The Successor (5 page)

5

May

CHRISTIAN GAZED
out at the Catoctin Mountains from a screened-in porch of Camp David’s main lodge. It was a warm, crystal-clear, late-spring afternoon, and the trees blanketing the rolling hills of western Maryland were bursting with blossoms and new leaves—a lighter green than they would be after they were fully grown in.

“Can I offer you something to drink? A beer, maybe? I’d have one with you, but it’s probably not a good idea.”

“That damn nuke thing, huh?” Christian asked.

President Jesse Wood grinned. “Yup. You’d have to worry about it, too, if you’d been my running mate. One good reason to be glad you
aren’t
the vice president.”

“Hey, I’ve got my own issues.”

“I know you do,” Wood agreed, gesturing toward a Secret Service agent standing by the door, hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Mr. Gillette will have a bottled water. It’s been a while and I forgot. He doesn’t drink alcohol.”

“Yes, sir.” The agent disappeared inside.

Wood glanced back at Christian. “I know you’re a busy man, Chris. Probably almost as busy as I am.”

As chairman of Everest Capital, Christian had a lot on his plate. The Manhattan-based investment firm owned thirty-eight companies that operated in a wide range of industries—from high-tech to pharmaceuticals to heavy manufacturing. Together, the companies had sales of more than $80 billion—which would have ranked Everest in the top twenty-five of the Fortune 500 if all the companies had been combined into a single entity. Along with running Everest, Christian also chaired twelve of the Everest portfolio companies, and six months ago he’d finished raising Everest’s latest leveraged-buyout fund—a $25 billion pool of equity capital that had stunned Wall Street with its size.

“Which was one of the reasons I didn’t want you on the ticket,” Wood continued. “All those
issues.
”

Jesse Wood had been elected president two and a half years ago—the first African American in history to occupy the Oval Office. His initial eighteen months as commander in chief had been rocky, made especially difficult by partisan conservatives who’d tried everything they could think of—ethical, unethical, even criminal—to derail him. But now Wood was riding a wave of popularity after crafting a Middle East peace accord that had gotten traction despite dire predictions, and being credited by many in Washington and the press with jump-starting a stagnant economy. Initially, Wood had chosen Christian as his running mate, then changed his mind a few weeks later, just before the Democratic convention.

“You still mad about that?” Wood asked quietly. “About me picking you as vice president, then changing my mind?”

In the months leading up to the convention, Christian and Wood had spent a lot of time together. But this was their first contact since Wood had won the nomination. They’d gone almost three years without speaking—not because of any lingering animosity, as far as Christian was concerned. But he’d been surprised when Wood had called. He hadn’t held the decision to switch running mates against Wood—it had never been publicly announced. But it wasn’t as if he’d been happy about the decision, either.

“Now why would I be mad about
that,
Mr. President?”

Wood rolled his eyes. “Call me, Jesse, will you? Like you did before. At least when we’re alone like this. Besides, I owe you big-time. Hell, you’re the one who pulled my ass out of the ringer.”

Which was true. Christian had saved Wood’s ass, then been kicked in the teeth. “Okay, okay. It’s Jesse from now on.” The Secret Service agent reappeared with the water. “Thanks.” He opened it and took a quick sip.

Wood pointed at him. “You look good, Christian. Like you haven’t aged at all since the last time I saw you. Still look like you’re in your midthirties, not your midforties.”

Christian was six-two, weighed a trim 190 pounds, and kept himself in good shape with daily workouts, even when he was traveling. He had straight, dark hair combed back over his ears—highlighted with silver now—intense gray eyes, and sharp facial features: high cheekbones, a thin nose—bent slightly thanks to a face-to-face rugby collision in college—and a strong jaw.

