The Liberty Intrigue

by Tom Grace

  “The terms socialism, communism, and fascism have come to mean different things to different people, but they all share a common intellectual root in the idea of political power achieved through the fusion of many individuals into a single bloc. The word fascist is derived from the Italian word fascio—to bundle—and it was used there a century ago as a synonym for union organizing. Generically, these are all forms of statism.

  “Our national motto, E Pluribus Unum, reflects the idea of strength from the union of many into one. There is sound logic in the concept of strength in numbers.

  “Where our motto and the founding documents of this nation differ from the ideology behind statist movements lies with the individual. Republican democracy defends the rights of the individual. Statism suppresses them.

  “The President has been called many things during his quest for office and in his first term, some fairly and some not. The label he seems most comfortable with is progressive. It has a nice ring to it, sounds positive and forward-thinking. After all, who could be against progress?

  “Progress implies movement. Not aimless wandering, but directed movement toward a specific goal. Making progress means getting closer to that goal. If the President and his policies are progressive, then toward what goal are they moving us? If the ends justify the means, toward what ends?

  “The progressive outwardly has nothing but the best intentions, but we all know what the road to hell is paved with. Politics is not played on a level field with a left side and a right. Instead, the field steeply slopes either down toward the hell of tyranny or up into the golden light of liberty.

  “I speak often of American exceptionalism, and the greatest mark of this exceptionalism is how far we as a nation have scaled that steep, difficult slope. No other people in history have set foot as high on that glorious mountain and breathed the rarefied air of liberty. As a conservative, I want to set solid anchors to prevent a slide back down the mountain and to enable our continued ascent.

  “Abraham Lincoln put it best when he said, ‘We all declare for liberty; but in using the same word we do not all mean the same thing. With some the word liberty may mean for each man to do as he pleases with himself, and the product of his labor; while with others, the same word may mean for some men to do as they please with other men, and the product of other men’s labor. Here are two, not only different, but incompatible things, called by the same name—liberty. And it follows that each of the things is, by the respective parties, called by two different and incompatible names—liberty and tyranny.’

  “The fundamental choice before each and every American voter is not between right and left, but between right and wrong.”

  Egan paused after this final word before calmly retreating to his place on the stage. The President was on his feet, watching Egan cross in front of him.

  “If I may,” the President said as Egan raised the water glass to his lips, “I wish to ask a follow-up question of my opponent.”

  Dewan looked to Egan, who shrugged and nodded his assent.

  “I must agree wholeheartedly that the fundamental question before the voters is one of right and wrong,” the President said directly to Egan. “Last week, you admitted to an arrangement with China that is largely funding your campaign and was responsible for the collapse of the New York Climate Exchange. The financial and environmental damage of that failure to this country is incalculable—”

  “It’s zero,” Egan interjected.

  “What?” the President asked, flustered by the interruption.

  “If your question is how much the collapse of the climate exchange will cost the people of the United States, the answer is zero, unless, of course, your friends who backed that monumentally bad idea fail to pay what they owe the governments of China and the United States for the carbon permits they bought. What’s incalculable is how much I have saved the American people in lost wealth and productivity that would have resulted if the exchange hadn’t failed.

  “And regarding my personal finances,” Egan continued, “my wealth is the reward for decades of hard work in creating an energy technology that will be an inestimable benefit to all mankind. I earned it. I created something that previously did not exist. I licensed what I created to a privately held American company. This company stands to make a lot of money from my technology for its owners. China paid a fair price to upgrade their power plants, and I am certain that the people of Beijing who are enjoying cleaner air and bluer skies would tell you the price their government paid was well worth it.”

  “So you say,” the President countered, “but the facts of your sweetheart deal with China and your collusion to ruin a financial exchange should and must be fully investigated.”

  “I welcome it.”

  “And not just the unsavory Chinese financing of your campaign, but the outright theft of millions of dollars in contributions from my campaign by the Egan Campaign.”

  The bemused expression that came over Egan’s face was not what the President expected as he leveled that charge.

  “Agents of the FBI are at this very moment raiding the offices of your campaign, questioning key members of your staff and securing evidence of this crime.”

  “I assume you are talking about the redirection of online contributions from your campaign to mine.”

  “So you admit it,” the President charged.

  “I have been aware of the situation for some time,” Egan replied matter-of-factly. “It was first brought to my attention in early June, and we have been cooperating fully with the Michigan State Police in their effort to determine the person or persons responsible for this crime. And I can state with absolute certainty that not one cent of the redirected money has been used by my campaign—it’s all in a state police escrow account.”

  “Why hasn’t this money been returned to my campaign?” the President demanded.

  “There are complications with the redirected money,” Egan explained. “Even though there is no physical money, no stack of bills, the electronic transactions are evidence of an ongoing crime that’s still under investigation. Returning the diverted funds might tip off the people who hacked both our campaign websites, making an arrest more difficult. Your public airing of this crime tonight has rendered that point moot. The more significant complication lies with identifying the victims of this crime.”

