An FBI limo brought Spencer Nast to the 34th Street heliport on a barge in the Hudson River near the Javits Convention Center just before one o’clock. The driver got out and opened the rear door.
A sleek white Sikorsky S-76 with civilian markings but piloted by a pair of air force officers was warming up, ready to get down to Washington as quickly as possible, as soon as Nast was aboard. The limo and aircraft were SOP for high government officials needing to get somewhere in a hurry and discreetly.
“My bag from the trunk?” Nast asked, getting out.
The driver, who was a Bureau special agent, hesitated for just a moment, but nodded. He went to the other side of the car, got Nast’s bag out of the backseat, and brought it around.
Nast’s phone rang. “In the chopper, please,” he told the agent, and then answered the call. It was Sam Kolberg, the president’s chief of staff, whom Nast had thought from the beginning of the campaign was nothing but a royal pain in the ass.
“I’m at the Thirty-fourth Street heliport ready to take off, if that’s why you’re calling.”
“We’re waiting, Spencer, and the president is running out of patience.”
Nast bit back a sharp retort. Kolberg was technically his boss, but only technically. Reid Treadwell had been one of the president’s main donors, and Reid had recommended Nast as the president’s chief economic adviser.
Since Nast had political insulation, Kolberg could only retaliate in petty ways, like assigning the president’s chief economist to an office not in the West Wing but over in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, which was nothing but an ornate old pile of French Empire–style architecture.
“I’ll be landing on the White House lawn in less than two hours. Miller and Nichols will be there, and we can hash out our next moves.”
Kolberg started to object, but Nast held him off.
“It’s around midnight now in Beijing, and I seriously doubt that the Chinese will be doing anything at this hour. So just hold on to your Jockeys, Sam.”
The agent tossed Nast’s bag in the backseat of the helicopter.
“Betty Ladd gave me a call a few minutes ago,” Kolberg said.
Nast was about to start toward the chopper, but he pulled up short, his breath almost catching in his throat. “What’d she have to say?”
“You know that we’re old friends,” Kolberg said. “When she was over at Salomon Brothers getting her start, our law firm did business with her. In fact, I was assigned to do the work.”
Kolberg’s family law firm was one of the most prominent in San Francisco. Sam had gone to a third-tier school and graduated in the middle of his class, but since he was family, he got the position over law review grads from top schools such as Harvard who would have given their eyeteeth for it.
“When you were working for Betty, I was busting my hump for my Ph.D.—a real degree—at Penn State, existing on ramen noodles,” Nast shot back. He was actually proud of what he called his gritty background.
“I don’t have time for your bullshit class resentment,” Kolberg shot back. “Betty’s worried that you and Treadwell are thick as thieves, and she’s convinced that he’s trying to somehow make a buck off the China crisis. Is that true?”
“Give me a break, Sam.”
“Any truth to it?”
“For Christ’s sake, I had breakfast with Reid this morning. It’s my job, you know, to keep up my contacts with people on the Street. He used to be my boss—past tense—but I’m no longer privy to his business plans. I’m the president’s economic adviser, not a Burnham Pike employee.”
“Word is you’re going back as soon as you leave Washington. Maybe a good idea to keep your finger in the pot?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. Maybe go back to teaching, or maybe stick around for a second term,” Nast said. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Sam? The two of us together for another four?”
“I’ll discuss it with the president.”
“He and Reid are fast friends, you know. Campaign contributions, support in lots of the right places. And it’s not likely to end next year.” Nast hesitated, loving this. “I don’t think that Reid would care to hear that someone was spreading rumors.”
Kolberg said nothing, and Nast ended the call.
The pilot opened his door. “We have clearance, sir,” he shouted.
“Stand by, I need to make a call first,” Nast said.
“Sir, we have onboard comms.”
Nast turned his back on the man and speed-dialed Dammerman’s cell. The COO answered on the first ring.
“Are you on your way to D.C.?”
“I’m at the heliport now. I just got a call from Sam Kolberg, who told me Betty Ladd talked to him about us. Frankly, what the woman is doing is getting me worried.”
“Son of a bitch. How the hell does she know Kolberg?”
“They’re old pals. But what’s Reid’s take on the situation? Are we still good to go?”
“She’s got her thing for him, but she has nothing except her bullshit suspicions.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Take it easy. She’s been after Reid all day, and she even had a face-to-face with Julia.”
“Jesus, Clyde, what the hell was that all about?”
“Trust me, everything is under control. Just take care of your end in Washington. Okay, pal?”
Dammerman was Nast’s closest ally at BP, and had been from the beginning. They’d both come from blue-collar neighborhoods in the New York area: Dammerman from Queens and Nast from Garfield in Jersey.
Dammerman had been a street-corner tough, Nast a bookworm whose only social interaction in high school was the chess club.
But both of them had fought their way tooth and nail to Wall Street prominence.
“To tell the truth, Clyde, I’d rather stay here in New York when it all goes down. The guys around Farmer are going to have nervous breakdowns. It won’t be pretty. Or safe. They’re going to want someone to blame, and I’m the one in the catbird seat.”
“Exactly why we want you down there. When the shit hits the fan, you need to keep your boss thinking that he’s in charge, keep his people from looking our way. Once the dust has settled, the Chinese will get the rap, and we’ll be home free. We just have to get past the first few hours after the opening bell. Trust me, we’re going to end up heroes.”
“Okay, I’m on my way,” Nast said.
“What about your pals Nichols and Miller? Can you keep them in line?”
“We’re all meeting in the Oval Office as soon as I get down there. Right now they’re focused on the China thing, just like everyone else. I’m going to give them a plan that’ll never go through but will sound good to the American public.” And make me a hero, he thought.
“Less than twenty-four hours now, Spence,” Dammerman said. “Stay the course.”