by Josie Brown
“I guess it helps that good ol’ Tully and I were both Leathernecks.” Andy grinned slyly. “I’m sure if Talbot could do it over again, he would have signed up during Vietnam, instead of begging for a deferment.”
It was Ben’s turn to shrug. “I’m not so sure about that, Senator. If the past has taught us anything, it’s not what you did, but how you spin it.”
“We’re among friends, here, Ben. Please, call me Andy.”
“I’d be honored.” He tipped his glass toward the senator.
Paul’s next shot was a miss. It was Fred’s turn up to shoot. “I’m guessing their grumbling has more to do with your very vocal stance against the president’s Venezuelan policy.”
What looked like an easy shot ricocheted off another ball, missing the pocket by mere millimeters. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that Fred had been watching the door out of the corner of his eye.
Either this guy never turns it off, or this place isn’t as secure as Andy thinks.
“The way things are going, his call to arms—or maybe I should say his boondoggle—will cost a lot of soldiers their lives. I can’t let that happen.” Andy’s drawl was nonchalant, but Ben knew better. “It’s going to cost him votes, too. In any regard, I’m through kowtowing to those dinosaurs.” He tapped Ben’s shoulder with his stick then set up his shot. “And with Ben at the helm, I’ll have the one thing I need to win: the support of the voters.” Andy popped the five ball into a corner pocket, and followed it up by sinking the three ball on a bank shot into the side.
Ben was flattered at the compliment. Still, Paul’s involuntary frown indicated that as far as he was concerned, the jury was still out on Ben.
Jeez, and I thought this numbnuts was going to cut me some slack.
Paul didn’t seem too friendly with Fred either. The feeling must have been mutual since neither had exchanged more than a word or two throughout the whole game. Both were close to Andy, but obviously they didn’t think much of each other.
The game ended about the same time their pizza arrived. Fred waited until they were seated to divulge some important information: there had been an upsurge in terrorist chatter.
“But the sources seem suspicious. Not the usual channels. In fact, I suspect it’s the work of Talbot’s Ghost Squad. The timing is just too perfect.” He gulped down one piece, then grabbed another.
Mansfield pushed away his plate. “I wouldn’t doubt that in the least.”
“What do you mean by his ‘Ghost Squad’?” asked Ben.
Paul laughed uneasily. “It’s part of Fred’s interdepartmental paranoia. He thinks Talbot has inside guys at the defense agencies—Homeland Security, CIA, FBI, ATF—spying within their own organizations and reporting back to him.” He grabbed a second slice of pizza. “Trust me, Fred, the man spends too much time on the golf course to play I Spy in his spare time.”
Fred took a swig of his beer. “He came out of Langley, remember? Once a spook, always a spook. No matter what he does now, he learned enough there to make it work for him when the time came—like now that he’s running for the presidency. And I can’t be the only one who finds it a little suspicious that the press has picked up his mantra about ‘liberating the Venezuelan people from that authoritarian madman, Padilla’ just a ¬few weeks after Padilla kicked Talbot’s petrochem buddies out of the country, then pulled a Chavez and nationalized all the oil fields. For that reason alone they need Talbot to win this election.”
“Morals and freedom aside, Venezuela sells sixty percent of its oil to us. That translates into a million and a half barrels a day. When Padilla was playing nice, it was easy–and cheap¬–to get it,” explained Andy. Then he laughed. “I’m sure Talbot’s asshole puckered up when he heard about Padilla’s meeting with the Chinese, to sign an even bigger oil accord than last year’s.” He looked over at Fred. “Hey, do me a favor and keep an eye on that chatter. If it’s what you suspect, I’ll need proof, at all costs.”
Andy sat on the Armed Services Committee, the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Government Affairs, and the Select Committee on Intelligence. More than that, he made it a point to track down discrepancies in what these committees were told in white papers, and to talk to the people in the field firsthand.
