The Power Broker (19 page)

“Well . . . there’s that thing,” Stephanie reminded Jesse. “That thing Forte keeps hinting about.”

Forte had never talked about what he claimed he had in front of Stephanie and Osgood, but Jesse had told them about the threats. He trusted them both as though they were family. “Elijah’s bluffing. I don’t think he has anything on me. But, if by some remote chance he does, he’d have just as much to lose as I would if he used it. His whole plan, what he and the other Shadows have been wanting for so long,
a black man in the White House.
All that would go up in smoke.”

“Yeah, but your
whole career
would go up in smoke,” Osgood pointed out. “Including your chance to make history, to be the first black president.”

Jesse didn’t like that Osgood thought there might even be a
possibility
that Forte had something.

“Assume he has something,” Osgood said. “What could it be?”

“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it over and over, and I don’t know. I’ve told you that so many times.” Jesse looked at Stephanie. “You have any idea?”

She shook her head quickly.

“Do you really want to find out if he’s got something?” Osgood asked nervously. “Things are going pretty well right now. Do you really want to push it? Do you really want to find out if he’s bluffing?”

Jesse thought about the question for a few moments. “I just might, Clarence, I just might.”

TODD HARRISON
answered the phone on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Harrison?”

The voice at the other end of the line was barely audible. “Who is this?”

“Don Roth.”

Harrison’s shoulders sagged. “Jesus, I’ve been waiting for your call. It’s been a while. I figured you forgot about me.”

“I couldn’t call until now.”

“Why?”

“I just couldn’t.”

Roth sounded low, not his usual strong self.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, you still want to look around out here?”

“Absolutely,” Harrison said.

“You still got that picture?”

“Picture?”

“Of the old man,” Roth explained. “The picture you took of the old man who told you the story that night in the bar.”

“Yes,” Harrison replied hesitantly. “I got it.”

“What about that property form? That thing you found in the old courthouse up the coast. Got that, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“All right, well, meet me in town the day after tomorrow. Same time, same place. You can follow me out here. Bring that stuff with you. I want to see it.”

“Okay,” Harrison agreed, “but I’m going to have a friend along with me.” There was dead air for a few moments.

“Sure, sure,” Roth finally said. “That’s fine.”

“See you then.”

“Right.”

A cold wave coursed through Harrison’s body as he put the phone down. For a long time, he’d been hoping he could get out to Champagne Island to look around. Now that he finally had the chance, he wasn’t sure it was such a good idea.

STEWART MASSEY
clambered down the muddy bank to the lake, checking for rattlesnakes as he negotiated the slope. There were lots of them out here—he’d run into them before—but as long as you were careful, they weren’t a problem.

Massey glanced up at the clear blue sky as he reached the water’s edge and took a deep breath. He loved it out here—a remote section of a friend’s ranch fifty miles outside Oklahoma City. It offered some of the best largemouth bass fishing around, and he’d fished a lot of places. There wasn’t much he liked doing more than fishing. He often wished Hewitt liked to fish. They were such good friends, it would have been fun to do together, but Hewitt was a hunter. Hewitt liked blasting the hell out of deer with his grandson, and Massey didn’t like hunting. Too messy.

Massey buckled the straps of the hip waders around his belt and moved into the water until he was knee deep, then brought the rod back and hurled the rattle-trap far out into the lake.

As the lure hit the water, two men in scuba suits rose up in front of him, dripping and black. They grabbed Massey and pulled him down. He thrashed about, hurling the fishing rod, fighting them, trying to make it back to his feet, but it was no use. They dragged him into deeper water, forcing his head beneath the surface, forcing him to suck in water.

Massey’s body was found floating facedown in the reeds on the far bank the next morning, blown across the lake by a strong westerly breeze. He was the third member of the Order to die in less than a month.

CHRISTIAN DIALED
Jesse Wood’s private telephone number. He’d just gotten off the line with Samuel Hewitt. He’d told Hewitt that Jesse had officially extended the invitation and Christian and Hewitt had talked it through one last time.

“Hello.”

“Jesse?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Christian Gillette.”

“Hello, Christian.”

