“There’s a connection, Caspar?”
Asgari was clearly in turmoil. In his long and varied career at Bethesda he had never come across anything so explosive. The dimension ran the gamut from the political to the legal, and into darker place beyond the law. It sent a shiver down his spine, and caused him to think odd and unnatural thoughts, not the least of which was who to trust and who posed a threat. Even with Molly that danger gave him pause, calling briefly into question the motives of a dear friend.
“I think they are related somehow,” he finally said.
She looked up sharply, searching his eyes and finding a growing terror there. It was enough to shake her world, like someone feeling the world tremble beneath their feet for the very first time.
“Do you know what you are saying?”
Caspar shook his head and took a deep breath. “I think this is very dangerous information to have, Molly.”
“I think we should make this official.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
She looked again at the X-rays, as if there was a chance Asgari could have been mistaken. He was far too thorough, and even she could see the evidence plainly. But who? And why?
“Have you told anyone about this?” she asked.
“Seriously?” he scoffed.
Molly thought again, turning to look again at Bernstein’s body. She looked one last time at the Xrays and then to the Doctor.
“And nothing about what you’ve found in the notes or your report?” she asked.
“Only preliminaries, and that it appeared to be an aneurism.”
“Can we leave it as inconclusive a bit longer.”
Caspar’s lip quivered slightly, an indication of terror, but also a growing impotent rage. “A part of me would leave this be for good and forget any of this.”
“Let me get some perspective.” Molly touched his cheek and managed smile. “We’ll figure this out.”
“I hope,” he said, unconvinced. “I think this is only just beginning.”
Friday, June 11, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Big Blue Sky: Five
It occurred to Molly that a morgue ought to smell like something. There should have been some hint of death or sickness layering an artificial chill to the air. There should have been the pungent bite of ammonia and disinfectant, but there was nothing. It was as if the living were as transient in this place as the dead, and perhaps less welcome. Federal Agent Molly Karaman was certainly use to feeling unwelcome. For the last two years she had bounced around half the Middle East consulting on Terrorist bombings. Too often she suffered the ambient and overt distrust of cultures that viewed America ultimately as an adversary, but which also saw the necessity of short term cooperation, like riding a tiger to cross a swollen river. That she was a professional woman in a patriarchal world only complicated matters.
She waited at the door for the guard, staring into her reflection from the thick security glass. Molly was disarmingly pretty, with long wavy black hair, normally worn up and more official looking. For this call it didn’t seem to matter. Her skin was fair with deep green exotic eyes, the blessing of her Latin and Turkish heritage. But at thirty-seven Molly helped shadowed by the unjust conventions of society that believed men age with distinction while women simply age, becoming less substantial and less important. Her mother always told Molly she had her father’s looks. Truth was, she had never known him, except from a hand full of scratched and faded Polaroids taken when he and Molly’s mother were courting. All she knew was that they met in Paris where Molly’s mother was visiting relatives. Two weeks after their wedding he was knifed in a mugging and died alone in an alley. Molly’s mother flew home to New York where she learned soon after she was pregnant.
The guard opened the door, tearing Molly from thoughts of her childhood, and what might have been. The guard was a young marine corporal. He dutifully checked her FBI identification and waved her through. It was a quick walk down another sterile hallway and through second set of set of doors. Here was the low scent of death and blood and disinfectant, and Molly almost felt rescued for it.
Arpel Bernstein lay naked upon the cold steel examining table, well beyond all modesty. His flesh was ashen in color and drawn. The only color was at the giant “Y” incision across his torso and round belly, and the tuft of pubic hair. At a glance he seemed like some hastily re-stuffed toy. The flesh of his head, like some thick rubber mat, had been neatly cut and was rolled down over his eyes. The top of the skull had been removed, exposing the grayish pink brain within. Leaning over the body was a heavy set balding man that Molly knew only too well. His expression was fixed as he peered at the scribbled notes of an autopsy report through a pair of heavy framed eyeglasses.
He was Doctor Caspar Asgari, a man of gruff manners and meticulous standards. In court, often called upon for his expertise, Asgari’s reputation was unassailable, respected by both the prosecution and the defense alike, which is what made his expression so vexing for Molly. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath, as though preparing herself. She had a feeling that what should have been a simple case was about to become something more.
