ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES

by Richard Drummer

  He treaded lightly to the door, opened it a crack, and peered into the hallway. Halfway down was a custodian vacuuming the floor. He danced as he worked, plugged into earbuds and oblivious to anything around him. LaMonk slipped into the hall and silently closed the door behind him, then walked the other direction to the nearest exit. Stepping out into the darkness, he inhaled a deep, relieved breath of crisp early morning air. It was the first breath of his new life.

  9

  Washington DC

  Katherine Karlson tossed a fresh teabag into a second cup of hot water. Her angry eyes glared transfixed on the newspaper editorial page. Her lips pursed as she glowered over the column she had read. Her disgust peaked, and she tossed the paper across the table as Gene Lawton stepped into the room.

  “Damn that man,” she exclaimed, “he talks out both sides of his mouth at once!” She pointed to the crumpled paper. “This is the same ungrateful little peon that begged us for exclusive interviews and promised positive press. Now he treats President Tenor like he walks on water! I think Mr. Gestin needs some reminding how this system works; when you bet at the races, you pick your pony and stick with it.”

  Lawton grabbed a coffee and sat in the chair opposite Karlson. “I think you read too much into that piece, Katherine,” he said calmly. “Gestin was admonishing the governors that didn’t balance their state budgets. Tenor gets mentioned because he’s one of the few that reduced spending while he was a governor.”

  Karlson gave him a disapproving glare. “And if he’s balancing a budget, then he’s cutting funds from some other vital program. That’s what this paper should be concentrating on.”

  “Kat, if I’m getting sixty percent of the press to go our way, I’m ecstatic. We are at eighty across the board! Think about that. When was the last time a paper voiced direct opposition to you or any of your proposals? We need to choose our battles. This issue isn’t even worthy of a phone call.”

  Karlson pondered his point as she poured milk into her tea. “Still, Gestin may need reminding to write about the issues that will help his candidate get elected. That’s how Washington works, and he knows it.”

  Lawton opened his notebook and added it to the long list of entries. “All right then,” he said, “I’ll mention it at the press dinner.”

  “And while you’re at it,” she added, “we need something new and negative about Tenor every week. What about sending a team with cell phone scanners to pick up his calls?” Lawton winced painfully. “You saw the mess that came about when a group got caught doing the same thing years ago. I’m not crazy about that one.”

  Karlson wasn’t about to allow her suggestion to be dismissed so easily. “Nobody ever went to court. Nobody went to jail. Nobody ever pointed their finger at the guy that set up the operation. And it worked! The information they recorded destroyed the man’s political career. I’d call that a damn good plan! I want the same setup; civilian vehicles following and tapping his calls every time he’s mobile. Better yet, make it two teams. There’s less chance of being noticed if they alternate.”

  Lawton scribbled more notes and paused as a thought came to him. “You’re not going to get within range of the presidential motorcade to pull that off. His chief of staff, though. . .”

  Karlson smiled and gave him a mock slug in the arm. “That’s why you’re the big dog.”

  “Good morning, mom. Hello, Gene.” Jordan West descended the stairs with an infectious smile and a copy of the paper. “Did you guys read the editorial about the governors and their overspending?”

  Karlson smiled and winked at Lawton, then turned to her daughter. “We were just discussing it, dear. I felt the reporter was using it to grandstand for Davis Tenor.”

  “Really?” Jordan said. “I thought it was amazing how many states operate in the red. Tenor must have done something right if Indiana was one of only twelve not writing bad checks while he was in office there.”

  Karlson loved seeing her only child so engrossed in assisting her election campaign. Moments like these, however, were when she hoped the kid would hurry up and see the world of politics for what it was.

  Jordan’s father, Clifford West, had been an exception to many of the rules. Taking a middle-of-the-road approach to his governing style had proven itself effective, earning him support from both parties. Although not on the list of states in the black, he had kept California solvent through some very lean times.

  Jordan related more to her father’s approach. And despite the differences in philosophy, she truly believed that Katherine Karlson would make a fine president. She supported her mother’s campaign in every way she could—stuffing envelopes, handling the phones, walking door to door to meet voters. From time to time, she even made public appearances on behalf of Karlson.

  She had cut the number of classes she was enrolled in by half to be available when needed by the campaign. Her course load was the bare minimum required to remain listed as a full-time student. Her time was split between her home in Los Angeles and Washington, DC. That forced her to take many of the lessons online. Jordan wanted to be helpful but dreaded the thought of losing an entire year of school. After the election, she reasoned, she could add extra classes and still graduate on time.

  “Mom, I’m doing that meet and greet at the Essex later this afternoon,” Jordan reminded her mother as she poured herself a coffee. “Did you have anything else you needed me for?”

  “I don’t think so, honey. Gene and I were finishing up here and prepping for an interview on the debate.”

  Lawton looked up from his laptop. “You’re going to want to review this information on Tenor’s first marriage and divorce. There are some messy details we can throw out there when the time is right.”

  Before Karlson could respond, Jordan said, “I hope you’re not going to sink to that level. You don’t need to go there, mom. Let your message come through, and you’ll win because you deserve to win.”

