by M. K. Gilroy
Unless a member accompanies you or sponsors you for a dinner meeting in one of the small private alcoves surrounding the main restaurant floor, you can’t get in even if you know its location.
Though only two of the men spoke, three men dined together. You don’t order off a menu at the Madison Club. Whatever the Le Cordon Bleu master chef prepared is what you eat. And you never complain. It took them almost three hours to work through a fourteen course French dinner. The hors d’oeuvre was saumon fume. The bouillabaisse, the potage for the evening, was divine. Gnocchi served as the farineux. Sole in a white wine, garlic, and butter sauce was the poisson. The entrée was canard medallions, sautéed with ground cherries, caramelized onions, and white port. The lemon sorbet cleared the palate for the relevé, a rare boeuf filet with peppercorns and béarnaise sauce.
Jack Marcum, the third man at the table, the one who never spoke, was dining at the Madison Club for the first time and thought the meal was overkill. He had assumed the sorbet was dessert, not a respite to prepare for another meat dish. He marveled at the fat man’s appetite. The thin man held his own, too, but always left something on the plate. How many names for a main dish could there be? And when he saw the waiters approaching with another round of fresh plates, he wondered why they couldn’t combine a few courses.
The legumes course consisted of cauliflower mornay with a small side of roasted tomatoes. Marcum assumed there would be actual legumes but wasn’t about to question anything. A salade vert followed. The fat man, his boss, was relentless. He cleaned his plates on yet two more courses.
The savoreaux was a pungent welsh rarebit. Marcum was long done being hungry. But he nibbled politely, even if the rarebit was not to his liking. Duty called. The cheese board with Rocquefort Societe and Pont-l’Eveque was where Jack drew the line. One whiff of the latter and he had to stifle a gag.
How can people eat something that smells like something my bulldog leaves on the sidewalk?
Dessert began with strawberries and grapes, but that was only phase one. Chocolate gateaux wasn’t far behind.
Marcum swallowed as little as he could. His jaw began to hurt from pretending to chew more than he ingested.
Marcum lost count of how many styles of wine were served. He took a sip of each but the sommelier never took the hint and always poured him a full measure. Marcum guessed the wine he had not drunk tonight cost more than all the Budweiser he had downed in the previous year.
He followed the two men up a sweeping staircase to the Churchill Lounge where he joined them in lighting up a rare pre-embargo Montecristo No. 2—one of Castro’s favorite smokes. He took one sip of the Marquis de Montesquious 1904 Vintage brandy.
The fat man was not happy that the Rémy Martin Louis XIII Black Pearl Limited Edition cognac was not available.
“A bottle costs more than $20 thousand,” Heller whispered to him when Wannegrin went to use the restroom.
That definitely cost more than all the beer Marcum had drunk in his life, and as college freshman, he had consumed his share of Bud and Miller.
It was now after midnight. The conversation appeared to have run its course. The two speakers watched each other across a haze of smoke, Marcum between them but invisible, just like his boss wanted it, his back to the wall. Marcum was relaxed but watched everything. That was his job.
He couldn’t follow the full details of their discussion. The men spoke cryptically. He knew they couldn’t decide what to do with “the little” they got. His boss wasn’t officially authorized to mount covert operations. Marcum also knew that Emanuel Heller did whatever he wanted to do.
“So much effort with so little to show for it. Now what? That is the question, my friend,” said Undersecretary of State Emanuel Heller.
“You already know what I think we do with it,” Wannegrin said through clenched teeth.
The morbidly obese Heller pondered Wannegrin’s response as he blew a smoke ring from his third cigar of the evening. Marcum watched it spiral lazily toward the copper-plated ceiling. Heller was seventy-two years old, but he liked to liven conversation with the declaration that his doctor said he had the body of an eighty-two-year-old man.
In a meeting the previous week, Marcum heard Heller brag to the surgeon general: “I am one-hundred-and-sixty-pounds overweight, have high blood pressure, and bad kidneys—and I plan to do nothing about it. Life’s too short to not savor its finest.”
