WINNER TAKES ALL

by Robert Bidinotto

“Lucas,” Trammel said, “you recall that after the debate, I asked you, too, to wait and see how Carl’s stand would play out.”

  “Yes you did, Avery. And frankly, I’m stunned. How could you possibly have imagined that things might turn out like this?”

  “Obviously, I could not. No one could. I simply had confidence that Carl knew what he was talking about. In addition—and at risk of sounding cynical—there is the matter of ‘triangulation.’ The polls showed that Carl was perceived as ‘too weak on defense.’ I felt Islamist terrorism was a safe issue, on which he could stake out a position to the right of both Waller and Helm, and thereby strengthen his image and broaden his appeal. So, that is exactly what I counseled him to do, when we discussed strategy before the debate.”

  “You are the one who encouraged him to do that?” Carver exclaimed.

  Spencer chuckled. “He did. To be honest, Lucas, even I worried that it was terrible advice. But since the campaign was already on the ropes, I figured we had little to lose. So I went along with him—and just look at how things turned out! You’re a fortune-teller, Avery.”

  Trammel could not resist a small smile as he waved it off. “No. Just older and perhaps a tad more experienced than the rest of you. History teaches that unpredictable foreign-policy events frequently become the most decisive factors in a presidential campaign.” He cast his eyes down. “And who could have anticipated this?”

  He glanced up. Saw that his answer seemed to satisfy them.

  “Well, in any case, I’m relieved now that I didn’t back out of the job right then,” Cunningham said. “Because this is a game-changer. I think the senator is positioned to recast his image and rejuvenate the campaign.”

  Carver raised a hand. “But only if we play it very carefully. How we respond now, and over the coming days, could make or break this campaign.”

  “I’ve been worrying about that,” Spencer said. “I sure don’t want to say or do the wrong things.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Carver said. “As always, the key thing going forward is to control the narrative. I spoke to Avery about that last night. We agreed your best course at the moment is to hold a brief news conference today around noon, announcing a one-week suspension of your campaign, ‘in honor of the many victims of this atrocity.’ We want to announce that before the other campaigns get the same idea. It will show sensitivity and statesmanship.”

  Spencer looked at Trammel. “If you say so.”

  Carver continued. “We can anticipate some reporter at the presser will comment about how prescient you were to foresee the terrorist strike. It’s really important for you to reply humbly about that, not taking any credit. Something like, ‘I’m grieved that my intelligence source was correct in his warning, and that my greatest fears have been realized. I would give anything to have been wrong about this.’”

  “I like it,” Cunningham said. “Don’t take credit for being right. Let the facts speak for themselves.”

  “And when reporters press you about the political ramifications of the attack, you need to show anger,” Carver added. “You know: ‘Come on, people! This is not a day to talk politics! This is a day for all Americans to come together, to pray, and to mourn our dead. Let’s show a little decency and respect, okay?’”

  Cunningham smiled, snapped his fingers, and pointed at Carver. “Perfect! Very statesman-like.”

  “You can bet the media will frame it that way,” Carver went on. “Especially Vox Populi’s go-to media contacts. Carl, I want you to remain silent this week. Keep your word about ‘no politicking.’ Just attend funerals, lay wreaths, that sort of thing. Let us and your surrogates frame the messages about all this. We handle this right, I’ll wager we see a ten-point jump in the polls by next week.”

  Trammel leaned forward, elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers.

  “Carl, Lucas has unparalleled instincts about these things. We need to heed what he says. Sid, I know of your strategic abilities, too. However, as we reboot the campaign, we need to establish a clear division of labor. I believe your role should be to run everything on the organizational side. But I also think we all should defer to Lucas and his organization when it comes to shaping the campaign messaging and narrative. And, Carl, as candidate, your job should be to faithfully embody and articulate that narrative.”

  “What about you?” Cunningham asked pointedly.