  Karlson, who was unaccustomed to anyone correcting her, felt the claws coming out. She quickly regained her composure, stood, and put an arm around her daughter. “You’re right, of course. This information is good to be aware of but otherwise completely worthless. We’ll probably just file it away. Now you, young lady, need to get on your way and get some schoolwork done!” She walked Jordan to the door and saw her out.

  Her smile vanished as she turned back to Lawton. “What the hell were you thinking? You know damn well you can’t talk about shit like that in front of her!”

  Lawton closed his laptop. “Fine, we won’t use the divorce info.”

  Karlson threw up her hand to stop him before he could say another word. “I didn’t say don’t use it. I said we don’t talk about it in front of my daughter, or anyone else for that matter. Just give it to the third-party supporters and let them post it.”

  Lawton showed no outward reaction but stowed his laptop into a briefcase and got to his feet. “I’ll be over at my office,” he said with an icy edge as he headed for the door. “Call me when you’re ready to continue.”

  Karlson let him leave, then opened her laptop to read some emails. She did not like him having the last word but was in no mood to continue this conversation just to proclaim herself the victor. Gene was fun, but he was an employee. She might have to remind him of that again soon, but not before the interview. His head needed to be clear and on topic. She also made a mental note not to piss him off again until after she’d been satisfied tonight.

  10

  Arlington, Virginia

  “Look, Vince, your support puts you in the catbird seat for guaranteed approval of your program. Senate bill 8837 is on the inside track right now. What’s that? Yes, you have Senator Karlson’s word that she votes with you on this. In return, you bring New York, including your esteemed colleague who seems to enjoy straddling the party line. . . Perfect, we knew we could count on you. As always, you have our continued support. Thanks, Vince, we’ll talk soon.”

  Gene Lawton hung up the o
ffice phone and cracked his neck as he glanced over the list of names yet to call today. He was making progress but would be at this for another few hours. It was time for a break. He walked past the fax machine as it churned out another document, reminding him to look over its stack of contents soon.

  The coffee was still fresh, and Lawton was pouring himself a cup when his assistant walked in with a FedEx packet. “Mr. Lawton, the files from Washington are here.”

  “Thanks, Marcy,” he said, not looking up. “Leave them on the desk, please.”

  She walked behind his workspace and set the package down, noticing the stack of faxes in the incoming tray. The phone rang before she could grab them. She answered with her usual salutation. After a moment, she smiled. “Hi Carol, hold on, please.” She held out the receiver. “Mr. Lawton, Mrs. Lawton, on line four.”

  He returned with a steaming cup and took the handset. “Hi, Carol, is everything all right?” Lawton settled into his chair and gave Marcy a look that said he would be tied up a while. She took the opportunity to pull the faxes from the machine and stacked them on his desk, noticing the line in bold print on the top sheet. ‘Classified Military Mission.’

  She tapped Lawton on the shoulder to get his attention, then pointed at the heading. He turned in his chair and casually glanced over in mid-sentence. The top line caught his eye, and he scrambled to pick it up. “Honey, sorry to cut you off,” he said to his wife, “but something big just came up. Let me call you back.”

  Lawton fumbled to replace the receiver as he read through the message, then flipped back to the cover page. Who was this LaMonk, and how did a man of such dubious loyalty end up in the pipeline that handled critical classified information? He made a mental note to never turn his back on the guy as he re-read the message.

  This was astounding. The president had authorized a covert mission using a militant detainee as a homing pigeon to lead them to Sirhan Abbas. This was arguably the most dangerous man in the Middle East, if not the entire world. Take him out, and you stop OASIS cold. He nodded in agreement with the plan, thinking that for once, President Tenor had gotten it right. It was brilliant in its simplicity, and as the details of the mission attested, easy to implement. “Kill Abbas and stop OASIS,” he said with admiration, pushing the fax aside and reaching for his yellow pad.

  His pen had barely made contact with the paper when the grin disappeared. He stared forward, his head shaking in disbelief. “Oh, my God!” He pushed back from the desk as all color drained from his face. “Kill Abbas and stop OASIS,” he repeated. “Kill Sirhan Abbas, and you end the war. . .and the election!”

  He chastised himself for not seeing it sooner. This information wasn’t a golden egg to be used against his opponents. It was a neutron bomb that could win the war for the incumbent president. With only months before the election, Karlson’s lead would be irreversibly shredded.

  “We’re going to lose! We’re going to fucking lose!” he yelled, slamming his fists on the desk and springing out of his chair. He paced the office as sweat soaked through his shirt and beaded on his forehead.

  This election was over, just like that. The best campaign Lawton had ever run would never pull into the station. Derailed by a clandestine hail Mary. How do you counter something like that? How do you compete with the guy bringing peace to a place in the world where peace has never existed? You don’t, he conceded. If this mission is successful, then history was about to be rewritten. Katherine Karlson would be nothing more than an interesting political footnote. And he would fail to put his candidate in the White House. He covered his face with his hands, envisioning the conversation he would have with the senator. ‘Sorry, I did my best, but you’re going to lose.’ A brilliant campaign is ended, all because of this fucking military mission. “Damn it all, damn it all!” He punched at the desk. “If this mission succeeds. . .” Lawton stopped mid-sentence, realizing he had spoken both the problem and the solution. “IF!”

