Saving Faith (24 page)

It was fifth grade, recess. The boy with the man-size eyes the exact color of Lee’s had ridden his bike with the banana seat up to where she sat on the swing reading a book.

“Want to go for a ride?” he had asked her. “No,” she had said, and then immediately dropped her book and climbed on back. They were an “item” for two months, planning their lives together, vowing their undying love for each other, even though they never exchanged so much as a peck on the lips. Then her mother died, and Faith’s father moved them away. She briefly wondered if Lee and he could be one and the same. She had banished the memory so completely from her subconscious that she couldn’t even remember the boy’s name. It could be Lee, couldn’t it? She thought this because the only other time in her entire life when her knees had gone weak was on that playground. The boy had said what Lee had just said, and the sun had hit those eyes just as it had smacked Lee’s, and her heart felt as though it would explode if she didn’t do exactly as he said. Just how it felt right now.

“Are you okay?” Lee asked.

Faith gripped one of the handlebars to steady herself, and said as calmly as she could, “And they’re just going to let you drive off with it?”

“My brother runs the place. It’s a demo. We’re officially taking it for an extended test drive.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Just like fifth grade, there was no way she could not get on that bike.

“Consider the alternative, and then the idea of your butt on this Honda starts looking beautiful.” He slid his shades on and flipped his helmet’s shield down as though putting an exclamation point on this statement.

Faith slipped on the suit, and with Lee’s help managed to get the helmet on snugly. He loaded their bags into the Honda’s spacious trunk and saddle pouches, and Faith climbed on behind him. He started the engine, gunned it for a moment or so and then hit the gas. When he released the clutch, the power of the Honda threw Faith back against the padded bar and she found herself clamping her arms and legs around Lee and the eight-hundred-pound motorcycle, respectively, as they rocketed onto Jeff Davis heading south.

She almost jumped off the bike when she heard the voice in her ear.

“Okay, calm down, it’s a Chatterbox helmet-to-helmet audio link,” Lee’s voice said. He’d obviously felt her shock. “You ever driven down to your beach house?”

“No, I always flew.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got a map. We’ll take 95 down and pick up Interstate 64 near Richmond. That’ll get us to Norfolk. We’ll figure out the best way from there. We’ll grab something to eat on the way. We should make it before it gets too dark. Okay?”

She found herself nodding and then remembered to say, “Okay.”

“Now, just sit back and relax. You’re in good hands.”

Instead, she leaned into him, circled her arms around his waist and held tightly. She was suddenly immersed in the recollection of those divine two months in fifth grade. This had to be an omen. Maybe they could drive off and never come back. Start at the Outer Banks, hire a boat and end up on a patch of soil somewhere in the Caribbean no one had ever been before, a place no one would ever see except for them. She could learn to keep a hut, cook with coconut milk or whatever they had there, be a good little homemaker while Lee was off catching fish. They could make love every night under the moonlight. She leaned farther into him. None of that sounded bad. Or too far-fetched, under the circumstances. None of it.

“Oh, and Faith?” Lee said into her ear.

She touched her helmet to his, felt the solid breadth of his torso against her breasts. She was twenty again, the wind was delicious, the warmth of the sun inspiring, her greatest worry a midterm exam. A sudden vision of them lying naked under the sky, skin brown, hair wet, limbs intertwined, made her wish they weren’t in body suits with thick zippers, going sixty miles an hour over hard pavement.

“Yes?”

“If you even think about trying to pull another stunt on me like at the airport, I’ll use those good hands to wring your neck. Understand?”

She leaned away from him and rested her back against the sissy bar, pushing herself deep into the leather. And away from him. Her shining white knight with the bedeviling blue eyes.

So much for memories. So much for dreams.

