The Candidate (Romantic Suspense) (The Candidate Series) (24 page)

Ben woke up with a start. He looked at the clock on the bedstand. He’d only been asleep a few hours. In fact, it was six in the morning.

Good. Rafe Lennox would already be in his office. The new chairman of the Democratic Party was always the first one through the door at the party’s headquarters.

If anyone had a vested interest in breaking this story wide open, it was the opposition. 

He grabbed one of Digits’s untraceable cell phones and dialed the number he’d known by heart since he’d worked with his first candidate.

“Long time no see, you traitor,” Rafe said, after hearing Ben’s voice on the other end of the line.  His tone was light and certainly a bit condescending. “I guess this call means the prodigal son is now looking homeward.” 

Ben didn’t have time to play games. “I’ve got something I think you’ll want to hear. In fact, I’d suggest Bradley Cridge, Reuben Edelson, and Edgar Concha should also be in on this. I can be in your office in one hour.” 

“I presume you’ll make it worth our while?” Of course Rafe would ask that, considering that Ben had just asked that the Democratic Senate and House leaders, as well as the chairman of the Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs, be in attendance. 

“You’ll have to trust me. The repercussions will affect the party for years to come.”

Ben’s tone was all it took to convince Rafe. “I’ll tell Security not to toss you out on your ass when you get here.”

Ben left a note for Abby:
Stay here. Keep the door locked, and the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. I’ll bring food. Promise.

He had to stop himself from also writing that should anything go wrong, he hoped she knew he had a tremendous respect and love for her.

If he came back, he’d tell her that in person.

Chapter 50

As Ben laid out his story from beginning to end, he watched the expressions on the faces of Democratic Party leaders change from annoyed, to intrigued, to incredulous—

And then to wary.

Ben looked from one man to the other. “Look, I know it sounds far-fetched. One GOP presidential candidate is blown up by another, who also happens to be the sitting Vice President. To top it off, this nut job wants to blow up Las Vegas and pin it on an oil-rich country. It’s certainly a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.”

No one said a word.

“Here, in case you need a visual aid.” He pulled the printed files they’d taken from Digits’s place, and spread them out on the massive conference table. 

Gingerly the men picked through them. Ben watched the shock and awe on their faces as they sifted through the schematic that laid out the who, what, where, when and how exactly as it would play out: the photos of the supposed terrorists; the purchase of a ranch where a private hell had been built for them; even where the human bombs would be standing when the clock struck midnight.

The men’s eyes shifted from one to another. Finally Rafe spoke. “Listen, Ben, as tempting as it would be to knock the GOP presidential frontrunner on his ass prior to the election—
particularly
with a scandal involving treason—how do we know this stuff is legit?”

Ben smacked the table. “You didn’t just land in DC. For Christ sake, for years the rumors have been circulating about Talbot’s Ghost Squad—” 

“That’s just it,” Senator Cridge cut in. “It’s just a rumor. No one’s been able to verify it.”

Exasperated, Ben ran his hand through his hair. “Then send someone out to the ranch, to check it out. Find out who yanked those illegals off from immigration. Go to Digits’s apartment to—”

Congressman Edelson shrugged. “And we’re supposed to do this within the next sixty-eight hours?”

“Yes, Congressman! Party posturing aside, another part of your jobs is to prevent a terrorist attack on US soil! Thus far three men and one woman have given their lives, because they stood in the way of this scheme of Talbot’s. Gentlemen, the clock is ticking, so get your dicks out of your hands and do something.”

“That’s uncalled for, Mr. Brinker.” Senator Concha growled. “For that matter, how do we know this—this preposterous accusation isn’t just something you cooked up to fool us into making scurrilous accusations against the GOP frontrunner? If this crap is faked, we’ll look as if we’ve been duped by forgers. Or worse, we’ll be perceived as dirty tricksters ourselves.” His eyes narrowed as he leaned back. “Come clean. How much did Talbot pay you to slip this steaming bowl of shit our way, so he can watch us eat it in front of the press and the American public? Sucking on one GOP tit is no different from sucking on another, am I right?” 

Ben couldn’t believe his ears. It suddenly dawned on him, Either they’re too stupid to see the importance of stopping Operation Flamingo, or they’re too scared.

“Look Ben, you’ve got to admit that all of this does sound somewhat…well,
fantastical
. Considering the shock you’ve gone through, what with losing Mansfield and all, maybe it’s time to take a breather, a little vacation.” The tone in Rafe’s voice was meant for a six-year-old who was refusing to eat his vegetables, certainly not respectful of someone who had won every race he’d ever managed for these sons of bitches.

Enough of this shit, Ben thought. I guess my next stop is the
Post
.

“Gentlemen, your collective lack of courage is disappointing, to say the least. Come New Year’s Eve, should Operation Flamingo take place, that footnote in history you all so desperately covet will finally be yours. Granted, you won’t like how it reads, but then again, cowards rarely do.”

