by Mike Maden
And then Brody’s questions turned personal. How long have you been a charter captain? How long have you lived in Michigan? Any kids? Were you in the service?
It started to feel like an interrogation instead of friendly chatter. There was something about the guy that bothered Pike. He couldn’t put his finger on it. When the next fish struck Brody got distracted trying to reel it in. The pole bent nearly in half, as if a bowling ball were hooked to the other end. Pike fetched the net. A twenty-three-pounder—big fish. Not a record, but respectable. At this rate, Brody would hit his legal limit of fish in a few hours, and then they’d be heading back to the marina.
“Can I use the restroom?”
Pike pointed at the cabin door with his filet knife. “Right down there. Hard to miss.”
“Thanks.” Brody flashed a smile and descended the short stairs, closing the door behind him.
Pike stood at the cleaning station, thinking. He cut the chinook’s head off with a single pass of the razor-sharp blade, then took off the tail.
He didn’t like personal questions.
CHEBOYGAN, MICHIGAN
It was late. Pike’s boat was the last one to tie up for the night. Nobody around.
The high-speed grinder shrieked beneath the stainless-steel tub, mulching the carcass into a fine slurry that ran straight back into the lake. The sound bounced off the blue cinder-block walls. A real racket. But the enclosed fish-cleaning station was always neat and clean whenever he came into it, and Pike intended to leave it that way, too. Always had. He used the sprayer to push the last little bits of flesh and bone into the drain. The city of Cheboygan had built the handy little facility in order to make the fishing experience that much more convenient for the public. They knew how to treat sportsmen right up here, especially in the UP. It’s why he loved living in Michigan—for six months out of the year, anyway.
Pike’s phone rang. He checked the number. A call he’d been waiting for. He hung up the sprayer and punched the grinder motor’s red Stop button. It quieted instantly.
“Pike here.”
Pike listened to the urgent voice on the other end but kept spraying the tub, washing away the last drops of blood.
“I understand. The charter is all ready. I’m just waiting for your last deposit.”
He nodded, listening. A smile creased his face. “Excellent. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Then we can get started right away. It should be a lot of fun.”
Pike rang off. He checked the sink. Spotless, just the way he’d found it.
12
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The Kairos Club was traditional, elegant, and private, like Ilene Parcelle herself. Vicki Grafton admired both institutions. Despite its privacy—or maybe because of it—the Kairos Club had been the place to be seen in D.C. for the last forty years.
It was an early dinner, barely five p.m. The last-minute invitation was both propitious and unsettling. It felt more like a summons than a dinner date, but that was to be expected. The former congresswoman had climbed the pinnacle of power after her time in government. Parcelle was used to people clearing calendars and canceling important family events when her assistant called. But when Parcelle was on the other end of the line? One of the senior partners at the Seven Rivers Consortium? Governments fell, countries rioted, markets collapsed. Ilene Parcelle was Vicki’s sponsor and, perhaps, even a friend. Grafton admired her immensely but also feared her.
For now.
Grafton arrived early. She always kept a fresh dress in the office for moments like this, with shoes and jewelry to match, of course. Parcelle would be expecting nothing less than her best. Grafton even managed to freshen her light makeup and brush out her thick red hair on the drive over. She took great pride in her beauty and was smart enough to know that her stunning good looks had opened more doors for her than less attractive women could possibly have hoped to pass through. Her vanity allowed for that despite her feminist sensibilities, but no one doubted her keen intellect once she opened her mouth.
Parcelle was decked to the nines as well and, in her late fifties, could still turn heads. She arrived with a small entourage, whom she waved away at the front desk, and she and Vicki were escorted to the table by the maître d’, who was himself a formidable establishment figure and social statesman. Politicians, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries of every stripe had dined there over the years, and he had escorted all of them, too. Grafton feigned indifference but secretly reveled in the leering gazes and jealous glances from the tables they passed by as they were seated in the place of honor near the great bay window overlooking the garden. Very private. Grafton smiled. Her Klout Score would jump five points before the evening was through.
They ordered drinks—a gin and tonic for Parcelle, whiskey neat for Grafton—and waited for their dinner to be served.
“You look stunning,” Parcelle said. “You must live in a gym.”
“I wish I had the time. I’m lucky if I get to run in the morning.”
“How do you keep so trim?” Parcelle asked over the rim of her glass.
“I’m eating paleo these days.”
“Is that the caveman diet I’ve been hearing so much about?”
“Something like that. Well, except tonight. Might have to cheat a little bit.”
“Cheating is one of life’s great pleasures, don’t you think?”
“You look ravishing yourself,” Grafton said.
“Thank you, love. You’re too kind. I can only imagine the hordes of grasping gray-haired old men you have to fight off on the Hill. They were quite the bother even in my day.”
Grafton fought the urge to laugh. She knew that Parcelle wasn’t one to actually resist those advances back in her day. She’d gone down on more senior political figures than the White House elevator. Rumor had it, she’d once done the big nasty in the White House elevator. “Viagra hasn’t done us any favors, has it?”
