Try Try Again (3 page)

Over the next several months, Senator Conning began taking
very good notes during meetings of the Armed Services Committee, and those of
its subcommittees he belonged to, especially the Readiness and Management
Support Subcommittee, and passing these notes along to Haskin, of course
anonymously.

The million a month came rolling in to various funds and
accounts, from PACs and SuperPACs and 501-C4s and patriotic organizations and
events.

But to return to the Thursday following their second
meeting, and how Senator Conning stayed out of trouble in spite of himself:

On that Thursday, Haskin received the promised email from
Conning and electronically shredded it, saving only a page or two. That poor
fool believed he was being useful. He will be, she thought, he will be very
useful; but not just now. She would take no chance that any national security
leaks could be traced back to him, even though her reselling them to one of
several foreign interests would have been very profitable.

Accusations against Conning, proven or not, would ruin his
value before her investment had begun to pay off. The investment of her employers,
actually. Mustn’t forget that. Need to touch base with them tonight, tell them
everything was going well, that she was earning her keep, “kicking butt,” she
called it to herself, whenever she took advantage of a corrupt politician.

But she wouldn’t use that idiom with her employers. Not
“kicking butt,” not ever. They wouldn’t like the image of butt-kicking or rat-fucking
or any other kind of physical intimacy, she knew; wouldn’t think it funny at
all. They would call her “American” in that angry, superior way they had. Would
ruffle their robes with annoyance.

Congressman Ezra Barnes, in his third term representing Pennsylvania’s
seventeenth Congressional district, had been assessing his chances of unseating
Thomas Conning from the Senate. The election would be close, he was sure; and
if he lost he’d be out of Congress completely for at least two years. And then
he’d have to re-start his public career all over again, with the additional
disadvantage of being a “loser.”

Barnes had several sleepless nights. His colleague in the
House, Johnny Ownby of Arkansas, had recently announced for the Senate,
emphasizing that God had told him to do so, as well as many thousands of
Arkansans. And, Barnes knew, the agriculture and livestock industries were
contributing to his future salvation as well.

But Pennsylvania wasn’t like that. At least not the cattle
bit. And the God-thing wasn’t apt to win many votes and it would bother him to
make that claim anyway, risky to rely on support from outside Pennsylvania, he
meant, having nothing against God in particular.

The time was nearing when he’d have to announce for the
Senate or for re-election to his almost-safe seat in the House. What to do? If
there was some leverage – something he could hold over Conning – maybe. He
ordered his staff to find some dirt, if there was dirt. Not to manufacture
dirt, even though other politicians did that. Barnes was honorable, in his way;
he’d screw people to the wall, only if he thought they’d deserved it.

Sybille Haskin and her employers were concerned with the
emergence of Ezra Barnes as a viable candidate to challenge Thomas Conning for
his Senate seat. They actually didn’t care if Conning was a Senator or not, but
they needed him to be President in two years. A defeated incumbent wouldn’t be
viable, so he had to be re-elected.

Haskin’s wide network of information sources, consisting of several
superficially innocent people and computer apps, soon became aware Barnes was
not merely going to challenge Thomas Conning for the Senate (which she had
already assumed), but had ‘something on him’. This intelligence had come from a
FOAF who knew someone who worked in Barnes’ office as a sub. As became clear
later, however, this intelligence was in error: Barnes had nothing real on
Conning. But the sub didn’t know that, and then the FOAF didn’t know that, and
eventually Haskin didn’t know it either.

Her first thought, was her role in the corruption of Thomas Conning
had been detected, and leaked to Congressman Barnes. But no, that would have
been re-leaked to the FBI and
The Washington Post
immediately,
and she would already have been apprehended. Or had Conning himself said something
about the source of his new millions? Or, stupidly enough, had Conning thanked
the Chairman of ConDyne for his contributions, to which Conning would have
received the cautious, flowery equivalent of “Huh?”

Being a professional in her business, Haskin immediately
decided Barnes was a threat that needed to be removed, permanently. She
consulted with her employers, and they concurred.

Thomas Conning heard a disturbing rumor. In fact, it was the
same rumor Haskin had just heard, although from a different source: Barnes’
staff was nosing around. What had they caught the scent of? Not Tidewater, he
was pretty sure. Then it must be the ConDyne deal. How the hell did that leak? The
woman had been seen, twice, in Conning’s office, but lots of people came and went
every day, including contractor reps. What had set her apart?

And then it occurred to him: his wife Marie had seen her
that day. Marie was the suspicious type, especially after the time with that
woman in Lancaster, who’d also been about the same age, tall, dark clothing, mean
looking, even fierce. Yes, he had a weakness. He’d paid no attention to the young,
busty, and slightly overweight blondes in his office who’d tried to flirt with
him; none at all. In that way, he had accidentally acquired a reputation for
being unseduceable; rare for a politician. But Marie knew better.

