BAR HARBOR, MAINE
Kyle Paulsen stepped into the kitchen and reached around his wife for the coffeepot. He was a tall, fit man in his mid-seventies. “Is Shit-Kickers here yet?”
“Kyle,” she chastised. “I wish you wouldn’t call Senator Wilson that.”
“First of all, it’s ex-Senator Wilson, and secondly, he works for me. I get to call him whatever I want.”
“If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever understand the pleasure you take in torturing that man.”
“He’s a swamp creature, Elaine. From the moment he emerged from his mother’s womb, he’s had one hand reaching out for payoffs, the other for power, and all the while crying for attention.”
“But still.”
“But nothing. During his two terms in the Senate, did things in this country get better or worse?”
Elaine Paulsen rolled her eyes. “I know a rhetorical question when I hear one.”
“Yes or no?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know exactly where I stand on all of this. Morally and culturally, I think we’ve slipped—a lot. That being the case, Gregory Wilson is just one man. He was one out of a hundred Senators. The blame doesn’t rest squarely with him.”
“No, but he’s a good place to start.”
“The voters are another,” she replied. “People get the government they deserve.”
“True,” said Kyle Paulsen. “His replacement is a considerable improvement.”
“Why did you hire Senator Wilson, then?”
“Because swamp creatures prefer to work with their own. If I go down to Capitol Hill, all they see is a big, fat checkbook. They’ll mind their manners, put on an air of false piety, and tell me whatever they think it’ll take to get their hands on my money.
“But when Shit-Kickers goes to the Hill, his fellow Congresscritters see one of their own. Wilson speaks their language. Even out of office, he’s still a comrade in arms to them, a coconspirator who isn’t afraid of getting his hands, or anything else, dirty.”
Elaine paused, trying to come up with something positive about the former Senator. “You have to admit, he has always been quite conversant in the Constitution.”
“That’s always been an act. Boob bait for his rube voters. He used to carry a pocket version with him just in case there was a camera and then, faster than you could say ‘Slick Willy Wilson,’ he’d whip it out. It’s a wonder he never developed a permanent case of bullshit elbow from it. Most transparent person in the Senate. Ever.”
“And yet here he is, pulling into our driveway,” Mrs. Paulsen observed, pointing out the kitchen window.
“I’ll be in my study,” said Mr. Paulsen as he splashed some creamer into his coffee. “Don’t let him talk your ear off at the front door. He thinks he’s a real charmer, that one.”
“I will speak with the Senator for as long as I please. He traveled all the way up here. There should be at least one bright spot in his visit.”
“That’s always been your problem, Elaine. You’re too nice. Especially to the help.”
“And your problem is that you’re never happy unless you’re complaining about something. Now, take your coffee and get out of my kitchen,” she teased. “I’ll show the Senator in.”
True to her word, Mrs. Paulsen took her time visiting with former Senator Wilson, who insisted, as he always did, that she call him “Greg.” By the time she delivered him to her husband’s study, Kyle Paulsen was convinced that his wife had been dragging out the small talk with Wilson just to piss him off.
When the man finally entered his study, Paulsen remained behind his desk and let Wilson come to him.
“Good to see you again, Kyle,” said Wilson as he stepped into the richly appointed room.
Rolling ladders with shiny brass fittings fronted mahogany bookcases stuffed with leatherbound editions. Oil paintings depicting scenes of whaling and other eighteenth-century seafaring life hung in heavy, gilded frames. The floors were covered with insanely expensive Persian carpets fit for a sheikh.
But the room’s focal point, the feature that most took visitors’ breath away, was the gigantic picture window overlooking Frenchman Bay. From it, you could see everything from the Egg Rock Lighthouse to the Porcupine Islands and beyond.
In front of the window was an antique telescope and next to it a collection of navigation equipment—sextants and compasses, many of them hundreds of years old.
Pictures of the couple’s children and grandchildren were everywhere. They had a large family.
“Greg,” said Paulsen, accepting the man’s hand.
“I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again,” Wilson remarked. “You have the best office I have ever seen.”
The older man ignored the compliment. He also ignored the former southern Senator’s ever-present cowboy boots, which he despised and normally took a shot at. Right now, something else had totally gripped his attention. “What the hell happened to your teeth?”
“My teeth?” replied Wilson, his hand self-consciously rising to cover his mouth before he caught himself, lowered it back down, and smiled. “I had them whitened. What do you think? They say it knocks ten years off your appearance.”
“I don’t know who they are, but whatever you were charged, you got ripped off.”
Wilson fought to keep his temper under control. He couldn’t stand this cantankerous motherfucker. The man never had a single kind word to say about anything. If he wasn’t bitching about Wilson’s boots, it was about his beard—and now he’d found a new target: his teeth.
Whoever said that money couldn’t buy happiness was one hundred percent correct. Despite his vast fortune, Kyle Paulsen was one of the unhappiest people he had ever met.
