America Rising (8 page)

Still, twice a year Millar gritted his teeth and flew from American Network’s New York office to Palm Beach, a town he despised only slightly less than its most famous resident. The routine was simple and long-established. Millar would bring tribute—in this instance two cases of Screaming Eagle Cabernet and several boxes of Bane’s favorite Cuban cigars. Then he would take Bane out to dinner, eat too much food whose ingredients he couldn’t pronounce, drink too much wine whose provenance left him cold, and stay up long past his bedtime smoking those foul cigars and guzzling cognac while being continually reminded of the greatness of Ed Bane.

Dinner went just as Russell Millar expected, though he found eating in the deserted dining room empty rather disconcerting, as was the hustle from the restaurant’s entrance to the pair of waiting Mercedes. Millar’s stomach rumbled as the vehicles sped off down the street, ignoring speed limits and stop signs, while Bane wore a look of smug satisfaction the way George Clooney wore Armani. The talk jock was going on about the gorgeousness of his new Bentley and his intention to purchase a professional football team, which Millar acknowledged with an occasional grunt. Finally, when they almost broadsided another car flying through a red light, he couldn’t take it any longer.

“For god’s sake, Ed! Is all this really necessary?”

Ed Bane grinned and nodded at Ben Levi. “Moosh here thinks it is. I think it’s kind of a hoot, like a presidential motorca—”

Ben Levi pressed his earbud deeper into his ear, listening intently. “We’re being followed,” he said in a voice sharp enough to cut through Bane’s bluster.

Bane chuckled indulgently. “C’mon, Moosh. Russ didn’t mean anything by it. You’re scaring the poor guy.”

Moises Ben Levi gave him a look that said, Why do I bother protecting this jerk? Then he thought of his paycheck and directed the driver to one of the town’s narrow, one-way residential streets. Bane twisted in his seat to catch a glimpse of their pursuer but could only see the grill of the second Mercedes hugging his bumper. The two vehicles snaked through town, the sedan still behind them.

Halfway down the block Ben Levi said something under his breath to the driver, then spoke quietly into his cuff mike. Michael floored the accelerator. Squealing and smoking tires, the Maybach rocketed off. In the trailing Mercedes, Antwan stood on the brakes. Tires squealed and smoked, then in a single practiced movement he flipped the shifter into reverse and stepped hard on the gas. The massive vehicle shot backwards, crumbled the sedan’s front end with the shriek of metal scraping metal, the hiss of steam escaping a shattered radiator. Before the noise died in the air he and the other bodyguard had the sedan’s two occupants face down on the pavement, knees in their backs, the barrels of heavy SIG Sauers jammed behind their ears.

“Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?” exclaimed Ed Bane as he and Millar eased into overstuffed leather chairs in the mansion’s mahogany-paneled smoking room. Bane’s butler and personal assistant had already poured three fingers of Hennessy Paradis in cut-crystal snifters and left a pair of neatly clipped Cohibas in crystal ashtrays on a table between them.

Bane produced a gold Dunhill with his initials inlaid in diamonds and lit his guest’s and then his own cigar, letting smoke dribble out of his mouth with exaggerated satisfaction. Russ Millar was still shaken, almost as much by Bane’s pleasure in the brutalizing of what turned out to be a pair of over-eager fans as the act itself. Millar took a careful sip of his cognac, hoping it would smother his anxiety about the conversation to come.

“Ed, Mr. Bigby has some concerns he wanted me to communicate to you,” he began.

Instantly Bane’s air of jocularity vanished like the cigar smoke pulled towards the ceiling by industrial-strength fans but Millar ignored it and pushed on.

“The cartoon of President Elias as a witch on a broom, the photoshopping of her in a Nazi uniform, a bikini, a burka, calling her a bitch, a communist, a fascist, a slut and a lesbian—’rug muncher,’ I think is how you put it—intimating the ‘c-word.’ Mr. Bigby thinks that’s going too far. After all, no matter how much we all despise her, this company has relationships with many people in her administration, does a lot of business with the government, and alienating the President of the United States is not a very smart move.