 

CHAPTER 26

Danny Buchanan surveyed a familiar scene. The event was typical of Washington: a political fund-raising dinner at a downtown hotel. The chicken was stringy and cold, the wine cheap, the conversation high-powered, the stakes enormous, the protocol tricky, the egos often impossible. The attendees were either wealthy and/or well connected, or underpaid political staffers who worked long, frantic hours during the day and were rewarded for these prodigious efforts by being compelled to work these sorts of events at night. The Secretary of the Treasury was supposed to have attended, along with some other political heavyweights; ever since he had become engaged to a well-known Hollywood actress with a thing about exhibiting her cleavage at the drop of an intern, the secretary had been more in demand than the keeper of the cash normally was. Then, at the last minute, he had gotten a better offer to speak at another event, which was often the case in the endless game of “where is the political grass greener?” An underling had been sent in his place, a gawky, nervous person no one really knew or cared about.

The event was another opportunity to see and be seen, to check the ever-changing pecking order of a certain subgroup of the political hierarchy. Most never even sat down to eat. They just dropped off their check and then it was off to another fund-raiser. Networking flowed through the room as though from a well-fed spring. Or open wound, depending on how one looked at it.

How many of these events had Buchanan attended over the years? During the frenzy of key fund-raising periods when he used to represent Big Business, Buchanan would attend breakfasts, luncheons, dinners and assorted parties nonstop for weeks. Exhausted, he had sometimes shown up at the wrong event—a reception for the senator from North Dakota instead of a dinner for the South Dakota congressman. After taking over for the world’s poor, he had no such problems, for the simple fact that he now had no money to give members. However, Buchanan was well aware that if there was one truism in political fund-raising, it was that there was never enough money. And that meant that there would
always
be the opportunity for influence peddling. Always.

After he got back from Philly, his day had really started, without Faith. He had met with half a dozen different members on the Hill and their staff on a myriad of matters, and set up appointments for future meetings. Staffs were important, particularly committee staff, especially appropriations committee staff. Members came and went. The staff tended to stay forever; they knew the issues and process cold. And Danny knew that you never wanted to surprise a member by trying to dodge the staff. You might be successful once, but you were dead after that, as the angry aides took their revenge by shutting you completely out.

A late luncheon followed, with a paying client whom Faith had typically taken care of. Buchanan had had to make excuses for her absence, and he did so with his usual aplomb and humor. “Sorry, you get the second string today,” he told the client. “But I’ll try not to mess things up too badly for you.”

Though there was no need to bolster Faith’s excellent reputation, Buchanan had recounted to this client the story of how Faith had once personally hand-delivered—in a gift box with a big red ribbon, no less—to all five hundred and thirty-five members of Congress detailed polling data that showed the American public was fully in support of funding for global vaccination of all children in the world. She’d included in the gift box accompanying briefing materials and before-and-after photos of vaccinated children from distant lands. Sometimes pictures were the most important weapons Danny and she had. Then she had worked the phone for thirty-six hours straight enlisting support here and overseas and made exhaustive presentations with several of the larger international relief organizations over a two-week period on three continents to show just how such a thing could be accomplished. How important it was. The result: passage of a bill in Congress that supported a study to determine if such an endeavor could work. Now consultants would rack up millions of dollars in fees and kill several forests of trees for the mountains of paper the study would generate (to justify the enormous consulting fees, of course), with no assurances that a single child would receive a single dose of vaccine.

“A small success, to be sure, but a step forward,” Buchanan had told the client. “When Faith goes after something, stay out of her way.” The client already knew this about Faith, Buchanan was aware. Perhaps he was just saying it to bolster his own spirits. Perhaps he just wanted to talk about Faith. He had been hard on her the last year, very hard. Terrified that she would be drawn into his Thornhillian nightmare, he had outright pushed her away. Well, he had succeeded in driving her right into the arms of the FBI, it seemed.
I’m sorry, Faith.

After the luncheon it was back to the Hill, where Buchanan waited with a handful of Rolaids on a series of floor votes. He sent in his cards to the floor asking for time from some of the members. He would buttonhole others as they came off the elevator.

