Washington, DC
Vic Summerfield climbed into a cab with Carl Baldwin. Their office was only a short hop away. After Carl’s appearance at the health club, Vic showered and dressed in a hurry. His boss often went nuclear, attacking everyone, Vic included, for imaginary betrayals. But Vic had been working for Baldwin eighteen months now, and he’d learned not to take it seriously. His rants were frequent and furious, but they subsided quickly. Vic, who harbored a grudge for years, was often surprised at the ease with which Baldwin embraced someone he’d disparaged only hours before. It took immense self-control to pull that off, Vic thought. Which made it even more bizarre that Carl allowed himself to lose control in the first place. A fascinating, dangerous paradox of a man.
And yet, Baldwin’s outbursts made Vic wonder if the lure of money—and there was lots of it in lobbying—was worth the drama. Assuming you had the right clients and contacts, lobbyists could rake in enormous amounts of dough. Carl Baldwin had both, and his contacts stretched into the Oval Office and beyond. At twenty-nine Vic was making more money than he’d ever imagined. He’d bought a town house just outside Georgetown, a Benz S-Class, and still had enough to send money to his parents.
Riding through Rock Creek Parkway, Vic counted four joggers and three bikers. Back home in South Dakota, February was locked in the relentless grip of winter. Hell did freeze over in the Black Hills, his father would laugh. In DC, though, a temperate climate permitted outdoor activities all year. Another benefit.
“Why didn’t you get back to me last night?” Baldwin’s tone was accusatory.
Vic looked over, frowned. “I did.”
Baldwin shook his head. “I never got a voice mail.”
“I met Dimitri at the embassy cocktail party. I couldn’t use my phone. I sent you a text.”
Baldwin’s eyes narrowed as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe him. That went on the negative ledger. Baldwin demanded abject loyalty from those around him, but he could turn on you in an instant. Even after eighteen months. This time, though, Vic gave Baldwin some slack. His daughter had been gunned down in a horrific terror attack a few weeks earlier. She’d been his favorite child, though they hadn’t spoken in years, and he’d still kept tabs on her. In fact, part of Vic’s job was to monitor the ResistanceUSA group and report back on Dena’s activities.
“So, are they fucking me over?” Baldwin asked. “The Russians?”
Vic glanced at the cabbie before answering, but the driver, bobbing his head to some unheard music streaming through his headphones, seemed oblivious to their conversation. Still, Baldwin should have been more cautious. Was he losing it?
Vic lowered his voice. “Dimitri said he would run it by the ambassador and get back to me.”
“That’s what he said the last time.”
“I know.”
“That means the FSB pricks are running the show.”
Vic nodded. Their steady stream of “clients,” sanctioned by the FSB, the successor to the Russian spy agency KGB, were oligarchs from Russia and its former satellites. They had made Baldwin’s career. Sure, they wanted a financial break here, a tax break or favor—usually a lucrative one—there. But everyone had the right to ask. That was the essence of lobbying, Baldwin had taught Vic. If the client’s request had merit—and occasionally it did—it was a win-win for everyone. Still, the FSB was Putin’s eyes and ears, and its agents kept watch over all the oligarchs’ dealings. Nothing happened without Putin’s tacit or explicit say-so. And, apparently, he was saying no.
The cab wound uphill on the Massachusetts Avenue exit and promptly got stuck in traffic. Why was this exit always backed up? Vic wondered. It didn’t matter what time of day it was; he always had to wait through two red lights.
Recently, though, the Russians’ businesses, and consequently Carl’s business, were suffering. The weak American president, unable to lift Congress’s economic sanctions, had stymied the exchange of illicit financial favors. Times were tough on both sides of the pond. The problem was that the FSB and the oligarchs conveniently ignored reality, demanding more from Baldwin. And Carl didn’t have enough intel or profitable deals for them. The vise was tightening—inexorably.
“After all I’ve done for those fuckers.” Baldwin drummed his fingers on the rear-seat armrest.
The cab pulled up to Baldwin’s house, a tan brick mansion with white columns on Wyoming Avenue in Kalorama. A street, Baldwin never failed to remind Vic, on which Woodrow Wilson once lived. With William Taft on the next block. As if he expected Vic would someday point out to his children that Carl Baldwin had lived here too.
Inside, a large central foyer with marble flooring was flanked by formal living and dining rooms. White columns separated those rooms from the rest of the first floor, which had been remodeled to house Baldwin and Associates. Only a few minutes from the K Street corridor and the Hill, the house was a shrewd buy. Kalorama offered much more for your money than Georgetown, Baldwin proclaimed, implying the congressmen, journalists, and VIPs who bought on N Street were fools.
“Well, I’m not waiting around for the SOBs,” Carl said. “We’re still good with the arms deal. And fracking legislation. Let’s move those forward. Set up a lunch with the chairman of Energy and Commerce at the Four Seasons.”
Vic paid the fare, and the two men exited the cab. The cabbie was still jabbering away in an unknown language on his cell.