“Hello, dear,” he said, without looking up from the report. His accent was still thick, and layered with British, though he had fled the Shah’s Iran almost forty years earlier. Asgari turned the page and scratched the back of his neck. He liked her. He liked her complexity and how she was less interested in law enforcement than justice. As for Molly she sometimes liked to imagine her father would have been something like Caspar Asgari.
“Don’t like that look,” she said.
“The face I was born with, I’m afraid.”
She was looking for anything that might indicate the incident with the water had contributed to the Congressman’s death. For the moment she was still be held for “psychiatric evaluation.”
“Is there a case here, Caspar?”
He shrugged, thoroughly stumped. “In my opinion he was not a healthy man to begin with. The Congressman had severe arterial blockage, aggravated by dangerously high hypertension, but that did not kill him.”
“What does that leave?”
“Something…strange, I don’t…come take a look at this.”
He drew back the folded flesh at Arpel’s temple. With two fingers Asgari pointed to a reddish sort of blister, no more than an inch in diameter.
“Looks like a burn,” she remarked.
“In fact it is. I thought perhaps it had happened in the ambulance or at the hospital, but then I decided took a look at his brain, believing that he had died from an aneurism.”
“That was my first thought when I saw the news footage.”
“Indeed,” he said, wagging a finger knowingly. “But when I opened the brain cavity a great deal of blood poured out.”
“So it was a hemorrhage?’
“Ah but here.” Asgari bulled back the spongy brain and ran a long cotton swab along the inside of the skull. He held it up. It was stained rust red with blood, but also with a charcoal black substance.
“There, you see?” he said.
“What is that?”
“Come,” he said. She followed him across the room to two large x-ray images at a small desk. He held one of them up against the light for her to see. Tree-like blood vessels showed up as solid black. Limbs and branches converged then came to a sudden stop, appearing as though they had dissolved. Molly leaned closer, squinting at the image.
“That would be…”
“The hemorrhage,” Asgari finished the sentence. From the table he produced several other X-rays. They were similar, showing blood vessels of the brain. Except in these other images there were tears or bubbles at the point of rupture, but nothing like in the first image.
“These are normal hemorrhages,” he continued. “But in Bernstein’s X-ray it, the, the blood vessels were burned away.”
“From inside.”
“I believe so,” he said.
“Is that possible?”
He chuckled darkly. “That isn’t even the strangest part.” He produced two more X-rays. Each showed the same dissolved pattern as Bernstein’s.
“These are also his?”
He pointed to the image on the left. “This is of an Army Colonel from the Pentagon Accounting and procurement office who died suddenly three weeks ago.”
Molly pointed to the second image. “And this one?”
“A US Attorney who, coincidentally, was working closely with Bernstein.”
She waited at the door for the guard, staring into her reflection from the thick security glass. Molly was disarmingly pretty, with long wavy black hair, normally worn up and more official looking. For this call it didn’t seem to matter. Her skin was fair with deep green exotic eyes, the blessing of her Latin and Turkish heritage. But at thirty-seven Molly helped shadowed by the unjust conventions of society that believed men age with distinction while women simply age, becoming less substantial and less important. Her mother always told Molly she had her father’s looks. Truth was, she had never known him, except from a hand full of scratched and faded Polaroids taken when he and Molly’s mother were courting. All she knew was that they met in Paris where Molly’s mother was visiting relatives. Two weeks after their wedding he was knifed in a mugging and died alone in an alley. Molly’s mother flew home to New York where she learned soon after she was pregnant.
The guard opened the door, tearing Molly from thoughts of her childhood, and what might have been. The guard was a young marine corporal. He dutifully checked her FBI identification and waved her through. It was a quick walk down another sterile hallway and through second set of set of doors. Here was the low scent of death and blood and disinfectant, and Molly almost felt rescued for it.