“Foreign debt relief is essential, Senator,” he individually told more than a dozen members, hustling along beside them and their overly protective entourages. “They’re spending more on debt payments than on health and education,” Danny would plead. “What good is a strong balance sheet when the population is dying at the rate of ten percent a year? They’ll have great credit and not a damn person left to use it. Let’s spread the wealth here.” There was only one person better at pitching this appeal, but Faith was not here.

“Right, right, Danny, we’ll get back to you. Send me some materials.” Like the petals of a flower closing up for the night, the entourage would close ranks around the member, and Danny the bee would be off to gather other nectar.

Congress was an ecosystem just as complicated as the one existing in the oceans. As Danny trolled the corridors, he looked at the activity swirling all around. True to their titles, whips were everywhere prodding members to follow the party line. Back in the whip’s chambers, Buchanan knew the phones were constantly being worked with the same goal in mind. Gofers scurried down the corridors in search of people more important than themselves. Small groups of people huddled in pockets of the broad hallways, discussing matters of importance with solemn, downcast expressions. Men and women pushed onto crowded elevators with the hope of snaring a few precious seconds with a member whose support they desperately needed. Members talked with each other, laying the groundwork for future deals or reaffirming agreements already struck. It was all chaotic and yet possessed a certain order, as people coupled and uncoupled like robotic arms around hunks of metal on an assembly line. Give a touch here and on to the next one. Danny dared to think that his work might be as exhausting as childbirth; and he would swear it was more exhilarating than skydiving. The man was thoroughly addicted to it. He would miss it.

“Get back to me?” was his typical closing to each member’s aide.

“Of course, you can count on it,” would be each aide’s typical response.

And, of course, he’d never hear back. But they would hear from him. Again and again, until they got it. You just fired your shotgun pellets and hoped one stuck somewhere.

Next, Buchanan had spent a few minutes with one of his “chosen few,” going over the language Buchanan wanted to insert in a line amendment in a bill’s report. Almost no one ever read the report language, yet it was in the monotonous details that important actions were accomplished. In this case, the language would tell the managers at AID precisely how funding approved by the underlying bill was to be spent.

With the verbiage in good shape, Buchanan mentally checked that off his list and went prowling again for other members. From years of practice, Buchanan navigated with ease the labyrinths of the Senate and House office buildings where even veterans of the Hill sometimes became lost. The only other place where he spent as much time was the Capitol itself. His eyes darted left and right, picking up on everyone he saw, staff members or other lobbyists, swiftly making a calculation as to whether a particular person could help the cause or not. And when you went into chambers with members or caught them in the halls, you had better be ready to roll. They were busy, often harassed, and thinking of five hundred things at once.

Fortunately, Buchanan could summarize the most complex issues in a matter of sentences, a talent for which he was legendary; members, besieged on all sides by special interests of every kind, absolutely demanded this skill. And he could pitch his client’s position with passion. All in two minutes while walking down a crowded corridor or while packed inside an elevator or, if he was very lucky, on a long plane flight. Catching the really powerful members was important. If he could get the Speaker of the House to voice support for one of his bills, even informally, Buchanan would use that to leverage other members on the fence. Sometimes that was enough.

“He in, Doris?” Buchanan asked as he popped his head into a member’s chambers and eyed the matronly appointments secretary, a veteran of the place.

“He’s leaving in five minutes to catch a flight, Danny.”

“That’s great because I only need two minutes. I can use the other three to catch up with you. I like talking to you better anyway. And God bless Steve, but you’re far easier on the eye, my dear.”

Doris’s heavy face crinkled into a smile. “You smoothie, you.”

And he got his two minutes with Congressman Steve.

Buchanan next had stopped at the cloakroom and found out which Senate committees had been assigned to a series of bills he was interested in. There were committees of primary and sequential and, in rare cases, concurrent jurisdiction, depending on what was in a particular bill. Simply determining who had what bill and in what priority of importance was a huge, ever-changing jigsaw puzzle that lobbyists had to constantly figure out. It was often a maddening challenge, and there was no one better at it than Danny Buchanan.