by Vince Flynn
“I’ll put my boys on the street and see what I can do. I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out.” Both men hung up.
Congressman O’Rourke was sitting at his desk, reading over some documents and dictating notes, when the door to his office burst open. A slender, well-dressed man, who looked vaguely familiar, pushed his way past Susan and approached Michael’s desk.
In an irritated voice Susan said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I told this man that you weren’t taking visitors this morning.”
The man stepped forward. “I apologize for the intrusion, Congressman O’Rourke, but I’m one of Chairman Koslowski’s aides. He has a proposal he would like you to consider, and he needs an answer immediately.”
Michael leaned back in his chair and realized where he’d seen the dark-haired man before. Michael’s gaze turned from the aide to his secretary. “Thank you, Susan, I’ll see the gentleman.” Susan retreated from the office and closed the door. The chairman’s aide stepped forward and extended his hand across the desk. O’Rourke remained seated and took the man’s hand.
“Congressman O’Rourke, my name is Anthony Vanelli.”
O’Rourke placed his Dictaphone on the desk behind several stacks of files and said, “Please take a seat, Mr. Vanelli.” O’Rourke had heard several stories about the aide and doubted this would be a friendly visit.
Vanelli sat down in one of the chairs in front of O’Rourke’s desk and crossed his legs. “Congressman O’Rourke, I’ve been sent here to find out if you’re still going to vote against the president’s budget, and if you are, what we can do to change your mind.”
“Mr. Vanelli, I assume you know I spoke to the president this morning.”
“I am fully aware of that, Congressman O’Rourke, but time is running short and we need to know who is standing with us and who is standing against us.”
O’Rourke leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. “Well, Mr. Vanelli, I have made my position very clear from the start. I will vote no for the budget unless the president cuts all funding for the Rural Electrification Administration.”
“All right, Congressman, let’s cut to the chase. We live in the real world, and in the real world, the Rural Electrification Administration is going to continue to exist. It’s just the way things operate around here. You have to try to get over the little things and concentrate on the big picture. You can’t damn the whole budget just because you don’t like one little part of it.”
“Mr. Vanelli, I would hardly consider a half billion dollars little. The thing you people don’t understand is that I consider most of the president’s budget to be a waste. I am merely focusing on the Rural Electrification Administration because it’s an easy target. You must agree with the simple logic that when an institution is founded to solve a problem, once that problem is solved, the institution should be closed. All of rural America has been electrified for over twenty years, but we continue to bleed the taxpayers for about five hundred million dollars a year, just so congressmen and senators can send pork back to their constituents. It’s a crime that the president is predicting a one-hundred-billion-dollar budget deficit and garbage like this isn’t being cut.” O’Rourke looked down to make sure the Dictaphone was still running.
Vanelli stood from his chair and walked toward the other end of the office. “They told me you were a flake,” he said over his shoulder.
O’Rourke smiled to himself as he looked at Vanelli’s back and said, “Excuse me. What did you just say?”
Vanelli turned around and strutted back to the desk. “Enough of the bullshit, Mike. I’m not here to talk political theory with you, nor to discuss what is ethically correct. That’s for people like you and your loser friends to waste time on.”
“Mr. Vanelli, I don’t remember giving you permission to call me by my first name.”
“Listen, Mike, Mikey, or dickhead, I’ll call you whatever I want. All you are is a naive little freshman congressman who thinks he has all the solutions. We’re about the same age, but we’re worlds apart. I’m a realist and you’re an idealist. Do you know where idealists get in this town? Nowhere! They go absolutely nowhere! They sent me down here to give you one last chance. You either get on board with the president’s budget or your career is over. The choice is simple. You help us out and Chairman Koslowski will make sure some extra money finds its way into your district. If you don’t, you’ll be out of a job next year.”
O’Rourke looked up at the man standing over his desk and rose to meet the challenge. The sixfootthree, 210-pound O’Rourke smiled slightly and asked, “Mr. Vanelli, what exactly do you mean, my career will be over?”
Vanelli took a step backward and replied, “You either play ball with us or we’ll ruin your career. Chairman Koslowski will make sure he cuts off every penny from getting to your district. We’ve got people right now who are digging through your past. If we find anything dirty, we’ll spread it all over town, and if we don’t, we’ll make something up. We own enough people in the press. We could ruin you in a week. We’re done playing nice guy.” Vanelli shook his finger in O’Rourke’s face. “I’m going to wait in your lobby for exactly five minutes. I want you to sit in here and think about having your career ruined over one stupid vote, and when you’re done, I want an answer.” Vanelli turned for the door.
O’Rourke reached forward and grabbed the Dictaphone with his left hand. He took his thumb and pressed the rewind button. The tiny machine started to squeak as the tape spun in reverse. Vanelli heard the familiar sound and turned to look. Michael held up the tiny machine and pressed play. Vanelli’s voice emanated from the small box. “We’ve got people right now who are digging through your past. If we find anything dirty, we’ll spread it all over town, and if we don’t, we’ll make something up. We own enough people in the press. We could ruin you in a week.”
