by David Pepper
But where Abacus had rolled out its new technology was far more intriguing: eastern Ohio, Cincinnati, Peoria, Tulsa, Tucson, and toss-up districts in California, New York and Washington, among others.
No one knew America’s swing districts better than Stanton. He had targeted them for the past three cycles. And here they were, listed one at a time as part of Abacus’ footprint. This mysterious company had managed to place its voting machines in the exact terrain Republicans needed to take the House majority.
Stanton placed the papers back in the manila folder, smiling as he did so. No wonder Ariens sent that package.
* * *
PHILADELPHIA
Stanton usually traveled with a flock of aides. Sometimes they were needed and helpful, sometimes not at all necessary. Either way, an entourage projected power, especially useful when television cameras followed in tow.
But for his visit to Abacus, except for his driver, he traveled alone. Too much uncertainty.
Abacus sat on the edge of an industrial park in northeastern Philadelphia. A dreary location, made even more miserable by the pouring rain of late spring.
They arrived at 10:00 a.m. on the nose.
“I’ll be back in about an hour.”
His driver grunted back.
Stanton walked into the main entrance, confident as always. The grungy exterior disguised what was actually a new, attractive lobby. Even the corporate logo behind the reception desk differed from the stale one he remembered.
“I’m Congressman Stanton. I was told to ask for Mr. Miller when I arrived. Is he here?”
“Yes, he is,” the receptionist responded, clearly expecting the visit. “We have a room arranged for your visit. Follow me.”
She walked him back through a hallway. Trailing her by a few feet, Stanton eyed her shapely legs up and down, something he did dozens of times daily in the halls of Congress. A man of his stature could get away with almost anything. Or at least he always had.
She led him to a large conference room, which boasted the technology and furnishings of a cutting-edge enterprise. Whoever had invested in Abacus had thrown in a whole lot of dough.
Moments later, a tall, blonde man—looking more like a tennis instructor than a company executive—bounded into the room. He reached for Stanton’s hand, shook it energetically, and laughed out loud.
A grim aide—short, stout, darker features—followed behind.
“Greetings, Congressman. We are honored by the visit of one of America’s most important leaders. I am Gustav Miller.”
“I knew your old leadership well. They were good supporters of mine, and as I read about all the changes here, I was eager to see what was happening,” Stanton said. “I’m so glad to see that things are improving. This is an important corporation for Philadelphia.”
“Thank you. We agree!”
“Looks like you guys are overhauling this place from top to bottom. Tell me more about what you are doing,” Stanton asked.
Miller clapped his hands, sat down and reached under the table; a panel on the rear wall descended silently to display a large flat-screen monitor. The new Abacus logo and moniker appeared on the screen.
“We thought you’d never ask,” Miller said.
The brief slideshow walked through the history of Abacus, the updated technology, the new vision for the company. All the technical bells and whistles of a modern corporate presentation were on full display.
Stanton politely nodded through the presentation, but as it ended, he jumped into his questions.
“Mr. Miller, who is DMI, and why did they choose to invest in Abacus?”
Miller clapped his hands enthusiastically.
“DMI is a group of investors looking to buy companies that are aging and struggling, but that DMI has determined will shine again if they are modernized, with better management. Abacus is a perfect example of what we want to do.”
“Has DMI made any other acquisitions yet?”
“Not yet. I have been brought in to turn this company around, so I’m not an expert on their other activity. But to my knowledge, nothing yet.”
“What part of the market are you focused on?”
Miller quickly explained.
“For the past ten years, Abacus’ niche has been in the more rural, less affluent counties across the country.”
Stanton smiled at this glass half-full summary of Abacus losing almost all of its large-market accounts. Sounded like too many pollsters he knew.
“Our strategy is to help those counties upgrade at an affordable price, and then to expand from there. We haven’t won every competition, but have successfully placed our new products in many of our old counties, and a fair share of new ones.”
“We couldn’t help but notice that you seem to concentrate in certain districts. Is there a reason for that?”
Miller paused.
“Our cluster strategy is working well for us,” he said. “Word of mouth to neighboring counties has helped us make our case about our new products. And logistically, it’s far easier to service our products if we have them concentrated in certain areas. We don’t have the resources to expand everywhere, so it makes the most sense to build our portfolio nearby our current accounts.”
Stanton nodded as if satisfied by the answer. But it didn’t add up.
“Can I take a quick tour?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
They walked from room to room, continuing their conversation. Every element was new, modern, high-tech.
The consummate politician, Stanton reached out and shook hands with each person he met. But the operation was less crowded than he expected. Those he greeted responded quietly, politely. Not as outgoing as Miller. Much more like Miller’s quiet sidekick.
In a room labeled “Research Wing,” Miller walked Stanton through the operation of an individual Abacus machine. It looked a lot like the Diebold machines he and Ariens had inspected on a company tour several years back.