In other words, if Andy smells a rat, there is one to be found, thought Ben.
Fred grimaced, the first sign of emotion Ben had seen on his face. “Dude, between your senate hearings and your campaigning, you’re not exactly easy to track down.”
“That’s life. Hey, if you can’t find me, then find my boy here.” Andy pointed to Ben.
Fred didn’t even respond to that. Obviously he wasn’t any more convinced than Paul that Ben deserved their trust.
Chapter 13
Then again, maybe I don’t deserve their trust.
That realization came to Ben later that very night, as he held Maddy in his arms.
As hot as the sex was with Maddy, the fact that their post-coital conversations were inevitably about the campaign was also a turn-on to him. Sex and politics were his two favorite pastimes. Either she was she his fantasy fuck, or she was too good to be true.
His dick voted for the former.
In fact, he was about to tell her some of the ideas that Eddie Klein’s creative team had already come up with for Andy’s video web ads. But then he remembered the suspicious look Fred had given him and stopped talking in mid-sentence.
Unfortunately for him, Maddy paused too—she’d been circling his nipple with her tongue—and looked up at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, really. I—I’m just tired.” With both hands, he gently lifted her onto his chest so that he could look her in the eye. “No, that’s not true. I guess what I’m trying to say is that we always seem to talk about me. Or at least, my job.”
She smirked. “You’re not boring me, trust me. In fact, I find what you do fascinating.”
“Yeah? And why is that?” He tried to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
“Because Andy—and you—are out there, making a difference.”
“You’re an artist. You make a difference, too.”
She rolled off of him and onto her side. Her ass was leaning against his thigh. They were both hot and sticky, and the sheet had fallen somewhere near the foot of the bed. Silhouetted in starlight, the dip between her shoulder and hip beckoned him to cradle her, but he held back, although he could feel his cock rising to the occasion yet again.
“Sure, I create things that make people stop and think. At least I hope they do. But it’s not the same,” she murmured. “You—he—take people one step further. They’re inspired to act.”
How about you? He wanted to ask her, Are you acting now?
But he didn’t. Instead he asked: “What were you doing there, the night we met?”
“Where...at the Fairmont?”
“Yes. Why were you there?” He knew he should have sat up, but with his hard-on leading him to her, he’d forget all he wanted to ask–all he should have asked—weeks ago.
“I was invited. Remember?” Maddy sounded annoyed. She flipped over onto her stomach and turned her head so that it faced away from him and toward the wall. Because she was slightly spread-eagled, a dainty lacquered toe gently grazed his ankle.
He nearly came right then and there.
When he came to his senses, he croaked out: “Had you arrived with someone?”
“No.” Her voice was muffled, a million miles away.
She’s lying.
“Who is—the Invisible Man?”
Dead silence.
“Was he there that night?”
Instead of answering him, she got up out of bed, collected the clothes she’d strewn around the room and headed to the bathroom. He groaned at the thought of losing her—both in his bed that very minute, and out of it for the rest of his life.
Jesus, why am I being so paranoid? Because of Spooky Fred? Well, fuck that shit...
Ben cou
ld hear the shower running. He forced himself to get up. When he knocked, there was no answer, but she hadn’t locked the door so he opened it and peeked inside.
The steam had already enveloped the room, and he could make her out through the beveled shower door.
She was sobbing.
He wrapped himself around her and held her like that for what seemed an eternity. Or at least long enough for the water to go from scalding hot, like she had it, to tepidly cool. It made them both shiver, which made her laugh finally, which made him want to kiss her—
But she kissed him first.
By the time they came up for air, the water was ice cold. But instead of leaving the shower, he got behind her, tilting her forward just enough so that she had to hold onto the tile and stand tall on those beautiful toes he loved so dearly while he thrust deep inside of her, cupping her breasts and her taut nipples with his wrinkled fingertips.
Afterward they fell into his bed, still wet.