“At least not in that regard,” Parcelle said. “But the little blue pill does have its merits.” She grinned mischievously as she took another sip of her drink.
“The problem now is that every octogenarian out there thinks he’s a twenty-year-old frat boy.” Grafton smiled, remembering a recent run-in with the junior senator from Vermont just forty years her senior.
Parcelle’s chuckle was gold in Grafton’s ears. The elder stateswoman had mentored her through the maze of Washington politics, grooming her for the next big step in her career. Unfortunately, that next step was taking longer than either of them expected. Parcelle must have been reading her mind. Her face soured.
“My colleagues at the consortium are becoming impatient.”
“I understand. I’m beyond impatient. Unfortunately, patience is the virtue required here.”
“Not for them. They have other projects, other . . . possibilities.”
Grafton felt the blood drain out of her face.
Parcelle smiled. “I thought that might get your attention.”
“I’m working as hard as I can to make it happen.”
“Is Lane any closer?”
“Yes, I’m certain of it.”
“Tell me, dear, truthfully. Do you really want to make partner?”
Grafton nearly spilled her drink. “Why would you ask that?”
“It’s just that you were so effective on the Senate subcommittee. And now, well.” Parcelle finished the rest of her gin and tonic.
Grafton had brilliantly shepherded several multibillion-dollar projects through the congressional budget maze for SRC clients while working as a senior senate staffer. But Grafton’s ambition was loftier than that. One project at a time was too cumbersome. She didn’t want to be a dealer or a floorman or even a pit boss. She wanted to game the whole casino.
The project she’d proposed to Parcelle a year before seemed like a sure bet at the time. It was only possible becau
se Chandler was VP now, and that gave her direct access to the president. Chandler, unwittingly, was her strongest ally in her plan, along with Ambassador Tarkovsky. But President Lane was still on the fence. His instincts were to avoid another war in the Middle East, despite the neocons in both parties clamoring for it. Grafton’s goal was to change his mind. A new war meant every SRC client would benefit, all at the same time, and guarantee her a partnership at the SRC.
Grafton began to fear she might have promised Parcelle more than she could deliver. She knew her plan was good—selling a president wasn’t any different from selling a committee chairman—and the odds were in her favor. She was a great lobbyist and staffer because she was a master persuader and media manipulator, the two most important talents in politics. There was no rational discourse in Washington anymore. It was all about creating narratives, and she was the best in the business.
But the dice still hadn’t landed right. She steeled herself. It was time to make her own luck.
“You were on the fast track, Vicki. I put you there myself.”
“And I’m forever grateful. I won’t disappoint you.”
“I’m afraid you already have.”
Grafton’s heart sank. “Please don’t say that.”
“You see, I put myself at some risk by advocating for your plan despite your lack of specifics. You made promises to me and I made promises to the other partners who, in turn, made promises to our most important clients. And yet, here we are.”
“It will happen soon. You’ll see.”
“When? Exactly?” Parcelle’s eyes narrowed.
“I can’t say exactly. A week. A month. It’s not like baking a cake.”
“Frankly, you reminded me of myself at your age. Your proposal was terribly ambitious and I greatly admire ambition.”
“Thank you. And I intend to deliver.”
“But intentions, no matter how ambitious, are worthless unless they’re realized.”
Grafton felt a cold panic tingling in the back of her neck. Failure wasn’t an option. Neither was sideways. Only up. Only more. If this door shut it would never open again, and there weren’t any other doors for her in D.C.
The food arrived. The tuxedoed waiters were swift and silent in their service.
“Another gin and tonic, ma’am?” a waiter asked in a small voice.
“Of course,” Parcelle said. She forked a piece of grilled halibut into her mouth.
“And you, ma’am?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Vicki! You know I hate to drink alone.”
“It is early, isn’t it? Yes, I’ll have another whiskey, please. Only this time, make it a Yamazaki. The eighteen.”
“Excellent choice.”
Grafton waited for the waiter to get out of earshot. She leaned in close anyway, lowering her voice. “I’ve got one last arrow in my quiver and I intend to use it.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“What kind of arrow are we talking about?”
Grafton sat back, smiled conspiratorially. “I’d rather not say at the moment.”
Parcelle searched Grafton’s sparkling eyes, certain Grafton was lying. “I’m intrigued.”
“You know you can trust me. I’ve always delivered before, haven’t I?”
Parcelle set her own fork down and sighed. “All right, dear. I’ll choose to believe you. But you really must land this awfully big fish you’ve promised.”
“It will be the great white whale.”
“You know I only want what’s best for you.”
Parcelle laid a cold, smooth hand on Vicky’s and squeezed it. “I can press for a little more time. But the longer you wait, the greater the risk we both face. Do you understand my meaning?”
Grafton nodded grimly. She was all in now. “Yes, and I’m grateful.” Grafton sighed with relief.
Parcelle picked up her fork and knife again as their drinks arrived. “So tell me, how did your meeting with Ambassador Tarkovsky go last week? I want all the dirty details.”
“He’s an interesting man. Chandler’s convinced he’ll be the next president of Russia.”
