The Successor (14 page)

“How did your meeting with Victoria Graham go yesterday?” he asked.

“Fine, but don’t change the subject. I’m worried about Jim. Don’t leave him out in the cold on Laurel, Chris. He’s counting on this money.”

Christian shook his head regretfully. “I’m not giving him any of the Laurel ups, Ally. It wouldn’t look good.”

“Throw him a few million dollars,” she countered, “to help him get back on his feet.”

“No. But what I will do is send him to AA, and I’ll give him paid leave. Enough on top of his regular salary that he’ll be able to pay his bills.” Christian didn’t like that Allison had gotten close enough to Jim Marshall to know the details of his divorce. Getting to that level implied that Jim and Allison had become more than just coworkers. The receptionists seemed to find Marshall attractive—Christian had overheard them talking once. Maybe Allison did, too. “How much time have you been spending with Jim anyway?”

“Enough.
You
haven’t been around to spend any time with.”

There it was again, that aggravated tone she’d used when she first sat down. “What’s wrong, Ally?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, we’ve known each other too long for this kind of stuff. Don’t hold back on me.” Christian caught the glare in her eyes.

“Isn’t that the damn point?”

“What?”

“You’ve been holding back on
me
lately. I thought we were closer than that.”

“How have I been holding back on you?”

“When my associate knows that you’re going to make the Laurel distributions before I do, I call that holding back. And it isn’t just things like that, Chris,” she said loudly, standing up. “It’s the fact that we hardly ever talk to each other anymore.”

“We talk all the time,” he protested.

“About business.”

“That’s what we’re in together,” he said, gesturing around the office.
“Business.”

Allison gazed down at him. “Silly me. I thought it was so much more.” She turned and stalked toward the office door.

“Ally,” he barked, standing up, too.
“Ally, stop!”

But she didn’t, slamming the door loudly behind her.

FOR A BASE CAMP,
it wasn’t much. Just a few run-down, rotting wooden shacks with corroding tin roofs at the edge of an overgrown, brackish canal in the middle of the sultry Florida Everglades. Glittering downtown Miami with its chic nightclubs and beautiful women was less than seventy-five miles away—he’d enjoyed one of those clubs and two women he’d met in the club last night. But you’d never know how close all that was by looking at these dilapidated ruins. Rumor was this place had served as a training and staging area for the Bay of Pigs invaders back in the early 1960s. Men who had died at the hands of the Cuban revolutionary forces when the U.S. air cover they’d been counting on hadn’t materialized.

Antonio Barrado glanced around the desolate place with his one good eye—he’d lost the other in a knife fight years ago and now he wore a glass eye and hid that the pupil didn’t move behind polarized sunglasses. For a base camp, it would have been almost useless. Looking around, he concluded that if the entire effort had relied on camps like this, the invasion would have failed even if the air cover had shown up. But, for what he needed, it was perfect.

Barrado looped the bowline of the small outboard motorboat around what he judged was the sturdiest of the rotting pilings and pulled himself up onto the pier’s brittle planks. He was a small man—just 145 pounds—so, as long as he was careful, he could move along the old boards without worrying too much about falling through. He glanced to the right, toward deeper water, toward where the planks ended but the pilings continued out into the murky water like soldiers in a column two across. Hurricanes had destroyed the pier in the deeper water, as the storms had also destroyed most of the shack roofs. No worries, they could repair the place quickly. A few hours of work and it would be fine for the short time they’d need it. The only other thing they had to do was find a place for the clearing.

Barrado’s good eye narrowed as he noticed a subtle movement on the surface of the water near the far bank. Two round bumps emerged slowly from the depths, followed by a third that was slightly larger—the size of a doorknob—and about a foot in front of the other two. Alligator eyes—and its nose. Seventy-five miles from Miami, from a bustling civilization where man was supreme, but here the animals still ruled. He tapped the .44-caliber magnum pistol hanging from his belt, making certain it was there. It was the great equalizer. A piece of equipment that made him just as deadly as a ten-foot alligator—or a man twice his size.

He stared back fiercely across the canal at the alligator for a few moments through the bright sunshine. A natural instinct to try to communicate to the predator that he wasn’t scared and that it better keep its distance. Finally it slipped back into the depths, leaving several faint swirls on the surface that slowly evaporated until everything became calm again. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose as the last eddy died away. He was accustomed to being the hunter, not the hunted.

It smelled awful out here, like rotting eggs. The only thing about the Everglades Barrado couldn’t stand. He could take everything else: the intense heat and humidity, the isolation, the predators, the two-o’clock thunderstorms you could set your watch by. He just hated the stench. And it wasn’t bad while you were cruising along in a motorboat with the wind whipping past your nostrils. Only when you stopped and stayed in one place for a while did you notice it. He pulled the bandanna up from around his neck and put it over the tip of his nose. He’d dipped it in lemon water this morning before taking off in the boat from the put-in on Interstate 75—what they called Alligator Alley down here.

