He looked up, eyes wide.
“Do you wish to bet my friend?”
Butcher was beginning to have difficulty breathing, and his mind was racing. He said nothing.
“No? Ah, but if you do not bet, our little game will be over too soon.” White Crow reached across the table and slid several of Butchers’ chips forward, and then matched them from his own pile. Then he dealt again.
Snap! Another card was added to Butcher’s hand, but he was afraid to look.
Snap! The queen of spades now kept company with White Crow’s king.
White Crow placed the deck on the table.
“A pretty card my friend. Worth a handsome bet, I should think.” White Crow waited without success for Butcher to reply.
“No? Nothing ventured, nothing gained you know.”
Butcher finally found his voice. “All the cards,” he said hoarsely.
“What, my friend?”
“All the cards. Deal the rest of the hands now.”
White Crow shrugged. “But that is not how the game is played, my friend!”
Then, as if having a sudden thought, he continued. “But of course! You are tired, and I am a terrible host for not noticing. We must finish up quickly, so that you can get your rest.”
He laid the remaining cards out softly this time, dealing himself the jack and ten of spades, and Butcher two more card-sized photographs.
He set the deck down and leaned forward.
“It is your turn to wager, my friend.”
But Butcher was silent, staring down at the new cards he had been dealt. The first was a photo of the puppy he had bought for his daughter’s seventh birthday a week before, and the second was a picture of his little girl posing in front of a mirror, wearing a new birthday dress. The last was of his delighted, five year old son, reaching out to pet the new puppy.
White Crow cupped a hand to his ear. “Was it ‘all’ you said? Ah! You are very brash tonight – and you haven’t even looked at your first card yet!”
He reached across and swept not only Butcher’s chips, but his bundles of cash as well into the center of the table. Then he reached into the drawer and poured a double handful of red chips onto the pile.
“I have matched you, my friend. Do you wish to raise?”
Butcher’s face was frozen, staring down at the cards.
“Ah, I see. You have already wagered everything you have in the world!”
With that, White Crow turned over his face down card, showing the ace of spades and completing a royal flush.
“And you my friend? I am entitled to see your last card, you know.”
Butcher did not move. He already knew what it would show.
“Well then, I must turn it over myself.” White Crow reached across and, very slowly, turned over Butcher’s last card.
Of course, it was a picture of Butcher’s wife. And not just any picture, but one taken on their wedding day. All three of the people he held most dear in the world stared trustingly back at him from where they lay defenseless on the table.
White Crow leaned back in his chair. “I believe the game is mine.”
Then he swept the garish pile of cash and chips into the drawer and locked it. “I’m afraid that you will never learn to quit when you are ahead, my friend.”
His bit of guerilla theater completed, White Crow leaned across the table once again. He was not smiling now.
“Now that we have seen each other’s cards we will get back to business. When you return to your room, you will find a memory stick on your night table. Do not forget to take it with you when you leave. On it you will find the list of information and code I require. You will save those items to the memory stick, and then you will return it to me by overnight delivery so that it is in my hands on Tuesday. Then you will await further instructions.”
White Crow rapped twice on the table and stood up. A hidden door Butcher had never noticed before opened to admit one of the casino’s bouncers. He held the same door as White Crow left, closed it, and approached the poker table.
Too stricken too move or speak, Butcher looked up at the bouncer with unseeing eyes. With a surprisingly gentle touch, the big man placed a hand on Butcher’s shoulder.
“It’s time to go.”
Butcher began to rise, but then sat down abruptly to scoop up his cards. Clutching them in front of him, he stood up again and followed his escort out of the room.
* * *
15
Introducing the Next President of the United States!
It was not late when Frank left the motel bar. After a month in the rumpled single berth of his camper he yearned for the crisp, clean sheets of the king-size bed in his motel room. But he also wanted to see what more he could find out about Randall Wellhead’s staff before he went to sleep. Of course, with so many media people logging on, the motel Wi-Fi connection was crawling. So he made his way back to the rear parking lot where he could once again perch in front of the cramped desk in his camper.
But he couldn’t find much on-line that was useful. And what search request should he use, anyway? “Randall Wellhead” AND “men in black?”
There was some chatter along the lines the man from POX News had shared. But it was all from early on in the campaign, when Wellhead was in “tease” mode. Those first impressions had all been nattered to death weeks ago, allowing whatever eyebrows the Wellhead team had raised to relax again
After a half hour, Frank was ready to call it a night. He shut down his computer and returned to his room. But halfway through brushing his teeth, he stopped. Damn. He hadn’t checked his email, and he also hadn’t heard from his daughter in days. That wasn’t like her. He looked for his phone, and then his laptop. He must have left both in the camper.
Feeling abundantly sorry for himself, he trudged his way to the parking lot yet again. Entering the camper, he turned on the overhead light and the light bulb burned out with a pop. Damn again. He found a flashlight, turned on his laptop, and waited for his email to download.
