Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  She entered the lobby and then strolled into the Town and Country Bar. The lighting was dim, adding to the cozy atmosphere. Four men in dark suits were at the bar, talking loudly. Probably staffers. From the occasional slurred word, she suspected they had been drinking for a couple of hours. Meyers scanned the tables and booths tucked against the walls. Cliff Ellison hadn’t arrived yet. She slid into a booth along the back wall. From her vantage point she would spot Ellison right away when he entered.

  The cocktail waiter took her order: two whiskey sours. Meyers checked her watch and then her phone—no messages. The drinks arrived, and the waiter placed a bowl of mixed nuts on the table as well. The Mayflower was a favorite meeting place for celebrities, and the wait staff knew to be discrete. It was a favored meeting place for Ellison, too, a location he had frequented many times before as a lobbyist and sales executive for United Armaments.

  When he strode into the bar, Meyers nodded and Ellison walked over to the booth. He was dressed casually in jeans, leather loafers, and a bulky knit sweater. Like many defense lobbyists, Cliff Ellison had served 20 years in the military—Army Rangers—before starting his second career, eventually advancing to Executive Vice President for United Armaments. He stood just under six feet tall and maintained a fit, muscular build through a religious regimen of physical exercise. His sandy blond hair was cut short, and his trim beard gave him a roguishly handsome look.

  He casually looked around the room as he sat down—no one seemed to pay any attention, which suited Ellison just fine.

  He took a sip of his drink, and then looked to Meyers for an explanation. “The problem has escalated,” she said. “Peter Savage and Kate Simpson have been talking. It appears that they know more than I had thought possible.”

  Ellison remained silent, his teeth clenched.

  “My operator placed several bugs in Simpson’s rental house and has been monitoring for any useful information. It turns out that Mr. Savage managed to gain access to the electronic file from the email account of Emma Jones.”

  Ellison leaned forward, barely able to temper his mounting anger. “How is that possible? You know as well as I do what’s at stake here. If that information is leaked to the press, they’ll have a field day. The attention could easily turn public opinion against an override of Taylor’s veto of the Israeli Security Act. It could give Taylor the boost he needs to win a second term!”

  “Keep your voice down.” Angela paused while Ellison regained his composure. She continued, “Besides, you think I don’t know that?”

  “You assured me those email files were deleted.”

  “They were deleted.”

  “But?”

  “It seems that Peter Savage is a resourceful man.” She leaned back in the booth. “I can’t tell you how he did it, but somehow he managed to gain access to those deleted emails. Based on a conversation he had with Kate Simpson a few hours ago, I’m convinced he read some, or all, of the file.”

  “You have to stop him before he figures out what he found and goes public,” Ellison said, his voice rising again.

  Angela held her hand out, palm down. “You’re going to attract attention,” she said. Angela Meyers was adept at managing others. As an only child, her parents—both career military—had fawned over her, eventually sending her to Howard University. She majored in psychology and minored in political science, graduating top of her class.

  She found that politics offered every challenge she ever wanted. It was an exceedingly competitive environment, and the intra-office politics were in a league of their own. Very quickly Angela learned that as an attractive female with a keen intellect, she had an edge on her male colleagues, and she was happy to exploit that advantage.

  “If this information comes out,” Ellison said, “we won’t be able to contain it. The media will dig until they have enough truth or conjecture—it doesn’t matter as long as they have a story to tell. It will be the scandal of the decade.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” Angela said in a soothing voice, a voice that conveyed confidence and control. “Have I ever let you down?”

  He took a long sip from his glass, the whisky helping to take the edge off his anxiety. “We’ve come too far to fail. You have a plan, I assume?”

  Angela glanced around the bar. The other patrons were paying them no attention. The four men at the bar were becoming more boisterous, a good distraction.

  “Yes. I need you to contact David Feldman. Can you do that?”

  “He’ll take my call. We have history.”

  “Good. Set up a conference call and make sure it’s a secure line. We need his help.”

  Ellison pushed his cuff back and read the time. “David is seven hours ahead of us. He’ll be up now.” He swallowed the last of his drink. “Why don’t you pay the tab. I’ll meet you outside and call him from a quiet spot along the street.”

  Chapter 11

  Washington, D.C.

  April 19

  They exited the Mayflower and turned left, following Connecticut Avenue toward the White House. Ellison dialed the number and was connected on the fourth ring. “Good morning Mr. Prime Minister, this is Cliff Ellison,” he said, his tone cheerful.

  “It’s not even 8:00 a.m. here, which means you’re calling me in the middle of your night. Don’t tell me there is a problem with approval of the arms sale—we need those F16s and missiles.”

  Ellison forced a short chuckle. If only that was the problem. “The House will vote to approve the sale tomorrow, and the President has promised to sign the bill.”

  “Excellent news. So, what is this about?”

  “An issue has come up. One that could best be solved if we work together.”

  “I see. What do you have in mind?” the Prime Minister said.

  “I’m on my way to my office now. Should be there in half an hour. Would you set up a secure conference line? Text the number to me, and I’ll dial in.”

