WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bidinotto

  He winced. Turned.

  “All right, Julia. If you want to help, here is what I think you can do.”

  3

  After she left, he sat on the sofa in the hotel room, sampling the hors d’oeuvres and finishing the glass of Cabernet. From the briefcase in which he’d fetched his laptop, he removed a file folder, and from that, a small stack of pages he’d retrieved from the internet.

  He studied them again, trying to connect what they revealed to what she had told him. After about fifteen minutes, he went through his usual security ritual with his latest burner and phoned Wonk.

  “Yes, Dylan. May I be of assistance?”

  “You may. I need you to do a bit of homework for me.”

  “And the subject is?”

  “Two subjects, actually. The first is Gazprom, the big Russian energy company. I believe their people are actively involved in sponsoring annual conferences in Berlin. Can you see what you can find out about that?”

  “Indeed I shall. And the second topic?”

  “I need the exact dates and amounts of the Trammel Foundation’s grants to the Currents network for anti-fracking campaign and activities. Especially if the amounts are significant.”

  “When do you need that information, Dylan?”

  “ASAP. I need it for an article.”

  “I shall get on it immediately.”

  Hunter ended the call and checked his watch. Almost six o’clock. Bronowski probably would be at home, now. He tried that number.

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Dylan, Bill.”

  “Dylan who? I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  “Yeah. I don’t think it’s funny, either. Not only are you causing me headaches over your identity, you’re interrupting my supper. This better be good.”

  Hunter told him.

  “Holy crap! Are you sure about that?”

  “There may be a lot more, Bill.”

  “So when can I expect this stuff?”

  “Very soon. Days. But here’s what I’d like you to do for now. I want you to tease it, for several days. I want you to just hint about what’s coming. I’ll draft something tonight and email it for you first thing, if you want to start running the promo tomorrow.”

  “Dylan, my only worry is whether you can deliver what you promise.”

  “Count on it. And once again, keep my byline off this stuff. Make each of these another ‘staff’ contribution.”

  “You know, if these pieces start getting awards, all those freeloading staffers will start asking for raises. Get paid for not working.”

  “There are precedents, Bill. Remember, this is Washington.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  At six-fifty a.m. on Tuesday, Avery Trammel was sipping coffee in the rear of his limo, en route to Reagan National for another quick New York meeting, when Maestro’s call came through.

  As he listened to the news from his friend, he felt his chest tighten.

  “Damn it, Avery!” Carver exclaimed. “Why would they claim such things? Be straight with me, now—is there anything to this?”

  “I have no idea what they are talking about, Lucas. This is the first I have heard of it.”

  “Well, it looks serious. Really serious. They’re teasing it, saying next week they’ll start a new series, all about you. They claim it will expose secret connections you have with the Russian government. The first article is supposed to show that money from some Russian energy company is pouring into your foundation.”

  “That . . . that is outrageous!” he shouted. The cup in his hand shook so much that it began to spill coffee onto the floor. He barely managed to settle it back onto the side table without further mishap.

  “Outrageous or not, you know where they’re headed with this. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots. They’ve already tried to trace your foundation grants through Currents into the campaign. Next, they’ll try to make a case that your grants include Russian money, funneled through you to us.”

  “If they print any such lies, they shall be answered with a multi-million-dollar lawsuit!”

  “It won’t matter, Avery. Not to the campaign, it won’t. With our lousy poll numbers, this is the last thing we need right now. So whatever we do about this, we’ll have to do it fast. Before we talk any more about how to respond, you need to check the Inquirer and see exactly what they’re claiming.”

  “I shall do that at once.”

  He ended the call, then used his phone to go to the Inquirer website.

  He found the announcement about the coming series displayed prominently, hinting at the promised revelations. As he read, cold dread spread throughout his body, causing him to shiver. He placed the phone down on the seat beside him. Then groped for the intercom button.

  “Jeffrey,” he said to the driver on the other side of the soundproof barrier, “there is a change of plans. We need to return immediately to the apartment.”

  Still shivering, he nudged up the thermostat three degrees.

  Back behind the locked door of his study at seven forty-five, he checked in with his secretary out at the estate for messages. He tried to quell a rising feeling of panic as she read out the names and phone numbers of all those requesting urgent return calls.

  Rouse at the Currents Foundation.

  Five different media reporters.

  The New York office.

  Two investment partners, one in London.

  He spent the next hour staring at the list. Thinking about what he would tell each of them.

  Pondering how he might stop an impending disaster.

  At eight forty-five, he used his intercom to instruct the cook to prepare a pot of coffee and a light breakfast, to be left outside his study on a rolling tray table.

  At nine, he made his first call, to his personal attorney. He told the man what he wanted, but the lawyer balked.

  “Listen to me, Harvey,” Trammel said, stifling a rising anger, “I am not interested in your preaching about ‘prior restraint’ and the First Amendment. If indeed we cannot ultimately prevail in court, then the objective will be to buy time—at least enough to delay this series from appearing next week. I shall pay you double your rate if, by the end of the day, you file a motion for an emergency injunction to block its publication . . . Good. That is more like it. Now, please get to it.”