Marcum could have added that Heller had pasty white skin save for a few red blotchy rashes. But in Heller’s role of man behind the throne, none of that mattered. He possessed a near eidetic memory, with a brain filled to overflowing with history, political intrigue, and the secrets of everyone who mattered in Washington, D.C., and maybe every other country.
Marcum watched, fascinated.
Heller looked at the man across from him. Marcum had experienced that stare first-hand. It felt like the small narrow jet black eyes were probing you, looking for access to your inner workings— and succeeding. Heller was trying to do the same thing to Walter Wannegrin. Marcum wondered if Wannegrin, a formidable man in his own right, got the same sense of being opened up on an operating table as mere mortals? What was Wannegrin thinking? Marcum was certain Wannegrin was doing all he could to contain his anger. He was being grilled and chastised by a man he called Manny and who called him Wally. They might be old friends but Heller knew how to twist the knife while smiling, consuming mass quantities of food, and looking for all the world as if nothing was bothering him.
Wannegrin and Heller were roughly the same age, but Heller looked ten years older. Maybe twenty. Heller had commented on that before the first course arrived, saying, “Wally do you look like a young man next to me because you look so good or I look so bad?”
Marcum watched, for the first time feeling uncomfortable in the two men’s presence, as Heller continued to gaze at Wannegrin closely.
“Is there any truth to the rumor Alexander has had a stroke?” Heller probed, breaking the silent struggle of wills.
“We would never know if he did,” Wannegrin answered. “He looks fine in public appearances.”
Marcum had been with the two men at dinners such as this. The conversation was not flowing like usual. There was a palpable tension in the air.
“Who is Alexander working with, Walter?”
“Alexander isn’t a team player, Manny, and you know it. He’s not part of a machine because in his mind he is the machine. He works with no one because he trusts no one. That’s what made this incursion into his inner circle so tough.”
“Wally, I must look for someone else to reach Alexander. I credit you with nearly pulling off the impossible. For that I am thankful. But we don’t have enough to do anything but discredit the man as delusional. There’s a lot of ways he can spin that. We just didn’t get enough. We need to wrap this chapter up and put a bow on it. There will be another day.”
“Manny, my friend, we can blow him out of the water with what we have. Whatever whacky plan he has cooked up, we can stop it before it starts. ‘I will ride the blood red horse of the Apocalypse.’ C’mon, Manny. He’s up to something big and something evil. He’s so full of himself he might want to best Hitler and Stalin for genocide.”
“I agree with what you are saying. But Wally, we’re still nearly blind. We don’t know who else is involved in whatever Alexander is working on. I know you don’t agree with me, but it is possible he might be one cog in a machine. Moving on him could free others to avoid scrutiny.”
“He’s not a cog and you know it, Manny.”
“But who knows Wally? He might have been writing allegorically about a new business venture, not literally about wreaking destruction on the earth’s population. Wally, I think we sit on this for the time being.”
Wannegrin reddened. Heller knew it was time to back off.
“Excuse me Wally, I must use the little boy’s room”
He pushed down on the arm rests and managed to shift more than four hundred p
ounds to a standing position.
WANNEGRIN FUMED WHILE HELLER WAS away from their nook in the cigar lounge.
It was true. He had failed. It didn’t matter that Grayson and whomever he subcontracted the job to had been the ones directly responsible for a botched operation. Ultimately, it was on him. He had let down his old friend Emanuel Heller, and along with him both of the countries he loved so much. Flushing 25 million dollars down the drain chafed at him.
We must wrap this chapter up.
Wannegrin knew what Heller was asking for and he would never make the man, no matter how much he infuriated him, ask for it directly. That’s not how they did things. Stopping the conversation right there was probably Heller’s way of keeping Marcum out of the loop.
