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Carpenter cast his mind back to that earlier interview. ‘She had a brother who died of an overdose. Revealed it on-air during that interview.’

‘Yes,’ said Nancy, ‘it carried a lot of emotional impact at a time when we were still trying to get real attention.’

‘Do you know what she has in mind?’

‘She wants to shoot film of drug victims, and/or their families – telling their stories–and to splice that in between the interviews with you as she follows you on the campaign trail.’

‘Sounds strong.’

‘We’ll have her notes on this soon-’

‘No need to wait.’

‘You want me to set up a meeting?’

Carpenter glanced at his watch.

In just two hours he was due back on the Hill.

Senators supporting Carpenter had introduced his Initiative to a Senate Sub-Committee with the intent of having a bill drafted. Investigating the validity of such a bill, the Sub-Committee had already held several hearings, calling testimony from experts. For today’s meeting, the senators had arranged for Carpenter’s testimony to be broadcast live to television and radio, in addition to the regular webcasts.

To galvanize the swell of public and media interest, they were treating Carpenter’s appearance as a special event.

‘No. Tell her we’ll do it – and if she can meet me at the Capitol before my speech she can start filming her story straight away.’

A
lison Reslin was hot and she knew it.

Honey-haired, blue-eyed, vivacious, beaming with West Coast charm. She was the most popular reporter on the national political program,
Capitol Views
.

Men hit on her all the time but Alison swatted the male attention aside. She hadn’t dated for over a year, she was wedded to her job, always on the go, and truth be told no-one was kindling her romantic interest.

In her role she often mingled with high flying politicos and businessmen, sports stars and showbiz celebs. She should have found them intoxicating.

Instead, for reasons she hadn’t fathomed, she found them boring.

Alison was rarely flustered, she wasn’t the type, but after she received the call from Nancy Yates, she took a moment to compose herself, took several deep breaths.

And then she launched into overdrive.

Not only had her proposal been accepted, but Carpenter was ready to start now. As in
now
.

She needed to be at the Senate in less than an hour, with a cameraman in tow.

She marched into the producer’s office.

‘You know that 24/7, fly-on-the-wall, talk-as-he-walks series of segments on Matthew Carpenter I proposed?’

The boss looked at her expectantly.

‘It’s on,’ she said.

R
icardo Guiterrez entered the ‘situation’ room, as he liked to call it. Schematics of Carpenter’s home covered the wall. His eyes wandered over these and then he turned to the two men who’d been waiting.

These two were the leaders of a military-style killing unit. But they were not military.

‘How much does his nightly routine vary?’ Guiterrez asked.

The two men, and the members of their elite unit, had been observing the home, and the comings and goings of its occupant – Carpenter – for two months. Waiting for word on when this “hit” was on.

‘Very little,’ the key observer said. ‘This man is a creature of habit. His days appear designed so that he’s home at around 7
P.M.
On occasion this varies due to late running meetings or evening functions, but they are surprisingly rare for a man like this. We’ve observed him in his kitchen, usually fixing a drink. At around 7.30 all the lights go out except for exterior security lights and a muted light in the kitchen.’

‘There’s no further movement?’ These details had been reported to Guiterrez before – but after eight weeks of surveillance and now with the mission close to being green-lighted, it was time for final confirmation on all the details.

‘No, sir. He retires at that time. We believe he may remain in the sitting room for a short while and then go up to the bedroom. Apparently he must always dine out before heading home.’

‘No visitors or phone calls, no signs of any activity whatsoever within the residence?’

‘None.’

‘And on those days when he has no business activities organized?’

‘He doesn’t leave the house.’

‘And those days of non-activity are regular?’ It was more a statement than a question.

‘Correct, sir. Usually one day a week, sometimes for a couple of days in a row, and on those days he remains alone in the house.’

Another three men entered, carrying large cases. They placed these on the table at the far end of the room and removed compact sniper rifles and night goggles.

