by Jerry Bruce
Detroit was not the only instance of unexpected support. Richard and Stephen were treated like old friends in the Deep South. Even Stephen, a southerner, was not as popular in some parts of the South as he would like. This was the Democrat’s territory for the last eight years. The GOP hadn’t been able to make any inroads, losing almost all elections from governor on down. The Black vote always went Democratic, but here they were in front of thousands of cheering supporters. They were addressing some of the issues of importance to the Black community, but overall their program lacked the strength of their opponents’. They were hoping, at best, for a “push” when the final votes were counted. But to their surprise, the polls were showing a moderate lead.
What disconcerted them was the fact that they had no idea as to why.
Nevertheless, encouraged by the poll figures, they stepped up their exposure by adding appearances whenever the schedule permitted. Stephen’s experience was proving valuable as to where they should or should not campaign. Richard grew to respect Stephen’s judgment and that respect fostered trust.
Each new poll showed their lead increasing, point-by-point.
“Slow and steady,” was how Stephen phrased it. He made sure Richard realized that the only large changes in the polls were usually bad—drops caused by bad publicity. Slow and steady increases reflected growing confidence from the voters.
“We want slow and steady, Richard. That’s our ticket to the White House.”
* * *
The man was seated on the leather recliner, reading his newspaper by the light from a table lamp. He was studying the latest poll results with interest.
It seems as though my efforts are bearing fruit, he thought to himself. If Sinclair/Hamilton continue making progress, they will be leading by a wide margin come Election Day. I’ll have to make sure my people know how pleased I am with their endeavors.
CHAPTER TWO
The room was windowless, its only lighting coming from desk lamps equipped with daylight simulating bulbs. It measured thirty feet by twenty feet; along one thirty-foot wall were two rows of televisions, digital video recorders, and computer monitors. A long worktable faced the televisions. Several computer keyboards, three telephones, and a sophisticated control panel for all the video equipment were precisely arranged atop the table. The table itself was made of the finest cherry wood, with a deep finish that attested to great craftsmanship. A high backed, leather executive chair was the only chair at the table. The room’s other furniture consisted of a leather recliner, an end table with lamp next to the recliner, a matching leather sofa, and a coffee table arranged along the wall opposite the monitors. Built into one sidewall was the entry door and bookcases. On the opposing sidewall was a well appointed bar that ran the wall’s full length. The bar contained several refrigerators tucked beneath its charcoal gray granite top, one set to the proper temperature for red wines, one set for whites, and the last for non-wine use. An ice-making machine rounded out the under counter appliances. A full-size, black, porcelain sink with gold-tone faucet was the only accoutrement breaking up the granite’s smooth surface. Above the bar, cherry wood cabinets with etched glass doors displayed an assortment of crystal stemware. The floor was finished in the finest cherry hardwoods, its color matching the other woodwork. It was devoid of coverings except for a priceless Oriental rug that graced the sitting area. With medium gray walls and only the tabletop bathed in light, the outer perimeters of the room faded into the blackness.
The room was heavily soundproofed, to the degree that no sound short of a bomb blast could penetrate its walls. From here the occupant could monitor any television or radio program broadcast from anywhere in the world, thanks to numerous antennae and satellite dishes on the roof of the complex.
A technical center resided in an adjoining room, housing the latest computers, telecommunications controllers, and satellite receivers. The door from the tech center leading to the inner sanctum could be opened only from inside the lair and was unlocked via a computer controlled locking mechanism. The occupant could program the computer to open the door at a prescribed time and to relock it after a specified interval. All this maintained his privacy and ensured that no one would lay eyes on him, but allowed technicians to go about their duties while he was away.
Nothing was static for long in this private space. Various components were regularly swapped out as technological advances rendered them obsolete. He insisted that only thoroughly tested, reliable components be used. Every piece of equipment had built in redundancy because he considered downtime to be totally unacceptable. A staff of experts was on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, most of the time just sitting around waiting for something that might require attention. If they wanted to take a component off-line for maintenance or replacement, he scheduled it. They communicated with him via instant messaging on one of the computers dedicated to in-house use. None of the technicians ever met their employer or talked to him in person.
No one had ever knowingly met him. They could have passed him on the street without being aware his identity. He had a secret entrance to the complex installed, which allowed him to enter through an adjoining building. What appeared to be merely one more of the panels of exquisite mahogany that lined the walls was in actuality a hidden door that, when opened via a remote control, revealed an elevator. Only he had the code for the secured elevator that took him up to his offices. The plans of the buildings did not show the connection that the dual entry elevator provided, and the workers who did the installation are not available to reveal its presence—of that he made sure. He controlled the only security camera overlooking the elevator.