Wannegrin didn’t need any prodding from Heller on what to do next. Grayson was a loose cannon and absolutely untrustworthy. Walter had already ordered a team from Blackwater to terminate the contract and tie up all loose ends. Permanently. He didn’t like that such actions were sometimes necessary. He was a man of peace. He was one of the few who believed fervently it was possible to have a Palestinian nation sit alongside the nation of Israeli. But though regrettable, the ends really did sometimes justify the means. David didn’t face Goliath to talk over their differences.
“Wally, dinner was sublime,” Heller said as he eased his weight back in the chair across from him. “You must let me pick up the tab.”
“Manny, you probably forgot, but there is nothing so Philistine as the exchange of money to ruin a perfectly splendid meal. The cost was so little that perhaps they will forget about it. If not, they will send me a bill.”
“Are you sure, Wally? I don’t think they’ll forget about the cognac.”
“Manny, I insist.”
“You must let me treat you next time, Wally. Really, you must.”
“Absolutely. You can be sure that the tab for dinner is yours next time.”
JACK MARCUM KEPT HIS FACE impassive but smiled quickly on the inside. He had worked as an administrative assistant for Emanuel Heller for three years, and in his own personal experience, he had never once seen the man pay for a meal. Heck, if they went to Starbucks, Jack had to pay. Emanuel Heller would fumble for his wallet only to discover he had left it in the car. Whether they were dining with a senator or lobbyist or captain of industry, the same ritual of offering to buy the next meal was replayed.
He looked at the two men circumspectly. How do you read what just transpired? Neither was happy with the other, but neither was willing to pursue the track of disagreement any further. They looked at each other with an appraisal Marcum had never seen. So what would he report?
Marcum could type more than one hundred words a minute. He was also a Navy Seal who knew at least one hundred ways to kill or disable an adversary. That made him invaluable to Heller.
What Heller didn’t know was that less than twelve hours ago, Marcum had accepted a new assignment. He wouldn’t be resigning from Heller’s office, however. The president’s chief of staff, Gwen Hampton, made it clear when laying out what was needed that working for Heller was a requisite of concurrently working directly for the POTUS.
Marcum admired Heller. He would never do anything to injure his boss. But Hampton was right. Heller’s health was deteriorating rapidly and the legend was holding secrets that would go to the grave with him, maybe sooner than later.
Marcum felt a twinge of discomfort and guilt that Hampton let him know he would be receiving a generous stipend for his service to the President, paid through back channels into an offshore account.
He wasn’t against personal profit but it put a taint on what he would do for free out of red, white, and blue patriotism.
THE MARINE HELICOPTER SET DOWN at the East 34th Street Heliport. It took two men inside the craft, one on each arm, pulling and Marcum pushing from below to get Emanuel Heller aboard.
Heller and Marcum strapped in and the craft immediately lifted off for the 90-minute hop to Washington, D.C.
Heller looked out the window to catch a quick glance at One World Trade Center, better known as the Freedom Tower, the signature landmark on the south end of Manhattan. If anyone had listened to Heller, the beacon would never have been erected. Why build a 1,776-foot target to taunt enemies who need no taunting?
The pilot banked to the south east and the East River and Williamsport section of Brooklyn slipped below.
Emanuel sat back and sighed. His first move against Alexander was not a total disaster, but close enough to go in the loss column. Heller had already pieced together enough seemingly random events to suspect that the megalomaniacal billionaire was up to some evil deeds. The pages captured from Alexander’s journal confirmed those suspicions, but did not provide the detail to prove—or avert— anything.
“Did you enjoy dinner?” he shouted to Marcum above the roar of the rotors.
“It was amazing, boss,” Marcum hollered back.
“Then why didn’t you eat the cheese?”
“I’ve never had a chance to acquire the taste,” Marcum responded, shocked that Heller noticed anything he ate or didn’t eat at the Madison Club.
“We’ll work on that,” Heller yelled.
Heller smiled, knowing the distress this would cause his aide-decamp.
Emanuel thought of his lifelong friend. Wannegrin was ostensibly retired from the necessity of work, having built several international companies that were being run with spectacular success by his sons. He split his year between a condo in the One57 Tower, a five-hundred-acre equestrian estate in Fairfax County, Virginia, and a mansion built inside a fortified wall of stone and iron atop the rocks overlooking the Sea of Galilee in Tiberius, Israel.