 Plucking the thumb drive out of Rafe’s hand, he scooped the pages off the table and headed out the door.

Smith had learned it was just as prudent to have friends in low places as to have them in the highest echelons of power.

There was no place lower than the bulk supply store used by the DNC, where it purchased everything it needed: pens, pads, staplers, and even American flag lapel pins for its Congressional members. 

In fact, as pleased as the DNC’s purchasing assistant was with the enormous discount Smith had arranged for her, she was gaga over its exclusive design. Besides being four-color cloisonné and 14-carat gold rimmed, the pins contained tiny microphones, which were monitored by Smith’s ghosts. 

No doubt about it, the Dems’ cheeky foibles kept his men in stitches. And every now and then, the mics dropped a solid gold sound bite right in Smith’s lap.

Like now, when Ben Brinker’s whereabouts were revealed, along with Senator Cridge’s obvious heart murmur.

But of course Brinker would have run to his old Dem buddies, Smith reasoned. And of course even if they’d found the accusation against Talbot believable, they’d deem it too hot to handle. Cridge, Edelson and Concha were only living up to their nicknames: See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Speak No Evil.

The only balls in the Sheeple’s Party could be found between the legs of the Party’s Congressional Majority Leader—who just so happened to be a woman.

Smith sent two ghosts to pick up Brinker. 

He also sent a text to Talbot suggesting that the GOP line up a strong candidate for Cridge’s seat, now that it seemed that the portly fellow wasn’t long for this world.

As he suspected, the Veep wrote back, asking if this untimely demise could take place, say, maybe a week prior to the absentee ballots going out.

Smith texted back:
Miracles do happen
.

Then he put it on his calendar.

He loved planning October surprises.

Norm Phister, proprietor of the Two Bits, the busiest shoeshine stand in the Capitol South Metro Station, was a guy who kept his head down. But that didn’t stop him from keeping his wits about him.  “Ben, ol’ boy, you know you’re being followed, right?” he murmured as he wiped down Ben’s chocolate brown Bally derbies. “Man, these shoes have been through hell—”

Ben shifted his newspaper so that he could look down at Norm without being seen from passersby. “Where are they?”

Norm didn’t even look up. “The tall drink of water on your left, and the broad shouldered short guy, slightly to the right, who keeps looking at his watch. Don’t look up now, or they’ll know you’re onto them. More than likely CIA. Look hard and you’ll see the ear buds.” 

Ben nodded slightly. “I’ve got to leave something behind. Can you hold onto it for me? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“For fifteen years I’ve been buffing your brogues. I’d say you’ve already paid off handsomely. That said, a five-star Yelp review wouldn’t hurt.”

“Consider it done.” Ben could have added
If I survive this,
but kept his mouth shut. “It’s a thumb drive. I’ll hand it over with a twenty. Put it somewhere safe, Norm. Many lives depend on it. I’m headed to the
Post
. Unless I, or a reporter with a specific codeword—‘waypoint’—shows up to collect it, hold onto it for dear life.”

Norm brushed the toe of Ben’s right shoe. “Then you better make the next Orange Line. It’ll be here in exactly fifteen seconds.”  

“Thanks,” Ben muttered. Then, as he jumped out of his chair, he said in a normal voice, “Looks great, guy! Here, keep the change.”

Ben’s generous tip earned him a hardy handshake. 

The ghosts were too busy hopping onto the same train car as Ben to notice the shoeshine man’s lightning speed sleight of hand as he slipped the thumb drive into  the polish tin farthest from the right on the lowest shelf of his shoe shine stand. Although marked POLISH - WHITE PATENT LEATHER. The polish was long gone, and had been, for many years.

To Norm’s disappointment, go-go boots weren’t making a comeback anytime soon. At least his nostalgia paid off for Ben.

There were six stops between the South Capitol Metro and the McPherson Square stations. Ben saw the two men. Both were dressed in suits, like most of the other downtown commuters, but their earpieces were the giveaway. 

Despite it being the week between Christmas and New Year’s, the platform was crowded. When the train stopped, everyone surged forward, including Ben.

Unfortunately, his stalkers were right behind him. 

For that matter, they were too close for comfort—almost within arm’s length.

He went for the door farthest to the right in the hope of scrambling onto another car at the very last second, but the number of passengers hopping off made it an impossible feat. He had nowhere to go but into the car, with his stalkers on his heels.

The car was jammed so tightly that it seemed natural for the men to stand directly behind him. So close, that they could breathe on his neck.

So close that one of them easily injected him with some drug.

He seemed to freeze in place, unable to shout, to move, to warn the other passengers staring off into space that their placid lives would soon change forever unless they could read the fear in his eyes and help him escape from his captors. But avoiding eye contact in mass transit is a skill that has been honed by too many, Ben among them.

Had he been a crazy man, shouting about bombs and terrorists, would someone had come to his aid? No. The subway cops would have leaped on him.