Category 7

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  “Elle, you’ve got a vivid imagination.”

  “I’ve got a lot more than that. I’ve got brains, Davis Lee, and really good analytical skills. And I think you have ambitions beyond Wall Street and that’s why you hired me.”

  “Well, the first few things you said are on the money, but I hired you to be a research assistant, darlin’. That’s it.”

  Right. She let her mouth curve into a patient smile. “Would you like to know how I think the news of Carter’s private research foundation and his early fascination with the junk-science fringes of weather research would play on the campaign trail?” she asked, looking straight into Davis Lee’s eyes. They were looking straight back at her, unimpressed.

  “I can’t say as I do.”

  “It would define him, Davis Lee, and he’d never get elected. All the good he’s done in the world and in business would be buried and the Benson campaign wouldn’t even have to get involved.”

  “The Benson campaign?” Davis Lee repeated with a laugh. “I know you said a candidacy, but you think Carter Thompson wants to be president? Elle, you’re—”

  “Anything else would be too small-scale, Davis Lee, and you know it. He’s an entrepreneur approaching sixty-five and he’s the fourth-wealthiest man in America. What else would satisfy him?” she asked. “But all the power and fame he’s accumulated would count for nothing if he’s made to look like a believer in things that sound more like science fiction than science. It would be like Edmund Muskie’s tears or Michael Dukakis’s tank ride. It would follow him forever and he’d never be able to deflect or soften it.”

  Davis Lee dropped the affectation of amused boredom and sat back again. His hand stayed where it was, within reach of hers, draped over the cell phone. “Why do you say that? Isn’t saving the environment still a noble cause or have I been asleep at the wheel?”

  She smiled wider, feeling him give slightly in the face of her argument. “That depends on the motivation. Being green didn’t do much for Al Gore’s real-world political reputation when he was running for office. It was exploited to pretty good effect by the opposition and made into a liability, or at least a vulnerability.”

  “Carter’s cause is apparently trees, which you can see, not air, which you can’t. In most places,” he added with a slight twitch of his mouth. “He’s borderline fanatic about the environment. It’s almost a religion with him.”

  “Yet he thrives on its destruction. It’s how he makes his money, right? Cleaning up after Mother Nature’s temper tantrums.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” Davis Lee said with a small nod of acknowledgment.

  “And another way of looking at it is that the synergy of his companies reflects an acute business strategy.”

  “Yes.” He took in a slow, patient breath. “This is hardly groundbreaking conversation.”

  “There’s another way of looking at that synergy, Davis Lee. Carter makes a profit on both sides of a disaster by putting options on the outcome and cleaning up the mess.”

  “The press has been there and done that, Elle. In fact, they trot it out after just about every storm.”

  “Now factor in the foundation and the articles and Carter’s early interests.” She watched his eyebrows twitch downward and felt within herself an answering surge of triumph. “It puts a very creepy spin on the entire issue, doesn’t it? Or at least it would in the hands of the Benson campaign. As soon as knowledge of it becomes public—”

  “Will it?”

  “If I found it, they can find it. And when they do, there will be lots of discussion, which means lots of questions,” she continued.

  “All of which can be answered.”

  “No, they can’t, Davis Lee,” she said quietly, feeling smug again. “They can’t be answered in such a way that you own the discussion. The other side won’t let you. There’s no way to spin this that won’t make Carter look like Dr. Strangelove. Think about it. Achieving reforestation of desert areas means years of conducting studies and experimentation. Presumably he’s doing that already. But why is the research being done in private? Why not fund existing organizations? Like you said, universities would be happy to carry out his wishes, but he’s never collaborated with them. Why? And that question leads to more questions focusing on what kind of experimentation is under way.”

  “You’re quite the little conspiracy hound, aren’t you?”

  She leaned forward again so their faces were barely a foot apart. “No, I’m not, but I know what conspiracy nuts can do, and if they hear about this, they’ll start conjecturing, and who could blame them? After all, what kind of experimentation would reforestation involve? Planting trees? Okay, fine. But trees need water and arable soil. With enough hard work and resources you can create soil in the desert, but no one can produce water—unless you’re conducting an entirely different kind of research and experimentation. Which leads us to those early articles he wrote on weather voodoo.” She smiled. “And that’s when the electorate comes up with the label the other side wants them to use: mad scientist.”

  “Oh, come on, Elle. Carter’s no—”

  “Maybe not,” she said in a voice that was almost a hiss, “but Carter Thompson is well-known as a man who doesn’t engage in pointless endeavors. Wasting time and money is not part of his business model. So if his model is that he profits from all sides of a disaster and channels those profits into secretive research, is it such a stretch to persuade the great unwashed that he might be creating the disasters in the first place?”

  Davis Lee set his napkin on the table. “I hate to say it, honey, but I think maybe you’ve had too much—”

  She gripped his hand, silencing him. “Davis Lee, I’m not drunk and I’m not crazy. I’m trained to look at the details and, from them, find the big picture.”

  “Well, I think you are a little drunk, darlin’, and you’re taking a lot of mighty big leaps in the process of creating that big picture of yours. Bigger leaps than you might take under other circumstances.” He slid his hand out from under hers and signaled for the check.

