Capitol Threat bk-15

by William Bernhardt

  Carraway pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I’m getting the same intel from my media contacts. Apparently Ben’s little speech touched a few of the right chords,” she admitted grudgingly.

  “What?” Ben said, pressing his hand against his chest. “Can this be? Are you suggesting that I did something right?”

  Christina kicked him under the table. “Gina’s trying to be nice,” she muttered. “Don’t push it.”

  “To be specific,” Carraway said, avoiding Ben’s question, “the reference to partisan politics played very well. People are sick and tired of partisan politics. At least that’s what they always say to pollsters. In reality, of course, they love it. Scandal is great fun, and they’d much rather read about someone’s sexcapades than their views on foreign policy. But at any rate, that bit played well. Also, the line about McCarthy’s ghost. Pure genius. Who wrote that for you?”

  “Actually,” Ben said, “it just came to me as I was speaking.”

  She gave him a long look. “You’re saying you…extemporized? Used a line that hadn’t been tested? Instant-feedback polled?”

  “I wasn’t even planning to give a speech. But after Roush declined to respond, I knew I had to do something.”

  Beauregard stepped between them. “Your remarks were not vetted in advance? Not approved by the oversight committee? Not play-tested before a shadow audience?”

  “Nope. Just made it up.”

  “And what the hell do you call that?”

  “Ummm…speaking from the heart?”

  Carraway pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “God help us. That’s so…amateur. Hammond, I can’t work with this.”

  Hammond smiled. “The kid did good, Gina. Leave it alone.”

  She closed her eyes, her disgust unmasked. “I’m a kingmaker,” she muttered. “A kingmaker surrounded by peasants.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Hammond slapped Ben’s shoulder. “I thought it was a hell of a good speech. Not the first time I’ve heard you do it, either. I hope you’re giving serious thought to running for another term. I think you could pull it off.”

  Ben frowned. “I don’t know. I can’t decide. On the one hand, it seems wrong to pass on an opportunity to do some good in the world. On the other hand, the thought of undergoing a campaign is horrifying.”

  “Why?”

  “Ben is afraid someone will dredge up his lurid sexual history,” Christina said, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “What? Don’t tell me you go to gay bars, too.”

  “I most certainly do n—” He glanced at Roush. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But—”

  “I thought you two were engaged,” Hammond said.

  “We are,” Christina said firmly, when Ben didn’t.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Get married. That’ll make him more electable. It will stifle sexual speculations and put an end to any talk about Ben being gay.”

  “Since when has there been any talk about Ben being gay?” Ben said, sitting up straight—then noticing Roush glaring at him. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Roush rolled his eyes, then turned to Hammond. “And this was the man you chose to be my chief advisor?”

  Hammond chuckled. “Don’t gripe, Tad. The man saved your bacon in there. Or at least kept you in the frying pan.”

  Bertram Sexton raced into the conference room, carrying his jacket. It was the first time Ben had ever seen him wearing only two of the three pieces of his suit. “Been trying to get a line on how the undecided members of the committee are going to vote. Without success. No one’s talking.”

  A line creased Roush’s forehead. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” Hammond assured him. “Means they’re waiting to see which way public opinion tilts.”

  “But we know Keyes and Matera are voting against me, no matter what happens.”

  “And Potter and at least five others who don’t have the spine to buck the party line,” Hammond conceded.

  “But if everyone follows party lines, we were dead before we began.”

  “So we have to assume someone will show some courage.”

  “A rather tall order,” Sexton commented icily.

  “But not impossible. If we have public opinion on our side.” Hammond thought for a moment. “And if we can make it seem like the right thing to do. Nothing a politician loves more than playing the hero for a just cause. Especially if there’s no risk involved.”

  “Here’s something else you might want to see,” Sexton said, passing around photocopies of a brief report. “We’ve managed to trace funds from a right-wing lobbying group that somehow found their way into the bank accounts of two of the people who testified against Tad. Who accused him of…well, you know.”