‘Latest-issue, military order,’ Guiterrez said, ‘heat sensors to lock-in on human targets, infra-red night viewing gear with inbuilt communications, but you won’t need to use the rifles unless you meet with something unexpected – police, neighbours, visitors, all highly unlikely.’

The three men with the cases now removed another item, a small pistol.

‘These are the weapons of choice,’ Guiterrez continued, ‘and they don’t fire bullets.’

The two men examined the equipment.

‘When do we move?’

‘There’s no time like the present,’ Guiterrez said.

‘Tonight?’

‘All being well, yes. I’ll give the final “go-ahead” when you’re on site.’ Guiterrez’s next stop was the conference room along the hall.

Under his influence and guidance, final agreement would be just a formality.

The cartel members were waiting.

I
n the Senate Public Reception area, Alison met with Carpenter. It was shortly before he was due to give his televised address.

Her cameraman/sound guy, Sam, was set up, and had special permission to continue behind-the-scenes filming after the interview, when Carpenter entered the hall and took to the specially arranged podium.

Alison was seated on the large, plush visitor lounge, across from her interviewee, and for the first time in a long time something was stirring those inner fires. She was drawn in by his eyes, brown and hazel-flecked, the strong jaw, the light brown hair with just a few premature specks of grey, the lanky frame and the open-necked, slightly crumpled designer suit.

He had a natural, easy charm.

‘Ready to rock and roll,’ said Sam.

Alison nodded to Sam and then focused on Carpenter.

‘Thank you for inviting us into your world, Matthew.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Congratulations on the rapidly growing support you’ve been getting.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s a bold concept, one that must mean a great deal to you, not just in a professional sense, but personally and emotionally, given the inspiration.’

‘It’s certainly gratifying to see true bi-partisan support, Alison.’

‘I hope you won’t mind me touching on old wounds, Matthew, but I believe it was the deaths of your parents, when you were just a teenager, that set you off along this path.’

‘I don’t mind at all. It’s a very important part of my story. Perhaps the most important part. My parents loved DC and they were passionate followers of its art scene – true bohemians,’ he broke into a broad grin at this memory and the reporter returned the smile ‘-my Mom was an artist and she ran a small but highly regarded gallery, my Dad was a jazz muso. They were the ones who originally launched the annual Riverside Arts Festival.’

‘They’d be amazed to see what it’s grown to today.’

‘Yes, they would.’ Carpenter paused momentarily, a far-away look in his eyes as the past projected its images before him. Great happiness. Terrible tragedy.

‘But my parents were both drug users and they had been most of their adult lives. It started with weed, but later they got into cocaine. They were addicts and as the years rolled on it became more and more a part of their lives. Initially it didn’t stop them doing what they did. It didn’t prevent them from being the best parents they could be. But over the years it took its toll. It ravaged their health, their moods became increasingly erratic, the financial pressures of maintaining the habit caused chaos.’

Carpenter looked as though he was going to continue, but then he stopped. There was a silence as he stared off.

‘And your father died from a drug overdose when you were fourteen?’

‘Yes. It plunged my mother deep into depression and even deeper into the coke. She overdosed herself, eighteen months later.’

‘Go on.’ Alison’s voice was gentle. Right then and there on camera, for the millions of viewers, was an intimate moment, rarely captured in a news show of this type.

‘I went to live with my aunt. She was terrific. But as I got a little older, Alison, I looked at the world around me, at the politicians, at the media, at the health professionals, at the law enforcement and legal systems – there was a loud, broad, ongoing dialogue agreeing that something had to be done about the drug problem – but there were no new ideas, and little or no progress. It seemed to be one huge merry-go-round, lots of noise and smoke and mirrors, but no real action. The problem grew, the statistics got worse, the drug lords got richer.

‘My situation was, admittedly, an unusual one. Instead of being a parent who lost a child to drugs, I was a teen who lost both his parents. I was young enough, and perhaps silly enough, to think I could set out and do something –
something
that really could make a difference.’

