ones had sprung up, this remained the hotel of choice for many dignitaries.

  I pulled into the driveway and handed over the keys to my Honda Pilot to the valet, perhaps a little more conscious now of my vehicle's lagging stature compared to the Porsches, Mercedes, and Audis sitting nearby. Maybe if the vice president took us on as full consultants, I'd upgrade to something more impressive. After I caught up with a few mortgage payments.

  Walking into the lobby, I was approached by a pair of Secret Service agents, both wearing glasses, both stoic in their demeanor. They knew immediately who I was, and they stiffly addressed me as Mr. Baker, as they directed me through a metal detector and then swept me with a wand. They wore the standard dark suits and ties, earpieces in place, but one looked more professional. He wore trendy eyeglasses, had close-cropped black hair, and was lean and fit. The other had a sizable paunch, ginger hair that was unkempt, and a tie that was loose at the collar. The first agent looked like he was straight out of central casting; the other looked as if he was finishing an arduous day supervising a boiler room.

  "Please follow us, sir," said the professional one, leading us to an elevator and nodding to a secur
ity guard, who opened the door right away. Both men got on with me and we rode quietly to the eighteenth floor. There were nineteen floors in the hotel.

  "I'm surprised the vice president isn't staying in the penthouse," I mused.

  "Never happens," said the rumpled agent. "We keep the room above him vacant."

  "Chuck ... " the other agent said quietly.

  "Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that, Dean. I figure with all those books out there being written by former agents, half of our secrets are out there as well. Feels like everyone knows our code name for him is Peacock."

  "No sense in helping it along."

  I raised my hand. "It's okay. I'll keep this to myself."

  We got off at eighteen and walked down the wide, carpeted hallway. Not surprisingly, the corridor, like the building, was curved, and you couldn't see through to the end of the hall. Another agent was waiting partway down, and he led me past a few more doors before he stopped, rapped three times slowly on the door, and then followed it with two short taps. The door opened, and a smiling Richard Sudeau was waiting, his eyes dancing, his mood light. The vice president wore a blue dress shirt with no tie, the letters RBS embroidered near the cuff. He waved me in, thanked the agents, and told them, in a slightly slurred voice, that that would be all for now. There was an unsteadiness in his movements, he practically tilted as he walked, and it became very obvious very quickly that our new super-client, the man who enlisted us to vault him into the highest office in the land, was unmistakably drunk.

  "Come on in, my friend!" he smiled. "What can I get you? You like scotch? I've got a bottle of Lagavulin here. Great single malt. Nice smoky finish."

  "Thank you. But I'm more of a vodka guy," I said as I looked around the spacious suite. It was large and plush and befitting a dignitary.

  "Sure, sure," he said, pawing over a few bottles at the small wet bar. "How's Grey Goose? Has a nice burn to it. Ice? All you need is one cube, that's the secret."