Arpel Bernstein lay naked upon the cold steel examining table, well beyond all modesty. His flesh was ashen in color and drawn. The only color was at the giant “Y” incision across his torso and round belly, and the tuft of pubic hair. At a glance he seemed like some hastily re-stuffed toy. The flesh of his head, like some thick rubber mat, had been neatly cut and was rolled down over his eyes. The top of the skull had been removed, exposing the grayish pink brain within. Leaning over the body was a heavy set balding man that Molly knew only too well. His expression was fixed as he peered at the scribbled notes of an autopsy report through a pair of heavy framed eyeglasses.
He was Doctor Caspar Asgari, a man of gruff manners and meticulous standards. In court, often called upon for his expertise, Asgari’s reputation was unassailable, respected by both the prosecution and the defense alike, which is what made his expression so vexing for Molly. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath, as though preparing herself. She had a feeling that what should have been a simple case was about to become something more.
“Hello, dear,” he said, without looking up from the report. His accent was still thick, and layered with British, though he had fled the Shah’s Iran almost forty years earlier. Asgari turned the page and scratched the back of his neck. He liked her. He liked her complexity and how she was less interested in law enforcement than justice. As for Molly she sometimes liked to imagine her father would have been something like Caspar Asgari.
“Don’t like that look,” she said.
“The face I was born with, I’m afraid.”
She was looking for anything that might indicate the incident with the water had contributed to the Congressman’s death. For the moment she was still be held for “psychiatric evaluation.”
“Is there a case here, Caspar?”
He shrugged, thoroughly stumped. “In my opinion he was not a healthy man to begin with. The Congressman had severe arterial blockage, aggravated by dangerously high hypertension, but that did not kill him.”
“What does that leave?”
“Something…strange, I don’t…come take a look at this.”
He drew back the folded flesh at Arpel’s temple. With two fingers Asgari pointed to a reddish sort of blister, no more than an inch in diameter.
“Looks like a burn,” she remarked.
“In fact it is. I thought perhaps it had happened in the ambulance or at the hospital, but then I decided took a look at his brain, believing that he had died from an aneurism.”
“That was my first thought when I saw the news footage.”
“Indeed,” he said, wagging a finger knowingly. “But when I opened the brain cavity a great deal of blood poured out.”
“So it was a hemorrhage?’
“Ah but here.” Asgari bulled back the spongy brain and ran a long cotton swab along the inside of the skull. He held it up. It was stained rust red with blood, but also with a charcoal black substance.
“There, you see?” he said.
“What is that?”
“Come,” he said. She followed him across the room to two large x-ray images at a small desk. He held one of them up against the light for her to see. Tree-like blood vessels showed up as solid black. Limbs and branches converged then came to a sudden stop, appearing as though they had dissolved. Molly leaned closer, squinting at the image.
“That would be…”
“The hemorrhage,” Asgari finished the sentence. From the table he produced several other X-rays. They were similar, showing blood vessels of the brain. Except in these other images there were tears or bubbles at the point of rupture, but nothing like in the first image.
“These are normal hemorrhages,” he continued. “But in Bernstein’s X-ray it, the, the blood vessels were burned away.”
“From inside.”
“I believe so,” he said.
“Is that possible?”
He chuckled darkly. “That isn’t even the strangest part.” He produced two more X-rays. Each showed the same dissolved pattern as Bernstein’s.
“These are also his?”
He pointed to the image on the left. “This is of an Army Colonel from the Pentagon Accounting and procurement office who died suddenly three weeks ago.”
Molly pointed to the second image. “And this one?”
“A US Attorney who, coincidentally, was working closely with Bernstein.”
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Big Blue Sky-Four
An oar disturbed the mirror-like waters were midnight blue beneath starry sky of the Persian Gulf. The air was soft and absolutely still, and an eternity from the tragedy in Washington on the other side of the globe. A ghost-white moon hung low above the barren bluffs of the Iranian coast. It was cradled in the cottony haze of a low fog. With hardly more sound than a whisper the tiny rubber boat slid steadily towards the coast. Five men inside the boat maintained a wary eye upon the beach, the road beyond and the sleepy village of Chiruyeh.