“There’s also the matter of the new division. I know, I know, you’re not part of the news division. But the Great Unwashed doesn’t understand the difference between news and commentary, and Mr. Bigby feels that commentary so far over the top damages the news division’s credibility, makes it harder to give the American people the news they need, news that strengthens their opposition to this president’s socialist-communist agenda.”

Ed Bane let his eyes linger on his visitor until Russ Millar squirmed in his seat. When he spoke, his tone was glacial. “So just what part of the billion-plus dollars a year I make for you and ‘Sir William’”—a dig at Bigby’s upper-crust pretensions—”do you have a problem with, Russ?”

“None, Ed. None at all,” Millar said hastily, trying not to swallow his cigar. “It’s just that Mr. Bigby would appreciate it if you’d tone down the rhetoric a little. Use a scalpel instead of a bludgeon, make it more policy than personal.”

Bane pointed his cigar like a shotgun at Russell Millar’s face.

“Listen to me, Russ,” he said. “There is no such thing as going too far. My audience doesn’t give a shit about the news division’s credibility or Sir Billy’s ‘relationships.’ They don’t even give a shit about the president’s ‘socialist-communist agenda.’ They couldn’t tell you what that agenda is if you tied them to an anthill. They’re scared and mad and want to take it out on somebody.

“That’s my job, Russ. I give them somebody—a lot of somebodies—to take it out on. And I do it so extraordinarily, exceptionally well that they run right out and buy enough of the cars and soap and incontinence medication you peddle to make us all filthy rich. That doesn’t happen by saying Nancy Elias is just another ambitious hack who is no different than the hack before her and will be no different than the hack who comes after her. That happens by telling them she’s an evil bitch-cunt-whore who wants to take all your money and give it to Osama Bin Laden and let a bunch of illegal Mexicans move next door and rape your daughter. Whether you believe that or I believe that doesn’t matter. They
want
to believe it, and when I tell them, they
will
believe it.”

Ed Bane put down his cigar and glared at Russ Millar.

“You know what you’re really afraid of, Russ? You’re afraid I might have more control over them than you do. You’re afraid they might get too riled up and upset the whole goddam applecart, the one you and your Wall Street and Beltway buddies have been riding around on for all these years. You’re afraid the only thing that’ll be left standing between you and the pitchforks and ropes is a low-class commoner like me. Well, get used to it, Russ. And tell Sir Billy not to send you on any more missions here. Or all his moats and drawbridges may not be enough to protect him.”

* * *

I’d been so focused on checking out Armando Gutierrez I had let plans to nail my drug and hooker-loving Florida legislators slide. I needed help and some high-tech spy equipment and there was only one person to call: my friend Robert, whom I hadn’t seen since he dropped me off at the dock in front of my house after scattering Carolyn’s ashes.

Robert Ford was sitting at the end of the bar at Pilot House marina when I walked in after going through my first hurricane in the Keys. It was something of a tradition after a storm had passed for locals to wander into their favorite watering hole and mock the standups of TV storm “reporters,” who’d stood in half an inch of water and acted like it was the second coming of Noah. And for the beer.

The only seat at the bar was next to the trim but muscular man in faded shorts and t-shirt with close-cut salt-and-pepper hair and a few days worth of grizzle. I sat and ordered a draft and by the third glass knew that Robert Ford ran a small security company specializing in “high net worth” individuals from his house just a few doors down from mine, that he loved fishing and flying his private plane, that he had no use for politics or politicians, and that his favorite beer was Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask, but his deceptively quick, precise movements and air of calm self-assurance suggested ex-military, and eyes that took in every detail of a room without ever leaving yours suggested a background in something more.

Over time we became good friends, going fishing and snorkeling and grilling grouper or lobster on my backyard barbecue when Carolyn was up to it, inviting me out for a beer or taking me on long, quiet cruises on the bay when she wasn’t. Carolyn liked him a lot, and when she died he was the only person I could let inside that tight ball of grief on her last boat ride. A pile of palm fronds in Robert’s driveway announced that he was home. When I walked around to the back of the house he dropped another armload and pulled me into a brief, sweaty hug.