  The pair hailed a taxi and ten minutes later they were entering the office building where Cliff Ellison worked when he was in Washington. It was located next to the Longworth House Office Building and across the street from the Capitol. The lobby guard nodded. “Working late again, Mr. Ellison?”

  He replied with a smile. “Good evening, Louie. Afraid so. Seems there is always some pressing matter to resolve.”

  With Angela Meyers standing at his side, he rode the elevator to the third floor and strode in silence to his office. The lights were still on—he never turned them off, a peculiar habit. Ellison felt the vibration from his phone: a text from David Feldman. It was a phone number, nothing else. He seated himself behind his desk and dialed the number. Meyers pulled a chair up to the opposite side of the desk.

  “This line is secure,” Feldman said. “I trust you have taken precautions at your end?”

  Given his senior position within United Armaments—one of the largest defense contractors globally—Cliff Ellison utilized the latest encryption technology to ensure confidential communications.

  “Naturally,” he said. He had the phone on speaker so Angela Meyers would also hear the conversation in its entirety. “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister, for making time in your busy schedule.”

  Cliff Ellison and David Feldman had known each other for years. In fact, Ellison had met many of the world’s presidents and prime ministers, as well as genocidal dictators, through his business of selling weapons. One of the perks of the job, he thought, was to rub shoulders with the world’s most revered and reviled leaders—sometimes both at the same social gathering.

  A member of the right-wing Jewish Home Party, David Feldman could not have been more different from Ellison. In fact, if they did not share a common interest in arms, the two men would have little to bind their friendship.

  David Feldman was ambitious, having risen to power after serving as the Minister of Defense under Benjamin Netanyahu. Past middle age but not yet old, Feldman believed he was destined to lead Israel to a greatness that wo
uld rival the achievements of King David, his namesake. The stress of office had not yet grayed his black hair or etched his face with deep wrinkles. He was single and often discussed in the tabloids as a womanizer, but nothing scandalous had ever been made to stick.

  Prime Minister Feldman was immensely popular at home. He was a hardliner, appealing to a call for better security and a more nationalist government. His position was that you were either a supporter of Israel, or you were against Israel—in his mind there was no middle ground, no room for compromise. The Jewish Nation had to be strong to be secure. And that strength required a deeper level of military and political support from the United States.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” Ellison said. “A situation has developed here that is most inconvenient. If it continues unchecked, the publicity will be detrimental to our mutual goals.”

  “Before you go on,” Feldman said, “I should tell you that Yossi Winer is with me. We were discussing another matter, but since I value Yossi’s opinion, I asked him to stay.”

  “Very good. I’m sure your National Security Adviser will have a strong interest in this… problem.”

  “Hello Mr. Ellison,” Yossi greeted. “The Prime Minister speaks very highly of you. I look forward to meeting in person.”

  “As do I.”

  “Perhaps when the fighter aircraft are delivered?”

  “Certainly. But now we must focus on another issue.” He went on to explain the top-secret information that had been illegally accessed. He summarized the efforts to contain the leak but avoided mention of the two murders. Finally, Ellison concluded with the recent revelation that Peter Savage had somehow gained access to the files. Whether he had copies under his control or not remained unknown.

  “The information, by itself, is of little value to anyone other than twentieth century historians,” Yossi said.

  “Historians don’t hack into top-secret government files,” Ellison retorted.

  “I suppose you are right,” Feldman interjected. “So, I assume you need help from Israeli Intelligence?”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Ellison replied. “We need to know how the deleted emails were recovered from Emma Jones’ account, and who did it. But more importantly, we must know the disposition of those files.”

  “I’m quite certain our cyber security unit can trace the activity related to the email account,” Yossi explained. “But if files were downloaded it will be unlikely, perhaps impossible, to determine who has access to them now.”

  “Not impossible,” Ellison said. “The files are coded with a unique lock that records both the computer IP address and the Internet service provider address—basically a tracking cookie. I will provide you with this log.”

  “Why not use resources in your country?” Feldman asked. “After all, you are saying the information was illegally acquired. I would think your FBI could solve this for you rather quickly.”

  “It’s too risky, Mr. Prime Minister. If this information is somehow leaked, we will have a real mess. It would only take one whistleblower—someone like Edward Snowden—and our plans will be ruined. Can you imagine the public outcry if the truth were revealed?”

  The line was silent and Ellison believed that David was doing just that, imagining what could happen if he refused to help. “Yes, I see your point. Yossi will have a team ready to track down the wayward path of this data file. Send the log and other relevant information to my email and I’ll make certain Yossi gets it without delay.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ellison said. “Now, the second part of my request.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. We need to be prepared to shut this down. In a little more than two weeks, the House and Senate will vote to override Taylor’s veto. When Abraham Schuman secures that win in Congress, he will be unstoppable, sweeping the election in November. If the information leaks out after the election, it won’t matter—it will be too late.”

  Yossi understood the implied message. “I presume you have operators there who can handle this situation. Why do you need assistance from the Israeli government?”

