The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) (24 page)

Chapter 52

The secure phone rang and Dee picked it up. It was almost 10 p.m., but my job, unfortunately, doesn’t have regular hours.

“Matt, it’s Tony Drucker from the
Wall Street Journal.
”

Damn. I knew I shouldn’t have given him my secure line number. Drucker was a veteran reporter for the
Journal
, as well as an op-ed contributor to its editorial page. Over the past six months, Drucker had become almost fanatical in his denunciations of the NFL and Bartholomew Martin. He’s a real professional, and we speak often. Whenever he interviews me, I never feel guarded. The guy is a solid journalist, and he’s never afraid to tackle controversy. I also think of him as a friend.

“Hello, Tony, I hope I’m not keeping you up,” I wisecracked.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Matt, but I’m on a deadline. You probably haven’t seen the numbers yet, but the shit will soon hit the fan. The congressional and senatorial candidates running with Bartholomew on his fucking Freedom from Terror Party are starting to rack up poll numbers like Martin’s. Every candidate is ahead of his Democratic or Republican rival by at least double digits. I’m looking at a crystal ball, and I don’t like what I see. This fucker could take the White House with solid majorities in both the house and senate. I need a quote from the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security.”

“Hey, Tony, you know I can’t do that. I trust you, my friend, and that’s why I always give you solid background for a story, but I cannot give you a quote.
Capice
?”

“Matt, I get it, and I’m sorry I asked. Look, you and I share the same opinion of this scumbag Martin, although you can’t express it the way I can. As a reporter I simply can’t fucking sit here and watch these poll numbers point that man toward the White House. You know me—I stick to the facts, and I’m going to dump a lot of those facts into an editorial piece I’m working on. It’s entitled “Fascism in America.” I have a lot of deep background information on NFL’s murderous activities and I’m going to let it be known. I’ve already called the Martin headquarters and sent them a proof copy, but they refuse to comment. So that will be my big emphasis—‘A spokesman from NFL refused to comment on this article.’ Matt, I want your opinion, and of course I won’t quote you. Am I crazy?”

“Tony, this will be an op-ed piece over your name, right?”

“Yes, all of my op-ed pieces run with my name.”

“So in answer to your question, Tony, yes, you’re crazy. I can’t give you specifics but we’ve seen a lot of evidence that NFL is starting to play rough, really rough, and not just with jihadis. And now that NFL is linked to the Freedom from Terror Party, it’s time to watch your ass, my friend. The title of your piece, ‘Fascism in America,’ is bold and gutsy, but you’re playing with a bunch of mean mothers.”

I heard a loud sigh.

“Matt, thank you for your input, my friend, but I’m going to go with it and file the piece. In a few days I’m going to ask you for background on the new evidence of violence you’ve discovered, but for now I’m handing in my article.”

“Tony, keep your head down.”

***

“This is Shepard Smith for Fox News, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve just found out that Tony Drucker, the veteran reporter for the
Wall Street Journal
has been killed in a car accident. The police say the accident is suspicious. Drucker was sitting in his car in front of his apartment with the engine off, when, according to witnesses, it was rammed by a cement truck. The truck was found, without a driver, six blocks from the scene of the accident. We express our sadness to Tony’s family. He was a good man and a great journalist. We’ll all miss him.”

Chapter 53

I walked into Rick Bellamy’s office in Washington for a planned meeting at 10 a.m. An FBI Gulfstream flew me from Chicago to Dulles Airport. Why the hell people find it necessary to blow taxpayer money on jockeying one man around on a luxury jet is beyond me.

“You heard about Tony Drucker,” I said, “the reporter for the
Wall Street Journal
?”

“Damn shame,” said Bellamy. “I’ve been interviewed by him for a few articles. The guy was a real journalist.”

“I spoke to him a few hours before he was killed,” I said. “He wanted my advice on an article he wrote. It was entitled ‘Fascism in America,’ and was hypercritical of Bartholomew Martin and his band of thugs. I think he just wanted a sounding board, because he was ready to sign off on the article. I warned him that he was taking a risk. It ran the next morning.”

“Do you think the NFL had anything to do with it?” Bellamy asked. “It was a car accident.”

“Yeah, it was an ‘accident,’ right? He was sitting in his car when it was hit by a cement truck. They never found the driver of the truck. It’s an open investigation, but if the NFL is involved, I’m sure the evidence will lead nowhere.”