Two minutes later, he was still waiting. What was going on?
He opened a browser, and that took forever to connect, too. Was some part of his system failing? He opened a diagnostic tool and saw to his surprise that his connection was transmitting data at a prodigious rate.
How could that be? None of his software should be automatically updating or backing up. He checked, and sure enough, nothing on his laptop or his server was processing anything at all, just his Wi-Fi router. What could his system be up to?
There was only one explanation he could think of, and that one didn’t make any sense. Or at least he hoped it didn’t. But there it was nonetheless: someone within fifty yards of his camper must have hacked into his very own, personally configured, super secure system.
* * *
He eased the back door of his camper closed and peered cautiously around the corner. The motel’s main lot had been too full for a vehicle his size, so he was parked in an overflow area behind the pool area. Only a few cars and pickup trucks were there, one of which must hold the person helping himself to Frank’s wireless connection.
But he couldn’t see anyone in any of the vehicles nearby. It was hard to tell for sure, though, because the parking lot was unlit and the faint glow of a laptop might not be visible, especially from a distance. He’d have to walk around the lot to get a better view of each vehicle, one at a time to tell for sure. He wondered how many of those pickup trucks had gun racks. Maybe it wasn’t so important to know who the hacker was after all.
And then he noticed it: an old VW camper with curtains drawn, parked in the very back of the lot in the shadow of some trees. Bingo. That must be it. He felt his courage returning. How threatening could someone be that drove a VW minibus?
He walked to the
edge of the parking lot, keeping his camper in the line of sight of whoever was in the VW. Then, feeling foolish, he hunched over and scooted around the periphery of the lot, staying behind the ratty landscaping as much as possible. When he was in line with the minibus, he peeked through the trees, hoping to find a break in the curtains. But they were drawn tight.
Crouching once more, he crept out of the trees, edged along the side of the vehicle until he was in front, and slowly stood up until his eyes just cleared the bottom of the windshield.
Towards the back of the minibus, he saw the head and shoulders of someone silhouetted against the glow of a laptop screen. On the side of the camper, he could see a partially open cabinet. He couldn’t see what was inside, but from time to time he saw the flickering of lights reflected on the back of the cabinet door.
He eased back down into a crouch. Now what?
He had no doubt that the person inside the camper must be the one that was piggy-backing on his Internet connection. But if they denied it, how could he prove otherwise? Maybe he should just sneak back to his motel room and forget about it. His haunches were starting to ache, so he sat down on the ground, once again feeling foolish.
Then the VW’s engine growled into life and the headlights came on, bracketing his wide-eyed face between them. Involuntarily, he spread his arms and pasted his back as tightly as possible against the broad front of the minibus, trying not to be seen. Then, realizing he might be run over at any moment, he jumped to his feet just as automatically and spun around. Paralyzed like the proverbial deer in the headlights, he found himself staring face to face through the windshield at the person he had set out to find.
* * *
Otto Barbash was poised and posed at the end of Max’s private dining room, dominating the room with his presence. Still at their tables, his guests were digesting an excellent dinner and enjoying their after dinner drinks. As always, Barbash was impeccably dressed, wearing a dark, bespoke suit and club tie. A silk handkerchief emerged from the breast pocket of his suit coat, folded to display three identical points and his personal monogram. A brandy snifter was cupped in the fingers of his right hand.
No longer young or athletic, Barbash still carried himself erectly and well. A luxuriantly thick and precisely trimmed white moustache provided an old-world touch to his dignified face. That feature, together with a lofty forehead and his military bearing, had led more than one acquaintance to erroneously recall Barbash wearing a monocle. Indeed, anyone noticing Barbash displayed against the rich paneling of the private dining room might easily think they were glimpsing an oil portrait of a 19th century diplomat attending an affair of state; only the red sash and star were lacking.
There would be no random glances into the private dining room this evening, of course, because the door to the room was closed and guarded by the two advance men. One of them was just now opening the door to admit the last of Mr. Barbash’s guests.
All eyes turned to greet the two late arrivals, as the opportunity to meet – and pledge economic support to − Randall Wellhead was the reason for their own presence. Barbash remained apart at the end of the room, content to allow his wife Amelia a few moments in the spotlight. Elegantly coiffed and wearing a burgundy Empire gown, she rose to greet the candidate and introduce him to the guests. Barbash looked forward to using the interlude to exchange a few private words with Wellhead’s companion, who was also shaking hands while discretely moving in his direction.
Barbash was always impressed by the fact that Richard Fetters was so much smaller in person than he appeared on television. In any setting, though, the thinness of the man’s neck made his outsized head appear incongruous. Barbash wondered whether Fetters realized that the round lenses of his steel-rimmed glasses contributed to the impression that his face was a full, cratered moon rising from the collar of his shirt.
