The Labyrinth Campaign (10 page)

Carlos responded aggressively. “No, Will, what’s unacceptable is your inability to grasp the fact that your plan is not without its downsides. Property will be damaged. People will be killed. If you don’t have the stomach for it, then walk away. Presidents have the guts to make the tough calls. I’m beginning to wonder if you have that ability.”

From the silence on the line, Carlos thought once again that he had Will right where he wanted him. Then, without warning, Will exploded.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me that way? I have the resolve to make any decision necessary!”

From the waiting area outside, Jack could hear Hawkins screaming into the telephone. His first reaction was to tune out the conversation, assuming it was none of his business. But as the yelling continued, Jack became concerned. He stood and walked to the doorway, but he couldn’t see Will, around the corner at his desk. Jack considered walking in to see if everything was all right but then decided against it. Still, his concern increased as Will’s yelling did.

Jack could not decide what to do. Should he go back to his office and wait for Will to call? Should he enter Will’s office and ask if he needed anything? He quickly decided that neither of those options were professionally appealing, but he couldn’t stop wondering what was agitating Will Hawkins to a degree he had never experienced from the candidate.

Then Jack eyed Stephanie Wood’s phone console. Jack slowly approached the assistant’s desk the way he might approach a dangerous animal. He studied the console, rationalizing to himself that it was his lifelong “curiosity affliction” that was drawing him to listen in on the front-running Democratic candidate for president of the United States.

When Jack lifted the receiver of Will Hawkins’s confidential line, he was actually surprised to hear voices; one he clearly recognized as Will Hawkins, and the other was obviously the voice of the mysterious
caller, Carl Peterson. Will shifted his attention to the content of the conversation.

The slightly accented voice of Peterson was saying, “Will, you have to calm down. All I am saying is that you can’t expect me to execute catastrophic environmental disasters on your behalf and not be willing to accept the fact that some loss of life is both necessary and acceptable.”

Jack could not believe what he was hearing. His heart had begun to beat so loudly, he was sure it could be heard through the phone. His first instinct was to hang up the phone and run. What little he had heard was incomprehensible, but he was also mesmerized by the conversation he was eavesdropping on.

Will Hawkins was responding to his caller’s comments. “When I originally developed the plan to pull in The Future State Foundation, it was conceptual in nature, but this … I can accept the moderate number of deaths that will coincide with the toxic-waste spill, the reactor meltdown, and the nerve gas accident. But I am very concerned about the structural failure of a dam that size. The destruction and loss of life associated with that specific plan concerns me greatly. I too am a man of action, but I am not a mass murderer.”

“And Carlos Pendrill is not a political lackey,” the caller shouted. “You came to me asking a significant favor. I have gone to great lengths to accommodate.”

They were still talking, but Jack was no longer listening. He was numb. He had just overheard his boss, a front-runner for the presidency of the United States, making a deal with one of the world’s largest drug dealers to implement a plan that equated to environmental Armageddon.

Jack quietly hung up the phone and left Stephanie Wood’s waiting area. His mind was spinning, and he was experiencing the full gamut of emotions: Anger, fear, loneliness, and disbelief were combining to create a feeling of utter confusion. Jack rode the elevator to the parking garage in a daze, but still pulled it together and phoned Stephanie to cancel on dinner.

At the same time, Will and Carlos were agreeing to move forward with their plans and to revisit the dam discussion later. Once Will had hung up, he took a moment to compose himself and then strode to his office door to receive Jack McCarthy. What he saw nearly made his heart stop. His office door was slightly ajar, against his strict instructions. His heart pounded as he approached the door. How would he explain his outbursts to Jack? As he opened the door, he was relieved to see that no one was in the waiting area. His thoughts quickly shifted to the firm “teaching moment” he would have with Stephanie regarding the strict confidentiality that certain phone calls must be afforded.

J
ack McCarthy was driving around Dallas in a daze. The information he had just been exposed to was beyond his comprehension. A US senator, one of the richest men in the country and a man who had a legitimate shot at the next presidency, was plotting with one of the world’s most ruthless drug cartel leaders to create an environmental holocaust.

“This cannot be happening,” Jack said out loud. But it was, and he had no idea what to do or whom to turn to. He’d been driving around for an hour with no conscious plan. He suddenly realized that he was at Winfrey Point on the east side of White Rock Lake. The parklike setting was somehow soothing to his inner turmoil, so he got out of his car and walked toward the lake. It was a beautiful night in Dallas, and the reflection of a distant downtown skyline reflected off the water.

How could he have gotten into such a mess? His thoughts strayed. If only I hadn’t picked up the phone, I’d still be happily working on a presidential campaign, naïvely lobbying for an American hero to take over the Oval Office. Instead, I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of a great abyss.