Rick and I were about 10 minutes into our meeting when his intercom buzzed.

“A gentleman named George Rudden is here, Rick,” said Bellamy’s assistant over the intercom. “He says it’s urgent that he meet with you and Mr. Blake.”

George Rudden, meaning Al Yamani, my old friend and client, a man I never expected to see again in my life. Bellamy’s assistant opened the door to the conference room and Al walked quickly across the room and gave me a bear hug. I felt like I’d just seen a ghost.

“Al,” I said, “at the risk of appearing abrupt, where did you come from and what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Kurdistan is the answer to your first question, and I’m here because I escaped.”

“I don’t know if you realize this, Al,” said Bellamy, “but the two FBI guards who were watching you and the other two guys have disappeared. We think that they were part of the plot to kidnap you.”

“You mean Agents Mark Johnston and Carl Portera, Mr. Secretary? Yes, I know them well, and they weren’t just part of the plot. They did the actual kidnapping.”

“Holy shit,” I said, too shocked to say anything intelligent. “Al, take it from the top and tell us what’s been going on with you for the past eight months.”

“I have a ton of notes for you guys on a flash drive, but let me give you an overview of my little corner of Kurdistan, known among some of its inhabitants as
Bartholomewstan
. It’s a bizarre little world guys, sort of like Berlin in the 1920s. The NFL has found its home-away-from-home. The compound is about 100 acres, and almost all of the construction is new. After we were kidnapped, my friends Jake, Mickey, and I woke up in a beautiful room as breakfast was served. In walked Bartholomew himself, as scary a fucker as I’ve ever met. He assured us that we would be safer with the NFL than the FBI’s Witness Protection Program. We were allowed to write to our hearts’ content and even to date the local girls, of whom there were plenty.”

“There are young, single women there?” I said. “I thought that the NFL was a militaristic outfit.”

“Oh, it’s definitely militaristic, as designed by Bartholomew. The three of us looked forward to seeing some young women, after our time in the Witness Protection Program, but that’s when things got weird, totally fucking weird. The three of us compared notes, not that there was much to compare. We all agreed that the women seemed scared. That’s the only way to describe it. The typical response to anything we said, such as ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ was ‘Whatever Bartholomew thinks is appropriate.’ The three of us got the feeling that all the girls on ‘the compound’ were Bartholomew’s harem, available for temporary assignments. I slept with one chick, and not to be too graphic, I felt like I was screwing a wooden board. Oh, yeah, the place doesn’t have a name. Everybody calls it ‘the compound.’

“Do you know of any other people from our government who may have defected to ‘the compound’?” Bellamy asked.

“Yes, a ton of people, and I have their names for you on my flash drive. Besides the FBI agents who kidnapped us, I have the names of weapons procurement people, other FBI agents, and a few CIA agents.”

Bellamy and I looked at each other.

“Al, how is it that you had access to so much information?” I said.

“Simple. I became a ‘trusted advisor.’ I sized it up pretty early on that the only way I would ever escape was to become an insider. And I became an insider because of a book that they wanted me to write. To do my research work, I would need access to a lot of people, or so I convinced them. That’s also how I escaped. I was allowed to travel around with their patrols. We stopped near an American Army post to take a leak. I simply walked up to a Humvee and said to the driver, ‘I’m an American citizen and I’ve been kidnapped.’ Simple as that. Mickey, Jake and I had all agreed that if any of us saw a chance to get out we’d take it. I have to say that I’m worried about those guys.”

“What is the book about?” asked Bellamy.

“This is where it gets really weird, gentlemen,” Al said. “It’s a non-fiction book entitled
The Impossible War
. The thesis is simple: democracies can’t fight terror. To carry on a war against terrorism requires that people surrender a lot of rights for the greater good. In other words, if you want to fight the bad guys, you need to start with a fucking dictatorship. The book should be titled
Mein Kampf
. It’s Bartholomew’s idea for the future of government, and you guys need to pay attention to it. The NFL people insisted, well they simply told me, that it would be published under the pseudonym that Random House used for my last novel, George Rudden. That book did well, and is still doing well. So the NFL people saw me as a good brand to use. I suppose you heard about Bartholomew acquiring Witherspoon Publishing Company. I think one of the primary reasons was to publish my book. No other publisher would put out such a ranting piece of crap.”