Two men pulled the boat forward in well-rehearsed strokes, sliding the oar sideways into the sea, digging hard before pulling the oars away with the least disturbance and noise. They were dressed for war, in desert camouflage and blackened faces. Two others at the front of the raft held Czech made CZ 805 assault rifles for close quarters combat. The last followed a lone auto through the sights of and Ares Shrike 5-56mm rifle along the coast road until it turned inland and out of sight. On his back were two large
They rode right up to the beach and a dry wash, where the three men dismounted. They were barely out of the raft when the two remaining men pushed away and headed quickly back out to sea where they would wait. Up the beach a small concrete bridge spanned the wash. The three men paused beneath the bridge, listening intently for some indication they had been seen. But for the barking of a dog far away everything was quite.
The ravine climbed steeply through a high ridge spotted with scrub. Beyond the ridge the landb became a veritable wasteland cut by deep plunging gorges and narrow ravines. It was an inhospitable land to all but fools and men who would test fate as a matter of course, which some believe are simply aspects of one another. Beneath the unblinking expanse of stars they seemed impossible deep, like ragged rivers of shadow, which is exactly why the planners had decided upon this spot.
The men pressed onward, careful over the broken rocks of the gorge. At last the target came into view in the valley below. For almost a mile the land flattened over hard ground, unbroken clear to the two lane highway running south between Shiraz and Bandar e Charak, a garrison town on the coast, twenty-five miles to the south.. But for a forgettable village astride the highway, and the lonesome ruins of Bondar e Moquam to the north, the valley was deserted and would serve as the perfect place for the mission. It was no oversight that the Republican Guards were camped so close in Bandar e Charak , or that the Iranian navy maintained a heavy presence along the coast opposite the American Seventh Fleet, stretched between Dubai and the coast of Bahrain.
A steady wind pushed through the valley. It was quite now, but all that would change soon. In a wide arc two hundred yards from the target area each of the three canisters were hidden among rocks and scrub. Each was set with simple timed charges, the type that could easily be purchased in any blackmarket from Lebanon to Pakistan. Where the dry river bed washed out across the valley floor the bait was laid out, which took less time than was planned. The last and riskiest part of the operation was in setting high explosives among the deep gorge above the beach. Satisfied their work was complete the men headed for the beach precisely on schedule. Six more minutes and they would reach the Chiruyeh Bridge and signal the boat to return. But best laid plans, like explosives tend to go off on their own.
A tremendous explosion shattered the still and quiet of the Persian night just as the three were within sight of the bridge. One by one the lights of the town came on. The headlights of vehicles appeared instantly, racing along the coast road at high speed, three in all. Smoke and dust washed down the hillside and the three men took full advantage, scrambling down in hopes of reaching the bridge without being seen. But someone in the lead vehicle spotted them and swerved off the road and ground to a halt. At the water’s edge the boat was just coming ashore. The men knew in an instant they would have to shoot there way off the beach.
The Iranians were piling out of their vehicles, many of them still groggy from sleep and half dressed. It was an advantage the three were keen to exploit. Making an instant decision they move into a skirmish line, charging at the disorganized Iranian police and unleashing a blistering fusillade that dropped several instantly. At the same time the men moved across the road and down the embankment.
Resistance was paltry at best, with little more than a scattering of poorly aimed shots. Their hammering fire continued, cutting down two more of the Iranians and setting fire to one of the cars. From the boat aimed shots dispatched three more attempting to flank the team. In the darkness they missed a lone gunman who had dropped into the ravine and slipped beneath the bridge. He waited as the intruders sprinted across the beach to the waiting raft. By now there was no more fire coming from the Iranians. The lone survivor waited, following the men through the sights of his AK-47 when were at their most vulnerable, just as they were scrambling into the raft. He squeezed off two shots before rolling away to the cover of rocks and opened up again. When the clip was empty the boat was gone. At the water’s edge lay a single body.
Two men pulled the boat forward in well-rehearsed strokes, sliding the oar sideways into the sea, digging hard before pulling the oars away with the least disturbance and noise. They were dressed for war, in desert camouflage and blackened faces. Two others at the front of the raft held Czech made CZ 805 assault rifles for close quarters combat. The last followed a lone auto through the sights of and Ares Shrike 5-56mm rifle along the coast road until it turned inland and out of sight. On his back were two large
They rode right up to the beach and a dry wash, where the three men dismounted. They were barely out of the raft when the two remaining men pushed away and headed quickly back out to sea where they would wait. Up the beach a small concrete bridge spanned the wash. The three men paused beneath the bridge, listening intently for some indication they had been seen. But for the barking of a dog far away everything was quite.
