The Power Broker (9 page)

Two days later Johnson had gotten a sheepish call. Wood had thought about it more and had interest after all. A week later Wood met with the Shadows.

The meeting took place in Memphis, Tennessee, because it was central for all of them and it was historic, the site of Martin Luther King’s assassination. At it, the Shadows made it clear to Wood that he was never to let on to anyone that the meeting had occurred or who his backers were. They all had business careers and had consciously stayed away from politics because it could have hindered their ability to make money. More important, any hint of their association with him would hurt his chances to win, probably destroy them. They’d all been associated with militant black groups earlier in their lives. If a black man was going to have any chance of taking the White House in the next thirty years—while whites remained the majority—he was going to have to get some of them to vote for him. But even whites on the far left remembered groups like the Black Panthers, and those memories still scared them. Any inkling that Wood was associated with that kind of thinking would torpedo his campaign.

The plan for Wood’s road to the White House had developed over several months. He would run for a U.S. Senate seat in New York, then six years later for president. Everything had gone perfectly so far. Wood was smooth as silk; everyone loved him.

“Have you mentioned the video clip to Jesse?” Forte asked.

“No. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t know about it.”

“Good. That way it’ll have more of an effect on him when he sees it.”

Johnson chuckled. “Like a sledgehammer hitting him in the stomach, boss. That’s what the effect will be.”

“Jesse brought it on himself,” Forte snapped. “I didn’t put this much time and money into him to have him think he can do this without us at the last minute. He’s like a kid. All of the sudden he can taste it, and he doesn’t want anyone telling him what to do or how to think and act. Doesn’t want to have to come through on his promises to me because he knows some of these things will be tough. Unpopular with a lot of folks.”

“Too bad,” Johnson growled, shaking his head. “It’s not about him. It’s about something much bigger, an agenda we’ve been focused on for decades. It’s about breaking new ground for our people. You’ve made it possible for him to be one of the most important individuals in the history of this planet, and he owes you. I say you show him the clip as soon as possible.”

Forte gazed out the window as the sun dipped below the horizon. A good idea, and probably something he’d do in the next couple of weeks.

“How about the number-two slot?” Johnson asked. “Any pushback from Wood there, boss?”

“Same thing,” Forte answered. “He didn’t say anything, but I don’t think he likes being told who to run with. I think he wants to make that decision on his own.”

“He would have chosen a black from the South, probably Malcolm Thomas,” said Johnson, referring to the Florida congressman. “Wood doesn’t get it on this one. Thomas wouldn’t help us with the bigger picture.”

“Exactly.”

“The only problem I have with this VP thing,” Johnson continued, “is that eight years from now we’ll be right back where we started. With a white president.”

Forte had already thought that one through. “Don’t worry about that.”

Johnson looked over, recognizing Forte’s ominous tone. “What do you mean, boss? Is there something I don’t know?”

“It’s better that you don’t,” Forte answered quietly, understanding that his response had hurt Johnson’s feelings. He rarely held anything back from Johnson. “At least, not yet.” He looked up. “You haven’t seen the clip, have you?”

Johnson shook his head. “No, but I’d like to.”

Forte nodded. “Yeah, you should. It’s amazing.”

JESSE WOOD
sat in his office, humming, charged up about the way things were going, more and more convinced he had a legitimate shot to be the next president of the United States. Two more primaries and he’d lock up the Democratic nomination, then it would be on to the big show. On to November and everything he’d dreamed of.

He glanced up. Osgood and Stephanie were hard at work at a table in a corner of the office, comparing notes. Such loyal soldiers. They’d all grown up in politics together, and it had been a fantastic ride.

Jesse focused on Stephanie, remembering the first time he’d seen her. It had been during his second-round match at that tournament in Vermont so many years ago. It hadn’t been hard to notice her. She’d been one of the most beautiful women in the world at that point—California’s representative in the Miss America pageant two years before—and there weren’t more than twenty people watching the match. He’d almost lost to a nobody because he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

After the match, he’d gone right up to her and asked her out, not even bothering to go to his chair to put his racquet down, and they’d spent a wonderful week together, culminating with his last win on tour. He could never figure out why he hadn’t married her. It was just something he couldn’t put his finger on, some small piece of the puzzle that was missing and always would be. He knew there was still a trace of bitterness inside her about that, and it showed every once in a while. She had never gotten married, and he often wondered if that was because she still carried a torch, still held out hope that they might finally get together someday.

