by Sam Powers
The crowd stood and roared in unison, a sheet of a hundred-and-twenty-decibel white noise. March stood smiling, nodding sagely. After a minute, he raised his hands again for more quiet.
“This country was built on the backs of the men and women who sculpted our greatness from the mud, dust and clay of the west, men and women who understood the danger of a handout, of training people to be dependent. They kept us safe from the scourge of communism – the ultimate lefty system – for five decades. They provided the nation’s workers with jobs, homes and futures. They built the working capital that runs our economy and made it possible for any American, whether it’s a mom running a home business while she takes care of the kids or a college student who has paid his way through school with a second and third job, to achieve greatness and pursue their dreams.
“And that’s the America that I love and want to protect. That’s our America. The question we are being asked in this election is whether we are ready to take it back.”
The ovation was thunderous again, delegates letting March know they were. “March! March! March to Washington!” they chanted, a thousand people seemingly bouncing in place from elation.
Christopher Enright hit pause on the recording. They were watching his speech for the second time, just before midnight, in March’s palatial hotel suite in Scottsdale.
“We had a great night, senator. We straw-polled the media bus after you were finished and even the hardcore Dem outlets thought it was electric. I mean, even the guy from the Post was saying he had to give it to you: you were brilliant.”
March would never have told his assistant but he’d dreamed of the primaries for years; dreams of grandeur and achievement and a broad social acceptance of his ideas and positions, of public demand for his leadership. “It went well,” he simply said instead. “It went very well. But onward and upward, my boy. We’ve got Nevada in ten days.”
Enright hadn’t expected March’s charisma and presence to be so effective at closing the gap on his competitor, John Younger. But that was exactly what the polls seemed to suggest was happening. The latest had the Republican just three points behind his opponent despite starting the campaign with a weight around his neck caused by a handful of party scandals. None had involved him, but they did involve public money and trust, and that kind of issue could undo a lot of hard political maneuvering.
Now, they were looking at double digit defeat in the rearview mirror and the real potential that the GOP candidate could score an upset.
There was a knock on the connecting door to the next room. A second later, it opened, and communications director Neal Foreman walked in. “Senator, Chris,” he said.
“You’re up late,” March said. “We’ve got Tucson in the morning, and that’s hostile territory these days.”
“I know; my apologies. But I got hold of a first edition of tomorrow morning’s New York Times.”
“What’s the gist?” March said, assuming he was talking about the primary.
“They loved the speech. But it got about three inches of space at the bottom of a story about your overseas investments.”
March’s head slumped for a split second, just long enough for him to be conscious of showing weakness in front of the troops. Younger and various opponents had used his former law firm’s connections as fodder. Now what? “Okay, what?” He said.
“The central thesis is that you own shares in a company call TeleFonity, which is selling Voice over Internet Protocol, or VOIP software, to countries and companies in the Middle East. One of those companies is an oilfield tech services firm from Saudi named BID Ltd., or Baghribi Injection Drilling. It’s already controversial for natural gas fracking and oil recovery techniques that use a lot of water in a region that sorely needs it.”
“Neal, I’m tired. Can we get to the punchline, please?”
“Yes sir,” Foreman said. “Well, it seems one of the principals in BID is a gentleman named Moukhtar Al-Maghrebi. Unfortunately, he’s on the State Department’s watch list for supplying financing and arms to Islamic militants in Libya and Algeria.”
If March was shaken, his face barely betrayed a hint of it. “How involved is this guy in the company in which I’m vested?”
Neal shook his head. “It really doesn’t matter, Senator. There’s no win on this one. What we need you to do is divest yourself of any of that stock tomorrow morning at first light, and then we’ll hold off the press for an extra hour. You can point out that the Times story is “no longer accurate” and that you in fact “had already” sold that stock in BID. If they ask you for harder timelines and pursue it, point out that this was just part of a larger investment portfolio being managed for you by an outside firm and remind them again that once you knew about the tie, you immediately sold the stock. Again, don’t get into timelines, just take a couple of questions from local TV reporters for the softball nature, avoid the print guys, and move on.”
“So we’re going to duck and cover?” March hated trying to avoid questions and innuendo; he believed his politics and policy direction were open books, and that meant he could be as direct and strident as he liked.
“Just for a couple of days. On Saturday, Younger is attending the wedding of one of his fellow congregation members back in Germantown. What he’s apparently unaware of is that back in his college days, this congregation friend – and heavy donor – ran a Campus political group called “Christ Loves Fags”, with which he and supporters rallied against homosexuality and demanded people “love the sinner but hate the sin” by harassing people outside a notorious gay bar in Provo.”
March smiled broadly. “So he’s going to get eviscerated by his own base for saying something many of our voters would wholeheartedly agree with. There’s a certain tasty irony in that, Neal.”
“Like I said, senator, don’t worry about tomorrow. We’ll handle that, and in a few days, Younger will have made the problem disappear all by his lonesome.”
