Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  “Jefferson Smith.”

  “That fucking loudmouth. I’ll teach him who butters his bread.” Koven turned to Zola. “Did you know about this?”

  “No sir,” Zola said. “I’ve been by your side since we met with the Three—”

  “True enough.” Koven paced to the middle of the room and back, biting his knuckle.

  Blackson looked at Zola and patted his thighs.

  “What is it?” Koven asked. “Am I tiring you? Go catch up with Paul Benning and charter a jet for him. Make sure he leaves town happy, damn it.”

  Blackson dipped his head, grabbed his overcoat, and strode out the door.

  The moment the door closed behind him, Koven spun to face Zola. “What were you thinking? You haven’t told him we talked to the Three Blondes, have you? You couldn’t be that stupid.”

  Zola turned away.

  “My god.” Koven sat in the chair facing his junior partner. He took a deep breath as Zola raised his eyes.

  “First Gottleib, now Duncan,” Zola said. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  Koven planted his feet, his hands on his knees. “What hurts me was seeing you flirting with the reporters like a schoolboy.”

  “Wha—?”

  “Don’t deny it. As soon as the camera went off, you jumped in there to reintroduce yourself. I saw you.”

  “Sir! I would never—”

  “It’s my own fault. I’ve treated you like an equal too often. It’s natural for you to envy their interest in me.” Koven rose. “Discipline in the ranks—the Marines taught me that. I’ve slipped. I never should have trusted you with so much. You weren’t ready.”

  “Sir, I’ve followed you everywhere.” Zola leaped to his feet, his hands spread wide. “I’ve done nothing disloyal. I only spoke to the news crew to make sure they knew how to get back. You know I still cover you the way I did in Nasiriyah.”

  “Times like these will test that loyalty, Brent.” Koven stared hard. “Sometimes there are things that need to be done. Difficult things. Things that will keep the unit together.”

  “I understand that, sir.”

  “With Duncan gone, every firm in the city will go after our clients. If there is one whiff of impropriety or scandal, we’re finished. We lose one client—we lose them all. And if we lose clients, we lose our livelihoods. You understand that.”

  Zola straightened. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve reconnected with your son, Philip, and you need—”

  “Flip.”

  “What’s that?” Koven asked.

  “We call him, Flip, sir.”

  “Whatever. You need to put him through college soon. That takes big resources. Especially if you believe what the Three Blondes said about his future. That means we have to protect the firm.”

  “I will do that sir.”

  “What is the biggest threat to the firm at this moment, Brent?”

  Zola thought for a moment before shaking his head.

  “Rip Blackson,” Koven said.

  Zola stepped back. “Sir, he’s no threat to—”

  “Why was he in London?”

  Zola shrugged. “Because Duncan sent him, like he said.”

  “Tom told me he gave Rip a couple days for David’s funeral.”

  Zola gulped.

  “That’s right,” Koven said. “Your good friend lied to you.”

  “I’ll speak to him. I’ll get this straightened—”

  “Don’t speak to him.” Koven moved in and poked Zola with two fingers. “You already know he lied to you.” Poke. “You can’t trust him.” Poke. “Look at his phone, read his emails, find out what he knows. If he’s planning to take the Sabels to some other firm or start his own, we need to know that before he brings down holy hell on our heads.”

  Zola paled more. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “We have $20 million sitting on the Sabel books right now. If Sabel goes to another firm, what will any accountant ask about that $20 million?”

  Zola shook his head. “He’d want to know how to categorize it.”

  “Where will that lead?” Koven watched his reaction closely. “Get your ass on Benning’s jet and get back to Washington before Rip. Break into his house, read his emails, find his texts, get his backups. We need to know everything he knows about the Sabels.”

  “But I wouldn’t do—”

  “You have to. Your choice is between putting Philip through college—and Blackson. Where do your loyalties lie?”

  “Yeah. Guess so.” Zola tightened his face and nodded. He clenched his fists and hunched his shoulders. “OK, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t see what you can do. Make it happen.”