Jesse’s computer
ping
ed, indicating the arrival of a new e-mail, and he brought it up, instantly wishing he hadn’t. It was another missile from Elijah Forte, reminding him that he needed to start interviewing people to replace Osgood and Stephanie. According to Forte, neither of them were national players, neither of them had the right stuff for the Oval Office. Fine for a senator’s staff, but not for a president’s. It irritated him to no end that Forte thought he had the right to run every detail.

He glanced over at Osgood and Stephanie again. Maybe it was time to find out if Elijah Forte wanted to play hardball. Maybe it was time for a good old game of chicken.

8

CAL SEGAL
turned off the desolate country lane onto his gravel driveway. The driveway led up a steep mountain to the Adirondack hideaway his family had owned for more than a hundred years. A cabin deep in the woods beside a crystal-clear lake Segal had so many fond memories of: fishing with his father, camping with his brother, his first kiss to a girl he’d lost touch with ages ago.

Segal could have taken the helicopter and avoided the seven-hour car ride from the city—he knew how to fly it and there was a field a short distance away from the cabin through the woods where he could have landed—but he’d wanted to drive. Spring was finally breaking winter’s hold on New England, and it had been a joy to see the leaves and the flowers in full bloom as he made his way through the mountains. The air smelled so good, heavy with all the floral scents beneath a cloudless sky.

Several deer bounded across the driveway in front of him, startled by the SUV, and he slammed on the brakes, barely avoiding a buck who broke from the underbrush right in front of him. He laughed nervously. That would have been a bad way to start his three days alone up here.

Segal was CEO of a mining company his family had owned for five generations, and things had turned stressful in the last few months. A couple of frivolous lawsuits and a pending strike had worn him down. He couldn’t wait to pull out a fishing rod from the closet by the back door, paddle the canoe to one of his favorite coves, and see if he could hook a couple of bass before dark. His was the only cabin on the entire lake, so it wasn’t as if there’d be other fishermen around. It would be so peaceful out there.

A half mile later Segal eased the SUV to a stop in front of the cabin, hopped out, grabbed one of his bags from the backseat, and headed toward the door. He’d get the rest of his luggage later. There was still an hour of daylight left and he wanted to wet a line. Evening was the best time to fish up here.

Segal stepped inside the cabin and saw a man he didn’t recognize sitting in the living room’s easy chair. The man had the chair reclined all the way back, and he was drinking a beer and smoking a cigar, like he owned the place.

For a moment, the fact that the man was there didn’t really register in Segal’s brain. It was such a strange sight, so completely unexpected. Then it sank in with full force and Segal turned to run. But, as he did, he came face-to-face with another man. The only thing separating them was the long dark barrel of a pistol.

“Get in the house,” the guy ordered gruffly.

“What do you want?” Segal asked, slowly backing into the cabin. But he knew what they wanted. They figured since he owned a National Football League team, he had to be rich. They were going to kidnap him and demand millions from his family. “You won’t get anything from my wife,” he said, his voice shaking. “She has standing orders never to negotiate with kidnappers.”

“We aren’t here to kidnap you, Mr. Segal,” said the man, rising from the chair. “Nothing like that. We’re just here to kill you.”

Segal swallowed hard. “Please, God, I don’t want to—”

The man held up his hands, laughing. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. People just don’t get my humor sometimes, Charlie,” he said to the man leveling the gun at Segal.

Charlie grunted.

“Then what
do
you want?” Segal demanded, lowering his hands, trying to take control of the situation.

“Oh, no, don’t give me attitude because I said I was kidding,” the man warned, his voice rising. “If you give me any shit, I
will
kill you. I’ll kill your daughter, too. That pretty little brunette who’s about to graduate from Cornell and loves her daddy
so much.
” He gestured around. “And I’ll burn this place to the ground.” His eyes flashed back to Segal’s.
“Clear?”

Segal had learned over the years to read people’s eyes, and this man’s eyes meant business. “Yes.”

“Sit down.” The man pointed at the couch. “Here’s the situation, Mr. Segal. Ray Lancaster called the general manager of your team. Lancaster’s coach and GM of the new NFL franchise in Las Vegas. The Dice.” The man elongated the end of the word, hissing it. “I like the sound of that, you know? The Dice.” He hissed it again. “Did you know Lancaster had called your man?”