Christian looked out the window of his office at Everest Capital, and asked himself one more time if this was really what he wanted. It was the hundredth time today he’d asked himself the question. The answer kept coming up yes. “I’m calling to accept your offer,” he said calmly. “I’ll be your vice president.”

15

“I REALLY THOUGHT
Crenshaw would finally win,” Christian murmured, gazing at the television screen, watching Tom Watson put the finishing touches on his victory. “Crenshaw’s such a great putter. He should handle Augusta’s greens better than anybody. I thought 1981 would be his year.”

“You gotta
get
to the green first, son.”

Christian glanced over at his father and grinned. “Crenshaw
will
win the Masters, Dad,” he said firmly. “He’ll win more than one green jacket, too. He’ll get at least a couple before he’s done.”

Clayton Gillette puffed on his pipe for a few moments. “Well, you’re the golf pro of the house now. I guess I better listen to you.”

Christian and his father had played eighteen holes at the Bel-Air Country Club that morning, then hurried home to Clayton’s study to watch the final round of the Masters. It had become a tradition for them—they’d done it six years in a row now. Christian had won their match this morning with a birdie on the last hole. It was the first time he’d ever beaten his father head-to-head at golf.

Clayton shook his head. “That drive you hit on eighteen was incredible,” he said proudly. “I’ve never seen a seventeen-year-old hit a golf ball that far. Heck, other than the pros, I’ve never seen
anybody
hit a golf ball that far.”

“I got lucky.”

“You and I both know hitting a golf ball like that has nothing to do with luck.” Clayton took another puff off his pipe. “I talked to Jimmy this morning before we teed off.”

Jimmy Gray was the Bel-Air club pro.

“He says you’re making big strides with your game,” Clayton continued. “Says you’re one of the best players at the club. Says you need to work more on your sixty-and-in shots, but then, so does everybody. It was fun to watch you today.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Christian loved it in here, in this big study where his father spent most of his time when he wasn’t in Washington. He loved the high ceiling, dark wood, big desk, leather couches and chairs, pictures of celebrities spread all over the bookcases and tables, the scent of tobacco mixing with leather. The room exuded power, as the study of a United States congressman should. Christian wanted one just like it someday.

“You and I ought to go to the Masters,” Clayton suggested, nodding at the TV while he relit his pipe, sucking the flame from the lighter down into the bowl. “We should fly down to Augusta, stay in one of those cabins on the grounds. I know people who could set it up for us. Would you like that, son?”

“Are you kidding?”
Christian sat up in his chair. “I’d
love
it.”

“You could bring one of your friends,” Clayton suggested.

Christian looked away, hoping his father wasn’t implying that he intended to take one of his friends, too. “I don’t want to go with one of my friends, Dad. I see them all the time. I want to go with you.”

Clayton smiled, clutching the pipe with his teeth as he spoke. “Still okay spending time with me, huh? Not ashamed of me like most teenagers are of their dads?”

There wasn’t much else in the world Christian liked better than spending time with his father. It didn’t happen often because Clayton was in Washington so much, and he was so busy when he was here in California. Christian grinned and shrugged. “Yeah, you’re okay.”

Clayton laughed. “Well, thanks
a lot.
Hey, I bet we could meet Ben Crenshaw, maybe even play with him in that par-three tournament they have before the real thing starts.”

“That would be something.”

“Okay, I’ll look into it.” Clayton took his pipe from his mouth and gestured toward Christian with it. “I know you’ve still got your senior year of high school left, so there’s plenty of time to talk more about this, but have you thought about college yet?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll go,” Christian deadpanned.

They both laughed loudly. The question wasn’t
if,
it was
where.

“I like Stanford,” Christian volunteered.

“Great school,” Clayton agreed, “but you ought to go east, especially if you want to work on Wall Street. That still the plan?” he asked. “To work on the Street?”

Christian nodded.

“Go to Stanford for business school,” Clayton suggested, “but go Ivy League for undergraduate. You’ll never regret it.”

“Which one?”

“Princeton’s always an option. I loved my time there.”

