The Candidate (Romantic Suspense) (The Candidate Series) (3 page)

“Nothing to forgive.” Because he knew she was right. In this town you were judged by the company you kept.

And right now Ben had no friends. 

Then he remembered Andrew Mansfield’s offer.

Chapter 3

“If Mansfield offers you a job, you’d be a fool to turn it down.” 

Supreme Court Justice Roberta Gordon was knee deep in manure—literally—and loving it. Mulching her organic garden with the stuff was her favorite way to pass a blustery winter weekend. 

And because Ben would always appreciate everything she’d done for him, he hung in there with her, even though the stench was nearly intolerable. 

While a college freshman at Berkeley, he had worked on Roberta’s first campaign for California state attorney general. By her third term in that position, he was advising her re-election bid, along with the campaigns of a half-dozen other politicians in the state. It was during that term that she had been nominated for a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. 

In time Ben’s own successes also brought him to Washington. Many of the candidates he’d worked for had heard about him from Roberta, who sang Ben’s praises to anyone who asked. 

His loyalty to her was just as steadfast. In fact, she was the only politician he’d ever truly come to trust. 

Sadly, she was also the only woman who’d earned his trust. Which was why he’d asked her, on numerous occasions, to just name the day and he’d marry her. 

Without fail, she’d blush at the thought, then mutter, “Why Benjamin Brinker, I’m old enough to be your mother! Besides, if I wanted my very own boy toy, I’d certainly choose someone a bit younger—although your upper body definition isn’t bad for someone of your age. That said, you’ve only yourself to blame if you can’t find a woman who’ll put up with you.” 

Today though, instead of debating their chances of marital bliss, she kept him focused on a topic he refused to take seriously: why he should take Andy Mansfield up on his offer to run his campaign. 

He knew she meant business when she dumped a wheelbarrow of cow dung onto the rosebushes then clapped her hands to indicate that it was his duty to spread it around. “Seriously, Ben, when did you give up believing that candidates should stand for something? Otherwise you’re no better than a K Streeter, or a beltway bandit.” 

“Ouch, Roberta! That’s cruel.”

“The truth hurts more than a smack upside the head. Although lately I’ve been tempted to give you the latter.”  Her smile faded. “You couldn’t do any better than Andy Mansfield. And let’s face it: he certainly votes with more care than a lot of our clan.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Gingerly he patted the manure around a bush tagged Pink Double Knock Out. If she insisted on these hands-on tête-à-têtes, the very least she could do was provide a facemask. As it was, the only thing that saved him from heaving his Five Guys burger into the dung heap were the thick gloves she’d tossed his way. He smiled slyly. “Why are you so enthralled with this guy, anyway? You can break it to me gently: Should I be jealous?”

“Ha! You just wish someone would sweep me off my feet so you’d be off the hook.” Dusting the dirt from her sleeves, she stood up and surveyed his handiwork. The glint in her eye told him he could now plop down on one of the two sun-bleached Adirondacks and pour himself a hot toddy from the thermos on the side table. “Besides, Mansfield is head over heels in love with that sweet Vandergalen heiress he married, so that will never happen.” 

At least with Mansfield I won’t have to worry about bimbo eruptions, thought Ben.

 “I’ll bet you didn’t know that he’s the only member of this Congress who has ever argued a case in front of the Supreme Court, and won.” Roberta took a satisfying sip.

“Ha. No wonder you’re so high on the dude.”

 “Darn tootin’ I’m high on him. During his summation, he was succinct, reverential, and quite persuasive. He even had our esteemed chief justice eating out of his hand.” She shook her head, marveling. “It was about two years before he was elected senator. The case revolved around a convicted alien’s rights: some guy from Venezuela who’d had the misfortune to get arrested driving a stolen car. Turned out the car had been stolen by his employer, but they were going to deport the Venezuelan anyway. The suit was filed against the U.S. Attorney General’s office.” 

“Interesting that the client was Venezuelan. That was right before Padilla toppled Chávez’s handpicked goon, wasn’t it? I would have guessed that a boy scout like Mansfield wouldn’t have taken it on. Considering Talbot needs his own Axis of Evil, Venezuela gives our creepy veep a great place to start. He’s made it his mission to crucify anyone Venezuelan—that is, until his puppet dictator was in place.”

