by Seeley James
Marthe stepped out of his path and frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“Ugh.” Koven turned away and grabbed his head with both hands. “My skin is crawling. I feel like an addict in withdrawal. I’m afraid we’ll be discovered. Zola is the most likely to figure out what we’ve done. Damn it. And I promoted him today. I insisted he swap roles with Blackson to ‘keep my enemies closer’ and now—it was a terrible mistake.”
“I’m sure it will end soon.”
He shook a finger at her. “You’re right, I should just end it.”
Marthe stepped back. “What are you thinking?”
“Don’t look so surprised, my dear. You came up with this idea. Did you think it would end in one night? One thing always leads to another. You can’t just kill a man without being prepared to kill anyone who might turn against you. To keep a secret, we have to be committed.”
Koven crossed to Marthe and kissed her on the forehead.
“You’re right,” she said. “We’re committed to this—together.”
He wrapped his arms around her, absorbing her shudder before she left.
Koven sat at his desk and thought through his next move. He knew very little about Jago Seyton aside from the office gossip about his past. The little guy gave Koven the creeps, that was for sure. If the rumors were halfway true, Jago was the perfect man for the job. He summoned the man by intercom.
The short man with no neck took a seat in front of the new senior partner. His face showed no emotion, neither a smile nor a frown. Exactly the emotion Koven expected of the man. He never knew where Jago stood or who he favored. He wasn’t even sure who the man worked for.
“Jago, in times of transition, many employees have questions or concerns about their future.”
Jago held his gaze but said nothing.
Koven leaned back. “You’ve been here longer than I have. I want to assure you: your position will not change. You’re a key employee. I’m sure you value the firm as much as I do. Especially given your, ehm, situation.”
Jago didn’t move.
“When I brought my people in a few years ago, I had no idea they would make life so hard for you. It’s recently come to my attention that Brent Zola was the primary instigator of all the rumors against you. Believe me, had I known, I would’ve put an end to it. He misled you and thwarted your promotion. Just a few minutes ago, he suggested we get rid of you.”
Jago stiffened, his face still blank, his mouth still closed.
“I know that’s hard to take on top of every manner of disrespect he’s shown you.” Koven spread his hands wide. “It’s my fault, really. I’ve given Brent and Rip too much freedom. And you’ve quietly taken their abuse. I appreciate your patience. Tom explained his theories of redemption, that any man, given a good chance, would rise above the mistakes of his past. I guess Zola and Blackson never bought into that philosophy.”
“What are you going to do?” Jago asked.
“I’m going to give you permission,” Koven said. “Indulgence might be a better word.”
Jago canted his head while holding Koven’s gaze.
“Duncan’s conditions for your continued employment were static, intractable. I’m opening the door for you. You’ve been insulted, kicked downstairs, and pushed around too long for any man to take. And yet, you’ve been forgiving and patient. I don’t expect you to take it any longer. You’ve pent up that anger long enough. You have permission to unleash your rage.”
Jago nodded slowly. “What did Brent do to you?”
“We’re no different, you and I.” Koven considered his brooding employee. “We do those things that need to be done. But there are others who think they’re superior. When we were children on playgrounds, they were the ones who used words like ‘fairness’ and ‘cheater’ as if they were the anointed enforcers of some universal judicial system.” Koven leaned back. “Brent has reached a position in life where he believes Daryl Koven and Jago Seyton are equals—beneath him.”
Jago thought about his statement. “I do this thing, maybe a permanent thing, what happens next?”
“Freedom. You’re free to take any position in the firm you desire, as long as you’re qualified.”
“Where is he?”
“He just caught a flight to LA.”
“Out of state. Perfect.” Jago stood up and extended his hand. “I’m sick of your boys kicking me around. I’ll take care of this for you.”
Koven leaned across the desk.
He shook Jago’s hand and held it. “He has a son.”
CHAPTER 17
I turned up the collar of my black leather duster and tugged down my watch cap against the frigid wind moaning its way between office buildings. Streets of ice, littered with abandoned cars, framed the snaking lines of bundled workers queuing for the Metro’s Farragut West escalator. The multitudes kept their noses down and their tempers in check.
Rip Blackson pushed the edges of courtesy as he squeezed between people and made better progress for it. I stayed back far enough to avoid being recognized.
A fat lady fell and sprawled on the sidewalk like a spider. Even though I was wearing body armor, which doesn’t lend itself to bending over, I did the standard Midwestern thing and helped her up, brushed her off, handed her bag back to her.
Blackson was gone.
Mercury waved from the top of a lamppost, his toga flapping in the icy breeze, and pointed down.
I wasn’t sure I should believe him. I felt dumb enough after letting him badger me into wearing body armor. Sometimes you listen to a god just to make him shut up.
I pushed beyond courtesy to catch up, leaving a few heys and watchitbuddys in my wake. From the top of the elevator, I could see the tall, lanky Blackson exit at the bottom and turn for the Silver Line. The famously clean Metro system was well lit and the masses moved easily through the gates. I caught up in no time.
On the platform, I waited until the doors were about to close before pushing my way into the same car as Blackson. The crowded space smelled of wet wool and sweat and disengaged people heading home from a job they didn’t love in weather they loved less.