“How you doing, Josh?” he said, trying not to show his concern.

I didn’t want to dwell on it. “Okay, I guess. As good as can be expected. Listen, I need your help with something. . .” I told him about my lecherous legislators and what I had in mind. He listened intently as he always did, gave a mirthless chuckle and said, “Assholes.” Then, “If you have time now, give me a minute to clean up and we’ll do some recon.”

A half-hour later we were at Tavernaero Park Airport, where Robert kept a Cessna Corvalis TT, a fast little number he used for in-state trips and the occasional sight-seeing flight above the Keys. Our destination was Rock Island, one of hundreds of small and not-so-small islands dotting the waters around the Keys. The vast majority were nothing more than coral rock dots covered with scrub and mangroves, but a few had been purchased by wealthy individuals and corporations and turned into posh retreats for the well-heeled and reclusive.

Rock Island was a four-and-a-half-acre atoll a short boat ride from the town of Marathon, itself halfway between Key Largo and Key West. It got its name not from its coral rock composition but from its purchase in the 1980s by the lead singer of some fleetingly successful metal band, who blew through his fortune buying coke and exotic cars and constructing a large, two-story Key West-style home on the island, which he had landscaped with everything from an Olympic-size infinity pool and small white-sand beach to a putting green and driving range where he and his buddies could launch golf balls into the ocean. When he went broke, one of the legion of real estate developers who specialized in cramming zero lot-line houses onto every inch of Florida open space took it over, spruced it up and used it for his own infrequent getaways and those of the politicians and bureaucrats whose approvals he needed for his various projects.

I’d gotten a tip about the orgy week from a reporter who’d been covering the hugely corrupt state legislature for longer than any human being should have to. Apparently the politicos had been at it for years without being discovered, until one of the working girls who’d been invited along blabbed after her state senator boyfriend slapped her around in a Glenfiddich-fueled rage. The party boys were scheduled to arrive Friday, two days from now, so I didn’t have much time to firm up my plans and set them into motion.

As the Seven-Mile Bridge rose in the distance, Robert banked the Cessna towards the ocean and over Rock Island. From the air it was a perfectly idyllic slice of paradise. The house and grounds were at one end, sheltered from view on all sides by a dense veil of palms, bougainvillea, oleander, giant ferns and assorted tropical plants. A short pier and dock stuck out into the water. The rest of the island had been left to its natural state, with wooden walkways snaking through the mangroves in case jaded vacationers sought fleeting respite from their man-made pleasures.

We dropped to lower altitude to get a better view and I explained to Robert what I was thinking. We agreed that most of the action would take place around the pool, and he promised to hook me up with a guy in Miami who could supply me with wireless video cameras and a USB receiver that I could connect to a laptop. He made another circle around the house and pointed out the best places to set up the cams, how to connect and operate the system.

He pointed to a wooden walkway that skirted the easternmost edge of the island and said, “That’s where you’ll go in. We’ll leave from Marathon in my boat; I’ve got a dingy with a three-horse motor. A couple hours before your buddies arrive, I’ll anchor offshore. You motor in, tie up under that walkway, then follow the path to the house. Text me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up the same way.”

I was already feeling better. A project like this was just what I needed. “Thanks, Robert,” I said. “I really appreciate you—”

He waved off my thanks.

“Hell, just nailing these fuckers is its own reward. But you do have to promise me a private screening.”

* * *

My little film session couldn’t have gone better. Early Friday morning we left Marathon Marina and cruised to Rock Island. I tossed a waterproof bag full of electronic equipment, power bars and bottled water into the dingy, then climbed in and fired up the tiny motor. It took only a few minutes to reach the island, secure the craft and be on my way. Before the sunrise I’d set up an observation post behind a huge wall of bougainvillea at the edge of the property, placed my cameras, checked to see that they were recording and took up a position by the home’s boat dock to get some still shots of the party boys arriving.