  “I am the victim,” the President declared.

  “No, you are not,” Egan countered. “While I agree that the redirected money was intended for your campaign, none of it actually got there. The money was, in fact, not stolen from your campaign.”

  “If not from my campaign, then from who?” the President demanded.

  “As a lawyer, Mr. President, I am certain you will agree that your loyal contributors are the injured parties. The money was fraudulently taken from them along with their credit card information. Is it not they who must be made whole?”

  “Of course,” the President stammered, “but shouldn’t my supporters’ intentions be considered as well?”

  “Without contacting them, the police cannot be sure just what their intentions were. Perhaps they only wanted to donate ten dollars to your reelection effort, but the redirect turned it into a hundred. The stolen money must be transferred back to its original source and each victim notified of the theft. It’s the right thing to do.”

  The President glowered at Egan. “If the police have been investigating this crime for the past two months, why wasn’t my campaign notified?”

  “The police couldn’t be sure your campaign wasn’t behind it. You have to admit, something like this would be a hell of an October surprise, especially with Election Day less than two weeks away.”

  “That’s an outrageous lie!” the President shouted.

  “I’m not accusing you or your campaign of anything, Mr. President. There was, however, another irregularity that forced the police to keep you out of the loop—it seems there is a problem identifying the victims.”

  “I
thought you said the police had all of the transaction details.”

  “I did, but the details apparently weren’t much help. Each of the contributions was for an amount less than two hundred dollars. This, you may recall, is the legal threshold for mandatory reporting of a contribution. And aside from the credit card numbers—which were, amazingly, all from prepaid, untraceable cards—the rest of the online forms were a jumble of random words and numbers. To the police, this seemed as curious as the redirected funds.”

  “We’re dealing with computer hackers,” the President said derisively. “They simply altered the data to cover their tracks.”

  “The police considered that possibility, but some very bright folks who work for a friend of mine dissected the redirect programs and found no sign of any tampering with the data as it flowed from your campaign to mine.”

  Egan rose from his stool and slowly approached the President.

  “These savvy programmers then began tracing the incoming contributions and discovered that each and every one originated from the same computer. And I think we both know which of your many supporters has, or at least had, pockets deep enough to afford illegally funneling more than a hundred million dollars into your campaign.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the President exclaimed, standing his ground.

  “That, Mr. President, remains to be seen.”

  “The next question,” Dewan announced, trying to reassert control over the debate, “is from junior Evan Richmond and is for the President.”

  Both candidates withdrew from center stage as Richmond made his way to the microphone. The President took a drink and shot a glance offstage at his campaign manager. Page gave a slow nod of his head. The President set his glass back on the table and turned toward the audience.

  “Mr. President,” Richmond began, “one of the main themes of your opponent’s campaign has been to liken progressive entitlement programs to the monstrous evil of slavery. Mr. Egan has gone so far as to call for the slaves of government dependency to be freed under a new Emancipation Proclamation. I am the product of a single-parent home and a number of federal programs have helped keep a roof over my family’s head, put food on our table, and provided the grants I needed to pursue my education here at Georgetown.”

  “Hoya Saxa,” the President offered with a fist pump, inciting an appreciative response from the audience.

  “Hoya Saxa, Mr. President,” Richmond replied with a broad smile, forgiving the interruption. “As someone who is making something of myself with the investment of federal aid, I do not feel trapped in dependency, nor do I consider myself a slave. Under your leadership, more has been done to level the playing field for all Americans than at any point since the New Deal and the Great Society. How do you counter your opponent’s arguments that entitlement spending does more harm than good?”

  “I must first commend you on your accomplishments. The fact that you are here, at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, speaks volumes about your drive and determination. If federal entitlement programs gave you the boost you needed, then I say it was money well spent. And I’m sure we’re going to get it all back, with interest, in the taxes you’ll be paying after you graduate. You are the norm and not the exception.”

  The President strode toward center stage, closing the distance between himself and Egan. His suit coat was unbuttoned, one hand holding the microphone, the other casually placed in his pants pocket.

  “Regarding Ross’s analogy—I don’t see it. Then again, I have little firsthand experience with slavery.”

  The President stopped at the café table next to Egan’s chair, standing opposite and slightly taller than his partially seated opponent in what he hoped would become the “above the fold” photo in every newspaper in the country tomorrow morning.

  The two candidates studied each other for just a second, and Egan felt the fury concealed behind his opponent’s congenial façade. The President pulled his hand from his pocket and held it palm up barely an inch above the table, fingers gently closed around a concealed object.

  “In fact, all I know about slavery I discovered secondhand.”