As Barrado stepped into the first shack and pushed aside the vines that had overtaken the insides, something slithered beneath his boot. He stepped back quickly and whipped out the huge revolver, then pushed aside the brush. The cottonmouth had already coiled up to strike, tongue flicking in and out quickly as it dared him to come any farther. He hated snakes, especially poisonous ones.

He aimed and fired, and the report thundered through the tiny enclosure. One less snake in the world. That was a good thing.

ALLISON SAT
on a bench in Central Park, staring out over the reflecting pond in front of her. She’d come here straight from Christian’s office because she didn’t know what else to do. She had to get out, had to get away. It had been as if the walls of Everest were closing in on her. For the first time in her life she felt trapped.

She wanted it to be fun and easy with Christian. Wanted to talk to him about things like what his favorite movie was. Then, after giving him a hard time for his answer—no matter what it was—take him to dinner. She wanted it to be the way it had been—the way she’d hoped it
could
be all along. But apparently it wasn’t going to happen—because Christian wasn’t going to let it happen.

She leaned forward and put her face in her hands. Maybe she ought to listen to Victoria Graham after all. As shocked as she’d been by what the older woman had laid out for her yesterday, maybe that was the only alternative left.

10

VICTORIA GRAHAM
watched the thick, twelve-foot-long, brown, gold, and yellow Burmese python approach, sizing up its prey through the underbrush, barely moving a leaf as its wide head slid forward menacingly. When the huge snake hesitated, collecting itself into several tight S-shapes, she felt a rush of exhilaration surge through her body. It wouldn’t be long now.

Her eyes flashed to the white rat. It was hunched down behind a small bush in a corner of the twenty-by-twenty-foot glass enclosure—which she’d had constructed in one of three climate-controlled barns on her hundred-acre Connecticut property. The rat’s pink eyes flicked left and right, searching desperately for the danger it knew was somewhere out there, trying to convince itself it was hidden from the python’s view. With no conception that the snake sensed its presence by the heat it emitted, not by the way the rat saw the world.

There was no way for the rat to hide—and now that it had gone to a corner, nowhere for it to run, either. It rose up cautiously on its hind legs to get a better view, drawing its front feet together, as though it were praying. Which was the right thing to do, Graham thought. Because only God could save it now.

She glanced over her shoulder at the man who’d come to visit. He was standing twenty feet away, his back to the barn’s cinder-block wall, looking around anxiously at all the cages. The same way Allison Wallace had looked around nervously in the office. Graham motioned for him to get down on his knees and crawl to where she was, silently warning him with a finger to her mouth to move slowly so as not to disturb the life-and-death struggle playing out before them. She was vaguely amused by the aggravated expression he gave her. Obviously he hadn’t come all the way from Washington for a display of reptile predation and wanted her to understand that. But she didn’t care. In fact, she was a little put off by his showing his aggravation at all—
he’d
asked for the meeting. Of course his attitude was all wrapped up in his mind-set. He wasn’t used to being treated as an afterthought. He was used to being the center of attention. At least, one step away from the man who was.

He wasn’t dressed for a safari, either, which was probably bothering him, too. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, but he had on a suit and tie. The barn’s floor was covered with dried mud and straw, and the elbows and knees of his suit were quickly getting filthy as he crawled along. Even the end of his red silk tie was picking up dirt. She grinned as the pun crossed her mind: All this was bringing him back to the earth, so to speak.

Finally he was kneeling beside her so that both of their faces were just inches from the glass, from where the rat was trying to hide.

“You’re going to like this,” she whispered, admiring the perfectly shaped diamond patterns along the snake’s sturdy body. Speaking loudly wouldn’t bother the snake—it sensed vibrations from the ground, not from sound—but a loud voice might spook the rat, somehow enabling it to escape by startling the big snake. Even though the python was hungry, it might be another hour before it was ready to strike again because it was a careful and precise hunter. One reason she admired these snakes so much: Nothing happened until they were ready for it to happen, until the kill was all but assured and they were certain the angle of attack was perfect. So there was little chance that they’d be injured in the ensuing struggle. They almost never missed when they struck. “It’s incredible to watch, Grant.”

Grant Bixby was chief of staff for Senator Lloyd Dorsey. Short, pudgy, and out of shape, Bixby was already perspiring profusely from his crawl across the dirty floor—and the fact that it was eighty-five humid degrees in this first-floor room of the barn.