  “I see my first task as making certain that the campaign is amply funded. And my second responsibility will be to enlist the full support of the Currents network. Primarily, to go after the other two candidates.”

  “That’s right,” Lucas said. “You see, Vox Populi is basically in the storytelling business. We don’t really focus on ideological arguments. Instead, we fight for progressive change by creating positive narratives about our clients and their causes, while circulating contrasting, negative narratives about their opponents. We spread stories of heroes, villains, and victims all over the media—”

  “—with the help of sympathetic nonprofits in the Currents network,” Trammel finished. “Our job is to lend support to Vox Populi’s messaging, by providing the media with quotable experts, research studies, and armies of activists.”

  “Of course, all this is done completely independently,” Carver added, winking. They all chuckled. He glanced at his watch.

  “It’s already nine-thirty. We don’t have a lot of time to set up a noon press conference. I’ll get my staff to put things in motion and spread the word. What the four of us should do now is refine his talking points. Oh, and later this afternoon, after the presser, we should hold a follow-up meeting back here to assess how things went and plot our strategy going forward.” He frowned at the candidate. “Carl, that yellow tie is a little too cheery right after a major terrorist event. I’ll have our television team get you something more subdued . . .”

  Trammel fought to keep his own manner subdued. It was a struggle, considering the jubilation he was experiencing. It had been a nerve-wracking month leading up to yesterday. But the entire operation could not have proceeded more flawlessly. Now he could afford to sit back and allow the Maestro to step into the spotlight and handle the details.

  Still . . . he, Geppetto, would remain unseen in the background, pulling all the strings.

  He could barely contain himself. He knew he would need to celebrate tonight.

  2

  Julia was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, when faint noise somewhere in the apartment told her he was finally home.

  She turned to the bedside clock. One thirty-five in the morning.

  A few moments later, she heard the sound of the shower running in the guest bedroom down the hall.

  She rolled over, facing away from his side of the bed, pretending to be asleep.

  It was another fifteen minutes before she heard him tip-toe into the bedroom. She listened to the familiar sounds of him hanging his bathrobe on a nearby wall hook. Then felt the shifting of the mattress and rustling of the silk sheets as he cautiously slipped into the bed.

  He remained distant from her, as he had for almost a month.

  She smelled the heavy scent of mouthwash. Wondered what else on his breath it might be intended to mask.

  Julia waited long minutes, not moving, until he stopped stirring, too—and until his breathing grew deep and steady.

  It was almost three-thirty when, heart pounding, she dared to inch her way from beneath the covers. Then, one careful step at a time in the near-dark, she made her way across the room, and out into the hall.

  She shivered, but not just from the cool air against her thin nightgown, or the cold marble beneath her bare feet. Small nightlights down the hallway allowed her to make her way to the laundry room. She entered, quietly closed the door behind her, and turned on the light.

  The sports jacket and trousers he had worn this evening were zipped inside a hanging plastic bag, for the maid to take downstairs to the dry cleaners. She unzipped it and examined them, checkin
g the pockets, then every inch of the fabric, but finding nothing other than wrinkles.

  Then, taking a deep breath, she untied the cloth bag sitting on the laundry table. She pulled out his balled-up shirt, opened it, spread it out on the table.

  And immediately noticed the red smear on the sleeve.

  Then caught the unmistakable scent of perfume.

  Julia began to tremble, then shake violently.

  Her back pressed against the door, she slid slowly down to the floor, burying her face and her sobs in the stained shirt.

  3

  “Once again, you outdid yourself with the lamb shank, love,” Hunter said, lowering his empty wine glass.

  “Thank you. It’s one thing I can do right in the kitchen.”

  “But not the only thing.” He got up from his chair at her dinner table and took her hand. “Let’s leave the tidying up for later. I need some time with my girl.”

  Annie rose and they moved, hand-in-hand, to the living room sofa. He sat first, then drew her into his lap.

  “Now, tell me about your day.”

