“Both parties have contributed to our current mess. I told them thanks—but no thanks.”
“So what happened to prompt you to run as an Independent?”
“You’ve got all the resumé details right, Mr. Hunter. But you haven’t mentioned the most important thing about me.”
“Which is?”
“My why.”
“So tell me.”
Helm’s voice grew firm.
“I don’t like what’s happening to our country, Mr. Hunter. It frightens me. People are rejecting the essence of what made our nation great.”
“Which is?”
“Hard work and peaceful trade. You know, a lot of people—especially the politicians, the press, and the professors—have never really created a damned thing of any use to anyone. They truly don’t understand what it takes to produce something—and how to deal with people as traders, not takers.”
“So they label a successful man like you ‘The Wolf.’”
“I know. It’s so frustrating, and so false. A wolf is a predator. But I don’t prey on anyone. That’s not how I make money. I make money by creating experiences that help millions of people enjoy themselves—and they pay me for doing that for them. It’s ‘win/win’.”
Helm stood. “Here, let me show you what I mean.”
He led Hunter to his broad office window. Below them spread a remarkable sight.
It was as if ancient Rome had been re-created here, in the Virginia countryside. Directly across a wide plaza, modeled after the famous Piazza Navona, stood an exact reproduction of the Pantheon. In the center of the plaza stood a to-scale copy of its iconic Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi—“Fountain of the Four Rivers.” At the far end was a precise replica of the famous Trevi Fountain, against the backdrop of a classical structure.
Hunter had read about this, but seeing it up close was breathtaking.
“This is unbelievable,” he said. “I’ve been to Rome several times. You’ve captured these iconic tourist spots perfectly.”
“Thank you. That was my aim.” Helm chuckled. “And it was all created from scratch. The only people I stole any of this from were the long-dead sculptors and architects of ancient Rome. The Pantheon, and the building over there behind the Trevi Fountain—those actually are the hotels for this part of the Helm Capitol International Resort. We’ve kept the architectural features of their public areas as authentic as possible, though the guest rooms have every modern convenience. You can’t see it from here, but off to the right we have reproduced the Spanish Steps rising from the piazza. Our resort guests love to linger out there in the evenings, just as they do at the real one in Italy. At night, we set up vendor booths and shopcarts in the plaza. They’re operated by Italian nationals and immigrants, and sell authentic goods from Italy.”
They returned to their chairs.
“It’s the same with the other geographical locales in this resort,” Helm continued, “just as it is in the other resorts around the country. This locale is Italy. If you take our Venetian gondola ride along the canal starting on the other side of the Pantheon, it brings you past Tuscany vineyards, then through French vineyards, and into France. We’ve reproduced the Place de la Concorde as its central plaza. The Arc de Triomphe towers over one end—with a French restaurant inside the top—and on the other end is a copy of the Palais Garnier, transformed into the main hotel. We’ve reconstructed a few blocks of Paris’s ‘Left Bank’ shops and cafes, and the Moulin Rouge to serve as the entertainment venue. And so it goes with our other ‘nations’ here: Holland, Japan, India, Argentina. Each built around famous, meticulously reproduced sites in the actual countries. Each with its own authentic cuisine, shopping, and entertainment. Each run by private entrepreneurs from those nations.”
“As I say, it’s incredible. Where did you get this idea?”
He smiled. “I come from the Midwest, about as far away from global culture as you can get. Once I became successful, I was able to travel the world. But I realized many people back home, like my parents, might never have such opportunities.
“So one day, looking at a map of America, I had this idea: Instead of transporting Americans to distant places, why not bring distant places to Americans? What if I could build, not your usual amusement parks, but a series of resorts—each offering five or six small-scale samples of different nations that most people would love to visit? And what if I could site those resorts across the country, so that at least one of them would be within a day’s drive, at most? Then millions of Americans could take short ‘foreign’ vacations—even weekend or day trips—at a fraction of the cost, time commitment, and travel hassles of the real thing.”
“It’s a brilliant concept, Mr. Helm.”
“Thanks. Our thirty-year plan is to place a Helm International Resort in an almost perfect geographic dispersal throughout the country, so that everyone can be within a day’s drive of a resort.”
“So, here you are, a wildly successful entrepreneur. You could just continue doing this, making money, enjoying your life. What made you decide to run for president?”
Helm raised his eyes to the window. He didn’t speak immediately; he looked as if he had thought about this question a lot, and found it painful to contemplate.
“It’s what I was saying. I couldn’t stand it anymore,” he said softly. “The thought of how America—the country that has given me so much—was being ripped apart by conflict. The fact that the candidates of both parties were just representatives of different warring tribes. That the candidates’ only personal goal is power over other people, and that they seek it by inciting group against group, race against race, class against class. That they and their followers view life as takers—not traders.”
His eyes were fixed, now, as if seeing the whole continent beyond his window.
“This is not for quotation, Mr. Hunter. Because I know how cynical people are, I know it wouldn’t be believed, and I know it would only be mocked. But you see . . . I love my country. And I’m scared for its future. We have to stop this tribal warfare. I got into this race, not because I wanted power—God knows, unlike my rivals, the last thing I want is power over others. I never aspired to be a politician, let alone president. I have plenty of other things I could do, and that I’d prefer to be doing.