“That’s why you two would make such a great team. I’m just being selfish.” Roberta pulled off her gloves. “Ben, I have something to tell you, in the strictest confidence. I’m leaving the bench. I’m turning in my resignation on New Year’s Eve.”

Ben dropped the manure with a thud. “But you love the court! You were meant to be there, Roberta. The way it stands now, you’re its moral compass.”

Roberta laughed. “That is certainly kind of you to say. But sadly, the doctors give Mother just six months to live. She raised me on her own, Benjamin. We didn’t have a pot to piss in, but she worked day and night so that I could finish college, and then continue on to law school. This is the least I can do for her. All the more reason I should leave now, while Barksdale is still president. Should the vice president take his place…” 

She was too upset to finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to. He knew what she meant.

It was why she was pushing so hard for Mansfield.

Roberta stood directly in front of the December sun. It radiated around her like a halo. 

How appropriate, he thought. She’s an archangel seeking justice for all mankind. 

 “Why not help elect a man who follows his own convictions? Maybe he’ll rub off on you a little. Remember, Benjamin, in the final analysis it’s not the party; it’s the candidate and his platform. Consider it your shot at redemption.” She pointed to the manure. “Now, no more lollygagging! It’s time to mulch the hydrangeas.”

——————————

Venezuela’s Padilla Nationalizes USCo Oil

After Failed Takeover

12/31 - CARACAS (Reuters) – Venezuela’s president, Manolo Padilla, announced today that he has nationalized USCo Oil Corporation’s multibillion-dollar investments in the country’s massive Orinoco reserve.

Whereas four other oil companies have agreed to negotiate deals involving current and future participation in projects based in Venezuela, USCo, the United States’ largest oil producer, refused to sign an accord that, in effect, would have transferred operations of the six heavy crude upgrading projects to Padilla’s Ministry of Petroleum.

The Venezuelan president also ruled out paying cash compensation, or buying the debt they took on to develop the projects. 

——————————

Chapter 4

It was Vice President Talbot’s idea, and Smith had to admit, it was sheer genius: Whenever the two men had the need to talk, the vice president gave Carl, his usual Secret Service driver, the day off. Then he had his assistant, Eloise, call in Mr. Smith as Carl’s substitute. Having once been in the Service (Presidential Protection Detail, in fact) and the Agency, Smith already had all the necessary security clearances. 

There, in the privacy of Talbot’s armored limo, the two discussed anything they wanted. On that crisp, frigid first morning of the New Year, the topic at hand was the undoing of a government.

 Specifically, that of Venezuela’s dictator, Manolo Padilla. 

Since Padilla’s ousting of USCo Petroleum that morning, Mr. Smith had been anticipating the vice president’s call. That Talbot had waited until that evening had demonstrated unusual restraint on his part.

“Already the old men are on the warpath! Do you know how much of a financial loss this means? And trust me, it’s not just the USCo holdings that are at stake here.” Talbot’s breathing was labored. Whenever he was upset, like now, he paused between words. 

What a sniveling pussy, Smith thought, but he kept his mouth shut and let the other man rant. The limo, flanked front, back and on both sides by the usual battalion of black SUVs loaded down with Talbot’s Secret Service detail, was supposed to be on its way to the White House, where he was to join Mrs. Talbot, who was already with the president and his family, ringing in the New Year. But at Talbot’s behest, Smith went by way of the National Mall. Talbot’s favorite monument was the Lincoln Memorial. It gave Smith a chuckle to think of the vice president attempting to channel Honest Abe.

“That bastard Padilla has started the process of cutting us off from our oil supply! The Chinese are filling the void in purchasing it quite handily. He’s taking all those yuans and buying guns from those Russian whores, as if it’s World War III already! And considering how the rest of South America feels about his oil—and about us–he won’t have any problem carrying out that little fantasy.” Talbot leaned forward and lowered his voice to a hiss. “And if he does, Smith, it’s all your fault. If I remember correctly, when we liberated Venezuela from Maduro, it was you who suggested that we lend him our support, and all that implies.”

Smith blinked, but said nothing. He’d anticipated that accusation since the moment Talbot had squeezed his stocky girth into the backseat of the limo. Someone else was always the fall guy, right? Well, unfortunately for Talbot, Smith wasn’t going to fall on his sword, let alone put a bullet behind his own ear. And Talbot knew better than to sell him out.