  Zola snapped a salute, turned away, and stuck one arm into his coat sleeve.

  “Brent,” Koven said, “you were the last one to speak to David before he died. What was on his mind?”

  Zola stood still for a long time, his gaze glued to the far wall, his body turned partially away from his boss, his coat halfway on.

  Koven remained as still as a statue as the seconds turned into a minute.

  Zola finished putting on his coat. “One of his crazy conspiracy theories. I’ve heard so many of them I get lost.”

  “Our server logs everything the employees do. Gottleib downloaded five gigabytes that night.”

  “He worked too much.” Zola pulled gloves from his pocket and put them on.

  “They weren’t client files. And he resigned.”

  Zola pursed his lips and threw up his hands. “He was talking about gibberish one of our Saudi clients funding Daesh. Maybe he thought he found a smoking gun. But why would we have it on our servers? I didn’t believe—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Brent.” Koven clenched his jaw.

  “I swear. I didn’t pay attention to his ramblings.” Zola shoved his fists in his pockets. “Did you?”

  For another minute, they stared at each other.

  Koven broke the tension. “Turn off your phone. You don’t want any interruptions. Then find out everything. As soon as the police finish their inquiry, maybe a couple days, I’ll join you in Washington and we’ll sit with Mrs. Gottleib, if it’s not too late.”

  Zola nodded. Tears formed in his eyes. He turned quickly and left.

  Marthe came in carrying a tray. She set it on the table and laid out two plates of sandwiches and two bowls of soup. She swept her hand over the arrangement, beckoning her husband to join her. “An early supper for a hard-working man.”

  “You’re too good to me.” He took his seat.

  She clasped his hand as he smelled his steaming bowl of vegetable soup. “I eavesdropped. You don’t mind, do you? You were wonderful. You handled those boys like the leader of the pack, the true senior partner.”

  He loved her praises, they salved the tension of the day and made him feel calm. He gave her a smile.

  They ate in silence, looking into each other’s eyes, the stone walls echoing every spoon clatter. When they finished, Marthe swept up the table setting.

  She stopped as she was about to walk away. “That Sabel girl. She makes my skin crawl. I feel like she can see everything in my past, from Duncan’s blood on my hands, all the way back to … my early days.”

  “There is nothing she can say that would tear me away from you.”

  Marthe glanced over her shoulder, winked, and returned to the kitchen.

  Rip Blackson opened the front door. A swirl of snow followed his feet inside.

  “The skies were clear and sunny just a few minutes ago,” Koven said.

  “It didn’t last.”

  “Sit.” Koven patted the chair in front of him. “We have important matters to discuss.”

  Blackson approached, looking for a trap. Tossing his overcoat on the table, he unbuttoned his jacket. “Brent’s not answering his phone.”

  “We’ll get to that. But first, we have to discuss the firm.”

  Blackson took a seat, his hands on his knees.

  “W
illiam Hyde and I are the named partners, but you know how much we can rely on our good senator.” Koven leaned forward. “Rip, this company means a lot to me. I’m not going to let it fall apart. I can’t afford to.”

  “I’m sure you will do a fine—”

  “The company supports a lot of people, good people, who count on us to do what needs to be done. And it’s not just our co-workers and employees, Rip. Their husbands and wives, sons and daughters, all count on that paycheck to keep their lives intact.” Koven smiled. “Is your wife working?”

  “On her masters at Georgetown.”

  “And your daughter will start at Washington Episcopal in the fall?”

  “I get your point.”

  “We can’t let these tragic events threaten our firm,” Koven said. “Now that you’re a junior partner, you understand our precarious position. We have to guard the organization, not just from other lobbying firms poaching our clients, but from anyone planning to hurt our reputation.”

  “Sure, I understand how—”

  “Our responsibilities dictate that we hold loyalty to the firm above relationships with friends and family. You and I must stick together, support each other, and be open and honest if we expect the firm to survive.”

