Hay-Adams Hotel, Washington, DC, May 22, 8:30 a.m.
The Lafayette was a statement kind of DC restaurant. How often someone dined there, and at which table, told the world exactly where that individual ranked in the political scheme of things. It was a never-ending game of musical chairs. Those who could afford the private dining room, however, bought a speed pass. Everyone got to see them enter the establishment, but was then denied the pleasure of watching them eat. Which meant, of course, that any real business conducted in the Lafayette was done back there.
The ma?tre d’ greeted the Honorable Senator Corbin Davis from Indiana as he entered the restaurant. “Welcome back, Senator.”
“Thank you, Antonio.”
The ma?tre d’ corrected him. “Alfonso.”
“Alfonso, right.”
“Your host is expecting you. Please follow me.” He led the senator through the restaurant to the private room. Davis exchanged pleasantries with several other politicians and influence peddlers as they made their way back.
Davis’s breakfast companion stood up from the table as he entered the private room. “Senator, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Bob Stenson.”
Davis gave Stenson a firm handshake. “Bob, the pleasure is all mine.” He glanced at Alfonso, who excused himself.
Davis was attired exactly the way Stenson’s research had told him he would be: navy-blue pinstripe suit, handmade; off-white dress shirt, lightly starched; Brooks Brothers tie, yellow; Tiffany cuff links, brushed platinum; Patek Philippe watch, vintage. Stenson intended to tell him the watch was a poor choice even if it had been a wedding gift from his father-in-law, but only in due time. “Please, have a seat.” The two men sat at the table. “I ordered you a double cappuccino with nonfat milk. That is how you like your coffee, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Davis took a sip. “I gather you’ve done your homework on me.”
Stenson stifled a smile. “You could say that.” Only for the last fifteen years.
“Fifty thousand dollars is a hell of a contribution, Stenson. It’s rather unusual to see that kind of money come in without any fanfare.”
“We don’t care for fanfare, or publicity of any kind.”
The senator nodded as he studied the man across the table. “From what I could gather, while people have heard of the American Heritage Foundation, nobody knows much about you.” Stenson stared back impassively across the table. “Except that every candidate you’ve backed in the last twenty years has won.”
Stenson remained without expression. “We’re rather selective.”
“I suppose I should be flattered.”
“That depends.” Stenson took a sip of water.
“On what?”
“On whether you would like to be the next president of the United States.” He looked directly at the perfectly tanned man across from him.
Davis knew this was not a joke. His next few words might very well be the most important he’d ever speak in his entire political career. “Very much.”
Stenson took another sip of water. “We can make it happen.”
Coming from anyone else, the statement would be ludicrous. But from these people, it was to be taken at face value. “Based on your track record, I don’t doubt you.”
“Would you like our support?” Stenson did not blink. He kept his gaze locked on his target.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“We’re what people today refer to as old-school. We require complete trust. And absolute confidentiality.”
“I’ve never betrayed a friend in my life.”
“We would not be having breakfast if you had.” He slid a manila folder across the table.
“What’s this?”
“We need to know if we’ve missed anything.”
Davis opened the folder to find a handful of items. Among them, records of a $175,000 payoff from a union representative in 2005; Davis’s ongoing affair with a twenty-three-year-old staffer; and his 2013 drunk-driving arrest, which he’d managed to have expunged at considerable expense. Each offense was well documented with photographs, paperwork, and other damaging evidence.
They knew everything.
The senator’s blood went cold. He was shaken. The documents he was looking at were not supposed to exist. “Where the hell did you get all this?”
“That’s not important. What is important is that we know everything. We cannot protect you without full disclosure.” Stenson sipped his water. “Is there anything we don’t know?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.” Davis couldn’t think at all. His mind was spinning. How could they possibly know? How did they get any of this?
My God, who are these people?
Stenson’s expression remained completely unthreatening. “If something comes to you later, don’t hesitate to contact us.” He placed an encrypted phone on the table. It was the same model Henry Townsend had used to call Stenson the night he was murdered, only this one was brand new. “Keep this with you at all times. To reach us, all you have to do is press ‘1.’ You are never to use this phone to contact anyone else under any circumstances.”
Davis couldn’t stop staring at the documents. “And you can make sure none of this can come back to bite me in the ass?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask how?”
Stenson sipped his water. Clearly, the answer was no. “The phone will be our primary means of communicating with you. If we call you, we expect you to answer it.”
“Doesn’t seem too much to ask.” He studied the phone, and then pocketed it as a waiter arrived to take their orders. Stenson ordered the oatmeal. Senator Davis ordered the eighteen-dollar eggs Florentine with a side of apple wood–smoked bacon, just like the American Heritage Foundation research said he would.
Stenson waited for the server to leave the room. “Senator, there is a small favor we’d like to ask.”
Senator Davis had been waiting, since the moment he sat down, to find out just how much this little breakfast was going to cost him. “What can I do for you?”
“Tomorrow, at the annual budget meeting of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, one agenda item is of great importance to us.”
CHAPTER 13
Recreation Room, Harmony House, May 22, 9:15 a.m.
Fifteen minutes had passed by the time Eddie finished writing his equations. Turning away from the whiteboard, he glanced around the room to the other patients. “Good morning.” They all stared at him expectantly. Even the guy who was drooling. Eddie cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and then started. “Matter can be neither created nor destroyed, though it can be converted from one form into another.”
His delivery was slow, methodical, and surprisingly dramatic. He seemed almost to physically transform himself, Skylar thought. Something inside him had turned on. He wasn’t merely imitating. He was expressing himself. Which meant that he was capable of it. On her mental list of priorities, understanding the trigger mechanism had just risen to the top.
Eddie moved to a phonograph, which was as old as he was. He glanced confidently at his audience, then picked up the stylus and turned on the device. The vinyl record on the platter began to spin, gradually moving faster until finally reaching a constant speed of thirty-three and one-third revolutions per minute.
Eddie carefully placed the needle into the outermost groove of the record, which happened to be Wilhelm Kempff performing the Schubert Impromptu D. 923, one of the finest Schubertians playing one of the finest pieces of music ever written for piano.