  “So they were paid,” Christina said, grabbing a copy.

  “Of course, the organization is saying they were just expense reimbursements.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?”

  “Yeah. Guess they stayed at a really nice hotel.” Sexton grimaced. “I’d be willing to bet more money will follow. Once the heat is off.”

  “This doesn’t help their credibility,” Ben said, thinking aloud. “But it doesn’t prove they were lying, either. Man, I’d love the chance to cross-examine them.”

  “I wouldn’t mind taking a swing at them myself,” Sexton agreed. “But it isn’t going to happen. They’re not even giving interviews. Their financiers are taking no chances.”

  Christina turned up the volume on the corner television set. CNN was running a recap of the day’s hearing, a greatest-hits compilation, the shouting points, always culminating with a clip of Ben’s closing—usually ending on the “McCarthy’s ghost” remark.

  “I for one am tired of hearing that,” Ben commented. “Do you suppose if we called Ted Turner and asked him nicely, they’d stop running it?”

  “We don’t want them to stop running it,” Sexton said. “The more people see it, the more chance we have of converting people to support our nominee.”

  “But the committee votes first thing tomorrow morning!”

  “I know,” Sexton replied, and for once, a trace of sadness tinged his eyes. “I never said it was a great chance. But it’s the only one we’ve got.”

  39

  Judge Haskins slammed the front door of his rented Georgetown home behind him, locked it, dead-bolted it, pressed his back against it, and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. “Vultures. Relentless vultures!”

  “You should talk,” Margaret said. Her hair was up in the usual beauty shop do, with a single strand dangling down the front out of place. “You haven’t been here all day. I have.”

  “Vultures!” Haskins repeated, just to get the thought clear in his mind. “They have no right to harass us like this.”

  “Do you want me to call the police?”

  Haskins frowned but said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought. Having the press hauled away might end your run of perfectly glowing stories.”

  “Do I detect a note of cynicism in your voice?” he asked. He wrapped his arms around his wife and gave her a firm hug.

  “I suppose I’m just not accustomed to being married to a hero. I mean, being married to a judge was good. Very good. Decent money, all the best parties. But being married to a hero—well, that’s more intense.”

  “I’m not a hero,” he said, shrugging uncomfortably. “I only did what any other man would do in that situation.”

  “That clearly isn’t true.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You are a hero, darling. Live with it.”

  He shrugged. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Shrimp limone.”

  He gasped. “Dear Lord. Have I died and gone to heaven?”

  “Not yet, Rupert. I rather think your next destination is a musty old courtroom in Washington, D.C.”

  “Now, Margaret, I’ve cautioned you—”

&
nbsp; “I know, I know. No chickens before hatching. Not even sure you want it.” She winked. “But I’m picking out my inauguration gown, just the same.”

  Haskins mounted the stairs, feeling as tired as he had ever felt in his entire life. What a day! He was a judge, for heaven’s sake. He’d never expected to be caught in the middle of a media firestorm. The President’s people calling him night and day, asking question after question, always something more they had to know—now. Why did you say this in that opinion? Passages he didn’t even remember that were suddenly of critical importance. And they practically wanted documentary evidence of his heterosexuality. At least half a dozen friends had called to tell him they’d been pestered by investigators.

  Bad enough that the Roush nomination had gone so sour so fast: people demanding his withdrawal, others accusing them of homophobia, others prying into Roush’s personal life and finding the most unseemly details. Now they were saying there was just the slightest chance Roush might survive the committee, that there was a backlash created by Keyes and Matera’s heavy-handed tactics, that his advisor had swayed public opinion with an honest and heartfelt expression of outrage. Didn’t matter, of course—there was even more damaging information waiting in the wings.