The ravine climbed steeply through a high ridge spotted with scrub. Beyond the ridge the landb became a veritable wasteland cut by deep plunging gorges and narrow ravines. It was an inhospitable land to all but fools and men who would test fate as a matter of course, which some believe are simply aspects of one another. Beneath the unblinking expanse of stars they seemed impossible deep, like ragged rivers of shadow, which is exactly why the planners had decided upon this spot.
The men pressed onward, careful over the broken rocks of the gorge. At last the target came into view in the valley below. For almost a mile the land flattened over hard ground, unbroken clear to the two lane highway running south between Shiraz and Bandar e Charak, a garrison town on the coast, twenty-five miles to the south.. But for a forgettable village astride the highway, and the lonesome ruins of Bondar e Moquam to the north, the valley was deserted and would serve as the perfect place for the mission. It was no oversight that the Republican Guards were camped so close in Bandar e Charak , or that the Iranian navy maintained a heavy presence along the coast opposite the American Seventh Fleet, stretched between Dubai and the coast of Bahrain.
A steady wind pushed through the valley. It was quite now, but all that would change soon. In a wide arc two hundred yards from the target area each of the three canisters were hidden among rocks and scrub. Each was set with simple timed charges, the type that could easily be purchased in any blackmarket from Lebanon to Pakistan. Where the dry river bed washed out across the valley floor the bait was laid out, which took less time than was planned. The last and riskiest part of the operation was in setting high explosives among the deep gorge above the beach. Satisfied their work was complete the men headed for the beach precisely on schedule. Six more minutes and they would reach the Chiruyeh Bridge and signal the boat to return. But best laid plans, like explosives tend to go off on their own.
A tremendous explosion shattered the still and quiet of the Persian night just as the three were within sight of the bridge. One by one the lights of the town came on. The headlights of vehicles appeared instantly, racing along the coast road at high speed, three in all. Smoke and dust washed down the hillside and the three men took full advantage, scrambling down in hopes of reaching the bridge without being seen. But someone in the lead vehicle spotted them and swerved off the road and ground to a halt. At the water’s edge the boat was just coming ashore. The men knew in an instant they would have to shoot there way off the beach.
The Iranians were piling out of their vehicles, many of them still groggy from sleep and half dressed. It was an advantage the three were keen to exploit. Making an instant decision they move into a skirmish line, charging at the disorganized Iranian police and unleashing a blistering fusillade that dropped several instantly. At the same time the men moved across the road and down the embankment.
Resistance was paltry at best, with little more than a scattering of poorly aimed shots. Their hammering fire continued, cutting down two more of the Iranians and setting fire to one of the cars. From the boat aimed shots dispatched three more attempting to flank the team. In the darkness they missed a lone gunman who had dropped into the ravine and slipped beneath the bridge. He waited as the intruders sprinted across the beach to the waiting raft. By now there was no more fire coming from the Iranians. The lone survivor waited, following the men through the sights of his AK-47 when were at their most vulnerable, just as they were scrambling into the raft. He squeezed off two shots before rolling away to the cover of rocks and opened up again. When the clip was empty the boat was gone. At the water’s edge lay a single body.
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Big Blue Sky-Three
The steel and glass towers of Chicago’s Loop dwarfed Sonny’s Prime Chop House along Ontario Street, like some Monstrous forest. Golden setting sun fell as channels among those great towers, falling upon Sonny’s unassuming red brick face. It might have been a home, for the wood shingled roof and pale yellow lanterns at the door. Bright flowers and cascading ivy’s dripped from rustic window boxes. They appeared almost out of place as people hurried y in scarves and long coats with the deepening autumn cold.