  “Am I? The news is full of bad-weather scenarios. Bigger storms are hitting us and the scientists say it’s a trend that will continue for the next twenty years. Everyone has heard that. The devastation is increasing proportionately, which means Carter is making more money. And now he wants to run for president.” She paused. “Even if the Benson campaign doesn’t get there first, I think the real leap of logic is to think that people will see all of this and not come up with a conspiracy theory.”

  She watched him squeeze his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose as he took a deep breath. “It’s too farfetched, Elle. No one would believe it.”

  What is his problem? “I can guarantee that lots of people—make that voters—will believe it when the president’s team gets done spinning it,” she snapped, sitting back in her chair and looking away in annoyance.

  “I think it’s time to change the subject some. Let’s talk about you. Tell me, Elle, at what point in your short career did you become a political analyst?” he said as he scribbled his name on the slip of paper the waiter had just placed before him.

  The muttered question, though half-serious, was a threshold, and the realization rose in Elle like a spring tide.

  Her answer could change everything.

  She met his eyes. “I grew up around politics, Davis Lee.”

  “I know.” He stood up and helped her to her feet. “Your daddy was a local big shot.”

  “Yes, he was and is, but I doubt he’d appreciate that description. What else do you know about me?” she asked as she stepped ahead of him into the steamy quasi-darkness of Greenwich Village.

  “Not everything.”

  “What do you want to know?” she asked after the briefest pause.

  “You don’t mind taking a little walk, do you? I think you could use some air.” Slipping a hand around her elbow, he propelled her forward without waiting for an answer. The traffic was hea
vy, making talking a challenge until they turned onto a quieter, residential street.

  “I wouldn’t mind knowing how you landed in the White House,” he said, glancing down at her. That lazy smile was back on his face.

  “Like most people, I got there through a combination of hard work and family connections.”

  “Whose family?”

  She smiled, feeling the headiness roar through her. This is it. Coming to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, she turned to face him.

  “The Benson family, Davis Lee,” she said softly. “I’ve known them all my life. My mother went to boarding school and college with Genevieve Benson, and our families vacationed together every year when I was growing up.” She paused. “In fact, I dated Win until about six months ago.”

  He went very still, his eyes registering the unpleasant surprise and quickly growing cold.

  “That’s how I landed here, too, Davis Lee,” she continued. “Win wanted me to find out what you’re up to. He knew I’d catch your eye and he played you, Davis Lee. I was bait. You snapped.”

  He turned and began to retrace their steps, leaving her to hurry a few steps to catch up with him. Even after she did, he was silent for half a block.

  “Davis Lee, I’m not the enemy anymore.”

  “That’s mighty good to know, Elle.”

  “Davis Lee, stop,” she said, tugging on his arm. “I didn’t have to tell you any of that. If I still wanted to work for Win, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

  “When did you decide that? What was the real plan, Elle? Did he tell you to come on to me, too? To sleep with me?”

  She stumbled as though she’d been slapped, and he finally stopped walking and turned to face her, his anger and disgust evident. “Well, did he?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, watching his face. “But I told him I wasn’t going to.”

  “Imagine that. You’ve got morals.”

  “Stop it. I didn’t have to tell you anything,” she repeated.

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because I thought you’d like to know.”

  “So now I know,” he said flatly. “What do you want?”

  She shook her head and heard a nervous laugh escape from her mouth. “Nothing. I mean, not money, if that’s what you’re asking. I want to work with you.” Against Win. She smiled and slid her hand into his. “For the future President Carter Thompson.”

  He disengaged her hand. “Why should I believe you?” he asked coldly.

  She laughed. “What’s your option?”

  “Throwing you back.”

  Her smile faltered as his words penetrated her brain, making her heart stop, then start beating too quickly.

  My God.

  She could barely take in a breath. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean, Elle?” he asked, his contempt raw and undisguised.

  “You’d tell Win?” Her question, a little too loud and a little too horrified, earned her a few wary glances from passersby as he steadied her, both hands on her elbows. His eyes were icy.

  “Damned straight.”

  She knew her eyes were wide with fear. She could feel her kneecaps start to quiver. “You’re serious.” Adrenaline swamped her bloodstream and she clenched her hands around his forearms. “That would be a bad move, Davis Lee. He’s ruthless. He doesn’t like to lose. He does what he needs to do to win. I was just—”

  “I don’t care what you were. Traitors don’t have a place on my staff.”

  “I’m not—I’m betraying him, Davis Lee, not—” Hot tears burned tracks on her cheeks.

  “Don’t matter a damn,” he snapped, his drawl heavy. “You’re a liar and a traitor. The first is unfortunate; the second is intolerable. You go on back to Win and give him my regards.”

  Panic flooded her brain. “I can’t,” she whispered, staring at him as the reality of what she’d done engulfed her, drowning her. “I can’t go back to him. He’ll—he’d—Davis Lee, he’s the president’s son. I don’t know what he’d do to me.”