“I’ve seen this a million times on the Discovery Channel with my kids,” Bixby complained. He was forty-four with a twelve-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter. “We need to talk, Ms. Graham. I don’t have time for this. We’ve got a lot to go over, and I’ve got to be back down in Washington by six thirty.” He checked his watch. “I’m on the five-o’clock shuttle.”

Bixby seemed harmless, but Graham knew better. Lloyd Dorsey didn’t hire patsies. Dorsey was an ex–navy pilot who’d been shot down over Vietnam in 1966 and spent two years in the Hanoi Hilton, enduring insidious Asian torture methods. He still walked with a limp and a rattan cane as a result, but, unlike his fellow Republican senator from Arizona who’d also spent time in the North Vietnamese prison camp, Dorsey hadn’t forgiven
anyone.
His experiences had only cemented his resolve that the United States needed to have the greatest war machine on earth.

Bixby seemed benign enough with his unkempt curly blond hair, his paunch, and his poorly fitting suits, but his reputation was decidedly otherwise. He was the heavy hand in Senator Dorsey’s camp—the bad cop—so the senator could maintain his reputation as tough but smooth, the iron fist beneath the velvet glove. Never getting directly involved in a Capitol Hill dispute until Bixby had basically presettled the matter.

An ex Dallas lawyer, Bixby was one of the most hated men in Washington. He threw Dorsey’s weight around with impunity, sometimes with obvious aggression that bordered on enjoyment, making enemies left and right. Bixby made no bones about the fact that as Senate Minority Leader, Dorsey could make things difficult for party senators who didn’t toe the line. Bixby was hated—but no one dared tell him that to his face. Especially since it looked as if Dorsey would be taking on Jesse Wood in the next presidential election and Bixby would become the most important and influential chief of staff in the country—assuming Senator Dorsey could pull off the upset.

“This is nothing like seeing it on the Discovery Channel,” Graham assured Bixby. “I promise you.”

“Ah, I don’t buy that,” Bixby snapped. “The stuff on TV these days is pretty close to virtual. It’s just like you’re there in the jungle—
Jesus Christ!
” he shouted.

The snake had struck with lightning speed—impossible to see with the naked eye. Nothing but a dark blur against the green background of the enclosure. One moment the serpent was stone-still, the next it was balled around the rat so completely that the only visible part of the rodent’s body was its limp tail sagging down one of the snake’s coils. Every few seconds the tail would spasm as though it had been hit by an electric shock, extending straight out and shaking spastically.

“You all right?” Graham asked, laughing as she rose quickly to her feet. She was still spry for fifty-seven and damn proud of it. She did yoga first thing every day to stay limber. “Come on, Grant, get up.” She reached down and helped Bixby to his feet. He’d fallen backward on the floor, the snake’s strike had scared him so badly. “Just like on TV, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bixby growled, clearly embarrassed. “Why’s the rat’s tail doing that?” he asked, bending over and dusting himself off. “Looks like it’s being shocked.”

“The snake senses when the rat inhales,” she explained, “and that’s when it tightens its coils for maximum effect, so the rat can’t exhale. Causes the muscles inside the rat to go haywire with the pressure, too. The tail going nuts like that shows you when it’s happening. Ultimately, the rat suffocates.”

Bixby winced, then took a deep, exaggerated breath, as if to reassure himself that he still could. “Now that I’ve seen the noon feeding, can we get started?”

“We’ll chat while we walk,” she said, heading off toward the far end of the barn. “I want to check on my new alligator pen. It’s in the next barn over. Come on.”

Bixby jogged after her. “You want to talk
now
?
Here?
”

“You’re the one who’s got to make a flight back to Washington. So, what do you need?”

“You know what we need, Ms. Graham—what Senator Dorsey needs.”

Bixby was right. She did know what Dorsey needed—more than she wanted to know about what he needed, actually. But she was in it up to her neck at this point, so she might as well see if she could get more out of Bixby since she had him to herself. Usually, he and Dorsey were joined at the hip. “Specifically.” Graham slammed the pointed toe of her cowboy boot down on a large beetle scurrying across the floor in front of them.

Bixby gasped and pulled back, startled by Graham’s sudden attack. “It’s not just Senator Dorsey and me,” he explained. “It’s the Republican Party as a whole that needs you.”

Bixby was a city boy, Graham knew. Born and raised on the streets of Manhattan, so he wasn’t comfortable in the country. Which was good. She always liked having an advantage. The only reason Bixby had left the sophistication of New York for what he undoubtedly considered a cow town after law school was that Dorsey—who was a senior partner at a prominent Dallas firm at the time—had promised Bixby that they would work closely together.
And, more important,
that he’d take Bixby to Washington if he won the congressional race he was planning to run in. Dorsey had entered the race two years later and won—then made good on his promise to bring Bixby along. Now they were fixtures in Washington.

“Sounds important,” she said.

