by Kyle Mills
“Mr. Peck called only moments before you arrived and is on his way. Can I get you anything while you wait?” she said, already turning and walking back toward the center of the house. The question had clearly been rhetorical.
The office was more expressive than the house that surrounded it. The generally unavoidable massive desk, leather chair, and expensive rugs were nowhere to be found. In fact there was no desk at all—only three round tables, each about four feet in diameter, placed in separate comers of the room. Each was piled high with papers, as was the floor around the edge of the room, and each was surrounded by three simple chairs. The fireplace cut into the far wall looked like it hadn’t been used in a hundred years and now housed too many hardback books to count. As near as Beamon could tell, there wasn’t a single drawer or file cabinet anywhere.
As would be expected, one wall was covered with framed photographs, but they seemed to be kind of a shrine to David Hallorin. It took a couple of minutes, but Beamon finally found the other similarity between them—almost all of them also included a thin, red-haired man that Beamon assumed must be Roland Peck. The pictures seemed to be in chronological order, going back some twenty years based on Hallorin’s appearance and dress. In the early ones, Peck looked to be no more than a teenager. Beamon moved slowly along the wall, examining the pictures until he was within about a foot of one of the three tables scattered around the office.
He stood where he was for about a minute, pretending to concentrate on a photo of Peck and Hallorin at a picnic, and listening for anything that would suggest someone outside in the hall. The only noise in the house sounded like kitchen utensils clanging together and was well distant.
Satisfied that he wasn’t being watched, Beamon leaned over the table next to him and began casually flipping through the stacks of papers on it
Vinyl-bound financial reports, mostly. All from companies and partnerships he’d never heard of but that undoubtedly made up a portion of David Hallorin’s empire.
He moved on to the next table, which seemed to contain only items relating to Hallorin’s campaign. Despite the fact that there was no apparent order to the scraps of papers and articles lying there, Beamon was careful not to move anything out of its place—something told him that Peck knew precisely where every paper clip in this office was nestled.
Highlighted articles about Hallorin and his running mate dominated, with bound transcripts of his opponents’ speeches running a close second. Beamon shuffled around the table a few feet and found a teetering stack of legal pads, the first of which was covered with elegant handwriting in red ink.
Its content was marginally more interesting than the rest of the stuff he’d rifled so far, but still contained nothing that could tell him why he was there or implicated Hallorin in anything unethical. For the most part, the short sentences and paragraphs contained the clever, seemingly off-the-cuff retorts that Hallorin was quickly becoming renowned for.
“I didn’t think it would be my responsibility to defend the African-American community tonight, but I feel obligated to point out that there are more whites on welfare than blacks.” That one had been replayed a thousand times on TV—Hallorin had used it to zing Phillippe Mohamed on Oprah.
Beamon lifted the edge of the top pad with the end of a pencil and peeked at the one under it, still mindful of the open door. This one consisted of quotes relating to Hallorin’s more radical ideas attributed to his dead wife. Beamon had never heard any of these specifically, but he had recognized the strategy they represented during the media’s coverage of the campaign. Whenever Hallorin got backed too far into a corner, he would nail his opponent with a quote from beyond the grave. No politician alive would attack the memory of a man’s wife. What a scumbag.
How did people live like this? Beamon wondered as he revealed the next pad with the end of his pencil. Not only did politicians have to carefully consider every word that came out of their mouths, most of it was prewritten for them.
The third pad seemed to be full of dumb-ass economic and political metaphors. “Just because I’m stupid enough to run into a burning building when everyone else has the sense to run out, doesn’t necessarily mean I’d make a good president.”
Beamon skipped over that one and was starting in on the next when he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening somewhere in the house. He stepped away from the table and looked behind him at the one he hadn’t made it to. Murphy’s Law. It probably had a photo of Hallorin killing Jimmy Hoffa or making a deal with space aliens right on top.
Beamon crossed the office and was quietly browsing the Hallorin shrine wall again when the flesh-and-blood version of the red-haired man in the photographs jerked through the door.
“Mr. Peck, I presume,” Beamon said, striding across the room and offering his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Peck looked him in the eye a little too hard. He was no doubt dying to look around and see what Beamon had been pawing through in his absence, but wouldn’t allow himself the luxury. Beamon suspected that Broomhilda was going to get a serious tongue-lashing for letting him wait in the office. If she was lucky.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr. Beamon. All I can say is that it couldn’t be helped. Absolutely couldn’t be helped.” He clipped off each word as though he was trying to win an award for pronunciation.
“Call me Mark.”
“Roland,” Peck said, and offered Beamon one of the chairs surrounding the table next to them. He looked vaguely nervous and moved in quick, birdlike motions.
“I appreciate you making time for me on such short notice, Mark.”
“My pleasure,” Beamon lied. “I have to say, though, I was surprised to get your message.”
Peck dragged his chair away from the table and sat down with a good five feet between them. It was a strange configuration for a meeting: two men seated in what looked like kitchen chairs, facing each other with nothing between them.