He was shaving in the bathroom and she was getting dressed in the bedroom when her cell phone chirped. He pretended to be looking in the mirror at a sideburn, but in truth he was watching her when, instead of picking up, she noted the Caller ID, then muted the ringer.
“Why didn’t you answer it?”
She looked up startled, then smiled coyly. “Because it’s my sugar daddy.”
But Ben wasn’t laughing. “Maddy, I tell you everything. But I know virtually nothing about you. What, is it Mr. Invisible?”
“Jesus, Ben! Get real.”
“I am being real.”
“Then, for real, it’s none of your business.”
“I want to make it my business.” He laid down his razor and wiped off the last few wisps of shaving cream with the back of his hand. “Maddy, sweetheart, I want you all to myself.”
“Forget it, Ben. I like things just the way they are.”
“You mean that you want to stay fuck buddies?”
“Sure. Why not?” Maddy picked up her bra then turned her back on him as she hooked it. Her way of saying END OF STORY.
“I don’t get it. Why can’t we take this—this whatever it is—to the next step?”
She quit buttoning her blouse and sighed. “Ben, it’s not happening, ever. And if you push it, you’ll lose me. For good.”
She went into the bathroom and slammed the door.
He waited until she turned on the blow dryer before pulling her cell phone from her purse and reading the Caller ID: Anonymous.
Of course, he could just hit redial and see who picked up...
But he didn’t. Because she was right.
There was no way in hell he’d risk losing her.
Chapter 14
Manolo Padilla’s personal physician, Jorge Leon, was considered the rising star of Venezuela’s medical community. He was young and handsome. He had graduated at the top of his class at St. George’s, University of London. And most importantly, he was devoted to Padilla’s policies, without question.
That might have had something to do with the fact that he was married to Padilla’s niece, Lina.
It was because Lina was pregnant that Jorge was an easy mark. Two heartbeats in the womb meant twins—as it turns out, a boy and a girl. Lina’s difficulty in getting pregnant meant lots of bed rest, and little activity outside their gated Caracas estate. And her bodyguard’s boredom with a job that required nothing more of him than to drive Señora Leon to her doctor’s office once a week allowed for easy entry.
All Smith’s men had to do was take over the delivery truck from Bongo International on the day that the babies’ cribs were to be delivered. (Since they had been ordered from that capitalist retail behemoth, Pottery Barn Kids, Smith felt this was apropos.)
The bodyguard was taken out with one shot to the forehead. Lina whimpered, but she did not struggle while Smith’s men tied her up and hustled her into the back of the truck.
Then a call was made to Dr. Leon, at his office. The message, delivered by Smith, was simple: No phone calls to Padilla’s security people. Smith would know if he did, because Jorge was already being tailed, and his office and home were bugged. The next morning the good doctor was to take the first telefericos—one of the colorful cable cars that transported tourists up to the peak of Cerro el Avila.
All Jorge needed to hear was Lina sobbing incoherently into the phone to know that Smith meant business.
Smith had arranged for them to be alone as the cable car dangled high above bustling Caracas on that warm cloudless morning. The view—from the translucent sea and khaki beaches to the bustling city below and the verdant jungle beyond—was truly awe-inspiring. But Jorge’s sad dark eyes never left Smith’s face, except when he was handed the small black box that enclosed a syringe. Jorge was not told what the syringe contained, only that he should tell Padilla that there was an irregularity in his heartbeat, and that some tests had to be run to determine how serious it was. An MRI would be scheduled. Then right before the MRI, Jorge would inject the drug in Padilla, along with the usual contrast agents. A heart attack would be induced once the syringe’s contents mixed with the other drugs.
By the time the autopsy was done, all traces of the killing agent will have disappeared.
When the official announcement of Padilla’s death was heralded, Lina would be released, right then and there.
Jorge nodded to demonstrate his understanding of what was to be done.