  “Don’t you want to talk about—”

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve thought about nothing else for the past two days. Tonight belongs to us.”

  “All right, Dylan.” She gave him a light kiss. “I suppose you want a status report about the Great Mole Hunt, right?”

  “Sure. Let’s start there.”

  “The good news today is that in our march through the directorates, we’ve already ruled out DS&T, Support, and DDI. Digital Innovation was easy; it’s new and hasn’t been around long enough for our long-term mole. That narrows the possibilities to either Ops or Analysis. I’m waiting to see if one of about a half-dozen juicy bits of bait we dangled is nibbled by anyone in Ops.”

  “What kind of bait?”

  “Different things. Like tantalizing but phony reports left in plain sight near a target’s photocopier. Or circulating what looks like exactly the same memo to each Ops division, but subtly misspelling or changing just one or two key details. We’ve enlisted contacts at NSA to help. If they, or our own CI people, pick up from our Russian sources any one of those unique identifiers, we’ll have a good idea where the leak is.”

  “Your idea again?”

  She shook her head. “Grant’s. I’m tracking other things. As with DS&T, we announce we’re dispatching an officer or arranging a meet with an asset somewhere in the world. We circulate different memos about these to the relevant Ops divisions. Then, depending on where and how we see the Russians react, we’ll know if the mole is in Ops, and, we hope, in which division. Of course, then we’ll have to double-check to eliminate the possibility of coincidence. And after that, we’ll try to narrow it down even more, office by office.”

  “It sounds incredibly tedious.”

  “It is. But Langley is loaded with thousands of people. Process of elimination is the only way to do these investigations.”

  “If you get no nibbles in Ops . . .”

  “. . . then we move on to Analysis.”

  “And all of its own divisions, offices, centers, projects, and God knows what else.”

  “I know,” she sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “This would be so much easier if we had a team helping us. But for obvious reasons, it’s just Grant and me. And the clock is ticking. So it’s running us ragged.”

  That gave him his opening.

  “Look, I realize you’ve got to stay completely focused on this right now. And that’s probably just as well, because I’m preoccupied for the time being, too.”

  “Preoccupied, how?”

  “Annie, somebody is trying to screw with the presidential election, and they have to be stopped. But so far, they’ve killed everyone who gets too close to figuring out who they are. Nobody in government is even aware this is happening, or would believe me if I told them. So, it’s up to me to prove it.”

  “How can you possibly do that?”

  “As I explained to Grant, I’m about to become a royal pain in the ass to them. Make it known that I’m investigating them. That should smoke them out.”

  She pressed her palms against his chest, drawing back.

  “You’re deliberately making yourself a target for them, too? Even while Lasher is already hunting you?”

  “I wish there were a better way, but this looks like the only way. So, yes—besides watching out for Lasher, I’ll also be watching out for anyone they send after me.”

  He raised his hands to cup her face.

  “And that’s another reason why, after tonight, it’s important that we keep our distance from each other for a while.”

  “You mean . . . not see each other at all?”

  He nodded.

  She pulled back from him. “So . . . just how long is ‘a while’?”

  “I’ll start rattling their cages tomorrow. I don’t think it will take long for them to respond.”

  “‘Respond.’ You mean, try to—”

  “Annie, please remember a few things. Unlike the others they’ve targeted, I know I’m a target, so they won’t catch me unawares. Or unprepared. As you know, I have the ability, resources, and motivation to respond.” He grinned. “Frankly, I’d much rather be me than them.”

  She lowered her eyes and started to fidget with the engagement ring. “First you said we couldn’t announce our engagement, because of Lasher. Now you decide we can’t even see each other anymore.”

  “Not ‘anymore.’ Just temporarily. You know I’m right about this,” he said softly.

  “Dylan . . . why do I feel that something terrible is going to happen? That we’re never going to—”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, love.” He took her hand, raised it, and kissed the ring.

  Then he kissed her lips.