Mercury slid in and blocked my view of a beautiful young lady.
I said, I was going to ask her out.
Mercury glanced over his shoulder. Outta your league, dude. She’s never going to date a guy who has his ringtone set to calliope. Tell me you turned that stupid ringer off.
I rolled my eyes—and reached into my pocket to flip the switch to vibrate.
Done.
There was something strange about him that caught my eye: the wings on his helmet were moving.
Mercury said, Don’t be looking at my wings, dawg.
I said, They work? You can fly?
Mercury said, Do I ask you if your penis thinks? There are some things we just don’t talk about.
I said, You mean you’re horny?
Mercury looked at me as if he’d found a nine-week-old tomato in the back of the veggie drawer. When they flap like that, it means something bad is going down. Incoming messages from the Dii Consentes cuz I’m an important god. …Horny? Shee-yit.
The pretty woman behind him rolled her eyes and turned her back on me.
Bianca texted me updates on Blackson’s data files. Many emails contained both the words Gottleib and liability, but not in any proximity or identifiable context. There were also documents and position papers that Gottleib co-authored that contained the word liability. It was too broad a search, but Zola had been looking for something. Whatever it was had yet to jump out at her.
Blackson got out at the McLean stop. I followed him down Dolley Madison Boulevard to a dogleg that led us to Chain Bridge Road. Blackson’s home was another mile or so down.
The rush of workers returning home thinned the closer we got to the Dulles Toll Road underpass.
Blackson heard my footsteps echo in the winter quiet and stopped under the span of highway, where a single light illuminated a ten-foot stretch of
sidewalk. He turned around.
We were alone.
He asked, “Are you following me?”
I stopped in a shadow thirty feet back. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see if Zola got in a counter-punch.”
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“Depends. Were you one of the thousand guys I met this week from the 3/2?”
Blackson didn’t answer.
I continued forward into his cone of light. From the look on his face, he recognized me, but he didn’t say anything.
“The cops think I’m a rampage killer who started with Gottleib. Why don’t they think you and Zola did it, then alibied each other?”
“Hang on there, Stearne. We loved that guy.” Blackson took a step back. “We were friends.”
“Then why did Zola have the murder weapon on him?” I asked.
“He couldn’t have. He would never…” Blackson frowned. “Did the cops arrest him when you turned it in?”
Since I’d stashed the Walther at Sabel Gardens, his question could only end badly for me. It was time to act like a politician and change the subject. “What other facts did Zola hide from you?”
Blackson wavered.
I liked having him off balance. I asked, “Why was Zola ripping up your place?”
“Then you really were there?”
“You don’t believe your friends?” I asked.
“Not when I catch him rifling through my shit.”
“Why was he searching your hard drive for ‘Gottleib liability’?” I put air quotes around the term.
Blackson looked like I’d hit him with a two-by-four. I edged closer to him.
“So much crap is going down, I don’t know who to believe,” Blackson said. “Koven told me Brent and David were going to move to another firm, take Koven’s clients with them.”
“Were they?”
“No way.” Blackson squinted at me. “Hey, what do you care about all this? We didn’t kill him.”
“My boss thinks Koven killed Duncan. She sent me to check things out. You know what I found?” I waited for Blackson to shake his head. “One strange lobbying firm. What kind of business are you in that you need a guy like Jago Seyton?”
“Creepy guy, right?” Blackson nodded. “Tom Duncan picks up strays. We have a secretary who was too old to keep hooking. An embezzler as our investigator. And we have Jago. He was one of Duncan’s first employees. He’s like that funny cousin everyone has, if you ask why he looks more like your dad than your uncle, you get slapped. We’re not allowed to ask about Jago. He goes where he wants and doesn’t say much.”
“Is he the only one at the firm who carries a .45?”
Blackson shrugged.
“What did Zola and Gottleib argue about the night he was killed?” I asked.
Blackson thought it over while I stared him down. “I can only imagine.”
“Imagine what?”
Blackson took a breath as he considered his answer. “If you make chewing gum, you think Tom Duncan is the greatest guy in the world. If you’re a dentist with an ax to grind about gum and cavities, you think Tom Duncan is the devil incarnate. We advocate for those who hire us, but it’s like walking a tightrope. Tom never flinched when someone discussed bribing a congressman, but he let the clients do their own dirty work. He would never let it touch the firm.”
“What about Koven?”
“Koven’s side of the business exploded after Citizens United,” Blackson said.
“Why would that happen?”
“Let’s say you want to privatize security for the President. Only problem is, the Secret Service is already doing that. So, you need a few legislators to push through a bill that will open the business for you. You pitch it as, ‘the private sector can do it for less.’ The people in Congress know it’s worth a lot of money to you. But you can’t just buy legislation—that’s called bribery. So you hire a lobbyist to push your plan.”
“No one would outsource the President’s security.”
“Work with me.” Blackson crossed his arms. “In the old days, before 2010, a lobbyist camped on a senator’s doorstep and convinced him how many jobs your plan would bring to their district. Maybe some unreported football tickets changed hands, maybe ten thousand of their books were bought by anonymous readers, maybe their kid ‘won’ a scholarship. But those gifts were small. The amounts involved had only one comma.”