Even before the cable car crested the summit, Jorge had weighed all his options and concluded the following:
He could tell Padilla of the gringo’s plan, but then Lina would die before they found her captors.
Worse yet, Padilla would blame Jorge for Lina’s abduction, and rail at him for meeting with Smith without the dictator’s knowledge. Then to make an example of him and avenge his niece and her unborn babies, Padilla would order him shot for his ill-fated decisions.
Or he could follow through on Smith’s perfect plan, customized specifically for Padilla’s trusted doctor and nephew-in-law.
But Jorge had looked in the gringo devil’s eyes, and what he saw there told him that Smith would never release his Lina. That Jorge would never hold her in his arms again.
That his children would never be born.
And so, as the cable car hung in mid air, he wrenched open the door and jumped to his death.
With God’s forgiveness, he would be waiting for his family in heaven.
The doctor’s choice did not surprise Smith. After all, the man was smart. So yes, all of his deductions had been right on the mark.
No problem. Now Talbot would be forced to see the merit of Plan B.
By the time they had identified the suicidal jumper as the esteemed Doctor Leon, Lina’s body had already been found in her bathtub, her wrists slit.
Chapter 15
Maddy’s way of punishing Ben’s impudence was to appear at will, and only when he least expected it. But he’d learned his lesson and never again questioned her comings and goings.
Instead, he tried hard not to think about her, not to wonder if she was going to be waiting for him when he got home from work. Needless to say he was glad when the Mansfield campaign hit the road again. He welcomed the chance to get out of town, to focus on something other than the fact that he was so obviously pussywhipped.
Andy’s speech in Iowa, encouraging farmers to unite in their efforts to make biofuels, wave and wind resources the primary fuel source for the country, was a big hit. Newsweek showed up to cover it, calling his white paper on the issue “both user friendly and business friendly. Senator Mansfield will have the other candidates going green, too—with envy…”
Two days later, the latest NBC/Wall Street Journal poll came out, showing the senator within spitting distance of Talbot.
Ben and Andy got the news from Sukie while they were flying back from a stopover in Chicago, where three back-to-back fundraisers there were projected to net the campaign a tidy two million dollars. Abby was to rendezvous with t
hem at the Four Seasons.
They watched Brian Williams’ newscast about the poll from the satellite broadcast feed on the campaign’s private jet. Afterward, the anchorman segued into a biographical piece on Andy: the fact that Mansfield was the son of an itinerate farmer and a housewife; that he was orphaned at sixteen and raised himself, then enlisted as a Marine flight jock after high school; that as a pilot he had performed numerous acts of heroism; how, after leaving the Marines, Andy had gone onto law school and become a public defender; how he’d even won a case before the Supreme Court; a laundry list accounting of his accomplishments as a U.S. senator; and finally, his storybook marriage to a Vandergalen heiress.
It was a veritable love letter. “Some are already saying that this kind of enthusiasm for a candidate has not been seen since Barack Obama’s first term,” intoned Williams. “Early polls are showing that the senator is one of those rare candidates who attracts voters from across party lines.”
The staffers on the plane with Andy and Ben—Tess, Bess, and Jilly among them—showed their approval with hoots and high-fives. The handful of reporters who’d hitched a ride on the plane in order to cover the senator while he was on the campaign trail nodded and grinned as they scribbled copious notes.
That piece was followed by a pundit analysis of Mansfield’s campaign. Williams’ guests for the segment were the new Republican National Committee chairman James Orkin, and the conservative New York Times columnist, David Brooks. Williams asked Orkin point blank if the GOP’s leaders considered Mansfield’s surge in the polls “something that the party could get behind.”
“Brian, we stand behind all our candidates,” Orkin chuckled. “But at this time, I think you’d agree with me that your question may be somewhat premature. Remember, there’s another twelve months to go before the first primary. No doubt about it, Andy’s a good man—but at this stage of his career, he lacks the gravitas of the frontrunner, Vice President Talbot.”