Simple, elegant places such as this was where the real business of government was conducted. In hallways, locker rooms or private dinners proper negotiations for things common folk believed immovable were bartered and haggled over. Far away from intrusive cameras, the distraction and fever of the Senate floor or the halls of Congress, away from public partisan pretense and the vaudevillian Press the nation moved forward with quid pro quo handshakes and nods. Sonny’s had seen its fair share of such deals, and was known in proper circles where discretion was as much a part of the service as the fine and suitably priced menu.
Ellen McMurtry arrived just as the last sun disappeared behind the low neighborhoods to the west. She was no stranger to Sonny’s, and could point to a number of meetings here that help precipitate her rapid rise to become the President’s new chief of staff. Shadowed by an ever-present Secret Service Agent. At thirty-six she was a stunning woman. Her precisely managed blond hair teased the collar of her long steel-gray cashmere coat. Tall and slender, she might easily have been mistaken for a former model, a quality that allowed her to disarm opponents in the male dominated world of politics and business. Her bright blue eyes could be vivacious or vicious in the blink of an eye.
It was those qualities that McMurtry brought to her new position in the White House, giving the office the confrontational constituent supporters had long craved. But she could boast a long and successful career in and out of politics. After the premature and unexpected departure of the previous Chief of Staff Ellen found herself at the top of very short list of candidates. Within just few short months she had transformed the President in the eyes of the nation, strengthening his image, lifting him in the ratings, lining up an impressive donor list and throwing republican critics back on the defensive.
Sonny himself greeted her at the door. Smart in a well tailored suit, his thick hair prematurely gray, he took her cot personally and escorted her personally to a private VIP room upstairs. Her guard, confident she was well looked after retired to the lounge and a complimentary dinner.
Umberto Shosa was already waiting for her, having arrived a short time earlier. By contrast the sly and eternally calculating Croatian warlord turned industrialist boasted a very different reputation. Nicknamed The Shark, Shosa famously and infamously held a reputation for being fearless and unconcerned about the size or power of an opponent. Indeed, the bigger the adversary the more he relished the fight. Not that he preferred enemies, only that they came with the territory.
Modern war, he had learned, was not won on the battlefield, but in the halls of government. It was not settled by general or presidents, but in the boardrooms of companies such as his, and paid for by taxpayers and hardworking citizens, most of whom would never see a battlefield in their lifetime. This was less a dinner than a courtship between the government and big business. Their sexuality only added a more enthralling dimension to the game.
Shosa rose and bowed slightly as she entered the room. It was softly lit, the dark paneled room swathed in passion red fabrics, but for the brilliant white table cloth. A lone candle flickered in a frosted glass, throwing its buttery light across a vase of fresh flowers and bottle of Dom Perignon. Sonny closed the door behind Ellen, leaving them alone.
She smiled warmly and shook his hand, blushing a bit when he pulled out her chair. He poured her a glass of champagne and lifted his in toast. Ellen swept a lock of hair back and raised her glass in kind.
“Thank you for coming.” His accent was softer now that when he’d first left Croatia after the war. It was almost mysterious and nondescript now.
“Normally I wouldn’t have accepted your invitation,” she said.
“Business and pleasure?”
She found him strikingly handsome, as much for his power and achievement as for those chiseled Balkan looks. Molly couldn’t help but smile. “Business is my pleasure.”
“Indeed!” he exclaimed quietly. Umberto leaned back, regarding her beauty, and hoping to tease her with a bit of embarrassment.”
Ellen gazed into her drink. It seemed far safer that tumbling into those deep dark eyes of his. She stifled that smile, and wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
“A man can be worth billions, the best education, well travelled, in the finest clothes, but he’s still that obnoxious little boy farting on the other children in the schoolyard.”
He leaned closer, finding her eyes. He held hers. There was something in his voice, almost dangerous. “I grew up in Croatia. I stepped out of school and into a battlefield.”
“You fought in the civil war?”
“Nothing civil about it, but even the darkest situations can be very profitable if one is wise.”
“Is that why Shosa Industries is purchasing First Thrust Inc?”
“Purely business, and I know the business of war.” He downed a glass of champagne. “When I do something, Ellen,” he paused. “May I call you Ellen?”
“We’ll see.”
“I believe in doing everything to the fullest extent,” he said.