“It’s
very
important. You know that. Why are you—”

“And ominous.” As they reached the other end of the barn, Graham grabbed two metal handles protruding from the wooden wall and slung them to the left. Instantly they were hit with warm May sunshine as the ten-foot-high planked door slid to the side on its rails. She hid a grin as she stepped down to the ground and moved off. She’d seen Bixby’s impressed look. “I’ve known your boss for a long time, Grant,” she called over her shoulder, marching across the field at a steady pace. She took a long sniff. One of her workers was cutting an adjoining field for the first time this spring. The freshly mown grass smelled wonderful. “Lloyd Dorsey is a good man, and a hell of a patriot.”

“He thinks the same of you, Ms. Graham,” Bixby said, huffing as he tried to keep up. “He needs you to—”

“You, on the other hand, well, I know you only by reputation.” She wagged a finger at him as she walked. She and Bixby had met only a few times, but she knew Lloyd was intensely loyal to his COS. Still, she wanted to keep Bixby at a distance, wanted his respect. “Which isn’t good.”

“Yeah, but I—”

“I understand the game, Grant. Believe me.” She tore off a milkweed flower as she moved along. “What does Senator Dorsey need me to do? Exactly.”

“But I thought you and he had already—”

“In general terms, we did, but I need specifics. I need the whole story. Everything.”

“I can’t tell you everything,” Bixby said quickly. “I doubt I know everything. Hell, Senator Dorsey may not know everything.”

“Then everything you can tell me,” she said, getting exasperated. “Everything you know.”

“Okay, okay.” Bixby looked around nervously as they walked. “Are you sure we should talk out here?”

Graham turned around sharply, expecting Bixby to run into her—but he didn’t. He’d already stopped. She grimaced. Never underestimate anyone, she reminded herself. He’d anticipated that she would turn around suddenly. Maybe he didn’t understand a real python stalking a real white rat—but he understood how people stalked each other politically. He’d known his question would elicit her response. “Is all this really
that
sensitive?” She knew it was, but she was trying to get every crumb of data she could. She wanted him to start from the beginning.

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

She spread her arms and looked around the sprawling landscape. The only other human in sight was the guy on the tractor in the next field. “Can you think of a better place than this to talk about something sensitive, Grant? Are you really worried about microphones in the weeds?”

Bixby loosened his tie, then held his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright sun. “I’m paid to worry.”

At least she had the sun behind her, at least she had that advantage. Always have every advantage you can. She’d lived by the mantra—it had served her well. “Talk to me, Grant.”

But he still took his time, looking around again before finally starting. “Okay, here’s the deal. The conservative brass is worried that President Wood is doing too well. They’re worried that he’s becoming untouchable, that everything he proposes is turning to gold. They’re worried that—”

“They’re worried that they’ve lost control,” Graham interrupted. “They’re worried that they’re heading toward that twilight zone of becoming a permanent minority, a party that doesn’t matter anymore, a party with no clout. Your boss is worried that he’ll actually get the Republican nomination for president next time around and make a fool of himself by running. That he’ll become a John Kerry or a Bob Dole. A footnote in someone else’s biography.”

Bixby looked out over the fields. “You know how much Senator Dorsey values your friendship,” he said in a low voice. “Well, it’s more than just friendship. We both know that.”

Graham swallowed hard and looked down. Damn, Bixby was good. He’d taken her completely off guard with that little machine-gun burst and now he had the pleasure of seeing her reaction.

“He’s
very
fond of you,” Bixby pressed. “We talk about you a lot.”

Graham had been nagged incessantly by Allison Wallace’s question.
Is Senator Dorsey the real reason you never got married?
Graham had cursed herself for leaving that picture of Lloyd and her out on the credenza the other day for Allison to see, for being so weak, but she loved it. It had been snapped during that White House state dinner a few months ago. It had been a night she’d been waiting a lifetime for and she’d convinced Lloyd to give her the film as a keepsake. They should have had so many nights like that.

Graham and Dorsey had met more than thirty-five years ago when she was a student at the University of Florida. She’d been auditing a class in the law school on oceanographic regulation—to prep herself for her plans to save
all
the whales—and Lloyd Dorsey had been a guest speaker one day because he was a friend of the professor’s. She and Lloyd had locked eyes at the beginning of class, and it had been as if they were the only two people in the room for the next ninety minutes. She hadn’t agreed with his conservative view on eminent domain, especially his opinion that the president ought to be able to unilaterally sell drilling rights to the big oil companies if he wanted to.
Texas
oil companies, he’d emphasized with a sly chuckle, eliciting a loud laugh from the students, who understood his loyalties thanks to the professor’s long introduction. But for the first time in Graham’s life, a contrary environmental view hadn’t mattered much. Not nearly as much as having the attention of this handsome young Texan.