  Haskins still remembered the look on Richard Trevor’s face as he passed him the all-important manila envelope. Like a little boy who had learned the secrets of the universe and couldn’t wait to tell. Trevor was watching his reaction oh so carefully. Haskins made a point of giving him nothing. If he wanted to know how badly Haskins wanted a Supreme Court nomination, he was going to have to find out by offering him one. He wasn’t going to get an advance peek by playing these stupid cloak-and-dagger games on Roosevelt Island.

  It was so close now. So close he could taste it. If he could just survive all this attention. The hotline phone calls in the middle of the night and supposed power brokers wanting to meet in low-key yet public locales, secret files and the impossible need to be on top of everything without appearing to be aware of anything. He had to be above the fray and the master of it simultaneously. Like tiptoeing through a garden of eggshells. But here he was, bearing it all, keeping his head up, making sure that if his chance came—when his chance came—he would be ready. He owed that much to Margaret. And to himself.

  To be a justice on the Supreme Court of the United States. To have the ability to quite literally change the world with a stroke of a pen. What wouldn’t someone do for power like that?

  40

  In general, Loving knew all the fundamentals of successful arm wrestling. What boy who grew up in a small town in Oklahoma didn’t? It was a survival skill. Only here at Action, it appeared that the arm wrestling would get him access, not information. With luck, it might at best get him into the mysterious and salacious back room, where he might be able to wheedle out some information.

  Contrary to the popular opinion of arm wrestling, Loving knew that the most important factor was not brute strength, although strength could certainly come in handy. For the push—the offensive action—what mattered was your shoulders and upper back. For the pull—the defensive action—you needed brawny pecs and biceps. Loving worked out regularly and tried to keep his upper body in shape. At his size, the only choices were muscles or flab, and he preferred muscles. He hadn’t been to the gym since he started this investigation, though, and he knew he wasn’t in prime shape.

  “Push ahead,” Trudy said, standing behind him, giving him a little shove. “Take on the boy in black.”

  “Nah. He’s the champ.”

  “You can take him, you imposing hunk of manhood.”

  Loving felt his teeth clench. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he subvocalized.

  “I’m just saying what’s true. What’s wrong with that, sugar?”

  Loving felt his neck stiffening. “Let me start with one of the newbies. I’ll work up.”

  “No, take the top dog while you’re fresh. Get us inside that room.”

  “I’m not sure I can take him.”

  “I am. I’ll be helping.”

  “Right. With your”—his voice dripped with sarcasm—“feminine wiles.”

  “Don’t underestimate what you don’t understand.”

  “I understand that you’re not—”

  “Shhhh!” Trudy gave him a harsh look. “Don’t blow our chances before we’ve started. This match is almost over. The boy in black is going to take that redheaded punk down any second.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, I don’t think this is smart.”

  “That’s because you don’t know your own strength.” Trudy grabbed his biceps and squeezed. “But I do.”

  He shrugged Trudy off. “Will you stop that!”

  Trudy pouted. “Don’t you like me at all? Even a little?”

  Loving’s lips pressed tightly together. “It’s not that I don’t like you…”

  Trudy brightened. “Then you do like me!”

  “No! I mean—I just don’t go in for…you know. Your kind.”

  Trudy’s eyes widened like limpid pools. “I am what I am, Loving. I can’t help it.”

  “I know. I just…you…oh, aarrghh! When do we start with the arm wrestling?”

  “When you get in line, sugar.”

  “Don’t call me—”

  “Go.” She pinched his butt. He jumped into line.

  Standing next to the Boy in Black’s table, it was easier for Loving to study his technique. He was obviously experienced. He knew that the key secret was to push with the weight of your shoulder, augmented by your back and chest—not your biceps. By leaning into your opponent, you could throw your entire body weight into the struggle. The biceps you held in reserve, using them only if you had to, probably in defense if the match started to get away from you. The Boy in Black knew all this, and it showed in his current battle against a homunculus with a bushy red mullet. The other guy was probably about twice his size, but the Boy in Black was creaming him.