“How far did you get in the book, Al?” I said.

“It’s basically done. It’s also on my thumb drive. My editor, if you can call him that, was basically an ideological clearinghouse for the goals of Bartholomew and the NFL. I’m going to suggest that you guys find me another pseudonym and I’ll write a book tearing the shit out of the
Impossible War
. Better yet, find a well-known political author and I’ll work with him or her. Maybe it’s something your wife would like to write, Matt. My name doesn’t need to appear.”

I told Al that I’d pass it by her, but I had no plan to make it happen, and I know Dee would agree. Putting a target on Dee’s back was not on my list of things to do.

“Al,” said Bellamy, “what’s your overall take on this, now that you’ve seen the NFL from the inside?”

“Bartholomew wants power, gentlemen. It’s really that simple. Since I escaped I’ve caught up on the news. As you may imagine, outside information, including Internet access, is bottled up on ‘the compound.’ So this fucker is way ahead in the polls for the next presidential election, way ahead. He and the NFL have changed appearances and tactics, as you’ve probably noticed. They’re no longer the secretive organization that we used think of. They’ve come out into the sunlight and are selling their shit to a lot of people. Just like Hitler with his ‘Stab in the Back’ speeches in the 1930s, Bartholomew has convinced a lot of Americans that the government is letting them down, and he and his gang are going to do something about it.”

Chapter 54

I walked into our apartment at 6:30 p.m. I couldn’t wait to tell Dee all about my meeting with Rick Bellamy and the surprise visit from Al Yamani. I had convinced Bellamy to get Dee a Top Secret security clearance, and he readily agreed. Dee’s my most trusted advisor, and the smartest. She needs to know what I know. 

She walked up to me, threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me. Dee’s way of welcoming me is a routine that never gets routine.

“Matt, baby, sit for a minute. I know you always want to shower after a plane ride, but just sit with me and have a cup of coffee. I have something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Sure, honey, what’s up?”

“Matt, I want you to run for president.”

“Dee, you’ve gotta be joking. My term of office is up in three months and I’m counting the days till I step down.”

“I’m not talking about the condominium board, I’m talking about the country.”

“What?”

“Matt, I want you to run for President of the United States.”

Surreal is an overused word. People use it when they simply mean “mysterious.” It’s the feeling you get when your world is suddenly out of its normal focus, blurry because everything is not what it seems to be, sort of like Salvador Dali’s melting pocket watch. Surreal is the only way I can describe my feeling after Dee said that.

“You’re kidding, yes?”

“No I’m not kidding. I was in the audience when you gave that speech before the Senate Intelligence Committee last month. I sat there looking at my husband and I started thinking, this is one of the best leaders in this entire country. Yes you, handsome. You had those people in the palm of your hand, and you only had two days to prepare for the talk. You’re not the type to sit by as the country turns to shit, and your speech made that clear.”

“Honey,” I said, “when did you come up with this idea?”

“It’s crossed my mind a few times, but this afternoon nailed it for me. Max Fleming—yeah him—The Chairman of the Republican National Committee, stopped by my office this afternoon. He used to hold my teaching post at Northwestern and he said that he just dropped by to say hello. So he put out a feeler, which I’ve been waiting to tell you about. He flat out asked me if I thought that you may be interested in running for president.”

“The head of the RNC put out a feeler to you this afternoon?”

For some reason, I have a habit of repeating what somebody said when my brain is on overdrive.

“And he didn’t stop there, Matt. He hinted, without coming right out and saying it, that Sam Baxter, Chairman of the Democratic National Committee would consider cross-endorsing you if you ran. They both realize that they have a lightweight group of potential candidates to run against Martin. Fleming and Baxter aren’t just a couple of politicos. They’re patriots and they’re scared shitless about what a Martin administration could mean for the country.”

“Why are you crying, Dee?”

“I’m crying because I’m feeling emotional. I’m crying because I know you’d be the best president this country has ever seen. God knows what the political map will look like after Bartholomew Martin shreds it. Matt, you can save this country.”

I felt like I was going to pass out. Dee, my Dee, sat there talking about me running for President of the United States. I glanced at my watch to make sure it wasn’t melting.

“Dee, you’re serious, aren’t you? Do you really have that kind of confidence in me?”