Ezra Barnes was pondering rumors he’d been hearing about
Senator Thomas Conning, that Conning had sold his vote and was a minion
(great
word – have to use it in a speech – but would anyone understand it? Sounds like
a fish – better not use ‘minion
’). Of whom or what, no one seemed to know.
His House staff had sniffed out some rumors, but couldn’t substantiate them.

Barnes had one possible edge. He’d thought he had an edge
anyway, until that very morning. Those rumors that Conning had some ethical
issues, was doing something that, if not provably illegal, would at least be
contrary to Senate rules and worthy of official censure? Yes, those. Meaty but
nebulous. The most likely possibility, whispers had it, was that Conning was
selling his vote in exchange for those enormous campaign contributions he’d
been obliged to report lately.

Barnes’ staff had been diligently reviewing Conning’s voting
record, both on the floor and, more importantly, in committees. But they had
come up blank: the Senator’s votes had been party-line all the way, except for
a few when he’d had to accede to the passions and greed of Pennsylvania voters.
So there was no corruption charge that could be levelled against Conning,
he
thought.
No angle, no edge.

Barnes was disappointed. Nevertheless, he made his final
decision that day, and informed his staff he would soon formally announce he
was running for the US Senate.

To replace Thomas Conning.

After Ezra Barnes announced his decision to run, Sybille Haskin
asked for a third meeting with Senator Conning, and was promptly granted one. What
now? He wondered.

As usual without prologue or preface, she got to the point.
“Ezra Barnes is running for your seat.”

“I’m confident the people of my state will…”

“I’m not. I’d hate to lose your services after all my
efforts here, our investment in you. Did you know it costs us as much to
disguise the funds we’ve been contributing, as the amounts themselves? ConDyne
has been very careful in how it uses your information. I’m sure you realize
that. Everything you’ve given us could have come from one or more other
sources.”

Conning found that comforting. Always good to know others
were as concerned with national security as he was.

He breathed hard.
What was this woman getting at
?
“OK,” he said, “so I understand your troubles. Do I play the violin now? We all
have our problems. But if you’ll just keep the contributions coming – and it
will be easier to hide, now that there’s an election campaign – I don’t know
what else I could do, or you could do, to re-elect me that my team isn’t doing
now, or plan to do before November. We have money, thanks to you, and
sufficient motivation.”

“I’m sure,” Haskin replied. “Yes, I believe you’re working
hard. But if you lose this election, ConDyne will see to it you’re exposed,
reviled, perhaps put on trial.”

Conning winced.

“There,” Haskin concluded. “Does that help you with your
motivation?”

Conning nodded.

Ezra Barnes thanked his staff for their late nights and
eye-tiring screengazing. He didn’t want to tell them their efforts had turned
up nothing he could use against Conning, so he didn’t say anything.
Too
discouraging
, he thought. Might lead to a slackening of effort. His staff
were left with the impression some of their research had indeed found a wedge
that might be useful in the forthcoming Senate race. They mentioned this to
their closest friends. Very confidentially, of course.

Ezra Barnes’ wish not to deflate the spirits of his staff
was one reason why in  a few months, he would lie in the middle of a parking
lot in Grantwood, Pennsylvania, surrounded by distraught supporters and
bleeding out.

Sybille Haskin had almost stopped worrying about Ezra
Barnes. Then her network of agents and informants, (most of them electronic)
once again came up with word Barnes had information that might damage Conning
in the election campaign. His own staff had been saying that to friends. It was
annoying to her that there was no consensus among the informants, as to what
this damaging information might be. Some hinted bribery, some disloyalty, some
inappropriate sex. Not with another man, Haskin was relieved to note; Pennsylvania
was not California. Yet.

But – the next hint was Conning was having an affair with a
tall, thin, middle-aged woman from a defense contractor. That was, she thought,
so absurd as to be laughed off. But she didn’t laugh. Where had that thought
come from? She had picked up a hint of desire in Tom Conning’s expression, but
she hadn’t responded to it. Hadn’t even shaken hands with him. Conning must
meet numerous women every day, so why her?

After a week of digging, the name “Marie” surfaced. It
wasn’t immediately clear if “Marie”, in this context, the Senator’s wife, or
someone with the same name, whom he’d been seeing on the sly.

After another week, there was a consensus among the
electrons, Marie Conning had let slip to one of her confidantes that she’d seen
a woman in the Senator’s office, who looked rather like the State Department
woman with whom the Senator had had a fling a few years before.  That is, before
the Foreign Service had shipped her off to Ouagadougou to fill a sinecure
created expressly for her.

