The Brethren (22 page)

“Palm Valley is one of the golf communities for rich folks,” Spicer explained proudly. “Houses go for about three million. The boy’s got plenty of dough and he ain’t much for letters.”

“He does seem anxious,” Yarber observed.

“We need to move fast,” Spicer said. “He wants to come down in three weeks.”

“What’s the upside potential?” Beech asked. He loved the jargon of those who invested millions.

“At least a half a million,” Spicer said. “Let’s do the letter now. Trevor is waiting.”

Beech opened one of his many files and displayed his wares; sheets of paper in soft pastels. “I think I’ll try the peach,” he said.

“Oh definitely,” Spicer said. “Gotta do peach.”

Ricky wrote a scaled-down version of the initial contact letter. Twenty-eight years old, college graduate, locked down in rehab but on the verge of release, probably in ten days, very lonely, looking for a mature man to start a relationship. How convenient that Brant would be living nearby, because Ricky had a sister in Jacksonville and he’d be staying with her. There were no obstacles, no hurdles to cross. He’d be ready for
Brant when he came South. But he’d like a photo first. Was Brant really married? Would his wife be living at Palm Valley too? Or would she stay up there in Pennsylvania? Wouldn’t it be great if she did?

They enclosed the same color photo they’d used a hundred times. It had proved to be irresistible.

The peach envelope was taken by Spicer back to the attorney-conference room where Trevor was napping. “Mail this immediately,” Spicer barked at him.

They spent ten minutes on their basketball bets, then said good-bye without a handshake.

Driving back to Jacksonville, Trevor called his bookie, a new one, a bigger bookie, now that he was a player. The digital line was indeed more secure, but the phone wasn’t. Agent Klockner and his band of operatives were listening as usual, and tracking Trevor’s bets. He wasn’t doing badly, up $4,500 in the past two weeks. By contrast, his law firm had put $800 on the books during the same period.

In addition to the phone, there were four mikes in the Beetle, most of them of little value but operational nonetheless. And under each bumper was a transmitter, both wired to the car’s electrical system and checked every other night when Trevor was either drinking or sleeping. A powerful receiver in the rental across the street tracked the Beetle wherever it went. As Trevor puttered down the highway, talking on his phone like a big shot, tossing money around like a Vegas high roller, sipping scalded coffee from a quick-stop grocery, he was emitting more signals than most private jets.

March 7. Big Super Tuesday. Aaron Lake bounced triumphantly across the stage in a large banquet room of a Manhattan hotel, while thousands cheered and music roared and balloons fell from above. He’d taken New York with 43 percent of the vote. Governor Tarry had a rather weak 29 percent, and the other also-rans got the rest. Lake hugged people he’d never seen before and waved to people he’d never see again, and he delivered without notes a stirring victory speech.

Then he was off, on his way to L.A. for another victory celebration. For four hours, in his new Boeing jet that would hold a hundred and leased for $1 million a month and flew at a speed of five hundred miles per hour, thirty-eight thousand feet above the country, he and his staff monitored the returns from the twelve states participating in big Super Tuesday. Along the East Coast, where the polls had already closed, Lake barely won in Maine and Connecticut, but put up big margins in New York, Massachusetts, Maryland, and Georgia. He lost Rhode Island by eight hundred votes, and won Vermont by a thousand. As he was flying over Missouri, CNN declared him the winner of that state by four percentage points over Governor Tarry. Ohio was just as close.

By the time Lake reached California, the rout was over. Of the 591 delegates at stake, he’d captured 390. He’d also solidified the momentum. And most important, Aaron Lake now had the money. Governor Tarry was falling hard and fast, and all bets were on Lake.

TWENTY

S
ix hours after claiming victory in California, Lake awoke to a frenzied morning of live interviews. He suffered through eighteen in two hours, then flew to Washington.

He went straight to his new campaign headquarters, on the ground floor of a large office building on H Street, a stone’s throw from the White House. He thanked his workers, almost none of whom were volunteers. He worked his crowd, shook their hands, all the while asking himself, “Where did these people come from?”

We’re gonna win, he said over and over, and everybody believed it. Why not?