  As he pronounced the last word, the President uncurled his fingers and tilted his hand to allow a gold watch to slip from his open palm onto the tabletop. In the bright stage lights, he saw the reaction he had hoped for—the barest hint of recognition and a subtle drain of color from Ross Egan’s face.

  The President lowered his microphone, turned his back to the audience and the cameras, and leaned across the table close to Egan.

  “Checkmate, you son of a bitch,” the President hissed softly.

  Egan ignored the taunt and picked up the watch to look at the back. Maggie’s inscription was just as he remembered it.

  “Oh, it is your watch, Ross,” the President nearly whispered. “We checked it out thoroughly, even had it cleaned and tuned, just for you. All those years in the desert can take a toll on a precision timepiece. Fortunately, you left it in very good hands.”

  The President moved away from Egan, raising the microphone back to his mouth as he turned to the audience.

  “Getting back to the question, I must defer to my opponent regarding slavery—he is, after all, the expert in this area. Several years before sudden fame plucked him from obscurity and thrust him onto the world stage, Ross toiled in a tiny African country. He was a widower who, for years, had buried himself in his work. It was during a trip deep into the Sahara Desert that an opportunity, or I daresay a temptation, presented itself—one that sadly gave him something in common with more than a few of this nation’s Founding Fathers—Ross Egan bought a slave.”

  Egan withdrew in thought, ignoring the President’s continued attack.

  “Ironic how the same conservatives who rail against entitlement programs as a form of slavery put forth a candidate who secretly practices the real thing. What is known of this heinous transaction came to light from the nomadic chieftain who sold what he describes as a beautiful young female to my esteemed opponent. The woman in question had been this man’s slave for only a few years at the time of her sale to Ross Egan. She served primarily as a domestic, but satisfied other of her master’s needs.

  “Though officially illegal, the slave trade still exists in Africa today. The going rate for a slave in that part of the world is so low that they are considered a disposable commodity. The chieftain recognized my opponent’s prurient interest in his slave and set a price many times what he paid for her. And he got it.

  “Ross Egan bought another human being as his personal property, for God knows what purpose. And the price he paid in trade for the young woman who became his slave,” the President said, pointing at the dumbstruck Egan, “was the gold watch given him by his late wife as a token of her love.”

  Egan found his feet and the audience saw on his face pained bewilderment. He clasped the watch tightly in his hand and walked off the stage.

  Tears streamed down Niki’s face as she stoically recorded Ross Egan’s embarrassed retreat and the moment his campaign to win the presidency died.

  CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

  Robin Boyd oversaw Egan’s abrupt retreat from Georgetown, coordinating with D.C. law enforcement to clear the path to Reagan National Airport, where a chartered jet sat prepped for the next campaign stop.

  “Cherry Capital Airport,” Boyd informed the pilot. “Repeat, the destination is Traverse City. The candidate is heading home.”

  “Roger that,” the pilot replied. “Updated flight plan will be filed by the time you get here.”

  Boyd switched off her mike and sat back against the seat of the SUV. She was in the first of three black SUVs racing through the streets of the nation’s capital with a police escort.

  “Helluva thing,” the driver offered.

  “What?” Boyd said absently, her mind elsewhere.

  “Buying a slave—I mean this is the twenty-first century, not the old South.”

  “I d
on’t know what to make of that,” Boyd admitted.

  As the convoy sped through traffic lights and intersections closed in a rolling fashion along their route, Boyd felt her cell phone vibrate with an incoming call. The caller ID was blocked. She answered and identified herself.

  “Agent Boyd,” an electronically altered voice began, “you received a package of information pertaining to the attack in San Francisco, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The pre-purchased credit card used by the unknown suspects— check the numbers against those used for online contributions into the President’s campaign; They match. Money from the base account was also transferred to two offshore accounts. Follow the money and you will find the shooter and his accomplice.”

  “Are you saying Peter Sturla is behind the attack?”

  “Follow the money, Agent Boyd, and you will find the truth.”

  Hopps disconnected the call, certain its brevity prevented a trace back to him.

  “Think she’ll bite?” McColl asked.

  “Egan trusts her, as do the Randells,” Hopps replied. “She’ll pass it on to the FBI. And if they are as good as you, then a pair of killers will soon find themselves stateside facing a federal murder charge that carries the death penalty.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

  MORAN TOWNSHIP, MICHIGAN

  OCTOBER 31

  Egan’s Secret Service detail dropped him off at his parents’ front porch. It was mid-afternoon and an early snow was blowing in lightly off Lake Michigan. Egan ran the soles of his boots over a stiff-bristled brush to clean the treads before stepping inside.

  “Glad to see you made it home in one piece,” his father, Leon, said, not rising from his seat on the leather couch in front of a roaring fire. “The way the press is going after you, I wasn’t sure there’d be much left.”

  “You and me both,” Ross replied as he hung up his coat.

  “There’s a bottle of red on the bar if you’re drinking, unless you need something stronger.”