To everyone he dealt with, he was just a voice. An emotionless voice, that sent no mixed signals and left no doubt as to who was in charge. His was a hypnotic voice that soothed and captivated the listener, rendering them virtually powerless.
Regardless of the readily available technology, he communicated only via telephone. He wanted the intonation of his voice to convey his authority. He did not allow questions or opinions; he had no use for either. Every statement was an order, a command to be followed to the letter, without question or improvisation. He knew all the ramifications of his actions and had no need for feedback. The only plan that had ever failed him also taught him a valuable lesson—always have a course of action should your adversary react illogically. Since then he has never made a mistake, so every outcome has been as planned.
As a young man serving as an assistant to one of Wall Street’s most respected CEOs, he learned how to take advantage of an opportunity. Wanting to know more about his superior, he invited his boss’s chauffeur to have a drink one evening. He could hardly believe his good fortune when the chauffeur, after consuming several scotches, was more than willing to reveal his employer’s ongoing affair with his sister-in-law. It wasn’t long before this knowledge would prove useful. Several months later when he learned the CEO was being transferred to a larger company within the same conglomerate, he used his knowledge of the affair to blackmail the executive into recommending him as his replacement.
He soon realized it was easier to use threats and force, rather than ethics, to get ahead. Coercion and blackmail became his preferred tools. Should his favored methods fail to achieve results, he had specialists at his disposal who would see to the problem.
He would never be recognized as the world’s richest man even though he had amassed a fortune second to none. A sophisticated computer system was required to keep track of his holdings, none of which could be traced directly back to him. He ensured that the corporations he directed appeared to be separate entities, each led by a chairman who followed his orders to the letter. It didn’t bother him that he would never receive the recognition a man with his resources usually garnered. He was content to replace accolades with something of greater value—power.
* * *
“You will follow my instructions to the letter, Robert.”
Robert Harker, chairman
of Advantage Motors, hadn’t spoken to him in months, but the voice left no doubt to the identity of the caller. There were the “Big Three” and there was Advantage. A new car company just starting to make some inroads into the marketplace dominated by the “Big Three” and the Japanese automobile manufacturers. The Advantage product line, though limited, had rocked the car world when its prototypes were displayed at the Detroit auto show. Buyers were laying down large deposits and adding their names to the year-long waiting list, just to get their hands on one of the sleek new machines. Harker, the company founder, was finally starting to see a profitability point on the horizon when the autoworkers decided to strike.
“I want you to settle your differences with the UAW, agree to all their demands. You also will make it perfectly clear to them that were it not for the efforts of Richard Sinclair, they would still be on the picket lines for many months to come. You will ‘advise’ them that it is in their best interest to support the Sinclair/Hamilton ticket. Also, it is imperative to me that Sinclair never learns of this arrangement. No one from the union or Advantage is to contact Sinclair regarding this issue.”
It was ultimately in the interest of Advantage to avoid a labor problem at this time. Fighting the union any longer would result in further production delays, at a cost in the billions. It was much cheaper in the long run to give in to the union demands. When he told Harker to fight the union and let them strike, Harker couldn’t understand why; but now it was perfectly clear. It didn’t make any sense, unless of course, you wanted to make the workers realize how fortunate they were that this didn’t drag on. They would be very grateful to anyone who could save them from further loss of income and get them more money and benefits in the future.
“Don’t let me down, Robert.”
Harker knew full well the consequences should he fail. He would never forget the circumstances surrounding his appointment to chairman. It had been seven months since his predecessor was the victim in a brutal murder case that rocked Detroit. Etched in Harker’s memory was the message that the killer left behind—a “C” carved into his victim’s forehead.
* * *
Simon Ramsey, chairman of the Coalition of Black Voters, was going over his notes and organizing his thoughts prior to the meeting. His position granted him access to all the respected Black leaders in the nation. Clergymen and businessmen alike anxiously sought his counsel. He had always tempered his advice with common sense and put aside the anger so commonplace in Black America. His years of experience practicing law and fighting for the rights of underprivileged Blacks in the South had given him a clear picture of the real issues that needed to be addressed if his people were to rise to their full potential. He knew it was not productive to keep blaming “whitey” for everything; the Black community had to start taking control of their own destiny.
The ring of the cell phone broke his concentration.
“Simon, I have something I want you to do.” The voice was all too familiar. “I want you to endorse the Republican candidate Richard Sinclair. Make sure that all your followers and supporters are aware of your choice. However, word of this is never to get back to Sinclair.”
“I understand. I’ll do as you say.” Ramsey knew, from past experience, that it was futile to question his motives, let alone argue with him. He would do as he had always done, follow orders. The alternatives were too uncomfortable to even consider. The first, and only time, he acted inappropriately, it cost him the life of his oldest son. Though ruled an accident, Ramsey knew better.