“So what did the Citizens United decision do, legalize these gifts?” I asked.
“Worse. The Supreme Court said donating money to political campaigns was free speech as long as the donors are reported. They set up the Super PAC as the funding mechanism for unlimited donations and required them to report all their donors. So far, no problem. It’s all good and clean.”
“Then to get my legislation through,” I said, “I give $5 million to a Super PAC, and I get my contract for the President’s security. If he doesn’t come through, I give my $5 mil to his opponent in the next election. What’s the problem?”
Blackson spent a few seconds thinking how to simplify it for me. “Let’s say a guy named Senator Ratchet is having trouble financing his campaign. He wants your $5 mil, and will push your legislation, but no one in Congress will vote for it if it looks like you bribed him. And you don’t want your competitors knowing what you’re up to, so you need to give him the money anonymously.”
“But the Supremes said I have to be named.”
Blackson watched a car go by. “There have always been social welfare organizations like the NRA or Sierra Club who don’t have to report their donors. So, you give your $5 mil to a social welfare group like Future Crossroads, making it tax deductible, which turns around and gives it to the Super PAC. The Super PAC reports the donation of $5 million from the Future Crossroads, not Jacob Stearne.”
“Huh. I just bribed Senator Ratchet tax free. That’s illegal, right?”
“No, perfectly legal. It’s only a crime if someone can prove a connection between your donation to Future Crossroads and Senator Ratchet’s legislation. Since Future Crossroads doesn’t report donors, and you weren’t dumb enough to put anything in writing, it’s not a bribe.”
I felt sick. “So Gottleib found something proving connections?”
“I don’t think so.” Blackson squinted. “Koven controls 112 social welfare groups and 112 Super PACs. By the way, there are 538 elected senators and representatives, meaning Koven can influence two out of ten legislators. That’s a lot of power in one man’s hands. So, Zola and I figured David found something on him. We went through the internal records and couldn’t find anything illegal. All the money flowing into his social welfare groups comes through wealthy Americans or companies they control. Companies like Sabel Security.”
“But we have money that came from Oman. That’s illegal, right?”
“Maybe or maybe not. It depends on whether political favors were promised or if the Omani money can be traced to a Super PAC.”
“Who does the tracing?”
“No one.”
“What do you mean? Surely someone out there is watching who’s bribing elected officials.”
“No one can trace the money. You ask a Super PAC where their money came from and they say Future Crossroads. Then you ask Future Crossroads and they tell you to take a hike.”
I leaned back against a retaining wall. “Gottleib never told either of you what he uncovered because he thought you were involved in it. That’s why he turned to his high school homeboys.”
Mercury said, If you want to have a future, you need to keep your eyes and ears open.
I said, Give me a minute, will you? I’m finally getting somewhere.
Mercury said, You’ll be getting somewhere in a pine box if you don’t pay attention.
“Jacob, I swear, veteran to veteran, I have not done anything illegal that David would be upset about.”
“But Koven has?” I asked.
“Not that I found.”
“But you suspect him?”
“After Nasiriyah, wouldn’t you?”
“What the hell is with Nasiriyah?” I pushed off the wall and stepped in his space. “Everyone expects me to remember what they were wearing that day and what they had for tea. All I remember was running into a bunch of Marines, killing a few Republican Guards, and getting the hell out.”
Blackson dug into his pocket and pulled out a .50 BMG cartridge. “You don’t remember giving us these?”
“Oh give me a fucking break. What is with the—”
Mercury stood in the street, waving his arms and jumping up and down. White Nissan, passenger window down, two hostiles, get your eyes open, dipshit.
Half a block up the street, a small sedan came at us doing sixty. A small black stick came out of the window and aimed at Blackson.
I took two steps and body slammed him to the ground as three shots rang out. They hit me, center chest.
People think body armor is some kind of magic force field right out of science fiction. It’s not. When you get hit in the chest by three .223 rounds traveling at 2900 feet per second, you have broken ribs at best and internal damage at worst. I fell sideways and struck my head on the retaining wall.
As my consciousness dimmed, the sedan sped away.
Rip Blackson got up and bolted down the sidewalk into the dark, his echoing footsteps fading in the distance.
I tried to breathe.
A long scary minute passed before another car screeched to a halt at the curb, three feet away from me.
I pulled my Glock and tried to aim.
“Don’t shoot! It’s me!” Miguel Rodriguez, fellow Sabel agent and best friend from my Ranger days, ducked behind the fender of his SUV.
Struggling to remain conscious, I waved him over.
The big Navajo knelt next to me. “What happened? Did Blackson shoot you?”
“Drive by, the car…” Talking hurt.
Sirens echoed through the city.
“Get me out of here,” I said. My ribs sent shockwaves of pain that made me spasm.
Miguel, six-five and buff, picked me up and carried me to the back door of his Mercedes G63. He swept three assault rifles and several magazines from the seat to the floor, then eased me onto the bench. I lay on my back, my knees bent. He slammed the door, ran to the driver’s side, and jumped in.