But no, that wasn’t quite the right analogy, because it failed to take into account the man’s extraordinary eyes. Barbash was always meticulous in his investigation of anyone upon whom he was considering placing his reliance, and he had made no exception with Fetters. Before consenting to a first meeting, he had studied him carefully on video as well as in text. From the first, he had been struck by the unnaturally large and piercing yellow-brown eyes that dominated the man’s invariably immobile face.
Barbash observed that whenever Fetters spoke, he inclined his head slightly forward and peered over the top of his glasses, fixing those unblinking eyes on the object of his attention. The effect was unnerving. Once you were locked into Fetters’s unwavering gaze, it seemed impossible to look away. It was not unknown for someone in a group, or even on stage, to simply stop speaking in mid-sentence, as if placed under his control as soon as they locked eyes. Yes, Barbash thought, as Fetters at last approached him. That was it. Not like a rising moon. Like a cobra, one with its hood fully extended and its eyes fixed on its intended prey. He extended his hand to Fetters.
“So good of you to come.”
At the other end of the room, Wellhead was holding court, shaking hands and beaming his trademark smile with the casual ease of a natural politician. The cheerful twang of his voice was punctuated by the appreciative laughter of his listeners.
“The pleasure is mine.” Fetters replied. “It’s very good of you to host another fundraiser so soon.”
“Of course, of course. One must go through the motions after all, mustn’t one?”
“Indeed. Any other election year it would be most welcome. But in this campaign we mostly need to keep the money flowing in to keep up appearances.”
“I’m not concerned. One expects high stakes at the most competitive tables. Our resources will be more than adequate.”
A waiter materialized at Fetters’s elbow, holding a silver tray. In the center stood a scotch in a cut crystal glass, served neat but for a few drops of water to bring out its bouquet. On either side of the glass lay a cigar, its end neatly trimmed.
“You prefer the Portlethen single malt, I believe?”
Fetters raised his glass in salute. “As always, you are an excellent host.”
“That’s because I always rely on my own refreshments and staff. I find that one can expect only so much when traveling, even from the best commercial establishments.” He nodded, and a lighter materialized in the hand of his personal waiter. Leaning over, he drew gently on his cigar. Fetters followed suit.
Barbash looked with mild disapproval at Fetters as he raised his scotch to his lips. “I’m sure I don’t know why you drink that peaty treacle when there are so many more sophisticated single malts available. I’ve always preferred subtlety over assertiveness. It’s an approach that has served me well.”
Fetters’s offered back the off-kilter smirk his face adopted in lieu of a smile when the situation required a positive response. Subtlety had never been his style. The indirect approach of working through intermediaries and shaping events from a distance merely added complexity, and with complexity came the chance of mistakes. He preferred the sudden strike, backed by the kind of overwhelming political – or other − force that left nothing to chance. But he knew better than to fail to stroke the ego of one of his largest donors when his expectations had been so clearly signaled.
“Your reputation for finesse is of course well deserved. I expect the business world has taken pains to seek out the secrets behind your remarkable success.”
“As a matter of fact, yes. There is a Harvard Business School case study. I could send you a copy.”
“No need – I’ve already read and appreciated it. But would you not agree that the challenges of the current political environment demand more than nuanced actions? If we wish to restore sanity in Washington, I believe we’ll need to be forceful before we can afford to be subtle again.”
“Desperate times require desperate measures? Perhaps.”
Barba
sh drew again on his cigar. “Thank goodness for private dining rooms, or I could never enjoy a decent after dinner cigar outside my own homes. And it does keep the others at bay.”
He turned to watch the guest of honor work the crowd. Barbash gestured towards him, leaving a trail of smoke with his cigar. “How is it that this ridiculous caricature of a human being is the best foil you could find to execute your plan?”
“He is an oaf, I grant you. But he is also shamelessly tractable and in tune with our equally ridiculous times.”
“Again – perhaps. But I wish it was otherwise.”
“In any event, his role can be transitory.”
Barbash turned to look at Fetters. “Transitory?”
“Yes, and hence my last minute decision to accompany Wellhead tonight. I’ve reflected on the plan I originally shared with you, and have a refinement to suggest.
“You’ll recall that the last Republican we helped into office toed the line for quite some time, paying heed to the cabinet we suggested, and especially the vice president we so carefully selected to guide him. But eventually he became over confident and decided to make his own decisions. It was something we knew might happen, but regrettable nonetheless.
“Otherwise, our plan was shrewdly designed and well executed. I believe that with a small refinement, we can use the same approach and achieve complete success this time.”
“And that ‘small refinement’ would be?”
“I believe that decisive action in the first instance is essential and will be well rewarded. Rather than rely on handlers to keep Wellhead in check, I’ve concluded that we need to replace him with the perfect presidential candidate a few days after the inauguration.”
“Good God, man! Surely you are not suggesting an act of violence?”
The Lafayette Campaign: a Tale of Deception and Elections (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 2) Page 10