Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  “Pia,” Alan said, a father’s sharpness in his voice, “this is not the plan we discussed.”

  Pia held Smith’s gaze.

  “All right,” Smith said. “You want to be direct, I can appreciate that. Here it is: a bipartisan group is working on legislation to ban the use of American military expertise by foreign entities. They’re calling it the Mercenary Restrictions Act, MRA.”

  “Why?”

  “The American taxpayers paid for training and expertise of these veterans to defend the USA, not Lithuania or Uruguay or Oman.”

  “Defense contractors and airplane manufacturers have been doing it for ages.”

  “We have strict controls on the technology those companies sell to any given regime,” Senator Smith said. “But when the best fighting force in the world becomes a militia for hire, well, that’s a different story.”

  “Militia for hire?” Pia snapped. “Is that what you think of my people?”

  “It’s not me. The group behind the bill.”

  “So they intend to block Sabel Security from winning foreign business?”

  “The people pushing this legislation are concerned that another country, let’s say Botswana, could start a war with Zimbabwe using US citizens trained in US military tactics to advance their agenda. They say it interferes with the affairs of state.”

  “Is President Hunter behind this?” Pia asked.

  “She’s free-trade,” Smith said. “She’s taken a position against it at this time.”

  Pia turned and paced. Her father and Smith followed her a few feet behind.

  “Only two companies would be affected,” Pia said, “Sabel and Velox Deployment. What do they—”

  “Velox Deployment was specifically exempted due to national security concerns,” Smith said. “At least, they are in this draft.”

  “So the only company affected by this legislation is mine?”

  “I am merely the messenger.”

  Alan Sabel leaned back against the high end of the Canadian Memorial and folded his arms. Pia turned and regarded him.

  “You knew about this?” she asked.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” her father said.

  Carlos caught her eye from his position by the tree and nosed in the direction of Buckingham Palace. She mouthed, I know. He nodded and checked the opposite direction, then back toward the palace.

  “Who sponsored the bill?” she asked Smith.

  “Several upstart freshman representatives from both parties got it rolling.”

  “Why are you the messenger, Jeff?” Pia looked him up and down. “What’s your position on the legislation?”

  “I’ve always been there for you, Pia.” He held his hands out wide. “When you had problems in Puerto Rico, I was on the tarmac, greeting the children you so bravely saved.”

  “A few months later, your campaign portrayed you as the liberator.”

  “Your office approved those.” Smith looked to Alan.

  Pia’s eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze to her father. So many of his lectures were about the “requirement for integrity in all communications” and yet every day she learned about something else he’d neglected to communicate. She doubted he was covering up anything, it was more likely that he didn’t trust her to understand his decisions. Which was annoying, to say the least. Or, was he was afraid she would overrule him? She tapped her chin.

  She faced Smith again. “How do I stop this legislation?”

  “If you’d like me to make inquiries, I can do that quietly. First we’ll have to find a position that resonates with the voters, and then take the pulse of both parties. We’ll find a couple fringe players, one on the left and another on the right, and let them shout from the balcony, see how it plays out.”

  “Fine,” Pia said.

  She felt her face flush with anger and turned away. These politicians thought they could take advantage of her because she was young and hot headed. She’d love to teach them not to underestimate her.

  “Once we get the right message,” the senator continued, “we’ll set up a Super PAC to make voters aware of how important this issue is and where each politician stands.”

  “What’s a Super PAC?”

  “Political Action Committee with unlimited funding, but don’t worry about that part.”

  “And how much will that cost?” she asked.

  “Your father and I have worked together for many years. We’ve shepherded lots of deals beneficial to—”

  “You may leave.”

  “Excuse me?” Smith said.

  “I’m terribly sorry about Pia’s behavior, Jeff.” Alan wrapped a big arm around the senator and began walking him away. “Something’s gotten into her lately. It must be her insomnia catching up with her after all these years.”

  Their voices softened in the distance.

  Pia stared at the headlights flying by on Picadilly, her head ready to explode. She counted to ten, then counted to ten again. It didn’t do any good. She heard her father’s footsteps approaching. He stopped several yards short of her.

  Pia said, “Why did this legislation come up now?”

  “Welcome to the big leagues,” he said. “You’ve just been shaken down by the American political system. They put up legislation that will shut you down until you put up campaign contributions. Then everyone settles down. It’s the price of success.”

  “You told him I’ve taken control of my shares, that I effectively own Sabel Industries.”

  “No,” Alan said. “But the news appears to have spread like wildfire in the last forty-eight hours.”

  “This is extortion. Legislative extortion and it must be illegal.”

  “Nothing illegal about Congress passing laws. This is how the system works.”

  “No way,” she said, her voice rising hard. “I’ll find out who’s pushing this bill and throw money at anyone willing to run against them.”

  “That will take years. By then the legislation will be in place and Sabel Industries, not just Sabel Security, will be running on fumes. You stand to lose half a billion dollars the instant President Hunter signs the bill. Another billion when they turn off federal contracts with Sabel Technologies. One by one, they’ll take down our companies, Sabel Satellite, Communications, Capital, and the rest. They’ll keep coming after us until we play their game.”

