Sleep was even more difficult than usual because Spicer was worried about the lawyer. Now that the scam had hit its stride, there was serious cash lying around. And more on the way. The more Boomer Realty collected in the Bahamas, the more tempting it would become for Trevor. He and he alone could steal their ill-gotten loot and get away with it.
But the scam worked only with an outside conspirator. Someone had to sneak the mail back and forth. Someone had to collect the money.
There had to be a way to bypass the lawyer, and Joe Roy was determined to find it. If he didn’t sleep for a month, he didn’t care. No slimy lawyer would take a third of his money, then steal the rest.
NINE
DEFENSEPAC, or D-PAC as it would quickly and widely become known, made a roaring entry onto the loose and murky field of political finance. No political-action committee in recent history had appeared with as much muscle behind it.
Its seed money came from a Chicago financier named Mitzger, an American with dual Israeli citizenship. He put up the first $1 million, which lasted about a week. Other Jewish high-rollers were quickly brought into the fold, though their identities were shielded by corporations and offshore accounts. Teddy Maynard knew the dangers of having a bunch of rich Jews contribute openly and in an organized fashion to Lake’s campaign. He relied on old friends in Tel Aviv to organize the money in New York.
Mitzger was a liberal when it came to politics, but no issue was as dear as the security of Israel. Aaron Lake was much too moderate on social matters, but he was also dead serious about a new military. Middle East stability depended on a strong America, at least in Mitzger’s opinion.
He rented a suite at the Willard in D.C. one day, and by noon the next he had leased an entire floor of an office building near Dulles. His staff from Chicago worked around the clock plowing through the myriad details required to instantly outfit forty thousand square feet with the latest technology. He had a 6 A.M. breakfast with Elaine Tyner, a lawyer/lobbyist from a gigantic Washington firm, one she’d built with her own iron will and lots of oil clients. Tyner was sixty years old and currently regarded as the most powerful lobbyist in town. Over bagels and juice she agreed to represent D-PAC for an initial retainer of $500,000. Her firm would immediately dispatch twenty associates and that many clerks to the new D-PAC offices where one of her partners would take charge. One section would do nothing but raise money. One would analyze congressional support for Lake and begin, gently at first, the delicate process of lining up endorsements from senators and representatives and even governors. It would not be easy; most were already committed to other candidates. Yet another section would do nothing but research—military hardware, its costs, new gadgets, futuristic weapons, Russian and Chinese innovations—anything that candidate Lake might need to know.
Tyner herself would work on raising money from foreign governments, one of her specialties. She was very close to the South Koreans, having been their presence in Washington for the past decade. She knew the diplomats, the businessmen, the big shots. Few countries would sleep easier with a beefed-up United States military than South Korea.
“I feel sure they’ll be good for at least five million,” she said confidently. “Initially, anyway.”
From memory, she made a list of twenty French and British companies that derived at least a fourth of their annual sales from the Pentagon. She’d start working on them immediately.
Tyner was very much the Washington lawyer these days. She hadn’t seen a courtroom in fifteen years, and every meaningful world event originated within the Beltway and somehow affected her.
The challenge at hand was unprecedented—electing an unknown, last-minute candidate who, at the moment, enjoyed 30 percent name recognition and 12 percent positives. What their candidate had, though, unlike the other flakes who dropped in and out of the presidential derby, was seemingly unlimited cash. Tyner had been well paid to elect and defeat scores of politicians, and she held the unwavering belief that money would always win. Give her the money, and she could elect or beat anybody.
DURING THE FIRST WEEK of its existence, D-PAC buzzed with unbridled energy. The offices were open twenty-four hours a day as Tyner’s people set up shop and charged forward. Those raising money produced an exhaustive computerized list of 310,000 hourly workers in defense and related industries, then hit them hard with a slick mail-out pleading for money. Another list had the names of twenty-eight thousand white-collar defense workers who earned in excess of $50,000 a year. They were mailed a different type of solicitation.
The D-PAC consultants looking for endorsements found the fifty members of Congress with the most defense jobs in their districts. Thirty-seven were up for reelection, which would make the arm-twisting that much easier. D-PAC would go to the grassroots, to the defense workers and their bosses, and orchestrate a massive phone campaign in support of Aaron Lake and more military spending. Six senators from defense-heavy states had tough opponents in November, and Elaine Tyner planned a lunch with each of them.
Unlimited cash cannot go unnoticed for long in Washington. A rookie congressman from Kentucky, one of the lowest of the 435, desperately needed money to fight what appeared to be a losing campaign back home. No one had heard of the poor boy. He hadn’t said a word during his first two years, and now his rivals back home had found an attractive opponent. No one would give him money. He heard rumors, tracked down Elaine Tyner, and their conversation went something like this:
“How much money do you need?” she asked.
“A hundred thousand dollars.” He flinched, she did not.
“Can you endorse Aaron Lake for President?”
“I’ll endorse anybody if the price is right.”
“Good. We’ll give you two hundred thousand and run your campaign.”
“It’s all yours.”