“I got in the race only because I felt I had to. Because nobody else seemed willing to do what had to be done. Because I thought I might be able to make a difference.”
He blinked, as if returning to the room. Then looked at Hunter and spread his hands.
“Does that make sense? Do you know what I mean?”
Dylan Hunter stared back at him.
“I know exactly what you mean.”
4
He left the office a few minutes later and made his way back to the garage. Before starting his car, he inserted the battery back in his phone and powered it on to check for text messages.
There was only one, from Danika at the office.
Call from Sgt. Cronin Arlington PD. Says urgent to meet here today. Noon?
Hunter had half-expected this. Cronin was smart. He texted back an “OK.”
Then started the car.
Then, backing out of the parking space, caught sight of his face in the rearview mirror.
Then noticed the scratch marks, still livid.
Then cursed.
He drove slowly out of the garage, back toward the traffic booths, thinking.
Passing the exit booths, he saw the bus and the demonstrators again.
And had an idea.
He proceeded to a turnaround spot, then returned toward the entrance booths. He rolled to a stop near the bus. The demonstrators stopped chanting and eyed him suspiciously. A state trooper immediately trotted over as he rolled down the window.
“Sir, you can’t park here.”
He flashed his press credentials.
“I’m from the Inquirer. I’m here to interview the protesters.”
The young trooper wen
t over to confer with the officer who was no doubt his supervisor. The latter waved him an okay.
Hunter got out and walked toward the line of protesters.
“Hi. I’m Dylan Hunter from the Inquirer,” he said to the guy with the bullhorn, obviously their leader. “We’re doing a story about your protest. Wondered if I could ask you a few questions?”
“That fascist rag?” the guy replied. He was tall and wiry, with tendrils of lank, dark hair hanging in his eyes.
Hunter lowered his voice so that the nearby cops couldn’t hear him.
“You calling me a fascist, you pathetic jerk?”
The guy blinked. A couple of women next to him gasped.
“Yeah, you miserable communist creep,” Hunter went on. “Somebody oughta slap your ugly face.” He turned to those nearby, raising his voice a bit. “And the rest of you anti-American losers, you need an ass-kicking, too.”
That did it. The leader dropped the bullhorn and rushed him. Hunter seized his shoulders and maneuvered them both into the middle of the roiling gang.
He didn’t bother to defend himself. He let them swing at him, grab his sports coat. He endured a few tolerable, amateur blows to his face, then yanked the leader to the ground as the cops rushed in to break it up. He held onto the guy, taking a few more punches as well as a few kicks from those standing over them.
When the cops finally separated them, Hunter tasted blood trickling from his nose. Felt stinging on his left cheek, some throbbing on his thigh. Checking, he saw his jacket was a dusty mess with a torn pocket. One knee of his trousers had grass stains, and his shoes were scuffed.
The cops put the group’s leader in handcuffs while his gang screamed and cursed. The young trooper came back to him.
“You okay, sir? We can call an ambulance.”
“No, I’m fine. Just a few scratches, nothing serious.”
“We saw the whole thing. We’ve arrested the one who attacked you, and we’ll get his name so that you can file—”
“No, I won’t be filing charges. Really, it was my own damned fault. I provoked the guy. My editor will kill me if he finds out, and if this blows up with me becoming part of the story. Please, let him go.”
“But, we witnessed—”
“Honestly, I said some things that provoked him. I’m sure the rest of them will confirm that. It was very unprofessional of me. Frankly, officer, I’m embarrassed about it. You’ll be doing me a great favor just by dropping the whole thing. Would you do that for me, sir?”
The trooper went back to consult with his supervisor again. He saw the older cop look his way, shake his head in resignation, then say something to the one gripping the handcuffed guy. The officer removed the cuffs, and the leader returned to his group, glaring at him.
Hunter smiled and bowed grandly toward him. Then, as the crescendo of curses rose again, turned his back on them and headed toward his car.
Inside, he rechecked his face in the rearview mirror.
And grinned.
ELEVEN
When Emmalee Conn entered the sleek, modern lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, she experienced another jarring, painful instant of nostalgia.
It was such a familiar venue. Ash had often met here with other senators and lobbyists for power lunches, private dinners, and public receptions. Sometimes he invited her along to charm them—“grease the wheels,” as he liked to say. More than once the “charming” had gone beyond mere eye contact and promissory smiles over cocktails. Far beyond.
With Ash’s eager encouragement, of course. He and she had enjoyed an “open” arrangement from the outset of their marriage. At night, in their big four-poster, they found it intensely erotic to share the most graphic details of their trysts and conquests. The “sharing” became more adventurous, and literal, whenever they traveled—which was a lot, because of Ash’s seat on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. They often joked about the committee name. Because once outside the country, they could relax in anonymity and safely enjoy the thrill of the hunt for a willing partner of either sex—sometimes a couple.