“I did.”

“So then you know
why
he called, right?”

“He was looking for a trade, I think.”

“He wants your backup quarterback. They’re struggling at that position. Ricky Poe ain’t cutting it.”

Segal was familiar with Poe. “He’s not very good.”

“So you understand their problem?”

“Yes.”

“But your guy’s being a horse’s ass,” the man said, coming closer. “To print the trade he’s asking for an all-pro linebacker, a former all-pro placekicker, and five million bucks.”

Segal nodded. “That does seem like a lot.”

“It
is
a lot.” The man pulled out his wallet, sat down on the couch beside Segal, reached inside, and pulled out a picture of Segal’s daughter walking to class at Cornell. “Just so you know I’m not kidding around.”

“I know you’re not kidding around,” Segal answered as calmly as he could. Suddenly the lawsuits and the pending strike at his mining company didn’t seem so important. “What do you want me to do?”

HEWITT AND MASSEY
sat on the long, covered back porch of the ranch’s main house, looking out over Texas grassland a hundred miles north of Dallas. The huge timber and stone structure was built atop a bluff on the eastern side of the twenty-five-thousand-acre property, and from the porch they had a sweeping view of green pastures stretching into the distance. Other than a couple of burgundy barns trimmed in white, there were no other buildings in sight. The dark red was so pretty against the lush grass, Hewitt thought to himself. Soon, a lot of that grass would turn brown beneath the summer sun.

Hewitt only made it out here a few days a month, but it was a working ranch. Five thousand head of cattle, fifty miles of barbed-wire fences, and eight full-time ranch hands. He’d always kept the number of ranch hands at eight, ever since he’d bought the property a decade ago—two years after he’d been tapped to join the Order. Just as he had eight full-time executive assistants around the globe at U.S. Oil. He didn’t need that many executive assistants—probably didn’t need eight full-time ranch hands, either—but he liked the symmetry of it all. Eight ranch hands, eight executive assistants—with him as the master.

He and Massey were enjoying a vintage bottle of Scotch, a couple of fine Cuban cigars from the humidor inside the wide double doors behind them, and the serenity of it all as dusk settled over the ranch. They were the only ones staying in the rambling mansion tonight. Hewitt’s daughter-in-law was coming up tomorrow and she was bringing Three Sticks. Hewitt hadn’t seen his grandson in almost a month, and he was excited—he was going to take the boy white-tailed deer hunting on the ranch. The boy was growing like a weed—he was six three, weighed two hundred pounds, and could run like the wind. He’d been asked to try out for his high school’s varsity football team in the fall. Hewitt hoped he’d play for Princeton someday.

They wouldn’t be here until late afternoon tomorrow, so he and Massey had the sprawling place to themselves for now. Massey would leave by noon, so there was no chance of Hewitt’s daughter-in-law catching them by surprise.

From Maine, Hewitt had taken a direct flight to Dallas. Massey had flown to Houston first, then taken a small plane to Dallas. It was a roundabout route for the former senator, but no two members of the Order were to travel on the same plane, and Hewitt wasn’t going to be the one inconvenienced.

Massey took a long drag of the cigar then blew white smoke into the air. The wind was calm this evening and the smoke hung above them like a small cloud. “A shame about Jim Benson’s suicide.”

“Yeah, but probably for the best,” Hewitt said gruffly, putting his boots up on another chair.

“What do you mean?”

“Better he died now than for him and his family to have to go through those last few days. Better for us, too.”

“Why?”

“No telling what Benson might have babbled about if they’d juiced him up with morphine at the hospital.”

Massey nodded. “I never even thought about that. Guess that’s why you’re the master, Samuel,” he said, grinning. “Have you told the other members?”

“Not yet.” After he’d heard the shot, Hewitt had gotten Don Roth to help him locate Benson’s body and bring it inside, where they’d stowed it in the large basement freezer. After everyone had left in the morning, Hewitt had arranged for several men who worked for him to come and get the body. They’d taken it back to Naples, Florida, where Benson had retired, and made it appear as though the ex-DIA director had been shot on a quiet street by unknown assailants. After all, the Order couldn’t have cops crawling all over Champagne Island trying to confirm Benson’s death as a suicide. A robbery gone bad—Benson’s wallet had been left open and empty of cash and credit cards on the sidewalk beside him—was how the newspapers explained it. It was helpful to have “friends,” Hewitt thought to himself. “I’ll tell everyone at the next meeting.”

