Washington, DC
Vic opened the side door to the Kalorama house and headed across the pantry. He tried to keep his tread light. He wished he was invisible. Bad news was never easy to deliver to Carl, and this was bad. He was only halfway across the main hall when Carl’s voice boomed.
“I got your text. What the fuck happened?” He appeared in the doorway to his office in rolled-up shirtsleeves, khaki pants, and a face crimson with rage.
“I’m not entirely sure, but bottom line, we got screwed.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know if it was intentional, but we were two votes shy.” Vic slid out of his coat.
“Did you talk to Frances?” Frances Rosenblatt was chief of staff for the House Foreign Affairs Committee and, until today, their ally, they thought.
“Not yet. She said she’d call.”
Carl fumed, cursed, and stomped around the hall. His cell buzzed. He dug it out of his pants pocket. “What the fuck happened?” he snapped.
A pause. “Yeah, well, what happened to all the campaign dollars we funneled to your guy?” Another pause. “This is bullshit, Frances. You know that. It was supposed to be an end run around sanctions. Everyone on the committee was on the same page. They wanted the deal. So what the fuck happened?”
A long pause. Frances was clearly trying to explain.
“The Uyghurs?” Carl said. “Are you shitting me? The Uyghurs aren’t a threat. There are only a couple thousand of them and the Uzbeks are killing them off right and left.” He snorted. “In between persecuting them. What the hell would they do with the weapons anyway? None of them know how to drive a goddamn truck, much less operate a surface-to-air missile. They’d shoot themselves before they’d be dangerous to others.”
Carl listened to Frances but stared directly at Vic. Vic’s skin prickled with goose bumps. These were the worst moments. When they were skirting the law on behalf of a client. In this case, they’d promised an insurgent guerrilla group in Uzbekistan some armored vehicles, dozens of assault rifles, light machine guns, and a handful of shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. It was wrong, he knew, but it was the way the world worked. Carl had taught him that. “I scratch their back. They scratch ours.”
But Vic felt a keen sense of betrayal. His own, this time. The fringe group wanted independence and were prepared to die for it. Without weapons they were doomed. The Uzbek government, their well-armed militias stocked with shiny new toys of destruction thanks to Russia, would crush the insurgents faster than ink drying on the bill of lading.
Carl started to prowl around the hall. “FARA? Of course we did. Everyone has to, since Manafort. It just hasn’t come through yet.” He sucked in a long breath. “This is a farce, Frances. Something else is going on. No. Don’t tell me over the phone. Come over here. We’ll have cocktails in front of the fire.”
One last pause. “No. I won’t throw you in. See you later.” He went into his office and tossed the cell on his desk. Vic followed. Carl spun around to face Vic. “She’s worthless, you know.”
“She’s the chairman’s consigliere.”
“She’s got no balls. If only McCain were still around—I’ll bet they got a warning from the NSC. Or the IC. Someone is playing us,” he muttered. “It’s a NatSec matter . . . how can something fly through the committee three months ago, then suddenly become such a serious matter that they bail on the arms deal?”
“It’s a different world.” Vic winced as he said it. It was weak.
But Carl didn’t pick up on it. “I don’t believe it. I think it’s personal. Someone is trying to screw me. The question is who. I wonder if it’s that prick over at—”
Vic cleared his throat and summoned up whatever courage he could. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, Carl.”
Carl squinted. Suspicion filled his face.
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this—this anymore.”
“NatSec? You’ve danced with them before.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Carl studied his assistant. “A little late to reclaim your soul, don’t you think?”
Vic shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m thinking I should go back home and practice law.”
“To that little shithole in South Dakota?”
“North River is not a shithole. My father has a solid family law practice, and he’s itching to retire.”
“Why?” Carl canted his head. Then recognition lit his face. “I get it. You want a place to wash your hands and clean up. Park yourself for ten years. Then run for Congress.” He folded his arms and begrudged Vic a weak grin. “Not a bad strategy.”
Vic shook his head. “That’s not the plan.”
“Since when? I thought you liked knowing how the sausage gets made. You suddenly develop a case of ulcers?”
“Maybe.” He drew in a breath. “We— You have to face facts, Carl. Someone was—is—squeezing you. They fucking threatened the life of your daughter. And then . . .”
“I told you never to bring that up.” Carl started to pace. “That had nothing to do with this deal.”
But Vic wasn’t finished. He wasn’t sure where his nerve was coming from. “But it set a precedent. You couldn’t deliver then—and now look what’s happened.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Carl continued to pace. “The Uzbeks are still in the hopper. It’s gonna go through.”
“Okay. Sure. If you say so. The thing is, you know how word gets around in this town. People are talking. Your reputation is on the edge.”
“Christ. You’re supposed to be working for me. Not against me.”
“I am, Carl. But you’ve got to face facts. You’re down to a Hail Mary with the arms deal. The same thing happened to sanctions relief. People are beginning to realize you’re not invincible. And fracking? Who knows what’s going to go down?”
Carl’s anger spiked. “What makes you think you’re exempt, buddy boy? If what you’re saying is right, we’ve both got targets on our backs,” he blustered. He opened a cabinet in the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of Bookers. He poured it into a glass—neat—and tossed it back. “There’s something else.”
Vic squeezed his eyes shut. With Carl, there was always something else.
“I’ve heard Dena’s case is active again. Some damn PI; a woman in Chicago. You need to keep tabs on her. And report back to me.” He poured more whiskey.
“I’m already on it.”
“And you’re still checking the group?”
“Yup.”
“You sure?”
“Carl . . .”
“Okay, okay. It’s probably just my ex-wife. She clearly didn’t believe the sniper theory.” He gulped down the whiskey. “But you’re right about one thing. Any unnecessary attention is a threat. We need to be prepared.”
“For what?”
But Carl just shook his head. “You know? I think it’s time for you to go home now. I don’t want you around when Frances gets here. Let’s concentrate on the fracking bill.”
Vic nodded and picked up his coat, glad to escape his boss’s maelstrom. For now.
Carl had a third drink, but the typical numbness that alcohol brought didn’t work. He stalked into his office, a chic arrangement of Euro desk, chairs, and abstract art on the walls that never failed to impress his shitty little clients from third world countries. That was the point, wasn’t it? Look like you had the world by the balls. No problems. Nothing that couldn’t be resolved with a few hundred thousand.
His cell chirped. “Baldwin here . . .” He listened. “Good evening, Congressman Hyde. I was just talking about you with Vic. We’re ready to draft your legislation on fracking.”
He listened again. “Why not? I thought that was something you wanted to roll out as soon as possible.”
Carl stared at the glass of whiskey in his hand. “Really? You have a shot at replacing the attorney general? No shit. That’s terrific! What can we do to help?” He wet his lips with his tongue. “I see. Well, sure. We’ll wait to see what the subcommittee decides. When do you see that happening?” He paused. “Well, good luck, sir. I know you’ll be a fine addition to the cabinet.”
When the conversation was over Carl threw his cell on his desk and gulped the rest of the whiskey.