She checked her diamond-studded watch again; 11:20 a.m. Probably a mistake to show up early for the appointment with Avery Trammel. It would look anxious.
Well, damn it, she was anxious. And he already knew that.
But she had a feeling that he was anxious, too. No, not anxious—eager. She remembered how he held her in that garden outside the cathedral. How he pressed himself against her.
Okay, maybe she didn’t know much about politics and all the boring policy stuff that so many people in this town obsessed about. But she knew men. She’d known since her early teens how much sexual power she had over guys. She’d polished her skills back during those scary days in her early twenties, when she’d been a struggling dancer in a Vegas musical revue.
That’s where Ash, then a young congressman, had spotted her. He was in town on a speaking engagement at some convention. After the show, he’d come backstage for an introduction that the stage manager couldn’t turn down. Then he treated her to a late dinner and lots of drinks. A single crazy night in his hotel room, and he’d become obsessed with her. He told her how he hated constantly having to put on a goody-goody front for the voters—how she made him feel wild and liberated from all the political phoniness—how, with her, he could be himself.
With Ashton Conn, she finally realized and relished the fact that her sexual power could master even powerful men. That power became intoxicating this past year, as she began to entertain the once-impossible fantasy of becoming First Lady. The tabloids and women’s magazines were calling her “Washington’s Cinderella girl.”
But now, her entire Cinderella life and future was shattered. She’d spent the days since Ash’s death at a former boyfriend’s house, lost in a stupor of alcohol and pills. But they’d been fighting a lot, so that arrangement wouldn’t last much longer, either. She knew she had to do something.
And so she was here.
Avery Trammel was one of the most important men in the country. A billionaire, and such a potent political force that she’d even seen Ash behave meekly around him. And at her worst moment, he’d come to her, like some fairy-tale rescuer. Offering to help her, to get her a place at the Watergate, no less.
She knew such offers didn’t come without strings attached. She thought of his strong face and trim body, his power and money.
Well, maybe she’d like his kind of strings.
Maybe her Cinderella story wasn’t over.
She crossed the lobby and found her way to a ladies’ restroom. She stood before a mirror and removed her sunglasses to check her appearance.
Not great. But not terrible. Makeup around her eyes mostly hid the recent dark circles and crow’s feet. Her lipstick, crimson and wet-glossy, looked fine. Her hair—she’d spent a bundle she could no longer afford at the hairdresser’s yesterday, to give her lush blonde hair the kind of deliberately mussed, wild, just-got-out-of-the-sheets look she knew most men found sexy. Diamond pendant earrings, glittering under the lights.
The short red cloth coat, tailored to fit her curves, matched her lipstick well. She unbuttoned and opened it, then let it slide a bit from her shoulders. It revealed an even-shorter, sleeveless black cocktail dress with scarlet trim. Completely wrong for this time of the day. But just right for the occasion: for grabbing a man’s attention. Her bare shoulders and arms looked tanned and tight and polished. She still had her long, trim dancer’s legs. Her breasts quivered slightly beneath the thin fabric of the dress. He would notice that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He would wonder about her panties. The thought brought a smile to her glistening lips.
She checked her watch again: 11:32 now. She buttoned up the coat. Then looked back into the mirror. Into her eyes.
Saw and felt her old confidence returning.
She decided she would give it another five minutes. Make him wait . . . just a bit.
“You can do this,” she said defiantly to the face
in the mirror.
2
Avery Trammel sat in a partitioned booth of the Bourbon Steak dining room, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He checked his Rolex, surprised and irritated to see it was now nearly 11:40. He had specifically told the woman 11:30. He figured she was so desperate she would arrive at 11:15.
Avery Trammel did not like to be kept waiting, by anyone.
He heard voices in the direction of the entrance, then saw the hostess approaching with Emmalee Conn following.
He slid from the brown leather seat to his feet, then forced a smile. The smile became genuine as she neared, and he got a good look at her legs.
“Forgive me for being late,” she said, smiling brightly. “You know how the cabs are.”
He bent over her extended hand, caught a whiff of light floral perfume.
“It is quite all right, Mrs. Conn.” He motioned toward the windows. “I was just appreciating the view of Rock Creek.”
He helped her out of her coat, astonished—but pleased—by the little cocktail dress she wore. He brushed her bare shoulder with the back of his hand as he asked the hostess to take it to the coatroom. Then he seated her, noticing the hem of her skirt riding up her thighs. He returned to his side of the table, smiled, and studied her face.
“I must say, you are looking much better than . . . than you did on Saturday.”
She smiled back at him. “Thank you, Mr. Trammel. I—”
“Please—Avery.”
“Of course. And it’s Emmalee.” Another dazzling smile. “It’s been hard, but I’m slowly returning to the land of the living.”
“I see that. One must not surrender to circumstance.”
She nodded. Held his eyes. “Thank you so much for your kindness at the funeral.”
“I meant every word I said.” He reached into his jacket pocket, removed an envelope, and slid it across the table toward her. “Before we enjoy our lunch, I want you to know that this morning I secured an apartment for you at the Watergate. You will find the paperwork and your keycards in there.”
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