“Thanks.” Christian wanted to say the same thing to Jesse, but he couldn’t. Jesse looked as if he’d aged ten years since they’d last seen each other. His face had so many creases and lines that hadn’t been there before, and his hair had gone from slightly to completely gray. The pressure had to be enormous. Not only as the leader of the free world, but as the first black man to hold the job. Christian kept thinking about the famous before-and-after pictures of Abraham Lincoln. Before taking office and having to deal with a divided nation—then afterward, just before his assassination. An energetic and youthful man in 1861, a tired and worn-down politician in 1865. Just as it seemed Jesse was going to be, especially if he won a second term. “You seem to be handling the stress of being the first—”

“Don’t even try to con me,” Jesse cut in. “I can’t take looking at myself in the mirror anymore. I look like an old man now. But I guess that comes with the job, huh?” His expression brightened. “Hey, congratulations on selling Laurel Energy to Exxon. I saw that announcement in the
Journal
a couple of months ago.”

“Thanks.”

“How much did you get?”

“A lot. It was a nice transaction for us. So, why did you ask me out here to Camp David, Jesse?” It wasn’t that Christian was being coy about the number, he just didn’t like dwelling on his own good fortune. He was uncomfortable talking about his successes, always had been. Besides, he wanted to turn the conversation to what he was really interested in. What Jesse wanted from him. “I’ve gone through all the damn background checks.” Three months’ worth of them, including a daylong enema detailing his entire sexual history. “What do you want from me?”

Wood motioned for the agent to leave. When he was gone, the president leaned forward on the wicker couch. “It involves Cuba,” he said quietly.

That sounded interesting. “What about it?”

Wood pursed his lips a few times. “Look, here’s the thing. Our people in Cuba are fairly sure El Jefe is dead.”

Christian glanced up.

“He hasn’t been seen in public in a couple of months,” Wood continued. “And we think the guy meeting people behind the scenes is a double.” He chuckled. “The CIA has assassinated three of Fidel’s doubles over the years, so they ought to know when they see one by now.”

“Jesus.”

“Yup. That’s what they tell me anyway.”

Amazing stuff, Christian thought to himself. There was so much the American people didn’t know, so much they
couldn’t
know. “There’s been no announcement of the guy’s death.”

“I know. But we think he handed the reins over to his brother several weeks ago. Made him Cuba’s new president for life right before he died. The thing is, the new man needs to consolidate power before he makes El Jefe’s death official, so he’s keeping the body iced down. But it’s been harder for him to get control than he anticipated. Harder for him to get that same stranglehold on the country his brother had. The situation is just so bad inside Cuba. Food shortages, energy shortages, poverty. People are itching for change and they aren’t mesmerized by him the way they were his brother, which is making it very hard for him to pull everything together. With some key factions inside Cuba’s military, especially.” Wood hesitated, letting out a long breath. “Which could be very good…or
very
bad.”

“How sure is the CIA that El Jefe is dead?” Christian asked. Wood hadn’t specifically identified “our people in Cuba” as the CIA, but Christian assumed that was whom he meant.

“Ninety-eight percent,” Wood answered, smiling. “Same first question I asked.” His expression quickly turned serious again. “Several of the country’s highest-ranking officials have fled the country secretly in the last few weeks. Minister of tourism, minister of mining. A couple of others were caught trying to escape and were executed, families, too. People are really scared. More than they’ve ever been because the state has stepped up its spying activities on citizens. Which we think is more proof that El Jefe is dead. The paranoia level has heated up to a nuclear level and the crackdown’s on.” Wood paused. “A couple of years ago I’d have said we’d never have a chance to win back the Cuban people, but we may have a window of opportunity after all. We may have a chance to influence the island again, develop close ties to a new government that understands how helpful we can be.”

“How do we do that?”

“Our guys on the ground there are telling me that the power struggle is incredibly intense. Several groups within the government are trying to take control, and a couple of them are actually trying to get rid of the Communists. Those groups are quietly getting support from some of the influential ministry honchos. People who want to see Cuba move away from Communism and come into the twenty-first century and who can do something about it. People who want to see the country open its borders to free trade and believe that capitalism is ultimately the way to go. I mean, it wouldn’t be our kind of capitalism, at least not right away. It would be more like Argentina or Brazil, but at least that’s a start. The problem is the support has to stay so quiet because people are worried about being hauled off in the middle of the night and never being seen or heard from again. So the progress isn’t coming as quickly as we’d hoped.” The president shook his head, as if he had a hard time believing what he was about to say. “We think the group that may have the best chance inside the government to wrest control from the Communists is one with ties to a guy named Alberto Ochoa.”