“I only met him once. Quite handsome. But quiet. An engineer, as I recall.”
“He attended the Moscow Power Engineering Institute with a degree in high-technology management and economics, and then earned a master’s degree at the All-Russian Academy of Foreign Trade before entering diplomatic service.” Grafton sounded like she was citing a brief, which she was.
“You’ve obviously done your homework.”
“Sorry. A bad habit of mine.”
Parcelle’s mouth curled into an envious grin. “I don’t suppose it’s his arrow that’s in your quiver?”
“Me? Hardly.”
“Tarkovsky’s quite a catch.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
“You could do worse.”
“God knows I already have. More than once.” Grafton winked as she took a sip of whiskey.
“Oh, do tell.”
She did, after ordering more drinks. Anything to get the subject off the Russian ambassador.
13
THE WHITE HOUSE BASEMENT
BENEATH THE NORTH PORTICO
Vice President Chandler dried his hands over the blower, waiting for his bowling ball to return, studying the pin reset.
“A seven-ten split, Mr. Vice President,” Tarkovsky said. “How will you negotiate that one?”
“I’ve seen worse,” Chandler replied. His tie was uncharacteristically loose and his French cuff sleeves rolled up. He’d draped his suit coat over one of the two chairs at the scoring station, where Tarkovsky was sitting.
“It’s the hardest split in bowling. You don’t have a chance.”
The sweeper arm cleared and the automatic pinsetter lifted. Chandler analyzed the bowling pins standing on either side of the rear of the pin deck. The dreaded 7-10.
“Actually, the four-six-seven-nine-ten Greek church is the hardest split in bowling. You only have a point-three percent chance of catching all of those. The seven-ten has a point-seven percent chance.”
“You take your bowling seriously!” Tarkovsky said.
Chandler’s custom ball chunked into view out of the return. “I take everything seriously, Mr. Ambassador. Especially bowling.”
“Why bowling, if I may ask?”
“I was raised in the back of a six-lane alley in Devereux, Georgia, by my maternal grandmother. Started setting pins and frying hush puppies when I was nine years old.”
Chandler whipped a microfiber cloth out of his pocket and polished the ball lightly before picking it back up. He stepped up to the approach dots in his custom-fitted bowling shoes and raised the ball with both hands to the front of his face like a prayer. Chandler’s tailored shirt highlighted his narrow shoulders and back but couldn’t hide the spare tire bulging just above his waistband. But when Chandler stepped into his throw, he lifted the ball far behind him and swung it down hard with a vicious curling spin. The ball exploded out of his hand and down the lane, hugging the right gutter until it smashed into the ten pin just right of center. The force of the strike was so strong it threw the ten pin crashing into the back wall at an oblique angle from whence it rocketed back out onto the pin deck and smashed into the seven pin.
“That’s a spare, I believe,” Chandler said, grinning ear to ear.
Tarkovsky stood to his feet and slow-clapped his admiration. “And that’s the game. Congratulations.” He added, “Again.”
Chandler fell back into his chair and grabbed up the can of Coke in the koozie marked with the vice presidential seal. He held it aloft. Tarkovsky raised a bottle of water and they toasted. “Cheers.” Chandler took a long, satisfying pull. He loved the burn.
The two of them were all alone in the little tw
o-lane White House bowling alley Nixon had originally built in 1969. It was one of Chandler’s favorite hangouts. It thrilled him to think that every president from Nixon to Greyhill had stood exactly where he was and bowled the same game he loved so dearly. It was a good omen.
Few people outside the White House knew about this place—most were familiar with the Truman bowling alley over in the EEOB—and even fewer had access to it. Thankfully, neither Lane nor his children cared for bowling, so Chandler had it all to himself. White House staff knew to stay clear of it no matter the day or time. It was Chandler’s sanctum sanctorum.
Chandler liked to bring down very special guests to his secret sanctuary. It made them feel like insiders. It was also one of the rooms that he could keep his Secret Service detail out of when he was using it without arousing any kind of suspicion, and he was assured by the senior agent that the room was free of surveillance cameras and recording equipment.
“Next time you’re in Moscow, I’ll have to take you out on the ice for a little hockey. Bowling is too hard.”
“You’d wipe the ice with me like a Zamboni. But I appreciate the invitation.” Chandler took another sip, wondering if Tarkovsky had finally made his opening bid.
Tarkovsky pointed his water bottle at one of the muted TV monitors. CNN was showing footage of yet another village in the Middle East. Still more crying women and dead children in the midst of fire and ruin. “So tell me, Clay, how would you navigate something like this?”
Chandler rose and crossed over to Tarkovsky. “Are you asking me personally, or the American government?”
“The two aren’t the same?” Tarkovsky smiled.
“I’m a loyal servant of this administration, no matter how misguided it can sometimes be.”
“Are you referring to the ‘no new boots on the ground’ policy? The so-called Myers Doctrine?”
“It’s a glorified form of isolationism. The world goes to hell without strong American leadership.”
Tarkovsky nodded thoughtfully. “Some would argue that ‘strong American leadership,’ as you have put it, has caused just as many problems.”