Naked Ambition

by Rick Pullen

  “Well, we can’t just sit here and do nothing.” Dymon sat down and did just that. He stuck his hands in his suit coat pockets and leaned back, emphasizing a growing belly beneath his striped shirt and silk suspenders.

  Geneva knew Dymon was one of those CEOs who sucked all of the air out of the room, which made her even more desperate to steer the conversation where she needed. It hadn’t occurred to her until just now that he might do something stupid to affect the company stock and screw up her plan. She felt goose bumps on her arms. Fortunately, she was wearing a suit and no one would notice.

  She paused briefly and began again. “It’s my understanding the news media are onto this. If they publish or broadcast a story in the near future, we will have to do nothing.” She wondered how much progress Beck had made on his story.

  “And who is that?”

  “Again, this is so sensitive, we need to wait. We are spectators. If everything works out the way I hope, we will win the contract by just waiting and watching.”

  Dymon squirmed in his seat. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving this to chance.”

  “It’s not chance. This is how Washington works. Things are not always as they seem. Sometimes there’s order behind the political chaos, and that chaos is nothing more than a smoke screen.”

  “It’s all smoke and mirrors as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I don’t disagree. From Minneapolis, I can understand your point of view. Trust me. I am confident we can win the contract. I will stake my job on it.” She felt confident in her bravado. She knew if they didn’t get the contract, she would be out of a job anyway. Dymon would see to that. She knew he needed to blame someone.

  “I’ll take you up on that.”

  She saw an opening and felt she had nothing to lose. “And if I’m right, I want a one hundred percent bonus on my salary.”

  “Done,” said Dymon. “Geneva, you get that contract for us, and you’ve earned it.”

  Perfect, she thought. He got sucked right into that one, and in front of the entire board so there was no backing out. Maybe her skills weren’t as rusty as she was beginning to believe. So now she would either be out of a job soon or have an extra year’s pay lining her bank account.

  She looked over at Nijelski. Both of her hands were off the table. Geneva detected a slight smile on her face.

  The conversation went on for another forty-five minutes, but Geneva would not budge on revealing names. The CFO went over Serodynne’s numbers, and the officers discussed alternative plans with the board should they still fail to win the Pentagon contract. It was all the usual stuff boards did when faced with a potential crisis, Geneva thought.

  She was bored and worried she wouldn’t make her flight home in two hours. Then her mind wondered back to Beck. What was he doing? Was he deep in conversation with Red? It was time she found out what was going on with his story. And she had to admit to herself the one thing she had been denying lately: she missed him.

  38

  As Beck drove home, his cell rang. The readout said it was Geneva. He felt a surge of excitement as he turned onto Fourteenth Street and looked to see if any cops were watching. Cell phone use while driving was worth a hefty ticket in the District of Columbia. “I’d like to talk,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Your place?”

  “You comfortable there?”

  “Of course.”

  She sounded like the old Geneva. His heart soared. He felt like it had been forever since he had seen her.

  He hung up and waited for the light at F Street between the National Press Club building and the Willard Hotel. A tall man in a Panama hat glided through the crosswalk—unusual dress for this time of year, Beck thought. The man seemed to turn and look at him far longer than normal before continuing across the street. He had big, sad eyes and his hat, at least, reminded Beck of the man in the white hat in Grand Cayman. Before reaching the sidewalk, the stranger again looked his way. Funny, thought Beck, he’s staring right at me as if he knows me. After his experience in Grand Cayman, he admitted to himself he was a bit on edge, but he was sure the man was staring at him.

  A car horn blast interrupted his concentration. The light had turned green. Beck pressed the accelerator and headed for the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

  BECK BUZZED GENEVA UP TO HIS CONDO and waited at the elevator in the hall. When the doors opened, she reached for him and they hugged. She said nothing but sobbed quietly, her head pressed against his chest. Beck held her tightly. He had been so focused on completing his story he nearly forgot how good it felt to hold her in his arms.