“David was very impressed with you. Very impressed,” Peck said, as though that was an explanation.
“The feeling was mutual,” Beamon lied again.
“I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get to the point.”
Beamon was thankful for that. Not only was he dead curious, but there was something about this little man that made him uncomfortable.
“We have a position open—”
“In the campaign?”
Peck smiled—even that was a jerky motion—and shook his head. “No, no. I have very little to do with the senator’s political life. I work on his corporate side—the opening is in our security division.”
Beamon had to fight to keep from laughing. Could it be? Yet another job offer? Getting himself fired, disgraced, and indicted was turning out to be one of the best career moves he’d ever made. Any day now that kid he used to beat up in grade school was going to call and offer him a quarter of a mil to sit around and get fanned by beautiful women.
“You understand,” Peck said, his sharp features suddenly reconfiguring themselves into a severe expression, “that everything we talk about tonight is completely confidential?”
Beamon’s nod seemed to satisfy him.
“Should David not win the election this year…” To his credit. Peck’s tone carried an uncertainty to it that actually didn’t sound practiced. “… he does not intend to stay in politics. He feels that he’s accomplished everything he can as a senator, and I’ve been urging him to come back and take an active roll in the management of his companies. I’m not confident that Robert Taylor has the faintest idea how to turn the economy or the country around, and if this recession is going to continue, we need David Hallorin back at the helm.”
Peck let that sink in for a moment and then continued. “Obviously, the senator had been very open about his, um, innovative views and had been equally vocal in his criticism of the Middle East Frankly, he’s made enemies. Some we know about, some we don’t.”
Beamon nodded his agreement Hallorin’s proposed forei
gn policy toward the Middle East had been summed up by the press as “send ‘em back to the Stone Age.” In his mind, if America could lead the world away from fossil fuels, the Arabs wouldn’t have the money to buy the nuclear toys and delivery systems that they so coveted. A practical idea to be sure, but less than popular with your more Allah-loving fundamentalist wackos.
“In any event,” Peck said, “we are going to need much more sophisticated security capabilities than we have now. Much more. As opposed to having separately run security organizations for our different companies as we do now, we intend to create a central control point that all the separate offices would report to. As I envision it, we would have a consistent policy for all the different corporate arms and fairly sophisticated intelligence capabilities.”
“Makes sense,” Beamon said in the silence that ensued. He still wasn’t sure what to make of all this. Another coincidence?
“The senator was very impressed with you. Very impressed. He wanted me to ask you if you would be interested in setting up and running our new security system.”
Beamon felt his eyebrows rise uncontrollably. “Excuse me?”
“The position would pay four hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year with stock options that will probably amount to another two hundred thousand dollars or so. You’d be given a generous budget for setting up the program and acquiring staff of your choice.”
Beamon made sure that his expression returned to something a little more passive as be tried to get his mind around what he was being offered. A highly prestigious job paying nearly three-quarters of a million a year in a time when unemployment was at record levels and he had just been fired. He hadn’t known exactly what he was going to hear tonight, but this hadn’t been one of his top guesses.
“I don’t know what to say, Roland. I’m not sure I’m in the market for a job right now. I’ve got some legal problems that could—”
“I don’t know the details of your troubles, Mark, but the senator does. Obviously, it would be rather inconvenient if you were… incarcerated, while you were working for us. The senator intends to use his influence and our legal people to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“And if it does?”
“In the unlikely event that it does, your deputy will take over until you are rel—until you return.”
Beamon crossed his legs and laced his hands across his knees. “And if Senator Hallorin becomes president? Would I be out of a job?” It was a stupid question, but would at least give him a minute to think about just what the hell was going on here.
“On the contrary,” Peck said. “On the contrary. If that were to happen, we would increase your salary to six hundred thousand dollars and significantly increase your personnel budget We would expect that you would want to bring in some fairly expensive talent from the CIA and FBI to assist you at that point”
Beamon didn’t respond, silently considering his position instead. This could be it, the end to all his troubles. The FBI’s case against him was based almost completely on his financial inability to defend himself—they would likely run far and fast if Hallorin became involved. So in one fell swoop, his legal and financial problems were solved. He could go out tomorrow, buy a mansion and a smoking jacket, get Carrie back, and golf only the really good courses. All in all, it sounded pretty good.
The only drawback? Darby Moore. This job offer was far too perfect and far too timely to be accidental. Peck had made a mistake by tipping his hand and had counted too much on Beamon’s desperation and hopelessly underdeveloped survival instinct He was now seventy percent sure that he was already working for Hallorin and that the senator had started getting nervous when he’d begun digging into Tristan Newberry’s life. It seemed likely now that this was nothing more than an attempt to sidetrack his investigation. A really, really good attempt
“That’s quite an offer, Roland.”
“As I said, the senator was very taken with you.”
