WHILE FLOYD, WHO IS DIVORCED with three grown children, has a substantial house to himself, James has a far more modest but still perfectly comfortable ranch house. He heads inside and finishes unpacking. Then he goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of a Zinfandel that he read about in Wine Spectator. He takes a nice sip and lets it sit in his mouth a moment before swallowing. It’s quite interesting, he thinks, even evocative, the balance of oaky and floral, the lingering afternote. Superior, no doubt. Not cheap at forty dollars a bottle, but not exorbitant. And worth it. The better things in life are always worth it. Mary Bellamy taught him that.
James has known the Bellamys for almost twenty years, since he was at West Point and won a grant from their foundation to fund his post-grad studies in Foreign Affairs at Penn. They liked to meet the recipients of their largess, and of course James practiced his practiced charm on them. The charm that had taken him from the dead-end streets of Gary, Indiana, to West Point . . . and beyond. Mary Bellamy was quite taken, of course, with his race and his manners—oh, he knows just how to punch that ticket. And Sturges Bellamy, recently deceased, was, well, the vibe from him was slightly unsavory, but again, it wasn’t the first time James had worked that angle. It’s all about leverage, isn’t it? When the Bellamys were in the East, they would take him out for dinner. A bond developed, based on mutual respect and a shared worldview that they discussed in oblique terms, using dog whistle phrases, being oh-so-discreet.
Mary really mentored him—on wine and food and cheese and clothes and manners, yes, but it went far beyond that. She’s a woman with real standards. She believes in hard work and ethics and the transcendent power of simple human kindness. Not to be confused with weakness. And she believes in a better tomorrow. And power. She believes in power. Mary taught him that in the end, everything—from a simple transaction between two people to a great leader igniting a movement that changes history—comes down to power.
And James is a man who knows his power and isn’t afraid to own it. A master of seduction. Look at Gloria. Look at General Floyd Morrow, who really is a dangerous man to the movement, a loose cannon who fires before he aims. Mary and Neal Clark don’t play that way. They’re aiming for respect on the world stage. Floyd is a foaming-at-the-mouth type. Floyd’s a disposable commodity. But not yet. Right now they need him. And so James has been cultivating him, flattering him, charming him. The seduction started on that day they “accidently” met at the shooting range.
The wine warms James and he feels a rush of euphoria.
Tomorrow belongs to us. All hail the Homeland.
Sitting on the counter is the welcome basket that Mary sent. She’s so thoughtful. He opens the wedge of Beaufort d’Ete and the box of English water biscuits—Mary taught him that you don’t want fine cheese competing with an assertive cracker—and puts them on a small cutting board. There are also chocolates from Belgium and cornichons from Germany and a small bag of Doritos. That’s been a running joke since they first met—she’s a Doritos gal, he’s a potato chips guy. That Mary.
James savors the cheese and wine—and the sense of expectation that is surging through his veins. The election is only the first step, of course, but it’s a big one. And it’s happening. He takes his wine and the cutting board, walks into the living room, and sits on the couch. It faces an enormous picture window framing a view of the base, the lake, and the endless plains beyond. The perfect canvas on which to write the future.
His safe phone rings. The incoming number is blocked.
“Yes?” he says.
There’s a snippet of whistling, which is annoying, and then, “I have some information you might be interested in.”
“Who is this?”
“Oh, come on, you’re too smart to play dumb. I’m trying to do you a favor here.”
It’s true, James does know who it is. He came highly recommended. But he wasn’t supposed to know who James was. That’s what middlemen are for.
“How did you get my number?”
“That’s part of the information.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not in the business of giving away the goods.”
James feels his mood curdle. How dare this jerk ruin his Zin and cheese? “How much do you want?”
“10K.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You people have deep pockets.”
Whatever this two-bit creep knows could be very valuable. James exhales. “Okay.”
“Smart man. I just texted you a PayPal account. As soon as the money is in there, my lips will start flapping.”
James is boxed in. He clicks on the link in the text to the PayPal account and transfers ten grand from an untraceable bank account in the Cayman Islands.
“Bingo! Got it. Thank you, amigo.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your emissary got a little sloppy. She called me on her regular cell phone. Oops! Her bad. My tech guy hacked into her phone records. Presto, you appeared. So it wasn’t the first time she got her phones mixed up. Tsk-tsk. Anywho, the Boston cops IDed one of my subcontractors, told Sparks, and bang! she shows up at my little gourmet shop. You do the math.” Then he whistles again.
James hangs up in disgust. He’s lost all interest in the wine and cheese. He’s not going to waste them in this mood. Things suddenly got a little more complicated. He’s traceable. But he’s also level-headed and smart and methodical. He’ll work it all out. He’s done it before. One step at a time.
Step one: call Gloria.