  “Come,” he said, holding her hand and leading her into his condo. They sat in his living room. Funny, thought Beck. They had never sat here and had a conversation. Usually, they would have flung their things on the furniture and ripped each other’s clothes off by now. Today, they hadn’t even kissed.

  “How are you?” she asked. Beck noticed her eyes glistening as she wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Me too. I’m sorry for not calling. I didn’t realize how all of this would hit me. I fell apart. I blamed you, but I realize you’re not to blame.”

  “It bothers me too. I’ve never been part of anything like this.”

  “Beck, I want us to work. I do. I’ve had some time to think. I’ve got my share of baggage, and I’m still sorting through it.”

  “Any progress?”

  “A little. Try again? Us?”

  Beck looked into her sad, longing eyes. His body ached for her. Yet he wasn’t sure if he could totally trust her. Was she really that oblivious to what he did for a living that she hadn’t considered the peril she put him in by helping him investigate her competitor? He found it hard to believe. And yet he looked at her and felt himself melt under her spell. He should give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Are you kidding? I’d love to try again.” There. He said it. He lifted her chin and kissed her. He wanted her so much; he was ignoring the voice inside him.

  She gripped his forearms and pulled him close. The kiss intensified. Beck’s hands slipped down her back, and he tugged at her blouse. He then took her hand and led her to the bedroom. Finally, familiar territory for both of them.

  AN HOUR LATER, THEY WERE on his balcony with cigars and martinis. Geneva asked about his story.

  “It’s hung up with the lawyers and the publisher.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Bayard is stalling, and my publisher is skittish. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow. So I’m hoping maybe we will publish on Sunday.” “ Why Sunday?”

  “More people see it. The Sunday morning political talking heads pick it up, which puts it in every newspaper in America on Monday morning. It’s all about marketing.”

  “I guess there’s a lot I need to learn about the newspaper business.”

  He looked at her and wondered why now she was suddenly so curious about his work. But her questions exposed her ignorance of how his profession worked, and that relieved some of his suspicions. “There’s a lot I need to learn about lobbying. How is your company doing? I saw in the paper that the stock took a beating.”

  “I just got back from a Minneapolis meeting with the board to discuss the situation. They are secretly making plans to downsize if necessary.”

  “If necessary?”

  “Well, if your story runs, it might help reverse the Pentagon’s decision. That’s our only hope.”

  “Oh, I see.” Beck’s radar kicked in. Was Geneva here to see him or to check on the status of his story? He looked for some sign of deception in her body language, but all he could see was her flawless nakedness waving a cigar in one hand and holding a half-filled martini glass in the other. If she was deceiving him, he sure couldn’t tell. And if she were, would she ever admit that publishing his story would help her—or at least her company? No, on second thought, she was innocent of his unspoken accusation.

  “If it ever gets out ab
out you helping with the story, I’m toast for sure,” he said.

  “If we don’t get that Pentagon contract, I’m pretty sure I’m toast too.” She paused and set down her drink, turning to him. “Beck, I really

  screwed up. I don’t know what I can do to make it up to you. I want you. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize you or your story. I know how much this story means to you.”

  Yeah, and you too, he thought. You too.

  39

  The next day, Beck’s desk phone brought more bad news. “The meeting’s been delayed until Monday,” Nancy said.

  He eyed her across the vast cluttered newsroom.

  She returned his disappointed glare. “Bayard’s lawyers said they can’t meet until then.”

  “Jeez.” He was disgusted with his publisher. She was letting them manipulate her.

  “But one good thing. Cunningham told them if they didn’t show, the story would run as is. No more delays.” “Good. She’s found her testicles.”

  “Give her a break. I was pissed too, but she’s got to think of the entire company. All you and I have to worry about is the entire nation.”

  Beck laughed. “I like the way you think.” Nancy always had a way of making him smile even when his world was going to shit. He loved that about her. But Beck also knew time was running out. Unsaid between the two of them was the impending election, just weeks away. Their publishing window was quickly closing.