“You mean that he was shot in Naples, right?”

“Of course. No reason to let the truth go any farther than you and me.”

“Exactly. Besides, it doesn’t make any difference to the other guys. All they care about is that Jim’s gone. Better they think he was killed down there, too. Better to keep the circle as small as possible on this one.”

“Right.”

“When’s the next meeting?” Massey asked.

“Probably next week.”

“So soon? Why?”

“I’m worried about Jesse Wood. I want to accelerate our plans.”

“Believe me, I’m with you. Can you imagine a nigger running this country?” Massey shook his head and took a long swig of Scotch. “And could you believe Kohler and McDonnell at the meeting?” he asked, teeth gritted. “We don’t need that kind of dissension.”

Hewitt gazed out over his ranch. He loved it here, loved his life, loved his
way
of life. But he knew it was in danger. He was more convinced than ever that if Jesse Wood were elected president, everything the population swings could eventually bring on would be accelerated by decades. He wanted his grandson to have this ranch. And
his
grandson after him, and so on, forever. He couldn’t bear to think of this place being arbitrarily turned over to some black or Mexican family in thirty or forty years. But that’s what happened when you lost a war—to the victor went the spoils. There were examples of it happening many times through the course of history. And no matter what anyone else said, no matter how they tried to characterize it, this was war.

“No, we don’t need it,” Hewitt agreed firmly. “And we won’t let it happen. I won’t ever let it happen to my Order. Kohler and McDonnell can get in line or else.”

Massey settled farther back into his chair. “Or else
what
?”

Hewitt could feel the Scotch. “You know what,” he said quietly.

“Think there’s any chance any of the others feel the same way Kohler and McDonnell do?” Massey asked. “Think any of them were just siding publicly with us at the meeting because they felt they had to? I mean, there’s absolutely no chance Dahl or Laird would ever sympathize with them,” he said, partially answering his own question. “Dahl might as well be a Nazi, and Laird would be too scared about his tapes getting out.” Massey paused. “But what about the others? Think they might be in that camp? Think they might feel we’re going too far this time?”

Hewitt looked out over the ranch again. God, he loved it here. “No chance. It’s Kohler and McDonnell, that’s it.” He puffed on his cigar, then sipped the Scotch. “Just those two sons of bitches.”

CHRISTIAN PULLED OUT
his BlackBerry as the private jet touched down at O’Hare in Chicago. He watched the messages load up on the display quickly now that they were on the ground. One of them caught his eye. Faith. He brought it up. It read:

Chris, I love you, but I can’t do this anymore. We’re almost never together, and when we do talk on the phone
(
rarely!!
),
I feel like you can’t wait to get off. I know you’re so busy at Everest, my God, I don’t know how you do what you do, how there’s enough time in the day for you to talk to all the people who scream for your attention. I just don’t want to be one of those people anymore. I want someone who’s with me all the time, someone who calls me all the time, who thinks of me all the time. I’ve finally realized that. Call me needy, I guess, but that’s me. You can’t do all those things I want. It’s not your fault, I know, but it still hurts to be ignored. This makes me so sad. I’m crying. I’ll be back in the United States soon and we can talk about it then. I can’t compete with Everest anymore. I love you. Faith.

Christian stared at her name at the end of the message for several moments. The bad thing was that he understood what she was saying. He didn’t mean to ignore her, it just happened. Like she said, there simply wasn’t enough time in the day. But he didn’t have an answer. He was managing billions and billions of dollars for people who expected total commitment. The only solution was to have Faith travel with him, but she couldn’t. She had her own career, which he couldn’t ask her to give up. Not because he was worried she’d hate him for putting his needs ahead of hers. He was
afraid
to ask her. What if she said yes?

His cell phone rang and he snatched it up off the table in front of him. “Hello.”

“Christian?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Ray Lancaster.”

Christian could hear excitement in Lancaster’s voice. “What’s up?”

“You’re not going to believe this but the Buffalo Bills just called. I swear I was going to ice them like you said, I wasn’t going to call them, but they called
me.
”

“And?”

“And they’re ready to deal, Christian. I don’t know what happened. All they want is one defensive tackle and a third-round pick in next year’s draft. If we agree to that, we get our quarterback. That’s all we have to do. We don’t have to give up anything else. It’s crazy.”