Every bad precedent originated as a justifiable measure.
Gaius Sallustius Crispus (86-35), Roman historian
Foster Heath Benoit III wheeled his powerful Mercedes sedan out of a long, tree-lined Grosse Pointe driveway, turned right onto Renaud and right again at Lakeshore Drive. Once he crossed from the posh confines of his suburb and onto Detroit’s broken pavement, it would become Jefferson Avenue. Heading to his office in the downtown Federal Building, he realized the FBI finally was becoming the burden his Grammy said it would become when he joined the Bureau.
If he was ever going to launch a political career—his real one, not just office politics—he was going to have to get moving.
The al-Taja case might be that ticket out of the gray government office and into a wood-paneled Senatorial suite. If he could lead the resolution of this case, or even just seem to have led it, he could leverage that public spotlight into anti-terror, anti-immigrant, pro-law enforcement screeds that could well ignite his campaign to higher office in America’s fractious political climate.
There were plenty of former FBI agents, CIA analysts, and military types who had leveraged their government careers into private-sector executive suites or plush federal offices, even without the smooth skill Benoit could bring to bear toward achieving his goals.
Not to mention a virtually bottomless family treasure chest with which to help pay for it.
The wealthy friends who fluttered in Benoit’s orbit often pestered him about his shrewd political ambitions. He was a publicly respected senior federal law enforcement agent, if privately scorned by those who knew him well. He had vast personal wealth, plus that coming to him in future years as parents and older relatives finally died.
His public service noblesse oblige had been satisfied, his friends said. Why, they asked him, did he want to squander his best years campaigning for a Washington politician’s job when he could much more easily stay home and just be rich? Do good deeds if you like, they said. You have the money, they said.
But Benoit’s larger plans included something his friends never considered. It would one day be a lot easier to run for president of the United States if he did it from a seat in the Senate, and not his mother’s cushy Grosse Pointe living room filled with famous, hideously expensive paintings, certificates of thanks from United Way, and uncomfortable furniture protected with form-fitting plastic slipcovers.
He pressed the phone icon on his steering wheel, spoke a dialing command, and in a moment, the ringing was replaced by a pert female voice.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, Detroit Field Office. How may I direct your call?”
“Frannie, it’s me,” Benoit said.
“Good morning, sir!” she said. Poor Frannie Demopolis was young and impressionable, fresh from college only a year ago and hoping to apply to the Bureau one day. Her ambition had led the receptionist to make poor decisions regarding the relationship with her boss. Such a poor decision, in fact, had been made again only the night before.
“Clear my calendar today. Reach out to Anderson at DHS and Prescott at ATF, and let’s see if we can get a lunch meeting today. My conference room, 11:30? Bring in lunch from the Rattler.”
He made the statement casually, but the two local federal agents who never refused a command performance from their FBI colleague would receive it differently. They believed he was going places, and it seemed to them that keeping Benoit happy now might be good for their careers later.
The Rattlesnake Club on River Place in Detroit was probably one of the two top restaurants in the city, neck and neck with The Whitney over on Woodward but without The Whitney’s woody charm. Benoit had hosted many parties at The Rattlesnake Club in private rooms, all paid for as office conferences by the taxpayers. He regularly had his office lunches catered in from there.
Even though a month’s exorbitant tab for such meals was far less than a rounding error in his checkbook, it gave him a quiet sense of entitlement to pay for them with a G-card, his government-issued credit card. He didn’t drive one of those ratty G-cars he was issued, but the credit card was different.
He was the special agent in charge of one of the top three FBI offices on Earth, and as such, he believed that everything he did was in service to his Bureau and his nation. He believed he was never off duty, which was nearly true. Because he was rarely officially off the time clock, the government credit card was used for nearly everything out of Benoit’s heartfelt sense of personal entitlement.
But with few exceptions—his car being one of them—in his private financial dealings he was the opposite, exhibiting the penurious spending habits often associated with very wealthy people that were not understood by people without money.
“Tell them we’ll go over the al-Taja matter, and to bring anything new they’ve learned. Remind Anderson that DHS still owes me their file on al-Taja.”
“Yes sir, I’ll do that immediately.”
He paused. “Are you up for another date tonight?” he asked.
“Yes sir. I’d do that immediately, too.”
Demopolis looked slyly around her desk to see if anyone was within earshot. Finding no one, her voice turned into molten lava.
“I’d do it right now in your office, if it didn’t have a glass door.”
“Excellent!” Benoit said, a little too fast. “I believe your energy and stamina can be put to great use by the FBI, both now and in the future.”
He was making a lame joke, the kind an older man will make to a younger woman when he’s nervous and trying to sound clever, but starry-eyed Frannie failed to grasp the humor.
She rang off the phone with her boss and speed-dialed the Detroit Department of Homeland Security number, then opened a new window on her computer to download an FBI application at last.