THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 2:22 P.M.
ASPEN, COLORADO
Senator David Traynor steps out of the midnight-blue Gulfstream G650 into the sting of Colorado winter. The pain feels good.
It is Thursday afternoon. The second of two listless hearings of the Oosay Committee ended yesterday. Traynor couldn’t wait to get out of Washington. He’d thought he could use a seat on this committee to protect Jim Nash from a witch hunt, and, admittedly, enjoy some of the limelight. But the whole committee thing has proven more of a crap fest than even Traynor expected. Over the last two days, they’d listened to one frightened survivor of Oosay, a man named Adam O’Dowd, who was too damaged to say much of anything, and a second, Garrett Franks, who was too disciplined to say much more. They’d been stonewalled by the director of the CIA and gotten the runaround from the head of the DIA.
Honestly, Traynor could hardly blame them. These people hate talking to Congress in the best of times, and these, children, were not the best of times. Clearly something had gone hugely sideways in Morat. And the generals and spymasters were not going to confess their mistakes to Congress, the most broken, polarized part of government. Even the national security people who didn’t much like Jim Nash weren’t going to give knuckleheads on the Hill more opportunity to exercise control over them. The whole thing, Traynor thinks, feels false and ritualistic. He couldn’t wait to get away.
Philippe Benoit, the former Paris cop who looks after the Aspen house, has the SUV waiting on the tarmac. Traynor and his bodyguard, Scott Souder, get in and Benoit makes the six-minute drive. Traynor designed the house in Aspen, a combination of bungalow style and cowboy chic, after Will Rogers’s place in Los Angeles. It’s his favorite getaway.
The housekeeper, Carmelita, is making ropa vieja for dinner, and Traynor can smell the rich aroma of seasoned beef. He has meetings with strategists and donors later this evening, but no one is expected for a couple hours. Souder goes to take a nap.
“He here?” Traynor asks.
Carmelita points the chef’s knife in her hand toward the south yard.
Traynor pours two glasses of small-batch rye, grabs two cigars, and heads outside. In one of two Adirondack chairs pointed to capture the view of the Roaring Fork River basin sits an older man in blue jeans, a cowboy hat, and boots.
“Alligator?” Traynor says, looking down at the boots.
The cowboy hat makes a slow, deliberate turn, and the man underneath it looks up.
“Yep.”
“Jesus, Jimmy, what are those, eight thousand dollars? Spend your money on something worthwhile.”
“Five thousand. And it’s mostly your money.”
Traynor sits down and hands the man a tumbler of rye followed by a Cuban cigar and a box of small wooden matches.
“While we’re on the subject of my money, how do I know you’re not hacking into it to cover your boot addiction?”
A grin forms under the cowboy hat. “Number one, the security system would tell you instantly. I should know. I built it. Number two, I’m not stupid enough to try. My own people would catch me.”
Traynor takes a sip of rye, which burns pleasingly on its way down.
“What are we doing here, David?” Jimmy asks.
“We’re not having a conversation.”
That gets a doubtful look from Jimmy.
“We’re not having this conversation,” Traynor clarifies.
Jimmy’s cowboy hat nods up and down. “We’ve had a lot of those. What is this one not about?”
“Can your people get into the House of Representatives server? Is that system secure?”
Jimmy gets very still.
“Is it?” Traynor repeats.
“Those are two different questions. Is it secure? Hardly. If the Chinese can get into the fucking federal Office of Personnel Management, and the Russians can get into the Democratic National Committee, I can assure you they can get into the House server.”
“And?”
“Will I hack it? It’s just not worth it. Congress is the leakiest institution in the United States. Everything about it is public eventually.”
“Well, since we’re not having this conversation, let’s say someone wanted to anyway.”
Jimmy takes a deep breath and an exhale of steam rises into the air from under the hat.
“Look, business competitors used to hack us all the time, right?” Traynor says. “And if they did, we hacked them back, right?”
Jimmy doesn’t answer.
“The point is to let them know you hacked them. It’s the threat that matters. You’re trying to make them feel vulnerable.”
“Congress ain’t some business competitor,” Jimmy says.
“The hell it isn’t.”
Jimmy frowns and then makes a counteroffer.
“Do a few personal accounts, Senator. Some key people. But not their congressional email.” He is warming to his own suggestion. “You’ll probably get better shit that way, if you pick the right people.”
Traynor is looking into the gorge. “So, you’ll do it?”
“We’re not having this conversation,” Jimmy warns, as if he would ever answer that question directly.
Traynor takes another sip of rye.
“No fingerprints, Jimmy. Do it from Ukraine or someplace. A country that ends in ‘stan.’”
The alligator boots cross and uncross nervously.
“And I need it fast. Next week.”
“Goddamn you, David. You are one fucked-up dude.”
“I promise you, only good will come of it. Only good.”
The cowboy hat tilts backward and Jimmy puts a cigar to his mouth, strikes one of the little wooden matches, and sets about lighting the cigar in the cold.