* * *
Several weeks later, he watched attentively as Sinclair and Hamilton took turns addressing the assemblage in Detroit. The large crowd was comprised mostly of autoworkers. They were applauding and cheering every point being made, showing their support for Sinclair/Hamilton. The backing from their union was noted by other labor organizations. Once the Teamsters jumped on the bandwagon, it was only a matter of time before the rest followed.
Simon Ramsey also had done his job very well. The Black community was giving overwhelming support to Sinclair, if Little Rock was any indication. Between the labor unions and the Southern Baptist community, the word to support the Republican candidates spread like wild fire and with the Coalition of Black Voters giving their endorsement, Sinclair and Hamilton were a lock.
He felt very pleased with himself, as he usually did when his plans went according to schedule without any glitches. It was tremendously satisfying to him to stand in a crowd, look around at the cheering throngs, and bathe in the knowledge that they were merely his puppets, doing his bidding without any inkling that they were being used.
He also liked toying with the Secret Service. He was well aware that eventually they would notice that he had been in Detroit and Little Rock. Of course, any attempt to identify him would be fruitless; he was very accomplished at disguise. He wanted the Secret Service to know that he was at both locations so he wore the same disguise each time.
Ever since he assumed control of Artistel Pictures and Television, he enjoyed donning a new persona and visiting the various sets during production. No one questioned the unobtrusive man with the proper credentials, as long as he was quiet and stayed out of the way. It was an interesting business, wrapped up in its own little world of egotists, all of them far too occupied to pay any attention to him. He would just as soon see all of the other movie and television studios put out of business, but the masses needed the diversions they presented. Besides, for the moment he needed the power of the media; and he was learning more and more with each visit. It was his intention to use Artistel for propaganda both in support of “his” president and to further his own agenda. “Soon,” he said to himself, “Artistel will play a very major role—ah, a play on words. I am so enjoying this.”
CHAPTER THREE
Christine Morrison had been doing an admirable job at Sinclair Development. Her position as Vice President of Labor Relations required a great deal of tact, sympathetic handholding and time. If it weren’t for a nasty confrontation with some environmentalists, she probably would have never met Richard. It was Richard’s first venture into real estate development. A new housing tract and shopping mall were ready for groundbreaking when the company was served with a notice to cease until a hearing could determine the environmental impact on a neighboring wetland reserve. If not for Christine’s efforts, Richard would have shut down the entire operation rather than get into a long, drawn out battle. He could spend the money somewhere else.
Christine assembled the right staff and gathered sufficient proof to convince the committee members hearing the case that the wetlands would benefit from the development. As it turned out, the area to be developed had, at one time, been used by the United States Navy as a fuel storage depot. Since it was built during the 1940s war years, there were no provisions for spill control and other hazardous material control measures. As a result of this use, the soil was polluted by repeated gasoline, diesel and oil spillage. Christine’s team found out that if sufficient runoff were to occur from that soil, the wetlands would be destroyed, and it was only a matter of time before the mild rainy seasons of recent years would give way to heavier storms. The wetlands were subject to erosion of the land immediately bordering it on two sides, and the team believed that in just a few years a cycle would begin that would be irreversible.
Christine arranged visits to the area for the committee members and environmentalists so they could see first hand why the company was concerned with preserving the wetlands. She had the company geologists outline the steps being taken to cleanse the soil and stop the erosion. She managed to convince everyone that the development would save the wetlands instead of destroying it.
When Richard learned of Christine’s success, he had her come to New York for a visit. He wanted to meet her so he could size her up and see where her talents might possibly be used in other areas. He needed someone who was cool under fire. True to his nature, he had formed a visual image in his mind based upon the sound o
f her voice. He suspected that she would be fairly attractive, medium height, and brown hair, a typical businesswoman much like others working in various capacities within the organization.
When his secretary guided Christine into his office, he thought there must be some kind of mistake. He was not prepared for what he saw. Christine Morrison was not the typical businesswoman, by any means. Her look was more that of a fashion model. She had the longest legs he had ever seen. She was almost as tall as he, but perfectly proportioned. She had long, straight, raven black hair, bright gray eyes and a blemish free olive complexion. Nature had combined the best features of her French father and Spanish mother to give her a natural beauty. Her suit accentuated her perfect figure. She could wear a burlap sack and look like dynamite. You couldn't tell that she had just spent six hours on a plane and had come to his office straight from the airport.
All this and brains too, thought Richard.
They shook hands and her grip was firm, but feminine. Richard knew shortly after they exchanged pleasantries that he had the perfect job for her. He motioned to her to sit on the sofa while he positioned himself in an easy chair facing her. His secretary returned and placed a tray with coffee service for two on the table between them. “Will there be anything else, sir?”