Columbia Country Club, Chevy Chase, Maryland
IF THERE WAS A downside to Reginald Pyne’s job, it was the hours. After a highly lucrative career, he’d played golf five days a week working on the relationships necessary to move up the political ladder. Now he played once a week, if he was lucky.
He had joined his usual Saturday foursome early that morning, monitoring the events of the day on his iPhone as he moved across the fairway in his signature pastel pink polo with popped collar. Though the use of cell phones was prohibited on the exclusive club’s property and calls were usually restricted to members inside their cars, Pyne’s position meant that he could bend the rules for official business related to national security.
Pyne shot well that day, scoring only two over par according to his scorecard. He’d picked his ball up once and kicked it out of the rough a few times, but didn’t everybody? After a kale salad lunch in the grill overlooking the eighteenth green, he headed for the indoor pool, glancing at his watch as he walked through the sliding glass doors to confirm that he was on time. A lone figure was rhythmically swimming laps, his body gliding through the water in long, powerful freestyle strokes.
Pyne took a seat on one of the padded wicker chaise lounges and waited patiently for the man to finish his workout.
The swimmer emerged from the pool, paying Pyne no notice as he ascended the steps and pulled off his goggles. He wrapped one towel over his Speedo and picked up a second before taking a seat on the chair across from his visitor.
Grant Larue was tall and relatively fit for a man in his sixties, the result of his daily pool workouts. Still, a paunch of belly fat he couldn’t quite defeat dangled over the towel as he turned his attention to the president’s chief of staff.
Larue was a D.C. lobbyist whose primary clients were overseas companies, mainly Russian. Larue played by the rules and was paid handsome retainers by businesses based in the largest country in the world. This also gave him plenty of reasons to meet with Russian businessmen on a regular basis.
Pyne had first met Larue through a tobacco industry campaign to counter anti-smoking efforts in Russia. The two Washington power players had formed a long and mutually beneficial relationship over the years. In exchange for information from the executive branch, Pyne would have a soft spot to land as a partner in Grant’s lobbying firm after the next election. Quid pro quo.
“How was your swim, Grant?”
“Refreshing as always,” the older man responded, toweling off his short gray hair. “What is it that brings you off the greens?”
“Just a quick chat. I have some information that might be of use to you.”
“Shoot.”
“It seems that one of your Russian friends has a problem with a Montana family, last name of Hastings. There was a big shoot-out at their ranch, and someone grabbed their youngest daughter in Romania. Word is they’ve taken her to some island in the Bering Sea and that her brother, a Navy SEAL of all things, has somehow joined her. Sounds like one of your friends is there with them both.”
Larue stopped drying himself. “I’m listening.”
“You should also know that the CIA wanted to launch a hostage rescue mission and I put the kibosh on it.”
“My business associates will appreciate that.”
“That’s not all. Given the personalities involved, I wouldn’t be surprised if these deplorables try to go it alone. Your people should be ready.”
“How credible?”
“They’re former spec ops types, SEALs and whatnot. They have money behind them so they may actually have the resources to pull off an attack, a rescue, or whatever you call it.”
Grant rubbed his angular chin, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
“Understood.”
“Do you, Grant? I want to make sure we are absolutely clear here. Your associates, they need to get rid of these Hastings people and make sure the bodies are never found. I don’t need the president getting all patriotic on me. No evidence.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Pyne, even for you.”
“I just want to avert World War III.”
“If they are still alive, I can assure you they will not be for long. It will be as if they never set foot in Russia.”
“Good.”
“My friends will not forget your discretion when your man is out of office.”
“I’m counting on that,” Pyne responded as he rose to leave. “Let’s do lunch one of these days.”
“Let’s do that.”
Absolute power.