The Castle: A Ripped-From-The-Headlines Thriller

by Jason Pinter

  “Wait, you work for the Griggs campaign.”

  “Not anymore,” Remy said.

  “Jesus,” Grace replied. “You withdrew?”

  “Not officially,” Remy said. “I’m out. But I still want access for as long as I can. But he needs to be stopped. And I can’t do it alone.”

  “Alright,” Grace said. “Talk.”

  “Those PoliSpill emails that were routed through the Kyrgyzstan server. I didn’t want to believe it before. But now, it’s too much of a coincidence to be one.”

  Grace put down her bag and took out a digital recorder.

  “No,” Remy said, putting her hand on her arm. “This is off the record.”

  Grace and Celsun looked at each other. She slid the recorder back into her purse.

  “Alright then. This is your meeting.”

  Grace and Celsun sat on the bed. Remy pulled the desk chair over.

  Remy’s heart began to pound. This was the moment that would change everything. He could walk out. Say nothing. Go back to the Castle like nothing had happened, help Rawson Griggs get elected president, and see how far the Griggs train could take him.

  But he also might never be able to sleep again, or look Alena in the eye again.

  Remy took a deep breath and said, “I think Rawson Griggs had Paul Bracewell killed.”

  Grace’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath. He heard Celsun whisper holy shit.

  “Why?” Grace said.

  “Paul was a mole for Annabelle Shaw’s campaign. Rawson found out about it and tried to have him killed. The attack by Nogoyev and Usenov, Rawson was behind it. I gummed up the works.”

  “You think Rawson hired them to kill Paul? Jesus, that’s a hell of an accusation.”

  “After Paul died, Doug Rimbaud came to see me. He told me Paul had been working for Shaw. He told me Paul was convinced Rawson was behind the first attack. That attack failed, and then after Usenov bombed the Castle, Rawson had to wait. The night I spoke at the Hyatt, Paul and Alena got in a fight. Paul was drunk off his ass. That was the final straw for Rawson. Paul was compromised, but also unstable. I think Rawson had somebody murder Paul and make it look like an accidental drowning.”

  Grace rubbed her eyes. Celsun whistled.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” Grace said. “The fact that Doug Rimbaud came to see you is insane in and of itself. But without any proof or corroboration, there’s no way we could print any of this.”

  “I know,” Remy said.

  “Do you know what Paul might have been passing to the Shaw campaign?” Celsun said. “If Rawson was really willing to kill his son-in-law, it must have been bad.”

  “I think it was,” Remy said. “After Paul’s funeral in Spokane, I spoke to a childhood friend of Paul’s. A guy named Michael O’Brien. O’Brien said there were major discrepancies in Rawson’s finances. That his properties had been artificially inflating their revenues, and were possibly being kept afloat by foreign governments.”

  “Griggs is a billionaire,” Celsun said. “Why would he need to do that?”

  “Paul had found documentation showing Rawson’s properties were losing money hand over fist, and had been for years. Then, right before Rawson began exploring his run, the revenues skyrocketed.”

  Grace said, “As though somebody wanted him flush with cash in order to pay for a campaign. And since Rawson claims he’s footing his own bill, he’d need tens of millions, at the very least.”

  “Presidential candidates are legally forbidden from taking donations from foreign sources,” Celsun said. “But private businesses are exempt from that. So it’s possible that someone was funneling campaign money to Rawson Griggs through his legal businesses.”

  “He’s also been coordinating with his Super PACS,” Remy said, “especially Brent Scott’s. The PACs have footed the bill for a ton of Griggs events. It’s technically illegal, but...”

  “If there’s no electronic trail,” Grace said, “you can’t prove it or prosecute.”

  “Plus fatcat donors like Ira Morgenstern have been dumping money into those PACS.”

  “Here’s a question,” Grace said. “If you blew up the hit on Paul, why on earth would Rawson offer you a job and make you such a prominent part of the campaign?”

  Remy said, “He turned chicken shit into chicken salad. I had value to him. I was a hero. I was the guy everyone loved, and I was on Rawson’s side. Standing on stage next to him, supporting him, it was a great American story. Rawson turned a giant fuck-up to his advantage. It’s kind of brilliant, in a sadistic way.”

  “And now…what?” Grace said. “You’re having a crisis of conscience?”