Vanelli stormed across the room and lunged for the Dictaphone. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
O’Rourke’s right hand shot up and grabbed Vanelli’s outstretched hand. O’Rourke had practiced the judo move thousands of times while he was in the Marines. In one quick motion he twisted Vanelli’s hand until the bottom of the wrist faced the ceiling, then forced the hand back toward the elbow. Vanelli collapsed to his knees in pain. O’Rourke continued to exert enough force to keep him on the floor.
Vanelli looked up with a pained face and screeched, “Let go of my fucking wrist, and give me that goddamn tape.” O’Rourke increased the pressure and Vanelli let out a squeal.
“Listen to me, Vanelli. Just because you’re from Chicago and you have an Italian name doesn’t mean you’re tough. You’re an aide to a congressman, not a hit man for the Mafia.”
Vanelli picked up his right hand and reached for his bent wrist. Before he was halfway there, O’Rourke slammed the wrist back another inch and Vanelli’s free hand shot back to the floor as he let out a scream.
“Listen to me, you little punk! I don’t know who you think you are coming in here and threatening me, but if you or your scumbag boss ever bother me again, you’ll have the FBI, 60 Minutes, and every other major news organization in the country try crawling up your ass. Do you understand?” Vanelli was slow to respond, so O’Rourke increased the pressure and repeated the question. “Do you understand?” Vanelli shook his head yes and started to whimper. O’Rourke set the tape recorder on his desk, dropped to one knee, and grabbed Vanelli by the chin. He stared into his eyes and in a firm, precise voice said, “If you ever screw with me again, I’ll do a hell of a lot more than twist your wrist.”
Garret came bursting into the Oval Office. He’d been running back and forth between his office and the president’s all morning, sneaking puffs of cigarettes and screaming into his phone. He strutted across the room to where the president and Dickson were sitting. “I’ve got great news; Moore is on board.” The president punched his fist into the air, and all three men let out a yell.
“Jim, I think we should postpone the press con
ference until one P.M.”
“Stu, you know I hate postponing those things. It’s just going to make us look like we’re unorganized.”
Garret grabbed a fresh piece of paper and leaned over the table. He wrote the number 209 in the upper left-hand corner and 216 in the upper right. “We were at two hundred and nine votes versus two hundred sixteen this morning. Since then we’ve picked up Moore, Reiling, and one of those hicks. They were all undecided, and we got Dreyer and Hampton to defect. That’s minus two for them and plus five for us. That puts us at two hundred fourteen apiece.” Garret stood up and screamed, “God, I love this tension. We’re going to win this damn thing.” The president and Dickson smiled.
“I see where you’re headed with this, Stu,” said the president. “You would like to turn this thing into a little victory announcement.”
“Exactly. If we can wait until one, I think Jack and Tom can pick up enough votes to give us a little breathing room. Tom’s office has already leaked that Moore settled. The rest of the gamblers will be making their deals as soon as possible.”
The president looked up at Garret with a smile and conceded. “Stu, do what you have to do to move it from twelve to one o’clock, but try to be gentle with Ms. Moncur.”
Garret nodded, then headed off to get the job done. He would be about as gentle with Ann Moncur as a five-year-old boy is with his threeyearold baby brother. He was in one of his zones. Victory was just around the corner, and he would do anything to win. He had no time for frail egos and overly sensitive, politically correct appointees. He was on the front line and they were nothing more than support people. It was always amazing to him that the people who complained the most were usually the ones who were trying to justify their jobs. The people in the trenches never complained. They just continued to produce results. Koslowski was like that. He didn’t care if it looked pretty or not, he just made sure the job got done. Their new ally, Arthur Higgins, was a producer. No bullshit, no complaining, only results. He made a mental note to thank Mike Nance, the national security adviser, for setting that one up. God, did he do a nice job on Frank Moore. That could be the one that put them over the top.
4
THE PRESIDENT AND HIS ENTOURAGE WERE standing in the anteroom located behind the White House Press Room. They could hear Ann Moncur explaining to the White House press corps that the president had a busy afternoon and would not be able to answer a lot of questions. Stevens was a little nervous. It had been almost four months since his last press conference. The honeymoon between him and the press had ended in the middle of his second year of office. During the first year and a half he could do no wrong. The press had backed him during the election, and he had in turn given them unprecedented access. The honeymoon soured when certain members of the press corps remembered that their job was to report the facts and keep the public informed. Several potential scandals were uncovered, but before they became full-blown stories, Stu Garret stepped in and put out the fires. Documents were shredded, people were paid to keep quiet or lie, and everything was emphatically denied and denounced as a ploy by the opposition to smear the president. When the scandals finally died, Garret laid out a new strategy for the president when it came to dealing with the press: act hurt, betrayed, and keep your distance. The president gladly complied with his chief of staff’s plan, and the new strategy had partially worked.
