by Roger Weston
Earl intuitively understood that the key to success and popularity in the Senate was learning to anticipate the varying needs of senators. He had a knack for subtleties and never forgot a senator’s special preferences once he committed them to memory. He also learned about the human weaknesses of senators, finding that he had an obsession for learning the scandalous threads that the public usually didn’t learn about for years. He rose to become a Senate staffer, and staffers who proved reliable had more to do with the daily operations of that institution than the elected members. Earl was dependable and hungry for gossip and incredibly well informed. He worked hard, provided excellent service, made connections like batches of muffins, gathered intelligence, and became one of the most knowledgeable people around. He ate up committee hearings on major bills. His reading light burned into the late hours of the night, and he devoured the committee reports almost as fast as the muffins. At every opportunity, he discussed the pros and cons of bills with legislative technicians.
After ten short years, he had become a lobbyist—and one of the most powerful in the Capitol. His fast rise to power had stunned many people. He was a black man from a feared neighborhood, and now Harvard graduates sucked up to him like raw eggs. It wasn’t so much his rise that stunned them, but the speed of it. He attended functions where they passed out shrimp and caviar by the plateful. He dipped into the same bowls as presidents and was an advisor to the mighty. He dined with famous entertainers and sports heroes and the big fish of the political world. He only answered to one person, Alan Hale, the reclusive billionaire.
Today, Earl sat at the table in his formal dining room at the 16,000 square-foot Kalorama House. The room had elegant pink walls and white crown molding. He put the linen napkin on his bulging chest to protect his shirt and tie. He placed two napkins on his lap to cover both legs of his slacks. Protected against stains, he took a bite of his Eggs Benedict with a silver fork. With his tongue, he sloshed the runny eggs against the inside of his gums to savor the taste. He swallowed with his eyes shut and enjoyed the feel of it going down his throat. Delightful. He hadn’t had Eggs Benedict since his meeting last month with Senator Buhl at the Beverly Hills Hotel. That he’d survived a full month without them was probably some kind of a record for him. He downed his first egg and English muffin in three bites and the second one as well. While he ate hash browns, the fax machine on the desk spit out one memo after another. He’d told Walter to take phone messages for him. He never took calls while he dined. Meal time was sacred. He ate a plate of fruit and a plate of pastries one succulent bite at a time, washing it all down with a pot of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice. The potatoes, the pork, the cereal—none escaped his attention.
Finally he looked at his watch with irritation and called the kitchen. “It’s me. I need Bernard to clear the table and reset it for another meal. This time for two.” He hung up and sat there for a minute contemplating the transfer from his chair to his scooter. When he’d sat down, there had been two inches between his belly and the table. After five plates of food, his gut was now against the table, and it was uncomfortable the way it added to the pressure. He dreaded getting up due to his knees and settled for just backing away from the table.
Five minutes after the table was cleared and set, Walter, his new white assistant, came in. He was a kid from Orange County whose father wielded lots of power and threw lots of money Earl’s way, and hiring Walter was payback. The kid was breathing hard from running up the stairs like a maniac.
“All done, boss.” Walter grinned. “What next?”
“I want you to dig up some fresh dirt about everyone on that list. The nastier the better.”
Walter slapped his hands together and batted his lips. “I like this job.”
“It gets better. Wait until—” Earl was cut short by a knock on the door. “That’s Senator Turner. Answer the door. Then get to work and don’t bother us.”
Senator Rachel Turner strode into the dining room. As always, she was smiling and glowing and looking good. She was beautiful and smart and Earl admired the hell out of her. She was kind and gentle and yet tough and had thrived in a world of sharks, always a lady of class as far as Earl was concerned. She was becoming one of the most powerful members of the Senate. Earl admired the sheen of her black hair and her trim figure. He greeted her and they passed the usual formalities back and forth. The fact that she was a vegetarian disgusted him, but out of respect he offered her a bowl of whole wheat cereal. She said that she wasn’t hungry and eased into a dining room chair.