  Remy got a beer from the fridge. He needed to calm his nerves. He took a long pull and wiped his mouth.

  “I loved being a part of it. The hero. But if any of this is true, he should be in prison, not the White House. Your article, once I saw that the PoliSpill emails were filtered through a Kyrgyzstan server, I knew. Dastan Nogoyev and Alexay Usenov were scheduled to fly back to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan after they killed Paul. Remember, they both came from Kyrgyzstan legally. There were no prior records. No red flags. No terrorist organizations claimed responsibility for their attacks. I think there’s a connection between Rawson, the PoliSpill servers in Kyrgyzstan, and Nogoyev and Usenov’s attacks. Rawson may have used that connection to hire two gunmen who could leave the country without a trace once the job was done.”

  “Kyrgyzstan itself is not a powerful country,” Celsun said. “It has very low natural reserves, and corruption there is rampant. This is not a world superpower. It doesn’t make sense for Rawson to risk so much to curry their favor.”

  “No, but he would risk it for money,” Remy said. “The night Paul was killed, he texted Michael O’Brien. The FBI assumed it was gibberish since Paul was intoxicated. But look here.”

  Remy took out the business card O’Brien had given him in Spokane. He handed it to Grace. She looked at the back.

  “TKGZP. I don’t get it.”

  “No, there was a space between TK and GZP. GZP is the stock ticker for GazProm. GazProm is the Russian state-run energy company, which, coincidentally, recently purchased the totality of Kyrgyzstan’s natural gas production for one dollar. That’s right, one freaking dollar. GazProm is a five trillion dollar company that’s primarily owned by the state. Kyrgyzstan’s natural gas production industry was in debt forty billion dollars. They only export about a thousand barrels a day, which is peanuts compared to the monoliths like Saudi Arabia, China, and Russia. But GazProm swallowed up all those debts, and in doing so, claimed exclusive rights to export gas and oil from Kyrgyzstan. Think about that: a five trillion dollar Russian monolith buys a country’s entire energy supply for one dollar. That’s what Paul texted his friend. It wasn’t gibberish. He was saying that Rawson is connected to GazProm.”

  “So you think Rawson helped broker an arrangement between Kyrgyzstan and Russia to wipe their debt clean?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. And he used those connections to find two Kyrgyzstani assassins in the states who had clean records and could return to Bishkek unnoticed. I think Rawson was in debt up to his eyeballs. Maybe to Kyrgyzstan. Maybe to Russia. But someone decided to prop him up to run for president. They could support him with unlimited funds through Rawson’s businesses. And then, once he was president, reap the benefits of a friendly administration.”

  Grace said, “That would explain the part of Rawson’s speech where he talked about lessening foreign sanctions.”

  Celsun tapped a pencil to his lips. “It’s also possible that Rawson Griggs has an under-the-table stake in GazProm. That could be where his debts come from. Global oil supply has been significantly higher than demand, which has driven prices down to the point where Russia’s entire economy has been destabilized. They need more export partners. The Russian economy has been almost cut in half over the last few years.”

  Remy said, “I think Rawson bought a stake in
GazProm. It would have cost him hundreds of millions, if not billions. And if he’s elected president, he could get rid of Russian sanctions, allowing billions and billions of dollars in oil and gas exports to flow here. Rawson stands to make hundreds of billions.”

  “Look at this,” Celsun said. He unzipped his backpack, took out a laptop, and booted it up. He plugged in a 3G SIM card. “Since the beginning of the campaign, I’ve been documenting every contribution made to the Griggs Foundation over the past twenty years. In 2008, the Griggs Foundation reported a five hundred thousand dollar donation from the LiK, which is an influential annual conference held in the capital of Kyrgyzstan. And in 2008, Rawson Griggs made a speech at the LiK conference in Bishkek, which was attended by about fifteen countries, promoting Kyrgyzstani life, as well as its various industries.”

  Celsun opened up a spreadsheet filled with hundreds of dates, figures, and names. He did a search and pointed to one line.

  “Know what company also had representatives attending this conference?” Celsun asked.

  “Let me guess,” Remy said. “GazProm.”

  Celsun nodded. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner. LiK attendees included Vitaly Litvienko, chairman of the board of directors of GazProm. And Temur Kamurzenov, head of Kyrgyzgaz, Kyrgyzstan’s state energy department, which was sold to GazProm.”