Wannegrin was a friend of politicians and movers and shakers in both countries. Heller never asked him which country held his highest allegiance. He didn’t have to. Heller knew Wally was a Mossad sayanim—volunteer helper. Wally undoubtedly shared state secrets he picked up about one country with the other, but Heller trusted that Wannegrin fundamentally had the best interests of both Israel and the US in his heart, so he sometimes threw Walter a juicy morsel to barter with. Yes, Wannegrin had a good heart, but it didn’t mean he was averse to making an extra million or two with forbidden knowledge he acquired from his friend.
For the first time in his relationship with Walter Wannegrin, however, Emanuel Heller wondered if he could trust his friend. Something was wrong.
Heller remembered a Wall Street Journal article outlining a deal the two titans had explored together more than twenty-five years ago. Was that the ground zero of Wannegrin’s hatred of Alexander? He would look up the details. It was smart to keep tabs on both enemies and friends.
I know you, Wally. Something’s up. You’re not being totally honest with me. Why didn’t you deliver the goods? Why does it feel like Alexander didn’t get your best shot?
With no companies to lead had Wannegrin lost his edge? Was it age? When had he ever seen the Israeli accept failure with such emotional detachment? What wasn’t Walter sharing? Did Alexander have something he was holding over Walter’s head? Did he have a way of damaging Wannegrin’s fortune? If there was one weakness in his lifelong friend, it was avarice.
Heller knew that greed was one of the most vulnerable, unprotected, and self-blinding sides a man could offer the world—especially his enemies. Had Alexander found a foothold?
Heller decided as a young man that public service, not personal gain, would drive his life. His family was well off but nothing close to the wealth that often surrounded him most of seventy-two years. He had lived contentedly and comfortably in the same brownstone townhouse in Georgetown that his parents bought him forty years ago. Not quite grand, not quite modest. Just right. None of the furnishings or decoration had changed in all those years, except a new leather recliner in his study once a decade. At four hundred pounds he was not easy on the only item of furniture he used religiously every day.
Heller clicked off his vices in his
mind. Food, drink, cigars, books, and work. Not bad, he thought. I have somehow avoided the two time-proven ways to pierce a man’s fortress: women and money. He was not asexual or homosexual. Heller assumed he was heterosexual. But what he knew for certain was sex didn’t have the same pull on him as it did for most men. In theory sex sounded wonderful. In his reality, it was rather uncomfortable and disconcerting. That’s not something he shared publicly. People wouldn’t understand. Thank God, his ex-wife was not the kind to air dirty laundry to the world.
Heller had reached out to Wannegrin almost nine months ago— long enough to have a baby—knowing the Jewish billionaire would help him even if it cost him a small fortune. Why was he so sure? Heller assumed that Wannegrin loathed Jonathan Alexander with every fiber of his being. Was it because Alexander was wealthier? That was conventional wisdom but Heller suspected it had to go deeper than that. Truly, it was not even guaranteed that Alexander was the wealthier of the two, no matter what the order Forbes listed them in. Both men had created a convoluted network of corporations to make it nearly impossible to discover just how much they were really worth.
Heller understood the value of keeping things unclear. His own role with the State Department was vague. He had reported to nine different men and women who held the title as Secretary of State. Not all were fans of his. One obvious reason was that as his legend grew, he sometimes reported directly to one of the six presidents he had served under. But none of the men or women he worked for ever dared raise a hand against him. It was known he was a genius. More importantly, it was known he was protected by his encyclopedic knowledge of the secrets of America’s enemies—and friends.
No one knew if Heller was Democrat or Republican. Not even his parents ever knew how he voted. Heller was most comfortable being alone in the shadows and that’s how he liked it and wanted to keep it. If the lights were turned on at his home, he intended to have a report or a book in hand to read, classical music playing in the background. Oh how the walls of his home had closed in on him during that awful year of marriage.