Act of Treason

48

GENEVA, SWITZERLAND

G arret was in a supremely foul mood. He’d boarded his flight convinced he would sleep his way across the Atlantic. He had it all planned out. He’d have a vodka on the rocks before takeoff and two or three glasses of red wine with his meal, and then he’d kick off his shoes, recline his seat, put on the little mask they handed out, and he’d snooze until the sun was gleaming off the snow-capped Alps. Unfortunately, he didn’t account for his enlarged prostate. An hour into his slumber he awoke to make his first of three trips to the head. When he landed in Geneva, he was tired, grumpy, and more than a bit out of whack. He was at least happy, though, to be out of Washington. No one bugging him for photographs and advice.

A driver was waiting for him at the airport. The man took him to his hotel and on the way showed him where he would be meeting Mr. Speyer for dinner at 8:00. Garret was immediately put off that they were going to make him wait for six and a half hours to discuss business, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Speyer wasn’t answering his phone, and he wasn’t about to call Green.
He checked in to his hotel a little before 2:00 in the afternoon and asked for a 7:00 p.m. wakeup call just to be safe. When he got up to his room the jet lag hit him hard. He turned off both mobile phones and hit the Do Not Disturb button on the hotel phone. He must have been dehydrated from the flight because he slept straight through to his 7:00 p.m. wakeup call without disturbance from his prostate. Garret showered and shaved and put on a blue sport coat, white dress shirt, and dark gray slacks.
When he arrived downstairs a car was waiting for him. Garret walked outside with his puffy down coat and stopped for a moment on the sidewalk. Across the street was Lake Geneva. The city lights flickered on the surface. As a political consultant, Garret had a keen sense of awareness when it came to people. He liked Geneva. It was a city of scoundrels, many of whom tried to portray themselves as aristocracy. It was a voyeuristic heaven. You got to watch the charade of social pretense that masked insatiable appetites for food, drugs, drinking, gambling, and sex. It could be a very fun place to visit.
Garret stuffed his hands in his jacket and climbed into the back of his waiting Mercedes sedan. The driver said hello in French, and Garret nodded to his reflection in the rearview mirror. The car eased out into traffic and rolled down Quai du Mont-Blanc, toward the finest restaurant in all of Geneva. Garret was looking forward to the meal, but he was not looking forward to the company. He decided he would have to order the most expensive thing on the menu. He didn’t have to worry about the wine. Speyer would take great care to make sure something extremely expensive was selected.