Taking the next step was necessary, but where that step led was without definition. Obviously, Will Hawkins would go to unimagined lengths to get what he wanted. The question was, if he found out that Jack had
overheard his plan, what would he do and how would Jack respond? Legitimate questions that lacked concrete answers.

After fifteen more minutes of contemplation, anger, denial, and ultimately, resolve, Jack decided to go home. As he pulled into his driveway, he realized that Carrie was there. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. This was clearly something he could not share with her right now, regardless of how close they had become. When he entered the kitchen from the garage, Carrie immediately knew something was wrong.

“You look horrible. What happened to you today?”

“Just a bitch of a day on the campaign trail,” Jack responded. “This campaign shit makes the agency business look like a walk in the park.” He attempted to smile.

Carrie laughed and took him by the hand into the living room. “You sit right here and let me get you a big, fat scotch.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” Jack said.

“And that’s only the beginning of what I have to offer,” Carrie replied in her best husky voice. She returned with the scotch and tried to initiate conversation. But every attempt she made was met with silence, and Jack staring off into space.

She was clearly getting frustrated with the situation when Jack finally caught on and said, “Honey, I’m sorry. I just can’t clear my head of all the details. Let’s start again.”

With that, Carrie straddled his lap, grabbed his face, and gave him a long, passionate kiss. “As you can tell, I’m totally committed to clearing your mind of all the details,” she said, laughing.

“And you’re doing a damn good job of it,” Jack said as he stood and led her toward the bedroom.

The next morning, Jack woke slowly, realizing it was very light in the room. He turned to kiss Carrie and realized she was gone. He looked at the clock. It was 8:07.

“Shit!” He hadn’t slept past 6:00 in months. The last thing he wanted at the campaign office was for others to sense something was different or wrong. As he lay there willing himself out of bed, Jack thought that
while he had slept a solid nine hours, the bulk of his sleep was filled with dreams of a sinister candidate and the terrible things he was doing to get elected.

What could he do? Whom could he talk to? Involving others was dangerous—to him and to them. But he didn’t feel capable of going it alone. He needed a confidant: someone he could bounce things off of someone who could help him figure out how to address the situation quietly but ultimately put a halt to the planned atrocities.

There was really only one answer: Steve Bess. Over the past several months, Steve had become his mentor, adviser, and a very close friend. Obviously, Steve was in the dark, just as he was. There was no way a man of Steve’s integrity would ever be party to something this outrageous. But it was dangerous. The last thing Jack wanted was for anyone close to him to get hurt because he’d listened in on that psychopathic conversation. But counter to that feeling was the thought of innocent people being hurt or killed because he was unwilling or unable to make the tough call.

At that very moment, Jack knew in his heart he had to stop them. He also knew he couldn’t do it alone. He would tell Steve Bess everything he knew, and together they would find a way to do the right thing.

While Jack was agonizing over his predicament in Dallas, Sgt. Maj. Ian McKay was meeting with his superior and friend, Col. Charles Cavanaugh.

Cavanaugh said, “I don’t understand, Ian. You’re in as good shape as you were twenty years ago, and I know you love your job.”

“I did love my job, Charles. I just don’t have the same fire in the belly that I used to. Training these guys so that they can risk their lives on a regular basis is starting to get to me. The last thing I want to do is get soft in my old age and be responsible for one or more of these kids not coming home.” Ian was lying; he actually felt sick when he thought of someone else training his boys.

“Ian, is there anything I can say or do that would change your mind?” Charles pleaded.

“I’m afraid not, Charles. I’ve made up my mind, and I know it’s the right decision.”

“Well then, Major McKay,” Cavanaugh said in a booming voice, “I will support your decision.”

As Cavanaugh stood, he snapped off a formal salute and then hugged McKay as a father would a son. When he stepped back, Ian noticed the moisture in Cavanaugh’s eyes. It was enough to almost send him over the edge. Ian saluted back and left without saying another word.

When McKay returned home, his sharp mind had erased the emotional moment felt only twenty minutes earlier, and he was ready to go to work. His plan was extremely well thought out but not without its risks. The first step was to finalize his false documents: passport, UK driver’s license, and credit cards. Once he had established a new identity, it would be time to travel to the US. Once there, he would go to Dallas and begin monitoring Sen. Will Hawkins’s every move. What was his daily schedule? What was his travel schedule? How did the senator’s security detail work? What were their schedules? Did they have tendencies that offered openings?

Ian knew that he had to treat the surveillance as if he were planning to assassinate the candidate. He needed to get close enough to Hawkins to slip him a note without any of the security detail noticing. The best option would be in a crowded area: walking on a busy street, strolling through a crowded airport. Or—he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner—at a campaign rally or speech. American politicians loved to grip-and-grin with their supporters. It was perfect.