  “Temur Kamurzenov,” Grace said. “That’s the TK in TK GZP.”

  Remy said, “So Rawson speaks at the LiK conference, which hosts the head of Russia’s largest energy company, plus the head of Kyrgyzstan’s state energy firm, which was then sold to Russia.”

  “For one dollar,” Celsun added. “And check this out,” Celsun said. He turned the laptop to face them. He’d pulled up an article from a Kyrgyzstan news site written in 2008. It featured a picture of Rawson Griggs shaking hands with Temur Kamurzenov. And in the background, looking on with a smile, was Phillip Costanzo.

  “Maybe the ex-mayor just likes pierogies,” Remy said.

  Celsun said, “Not to mention that Rawson’s biggest Super PAC is run by former Senator Brent Scott, who used to consult for GazProm.”

  “So why doesn’t Alexay Usenov go back to Kyrgyzstan after Nogoyev is arrested?” Grace said. “Instead, he stays in the country and sets off the pressure cooker at the Castle.”

  “I’m pretty sure Rawson and Costanzo had Dastan Nogoyev killed in prison,” Remy said. “But Usenov got away that night. I think the bombing at the Castle was revenge for his friend. Plain and simple.”

  “Rawson is starting to make Vladimir Putin seem warm and cuddly,” Celsun said.

  “Here’s what I don’t get,” Grace said. “Paul Bracewell’s toxicology report showed that his blood alcohol level was off the charts. The first night, Rawson hires two goons to shoot him. Not exactly subtle. But then to finish him off, they fake his drowning?”

  “They might have pulled a North by Northwest,” Celsun said.

  “A what?”

  Celsun looked at Remy and Grace, stunned.

  “Oh, come on. Seriously? You guys haven’t seen North by Northwest? Hitchcock? Come on, it’s a classic! Anyway, Martin Landau tries to kill Cary Grant by staging a drunk driving accident. They basically pour an entire Jim Beam distillery down his throat and throw him behind the wheel of a car and have him drive down a cliff side. That way, the cops will assume he was just another drunk asshole who didn’t have a designated driver. I mean, Cary Grant ends up surviving and Paul Bracewell didn’t, but premise is the same. They ply Paul, who’s already drunk, with even more. To the point where he’s literally incapacitated. He blacks out, gets dumped in the river. No sign of a struggle. And a hundred witnesses can say they saw Paul drinking all night.”

  “If you’re right…” Remy said, shaking his head. “In seventy-two hours, I tender my resignation to the campaign. If I do it before then, he’ll know something is up and come down on me hard. Rawson leaves tomorrow for rallies in Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. Once he’s back, I’m out.”

  “Rawson will come after you,” Grace said. “This man doesn’t just hold grudges. He vaporizes people.”

  “Yeah. I’m aware. I guess the good thing is that I know he’s going to come after me.”

  Celsun raised his hand like a school kid.

  “Yeah?” Remy said.

  “Okay, let’s say all this is true. We have no proof. The Griggs campaign is a freight train. We’re three doofuses. No offense. He’s a billionaire supported by other billionaires, and possibly a foreign government. And if he wins, everything changes. So if Griggs has all this ammo, how the hell do you stop him?”

  Nobody had an answer.

  Remy left the Liberty Inn at midnight. He zipped up his coat, put on a pair of heavy wool gloves, and went to the nearest Chase bank. He withdrew the maximum, five hundred dollars, from his checking account. Then he headed back to his apartment.

  Grace Rivas and Eric Celsun left the Liberty Inn half an hour after Remy, staggered ten minutes apart. They went in separate directions: Grace to her Midtown East studio, Celsun to his girlfriend’s loft in Tribeca. They had agreed to lay low and regroup following Remy’s official departure from the Griggs campaign.

  At the Castle, Rawson Griggs sat in his office high above the city, poring over a draft of a speech he would be giving the next day in Ohio. Hamilton was a bellwether county, and if Rawson could swing it to the Mayflower side, he had a damn good chance at winning Ohio.