“Thanks for meeting with me today,” Earl said. “You know I want your support on the bill.” He didn’t mention the bill had a huge add on for black ops buried deep in the 1500-page monstrosity.
Rachel smiled. “Yesterday I’d have given it to you. I’ve been going back and forth about that one. I mean, it’s not so clear cut, is it? They want us to trust them, and I’d like to, but they’ve been creating messes with what we’ve already given them.”
“It’s an evil world out there,” Earl said. “Our boys have to do the dirty work that nobody else wants to so that the rest of us enjoy freedom and prosperity. It gets messy, and sometimes it backfires, but we all owe them a huge debt for their sacrifice. At the very least we need to support our troops in intelligence.”
Rachel sighed. “I’d like to. I really would, but the truth is I’ve been horse trading, and I’ve already given my promise to the other side.”
Earl suppressed an urge to turn up the heat on her. She was his favorite senator, and he didn’t feel like putting the screws to her.
“I understand your dilemma,” Earl said. “But this is the most important bill I’ve come across in my career. It must pass to ensure the security of our country. I want you to just think about the people who would suffer if our elected officials don’t do their job and insure our national security. I want you to think about the children who will lose their mothers and fathers. I want you to imagine terrorists on our shores and an intelligence apparatus that doesn’t have the funds to disrupt them.”
Rachel frowned. “I’ve given my word, Earl. There will be other chances.”
“Not like this one. Billions are slated for black operations, and that’s the most essential way we combat the enemy these days. How many people are going to die while we wait for the next bill to make it through the morass of the Senate?”
She stood up. “I have to go.”
“Alright, sit down for just one more minute.”
She humored him.
“Maybe we can strike a compromise. You can’t vote for my bill, but at least you could agree not to vote against it. You can take a vacation and not vote at all.” Earl pulled an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table. “Plane tickets.”
“You are a devil, aren’t you?” she said and then took a deep breath. “Fine, I’ll leave town for a few days, but keep the tickets.”
CHAPTER 6
Seattle, Washington
Sitting at his desk, Robert called Joe Parcher on a safe line with Leslie sitting across from him and listening in on the speaker. Parcher was an ex-fighter and a security man who had been recently promoted after Sam, Robert’ right-hand man had been eliminated by Curtis. Robert recalled that Napoleon had once said his hand of action extended directly from his brain. His former assistant had understood that and didn’t question it. Robert expected Parcher to do the same. He better recognize greatness and respond decisively or there would be consequences.
“How’d it go?” Robert said.
Parcher cleared his throat. “Our boys weren’t the best, but they had instructions to kill.”
“And?”
“One’s in the hospital. The other’s dead.”
Robert shook his head. “Where’s the third?”
“Zinn? Brandt messed with him bad.”
Robert considered that for a moment. “How did Brandt react to the situation?”
“According to our voice and video analysi
s, his stress wasn’t high at all. For a man who saw his girlfriend abducted and future father-in-law shot and then survived an assassination attempt and went on to brutally torture our operative, the man wasn’t shaken in the least.”
“Maybe you guys should take notice,” Leslie said. “You’re creating a whole new problem. Our priority is eliminating problems. I told you he’s a loose end that we need to eliminate ASAP.”
Robert leaned back in his chair and spread out his arms. “This is not a problem, Leslie. This is an opportunity to chart and track the reactions of a legendary assassin as we drive him to the breaking point, to bifurcation. What we learn will give us an incredible advantage against the enemy in countless future operations. No other intelligence agency in the world has gone this far with this kind of research. This is one of the reasons that we’re on track to have our funding tripled over the next year alone.”
“If your experiment doesn’t backfire,” she said while rapidly tapping her pencil on the arm of the chair.
Robert leaned forward and put his soft hands on the desk. “It won’t.”
“So what are you trying to accomplish?”