Originally from a poor mining town in western Pennsylvania, Clayton had gone to the University of Virginia for undergraduate. He’d played football there, starting at quarterback his senior year, but hadn’t been good enough to turn pro. He’d married Lana, who he’d met at UVA, then come west, where her father was a Hollywood producer, and gone to work at a little brokerage house—a bucket shop—owned by a friend of Lana’s father. A few years later Clayton had opened his own firm, over the next decade growing it into one of the most powerful investment banks on the West Coast.

A few years before selling to one of the New York houses, he’d turned the reins of the firm over to one of his subordinates for a year and gone to Princeton to get a master’s in government administration, in anticipation of what he wanted to do after selling up, and to meet the right people in that circle.

“Princeton’s a great place,” Clayton continued. “You’ll never regret going there.”

“Can I get in?”

Clayton nodded. “Don’t worry about it.”

Christian knew what that meant: They had connections. Getting in wouldn’t be a problem. “Well, I guess I—”

“Don’t get me wrong—you’ve got to keep your grades up.”

“Of course, I—”

There was a knock on the door. Nikki leaned in to Clayton’s study. She was Christian’s younger sister.

“Come in, kitten,” Clayton called.

Nikki burst through the doorway and skipped across the room toward Clayton and the big leather easy chair he was sitting in. She fell into his lap, giggling.

He groaned as she landed on him. “Oh, God, you’re getting too big to do that to your old dad.”

She sat up on his knee and frowned. “Never tell a girl she’s getting too big, Daddy. You’re a congressman. You should know that.” She smiled down at him. “And you’re not getting old, Daddy, you’re getting
distinguished.
”

Clayton put his head back and gazed up at her. “You’re going to be a congresswoman someday, you know that?
You’re
the one who knows what to say in every situation. Yup, you’re going to be a congresswoman, and”—Clayton gestured over at Christian—“Christian’s going to be president.”

Christian stared at his father. He’d recognized the serious tone. It didn’t surface often, but when it did, you noticed. “Whatever, Dad.
You’ll
be the president. They’re already talking about it.”

“
They
talk a lot, don’t they?”

“You know what I mean. I heard on the radio the other day that Senator McCauley was saying you’re a lock to be—”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Clayton interrupted.

“Why can’t I be president?” Nikki demanded. “Why do you and Christian get to be president, but I don’t?”

“The first woman president,” Clayton said, beaming as he stroked her long hair. “I agree. Christian first, then you, kitten. You’re exactly right. You’ll make history as the first woman president, and we’ll make history as a family. It’ll be incredible.”

Nikki smiled and kissed her father’s forehead. “Thanks.”

“Have we heard from Billy?” Clayton asked. “Is he coming over for dinner?”

Billy was the oldest sibling. A junior at the University of Southern California, he’d never made grades or excelled at sports in high school like Christian. The Ivy League had never been an option for him—even with Clayton’s connections. Even USC had been a stretch. Still, Billy was Lana’s favorite son and she didn’t try to hide it.

Nikki shook her head. “No, he’s such a slug.” She snapped her fingers suddenly. “Oh. Chris, I almost forgot.”

Christian looked up. He’d been thinking about what Princeton would be like, about how different the East Coast was from California. He’d wanted to go to Stanford so he could play golf year-round. In the back of his mind he kept thinking maybe he could turn pro, and Stanford would help that. The school had one of the top golf programs in the country. Jimmy Gray was tied into it, too, and he’d told Christian he was sure the Stanford coach would want him. Of course, making the pro tour was a long shot. It was one thing to be a good country club player, even a college star. Quite another to tee it up with Nicklaus and Watson on the weekends. He hated to admit it, but it was probably better to take his father’s advice and set his sights on Wall Street. A little disappointing, but he trusted his father’s judgment completely.

“What is it?” he asked Nikki.

“Mom wants to see you. I think she wants you to help her with dinner.”

His mother didn’t need any help. The maids were taking care of dinner, like they always did on Sunday afternoons. It was just that she hated him spending so much time with his father. She was jealous. She was weird that way.

“Go help her, son,” Clayton urged. “We’ll circle back here after dinner and talk some more, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Christian agreed, standing up.

Lana wasn’t in the kitchen when he got there, but one of the maids was peeling potatoes over the sink. “Rita?” he called.