  Next, he spoke to Wallace Rouse. His objective here was soothing reassurance.

  “The important thing right now, Wallace, is to keep our wits about us. I have spoken to my attorney, and he is filing a motion for an injunction against the Inquirer. He assures me we can block publication of these lies. And of course I shall issue a categorical denial of these defamatory insinuations later today . . . Absolutely not! You have no need to worry that any money from Russia passed through my hands into the Currents Foundation . . . Oh, yes—I have no doubt he is the one actually behind this. My team will redouble our efforts to discredit Hunter in the media this week . . .”

  It was mid-afternoon before he caught up with his list of calls sufficiently to take the next step. He used a burner from the desk safe to send a coded text, then waited for the return call on the encrypted satellite phone.

  “I hope you are calling to tell me you’ve deposited the rest of my fee in the Caymans account,” Lasher began.

  “Our agreement was that the target would be permanently dealt with.”

  “You said ‘neutralized.’ And I did that. The problem has been solved for you.”

  “That is not why I called. I have another job for you. This target is the one you have been so eager to engage, for so long.”

  “Really? You want me to do that, now?” Lasher’s voice did sound eager.

  “It is time.”

  “Way past time, from what I see in the newspaper. Isn’t it a bit late?”

  “Not if it is done right away.”

  “I must find him first. That hasn’t been goi
ng well.”

  “Rather than do that, provoke him into revealing himself. He has to be stopped, immediately. At all costs.”

  “It will cost you plenty, then. First, though, you’ve got to pay me the rest of what you owe me.”

  Trammel ground his teeth. “All right.”

  “And then, for this job? How about another ten?” Lasher laughed. “I’d charge more, but I’m giving you a bargain rate because this will be so much fun for me.”

  “Another twenty-five, total, then? That is quite steep.”

  “You can afford it. And as I see things, you can’t afford not to.”

  Trammel hated the smug lout. But he had no choice.

  “All right. Twenty-five.”

  “That’s better. I’ll get on it—right after I see the money you already owe me sitting in my account.”

  “It is too late today. I shall initiate the transfers tomorrow. You should see the funds Thursday at the latest.”

  “Great. Believe me, I look forward to this job.”

  2

  Bad as Tuesday was, Wednesday was worse.

  It started with an email from his London investment partners. They were concerned over the controversy and what it portended. They wished to meet at the earliest opportunity “to discuss the future of the partnership.” He knew what that meant.

  The statement he had released the preceding afternoon had done nothing to quash the rumors and speculation, or dampen the steady stream of media inquiries. His secretary continued to forward their call-back requests throughout the morning, until, exasperated, he ordered her to stop doing that, and instead to refer all reporters to his previous day’s statement.

  He had just sent out several emails and text messages—to Rouse, Cunningham, Spencer, and various business associates—when he paused to field a late-morning call from Carver.

  “Avery, some good news. I just wanted you to know I took the initiative last night to post on the private listserv of the Progressive Media Alliance. I told them I’d known you for years, that there was nothing to this, that it was just a smear by the Inquirer and the far right to undermine Spencer’s campaign. And pretty much everyone was sympathetic. They appreciate all your generosity over the years. Almost all of the print people agreed not to cover the story, and some of the broadcast and internet media actually volunteered to go on the attack against the Inquirer.”

  “Lucas, thank you! That is exactly what I need to hear right now. You truly are the Maestro.”

  “Of course, Geppetto. We’ve been friends for so long I know you like a brother. I’m confident there can be no substance to this.”

  But his tone did not quite equal the confidence of the words.

  “Meanwhile, we need to get this story out of the daily news cycle,” Carver went on. “I suggest you maintain a low profile for a while. We’ll steer you away from campaign fundraisers and other public events. You may want to consider getting away from town for a little while.”

  Trammel felt something sink inside.

  “Would that not look like I am running away?”

  “No, no, no, I mean for your own peace of mind. Away from phones and cameras and media pests.” Carver’s voice sounded as if it was exuding forced warmth—like those smiles of his, which never reached his eyes. “You’ve said your lawyers are on this. Pull back and let them do their jobs.”

  He knew he was being shunted aside. He would not allow that. Not after everything he had done. Not after coming this close . . .

  “Lucas, I have a critical role to play in this campaign. In shaping strategy, in raising funds, in rallying support. Were it not for me, Spencer would not have seized the advantage during the debate. I have invested a great deal in this effort, and I shall not allow some fake reporter peddling bald-faced lies to run me off!”

  “Easy, Avery. I know you’re upset, but it will all work out. Look, I have a lot of things to take care of right now—mostly trying to discredit the Inquirer before they go to print next week. Why don’t we have a meeting of the executive team in a few days—say, late Friday—see where things stand, and decide how to proceed from there.”

  “Right,” Trammel said, trying and failing to take the edge off his tone. “Let us do that.”