  “I refuse to play. I’ll fight it. I don’t care about money.”

  Alan stepped in front of her and grabbed her arms. “It’s not about you, Pia. Look over there at Carlos. Now look at Tania. You have to lay one of them off if you fight this. You’ve grown the security division to five thousand employees. Veterans, ATF, Secret Service, FBI are lining up to work for you. But more than half of those people are deployed on foreign soil. This legislation will end those jobs overnight.”

  He loosened his grip.

  “Those are hardworking veterans,” he said. “Your employees count on their paycheck for food and rent. You can’t abandon them just because you don’t like the game.”

  Alan pushed off and headed back to the hotel alone.

  She watched him recede into the dark, hating that he was right. She did have to play the game, wretched as it was.

  Tania moved in with caution. “What the hell was that all about?”

  Pia faced her. “Catch up with Dad, and stick with him. I’m going to run an errand. Back in twenty.”

  Carlos closed in, watching the south and west.

  Tania’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Pia. Tell me it ain’t true. You’re not gonna… Hey, none of my business, but he’s such bad news in so many ways, you can not be—”

  “I’m not asking, Tania. Stay with Dad.”

  Tania’s eyes bulged and her mouth drew tight. She turned on her heel and strode into the dark.

  Pia turned to Carlos. “Let’s go this way, shall we?”

  They walked thirty yards toward Buckingham Palace, heading for a silhouette in the trees. Carlos turned left and quickened his pace,
setting himself at an angle to the profile, and zeroed in. Still twenty yards away, their target spooked and started running toward Hyde Park.

  Pia, the world-class sprinter and Olympic soccer star, ran the man down in twenty strides.

  She hooked her arm around his neck and a toe around his ankle. He flew through the air, landing on his belly and outstretched hands in the icy grass with Pia on top. A plastic dish with a microphone in the center rolled to a stop three yards away.

  With one knee in his back, she pulled her arm tight around his neck and yanked his chin off the ground. “Normally I shoot stalkers, but I’ve never seen one as well-dressed as you. Who are you?”

  The man grunted, unable to speak because of the headlock. She checked him out: tall and lean, African-American heritage, a designer suit, and expensive shoes.

  Carlos caught up and held a Glock 19 at the man’s head. “Answer the lady.”

  The man’s eyes blew open at the sight of the pistol.

  “Don’t worry,” she told him. “Handguns are illegal in England. He’s holding a Sabel Dart gun. It fires a needle filled with concentrate of Inland Taipan snake venom backed with a dose of a powerful sleeping medication. The venom causes instant flaccid paralysis lasting long enough for the sleep medication to take effect.”

  “Actually, chica,” Carlos said, “Jacob told me not to bother with darts. He said to bring hollow points.”

  “What? Damn it.” Pia bent her captive’s neck further when she looked at her agent. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  She lowered the stalker’s head. “You’ve been following me for half an hour without a formal introduction. I don’t like that. I’m only going to ask you one more time then he pulls the trigger. Who are you?”

  She loosened her grip.

  He gasped for air. “Rip Blackson. Duncan, Hyde and Koven.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Daryl Koven contemplated the power of ancient monarchies from the southern battlement of Château de Malbrouck overlooking the village of Manderen. If the president was king, then his secretaries were cardinals, and senators were dukes. Before democracy, cardinals made pompous noises and gave speeches, but the dukes fought the wars and therefore held the power.

  The castle Marthe rented for the symposium was named for John Churchill, 1st Duke of Marlborough. He made it his headquarters for two weeks in 1705, during the War of Spanish Succession. Even though the Château had been built three hundred years before the Duke arrived, it still carried his name three hundred years later. Such was the power of a duke.

  Koven smiled. He funneled hundreds of millions to senatorial campaigns. Who is the duke now, the senator—or the man who handed him the office?

  Brent Zola strolled from the Tour de la Sorcière—Tower of the Witch—and joined him on the curtain wall high above the ground.

  The two of them leaned their forearms on the parapet overlooking the valley below and admired the cold afternoon. Tucked in the northeastern corner of rural France, a mile from the German border and four miles south of Luxembourg, the château was a pile of rubble before the locals restored it and made a summer attraction out of it. A stone rectangle, the château would cover two football fields. Big enough to impress the guests, remote enough for privacy.

  Below them, a foot of snow contrasted the bare trees and covered barren farmland as far as they could see. Light gray clouds, darker and foreboding to the west, hung over them while a wintry breeze stung their cheeks.

  Koven broke their contemplation. “Our primary goal is to move Alan Sabel from Duncan’s camp to ours.”

  “I still say Pia is the key, sir.”

  “You know something.” Koven eyed his man. “What is it?”

  Zola bit his lip then faced his boss. “David discovered she owns an epic interest in Sabel Industries. More than anyone realized.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me that right away?” Koven’s voice echoed in the courtyard below them. He took a deep breath and leaned back, looking his man over, head to toe. “Did he tell you anything else?”

  Zola folded his arms and tightened his eyes and said nothing.

  “What a terrible loss.” Koven returned to the view. “I heard the police let Stearne walk.”