“Sí?”

“Have you seen my mother?”

Rita pointed toward the doorway leading from the kitchen out onto the veranda. “Out there.”

“Gracias.”

Lana was sitting in a wicker chair, halfway through a glass of white wine. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

Lana turned slowly toward him. She was a tall, angular woman with sharp facial features. She’d been looking off into the distance, at something on the other side of the big backyard. “Sit down,” she said, motioning at a chair next to hers.

Christian could see she was feeling the wine from the way she was blinking slowly and holding her glass at an angle. Since Clayton had won his seat in Congress and been gone so much, Lana had started drinking more and more: pretty much seven days a week now, beginning earlier and earlier in the day, usually by late morning; passed out most nights by eight o’clock.

Lana had begged to go to Washington with Clayton, to live at the sprawling four-story brick town house he’d bought in Georgetown, but he hadn’t let her. He’d told her she had to stay in California to take care of the kids. Which was a joke, Christian thought to himself as he sat down. She didn’t take care of anyone—including herself.

“What do you want, Mom?”

“Have fun watching golf with your father?”

“Sure. I like spending time with Dad.” Lana was gazing at him over the rim of her wineglass. He couldn’t help digging it in that he was the one who’d spent the day with Clayton, not her. “You know?”

Her eyes moved deliberately back across the yard, to whatever faraway object she’d been focused on when he’d first come out. “You played golf with him at the club this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“I hear you’re getting good.”

Christian’s ears perked up. “Oh?”

Lana smiled coyly from behind her glass. “Jimmy Gray and I have gotten to be good friends.”

“What does that mean?” Christian demanded. He’d heard that I’ve-got-a-secret tone.

Lana brought a hand to her face and gazed at her fingertips. “I need to get my nails done tomorrow, Chris,” she said. “A couple of them are chipped. Will you take me?”

She got her nails done every two days. She was so damn spoiled. “What did you mean by the crack about Jimmy—” He stopped himself when he spotted Rita coming out onto the veranda from the kitchen.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Rita said. “Did you want another glass of wine, Miss Lana?”

Lana held her glass out. “Yes, and make sure there aren’t any pieces of cork floating in it this time, will you?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Rita said quietly, taking the glass and hurrying away.

Lana scoffed. “She’s such an idiot.”

“No, she’s not,” Christian said sharply. “She’s putting herself through school.”

“Probably one of those community colleges. Big deal.”

Christian shook his head. Such a bitter woman. “What was that Jimmy Gray crack about?”

Lana drew herself up in her chair. “Your father’s in Washington screwing every little piece of ass he can get his hands on,” she snapped. “Why shouldn’t I have a little fun, too?”

Christian rolled his eyes. “Mom, stop—”

“Your father’s been screwing around on me for years,” she said, standing up.

“You don’t know that,” Christian retorted, rising to face her. “You don’t have any proof.”

“Oh, yes I do.”

“What?”

She put her wineglass down on a table near her chair, dangerously close to the edge. “I’m looking at the proof,” she whispered. “It’s standing right in front of me.”

Something inside Christian shattered, and suddenly he realized he had the answer to all those terrible questions and gnawing suspicions that had haunted him for so long. Why Lana seemed to hate him, why she seemed to adore Billy and Nikki, why people always said he looked so much like Clayton and nothing like Lana.

He wanted to shout back that she was lying, just trying to hurt him for whatever reason—because she was drunk, because she was jealous, because she wanted attention. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He knew instantly by her cold gaze and matter-of-fact tone that she was being perfectly and brutally honest.

“You aren’t mine, Christian,” she continued, making everything absolutely clear. “You’re someone else’s.”

“No,” he murmured, only because it was all he could think to say at that moment.

“Oh,
yes.
And you aren’t the only Clayton mistake running around this city,” she said, her voice trembling. “Your father’s been busy in Los Angeles, like I’m sure he’s busy in Washington now. You’re just the first, the only one I agreed to take in.”

“Lana!”

Christian’s red-rimmed eyes shot to the booming voice. Clayton Gillette was standing by the door to the house, Nikki behind him. An expression on his face Christian had never seen: a helplessness, embarrassment, loss.