“And as I said, the feeling is mutual. I’ll tell you, though, I’m pretty partial to Flagstaff,” Beamon said, deciding to have a little fun. He suspected that there was only one request Peck wouldn’t give in to.
“We have companies all over. You can set up your office anywhere you want Preferably in the mainland U.S., though.”
“And I would have a written guarantee of unlimited legal support?”
“That’s our intention.”
“And that guarantee would be in effect indefinitely, no matter what happens?”
Peck had to think about that one for a moment “Fine.”
“Oh, one more thing. I’m working a little side job right now. If I do sign on with you, I’d like to finish it before I start.”
As he’d expected, Peck suddenly looked uncertain. “We’ve already waited too long on this, Mark, and frankly, it’s my fault. We want to be as flexible as possible here, but the one critical point is time. If you’ve already taken payment for the job and would have to return it to extricate yourself, I’m sure we could work something out”
“We’re only talking a week or two,” Beamon said, already knowing what Peck’s reaction would be.
“I just don’t know if we can wait that long, Mark. You’re our first choice….” He let the unspoken “but we have other candidates” hang in the air between them.
thirty-three
“IRRELEVANT,” the crowd roared. A hundred arms and half as many red, white, and blue signs pumped the air, causing eddies and waves in the human sea below him.
David Hallorin held his hands up, his watch flashing in the powerful lights trained on him. He felt himself starting to look at it, but immediately turned his eyes back to his audience. For a moment, the image of the watch was superimposed over them, the second hand moving in slow jerks that cinched down the muscles around his stomach a little more with each movement
The energy of the crowd ebbed as he leaned in close to the microphones set into the lectern before him. “How many times we can blow up the earth and how many tanks and planes we have rusting away on our military bases doesn’t matter anymore. The strength of a country today is based almost totally on economic power. Ask the Russians about that.”
Cheers and bobbing signs again.
“Despite a hopelessly bogged down government, American business—you people—kept this country afloat. And you managed to do it a lot longer than I thought possible. Now, though, it’s time for a change. It’s time to create a government that’s a partner to the private sector and not just an insatiable monster that sucks out money and throws up roadblocks.”
The cheers were louder this time and echoed eerily through the cavernous manufacturing plant He stepped back and looked around him at the gleaming cranes and state-of-the-art equipment efficiently integrated into the walls of the building. The facility had been completed three years ago and was still one of the most technologically advanced in the world—the crown jewel of Hallorin Manufacturing.
“I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished here,” he said, scanning the back of the building and making eye contact with each of the television cameras covering the event. “Not a single person has been laid off from this company during the recession.”
The shouts were deafening this time.
The audience was made up almost completely of employees of this facility—his employees. It was Sunday, but nearly every one of them had shown up, and most, as had been encouraged, brought their children. Mixed randomly into the crowd at the feet of their parents, they would significantly increase the emotional impact of this event.
Hallorin nodded toward a fifty-foot-tall open door to his left and the picnic tables set up in the parking lot outside them. The sun had come out warm and bright and glinted off the balloons and flags tied to every available pole, car, and bench. “Don’t worry,” he said into the microphone with a sly grin. “I love to make speeches, but I won’t talk so long the chicken gets cold.”
The blue-collar crowd tittered self-consciously. The sub
ject had obviously been on their collective mind. Typical American stock, all of them. The sturdy, corn-fed inhabitants of America’s Heartland. His own parents had had the same dull eyes and blank expressions. They, too, had been people who couldn’t see any further than the end of their street and seemed proud of the inability. People who counted on men like him to create jobs for them so they had a reason to wake up in the morning. People who liked nothing more than to deride the “fat cats” in Washington, but who never hesitated to put their hands out when the subsidy checks came in.
In the end, though, his own parents’ lack of ambition and intelligence had turned out to be a windfall. With Roland Peck’s tutelage, he had learned to use their memory to extract tears from all but the most hardened political crowd.
Hallorin braced his hands against the lectern again and focused on the camera from CNN—they’d give him the most replays. “The world is looking for us to lead it out of this—”
The explosion was louder than he had ever imagined—it was impossible to tell where the sound stopped and the vibration in his chest started. The lectern took the brunt of the blast of hot air that slammed into him, but he was still staggered by its heat and pressure.
He glanced behind him when he regained his balance and saw the four Secret Service men who had been assigned to the podium lying on the wooden platform, dazed but apparently unhurt. The building’s sprinkler system kicked in and Hallorin turned his face upward, feeling the cool water fade the sting in his cheeks and forehead.
The scene below him was chaos. Flame had engulfed the back wall of the plant and a white, mechanical-smelling smoke was starting to flow through the building. The crowd’s cohesiveness was gone now. Some people were running full speed toward the open bay at the end of the building, seeming to follow the flow of the smoke as it was sucked out into the open air. Others moved more slowly with no direction, their minds still trying to shake off the impact of the explosion and process what had happened. Some, closer to what had been the source of the blast, didn’t move at all.