  “Of course,” Ellison said. “I am simply trying to mitigate risk. You see, my operators are all former military. If one or more were to be injured or worse… well, they will be easily identified through prints and dental records. That’s a loose end we cannot afford.”

  “I see,” Yossi replied.

  The Prime Minister cleared his throat. “So, let’s be candid, shall we? After all, this is a secure line. I have already taken on substantial risk by instructing one of our Mossad operators to plant those Iranian grenades in New York a couple months ago. That request came from Ms. Meyers, if I remember correctly.”

  Angela cleared her throat. “Yes, you are correct, Mr. Prime Minister. It was a useful measure to bolster opposition to Iran and strengthen popular support for Israel leading up to the vote on the Israeli Security Act. As you know, the Act was authored by Speaker Schuman.”

  “I see. And now you are asking if I will send a team to help you again. Agents who will not be easily identified by their fingerprints. Agents who are unknown to your law enforcement and government. Am I correct?”

  Ellison exchanged a quick glance with Angela Meyers, and a small grin formed. “Yes. You are correct. It is merely an insurance policy, and I suspect your National Security Adviser would agree that this is a prudent measure.”

  Yossi didn’t accept this simplistic explanation. “You would not require a covert team if there was no risk. We must consider this request with the understanding that these are loyal Israeli lives we are placing in jeopardy.”

  “True. However, Mossad operators accept risk every day. Israel has many enemies—your country is surrounded by hostile nations. The Prime Minister and I share a dream of a time, very soon, when Israel will be so powerful as to vanquish your enemies for good.”

  “Yossi and I will work out the details,” Feldman said, ending the debate. “I’ll provide Yossi’s email contact. Please coordinate directly through him. Now, I presume that is all?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. I’ll work out the details with Mr. Winer. And I promise to see you in Tel Aviv when the aircraft are delivered.”

  Chapter 12

  Washington, D.C.

  April 19

  Whenever he was in town, Abraham Schuman arrived at his office at 7:00 a.m. sharp. Today was no different. Dressed in a dark gray suit with white shirt and vivid blue necktie, he entered the outer office just as an antique American tall-case clock chimed the hour.

  Although Schuman had several thousand square feet of rented office space nearby to manage his Presidential campaign, he seldom set foot there, preferring the familiarity and luxury of his Congressional office.

  The outer office was understandably large—as Speaker of the House, Schuman was afforded an expansive piece of prime real estate. A hallway extended to the side where a half-dozen offices were located for his staffers. Two Chippendale sofas occupied the center of the room, facing each other with a cherry-wood coffee table separating them. The walls were paneled in oak that had taken a honey-colored patina over the years.

  The office walls were adorned with original oil paintings of various historic battles from the War of 1812 up through the First Gulf War—gifts from the largest employer in Schuman’s district.

  Angela greeted her boss. She looked like she hadn’t slept more than a few hours, which was pretty close to the truth. Her eyes were puffy and her clothes wrinkled from napping on the sofa in her office.

  “Morning, Angela. Looks like you had a late night.”

  She faked a smile. “Good morning, Abe. Yes, very late. Some last minute complications with your energy bill,” she lied.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Nothing to worry about. A last minute trade of favors with Representative Cartwright. He promises to deliver enough votes from the left to pass the bill. I think the Senate will go along without significant m
odifications.”

  “Good. So long as you didn’t have to promise my firstborn.”

  It had been a slow but steady climb that landed Congressman Schuman second in line of Presidential succession. Abe had hired Angela Meyers to be his office manager when he was first elected to represent California’s 17th District, encompassing a large portion of the south bay area just north of Silicon Valley. Abe’s hair was beginning to gray when he first entered office; now that process was completed. The bulge around his waist was a direct result of too many meals at Capitol Hill eateries. He was especially fond of late nights at the Dubliner Grill, or enjoying a slice of aged beef and fine French Bordeaux at the Capitol Grille. Naturally, his constituent donors always paid.

  Angela followed Abe into his office and prepared two lattes from the top-end Italian espresso machine built into the wet bar. While she was making the coffee drinks, Abe unloaded his brief case and fired up his computer.

  He was just checking his schedule when she placed the cups on his desk. “Senators Robinson and Putnam are meeting with me at 10:00 a.m.?”

  “Yes, here in your office to discuss their rider on the appropriations bill. And you have lunch with Becky Winwood—she represents Winwood, Stuart and Kolb, a lobbyist for several of the major investment banking firms.”

  Abe rolled his eyes at the statement. He didn’t like the way that the large Wall Street firms played the game and believed their reckless and greedy actions had directly cost his constituents—and Americans across the country—an incalculable amount of money.

  “And what is she asking for? Or need I ask?”

  “As you know, President Taylor has been pushing for banking reform. So far, it has just been speeches, but he has promised to introduce a bill by the end of summer if Congress doesn’t take meaningful action first.”

  “Let me guess. Ms. Winwood wants me to block any bill from moving forward in the House.”

  “We’ve been over this, Abe. You need the support of Wall Street without appearing to be in their pocket. And the big firms are promising to make sizeable donations to your super PAC.”