30./
May 11, 2016, PARIS, FRANCE
Funomora was on thin ice, and he knew it. His position faced reconfirmation in less than a year; Khalidi’s ground rules were made clear when he’d established and funded the ACF, a decade before.
The veteran Japanese diplomat wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted; in Japan, his political currency had badly faded, leaving the committee as his one remaining keycard into the corridors of power. To rebuild his connections at home would mean spending less time in Europe; spending less time in Europe would be seen by the Jordanian as a lack of commitment to their mutual enrichment. It seemed a no-win situation, one his rivals – Fung chief among them – would doubtless attribute to his own poor decisions.
The ACF wasn’t exactly a smooth ride in and of itself; decisions had unleashed the odd powder keg, from regional insurrections to civil disobedience and assassinations; things had seemed out of control for several years, and the economic consequences – often benefitting the board members to extremely generous ends – were going to eventually be brought to light. And then they would all be done for, politically, socially and economically.
Three positions remained unfilled and would remain so until the sniper was caught, the chairman had already decided. If Funomora walked away, he would be seen publicly as a coward. If he didn’t, he would be embroiled in perhaps career-ending scandal. If he walked away, he would sink anonymously back into the ranks of corporate Japan. If he didn’t, the notoriety that came with the position might both ruin his reputation and place him next in the sniper’s sights.
And so he attended the ACF’s emergency session unsure of where he stood, yet tasked with the responsibility of keeping the remaining three delegates – all of whom he had come to despise – safe for another month.
Miskin, who had been feuding with the chairman for two years, had just completed his third public engagement in as many months. There had been no hint of an incident and security had been drum tight. But Funomora could not help escape the feeling that pinning the three
previous deaths on Tillo Bustamante was just too easy an answer, and that the threat was still out there. Not one of the board members really believed Wilhelm’s death to be an accident.
We are all so very dirty, he thought. We are all victims of our own selfishness.
Khalidi cleared his throat. “Perhaps Japan can enlighten us with respect to preparations for Russia’s speech later this month in Moscow.”
“Of course, chairman,” Funomora said. “As requested, we have liaised with the Moscow policy wonks and military intelligence. They’re extremely confident that the decision to move it indoors to the auditorium will afford much stronger security and screening capabilities. They’ll have the place locked down.”
“They had better,” Miskin said. “We have political support and relations riding on this. The reaction to the lecture series and discussion papers on the ACF has been overwhelmingly positive, and there seems to no longer be discussion among global intelligence sources about prolonged investigations.”
Funomora tried to seem gracious in pointing out the obvious: “Of course, I’m sure none of us has overlooked the fact that since Tillo Bustamante’s death, there have been no more shootings.” He wanted to hear what they really thought, but doubted that would happen.
Fung had been quiet throughout but raised his voice. “So you think Wilhelm’s death was the accident it appeared to be?”
“Officially so, vice-chairman,” the Japanese delegate said. “Beyond that…”
“What about the reporter?” Khalidi asked from the chair. “Why have we not managed to deal with her?”
“She seems to have gone to ground professionally,” Funomora said. “I believe she is receiving help from people in the intelligence community. Still, she has not published anything in nearly two months, and her visit to Russia’s house was the last time she has been seen since our agent’s death in Washington.”
“Your agent,” Fung corrected. “He was former Japanese secret service, was he not?”
“He was.”
Fung harrumphed. “Hmmm…. I suppose we should not be surprised then that he failed. Have any of our intelligence assets offered any direction?”
“They are still hunting for her, vice-chairman,” Funomora said. “But I have no doubt that they will eventually get the job done.”
“Let us hope so,” Khalidi said. “Your recent track record of failure does not engender confidence.”
May 12, 2016, WASHINGTON, D.C.
The phone rang at three o’clock in the morning, which for most people would probably have been an invitation to ignore it, let the machine take it, and go back to bed.
But Myrna had been waiting to hear from Brennan for more than a month. They’d made progress; that hadn’t prevented Alex’s frustration at being practically confined to Myrna’s tiny apartment; and Myrna’s online sources were giving her the impression the agency was losing interest in the sniper case, more firmly convinced the shooter had been operating under the orders of the late Tillo Bustamante.
“Hi,” Brennan said.
“Where the hell have you been?” Myrna hissed. Alex was still asleep and she knew Brennan wouldn’t want to stay on the line long enough to talk to both of them. Plus, if anyone was listening in, keeping her clear of details also meant keeping her safe. “We’ve been worried as hell.”
“I got held up. Long story.”
“Can you talk location?”
“No. Don’t know who has ears over there. We have to keep this simple.”
Myrna told him they’d been hard at work via online contacts and research. “Our group’s pedigree is somewhat as advertised. And the deal for the item you’ve been inquiring about was brokered by a long-time competitor of another Russian friend you recently visited, initials DK.”