Most were not that easy, but D-PAC managed to buy eight endorsements in the first ten days of its existence. All were insignificant congressmen who’d served with Lake and liked him well enough. The strategy was to line them up before the cameras a week or two before big Super Tuesday, March 7. The more the merrier.
Most, however, had already committed to other candidates.
Tyner hurriedly made the rounds, sometimes eating three power meals a day, all happily covered by D-PAC. Her goal was to let the town know that her brand-new client had arrived, had plenty of money, and was backing a dark horse soon to break from the pack. In a city where talk was an industry in itself, she had no trouble spreading her message.
FINN YARBER’S WIFE arrived unannounced at Trumble, her first visit in ten months. She wore fraying leather sandals, a soiled denim skirt, a baggy blouse adorned with beads and feathers, and all sorts of old hippie crap around her neck and wrists and head. She had a gray butch cut and hair under her arms, and looked very much like the tired, worn-out refugee from the sixties that she really was. Finn was less than thrilled when word got to him that his wife was waiting up front.
Her name was Carmen Topolski-Yocoby, a mouthful that she had used as a weapon all of her adult life. She was a radical feminist lawyer in Oakland whose speciality was representing lesbians suing for sexual harassment at work. So every single client was an angry woman battling an angry employer. Work was a bitch.
She had been married to Finn for thirty years—married, but not always living together. He’d lived with other women; she’d lived with other men. Once when they were newlyweds, they lived with an entire houseful of others, different combinations each week. Both came and went. For one six-year stretch they lived together in chaotic monogamy, and produced two children, neither of whom had amounted to much.
They’d met on the battlefields of Berkeley in 1965, both protesting the war and all other evils, both law students, both committed to the high moral ground of social change. They worked diligently to register voters. They fought for the dignity of migrant workers. They got arrested during the Tet Offensive. They chained themselves to redwoods. They fought the Christians
in the schools. They sued on behalf of the whales. They marched the streets of San Francisco in every parade, for any and every cause.
And they drank heavily, partied with great enthusiasm, and relished the drug culture; they moved in and out and slept around, and this was okay because they defined their own morality. They were fighting for the Mexicans and the redwoods, dammit! They had to be good people!
Now they were just tired.
She was embarrassed that her husband, a brilliant man who’d somehow stumbled his way onto the California Supreme Court, was now locked away in a federal prison. He was quite relieved that the prison was in Florida and not California; otherwise she might visit more often. His first digs had been near Bakersfield, but he managed to get himself transferred away.
They never wrote each other, never called. She was passing through because she had a sister in Miami.
“Nice tan,” she said. “You’re looking good.”
And you’re shriveling like an old prune, he thought. Damn, she looked ancient and tired.
“How’s life?” he asked, not really caring.
“Busy. I’m working too hard.”
“That’s good.” Good that she was working and making a living, something she’d done off and on for many years. Finn had five years to go before he could shake Trumble’s dust from his gnarled and bare feet. He had no intention of returning to her, or to California. If he survived, something he doubted every day, he’d leave at the age of sixty-five, and his dream was to find a land where the IRS and the FBI and all the rest of those alphabetized government thugs had no jurisdiction. Finn hated his own government so much he planned to renounce his citizenship and find another nationality.
“Are you still drinking?” he asked. He, of course, was not, though he did manage a little pot occasionally from one of the guards.
“I’m still sober, thanks for asking.”
Every question was a barb, every reply a retort. He honestly wondered why she had stopped by. Then he found out.
“I’ve decided to get a divorce,” she said.
He shrugged as if to say, “Why bother?” Instead he said, “Probably not a bad idea.”
“I’ve found someone else,” she said.
“Male or female?” he asked, more curious than anything else. Nothing would surprise him.
“A younger man.”
He shrugged again and almost said, “Go for it, old girl.”
“He’s not the first,” Finn said.
“Let’s not go there,” she said.
Fine with Finn. He had always admired her exuberant sexuality, her stamina, but it was difficult to imagine this old woman doing it with any regularity. “Show me the papers,” he said. “I’ll sign them.”
“They’ll be here in a week. It’s a clean break, since we own so little these days.”
At the height of his rise to power, Justice Yarber and Ms. Topolski-Yocoby had jointly applied for a mortgage on a home in the marina district of San Francisco. The application, properly sanitized to remove any hint of chauvinism or sexism or racism or ageism, blandly worded by spooked California lawyers terrified of being sued by some offended soul, showed a gap between assets and liabilities of almost a million dollars.
Not that a million dollars had mattered to either one of them. They were too busy fighting timber interests and ruthless farmers, etc. In fact, they’d taken pride in the scantness of their assets.
California was a community property state, which roughly meant an equal split. The divorce papers would be easy to sign, for many reasons.
And there was one reason Finn would never mention. The Angola scam was producing money, hidden and dirty, and off-limits to any and every greedy agency. Ms. Carmen would damned sure never know about it.
Finn wasn’t certain how the tentacles of community property might reach a secret bank account in the Bahamas, but he had no plans to find out. Show him the papers, he’d be happy to sign.
They managed to chat a few minutes about old friends, a brief conversation indeed because most friends were gone. When they said good-bye, there was no sadness, no remorse. The marriage had been dead for a long time. They were relieved at its passing.
