“God is a force, not a being to be reasoned with. You ask God for something, and even if it’s bad, you will get it. If you are a man who can tap into the power of God, God will concede and give you what you want. For you it may be power. You have tremendous influence.”
“Power is not what I asked God for, Rebbe. Freedom is what I asked God for,” Daniel Carlson said.
“That you must save for Passover,” the Rebbe said with a smile. Carlson nodded.
“I know who you are, Daniel Carlson. Daniel was a man from the Lion’s den. You know we believe that a person’s name has much to do with the luck he will have. You were destined to be alone in the den. With God’s help you will be safe.” Daniel felt tears well up in his eyes. The Rebbe hit a nerve.
“I’m not that religious. I’m not religious Rebbe,” Daniel confessed.
“I know. You are confused. You are a Jew in your heart but you are raised as something else.”
“Even with all the oppression the Jewish people have suffered, you are at peace with whom you are,” Daniel said.
“I am what I am,” the Rebbe replied.
“I am not what I am. My mother was a Jew. Her family was oppressed in Kiev. When they escaped, they gave up on their Judaism.”
“Except you. You cannot?”
“I’ve studied quietly for years. I feel I am a Jew. But I can’t, I really can’t be a Jew.”
“You mean you can’t openly admit you are a Jew?”
“Yes,” Daniel admitted.
“Then, I offer you this, Daniel of the Lion’s den. Every Jew must do the minimum. The very minimum is: lay tefilin; keep kosher; and, observe the Sabbath. As President, we cannot reasonably expect to observe even the minimum. But there are three things you must do instead. You can: say the Shema in the morning, the anthem of our faith. ‘Hear oh Israel the Lord our God, the Lord is One.’ Never eat pork. And lastly, you must tell your son that you are a Jew, before you die.”
Daniel felt the tears build in his eye. This was doable. All that Daniel was, he wasn’t who he really was suppose to be. Did his intelligence and his talent make the presidency a guarantee, his destiny? Daniel blessed the Rebbe to himself. The Rebbe gave Daniel a gift. He was given the chance to be a Jew in the only way that he could at this point, and for the man he was. The Rebbe then gave Daniel Carlson a dollar, as a sign of charity. It was a signature trait of the Rebbe, and signified the closing of the meeting. But even a perceptive man like the Rebbe didn’t realize what pain the man Daniel Carlson really felt.
CHAPTER 24
A Presidential Auction
His enemies met in the bright sun. Bright enough to illuminate all shadows of trickery, except for one. The one in Kingston, Jamaica. The streets teemed with natives. Only the brave locals dare to walk through the crowded downtown Kingston. Some carried machetes in hand for protection.
General Speiser (Ret.) was smuggled inside a sack in the back of a jeep. The jeep pulled down a narrow alley, and the General was delivered and removed from the sack inside of the building. Others followed moments later into the building, each allowed access through the warehouse door, steel reinforced and guarded by a large Jamaican man, standing about two hundred eighty, with no teeth, and wearing a plaid shirt untucked.
President Carlson didn’t know about this meeting. Today, Daniel Carlson stood in the Oval Office wondering if he should go to an election party for the former Mayor of Washington, Harold Washington, who was seeking election after he was removed from office after spending time in prison for smoking cocaine. The invitation said, “Put Washington, back in Washington.” That was his only qualification that President Carlson thought Washington had—a good name. Carlson thought his enemies would say that same thing about his initials and his campaign slogan. Washington still, very popular and unqualified, was caught wearing a toshiki earlier in the day. This outfit captured Daniel’s thoughts all day. What an obvious ploy by Washington to associate himself with black America. As if the fact he weren’t black enough. It would be tantamount to Daniel dressing in colonial attire for an election dinner. Daniel wouldn’t go to the reception, it would be the right thing to do because the cameras would be there.
The steel reinforced doors slammed behind the last visitor. Inside the warehouse it was dark, and it didn’t appear to be in a Caribbean country. Some light streaked through an easterly standing window. But the window sealed out all sound. Each member could hear the clacking and scuffling of the other shoes.
Everyone stood in a circle. They were all hot and tense. Even the two men standing outside the circle had shotguns resting on their shoulders facing up. Matumba was the organizer of the meeting. He was very dark skinned. He didn’t live in Jamaica. He was raised somewhere on the Continent of Africa. He dressed in all white because it was so damn hot, it would’ve been stupid.
No one else wanted to identify themselves. No one expected anyone to either. The meeting wasn’t exactly a power breakfast where the members were to make connections among themselves. It cost twenty thousand American dollars cash to get into this warehouse. Everyone turned over their envelopes filled with the cash to one of the men with a shotgun. When everyone anteed their amount, it was placed in a sack and brought to the other side of the warehouse.
“Welcome,” Matumbo said. Everyone mumbled a greeting except for the General and the Italian. They caught each other’s eyes when they realized they actually had something in common.
“How does this work?” The General demanded to know.
“I will explain,” he said in a thick Southwest African accent. Pleasant, yet difficult to understand, until the ears got acclimated. “I have information. The information you’ve all been fighting for. As one of your American authors has said, General, ‘Information is power!’ And perhaps you’ll be the one who gets it, to do as you please.”