“The mission is clear, Leslie. Our man in Washington D.C. tells me that the stimulus bill will pass. I just—”
“And he knows this?”
“He’s working the senators. He should know better than anyone. He’s helped us bring in hundreds of millions in stimulus dollars tagged for black projects.”
“Working senators is his mission. What’s yours?”
“Come on, Leslie. Our mission has not changed. Curtis will get to him eventually. And when he comes, we will let him do his job. In the meantime, we’re going to use Brandt in this experiment. We’re going to get the data we need on how a seasoned professional responds to our tactics. This sort of research appeals to the people in Washington. At the same time, we’ve cut Brandt loose. He’s out there all by himself now, and vulnerable. We know that Curtis is determined to sanction Brandt over the Colombian mess.”
“And if Curtis doesn’t act?”
“Curtis never let anyone betray him.”
CHAPTER 7
Birmingham, Alabama
After choosing some clothes at a second-hand store, Chuck wandered over to the book section where he found an atlas. He knew Jin Mountain was a code name; nevertheless, he paged through the index. A pang filled his gut. Had Darren Zinn lied to him? Did they really take Lydia to a mountain? Chuck was certain that the man had told him the truth—at least about the mountain.
Chuck couldn’t stand to think that these people had Lydia. He had to find the place they called Jin Mountain. To do that, he’d have to find Angela Lane, Zinn’s ex-wife. But first he needed to return to the apartment complex and make sure that Lydia’s baby was being taken care of, and he needed cash. After leaving the second-hand store, he applied make-up and slipped a big cowboy hat over a long blonde wig. He drifted down the street toward a bus stop. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt. When he touched one of the bullets lodged in his flak jacket, pain raced through his chest like fire. His eyes watered. He turned down the street and entered the complex.
He walked past the domino apartment buildings. The place was quiet. A few Somali kids were hanging around playing, and Chuck slipped on sunglasses. He stopped in front of the kids.
“Y’all kids seen any strangers ‘round here today?” he said with a drawl, praying they didn’t recognize his voice.
They gave him a skeptical look, and Chuck feared they would know it was him.
“Just you,” Samatar said. The kid attended the local junior high and had a reputation for fighting, which was helpful in this neighborhood.
“How’s about some other white dudes?” Chuck said. “Real stiff-necks. Maybe they’s askin’ about that leasing agent, Brandt.”
They shook their heads negatively, one of them staring at Chuck’s shoes.
“No,” Samatar said. “But I saw two white guys wearing suits.” The kid spoke excellent English given he’d only been in the country for six months.
“When?”
“Two hours ago they walked past.”
“Where’d they go?”
Samatar shrugged his shoulders. “Brandt’s our friend. Why they looking for him?”
Chuck casually scanned the area. Nobody in sight. He couldn’t put the kids in danger any longer by being close to them. “You dudes keep out of trouble.”
As he walked down the path, once again it struck him as wrong that the Exodus relief organization had brought these people from overseas and relocated them into a dangerous neighborhood where they had limited opportunities and perhaps as many problems as where they came from. It also struck him as wrong that these elite humanitarians had dispatched at least two assassins to dispose of him.
His gaze drifted to the sidewalk. Big roots from a monstrous tree had dug under the cement creating up-thrusts and depressions. He stepped over the edges carefully.
Chuck knocked on the door of Maria’s apartment. While he waited for an answer, he stuffed his wig under his belt. There was no answer. “No, no, no,” Chuck whispered to himself. “Not today.”
As the “leasing agent” he had a master key, which he got out. He unsnapped the flap on his shoulder holster and entered the apartment with his gun drawn.
“Hello,” he said. Smell from a recent meal filled the room. “Anybody home? It’s Chuck Brandt.”
“I’m here,” Maria said from the back bedroom. The door flew open, and she hurried out with Amy in her arms. Maria’s curly dark hair covered her eyes.