For several days after Barnes announced for the Senate,
Haskin debated the best way to eliminate Barnes’ threat to Conning’s
re-election. Perhaps a made-up scandal. Planted money. A rumor of some kind.
Paying a hooker to go public with a few salacious lies. With early polls now showing
an evenly split ‘likely to vote’ number, perhaps only a nudge would be
required. But none of those, she considered, were apt to stick. Barnes was the
ultimate Boy Scout, or at least a Junior Woodchuck. In fact, his old merit
badges hung on his office wall, under glass.

On the following Tuesday, with Barnes making headline news
and the polls still split, Haskin finally came to a decision: the only way to
ensure a Conning win, would be if Barnes were dead, or so seriously wounded
he’d have to drop out of the race. But he shouldn’t be killed now; not until it
was too late for his party to field an effective replacement. There was ample
time to prepare.

She left a coded message for an operative she’d heard useful
things about. She knew him as “Sebastian George.” That wasn’t his real name,
she was sure. Only a fool would give his real name when arranging for a job
that would involve major State and Federal felonies. Thomas Conning was the
only dishonest person who had ever given her his real name, or arranged their
deals personally. But he was a fool, which proved her point.

“Art Armstrong” was one of several names used by Sebastian
George, and the one he intended to use in his next job. He had become so used
to his various names, he’d stopped thinking of himself as having any particular
name at all. There were only a few old friends who still called him “Sebastian”
or “George.” Of course, neither of those was his real name, either.

He and Sybille Haskin, pursuant to a series of delicately
phrased messages passed through several intermediary websites, met at a
McDonald’s in upper Northwest D.C., well away from Capitol Hill. He had the
Fish McMayonnaise, she had the Quarter Pounder with Grease. Neither ate.

He surveyed her with interest. An almost legendary being,
much rumored but little known. Tall. Not attractive to him, no, not sexually
anyway, as he was gay. But to a certain type of male, yes, he could see ...

“Good afternoon,” said Haskin abruptly, “I need someone
taken care of.”

“And a fall-guy?”

“Yes, I need that, too, unless you’d like to volunteer.”

“What kind?”

“What kind of what?”

“What kind of fall-guy. Are we talking plausible robbery?
Sex-revenge? Left or right-wing extremists? Chai Party?”

“I don’t care,” Haskin said. “Someone. Robbery? Whatever.
Just no political associations or political motive, that’s all. And he can’t be
allowed to survive.”

“OK. What kind of victim? It drives the price.”

“What do you mean?”

“Crime lord, triple. Erring husband, standard rate. And so
on.”

“Member of Congress.”

“Standard rate. When?”

“October.”

“Why so far ahead?”

“Shut up.”

“OK, OK. October it is. Give me a name.”

Haskin passed George a name on a slip of paper. He read it.
His eyes widened a little, not quite professionally.

“Double,” he said.

“There’s more to it,” she said. She explained exactly what
was required.

“Triple,” he said.

Haskin nodded.

Yes, Sebastian George needed to find a fall-guy; someone who
could not be permitted to survive. He was good at that sort of thing.

George felt certain she was working for Thomas Conning. Who
else would want Ezra Barnes dead? He had said nothing about that, because he
was a professional. But perhaps he could use that knowledge to his advantage,
at some future time after he’d fulfilled the contract. That could be very
profitable. And being profitable was very professional, wasn’t it?

Sebastian George never discovered that, instead of Haskin
working for Conning, it was the other way around.

After Haskin left McDonald’s, George waited for some twelve
minutes, and then he left also.

On the way home, he thought through his mental rolodex of
contacts. Not the sort of power crowd Haskin would know, but losers. People
whose criminal record made them unfit for honest work, at least in the minds of
employers. People who wouldn’t be missed, or if they were missed in the sense
of gone missing, wouldn’t be missed as in, ‘I miss my old drinking buddy’.

George carefully built a mental requirements list, as he was
a thorough and methodical criminal. The fall-guy would have to be:

.. A gunman, that is, someone with a prior for gun possession,
or use of a gun in a robbery or assault.

.. Willing to open fire in a public place, not just at night
in a public housing project. Bank robbers might qualify.

.. Not actively sought by law enforcement.

.. Not known in any way to the authorities in Pennsylvania.

.. Without, as far as anyone knew, close friends who might
want to avenge his death; because George intended to see that his fall-guy was
dead before he could implicate anyone, that is, before he could implicate
Sebastian George. George’s desires in this matter coordinated nicely with
Sybille Haskin’s demands.

.. And most important, someone who could be coerced into
performing what anyone with more than a two-digit IQ could see was a suicide
mission, either shot on the spot or lethally injected later by a wrathful public.
Someone with something to lose. Something important. Something to die for.

This last requirement would be the most difficult to meet,
George knew. He would have to survey all his contacts, while concealing what he
was really up to. Not easy, but then Sebastian George had not achieved his
wealth and reputation as one of the few successful elite criminals outside Wall
Street by doing easy things.

That May, Thomas Conning and Ezra Barnes were nominated by
their respective parties for the U.S. Senate. Neither had significant
competition.