  Beating this dude would require Loving to be more than strong. He would have to be smart—not normally what folks considered his strong suit.

  Well, if he couldn’t be smart, he could certainly manage tricky.

  After he triumphed over the red mullet, the Boy in Black—dressed in a tight short-sleeved black T-shirt and black pants, sort of a Dukes of Hazzard version of Johnny Cash—took a towel from a barely clad beauty and wiped his face and hands. He grabbed the woman around the waist and pulled her close for a smoocheroo.

  “You are so hot,” the woman said breathlessly. She wrapped her hands around his muscular abs.

  “Cool it, sweetcakes,” he said. “I’m still working.” A thin smile—almost a sneer—emerged. “Can’t let you get me distracted. Women sap a man’s strength.”

  Loving tried not to barf. He decided he didn’t like the Boy in Black, which was good. It would make this so much easier.

  “Who’s next?”

  “He is!” Trudy said, pushing Loving forward.

  The Boy in Black gave Trudy a long, hard, very unsubtle look. He was clearly interested. “Wanna sit by me during the match, baby?”

  “Sorry,” Trudy said, clutching Loving’s arm. “I’m with him.”

  The Boy in Black frowned, then noticed Loving for the first time. “That right? The tramp’s with you?”

  “She’s not a tramp. I mean, she’s not—”

  “Why settle for a cheap cut when there’s quality meat inside, pal?”

  Loving felt his lip curling of its own volition. “That’s no way to talk about a…lady.”

  Trudy beamed.

  “I think you owe her an apology, chump.”

  The Boy in Black was not intimidated. “Uh-huh. And who exactly is going to make me?”

  “Boys, boys, boys,” Trudy said, squeezing between them. “We don’t want any violence. Let’s settle this on the arm-wrestling table.” She turned to Loving and winked. “My hero.”

  The Boy in Black sneered. “You think this big lug can t
ake me?”

  Trudy’s chin rose. “I think he’ll mop the floor with you.”

  “Well, then, let’s get to it.” He stepped up to Loving, sneering. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Haven’t been here before,” Loving replied.

  “Sure you want to start with me? Be a lot easier to work your way up through the bottom-feeders.”

  Exactly the same opinion Loving had expressed a few moments earlier. But now that he had heard this obnoxious jerk say it, he was determined not to do it.

  “I’m in a hurry to get inside,” Loving said simply.

  “But no one wants you inside.”

  “After that cover charge I paid at the door, I don’t much care whether anyone wants me or not. I’m goin’ in.”

  “But this room you have to earn, bozo. That’s why they put me in as the gatekeeper.” He grinned, revealing an unpleasant display of poorly cared-for teeth.

  If his experience had taught Loving anything, it was that the best weapon against bravado was its polar opposite. He made a strategic about-face. “Well,” he said, shuffling his feet slightly, “you’ll probably humiliate me.”

  “He will not!” Trudy insisted.

  “But I gotta try,” Loving added sheepishly.

  The Boy in Black commiserated. “I understand. Hell of a thing, being pussy-whipped in public.”

  Loving managed to keep a straight face.

  The Boy in Black gave Trudy one more lascivious look. “Last chance to sit with the champ.”

  “No thanks,” she replied, grabbing Loving’s arm. “I told you already. I’m with him.”

  He turned to Loving. “That right?”

  “Yeah,” Loving said, steely-eyed. “She’s with me.”

  Loving lowered himself into the chair.

  “Wait a minute,” the Boy in Black’s bimbo said. “You gotta pay to play.”

  “I paid a bundle just to get in here.”

  “And you’ll pay a bundle more if you want to rumble with my baby.”

  Muttering under his breath, Loving pulled out a wad of real money—not scrip Trudy had collected earlier. “That do?”

  The Boy in Black swept it away. “That’ll do.” He put his elbow on the table and opened his fingers. “Ready to play?”