  Rip Blackson met Koven’s gaze.

  Koven said, “Zola and Gottleib copied five gigabytes of files from our server the night David died. What were they planning?”

  “That’s not possible,” Blackson said. “Brent would’ve told me if—”

  Koven jumped to his feet. “You’re working with them?”

  “No, I meant that David and Brent are just as loyal to the firm as—”

  “If he was so loyal, why did David resign?”

  “Brent and I were shocked.” Blackson stood. “Brent said he left without explaining anything, then he was killed.”

  “Wait, who told you about his resignation?” Koven asked.

  “Brent.”

  “Were they together when they told you?”

  “We met for dinner, but David walked out before I arrived.”

  Koven paced away, rubbing his chin. “So, it was just the two of them.”

  “Sir, I swear Brent Zola has no intention of—”

  “Are you willing to bet your daughter’s education? Are you willing to gamble with your wife’s masters that Brent is not going to ruin the firm?”

  Blackson looked at the floor and shook his head.

  “You’re no summer soldier,” Koven said quietly. “You know what needs to be done in trying times.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.” Blackson met his gaze and squinted.

  “The firm has clients, but one of them stands out as having both the biggest potential and the greatest liability, Sabel Industries. We need the Sabels. They are critical to our future.” Koven squeezed Blackson’s shoulder. “Brent admitted that he and David discovered Pia Sabel is now in control of the company.”

  Blackson shook his head, confused.

  “They’ve been doing some deep research on their own. Without you. They were planning to stab our firm in the back, Rip. Planning to steal our clients.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “What would any lobbying firm give Zola if he could bring in Sabel Industries?”

  Blackson reeled back on his heels.

  “He could finish us,” Koven said. “And he doesn’t answer his phone. Why is that?”

  CHAPTER 14

  From Rip Blackson’s darkened bedroom in McLean, Virginia, I drew back an inch of curtain and watched a lone driver get out of the car in the driveway. Breaking and entering was bad enough; getting caught in the act while the police were about to book me for murder would ratchet up the awkward factor a few notches. The figure in the driveway went to the mailbox.

  Not good. Definitely not good.

  Mercury stood by the book case with his hands open wide, looking incredulous. What’d I tell you, dude? Did I say run for it?

  I said, You told me to shoot out his headlights. That would’ve escalated things.

  Mercury said, But you could’ve slipped out while he was ducking for cover.

  I said, And evade the Fairfax County SWAT team and their two choppers? This is modern American suburbia, we’re not dodging Hannibal’s elephants in some Etruscan village.

  Mercury said, Could’ve worked. Probably.

  I tiptoed down the carpeted stairs. My ninja outfit gave me a small advantage in the dark. My Glock was filled with hollow points which would be loud and lethal if fired. That kind of noise in this placid corner of Virginia would have ten neighbors calling 9-1-1 after the first shot. I checked my pouches for some nice, quiet, barely-effective Sabel Darts. The one time they might’ve been useful, I didn’t have any. I rounded the hallway as the kitchen lit up like daylight.

  With my back to the hall wall, half a step from the archway into the kitchen, I raised my weapon and waited.

  The slap of letters landing on a granite counter top was followed by the whoosh of an opened refrigerator. The gatecrasher clinked bottles around and hesitated. I risked a peek around the corner and saw an averaged sized white man in a heavy coat with sandy hair, reading the label on a bottle of Rolling Rock. He tossed it in his hand while he thought, then put it back on the shelf. The refrigerator whooshed closed.

  I snapped back from the archway.

  There were more sounds of milling around. Then his footsteps approached my position in the hall. I slipped around a grandfather clock that was too skinny to hide my whole body. He walked past me, looking away to his left.

  He flipped on the lights in the hall, completely illuminating me.

  The hallway led to the living room, but he turned abruptly and went upstairs. For an instant, he faced the hallway where I was hiding behind the clock. I was obvious as hell. His upturned eyes were aimed at the second floor. I stood like a statue while he took the stairs quickly.