  “Then I guess it’s time you found out.” Keeping one hand on her elbow, he walked her the last few yards to the corner, where he hailed a cab. Turning to look at her as it slid to a stop, he gave her a cold smile and flipped open the cell phone in his hand. Finding the address book, he scrolled through it, pressed a button, and finally put it to his ear. “Hey there, Win, it’s Davis Lee…. I hope you don’t mind that I’m using Elle’s phone to call you. We’ve been out for dinner and what all, and I just thought I’d let you know that you can take your whore back. I’m all done with her.” He flipped the phone shut and handed it to her.

  Rigid with fear and disbelief, she backed away from the phone as if it were poison. “You’re bluffing,” she said in a strangled whisper.

  “I don’t bluff about this sort of thing. Check the number I just called.” He shoved the phone into her purse, then placed her ungently in the dark pungence of the cab’s backseat. “I’ll have someone clean out your desk, Elle, and messenger your stuff to you. And I sure hope you consider mitigating the damage to your career by keeping all those thoughts of yours to yourself. Politics is a big, ugly thing with a long memory. And it chews up little fools like you.”

  He shut the door, straightened, and began walking away from her. Ignoring the cabbie’s repeated request for an address, she stared at his back and started to shake.

  I might as well be dead.

  Saturday, July 21, 12:15 A.M., Georgetown,

  Washington, D.C.

  Win rolled over, still out of breath, and picked up his cell phone, pressing the button on the side to silence its chime.

  “That’s the difference between European men and Americans, you know.” The sultry, Italian-inflected voice was right next to his ear. “No European man would interrupt making love to answer the phone. But you Americans, you are always afraid of missing the call, of missing the action.”

  “We’ve already finished making love, in case you hadn’t noticed. And, for the record, I’m not answering the phone; I’m screening my calls—something I wouldn’t be doing if I weren’t the son of the current head of state,” he murmured, squinting at the intensity of the bright blue screen. “We have a Category 4 hurricane doing some serious damage to some very loyal constituencies, and if my father wants to talk about it, I have to listen. Capice?”

  “I’m Italian; I have to say no to that. Making love comes first.”

  He felt the tip of a wet tongue flick his earlobe and moved his head away. Had she waited a few minutes, her warm breath might have started a chain reaction, but at the moment, all he could do was slip his arm around her and pull her naked body closer to his as the screen finally came into focus. Elle.

  He let out an annoyed breath and put the phone facedown on the nightstand. Rolling over onto his companion, who rewarded him with a low, sexy laugh, he continued his advanced tutorial in foreign relations, any thoughts of Elle already dismissed.

  CHAPTER 32

  Saturday, July 21, 6:00 A.M., Montauk Point,

  Long Island

  The sun was barely up as Kate jogged the length of the dock. The chilly, wet air hugged her bare legs and invigorated her senses. The beaches to the west were showing signs of life. A few early walkers were out, some powering up the beach with elbows pumping, others meandering in the head-down position favored by shell seekers. The lines of private docks along the shore were where the real action was. Greetings floated on the morning air as fishing tackle and dive equipment were hefted onto the decks of huge cruisers, tiny inflatables, and every size boat in between.

  It’s too perfect a day for size to matter, Kate thought with a grin. Everyone just wants out on the water.

  The first engine came to life with a guttural roar next to where Kate was walking, sending the sweet, familiar smell of marine fuel into the air to mingle with the scents of salt water and drying seaweed that dominated. Puffy cumulus clouds hung like cotton balls glued to pale blue constructio
n paper, as gray-white slashes of seagulls wheeled and dove above mild swells.

  It would be a perfect day to dive. The group she was heading out with was a loose collection of college friends and assorted add-ins. Sometimes the group was bigger than others, but the core of it had been together for nearly ten years, getting together for a dive twice a month in the summer and a little less often in the off-season, when their meetings were heavier on conversation and commiseration about not having moved to the tropics.

  Today, by mutual agreement, they were heading to their favorite wreck, the USS San Diego, the only American warship lost in World War I. Depending on which account you preferred to believe, eighty-nine years ago almost to the day, the San Diego was struck by a German torpedo or a German mine off the coast of Long Island and sank in twenty-eight minutes. She now rested upside down in 110 feet of water off Fire Island.

  The last few weeks had seen little precipitation, which meant the water would be as clear as the Atlantic could be, and exploring the wreck would be as easy as going to Disneyland, although given that the San Diego’s anniversary had fallen two days earlier the crowds might be just as plentiful.

  Kate tossed her dive bag onto the deck of the Loch Ness and followed it, landing lightly. “Anybody home?”

  “Be up in a sec.” Brad Scofield’s voice was muffled as he called up from belowdeck.

  Her Starbucks skim latte still hot in her travel mug, Kate walked to the bow and leaned against the railing. The breeze was light, out of the west, and within the next few hours the air would heat up to a seasonable high in the upper eighties. Perfect.

  The thud of another duffle hitting the deck drew her attention to the back of the boat.

  “Hey, Katie.”

  “Hey, Doug. Hi, Angela. Are you going diving for two?” Kate called as she watched Doug Hansen, a college friend and meteorologist at NOAA, help his pregnant police-officer wife onto the deck.