Like most Americans who had built generational wealth, Paulsen’s story was about being in the right place at the right time, with the right idea—even if it was in an incredibly boring business.
Paulsen had come up with a formula for asphalt paving that was resistant to cracking and allowed for a much-lengthened life span. The only people who didn’t think his product was absolutely brilliant were the state and local crews paid to fill potholes. Everyone else loved it.
As was typical with a good chunk of the uberwealthy, the more money they had, the smarter they thought they were, which invariably led them to want to play in the ultimate competitor sport—politics.
Some strapped the armor on, climbed into the arena, and ran for elected office. Others accepted a government position based upon how much money they had helped an administration raise. The rest poured money in from the sidelines hoping to influence policy and legislation. Kyle Paulsen was a member of the third category of political players.
He had a long list of initiatives he wanted to see achieved in the next session of Congress, which was why Wilson had flown up to sit down with him. It was an aggressive agenda. As the man in Washington responsible for helping Paulsen achieve his goals, he wanted to make sure that they were on the same page and setting realistic expectations.
Having learned a long time ago that he wouldn’t be offered a seat, Wilson sat himself down in one of the leather chairs in front of Paulsen’s desk, removed a thick binder from his briefcase, and pulled a pen from his suitcoat pocket.
“There’s going to be a narrow majority in the House,” he said, flipping to a page of recent notes and getting right to business. “The Senate is up for grabs, but I think it’ll break in our direction. With that in mind, my recommendation would be that we pick three major items and focus on them like a laser. What did you have in mind?”
Paulsen leaned forward, fists on his desk. “Ukraine. Ukraine. Ukraine. How about that for three major items?”
It wasn’t exactly what Wilson meant, but it was a start. “Can you be more specific?”
“No more weapons. No more money. And we criminalize the actions of any American who goes over there to fight. I don’t care if they’ve got a Bronze Star, a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, or the yellow rose of fucking Texas between their teeth: our tax dollars went to train them so that they could defend the United States, not some corrupt nation halfway around the world that most Americans can’t even find on a goddamn map.
“That war, if you even want to call it that, is between Ukraine and Russia—not us. We didn’t start it and it’s not our responsibility to stop it. It’s a quagmire. We learned nothing in Vietnam and even less in Afghanistan. With every day that passes, we’re getting sucked deeper and deeper into the mess. Very soon, we’re going to wake up to find ourselves in an all-out hot war with Russia. It’ll be World War III and the fact that I can say ‘I told you so’ won’t make a damn bit of difference to my children and my grandchildren. This insanity has to stop. Right fucking now.”
The old man was on a tear this morning, which was fine by Wilson. The more fired up he was, the easier he was to manipulate. “So, no China initiatives? No farm subsidies or border policy issues?”
“In case you’ve suddenly been struck deaf, I want you to read my lips,” the old man snarled. “Our focus is going to be Ukraine, Ukraine, Ukraine. Everything else is on the back burner. Understand me?”
“I hear you loud and clear,” Wilson replied, making a few notes in his binder. “Let’s talk about practicality. The bulk of the lethal aid getting ready to ship was passed by the last Congress. We’re not going to be able to claw that back. Financing is a different issue. There’s some room there for us to have a significant impact.
“Where I really think you’re onto something, however, is this idea of U.S. citizens being legally prohibited from fighting. The United Kingdom has legislation making it illegal for British nationals to fight over there as well as to assist others who are engaged in the conflict.”
“And we need to stop sending over current and prior U.S. military members to help train the Ukrainians,” Paulsen added. “I don’t care if those morons in Washington have committed new weapons systems or not. Let the Ukrainians learn how to read the fucking manuals. With every American that enters that country, we are one step closer to war with Russia.”
“We definitely do not want war with Russia,” said Wilson. “I think that’s an excellent place from which to build common ground up on the hill.”
Paulsen shook his head. “Fuck common ground. I want you to go scorched earth on anyone who gets in your way. Opposition research, blackmail… you practice whatever dark arts you need to make this happen.”
“That could get pretty expensive.”
“I don’t care. I have more money than my family will ever be able to spend. This is about the safety and future of our country.”
Wilson loved where this was going. He had spent a lot of time getting Paulsen to this point and it was turning out to be worth every insult he had been suffered to endure.
“And something else,” the old man added. “I want a list of everyone on our side who attempts to get in the way.”
“What for?”
“We’re going to set up a new PAC, stuffed to the rafters with money, to field challengers and to make sure that they lose their next primary.”
It just kept getting better—like hitting the lottery over and over again in the same day. Paulsen was a diamond-encrusted bulldozer and Wilson was in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t wait to get back to D.C. and get started.
But he couldn’t leave, not just yet. He needed to make sure Paulsen felt he had gotten his money’s worth from the visit.
There were also a few more items on his hidden agenda, the things his handler had specifically asked for, that he needed to secure before leaving. Once he had those tasks completed, he could head back to D.C. and maybe even do a little celebrating.