The Vulture Fund

by Stephen W. Frey

  If Becker were elected, four years of gridlock would ensue. But of course the American people didn’t understand that. They actually believed that an outsider could get things accomplished here. Andrews shook his head and laughed as he continued to rub his eyes. They were so naive.

  “What’s so funny, Preston?” Becker asked. His tone was stern.

  “Oh, I was just thinking of a good joke I heard yesterday, Malcolm.” The vice president stopped rubbing his eyes and allowed his hands to fall to his lap.

  Becker leaned forward in the leather chair. “I don’t have time for jokes, Preston.”

  Andrews nodded. “I forgot, you’re the man with no time for anything but saving the country from every evil empire on the face of the planet. A joke might hinder your ability to solve all the world’s problems by tomorrow.”

  Becker inhaled through clenched teeth. “I’m doing a pretty good job of that from my office over at the CIA. But I can’t solve all the world’s problems until I move into the White House. Which ought to be in about another year.”

  Ferris snickered.

  Andrews smiled the candidate smile. He was not going to be dragged into a verbal sparring battle. He would try to remain above that.

  “Perhaps we should begin planning the award ceremony for the Wolverines,” Robin broke in. She turned toward Ferris. “You were going to bring a specific list of the men who are to be honored at the—”

  “We’ll get to that, missy,” Becker interrupted. He grabbed the huge lobe of his right ear with several fingers and pulled it a few times.

  Andrews watched Becker play with his ear. He had seen that action several times in previous meetings, and it always seemed to precede a provocative comment.

  Becker pointed at the vice president. “I want to know who or what is really behind the memo I received from President Whitman the other day.”

  “What memo?” Andrews asked evenly.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Preston.” In a show of disrespect, Becker refused to address Andrews as Mr. Vice President, just as Andrews refused to address Becker as General. “The memo outlining cuts in the CIA budget over the next three years. The memo that requests a full accounting of all expenditures on the Wolverines since the program’s inception.”

  “Oh, that memo.” Andrews could have claimed ignorance of the memo, but he didn’t. He wanted Becker to know of his involvement, that he could play his own mind games with opponents.

  “Yes, that memo,” Becker growled. “I want to know why you put the president up to it.”

  “Who says I put the president up to it?” Andrews glanced at Robin with a slight smile. “Did you tell Mr. Becker that I did that?”

  Robin shook her head innocently.

  “I say you did.” Becker was exasperated.

  “Oh,” Andrews said quietly. He stared at Becker for a few moments, waiting.

  “So why did you put Whitman up to it? I want to know.”

  Andrews’ expression became serious. “I’m not saying I did put him up to it.” No one ever admitted anything in Washington, even if he was filmed doing it. “But let’s look at why the president might want some accountability.” He broke into the anonymously aggressive mode all polished politicians used to attack an opponent. “We know that the president is under pressure to cut government spending, and we know the president has a whole legion of cost accountants working for him over at the Office of Management and Budget. Let’s just say they started putting together some rough estimates on what the CIA has spent on the Wolverines, and the president became concerned when he looked at the numbers: concerned that the CIA was spending too much on the Wolverines and not enough on other things; concerned that the Wolverines had become too much of a pet project for someone at the CIA; concerned that in his drive to attain the Oval Office he might be compromising the country’s security as a result.” Andrews paused. He was becoming too animated. He had to maintain his composure. He did not want Becker to see how personal this had become.

  Becker’s eyes narrowed. It was time to turn the tables. He was burning up inside, but he managed to begin quietly. “And let’s suppose that somewhere high up in the president’s administration there was an individual who had designs on the White House himself. Who thought he was going to have a clear path to the Oval Office after his president finished two terms. Who thought there were no real rivals to a position he covets so much he will go to any length to attain it. Any length.” Becker said the words ominously.

  As if by reflex, Andrews moved back in his chair slightly. Robin noticed the small movement.

  “Then on the horizon a challenger appears,” Becker continued. “At first this challenger doesn’t seem to be a real threat. But his popularity grows. Suddenly the two men are in a dead heat, but the challenger has the momentum. Seems to me that person in the administration might have an ax to grind. Seems to me he might go sniffing around where he has no business sniffing.”

  “Trying to find something that isn’t there.” Ferris finished the anonymous rebuttal.

  Andrews swallowed hard. The blood pounded in his brain. He shouldn’t say what he was thinking. They were playing a political war game, one in which Becker was proving to be a worthy adversary. So far neither had broken any rules of engagement. They had tested each other, and he should leave it at that. Let it settle back to a benign discussion of the award ceremony. But there was always a time in a battle when one of the players stepped up the level of competition just to see what the other had, and as controlled as Andrews was, he was nothing if not competitive.

  Andrews began to speak, then stopped. Always think before you speak. Always take that last second in moments such as this to make certain you are committed to what you are about to say. Becker had come here for battle. He must have known what Andrews would say, so he must be holding something in reserve. Let it go, Andrews thought.