“Why didn’t you answer?” Chuck said.
“They came for Amy.”
“Who did?”
“Two men came by twenty minutes ago. He said Lydia was arrested, and that child protective services would be back shortly to take the baby.”
“You did the right thing, Maria.” He gave her a hug. “You were very brave. Before they come back, I think it would be best if you took Amy to a motel. Sign in using a fake name. Call me when you get there, and I’ll bring you some money. Okay? Can you do that, Maria?”
Maria pushed the hair away from her eyes. “Yes, for Lydia I will. She’s a good person. She wouldn’t do anything bad.”
“No. She hasn’t done anything bad. She just had to take care of some urgent business. I will contact you when it’s safe to return. It may take a few days, but don’t worry. I will come back with Lydia.”
Chuck watched her drive away with the baby. Then he walked casually down the sidewalk stepping over the jagged edges.
Chuck cut across the grass between buildings “A” and “E”. He kneeled down by the hedge at the corner of his patio and looked at the lock. No sign of tampering. He went around the building and opened his front door, listening carefully. He heard his silver watch chain drop softly to the rug on the other side of the door. He sighed with relief, but drew his Colt anyway. Inside, he pulled up the carpet at the corner of the living room, pocketing four bundles of hundred dollar bills and three sets of fake identification.
Chuck locked the door on his way out. He had done what he came to do without getting shot, maimed, or killed. Now all he had to do was get away from this place and find Lydia.
CHAPTER 8
Chuck walked on back streets through the neighborhoods. He’d gone about a mile when an old Lincoln Continental with shiny new custom wheels and tinted windows came into view. It was parked in front of a condemned commercial building that was fenced off.
Chuck picked the lock, hotwired the car, and punched the gas pedal. The tires shot a rooster tail of gravel, then chirped as they grabbed the pavement. As the car raced away, Chuck heard several shots and the back window shattered. He yelled and swerved the car as it took a corner, careening into a line of overloaded garbage cans. Trash flew up into the air. Cans shot off to both sides. One bounced over the hood, spider-webbed the windshield, and went over the top. Another one went underneath, where it got stuck, creating a terrible
racket and a trail of sparks. For a moment, all Chuck could see was flying trash and cans. He poured on the gas, realizing that the punks who owned the car had spotted him from inside one of the condemned buildings.
He swerved, just in time to avoid hitting a telephone pole, but the back end of the Lincoln slid, hitting a parked car.
He was on an inhabited residential street now, and the noise from the can under the car was no doubt rousing the locals. Chuck floored the Lincoln. The engine whistled for a moment, then faded, and the car proved to have a ton of power under the hood. It caught air over a rise and the big old Lincoln lurched as the can broke free. The car landed on the can, the undercarriage bashing it down onto the road. In the rear-view mirror, Chuck saw more sparks as the flattened can slid down the road.
He ran a stop sign, and two vehicles skidded to a stop to avoid collision. In his rear-view mirror, he had a clear view through the now missing back window. He saw a punk kid make an obscene gesture at him. Chuck hit the breaks and slowed the Lincoln down to a comfortable thirty-five. He’d gone a mile when several speeding police cars raced past him in the opposite direction. He watched for break lights, but the cops kept going. Man, those guys responded fast.
He doubted it was any coincidence these cops were bunched up in this neighborhood. They’d probably heard that Chuck Brandt was just seen at the Clearbrook Apartments and they were crawling all over looking for him. The fact that they’d paid no attention to this low rider confirmed to Chuck that they had bigger problems than the local hoods.
The car hit a pot hole and Chuck winced in pain—his chest still bruised and tender from being shot in the flak jacket at the market. The pain made his eyes watery as he looked straight ahead into the splintered windshield. He kept thinking of Lydia and the hell she must be going through. He thought of her baby girl who needed her mother back. Chuck’s fury at himself ate at him like acid. He should have known better. “I’ll make this right,” he said over and over.