He wished her well, without so much as a hug, then went to the track, where he stripped to his boxers and walked an hour in the sun.
TEN
LUFKIN WAS FINISHING his second day in Cairo with dinner at a sidewalk café on Shari’ el-Corniche, in the Garden City section of the city. He sipped strong black coffee and watched the merchants close their shops—sellers of rugs and brass pots and leather bags and linens from Pakistan, all for the tourists. Less than twenty feet away, an ancient vendor meticulously folded his tent, then left his spot without a trace.
Lufkin looked very much the part of a modern Arab—white slacks, light khaki jacket, a white vented fedora with the bill down close to his eyes. He watched the world from behind a hat and a pair of sunshades. He kept his face and arms tanned and his dark hair cut very short. He spoke perfect Arabic and moved with ease from Beirut to Damascus to Cairo.
His room was at the Hotel El-Nil on the edge of the Nile River, six crowded blocks away, and as he drifted through the city he was suddenly joined by a tall thin foreigner of some breed with only passable English. They knew each other well enough to trust each other, and continued their walk.
“We think tonight is the night,” the contact said, his eyes also hidden.
“Go on.”
“There’s a party at the embassy.”
“I know.”
“Yes, a nice setting. Lots of traffic. The bomb will be in a van.”
“What kind of van?”
“We don’t know.”
“Anything else?”
“No,” he said, then vanished in a swarming crowd.
Lufkin drank a Pepsi in a hotel bar, alone, and thought about calling Teddy. But it had been four days since he’d seen him at Langley, and Teddy had made no contact. They’d been through this before. Teddy was not going to intervene. Cairo was a dangerous place for Westerners these days, and no one could effectively blame the CIA for not stopping an attack. There would be the usual grandstanding and finger pointing, but the terror would quickly be shoved into the recesses of the national memory, then forgotten. There was a campaign at hand, and the world moved fast anyway. With so many attacks, and assaults, and mindless violence both at home and abroad, the American people had become hardened. Twenty-four-hour news, nonstop flash points, the world always with a crisis somewhere. Late-breaking stories, a shock here and a shock there, and before long you couldn’t keep up with events.
Lufkin left the bar and went to his room. From his window on the fourth floor the city rambled forever, built helter-skelter over the centuries. The roof of the American embassy was directly in front of him, a mile away.
He opened a paperback Louis L’Amour, and waited for the fireworks.
THE TRUCK was a two-ton Volvo panel van, loaded from floor to ceiling with three thousand pounds of plastic explosives made in Romania. Its door happily advertised the services of a well-known caterer in the city, a company which made frequent visits to most of the Western embassies. It was parked near the service entrance, in the basement.
The driver of the truck had been a large, friendly Egyptian called Shake by the Marines who guarded the embassy. Shake passed through often, hauling food and supplies to and from social events. Shake was now dead on the floor of his truck, a bullet in his brain.
At twenty minutes after ten, the bomb was detonated by a remote device, operated by a terrorist hiding across the street. As soon as he pushed the right buttons, he ducked behind a car, afraid to look.
The explosion ripped out supporting columns deep in the basement, so the embassy fell to one side. Debris rained for blocks. Most of the nearby buildings suffered structural damage. Windows within a quarter of a mile were cracked.
Lufkin was napping in his chair when the quake came. He jumped to his feet, walked onto his
narrow balcony, and watched the cloud of dust. The roof of the embassy was no longer visible. Within minutes flames were seen and the interminable sirens began. He propped his chair against the railing of the balcony, and settled in for the duration. There would be no sleep. Six minutes after the explosion, the electricity in Garden City went out, and Cairo was dark except for the orange glow of the American embassy.
He called Teddy.
When the technician, Teddy’s sanitizer, assured Lufkin the line was secure, the old man’s voice came through as clearly as if they were chatting from New York to Boston. “Yes, Maynard here.”
“I’m in Cairo, Teddy. Watching our embassy go up in smoke.”
“When did it happen?”
“Less than ten minutes ago.”
“How big—”
“Hard to tell. I’m in a hotel a mile away. Massive, I’d say.
“Call me in an hour. I’ll stay here at the office tonight.”
“Done.”
TEDDY ROLLED HIMSELF to a computer, punched a few buttons, and within seconds found Aaron Lake. The candidate was en route from Philadelphia to Atlanta, aboard his shiny new airplane. There was a phone in Lake’s pocket, a secure digital unit as slim as a cigarette lighter.
Teddy punched more numbers, the phone was summoned, and Teddy spoke to his monitor. “Mr. Lake, it’s Teddy Maynard.”
Who else could it be? Lake thought. No one else could use the phone.
“Are you alone?” Teddy asked.
“Just a minute.”
Teddy waited, then the voice returned. “I’m in the kitchen now,” Lake said.
“Your plane has a kitchen?”
“A small one, yes. It’s a very nice plane, Mr. Maynard.”
“Good. Listen, sorry to bother you, but I have some news. They bombed the American embassy in Cairo fifteen minutes ago.”
John Grisham Page 9