The warehouse area of the facility stored hundreds of voting machines stacked in long lines. As Stanton scanned the planned shipments, he again recalled his Diebold tour—that facility had boasted a far larger warehouse and loading dock. There, machines had been lined up as far as he could see. This was a fraction of that size, and much of the warehouse was empty.
That memory begged the question: “What’s your strategy to compete with companies like Diebold, which seem so dominant?”
“So far, we are able to offer a similar technology at lower prices,” Miller answered. “That’s what has allowed us to win the smaller counties, which are very price sensitive.”
“And how are you able to keep your prices so low?” Stanton responded, sure that Diebold, with its scale, would be able to make equivalent machines at a far lower cost.
“We are intense about efficiency,” Miller responded.
“I see,” Stanton responded, grinning skeptically. Again, it didn’t add up.
After an hour, Stanton walked back toward the entrance. Always on the hunt, he hoped to make small talk with the receptionist as he left, but she was no longer at the front desk.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Miller.”
The two men shook hands and Stanton walked out the door.
* * *
“Jim, keep that stop between us.”
“Of course, Congressman.”
On the way out of the run-down neighborhood, as they passed old warehouses and empty buildings, Stanton stared out the window.
From his earliest days, he prided himself as a keen judge of people. As both a recruiter of candidates across the country and the leader of a party caucus, the most important skill he called upon each day involved sizing up people he barely knew, quickly and accurately.
Lies, feints, uncomfortable looks, tics, and the like. Like a good poker pla
yer, he picked up on them all. So as he drove away from the site, he reviewed who and what he had seen.
First, “Miller” was a born salesman. Not a bad thing for a company trying to revive itself.
But this salesman had been disingenuous throughout their meeting. The sweeping DMI mission he described didn’t square with the fact that they acquired only one company. Abacus could never keep costs below Diebold as he assured. And his explanation for why they concentrated in certain areas was utter nonsense.
For the entire hour, this man had repeatedly lied to one of Washington’s most powerful people. Without hesitation.
But Miller clearly served as the front man of a broader charade. Behind a façade built to impress, Abacus appeared to be largely hollow within. If they even visited the headquarters at all, most would stop at the fancy conference room. Maybe walk through the research wing. But they would likely never see the back end of the operation.
And that empty warehouse told the real story of Abacus.
There would be no point to invest so lavishly in the more public areas of the building but then invest so little in the inventory of actual machines. Likewise, there was no reason not to sell far beyond the locations they had selectively targeted, especially with their cutthroat prices.
The ornate entrance and rapid investment in new technology meant that a deep-pocketed investor was bankrolling the surge of activity at Abacus. But the limited shipment meant that the investor wasn’t eager to make those dollars back.
And one other aspect stuck out.
Miller obviously did not hail from the United States. He had a strong Scandinavian accent of some sort—Finnish or Swedish. The woman who greeted him barely spoke, but he had detected a slight accent when she did, just as with Miller’s sidekick. Of the others he greeted, they either said nothing or, if they did, they spoke with foreign accents as well.
This old Philly company, positioned to steer the outcome of elections across America, was run by foreigners.
* * *
Kazarov first became fascinated by naval warfare as a youngster. In particular, submarine warfare, Cold War-style.
Unlike most Russian children, it wasn’t the actual hardware that fascinated him. It was the great captains, their strategies, and their tactics. He refined his study of them as he built his empire.
American and Soviet submarines spent years and traveled thousands of miles hunting one another at close range—tracking, trailing, passing, and circling one another. At any moment, one misstep meant disaster. One miscommunication among adversaries—one perceived threat, one hostile move—could trigger a disastrous sequence of events leading to mutual destruction.
While these submarines did not communicate with one another directly, they detected each other’s every move. Each captain’s most important skill, therefore, involved perfectly interpreting his adversary’s every maneuver, while using his own maneuvers to clearly communicate his intentions (so long as they were not hostile). This symbiotic dance of maneuvers and indirect communication, of signaling and interpreting intentions, kept each hull intact and both crews safe.
Kazarov conducted that dance now.
“He doesn’t believe most of what you are telling him,” Kazarov told Andersson the morning after the congressman’s visit. “You can see it through his expressions, especially when your lies are most blatant.”
As the politician toured the Abacus facility, cameras had captured his every step and recorded his every word. Kazarov replayed the videos two or three times, sizing up the visitor.
“He walked through the front door of Abacus already suspicious of wrongdoing. He left certain of it.”
Andersson reddened, sheepish that his performance was so transparent.
“I am sorry. What do we do?”
Kazarov lit a cigarette, drawing deep puffs and exhaling slowly, a sign that he was weighing a variety of options.
Stanton was a serious figure, powerful enough to take down Abacus single-handedly. But unlike Ariens, assassinating Stanton would invite so much heat that the Abacus plan would surely unravel. Kazarov was essentially powerless to stop him.