  He stopped in midstride. I could still see his feet through the bannister. My black-clad form—an out-of-place shape in his subconscious—had reached his brain. I took two big steps, crossing the hall to a nook and tried to become invisible.

  The trespasser retraced his steps. I sensed his eyes scanning the spot where I’d been standing. For two minutes he scrutinized the hall and living room from the bottom step.

  “Is anyone there?” he asked.

  Mercury said, Answer him, dawg. Then shoot him.

  I said, We can’t just shoot everyone we come across.

  Mercury said, Why not? Pia-Caesar-Sabel got you off for murdering Gottleib. When you have someone with her resources behind you, you can do anything I want.

  I said, I didn’t kill—urgh.

  I held my breath.

  My adversary huffed and ran upstairs as if he were scared of the dark.

  I followed him, my pistol leading the way. My heart rate soared. If the guy turned around, I was cooked. There was no way I would kill a guy to cover my crimes.

  He reached the landing at the top and went into Blackson’s home office. He didn’t turn on the overhead light. He turned on a lamp next to a desktop computer. It was one of the funny looking ones that hardcore gamers use with a big screen. While it booted up, I moved to the door frame.

  Mercury said, If you’re not going to shoot him, can we go now?

  I said, No. He knows the house, he knows the computer, he can get me in.

  Mercury tossed up his hands in frustration. C’mon man, he’s dialing up online porn. You’re not going to stand here and watch him pump his keg, are you?

  I said, What?

  Mercury said, He’s going to tickle his pickle, wax his candle, shake his steak, whatever you horny mortals call it this century. No way I’m down for that, you perv.

  The screen came up and his first attempt at a password failed. That’s when I noticed the grip of a handgun protruding from his waistband in back. The guy tried five more passwords before one worked. While the bootup process pinged, I slipped around the do
orframe, into the room. Sensing my presence, he glanced right while I moved left. He returned his focus to the screen.

  I checked out the bookcase next to me. A pyramid of tennis balls, a few framed photos, a few books on soccer, some history, law, and biographies. Gingerly, I lifted the top tennis ball.

  My new friend leaned toward the screen and ran a search.

  I pitched the ball to the staircase, where it bounced down with the right amount of thump.

  He spun his chair, facing the open door, drew his weapon, and rose with theatric stealth. I stepped in behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  When he turned around, I caught his outstretched arm and gun, put him in a headlock, cracked his elbow over my knee, pushed him forward, pounded my other knee into his kidney, and rode him to the floor, face down.

  I secured his weapon and pushed the muzzle hard against his skull. The pistol looked familiar.

  It took a moment before I realized whose gun it was.

  Mine.

  The missing Walther PP Ultra.

  Mercury said, Nice one. You’ve recovered the murder weapon and put your fingerprints all over it. Why not type up a confession to go with it?

  I said, I’m wearing gloves.

  My captive gurgled some unintelligible words.

  I loosened my headlock. “What was that?”

  “Can’t breathe.” He struggled against my grip.

  “That’s OK,” I said. “I can.”

  I drew an extra loud inhale to prove my point.

  Rifling through his pockets, I found a business card for Brent Zola, Associate at Duncan, Hyde and Koven. I stood up.

  “All right,” I said. “Spread your arms and legs as wide as you can get them.”

  He complied.

  I kicked him in the nuts as hard as I could.

  He howled in pain.

  I jumped on his back, pressing the Walther to his eye socket. “Quiet. I don’t want you waking the neighbors. Breathe in, real deep, that’s it.” I paused. “Now exhale the pain. That’s it. Nice and slow.”

  I gave him a minute to compose himself. “Sorry, I didn’t bring any handcuffs. I wasn’t expecting a cat burglar.”

  “I’m not a burglar. I’m house-sitting.”

  “Why six attempts to crack his password?”