Some in the press were in awe of the president and yearned for the relationship they had had with him during his first year in office, but the hardened reporters saw right through the scam. Too many documents had miraculously disappeared, and too many sources had changed their story overnight. The old guard of the press corps had been around too long to be taken in by the feigned isolation of the president. They were cynical, and to them, professional politicians did nothing that wasn’t calculated. If the president was isolating himself from the press, it wasn’t because his feelings were hurt. It was because he had something to hide.
Garret had pulled the president away from the rest of the group and was reminding him which reporters he should steer clear of during the question-and-answer period. “Now, Jim, don’t forget, no more than four questions, and whatever you do, don’t recognize Ray Holtz from the Post and Shirley Thomas from the Times.” The president nodded in agreement. Garret grabbed him by the shoulder and started to lead him toward the stage. “I’ll be right there if anyone backs you into a corner, and remember, only four questions and then you have to go meet the new premier of Ukraine. If they whine about how short it is, just smile and tell them you’re sorry, but you’ve got a full calendar and you’re already running behind.”
The president smiled at Garret. “Stu, relax, I’ve done this before.”
Garret smiled back. “I know, that’s what makes me nervous.”
Ann Moncur was still addressing the gallery when she noticed the reporters look to her right. She glanced over and saw the president standing in the tiny doorway.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President. Are you ready to take over?”
The president bounded up the two small steps and walked toward the podium, extending his right hand. “Thank you, Ann.” The two shook hands, and Moncur went to join Stu Garret and Mark Dickson, who were standing against the wall. While the president organized his notes, the photographers were busy snapping shots. After a brief moment, he cleared his throat and looked up from the podium. With a slight smile he greeted the press corps, “Good afternoon.”
The press responded in kind, and the president’s slight smile turned into a big one. Like most politicians, Stevens knew how to work the crowd, and his most successful tool of all was his larger-than-life smile. What most of the people in the room didn’t know was that the smile had been rehearsed. Few things in this administration happened by accident. Stu Garret made sure of that. The smile had its desired effect, and the majority of the people sitting in the gallery smiled back. The president placed his thin, well-manicured hands on the edges of the podium and cleared his throat again. “I have called this press conference to announce a victory for the American people. During the past week, this administration has battled partisan politics, disinformation, gridlock, and a thirty-two-vote deficit to secure the successful passage of my budget in the House of Representatives. As of noon today, we have obtained two hundred twenty votes, enough for a narrow margin of victory.
“I would be remiss if I did not take this opportunity to thank the esteemed Speaker of the House, Mr. Thomas Basset, for all of the hard work he has done to ensure passage of this budget. His hard work will help put us another step closer to getting this country back on the road to a speedy economic recovery.” The president glanced down at his watch, then brought his gaze back to the reporters. “I’m sorry for being so brief, but I have an extremely busy calendar today, and I’m already running an hour behind. I have a couple of minutes to field a few brief questions.”
Hands immediately shot up, and a dozen or so reporters started to shout questions.
The president turned to his right and looked for the familiar face of Jim Lester, the ABC White House correspondent. Lester was sitting on the edge of his chair, right hand raised, obediently waiting to be called on. Stevens pointed in his direction and called his name. The rest of the reporters fell silent as Lester rose from his chair.
“As of this morning, sir, it was reported that you had secured approximately two hundred ten votes. How did you pick up the remaining ten so quickly, and are any of those new votes coming from congressmen who were previously committed to voting against your budget?”
“Well . . . we picked up the ten so quickly because there are a lot of people up on the Hill who know, despite what the opposition has been saying, that this is a good budget. There are a lot of people in this country who need the relief this budget will provide, and there were several congressmen who, after taking a more serious look at the budget, realized it would be mean-spirited not to vote for it.” The president turned his head away from Lester, and the ha
nds shot up immediately. He rested his gaze and forefinger on another friendly face, Lisa Williamson, the White House correspondent for the Associated Press.
“Mr. President, are you worried that with such a narrow victory in the House, your budget will have a harder time getting through the Senate, where the opposition holds a much higher percentage of seats?”
Stevens wasted no time responding. The question was anticipated and the answer prepared. “Not really. The American people want this budget, and our senators know that. They will do what is right and they will pass the budget.” Stevens started to turn to find another reporter before he finished answering the question.
More hands shot up, and this time the president turned to find Mick Turner from CNN.
“Mr. President, the successful passage of this budget through the House will be a political home run for your administration. How much do you think it will improve your position when negotiating with the Japanese during next month’s trade talks?”
“Well, the Japanese have a history of walking away from these talks in a better position than when they entered them. This is somewhat ironic when one considers the fact that they have been running an ever-increasing trade surplus with us for the last fifteen years. The trade deficit that we run with them is hurting American labor. We are putting out high-quality products and the Japanese refuse to open their markets. This trade deficit is stifling our economy from reaching its full potential, and most importantly, it is costing us American jobs. There is no doubt that the passage of budget will be a signal to the Japanese that we are finally ready to reverse a trend that previous administrations let get so out of control.