  “Jacob didn’t kill him.”

  “Do you work for him or me?” Koven’s voice rang the stones around them.

  Zola backed up, his hands up. “You, sir. I’m sorry, it’s just that—”

  A limousine twisted its way up the hill toward them.

  “That must be Duncan,” Koven said. “The early guests don’t arrive for a few hours, and the rest will come in the morning.”

  They jogged down the tower’s narrow stone staircase and onto the icy cobblestones. Marthe was ahead of them, struggling with the fifteen-foot iron gates wearing a heavy coat over her sheath dress. Her outfit couldn’t keep her warm, yet she worked the bolt without a word of complaint.

  Koven pitched in and yanked the heavy latch clear. Together, they swung the gate open as the limo pulled up on the other side of the bridge fifty yards away.

  Marthe smiled only when etiquette dictated, but otherwise remained intent on her immediate goals. He liked that about her most of the time, but now he wanted her graciousness to appear. He gave her a smile. She read his mind and beamed her warmest greeting across the bridge to the senior partner.

  Tom Duncan emerged, followed by two security guards. He waved and smiled, stopping to admire the view. His handsome, rugged face gave him the look of an archetypal statesman who surveyed the frontier before conquering the land. Only a few streaks of gray hair remained on his head. He turned and called out before crossing the moat. “Marthe, you’ve made a spectacular choice. This is magnificent!”

  His driver struggled with luggage on a cart designed for sidewalks while Duncan met his hosts.

  “If I were you, Marthe,” Duncan said when they embraced, “I would’ve told an interloper like me there is no room at the inn.” His laugh warmed the group. “And yet here you are as gracious a hostess as I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thank you,” Marthe said. “You’re most kind. The firm is paying for it, so technically everything here is yours. If it weren’t, I’d give it to you for making Daryl a partner. That was the most generous gift.”

  Duncan turned to Zola and put a hand on his shoulder. “France agrees with you, Brent. This castle has such a pleasant view; it seems to sweeten your mood in this heartbreaking time.”

  Zola shook his hand. “The birds like it here so much, they forgot to wing it south for the winter.”

  Koven eyed his protégé, then turned to Duncan. “Thank you for having the confidence in me to pull off the symposium, Tom. I assure you good things will come of it.” He gestured the way to the Great Room.

  Duncan took Marthe’s hand and strolled across the courtyard. “How on earth did you get this castle?”

  “I was born here. My grandmother still lives down the hill in Manderen. I came here every summer as a child.”

  “France is the luckiest country in the world, then.” To Koven, he said, “How many guests are already engaged with the firm?”

  “Exactly half are our biggest boosters,” Koven answered. “We will pair them up with the new prospects.”

  “Genius, Daryl, pure genius.” He laughed and slapped Koven on the back. Then leaned in for a confidential word. “I appreciate the work you did on the Oman deal. We had reasons to keep Velox involved in that one. But what’s done is done, right?” He paused and lowered his voice. “Just leave the Sabels to me from now on.”

  Without looking at her, Koven felt Marthe’s glare as she leaned around Duncan.

  Cloaked in the dark night, the château’s Great Hall echoed with clinking silver on china and hummed with the genteel conversations of the symposium’s early arrivals. Marthe chatted up an oil company CEO while Zola was spellbound by the founder of Jenkins Pharmaceuticals. Koven remained unengaged, his dinner untouched.

  Without warning, the c
onsequences of his ambitious plans erupted in his stomach, leaving him nauseous and dizzy.

  He excused himself.

  The Great Hall, being true to the architecture of the time, left no room for modern caterers. The chef had two tents, one for cooking, the other for serving and clearing. Koven stepped into the empty serving tent, mopping his forehead on his sleeve.

  His thoughts turned to his wife’s dark suggestion. In her naiveté, she believed they would simply kill Duncan and that would be the end of it. If only life were that simple. The very idea of killing him was a betrayal of every oath Koven had ever taken: the Boy Scouts, the Marines, and the Bar. Compounding matters was Duncan’s kindness; the man exuded good manners. He’d never said an unkind word about his partners. Even Senator Hyde, who embodied sloth and the most disgusting habits, never heard censure from Duncan. One of the few lobbyists loved on the Hill by both parties and the press, the public outcry for justice would unmask Duncan’s killers in a matter of hours. So why even entertain the idea of murder?

  Marthe pulled back the heavy plastic curtain. “Daryl, what are you doing? It’s freezing out here and Duncan is waiting to toast us.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. She pressed into him, her arms circling his waist, and laid her head on his chest.

  “I came out here to think,” he said. “I’ve decided not to go through with it. We’ve won enough victories for now. I’m a partner, the symposium is on the verge of success, I’m grateful for what we’ve achieved.” He felt her tense against him. “And you were there, making everything work. You are the reason for my success.”

  She leaned away from his body, remaining in his arms while probing his eyes with hers. “Two glasses of champagne are all it takes to get you drunk?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “On the flight over, we discussed this. When you went to bed, you were my hero. Did you wake up a trembling coward like your men in Nasiriyah? Is this how you want me to think of you from now on? You, my brave lieutenant, suddenly afraid to act?”