  He cut off the call before any phony exchange of goodbyes.

  Once again he checked his email account. A senator had just cancelled a breakfast meeting tomorrow “due to a last-minute scheduling conflict.” Ten already-confirmed guests had sent their regrets about their sudden inability to attend a campaign fundraising dinner he was hosting at his estate next week.

  With mounting anxiety, he closed his email and scanned the home pages of the major online news sites. Buried among a column of items on a political gossip blog, he found that at noon Wallace Rouse had issued a prepared statement:

  “We wish to assure friends of the Currents Foundation that our funding sources are of the highest integrity. To underscore that commitment, we are addressing recent media reports proactively, and suspending acceptance of further funding from the Avery R. Trammel Foundation, pending clarification of the issues raised in those reports. Though we retain every confidence in our long-time partner, we feel . . .”

  Trammel stopped reading. He eased his chair back, away from the computer screen.

  No wonder the smarmy little ingrate had not responded to his early-morning email.

  He felt suspended between rage and raw fear. The latter emotion was unfamiliar, something he had not had to encounter much since his youth. He was accustomed to instilling fear, not experiencing it.

  He had to collect himself. His hand sought the anchor of the silver watch in his pocket. Once again he held it beneath the crystal chandelier to read the faded, etched inscription. The faded, etched initials.

  No, he would refuse to submit himself to fate. He had to be bold.

  Perhaps Lasher would head off the looming catastrophe by ridding him of the reporter. However, he had to weigh other options.

  The digital desk clock told him it was almost one o’clock. Hours before the day’s end.

  He decided it was time to talk to his handler.

  3

  The offices of Brotherhood Without Borders occupied a fourth-floor suite in one of the many modern, nondescript office buildings on Vermont Avenue. The executive director’s office was spacious and plush, with many customized, retrofitted fixtures, including unusually thick walls and a padded leather door, which insured privacy for the conversations held within. Such expenses seemed extravagant for a nonprofit; however, executive director Leon Sokol rationalized it to his staff and board, because he had to host so many impressive and influential guests.

  Guests such as Avery Trammel—who also knew his SVR handler by his real name: Leonid Sokolov.

  They sipped coffee from delicate china cups, in the soft comfort of the large club chairs next to the large, sunny window. But for this visit, its heavy curtains had been drawn.

  “The Center is not pleased about the prospect of this kind of exposure, my friend.”

  “That is why I am here, Leon. To prevent that, I require some assistance.”

  “‘Require.’ That doesn’t sound like a request, Avery. You seem to be forgetting yourself.”

  “I cannot mince words about this. It is a serious situation for all of us. I am on the cusp of losing the influence it has taken us decades to amass. Helping me is in our mutual interests.”

  “That depends upon the nature of the help—and of course, the costs and benefits.”

  “The assistance I require—”

  “No. The assistance you request.”

  Trammel tried to stifle his irritation. “All right—that I request is for the Center to use its many indirect means to rally support to my defense and, simultaneously, to attack and discredit the Inquirer. In addition, they need to tangle the financial records of the Gazprom funds going to me for my Berlin speeches.”

  Sokolov raised his gaze toward the ceiling and began tapping h
is fingertips together.

  “I am sure we can help with the first—getting people to vouch for you and attack the paper. But the second—that is a tall order, my friend. The financial records are what they are. The underlying problem is that the amounts you are paid for those speeches are extraordinary, and that naturally raises questions.”

  “Leon, you know why that money was authorized for me, where it went, and what it was for. You do realize what will happen if the Kremlin is implicated in an effort to determine the outcome of an American election.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. That depends on exactly what is revealed. We can probably absorb any fallout we might receive for using money to buy political influence. Many governments secretly engage in that kind of interference. What we could not tolerate is any link to the terrorism. But we see little risk of that happening.” His lowered his gaze back to Trammel’s eyes. “There is no such risk—is there, Avery?”

  Trammel understood the threat.

  “Of course not. And the Center has me to thank for that. My plan went off flawlessly, leaving nothing to tie the attacks to us. And because of how I coached him to respond, Spencer benefited significantly in the polls.”

  “A benefit that didn’t last, though. It’s fortunate that someone neutralized Helm, or it appears your plan ultimately would have failed. As things stand now, though, Spencer is a shoo-in to win the election. So, it won’t matter if we’re seen as having backed his candidacy.”

  “But if my reputation is not protected, then I shall lose my influence over Spencer.”

  Sokolov shrugged. “Your influence, perhaps, but probably not ours. Even without you, we’d find other ways to bring a weakling like him to heel.”

  Trammel could not believe what he was hearing.

  “Are you implying that I am now expendable?”

  Sokolov snorted. “We are all expendable, my friend . . . Come on, now, don’t look at me like that. Of course we want to protect you, Avery, and help you continue to be successful. You have done outstanding work. But if you lose some credibility and your direct, personal influence over Spencer, it won’t exactly be the end of the world. There are many other things you can still do for us, whether or not you are the new president’s personal puppeteer.”