“Quite the confident boy.” Her voice was low. Ellen felt herself swept away by him.
“Quite,” he replied.
“So, you must have your pick of women.”
“Women? Yes. Challenging women are quite another story.”
“Am I a challenge to you, Umberto?”
He poured each of them another glass. “You are as powerful and brilliant as you are attractive. One false move and I risk creating a formidable enemy.”
Ellen regarded him for a moment. This was as much a negotiation as a flirtation. “We’re scaling back in Iraq and making a final push in Afghanistan. The economy and the Gulf Coast are the issues now, and the administration is committed to cutting costs, creating jobs and making Sarah Palin look like a half-wit. I’m afraid that doesn’t bode well for exotic ventures like yours.”
“The country is still afraid of terrorism.”
She scoffed. “There were thirty Americans killed by terrorism last year. By contrast three hundred kids died in pools, thirty four thousand died in car crashes and seven thousand died in gang violence. It’s important to maintain a perspective, Umberto.”
Shosa chuckled and shook his head. “Could be a tragic oversight by the Administration. One crackpot brings down an airliner or shoots up a shopping mall and no one will be talking about the Gulf Coast.”
“I mean to get this President re-elected, and this quite frankly is a hard one to sell.”
“Isn’t that what life is all about, selling?”
This, she thought, was precisely where their interests coincided.
“You generous donation will be immensely appreciated by the President. That much I can promise you.”
“Consideration is all I can hope for,” he replied.
“In the tragic wake of Congressman Bernstein’s passing the Pentagon appropriations committee will get a new makeover, no doubt with a fundamentally different perspective.”
The Congressman’s death was unexpected.”
The President has friends in congress who share the view that what is called far are smarter weapons to wage war against our enemies.
“Nano-technology is the next great technological frontier,” he said. “The Chinese are already years ahead of the West. With the proper funding we could quickly bridge and surpass that gap.”
Ellen took another drink and leaned close to Umberto. Her eyes were dreamy and deep. Now, enough with business…”
Simple, elegant places such as this was where the real business of government was conducted. In hallways, locker rooms or private dinners proper negotiations for things common folk believed immovable were bartered and haggled over. Far away from intrusive cameras, the distraction and fever of the Senate floor or the halls of Congress, away from public partisan pretense and the vaudevillian Press the nation moved forward with quid pro quo handshakes and nods. Sonny’s had seen its fair share of such deals, and was known in proper circles where discretion was as much a part of the service as the fine and suitably priced menu.
Ellen McMurtry arrived just as the last sun disappeared behind the low neighborhoods to the west. She was no stranger to Sonny’s, and could point to a number of meetings here that help precipitate her rapid rise to become the President’s new chief of staff. Shadowed by an ever-present Secret Service Agent. At thirty-six she was a stunning woman. Her precisely managed blond hair teased the collar of her long steel-gray cashmere coat. Tall and slender, she might easily have been mistaken for a former model, a quality that allowed her to disarm opponents in the male dominated world of politics and business. Her bright blue eyes could be vivacious or vicious in the blink of an eye.
It was those qualities that McMurtry brought to her new position in the White House, giving the office the confrontational constituent supporters had long craved. But she could boast a long and successful career in and out of politics. After the premature and unexpected departure of the previous Chief of Staff Ellen found herself at the top of very short list of candidates. Within just few short months she had transformed the President in the eyes of the nation, strengthening his image, lifting him in the ratings, lining up an impressive donor list and throwing republican critics back on the defensive.
Sonny himself greeted her at the door. Smart in a well tailored suit, his thick hair prematurely gray, he took her cot personally and escorted her personally to a private VIP room upstairs. Her guard, confident she was well looked after retired to the lounge and a complimentary dinner.
Umberto Shosa was already waiting for her, having arrived a short time earlier. By contrast the sly and eternally calculating Croatian warlord turned industrialist boasted a very different reputation. Nicknamed The Shark, Shosa famously and infamously held a reputation for being fearless and unconcerned about the size or power of an opponent. Indeed, the bigger the adversary the more he relished the fight. Not that he preferred enemies, only that they came with the territory.