He met for an hour with his top people. He had $65 million, no debt. Tarry had less than $1 million on hand and he was still trying to count the money he owed. In fact, the Tarry campaign had missed a federal filing deadline because its books were in such a mess. All cash had vanished. Contributions had stopped. Lake was getting all the money.

The names of three potential Vice Presidents were
debated with great enthusiasm. It was an exhilarating exercise because it meant the nomination was in the bag. Lake’s first choice, Senator Nance from Michigan, was drawing fire because he’d had some shady business deals in another life. His partners had been of Italian extraction, from Detroit, and Lake could close his eyes and see the press peeling skin off Nance. A committee was appointed to explore the issue further.

And a committee was appointed to begin planning Lake’s presence at the convention in Denver. Lake wanted a new speechwriter, now, and he wanted him working on the acceptance speech.

Lake secretly marveled at his own overhead. His campaign chairman was getting $150,000 for the year, not for twelve months, but until Christmas. There was a chairman of finance, of policy, of media relations, of operations, and of strategic planning, and all had contracts for $120,000 for about ten months of work. Each chairman had two or three immediate underlings, people Lake hardly knew, and they earned $90,000 apiece. Then there were the campaign assistants, or CA’s, not the volunteers that most candidates attracted, but real employees who earned $50,000 each and kept the offices in a frenzy. There were dozens of them. And dozens of clerks and secretaries and, hell, nobody made less than $40,000.

And on top of all this waste, Lake kept telling himself, if I make it to the White House then I’ll have to find jobs for them there. Every damned one of them. Kids now running around with Lake buttons on every lapel will expect to have West Wing clearances and jobs paying $80,000 a year.

It’s a drop in the bucket, he kept reminding himself. Don’t get hung up on the small stuff when so much more is at stake.

Negatives were pushed to the end of the meeting and given short shrift. A reporter for the
Post
had been digging into Lake’s early business career. Without too much effort he’d stumbled upon the GreenTree mess, a failed land development, twenty-two years in the past. Lake and a partner had bankrupted GreenTree, legally shafting creditors out of $800,000. The partner had been indicted for bankruptcy fraud, but a jury let him walk. No one laid a glove on Lake, and seven times after that the people of Arizona elected him to Congress.

“I’ll answer any question about GreenTree,” Lake said. “It was just a bad business deal.”

“The press is about to shift gears,” said the chairman of media relations. “You’re new and you haven’t been subjected to enough scrutiny. It’s time for them to get nasty.”

“It’s already started,” Lake said. “I have no skeletons.”

For an early dinner he was whisked away to Mortimer’s, the current power place to be seen, just down Pennsylvania, where he met Elaine Tyner, the lawyer running D-PAC. Over fruit and cottage cheese she laid out the current financials of the newest PAC on the block. Cash in hand of $29 million, no significant debt, money being churned around the clock, coming in from all directions, from everywhere in the world.

Spending it was the challenge. Since it was considered “soft money,” or money that couldn’t go directly
to the Lake campaign, it had to be used elsewhere. Tyner had several targets. The first was a series of generic ads similar to the doomsday ads Teddy had put together. D-PAC was already buying prime-time spots for the fall. The second, and by far the most enjoyable, were the Senate and congressional races. “They’re lining up like ants,” she said with great amusement. “It’s amazing what a few million bucks can do.”

She told the story of a House race in a district in Northern California where the incumbent, a twenty-year veteran Lake knew and despised, started the year with a forty-point lead against an unknown challenger. The unknown found his way to D-PAC and surrendered his soul to Aaron Lake. “We’ve basically taken over his campaign,” she said. “We’re writing speeches, polling, doing all his print and TV ads, we even hired a new staff for him. So far we’ve spent one-point-five million, and our boy has cut the lead to ten points. And we have seven months to go.”

In all, Tyner and D-PAC were meddling in thirty House races and ten in the Senate. She expected to raise a total of $60 million, and spend every dime of it by November.

Her third area of “focus” was taking the pulse of the country. D-PAC was polling nonstop, every day, fifteen hours a day. If labor in western Pennsylvania was bothered by an issue, D-PAC would know it. If the Hispanics in Houston were pleased with a new welfare policy, D-PAC would know it. If the women in greater Chicago liked or disliked a Lake ad, D-PAC knew yes or no and by what percentage. “We know
everything,” she boasted. “We’re like Big Brother, always watching.”