“Como’ conocere’?”
“You’ll know, because I’m selling a clue. And the clue leads you to the answer who lives on this island.” Matumbo paused for effect. That’s the way he liked it. He sought to increase the drama.
Matumbo was an intelligence broker. He obtained information and sold it. A mini-CIA salesman. Part of his love for the game was being a spectator; watching the mice scramble for the second clue. “That is the only way to ensure that the party that wins the acumentelligence will not be killed by the others ten steps after he leaves the auction.”
“This is bullshit. You should’ve left it in another place. Buried it or something.”
“You trust me enough to hand over cash and I’ll tell you where to go?” Matumbo knew with confidence that this alternative when reflected upon would pose to be dangerous for all parties. The intelligencia doesn’t stand a rung above living off of the well-paid information obtained by another.
“We barely know who you are, Matumbo. How will we know where to find you if we are unsatisfied with the product you produced?”
A smile greater than the one Matumbo painted on before shone, contrasted against his skin. “You all know my reputation. I’ve dealt with most of you before. But, if that doesn’t satisfy a few of you, then I will give you this.”
Matumbo accepted a six by eight-inch piece of clear plexiglass from one of his guards. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket. Holding the plexiglass to the light, he wiped all smudges and debris from it. He placed the handkerchief back in his pocket. Matumbo held the object up for all parties to see, as if he were preparing a magic trick. He moistened the plexiglass with his breath, and then rolled his fingerprints on the glass. He kissed the glass, leaving his DNA. He placed that glass on an envelope sitting on the floor, in the middle of their circle.
“I assure you gentlemen that you’ll be quite happy with the product my organization has discovered. You will have your President to control. He’s idealistic, but is a self-preservationist like all leaders of the world. Or if he i
s not, then you can destroy him with the product. A product like that is worth $500,000.”
“Five-fifty.” The Italian said quickly.
“Who’s the Italian going to sell it to, the President himself?” Some voice was heard.
“We have to worry about the General too. He’s a goddamned American,” another man stated.
“The President has a right to bid as well, gentlemen. But I don’t think the General is bidding for the President.” Matumbo replied.
“This is bullshit,” the Palestinian said reaching down into his briefcase. Both guards lowered their guns toward the headdress.
“Six hundred thousand,” the Palestinian operative said as he flaunted the cash in the brief case to all.
“Seven million dollars,” the tiny Chinaman stated boldly. “End of negotiations.” He paused for effect, and all attention was on him. “Did anyone bring that much?” No one answered. Matumbo was stunned with excitement. For a moment Matumbo was frightened the information wouldn’t be worth that amount. But he proceeded confidently and did not let that thought slip into his mind again. After seconds of silence, Matumbo took the money from the Chinaman, and disclosed the location of his product. People would now die.
CHAPTER 25
Homicide
The room had the same feel to it. The eeriness, not apparent, kept Gina Rock moving forward. The office was bright; very bright, the light pointed outward toward her. As Gina neared, her eyes focused on the desk she bought her husband when he graduated from West Point Military Academy, and accepted his first job with the CIA more than twenty years ago. The desk was long with a light-colored wood. Chips of circular disks were configured under the heavy coat of lacquer that designed a picture of clouds into the desk. She looked up, not noticing Roger Rock sitting in the chair behind the desk. Hundreds of books were shelved neatly behind him. Some of them she noticed she had read years before. Reading what her husband read kept something in common in their marriage. She felt connected to a man that was all about creating and keeping secrets.
Gina Rock was proud of her husband. Living with him was adventurous. If Daniel Carlson were to win a second term in the White House, Rock would be assured a position anywhere he wanted. Reaching that goal was Rock’s big struggle, and it was outwardly apparent.
Life in general was viewed as one big struggle to Rock. His mind’s eye saw the despair and internalized angst with its view. His chest pained with each deep breath, when his mind questioned his worthiness to serve a president. He was Peter Pan, promoted to his level of incompetence. Gina knew all this, but never discussed it with her husband, for fear he might break down and not recover. Rock always would trick his mind to tread, and avoid drowning, but he could only tread so long. The damning of the follower who tried to lead.
Gina finally focused on the chair behind the desk. She couldn’t deny any longer that Rock was sitting there, his head covered by a shadow, a gun inches under his hand. She knew he was gone. Tilting a lamp upward, his head fully illuminated, was painted and drenched with blood. Lifeless herself, she ignored her emotions.
Gina looked down on the desk and saw a note. She picked it up, and read it. After shaking her head for a moment, she opened the desk draw. Inside was a lighter. With a flick, the note was in flames. Disappointed with its content, Gina never wanted to read it again—nor have anyone else. The smoke, acute, thick, and black, rose to the ceiling. Gina waived her hand quickly to and fro. It got into her eyes, and they welled with tears. Gina wiped them away, reflected for a moment, and then kissed her husband on the forehead. Her job wasn’t complete, however.