  But he couldn’t. “The president might wonder how someone was funding his campaign too.” The words hung in the office air for several moments. It was a calculated risk. It was something Becker might not have been expecting, and it might throw him off stride. Andrews was playing his hand for all to see, but sometimes that was the best strategy. Sometimes a frontal assault like this so totally devastated the other player that he wilted and left the game quietly. Now Becker knew that Andrews was not just looking for mismanagement of funds at the CIA. He was looking for fraud. The stakes had been raised immeasurably.

  Robin coughed, and Ferris moved uncomfortably in his chair. But Andrews and Becker continued to stare at each other steadily. Hatred permeated the room.

  Becker forced a smile. “People might wonder about that person in the president’s administration too. If they gave it half a thought.”

  Andrews felt his pulse quicken. What the hell did that mean? Suddenly he thought about his rule never to underestimate Becker. Had he? “What are you talking about?”

  Becker inhaled slowly. “People might wonder how he was funding his campaign.” His voice was calm.

  Robin squeezed the arm of her chair. She wanted to break in. But that would make it appear that she was defending Andrews directly. The rules of this engagement did not allow for that.

  Andrews said nothing.

  “Sure, he and his family are supposed to have huge personal net worths,” Becker went on.

  “More money than God,” Ferris said with a sneer.

  Becker chuckled. “Yes, more money than God. But things are not always as they appear.” He paused, waiting for Andrews to blunder in, to defend himself so vehemently in the process that he indicted himself.

  But the vice president said nothing. He was polished at the game as well. Even under direct enemy fire.

  “His family’s huge business might not be performing as well as people think,” Becker continued. “In fact it might be in the shitter.” His normally loud voice increased
even further in its intensity as he emphasized the last word of the sentence. He turned to Robin. “Please excuse me, Ms. Carruthers.” He was too polite in his apology.

  Robin showed no emotion, but inwardly she bristled.

  “The company might be bleeding badly, so badly that simply funding the campaign became secondary. A more pressing concern might be a corporate bankruptcy. Worse still would be a personal bankruptcy. And that could be a real possibility if someone had too much of that massive net worth tied up in the company, and if a man saw his fortune and his political future crumbling before his eyes just as he was about to achieve the highest office in the land, he might be willing to do almost anything to save himself. Almost anything.”

  Andrews sat silently, wondering how much the man knew and how much was simply a guess on his part. But the reality was that he knew something. “Of course, if that company were privately held, it would be very difficult for anyone to know the truth about its financials.” It was a lame response. Andrews knew this, but he had to say something.

  Becker waved a hand in front of his face. “Of course it would be.” He and Ferris exchanged a well-rehearsed glance.

  Andrews did not want this to go any further. “Yes, well, this is all interesting speculation, but I think we ought to get back to reality.” The vice president pulled his chair to the desk, a subtle signal that the discussion was over and they needed to get to work.

  “There’s just one more thing, Preston.” Becker pulled his earlobe again vigorously. Suddenly the veins beneath his short scalp hair became quite visible.

  Andrews glanced up at the adversary. He didn’t like the way Becker was pulling so hard at his ear. “Yes?”

  “The CIA lost a man down in Central America recently, down in Honduras,” Becker said, “a man named Carter Guilford.” He shook his head and made a sad face. “A terrible story really. Carter was a good man with a nice wife and a beautiful family. I met them several times. But somehow he lost his way. He died in a plane crash on a remote jungle runway alongside a drug runner, a member of one of Colombia’s most powerful cartels.”

  “What has this got to do with anything?” Andrews’ jaw was set. The man was relentless.

  Becker ignored the question and went on. “Our sources tell us that Guilford was working with the cartel, providing them with highly sensitive information about the efforts of the CIA and the Drug Enforcement Agency to stop drug running. The information allowed the cartel to avoid law officials and to ship much more cocaine into the United States than any other cartel. They paid him a lot of money for the information. A lot of money. Some reports we have put the payments to him at as much as two hundred million dollars. The actual amount could be more. Of course we can’t find the money anywhere.”

  “So what?” Andrews hissed.

  “Well, I know how Guilford was able to get information about the CIA’s activities to stop the drug runners, but I don’t know how he got information on the DEA. They are very secretive, almost as secretive as we are.”

  “I don’t get the point.” Andrews swallowed.

  Becker hesitated for several moments. “It’s just that we were able to recover some of Guilford’s personal effects from the crash. One of those items was a notebook, a date book.” Becker hesitated again. The office was deathly still. He gave his ear one more giant tug. “There was an entry in it about a meeting with you a short time ago.”

  Robin’s gaze shot to Andrews. What was that about? She was breathing quickly. She knew this man Preston Andrews, didn’t she? He was beyond reproach, wasn’t he?

  Becker scratched his head. “Preston, aren’t you heavily involved with the Drug Enforcement Agency? Hasn’t that been one of your pet projects, as you like to call them, during your tenure as vice president?”

  Andrews stood. “Get out.” He did not raise his voice. “Now. My staff will organize the ceremony for the Wolverines.”