The polling cost $60,000 a day, a bargain. No one could touch it. For the important matters, Lake was nine points ahead of Tarry in Texas, even in Florida, a state Lake had yet to visit, and very close in Indiana, Tarry’s home state.

“Tarry’s tired,” she said. “Morale is low because he won in New Hampshire and the money was rolling in. Then you came from nowhere, a fresh face, no baggage, new message, you start winning, and suddenly the money finds you. Tarry can’t raise fifty bucks at a church bake sale. He’s losing key people because he can’t pay them, and because they smell another winner.”

Lake chewed a piece of pineapple and savored the words. They weren’t new; he’d heard them from his own people. But coming from a seasoned insider like Tyner, they were even more reassuring.

“What are the Vice President’s numbers?” Lake asked. He had his own set, but for some reason trusted her more.

“He’ll squeak out the nomination,” she said, offering nothing new. “But the convention will be bloody. Right now, you’re only a few points behind him on the big question: Who will you vote for in November?”

“November is far away.”

“It is and it isn’t.”

“A lot can change,” Lake said, thinking of Teddy, and wondering what sort of crisis he’d create to terrify the American people.

The dinner was more of a snack, and from Mortimer’s Lake was driven to a small dining room at the Hay-Adams Hotel. It was a long, late dinner with friends, two dozen of his colleagues from the House. Few of them had rushed to endorse him when he’d entered the race, but now they were all wildly enthusiastic about their man. Most had their own pollsters. The bandwagon was rolling down the mountain.

Lake had never seen his old pals so happy to be around him.

The letter was prepared in Documents by a woman named Bruce, one of the agency’s three best counterfeiters. Tacked to the corkboard just above the worktable in her small lab were letters written by Ricky. Excellent samples, much more than she needed. She had no idea who Ricky was, but there was no doubt his handwriting was contrived. It was fairly consistent, with the more recent samples clearly showing an ease that came only with practice. His vocabulary was not remarkable, but then she suspected he was trying to downplay it. His sentence structure showed few mistakes. Bruce guessed him to be between the ages of forty and sixty, with at least a college education.

But it wasn’t her job to make such inferences, at least not in this case. With the same pen and paper as Ricky, she wrote a nice little note to Al. The text had been prepared by someone else, she did not know who. Nor did she care.

It was, “Hey, Al, where have you been? Why haven’t you written? Don’t forget about me.” That kind of
letter, but with a nice little surprise. Since Ricky couldn’t use the phone, he was sending Al a cassette tape with a brief message from deep inside rehab.

Bruce fit the letter onto one page, then worked for an hour on the envelope. The postmark she applied was from Neptune Beach, Florida.

She didn’t seal the envelope. Her little project was inspected, then taken to another lab. The tape was recorded by a young agent who’d studied drama at Northwestern. In a soft, accentless voice he said, “Hey, Al, this is Ricky. Hope you’re surprised to hear my voice. They won’t let us use the phones around here, I don’t know why, but for some reason we can send tapes back and forth. I can’t wait to get out of this place.” Then he rambled for five minutes about his rehab and how much he hated his uncle and the people who ran Aladdin North. But he did concede that they had rid him of his addictions. He was certain he would look back and not judge the place too harshly.

His entire narrative was nothing but babble. No plans were discussed for his release, no hint of where he might go or what he might do, only a vague reference about seeing Al one day.

They were not yet ready to bait Al Konyers. The sole purpose of the tape was to hide within its casing a transmitter strong enough to lead them to Lake’s hidden file. A tiny bug in the envelope was too risky. Al might be smart enough to find it.

At Mailbox America in Chevy Chase, the CIA now controlled eight boxes, duly rented for one year by eight different people, each of whom had the same twenty-four-hour access that Mr. Konyers had. They
came and went at all hours, checking their little boxes, picking up mail they’d sent themselves, occasionally taking a peek at Al’s box if no one was looking.

Since they knew his schedule better than he knew it himself, they waited patiently until he’d made his rounds. They felt certain he’d sneak out as before, dressed like a jogger, so they held the envelope with the tape until almost ten one night. Then they placed it in his box.