  “Since we won’t be together for a little while,” he said, looking into her gray cat’s eyes, “we shouldn’t let the evening go to waste—don’t you think?”

  She nodded. “Why don’t we take Cyrano for a romantic moonlight walk first?”

  “Yes. Why don’t we?”

  They lit scented candles in the darkened bedroom. Then, in the flickering light, they undressed each other, taking turns as they removed the other’s garments, one at a time. They did not touch each other’s bodies; instead, they held back, deliberately allowing the tension to build.

  Moving behind her, he unfastened her lace bra, brushed it from her shoulders, and let it whisper to the carpet.

  Then he stood motionless as she turned to face him. He watched the soft candlelight play over her lips, her neck, her naked shoulders, her breasts. She slowly unbuttoned his shirt, then pushed it from his shoulders and arms, to fall atop her blouse and bra. He heard the sudden intake of her breath.

  “Oh!”

  “It’s nothing. Just some minor welts and bruises. From yesterday.”

  She looked up into his eyes. Hers narrowed.

  “Let me make them all better.”

  She leaned forward at the waist, her breasts suspended like soft ivory teardrops. She pressed her lips against a spot on his chest. He felt their warmth, then her hot breath—then the slow, moist movement of her tongue against his skin.

  He closed his eyes and drew a ragged breath. Began instinctively to raise his hands.

  “Don’t touch me,” she ordered. “Stand still.”

  He did.

  Eyes squeezed shut, he savored the grazing movement of her lips across his chest, pausing at each wound. He quivered under the hot flicks of her tongue—then, as it roamed on, at the air’s sudden chill against his wet skin. He listened to the deep, rising sounds of his breathing . . . and hers. He inhaled the light scent of her perfume, and of her skin.

  He felt the soft, full lips begin to descend, inexorably, down his belly.

  Endured the touch of her fingers undoing his belt. Then their feather touch at his zipper.

  Endured it all, until he could endure no more . . .

  It was a night o
f storming passion, like those they had experienced when they first met. But this time there was an edge in their lovemaking—a spirit of defiant protest against the inescapable circumstances always threatening to drive them apart. That, and a sense of desperation and foreboding, made them both insatiable.

  They did not speak. They would not sleep. And for hours, they could not stop.

  Finally, sometime long after midnight, she lay in his arms, shivering and crying.

  He held her gently.

  Rocking her. Stroking her hair.

  Staring into a dying candle across the room.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Currents Center occupied the third floor of a modern office building on K Street. It was a cliché address for a political lobbying group, Hunter mused. But the appearance and manner of the two men sitting across the coffee table from him were clichés, too.

  Short and bald, pug-nosed and wide-mouthed, Wallace Rouse looked as if a toad’s face had been glued onto a pink egg. He had a nervous, ingratiating manner and when he introduced himself, he pronounced his name with a severe lisp. From his research, Hunter knew the man had inherited both his wealth and his vaguely liberal politics. But he seemed more of a social schmoozer than an ideologue. Perhaps solely because of his pedigree, this unimpressive creature had been elevated to be president of the Currents Foundation—the main funding source and New York parent organization of the D.C.-based Currents Center.

  The Center’s executive director, Paul Ratzenberger, couldn’t have been more different. Sporting tweeds that color-matched his gray-brown hair and beard, he could have passed for an Ivy League professor. But the dark eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses exuded wariness and cunning. Over three decades Ratzenberger had established a reputation as one of the left’s most effective and ruthless organizers.

  Hunter sipped the coffee he’d been offered and let his eyes rove around Ratzenberger’s plush office before replying to his question.

  “Specifically, I asked to see you gentlemen because I’m working on a series about ‘money in politics.’ But it’s a different take on the topic, which usually focuses on campaign contributions from big corporate interests. My attention is on the flow of foundation and nonprofit money into politics. And my research raised some questions about your respective organizations that I hoped you would be able to clear up.”