WASHINGTON, DC: 19 months before the election
Stanton was a creature of habit.
The congressman left his Georgetown home every morning at 6:30. If not at a breakfast fundraiser somewhere on K St., he enjoyed a private breakfast meeting in the lobby of the Capital Hilton, usually with a fellow Republican, a lobbyist, or both. The handshake greeting, the serious talk over orange juice and oatmeal, the handshake goodbye. And usually the exchange of an envelope containing a campaign check or two. Every morning.
He arrived at his office in the Capitol no later than 8:15, and spent the rest of the morning there, doing official government work. Lunch took place in the Members’ Dining Room, catching up with colleagues—in many ways, the most important part of his job.
After lunch, Stanton walked a few blocks to a non-descript building on Ivy Street. He was usually joined by any number of colleagues, often traveling in packs, heading away from the stunning edifices of the congressional campus to this bland, windowless location throughout the day, sometimes multiple times per day.
Inside the building, known as “the Bunker,” rows of phone cubicles host politician after politician as they dial for dollars. In and out they come, some for thirty minutes, some for several hours, all depending on that day’s vote schedule back in the Capitol. Each politician is accompanied by a twenty-something staffer lugging binders. Their collective assignment: calling through lists of donors back home and begging for campaign contributions.
The calls from the Bunker are not long, friendly conversations. That would defeat the purpose. To ensure effective fundraising, each call time session is tracked for its efficiency, measured by dollar raised per minute. To maximize that ratio, each staffer dials a number, asks the person who answers to wait a few moments, the politician wraps up another phone call, and is handed the second phone. The staffer then starts dialing a new prospect with the other phone. And they keep switching. Quick calls. Little small talk. Constant dialing. Rapid-fire asking.
Stanton preached the same sermon all the time, especially to new members: If the single greatest risk to your congressional career is a willingness to work across the aisle (which invites a primary challenge in a gerrymandered district), the second greatest is failing to master, with gusto, the dialing for dollars process within the Bunker. Every six months, if your totals are not where they need to be, the pundits will deem you vulnerable, and your colleagues and caucus leaders will consider you lazy. Those labels invite viable opponents into either your primary or general election, and discourage your own party from digging in to help when you need it. To avoid this fate, whenever you have a moment, you hustle to the Bunker and get to work.
Hence the steady stream of visitors all day long.
Unlike the typical Bunker visitor, Stanton had a permanent, personalized calling cubicle. And he didn’t simply call home to Philadelphia donors. The minority whip spent his hours calling the largest donors in the nation, raising dollars in huge chunks for the Republican Caucus. He usually wrapped up at the Bunker around 4:30.
Then a round of in-person fundraisers began. Stanton would pop into three or four each evening, supporting his members as they scratched together the special interest dollars that flooded the Beltway. Even a brief appearance by Stanton paid dividends, a seal of approval that the candidate enjoyed his support, and was therefore worth investing in.
After the events, usually around 8:30, Stanton headed back to the Capital Grille for a late dinner and drinks, reviewing political gossip and rumors with his closest advisers, friends, and colleagues. And then he’d head home around 10:00, dropped off in front of his front door by the black Suburban.
But his night was not quite over.
About fifteen minutes after he entered his home, the Suburban would return. This time, it would enter the garage to drop off that night’s visitor. But the congressman liked to sleep alone. So at about 1:00 a.m., the garage door opened again, and the car shepherded the now disheveled guest away.
With that departure, the congressman’s daily routine ended.
Six hours later, it began again.
* * *
“The man does nearly the same thing every day.”
Kazarov’s goons had reported back to London about Stanton’s every move. And by day three of tailing him, they managed to get a bug on the congressman’s leather briefcase, the one he clung to everywhere he went.
From that point on, two Kazarov security specialists listened to Stanton’s every conversation and meeting. While they heard a lot—deals with donors, plots with pols, off-the-record leaks to reporters, late-night activities where the young women seemed to do all the work—what they didn’t hear was any talk whatsoever about his Abacus visit. It was as if he had never been there at all.
Two thousand miles away, Kazarov interpreted Stanton’s silence optimistically.
“We will keep listening, but he doesn’t plan to stop us,” he told Andersson.
* * *
“Did you want me to do any more research on that Abacus company?”
Stanton tried answering but was at a loss for words. An uncommon occurrence. So he simply stared back at her.
“It’s just so strange that they’re in all the districts we’ve been targeting in recent years,” his young researcher said. “I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence.”
Speechless for a few more seconds, Stanton responded carefully.
“When I asked them about that, they said their focus is on rural areas. Those happen to have a lot of the swing districts.”
“Happen to?” she said with a forced chuckle. “It’s as if they purposely targeted those districts. They don’t seem to be anywhere else. Doesn’t make a lot of sense to me unless they’re up to no good.”
She then went a step further.
“Did they say anything else when you were there? Who is DMI in the first place? Why would they have bought a dying company?”
Stanton cut her off, hoping a little anger would throw her off the trail.
“We’ve got so many things to do, Joanie,” he snapped. “Chasing down conspiracy theories is the last thing we need to waste time on.”
She still seemed unmoved.
It was getting close to 1:00, so he was too tired to argue further. She’d be leaving any minute anyway.
But this was a concern.
He had seen enough on his Abacus visit to guess what the company was up to. And after several days of weighing his options, he had concluded that there was little he should do to disrupt it. In fact, telling anyone would be a risk. If the plot he suspected took place, that person would know he knew. Even worse, he or she may try to stop it.
But now someone knew.
He would have to keep a close eye on her.