  Was there anything he hadn’t considered? He thought about the Bayard campaign. There couldn’t possibly be any truth in their delay, could there? He rolled every aspect of his story around in his mind looking for holes. There just weren’t any he could see. He had his facts down solid. God, he hoped he hadn’t missed something.

  He felt anxious, so he decided to stretch his legs and get a sandwich at the deli down the street. As he crossed the intersection on Fifteenth

  Street, a tall man in a black raincoat strode toward him. Their shoulders slightly bumped in the center of the crosswalk. Beck was in no mood to be friendly. “Can’t people watch where they’re—”

  “Sorry, Mr. Kemper,” said a voice from behind. “Crosswalks can be dangerous. We must be careful. Be safe.”

  Beck turned back. The stranger’s graying hair flowed from under his black fedora and over his collar. A goatee and designer sunglasses covered his face. Beck could make out only a smile filled with a set of expensive, perfectly capped white teeth.

  “Pardon me.” The man tipped his hat, turned, and walked away.

  A cold chill ran down his neck. Beck hurried to the curb, then looked back. The man was gone. What had he called him? Mr. Kemper? And he said, “Be safe.” Somehow, this guy was linked to the man in Grand Cayman. Now he was sure he had been followed on the island and was definitely being followed here in DC. It had to be the guy he saw crossing Fourteenth Street the other day.

  “RED, WHO WAS THAT GUY?” Beck asked as he paced his living room floor that evening. “This has to have something to do with my story. The man called me Mr. Kemper. I’m sure he bumped into me on purpose.”

  Beck paced more vigorously. Think, he told himself, but answers evaded him. He shoved his coffee table up against his couch to give himself more room. Thinking aloud sometimes took up a lot of space.

  “Red, why? Who? What for?” He sped up, looking at Red, but got no answers. He stared at the ceiling, never stopping, walking faster.

  Then he slammed his shin into Red. The pain seared through his bone. Beck bent over and rubbed the leg of his jeans.

  “Damn it.”

  He felt light-headed and eased himself into his favorite leather chair. He did not move, grimacing, rubbing his shin vigorously until the throbbing subsided. When the pain was finally gone, he stood and nearly banged his head against the lampshade of his favorite floor lamp. It was out of place. No, that wasn’t right. He’d knocked Red out of position.

  He turned and looked at his chair. He grabbed her supple leather arms and realigned her so her two front feet fit back into their impressions on his oriental rug. Beck was no neat freak, but he had fidgeted for five minutes when he first bought Red trying to make her fit in the corner, the only space left in his living room. At first he feared he had measured incorrectly. But after a few adjustments, he had realized she was just a tight fit next to his lamp and magazine table.

  He began to pace again, this time with a slight limp.

  “Damn, that hurt.”

  No matter how hard he tried, talking aloud didn’t help. He could not focus on the meaning of the stranger who had bumped into him— nearly accosted him—on the crosswalk. Why would anyone be following him at this point? Was it a warning? A threat? Beck had no answers, and he hated that.

  He understood the what. Someone was keeping tabs on his progress. But the who and the how puzzled him. And why so blatant? Whoever it was wanted him to know he was being watched. Maybe they were trying to intimidate him. Or something worse. Maybe they were threatening him. He thought about it. That threat could involve Geneva as well.

  He needed to take some precautions. This wasn’t just a story he was working on with Red anymore. He’d entered dangerous territory with an unknown enemy who could attack without warning from anywhere at any time, and he would never see it coming. He felt numb with fear. He realized no matter what he did to defend himself, he would always be vulnerable.

  40

  Beck, his editors, and the company lawyers finally congregated in Cunningham’s top floor office. It was Beck’s first visit since Riggleman’s retirement. He couldn’t help but think about the last time he’d been there.

  Riggleman had invited him up to talk about his Nordact arms story a few years ago. He had gotten some angry calls from a congressman whose district might be harmed by Beck’s revelations, and Riggleman wanted to pick Beck’s brain about some facts in his story.