  11

  Washington, DC

  Jordan West left her mother’s condo and walked the three blocks to a local coffee shop. The brief moments of solitude were becoming less frequent as the election neared. This place had become her secret refuge. They also made excellent coffee.

  She ordered up a large dark roast and a muffin and settled in at a high top near the back wall. Checking her watch, she confirmed there was plenty of time to kill before heading to the Essex. She cracked open her laptop, pulled up the web page for the company hosting the event, and read about their product, a multi-purpose electric vehicle platform. The execs were in town drumming up support and funding while ensuring their project remained the darling of Karlson and her party. Although Jordan had little influence, she nevertheless insisted on understanding the topics of discussion. She paged through the product details with genuine interest.

  She closed the website and worked through a lesson on one of her online classes. Her mind kept going back to the earlier conversation she’d overheard between her mother and Gene. Did they intend to use that divorce information about the president and start a mudslinging campaign? So far, Karlson had kept her message focused on the issues. Still, it concerned her that Gene had even brought the story up.

  Jordan was quite proud that the campaign centered on the positive changes Karlson would bring when elected. There were a few slips here and there, and Jordan was quick to point them out. Her mother usually feigned ignorance of such details, explaining that she could not possibly control every piece of information being stated and reported. Even so, there was more than one instance where her mother had made contradictory statements. Like the time she was speaking to a group of auto union representatives. She made promises that came out of nowhere, as though making them up as she went. Or when, during a speech about the third national health care overhaul, she promised an end to high deductibles for all families. Jordan knew her mother’s plan never mentioned that issue.

  The prickly truth was she had seen this disconnect between her mother’s words and deeds multiple times before. Sometimes it seemed the woman would say whatever it took to appease every single person in a room. This was an impossible feat for anyone. Unless, of course, the goal was to win their support with no intention of actually delivering on the promises made. Not an uplifting thought. Especially for a young woman who believed her mother could drop all of this double-talking crap and still win the election on a firm platform of honesty, integrity, and common sense.

  There was one other revelation that kept swirling up, the worst of them all. A repulsive image permanently etched like white phosphorus in the darkness when she closed her eyes—the kiss.

  She cringed at the thought as her hands fidgeted, remembering the day she had walked in on her mother and Gene sharing what appeared to be a passionate kiss. Karlson had pushed away from the embrace, feigning the victim. She admonished Gene for his inappropriate actions, then glanced at Jordan standing in the doorway. At the time, Jordan accepted her mother’s explanation, desperately wanting to believe it. Now, as it played back again, she remembered her mother’s eyes being closed and her arms wrapped around him. These were hardly the actions of a victim. And Jordan was sure the woman had heard her come through the door. She had seen a subtle tell of acknowledgment before she pushed away from Gene.

  It was acting, the well-honed skill of Katherine Karlson. That meant Jordan had likely interrupted a passionate moment between the two that may otherwise have ended in the bedroom. She cringed at the thought of her mother having an affair with that man.

  Jordan had never told her father what she’d witnessed. In retrospect, she felt he sensed it anyway.

  A crack had developed between her parents when her mother announced her bid for the presidency. The gap grew substantially wider when Gene came on the scene. She knew her father loved his wife, but the air between them had become noticeably cold and negative charged. It was as if her mother had moved on from their marriage. Clifford West had been reduced to a stepping stone, powerless t
o do anything but accept the newly imposed reality.

  Jordan struggled to direct her thoughts back into the school lesson as she became aware of a conversation between two guys sitting nearby. The topic had gone from another U2 band comeback to covert government activity.

  “Bush led us right into the Iraq war with no proof of anything. The whole yellow cake thing? What a bunch of bullshit. And we’re still there because he wanted to be a ‘Wartime President.’”

  She listened as a lanky guy with shoulder-length blonde hair and multiple piercings espoused the views shared by many. His companion, a guy with a hairstyle right off a sixties British Invasion album cover, set his cup down and focused thoughtfully on his friend.

  “They had enough Intel to know what was going on,” he said, “but they jumped before proving the existence of WMDs. No aerial views, no monitoring of the shipments from neighboring countries. Nothing, except the CIA director himself calling it a slam dunk. Bush acted on it anyway. Enough evidence has come to light since proving Saddam did have uranium and poison gas stockpiles at one time. But it didn’t matter anymore. Everyone had already made up their minds.” He settled back into the worn couch. “I think the history lesson here is that the best Intel in the world means nothing. Not unless you’re smart enough to properly analyze it and keep emotions out of any decisions.”

  Jordan was intrigued. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine a well-informed political consultant making this argument. But here was a guy that looked more like he loaded cargo ships than worked in government. She smiled with interest, tuning more into their conversation.