‘And after graduating college,’ Alison said, referring to her notes, ‘while studying law, you began seeking financial support for an organization that would do just that. Ultimately, while you practiced law, and later became a fulltime Washington lobbyist, you created what you call The Initiative, but which the media have labelled The Carpenter Initiative.’

Carpenter grinned. ‘I don’t mind what it’s called. As long as it’s put into operation. As long as it starts getting results.’

Occasionally, as he spoke, Carpenter raised his right hand to chest level, briefly running his fingers across a silver medallion that he wore around his neck.

Alison leaned in a little closer, recognizing the engraved image of a lizard-like creature with large, inquisitive eyes. ‘Is that a chameleon?’

‘Yes. Belonged to my father. He had something of a fascination for exotic creatures. This was his favourite and he always wore it.’

‘So it’s obviously very special to you.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He lifted the medallion up level with his chin, affording Alison a better view and a sliver of light sparkled off its silvery surface. ‘And I certainly take after my Dad where the chameleon is concerned. Intriguing creature.’

‘I have to confess some ignorance here, I don’t know too much about them,’ Alison said. ‘They can change color.’

‘Their skin can take on many different colors, enabling them to blend into any background. The perfect disguise from predators. And their eyes rotate fully, giving them a 360 degree view. So they can move at high speed with vista-like observation and the ability to hide in plain sight.’

‘Sounds like a politician.’

He laughed.

‘Or maybe a lobbyist,’ she added with a mischievous wink.

‘Or perhaps a TV reporter,’ he countered, and the comment caught her off guard and she threw her head back with a hearty laugh of her own and said, ‘Touché.’

‘Or just maybe, ‘he said, ‘in life, to get by, to achieve, we all have to be chameleons from time to time.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, raising an imaginary glass.

It was another great moment, she reflected, caught on camera, offering a glimpse of the real man behind the public persona.

That was when the Secretary of the House Sub-Committee approached. ‘Mr. Carpenter, it’s time.’

G
uiterrez took his place at the head of the boardroom table.

His instincts had never been wrong, and his guidance had ensured the success of one project after another for the cartel members. They had flown in from all over North and South America. There were a number of items on the agenda, but on this occasion everything else paled by comparison to the Carpenter problem.

None of them had foreseen just how much support there would be for the Anti-Drug Initiative.

Guiterrez knew when he and his colleagues were facing a formidable enemy.

Growing up, Guiterrez had spent time on both sides of the border, the son of an American mother and a Mexican father. The family owned a transport business, a cover for a drug smuggling operation. Guiterrez had been a young man when he took over the business, expanding the distribution, moving into manufacturing, creating the cartel with other drug runners.

Ambitious and ruthless, he knew the sure-fire way to success was to eliminate your enemies before they became too great a threat.

Carpenter represented just that. Charismatic and driven, with extensive contacts throughout the political parties, the media and the Fortune 500.

He’d slowly been building his profile over the years, but to many it seemed like he’d appeared out of the blue, stepping magically into the light.

He wasn’t just flavour of the month, he was
the
man of the year. Everybody and their dog wanted to leap up onto his blasted bandwagon.

‘There are three options for how we could dispose of Carpenter,’ Guiterrez addressed the group.

To each and every one of these men it was essential the Initiative was derailed. And quickly.

‘The first option is we simply send our “kill” team to Carpenter’s house and leave his body behind as an example of what happens if you rise against us. But Carpenter has too high a profile, his murder would simply make him a martyr. I expect the media would elevate him to saint status. Support for his plan would continue.’

‘Agreed,’ said a bald-headed man at the end of the table. ‘Effective most of the time, but not in a case like this.’

‘The second option,’ said Guiterrez, ‘is that we remove the body and make certain it’s never found. But the effect of this would be similar to the first, if not worse. The media will speculate forever on the mystery of what happened to him. The search for Carpenter, and the speculation that he was murdered, will keep support for his Initiative alive. He’ll be a cause celebre in absentia.’