“Yes, I do. You have no idea how much confidence I have in you. I’m never shy about telling you that I love you, but I seldom say how much I admire you. Yes, I admire you, Matt. You have greatness in you, honey, you just do. When I watch you in front of a jury, I’m looking at a guy who knows how to reach people’s minds and touch their hearts at the same time. I felt the same way when you gave that speech before the Senate committee. Matt, you’re a magical communicator. So here’s my take on this idea. I think that the country is going to get fed up real fast with Bartholomew Martin and his band of Brown Shirts. According to the polls, he’s served the American people a stinking pile of bullshit and they’re buying it. He’s capitalized on primordial fears and just like any dictator, he gets results. Honey, mark my words; people will tire fast of that prick. So how’s this for an idea? You meet with Max Fleming and let’s start thinking about the election. Matt, honey, lead us. Lead the American people away from the cave we’re headed toward.” 

“But do you think I’m qualified?”

“Matt, you’re a real war hero, the most decorated Chicago resident since World War II. You’re a successful and famous attorney, a deputy FBI agent, and a Washington big shot as a Deputy Secretary, a sub-cabinet officer. And based on that speech you gave before the Senate, you’re one of the best orators in the country, if not
the
best. Do you think juries award your clients zillions of dollars because they like the color of your shoes? No, Matt, it’s because you
persuade
them, and they believe in you. When you’re in front of a crowd, you’re enchanting. Also, you formed a foundation, one of the best funded charities in the nation, and one that’s squeaky clean. Hell, when you travel on foundation business, you even pay for the expenses out of your own pocket. And there’s another thing about you, Matt; you’re drop-dead gorgeous, and women make up a majority of the electorate. Yesss, baby. Let’s think about it!”

“Honey,” I said, “you’re overlooking something. Remember I was once an alcoholic and a drug addict. You can’t hide stuff like that.”

“Matt, that’s perfect, don’t you get it? It’s just perfect. You don’t want to hide it, you want to shout about it. Sin and redemption—people eat that up, like a page from classic heroic literature. You hit a bad time, confronted your problem, and overcame it. That will become part of your image. The story, the true story, of how you faced your demons and slayed them will make people love you.”

Dee’s explosive enthusiasm was starting to percolate. She stood up, grabbed a baseball and hurled her fastball at a chair in the corner of the room. Then she did a cartwheel. Then she sat on my lap, and kissed me. I think Dee liked this idea.

***

A hot shower always helps me think, to sort out whatever was buzzing through my head. But this shower was different. Despite the soothing water, my mind was still a jumble of competing thoughts. Dee wants me to run for president. Me. President of the United States? I put on a pair of fresh jeans and a sweatshirt, my normal evening-at-home wardrobe.

Dee put out a tray of raw vegetables and cheese slices on the kitchen table. We usually eat light in the evening, and she didn’t want to fuss making a dinner. She had bigger things on her mind. I glanced over at the dining room table. It was covered by a large map—an electoral map. Professor Dee was on the case.

“Honey, do you think that this idea is possible? Hell, I’m unknown politically. Martin looks like he has a commanding lead in the polls, along with the dreck running for the house and senate from his party.”

“Matt, I think you’ll be amazed at how well you’ll poll. You may be unknown politically, but you’re not unknown, especially after that speech you gave last month. Is it a long shot? Yes, it is, but think long term. If you get defeated, the country will know you by the time the next election rolls around. Hey, you’re not even 40 years old yet.”

***

“So let me tell you about my meeting with Rick Bellamy today, Dee. It has something to do with what we’re talking about. We had a surprise visitor—Al Yamani.”

“Oh my God,” Dee yelled. “Where was he?”

I filled Dee in on my long meeting with my old client, and his stories about “the compound” in Kurdistan.

“The NFL has changed, Dee. As we all know, they’ve come out of the shadows, and they’re starting to play rough, and not just with radical Islam. Bartholomew wants power, and he seems like he’s on his way to getting it. Remember my friend Tony Drucker from the
Wall Street Journal
? He wrote an article that was critical of Bartholomew Martin and his NFL. Now Tony’s dead. And now you and I are talking about opposing Martin in his run for the White House.”

I walked into our den and opened my desk drawer.

“Here, try this on, Dee.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a newly designed shoulder holster that Woody gave me. It’s supposed to be very comfortable, especially for women. I want you armed at all times.”