Gina dutifully ran into the bathroom, and grabbed a towel. She wiped away some of the blood that splattered around Rock’s head—made the whole scene sinless. Gina retrieved the gun that lied inches underneath Rock’s hand. She left the house, and called Peter Spark from a neighbor’s house. As she waited at the neighbor’s house, she was cold and numb. She didn’t comprehend her loss. Staring into her lap, she wasn’t dressed in business attire, she was slightly embarrassed. Crazy thoughts screamed through her mind.
Yesterday’s conversation that Gina overheard from her husband in the study. Gina pictured him pacing, with the phone fixed to his ear. Rock yelled. He sounded desperate. Gina knew not to go down and hear better what was happening. She picked up the phone, and heard a voice she didn’t recognize. Gina heard, “Get your message,” before she clicked over to the second line to make a call. She did hear her husband answer distinctly from the study, “The next person that shoots me in the face will have to sew it up!” It meant nothing to her. He always spoke in some dark code.
Gina was acclimated to Rock’s heady codes and political lingo in his Washington circle. She had no idea what he meant. Over and over in her head she picked apart each word. There was no doubt what she heard. Who would shoot her husband in the face? This could not be literal, as she thought then. Not completely.
Gina didn’t understand who would shoot her husband in the face until she read the note by his dead body. She would never forget the words on the note, and she knew what she would have to do with them. A passive supportive political wife, she would be no more.
To Gina Rock’s dismay, the initial investigation to the White House revealed a suicide. But she would have words with the President and out of respect she knew he would put the proper spin on her husband’s death.
Alan Carlson sat at one of counsel’s table as Brutowski walked in holding a briefcase. Alan’s head turned toward him.
“How is it that it just so happens that you were the only guy available for this A.T.L.A. competition?” Alan said.
“You’re lucky I signed up late, you could’ve been stuck with Satzman,” Brutowski replied.
“I’m not complaining. I’m just wondering—we’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately and I want to know if it’s by design.”
“Shutup. Do you want to win this thing or not?”
“Yeah. Did you look over the case?”
“Yes. We’re prosecuting, right?” Alan nodded in response.
“Let’s see. David I. Jackson, accused of bank robbery with a weapon. He faces up to twenty years in jail and up to ten thousand dollars in fines.”
“The problem is the robber wrote a note but the handwriting expert can’t say that it was Jackson’s handwriting,” Alan said.
“He supposedly has an alibi witness too. Who’s dead—committed suicide, but was deposed before he croaked himself.”
“He’s a lying sack of shit, who has an armed robbery conviction himself,” Alan added.
“Speaking of that, what do you think of that guy, Rock?”
“Yeah, I’m totally depressed about it. He was a good guy.”
“Are the papers right? Suicide?” Brutowski craftily directed Alan into revealing information.
“That’s what they say.”
“Yeah, but you know how it is. What does your father think?”
“He’s not sure yet.”
“Why? A man working his way up in the White House has no reason to commit suicide,” Brutowski responded.
“It might have had something to do with an affair he was having.”
“Really?” Brutowski sensed he was getting something he could use. “With whom?”
“It’s just a rumor. I really shouldn’t say.”
“Oh just say.”
Alan didn’t know why he would say, but he trusted Brutowski. “Melissa Spark.”
“No way. I don’t believe that. The Chief of Staff’s wife?”
“It’s only what I heard. Don’t repeat it.”
Brutowski said he wouldn’t. They continued to work on the case of United States v. Jackson.
That night at 2 a. m. Marcus Brutowski drove to a college bar hang out in New Haven. At a phone booth behind the bar he placed a call. It was pouring rain and it was chi
lly. Still Brutowski felt the call was urgent.
“Good morning, General.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s Brutowski, sir. He might have had an affair with Peter Spark’s wife.”
“That’s excellent. How did he tell you that?”
“Just in passing. I believe him. You should check it out.”
“Good work. I’ll be in touch soon.” The phone went dead. Brutowski put down the receiver with relief.
Daniel sat at his desk in the Oval Office two mornings after Rock’s death by a gruesome bullet through the cheek. Daniel pulled out a piece of stationery and a pen, and began to write. He wrote a eulogy of tears. He felt pain and the mystery of Rock’s death was a claw that clamped on his brain.
Daniel ate a rice paper message that morning which told him that Rock was in trouble. Daniel couldn’t understand why the facts were not clearer. Rock had written something at his desk—there was fresh ink on his hands, and fresh pressings on the office blotter. But Gina swore there was no note.
The FBI initially told President Carlson that the angle of the bullet was inconsistent with suicide but the powder on Rock’s shooting hand was consistent with a theory of suicide. President knew Roger Rock had problems, but he couldn’t believe he would take his own life. Rock had an air of a desperate man, but he was a veteran of the Washington fray. He had a proper knowledgeable blend of legal and political issues necessary to be a White House fixer. He was just a guy in over his head, and under the thumb of Peter.
Gina Rock dropped her car off at the Metro station near her Virginia home. She wouldn’t drive to the Hill that morning. The weather was hot and rainy. She wore a brown overcoat and dark glasses with large frames, and a scarf to protect her hair from the humidity.
By Silent Majority Page 26