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“Huh?”
“So
oner or later the media and the Clark Kents at the FBI and Justice are going to turn the spotlight on me and make this about my tactics.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m just making sure they do it sooner rather than later.”
“And why is that a good idea?”
“I’m going to give them enough rope to hang themselves, and then I’m going to kick the chair out from under their legs.”
“I’m still not sure I follow.”
Rapp held up his Treo phone and played back the recording he’d made of the session he’d had with Gazich. “Don’t worry,” he said to Stroble. “By tomorrow evening they’re all going to be diving for cover.”
23
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Ross had flown commercial with his Secret Service detail even though a private jet had been offered to him by one of the billionaire attendees at the conference. The offer was tempting, but Ross knew the media, the vicious bloggers, and the crazy talk radio folks would light him up. Taking a private jet home from a conservation summit smacked of elitism and hypocrisy. He could wait one more week until Air Force Two was at his disposal.
Besides, the Air France flight wasn’t bad. The stewardesses up in first class were extremely attractive and spared no effort in fawning over him. His fellow passengers wanted their photo taken with him. Ross was a man of the people. His not-so-pleasant conversation with Green in the wine cellar the night before had driven him to drink more wine than he should have, and he had boarded the plane with a head-splitting hangover. Everything after midnight was a slight blur. He remembered being in the kitchen with Speyer, and the lanky blond talking, though about what, he could not remember for the life of him. Music was playing, the blond started dancing, and the next thing Ross knew, he was pinned against the refrigerator; her ass pressed firmly against his groin. He had a glass of wine in his left hand; she had his right hand wrapped around her body and placed dangerously close to her left breast.
Ross would have had her right there in the kitchen if it hadn’t been for Speyer and the lascivious look in his eye. The president of one of the world’s most private banks, Speyer didn’t so much keep secrets as he did collect and trade in them. A prince of Europe’s unofficial gay mafia, the banker would have loved nothing more than to be able to hold such a salacious bit of information over Ross’s head. The vice president–elect had managed to extricate himself from the situation by playfully chastising Speyer and giving the leggy blond a kiss and a promise that he’d put her on his dance card for next year’s conference.
The Secret Service had arranged to get Ross off the plane first and expedite him through customs. They’d also arranged to have his skis and bag picked up and delivered to his house. Ross walked through the terminal with a real sense of purpose and optimism. He’d miraculously banished from his mind all thought of Cy Green and the debt he owed him. His detail of agents were spread out around him, three in front, one on each side, and two more behind. The formation looked like a kickoff, which in turn reminded Ross that his New England Patriots had a playoff game this afternoon. Ross was born and raised outside Wilmington, Delaware, and had cheered for the Colts growing up. After graduating from Princeton, he worked at the CIA for a few years before getting a law degree from Yale and then moving on to Wall Street where he’d made his fortune. By thirty-five he and his wife had moved to the ultra-rich enclave of Greenwich, Connecticut, where they raised a boy and a girl, and where Ross eventually decided to jump on the Patriots’ bandwagon.
Ross’s son was out in Seattle trying to find himself. This bothered the politician more than he cared to admit, but he was too busy to obsess over the fact that his twenty-five-year-old son had gone to the nation’s best schools and still couldn’t figure out what the hell he wanted to do with his life. His daughter was a new mother and living in New York City. They were for the most part good kids. They burned through money at an alarming rate, but at least they stayed out of trouble. Their mother had done a relatively good job. Ross hadn’t been around all that much. He was too busy making money and having fun. And it had all paid off. He was now only six days and one heartbeat away from the most powerful job in the world.
Just on the other side of the security checkpoint Ross saw his chief of staff, Jonathan Gordon, waiting for him. Ross smiled and gave him a little wave. Gordon was a good man. Very loyal. The Secret Service agents all knew Gordon and made just enough room for him to enter the inner protective circle. The scrum kept moving toward the exit without missing a stride.
“Jonathan, nice of you to come all the way out here on your day off.”
“In this business there are no days off.”
“Not even the Sabbath?” Ross was joking, knowing full well Gordon’s agnostic views.
“Especially not the Sabbath.” The group passed through the large sliding doors and out into the cold January day. “I assume you haven’t bothered to turn your phone on?”
“No.” Ross smiled and patted the left breast pocket of his jacket. “I forgot all about the damn thing.”
“Well, I’ve left you a few messages, and I’m sure I’m not the only one.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just a bit of breaking news.”
They were midway between the door and the waiting limousine when a car came flying around the corner to their left; tires squealing and engine revving. Ross and Gordon looked toward the noise and slowed their step.
Agent Brown, who had stayed consistently one step behind Ross from the Jetway to the curb, placed his large hand in the middle of Ross’s back and grabbed a handful of fabric. He did not slow for a second. He picked up his pace, driving Ross forward, leaving Gordon behind. The scrum picked up speed, coats were thrown open, hands reached for guns, some eyes turned toward the possible threat, others turned away to make sure it wasn’t a diversion of some sort, and then it was over before it began.
The car, a black Lincoln Town Car, skidded to a halt at the end of the motorcade and the rear passenger door flew open. Agent Brown was one step away from tossing his protectee headfirst into the back of the limo, when he saw Stu Garret emerge from the back of the Town Car. Brown released Ross and straightened out his jacket before turning to find the agent who was in charge of the ground detail. The access to the upper ramp was supposed to be shut down until they had Ross out the door, buttoned up, and on his way.
Garret marched along the sidewalk, moving agents out of his way like a bowling ball through pins. He had on a puffy down jacket with a floppy fur-lined hood.
“Mark,” Garret yelled.