But Stanton’s visit did not signal hostile intent, at least not yet. He came alone. Knowing he was being lied to, he did not respond verbally. He simply observed and questioned, taking it all in. He too was getting a read. He walked away pensively. For now, he was keeping the torpedo doors closed.
Certainly, Stanton had reasons to oppose his plan. Most Americans in his position would immediately take steps to stop it, just as Ariens had.
But Kazarov also knew enough about Stanton to know he had reasons, compelling reasons, to support it.
Too much was at stake to leave this to guesswork.
“He will be torn on what to do,” Kazarov replied. “We will follow him every hour of every day to make sure he comes to the right decision.”
Chapter 26
YOUNGSTOWN: 143 days after the election
Woodsfield, Ohio—When Congressman Lee Kelly lost his re-election bid in a surprise upset last November, Ernie Rogers, the long-time chairman of Monroe County, immediately knew something was wrong.
“It just didn’t add up,” Rogers said.
It turns out, Rogers understood his own county’s voters better than the computer program that systematically eliminated votes—Democratic votes—from the Monroe County election returns.
And Monroe County isn’t the only place where this occurred.
An in-depth investigation by the Youngstown Vindicator found that one voting equipment company—Abacus—aggressively positioned itself to tabulate the results in the most competitive districts in the country. And in 27 of those districts, including two Congressional districts in Ohio, thousands of Democratic votes were systematically eliminated from the vote count. The eliminated votes impacted the outcome in many, if not all, of those races.
I bobbed in my chair as I reviewed my best story in years. It was finally coming together.
The article walked through every painstaking detail: Abacus’ aggressive effort to position itself in swing districts across the country. The statistical analysis of the results in those counties, proving how their machines eliminated votes from key congressional elections. The contrast between Abacus counties and non-Abacus counties. The difference between mailed-in ballot drop-offs and in-person drop-offs.
I quoted three people.
Jones on the certainty of the data: “There is no natural voting behavior that could explain these results; it can only be explained by the machines themselves.”
Speaker Marshall’s press aide: “We are proud of our victory last November, and reject any allegations that it was anything but the will of the American people.”
And Johnson, the Abacus executive: “We were not involved in Abacus last year, and cannot speak to Abacus operations during last year’s elections.”
Our attorneys had advised us to simply stick to the facts. To head off lawsuits, they instructed, avoid loaded words about motive, such as “rigging,” “fixed,” or the like. To me, this watered down my scoop, but my editors didn’t mind. The facts alone, described neutrally, made for the bombshell.
The end of the story explained that Kelly died in a car crash a few months after his election, but didn’t mention that he was looking into Abacus. Again, too risky.
“Jack, that’s a hell of a story,” Andres said as we wrapped up the final edit. “You’ve never fooled me. I knew there was something left in that old rusty tank of yours.”
“Don’t count on it. This thing dropped in my lap.”
But my wide grin made it clear I was bluffing. This was a big scoop, and I was damn proud of it.
So proud I called Scott to fill him in before he saw it in the paper.
“Dad, that’s great news. Sounds like a hell of a story.”
“It’s a biggi
e, and it’s what’s had me working so hard these past few months.”
“I’m excited for you. Maybe this is your big break.”
The words themselves marked an improvement from our last call, but his flat tone made it clear he still wasn’t sold.
* * *
The Vindicator plastered the story across Sunday’s front page. And the rest of the story filled one-third of the paper’s front section. To make the most compelling case possible, maps, charts, diagrams and the like accompanied the 85,000 characters of text. The editorial board penned a full-page editorial, calling for a federal investigation and urging reform to the deeply flawed election and districting laws that allowed such a result to happen.
The next day, the front page of major papers across the country ran with it. Even the New York Times, Washington Post and LA Times credited the Vindicator for our investigation. The Associated Press’ Ohio reporter, an old friend, summarized our findings in a story that ran in papers across the country.
By Monday evening, national cable news outlets jumped all over the story. On MSNBC and CNN that evening, I patiently walked through our findings with over-caffeinated talking heads. For the first time in years, I went to work thinking about my appearance—even bought a sports coat and tie for the occasion. The next morning, I spent an entire hour on NPR.
Everyone asked the same two questions: Was this an intentional act to fix the results, or simply an error of historic proportions? And who was running Abacus at the time all this happened?
Based on lawyers’ advice, I had to dodge the first question. “People can draw their own conclusion from our reporting.”
On the second, all I could say was “we are investigating that further.”
Jones also made a number of appearances, walking through the data and what it meant. Even Rogers showed up on national TV, now a momentary media sensation with his life story, authentic personality, and colorful answers.
But I had only a few days to enjoy it all.
As with everything in Washington, the reaction split along partisan lines.
Democrats celebrated the welcome news that interrupted their long losing streak. They jumped on the opportunity, demanding a special prosecutor investigate it all. Minority Leader Williams, flanked by dozens of others, stood on the steps of the Capitol on Tuesday morning calling for immediate congressional hearings. I watched it from the newsroom.