If he ever tried, Smith had a few insurance policies to cover that scenario.

 “Something’s got to be done about it immediately.” Talbot leaned back with a grunt. “In fact, the timing couldn’t be better, now that the mid-terms are over.”

“We’ll never be able to take him out in some covert op. He knows us too well.” 

“You’re disappointing me.” Talbot met Smith’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I don’t mean to. I’m just leveling with you. It will take something different this time.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“If the incident that precludes our takeover were to happen here, on American soil—”

Talbot cringed. “What, are you nuts?”

“Hear me out: A ‘terrorist act’ with Padilla’s fingerprints all over it will ensure that our invasion of Venezuela has the full blessing of the American people, the Congress, and the world.” He turned to face Talbot. “And if you’re the squeaky wheel warning about it throughout the election cycle–”

“No! Too devastating...Should anyone find out—besides, the old men wouldn’t like it, either.”

Smith shrugged. “I’m just saying it’s a slam dunk.”

“Too bad. It’s off the table.” Talbot shifted his bulk so that he could stare at the frigid wonderland beyond the limo’s back window. “Look, everyone has an Achilles’ heel. We both know that. Padilla’s is what, women? Gambling? Drugs?”

Smith knew Talbot was right. But he also knew not to let the vice president in on that, or he wouldn’t get what he wanted from him. “His private physician may be our way in. Particularly with the right incentive.”

“And what would that be?”

“Blackmail. The kidnapping of a family member. This isn’t brain surgery. Although, if we make the right threat, it might be the way to take Padilla out: some kind of fatal surgical procedure, the wrong meds, perhaps an overdose. Damn that socialized medicine, eh?”

As he hoped, that brought out a belly laugh from Talbot. “No shit. Okay, sounds like a plan. Go for it.” His smile dissolved. “Now, about the election: Anything interesting I should know about?” 

Smith thought for moment. “We’ve got rats burrowed deep within each of the candidates’ campaign headquarters. As usual, the Dems are scrounging for dirt on each other. While they do all the heavy lifting, we just lean back and take notes.”

 Talbot chuckled. “Great. It should be interesting to see who’s the last man–or woman–standing when all is said and done. Then we use the intel to shred the rep of whoever it is. It’s an equal opportunity massacre. You’ve got to love this country. ”

As casually as he could, Smith adjusted the rearview mirror, but really he was double-checking that the digital audio bug he’d hidden there upon entering the vehicle was receiving loud and clear. He’d remove it when he left the vehicle, before Talbot’s PPD did its next bug sweep.

Yessiree, Smith was a firm believer in personal insurance policies. 

Chapter 5

The care and feeding of Andrew Mansfield’s most generous campaign donors was well underway by the time Ben got to the Fairmont on that drizzly New Year’s Eve. Dinner was served promptly, the Tattingers flowed freely, and the up-tempo tunes emanating from the ten-piece orchestra on the Colonnade Room’s center stage lured a constant wave of the senator’s well-heeled guests onto the dance floor, so few if any of them minded the long wait to be endured prior to partaking in their prime objective: a  few fleeting but memorable moments with Mansfield, in which he shook their hands and intoned a heartfelt thanks to them for ponying up $2,500-per-person for a plate of the Fairmont’s renowned Shenandoah Valley grilled rib eye of bison, the proceeds of which would go to the Mansfield Presidential Exploratory Committee fund. 

As requested, Ben, tuxedoed and manure-free, arrived punctually at eleven o’clock. Waiting for him at the ballroom’s double-door entry was Sukie Carmichael, Mansfield’s aide-de-camp, a slight spinsterish woman with an unruly red mane. He followed her lead as she wove around banquet tables and partying revelers. 

They ended up in front of a door that was hidden behind a few potted ferns. In the small anteroom on the other side of it were two men. Immediately Ben recognized the eldest as Preston Alcott III—the managing partner at Corcoran Adams Webster and Alcott, the oldest, most revered law firm in Washington. Besides being a celebrated lawyer, Alcott served as gatekeeper to the country’s aristocracy. The sway he held over statesmen, monarchs, even dictators the world over was legendary.