Christian raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, Jesse, but I guess I’m not as up to speed on Cuba as I ought to be. Who’s Alberto Ochoa?”

The president chuckled. “You mean you don’t have time to run Everest Capital, all those portfolio companies Everest owns, have some sort of personal life,
and
be completely caught up on Cuban history?”

“I might if I had the entire State Department working for me,” Christian muttered. A gibe, but there was a serious undercurrent to it. As he’d passed his fortieth birthday, his thirst for knowledge had dramatically intensified. He’d realized more and more how much he still didn’t know about the world—but how much he
wanted
to know. He was trying to read something every week—a biography, a period piece—but it was tough with his schedule and all the reading he had to do for Everest.

“That does make it a little easier,” Wood admitted. He checked the doorway, making certain the agent wasn’t standing there. “Here’s the abridged version. Along with Raúl and Che Guevara, Ochoa was one of the guys who made it happen for Fidel back in the day, back when the Revolution was coming to a head in the late fifties. When it was all said and done, Ochoa ended up being one of the most senior generals in the Revolutionary Armed Forces, in the FAR. He had a nice career going until the late eighties, when he suddenly found himself in Fidel’s doghouse. It’s not exactly clear what happened, but we think it might have had something to do with the fact that he supported the Russian brand of Communism, which ultimately couldn’t fend off Big Macs and MTV. During the eighties, Fidel was demanding that all his top people strictly support his hard-line approach. When Ochoa wouldn’t, the general basically bought his ticket to the execution train.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, they tied him to a post in front of a four-man firing squad in 1989 after a kangaroo court convicted him of treason. There were trumped-up drug charges and bribery allegations, but there wasn’t anything to them. From everything the guys up the Potomac tell me, the only thing Alberto Ochoa was guilty of was defying Fidel.”

But sometimes that was enough when the guy you were dealing with was a paranoid schizophrenic. History had proven that over and over. “First rule of living in a dictatorship. Don’t piss off the dictator.”

Wood nodded. “Too bad Ochoa didn’t have you around, Chris. Maybe he’d still be alive. Maybe
he
could have led this thing.”

“So there are still people around who are bitter about what happened to Ochoa?” Christian asked.

“Yeah, there are. Apparently Ochoa was a stand-up guy. Took care of his people and they were loyal back. They didn’t take revenge for what happened to him because there wasn’t much they could do. Castro isolated Ochoa’s senior supporters very effectively. Paranoia has its positives.” Wood winced. “Turns out Ochoa was a tough bastard. I mean, most of those senior FAR guys are, but listen to this. Ochoa had two requests at his execution. First, he didn’t want a blindfold. Second,
he
wanted to give the command to fire. Fidel granted both requests.”

“Damn.”
Christian tried to imagine giving a firing squad the command to shoot him. It seemed like one of those ultimate acts of bravery you never knew whether you were really capable of unless you were in the moment. “That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, right? Well, they ended up burying him in an unmarked grave in the hills outside Havana somewhere. Didn’t even tell his wife where his body was for a while.” Wood hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “Here’s the bottom line. Now that there’s weakness inside the regime, these people who were loyal to Ochoa are trying to take control. Turns out they haven’t forgotten after all and they’ve formed an alliance with a group of civilians who are pro-capitalists. Maybe anti-anticommunists is a better way to put it. Chris, any way you look at it, you’re going to need the Cuban military on your side to win the day down there. You’ll need them afterward, too, and that’s just the way it is. We’ve decided this combination has the best shot at bringing the Communists down and taking Cuba where it needs to go from both the military and private-sector perspectives. We also think this group is the most likely to stay loyal to us, which is probably the most important consideration of all. But we’ve got to act
fast.
We’ve got to let them know we’re a hundred percent committed to them as soon as possible. We’ve told them we’re almost there, but I have one more box I need to check before I dive into the deep end with them.”