  Rawson scanned the draft with a red pen, circling words that didn’t quite fit, crossing out entire paragraphs, writing suggestions in the margins. He would not give the speech verbatim. He would memorize most of it, leaving room for digressions. To Rawson, the key to a good speech was the digressions. The way a voice could inflect emotion, the way a hand motion accentuated a point. Like a jazz musician, Rawson allowed himself room to freestyle, to feel the pulse of the crowd, to play the room.

  He was pleased with his progress. The speech would be ready. Rawson put down the red pen, rubbed his eyes. Then his landline rang. He picked it up.

  “Rawson,” he said.

  “It’s Costanzo. Go private.”

  Rawson punched in the code to transfer the call to a secure line.

  “Go on.”

  “You were right, sir. About Stanton. He met with two reporters from the Gazette tonight, including Grace Rivas. We also confirmed that Rivas requested an official press pass for tomorrow. She’ll be covering the event in Ohio in person.”

  Rawson closed his eyes slowly. He felt a deep sadness, just for a moment, before the pragmatism returned. Somehow, he’d hoped it would not come to this. He’d given Stanton a chance. A part of him, a foolish part, saw Stanton in a way that he never saw Paul. But that was over. Stanton was a liability. He was disloyal. And now Rawson had to follow through.

  “You know what to do,” Rawson said. “You trust the men?”

  “With my life.”

  “Tell them to make it look good. Have you talked to Dennis?”

  “I’ve been in constant contact with him since the beginning. He’s ready to go.”

  “Sober?”

  “I gave him a breathalyzer myself.”

  “Okay. I want him prepared for the morning after tomorrow. Talk to Jerry. Have him handle the details. Make sure Dennis is camera ready. I want someone with him every minute from now until then. I won’t permit him showing up smelling like he slept in a bus station.”

  “We’ll have him groomed like a show dog,” Costanzo said. “And, sir, I know this isn’t easy. We all had hopes for Stanton. But it’s necessary.”

  “Just get it done.”

  Rawson hung up the phone. The sadness he’d felt a few moments ago was gone. Anger had taken its place. Rawson Griggs was not crossed without severe consequences.

  There was work to do. He could not allow himself an iota of sympathy for the pain about to be inflicted on Jeremy Stanton.

  Alena got over Paul. Getting over Jeremy would be far simpler.

 
The next day, Remy went to his local bank branch and withdrew another five thousand dollars from his savings account. He then went home, packed a suitcase, and checked into the Comfort Inn in Times Square. He left his Griggs-issued cell phone at the apartment and took his old cell he hadn’t used since joining the campaign. Given that Rawson knew about his meeting with Doug Rimbaud, he wouldn’t put it beyond the campaign to have some sort of bug, recording device, or location tracker installed in the apartment. He would be able to access his Griggs email from his old phone, but wanted to remain off the grid until he knew what the fallout from his departure would be.

  The hotel room itself was bare bones. The mattress felt like a rough hardwood floor and the carpet fibers probably harbored dust from the 1950s. The Times Square location granted easy access to several transportation hubs, just in case. Remy had no idea if he was being paranoid or properly cautious, but he figured given what Rawson might be capable of, paranoia could be the difference between life and ending up floating in the East River. He hoped he’d given Grace Rivas and Eric Celsun enough thread to weave a story that could derail Griggs before it was too late.

  They still had no proof Rawson was involved in Paul’s death. Grace and Celsun had resources and brains, but Rawson had billions of dollars, the former mayor of New York, innumerable domestic and international connections, plus possible foreign agencies willing to bend or even break the law to help him.

  Remy lay down on the granite-hard bed and stared at the ceiling. The fan had strands of dust and hair hanging off it. He knew he wouldn’t sleep until he officially resigned. All he could do for now was keep his head down, stay put, and hope things remained quiet for the next three days.

  Trevor Mayhew and his husband, Chris Lorenzo, left Momoya in Chelsea at 10 p.m. In Trevor’s opinion, Momoya served the best sushi North of Tribeca, and it was worth the hour-long wait for their heavenly spicy scallop rolls and chicken katsu don. They split three appetizers, four rolls, a dish of edamame, a kani salad, and two bottles of hot sake. Nothing tasted better than hot sake during the cold winter months. They didn’t take reservations, and Trevor enjoyed stuffing his face while watching the line before the maître d’ grow longer and longer. Every time he put a piece of fish in his mouth, he could almost hear those poor, shivering souls’ rumbling tummies.