Dmitri Konyshenko, a well-known Russian arms dealer. She’d avoided saying the name; public monitoring by the agency and NSA via co-operative telecom companies could be automatically triggered by certain keywords.
Knowing who brokered the nuke deal gave Brennan leverage to approach Miskin and bluff him, let him know the Khalidi’s money was involved, that the rest of the ACF would be tarred by association and he’d be helping a rival.
“What happened to our other friend?”
He was asking about Walter. Myrna hadn’t thought about her old friend in several days as her mind adjusted to the idea of living without him. “I expect we’ll never know. It’s entirely possible the same folks you ran into earlier were looking for him, as well. I haven’t heard from the local boys in a while; I’m not sure they consider it a priority anymore.”
“Well… I can’t say I’m surprised.” Myrna could hear the disappointment in Joe’s voice. “I’m going to check in with the right people and see what they want me to do in the morning, but I’ll be recommending our Russian friend for the obvious reasons.”
“Keep your head down.”
“I will; in the meantime, the two of you can work on tying down any more links between the group we’ve discussed in the past and other actions outside its mandate.”
They’d managed to get everything they needed into the conversation without revealing much. Without an encrypted line, it was the best they could do, although Myrna knew there was probably nothing Joe wanted more than to have a real conversation. “You take care, okay?” she said, which was about the most she could offer.
“Yeah. Let the other half know I’m good, will you?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said, before hanging up.
“Where the hell are you?”
David Fenton-Wright was less forgiving regarding Brennan’s troubles. His private line had rung and Brennan had said “deputy director?”, and DFW had bitten his head off.
“I told you to stay in Europe and the next thing I’m hearing, our embassy man in Angola is bailing you out. Angola?!? What the hell are you doing?”
For a brief moment, Brennan wished he could punch the man through an encrypted phone line. “I’m heading for Moscow. Miskin is giving a public address in a couple of days, a distinguished alumni speech at the university. He’ll be a potential target and besides, I need to talk to him about a few things. I thought that was what you wanted.”
“Why were you in Angola?”
“A lead, that’s all,” Brennan lied. If David knew he’d been pursuing Bustamante’s nuclear angle, he’d have gone ballistic himself. “Nothing major.”
“You were out of touch for six weeks.”
“I didn’t say it was an easy nothing.”
“And If I didn’t know better,” Fenton-Wright said, “if I didn’t know how aware you are of the consequences of crossing me, I’d almost think you were lying to me so you could chase after a phantom bomb.”
“David, would I…”
“Don’t even pretend you respect my authority, Brennan,” Fenton-Wright said, more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. “You field agents are all the same, more testosterone than intelligence, and no appreciation for the hard work that goes into running this agency.”
When something is threatening the very future of mankind, that’s what you want to hear from your boss, Brennan thought: a rant about how the world is out to get him.
May 18, 2016, MOSCOW, RUSSIA
The early morning red-eye from Heathrow bounced once as it touched down at Domodedovo International Airport, making a few people nervous in the two-thirds full passenger cabin.
It taxied to a gate and the tired masses piled out, Brennan joining the other business travelers as they tromped down a long corridor with glass walls that gave them a view of the runway, until they reached the terminal, its broad expanses of booths, seating areas and monitors already busy at eight o’clock in the morning. The Russian airport had been refurbished since his last visit, gleaming masses of glass and steel replacing 1960s concrete bunker-style Cold War pragmatism, favored for so many decades.
Security was tight and he was patted down several times, as well a
s having his bags searched, a hedge against terrorism after a suicide bomb attack a few years earlier. Inside, the airport itself looked like a hundred others from the west, with no hint of its austere earlier nature, the years spent as a concrete monument to the proletariat, most of who weren’t really allowed to use it. There were coffee booths, and a McDonald’s, and a Starbucks with oversized muffins, and something that looked like Sunglass Hut, but in Russian.
Once through the sliding glass doors, he hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski, where he had a room reserved for Peter Taylor, a clothing company representative trying to find new markets for his company’s products. He immediately regretted the choice of transportation when the cabbie informed him, politely, that traffic was so bad it would take nearly two hours to cover the forty kilometers to the hotel, and that he’d have been better off taking the train.
It was a drab and unenviable drive up until they reached their destination. The hotel was a classic building, eight stories of white plaster and a corner tower that reached above the grey slate roof, stretching into the Moscow sky like half of a child’s toy rocket, its perspective idyllically trained upon the Kremlin and other iconic structures.
His room was luxurious, a far cry above most in which he’d stayed, with bright tones and light-colored wood furniture, a sitting room with a fashionably striped tan-and-green sofa set. In Russia, he was less likely to attract attention if he hung out with some of the business heavy hitters who used the Hotel Baltschug regularly, among a trio of hotels that had become hubs of the international corporate world, even at an exorbitant seven hundred dollars a night. It was also only ten minutes from the university, where Miskin would address students the following day on the need for government austerity in increasingly competitive marketplaces.