  It had been an innocuous meeting, but Beck was impressed with Riggleman’s interest in even the most minor details. He also reassured him the newspaper fully backed his effort. God, it had been nice to have a boss like that.

  Since then, the office had been repainted with warmer, feminine beiges and pale grays. A huge vase of tall fresh-cut flowers stood on a corner table, and the obligatory pictures of Cunningham and her three small children hung on the wall. In a corner, he spotted a photograph of her uncle and late grandmother, who had steered the paper to fame and fortune a generation earlier.

  A generation ago, thought Beck. Yep. Times had certainly changed since he was a rookie reporter.

  A photo of Cunningham laughing with President Croom hung prominently behind her large, modern desk. The word in the newsroom was a Post-Examiner staff photographer had cracked an off-color joke about a Republican senator just as he was aiming to shoot and captured their reaction for posterity. Of course Cunningham would not repeat the joke, but it had made the rounds of the building in record time. While he didn’t have the same confidence in Cunningham as he did in Riggleman, Beck appreciated her salty sense of humor. Most reporters carried it in their genes.

  The newspaper crew filed into the adjoining conference room one by one. The Patten-Bayard campaign lawyers greeted everyone like long-lost relatives, but the friendly demeanor did not last. The newspaper tribe lined up on one side of the large conference table, and four attorneys for the Patten-Bayard campaign sat on the other.

  It reminded Beck of the divorce scene in any number of movies: the anxious couple sits across from each other, arguing over who gets custody of the family dog. He wondered what assets would be split up today or left on the table. This whole scene disgusted him.

  Cunningham was flanked by the Post-Examiner’s two attorneys on one side and Nancy on the other. Beck sat next to Nancy. At the end of the table, Baker pulled a skinny brown cigarette from his breast pocket and tapped it on the table. He did not light up. Smoking was prohibited in the building. He snared it between his lips anyway and leaned back with his hands behind his head. He surveyed th
e room.

  Gerry Vandevelde introduced himself as the lead attorney for the campaign and introduced the other attorneys. Probably here as window dressing. A show of force, Beck thought.

  Before the meeting, Baker had instructed Beck and Nancy to stay silent. Speak only in response to a question from Curtiss, Baker told them, and don’t be tempted to answer questions from the other side.

  The campaign attorneys’ first attempt was to kill the story based on patriotism. Really? Laughable, thought Beck.

  The liberal media attack on a conservative argument followed. The newspaper attorneys tossed the objections aside with ease. Obviously, these campaign hacks had a list of objections to present in hopes one would get a hearing at the table. They needed to get serious.

  Katherine Cunningham remained silent, watching and listening. When the campaign’s attorneys tried to address her directly, Curtiss interrupted and cut them off. “All of your questions will be directed to me,” he said.

  The back and forth continued for nearly an hour. From Beck’s perspective, it accomplished nothing discernable, except to allow the attorneys to claim their retainer. He thought that was even questionable, given this inept display. His initial suspicions seemed correct. There appeared to be no purpose for the meeting other than to delay publication. He was now beyond disgusted.

  Finally, the sparring appeared to end.

  “There is one more issue we wish to address,” Vandevelde said. “Mr. Kelly, would you hand out the materials and explain what you found? We had hoped this meeting wouldn’t go this far, but since you refuse to listen to reason, we believe this will convince you to hold your story until you get it right.”

  Beck studied Kevin Kelly, who had been introduced to them earlier. He was much younger than the other attorneys—probably in his late twenties. He flipped copies of three stapled pages to everyone at the table.

  “As you can see,” Kelly said, “you incorrectly identified the XAX Company as a subsidiary of Lamurr. It is actually a subsidiary of Capo Mining, a coal operator in Venezuela. The names are the same, but they are two different companies with two different parent companies. Therefore, there is no tie between Lamurr and Senator Bayard.”