Modern war, he had learned, was not won on the battlefield, but in the halls of government. It was not settled by general or presidents, but in the boardrooms of companies such as his, and paid for by taxpayers and hardworking citizens, most of whom would never see a battlefield in their lifetime. This was less a dinner than a courtship between the government and big business. Their sexuality only added a more enthralling dimension to the game.
Shosa rose and bowed slightly as she entered the room. It was softly lit, the dark paneled room swathed in passion red fabrics, but for the brilliant white table cloth. A lone candle flickered in a frosted glass, throwing its buttery light across a vase of fresh flowers and bottle of Dom Perignon. Sonny closed the door behind Ellen, leaving them alone.
She smiled warmly and shook his hand, blushing a bit when he pulled out her chair. He poured her a glass of champagne and lifted his in toast. Ellen swept a lock of hair back and raised her glass in kind.
“Thank you for coming.” His accent was softer now that when he’d first left Croatia after the war. It was almost mysterious and nondescript now.
“Normally I wouldn’t have accepted your invitation,” she said.
“Business and pleasure?”
She found him strikingly handsome, as much for his power and achievement as for those chiseled Balkan looks. Molly couldn’t help but smile. “Business is my pleasure.”
“Indeed!” he exclaimed quietly. Umberto leaned back, regarding her beauty, and hoping to tease her with a bit of embarrassment.”
Ellen gazed into her drink. It seemed far safer that tumbling into those deep dark eyes of his. She stifled that smile, and wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
“A man can be worth billions, the best education, well travelled, in the finest clothes, but he’s still that obnoxious little boy farting on the other children in the schoolyard.”
He leaned closer, finding her eyes. He held hers. There was something in his voice, almost dangerous. “I grew up in Croatia. I stepped out of school and into a battlefield.”
“You fought in the civil war?”
“Nothing civil about it, but even the darkest situations can be very profitable if one is wise.”
“Is that why Shosa Industries is purchasing First Thrust Inc?”
“Purely business, and I know the business of war.” He downed a glass of champagne. “When I do something, Ellen,” he paused. “May I call you Ellen?”
“We’ll see.”
“I believe in doing everything to the fullest extent,” he said.
“Quite the confident boy.” Her voice was low. Ellen felt herself swept away by him.
“Quite,” he replied.
“So, you must have your pick of women.”
“Women? Yes. Challenging women are quite another story.”
“Am I a challenge to you, Umberto?”
He poured each of them another glass. “You are as powerful and brilliant as you are attractive. One false move and I risk creating a formidable enemy.”
Ellen regarded him for a moment. This was as much a negotiation as a flirtation. “We’re scaling back in Iraq and making a final push in Afghanistan. The economy and the Gulf Coast are the issues now, and the administration is committed to cutting costs, creating jobs and making Sarah Palin look like a half-wit. I’m afraid that doesn’t bode well for exotic ventures like yours.”
“The country is still afraid of terrorism.”
She scoffed. “There were thirty Americans killed by terrorism last year. By contrast three hundred kids died in pools, thirty four thousand died in car crashes and seven thousand died in gang violence. It’s important to maintain a perspective, Umberto.”
Shosa chuckled and shook his head. “Could be a tragic oversight by the Administration. One crackpot brings down an airliner or shoots up a shopping mall and no one will be talking about the Gulf Coast.”
“I mean to get this President re-elected, and this quite frankly is a hard one to sell.”
“Isn’t that what life is all about, selling?”
This, she thought, was precisely where their interests coincided.
“You generous donation will be immensely appreciated by the President. That much I can promise you.”
“Consideration is all I can hope for,” he replied.
“In the tragic wake of Congressman Bernstein’s passing the Pentagon appropriations committee will get a new makeover, no doubt with a fundamentally different perspective.”
The Congressman’s death was unexpected.”
The President has friends in congress who share the view that what is called far are smarter weapons to wage war against our enemies.
“Nano-technology is the next great technological frontier,” he said. “The Chinese are already years ahead of the West. With the proper funding we could quickly bridge and surpass that gap.”
Ellen took another drink and leaned close to Umberto. Her eyes were dreamy and deep. Now, enough with business…”
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