  Becker, Ferris, and Robin stood also. Becker nodded. “Okay, I guess we’ve worn out our welcome now,” he said, smiling at Ferris. He began striding toward the door with Ferris in tow. At the doorway he turned back toward Andrews and Robin. “Preston”—his voice dropped—“don’t fuck with me.” Without another word he and Ferris were gone.

  Andrews stared at the empty doorway. He was livid, but somehow he maintained his composure. He could not let Robin see him explode. If she did, she might suspect something more than she already must, and he needed her now more than ever.

  He tried to clear his mind but couldn’t. Obviously Becker was going to come after him with everything he had or could manufacture.

  Slowly Robin moved from her chair to a position directly in front of Andrews’ desk. She leaned over it, placed both hands on the polished wood, and stared into Andrews’ vacant eyes. Finally he focused on her. “I want to know who that man was in your room at the Doha Marriott,” Robin said. “And I want to know now.”

  Andrews stared back, eyes not blinking. He said nothing.

  * * *

  —

  “Good afternoon, Kathleen.” John Schuler rose as Leeny and Mace entered his large office. He moved out from behind his desk to greet them as his secretary closed the door. “I appreciate your coming over.” Schuler took Leeny’s hand gently as they came together in the center of the room.

  Leeny smiled slyly. “It’s no problem, John,” she said in her honey-smooth voice. “You have no idea how far I’m willing to go for a billion-dollar underwriting commitment from the Chase Bank.” She paused. “By the way, please call me Leeny.”

  Mace glanced up quickly, as if a warning bell had just gone off.

  Schuler nodded, hoping he correctly understood the implication of how far she might go. “Yes, well, good.” He let her hand go slowly, then shook Mace’s hand. “Hello, Mace,” he said brusquely.

  “Good afternoon, John.” Mace laughed to himself. He could only imagine what thoughts raced through Schuler’s mind as Leeny implied how far she might go for a billion dollars from Chase. Mace had seen that desirous leer pass over the little man’s face for a moment. It didn’t matter anyway. Leeny wouldn’t actually go to bed with this runt of a man. She’d make him think she would, but she wouldn’t actually do it. She didn’t need to.

  “Would you care for some coffee?” Schuler motioned toward the tray positioned in the sitting area of the office. On it were two pots of coffee, soft drinks, and snacks.

  “Thank you, John. I think I will,” Leeny said. She and Schuler moved toward the refreshments.

  Mace did not go to the tray, but instead moved to the office window, which overlooked the East River and Brooklyn beyond. It was a gorgeous, cloudless February afternoon. The sky was a deep blue. The color of Rachel’s eyes, he thought, as he looked across the river toward Brooklyn. Perhaps that was where she had gone after leaving him at the restaurant. Perhaps she had headed home to Brooklyn to forget about him. He had called her apartment at Columbia several times over the weekend but received no answer. And he did not know how to reach her in Brooklyn. The four Sommerses listed in Brooklyn claimed not to know a Rachel when he had called.

  Across the river the mass of buildings stretched toward the horizon as far as he could see. What an idiot he had been. He should have explained the situation to her and treated her like the mature adult she was. There was just one problem with that. If he had started to explain to her how he really felt, he would not have been able to resist trying to initiate a relationship with her. He suddenly realized how truly attracted to her he was.

  Mace turned away from the window. Schuler and Leeny seemed to be standing just a little too close together as they poured coffee, and they seemed awfully comfortable as they conversed. It wasn’t possible. It was simply his imagination. She would never do that to close the deal.

  Schuler moved slightly away from Leeny when he noticed Mace watching. “Why don’t we sit down?” He motioned tow
ard the long couch and chairs of the office sitting area.

  Mace nodded, and the three sat down, Schuler and Leeny on the couch and Mace in one of the chairs.

  “So, John, you called us.” Leeny put her coffee cup down on the end table as she waited for the liquid to cool.

  “Yes.” He began in a deep executive vice-president voice. “I wanted to bring you up-to-date with respect to Chase’s consideration of underwriting the billion-dollar revolver for Broadway Ventures.” He spoke directly to Leeny, as if Mace were not even in the room, not wanting to miss a moment looking at her beautiful face, not wanting to miss any reaction she might have to what he was saying.

  Mace smiled. Schuler had gone off the deep end. He was trying to sound official, trying to maintain some mystery about whether or not the bank would commit to do the deal by starting off with the “bring you up-to-date” routine. But he was completely under Leeny’s spell.

  “And?” Mace prompted Schuler.

  Still Schuler did not glance in Mace’s direction. “I have discussed this opportunity thoroughly with our chairman, our president, our EVP of credit, and the head of syndications.” He paused. His expression was serious.

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, John.” Leeny reached across the couch and touched Schuler’s knee.

  “I think that after a lot of discussion we are ninety-nine percent of the way there.” Schuler broke into a huge smile.

  Leeny brought her hands to her mouth, then grabbed Schuler’s leg again. “Oh, my God, that’s wonderful. You are incredible.”

  Mace noticed the Georgia accent creeping into her voice again, the “southern belle, oh, aren’t you an incredible provider, I’ll do anything for you” accent.