Act of Treason

4

ZERMATT, SWITZERLAND

T he partygoers in the Alex Hotel were all in a good mood, and they should have been since not a single one of them had paid for a thing all weekend. This particular environmental conference was one of the hottest tickets on the annual circuit. One day of workshops and panels, and two days of skiing and debauchery at one of Europe’s finest ski resorts. A Grateful Dead cover band was on a tiny stage playing “Cumberland Blues” as the crowd of rhythmically challenged, Birkenstock wearing, patchouli oil–smelling, prematurely gray, Mother Earth lovers danced a herky-jerky dance that would have made any lover of the Motown Sound either cry or double over in laughter.

Mark Ross stood near the back of the room with a permanent smile on his face. He had attended the event five previous times as a U.S. senator and the attendees had always been nice to him, but now they treated him like royalty. He had been smart to embrace this issue years ago. If one was to rise to the top of the Democratic Party it was very important to have the proper credentials. No résumé builder was more vital than the role of compassionate environmentalist. These were the foot soldiers. The people who got out the vote. Who organized things from the grass roots with their e-mail blasts and blogs. He appreciated everything they’d done for him, and would hopefully do for him in the future. He was already thinking about his turn. Eight years wasn’t so long. There were limits though. He was now at the top of the political heap. One place from the pinnacle. He’d put in enough time with the unwashed. Now it was time to head off to Mount Olympus and bask in the adoration of the truly powerful.
The toughest invite of the entire weekend was for Joseph Speyer’s party at his mountainside villa. The Deadheads were not welcome. Speyer’s party was for the heavy hitters—European royalty; fashion icons from Paris, London, New York, and Milan; international financiers; media moguls; the occasional movie or rock star; hip politicians; and ultra-wealthy trust funders. In other words, the beautiful people who flew in on their private planes, partied hard, wrote big checks, and then flew on to the next big party, or one of several mansions they owned. Conservation to these people meant having their staff recycle their diet pop cans and designer plastic water bottles. Some of them went so far as to buy a small hybrid car, but the purchase was simply to drive to a friend’s house on the weekend. They still kept their limos, SUVs, luxury sedans, and sports cars.
For Ross, Speyer’s party was a must. It allowed him to tap into people with obscene money. People who could write million dollar soft-money checks, because that was how much money their bond portfolio had earned the previous week. Ross had been welcomed into this crowd from the get-go. He was tall, relatively handsome, and fit. But equally important was the fact that he’d built himself a small fortune on Wall Street, which endeared him to his fellow multimillionaires. The ultra wealthy had a much easier time writing checks to people who were already in the club. On some level they thought a fellow millionaire was less likely to abscond with the funds.
Ross shook a few more hands and turned for the door. The smell of cannabis was pungent. Michael Brown, the Secret Service agent in charge of his detail, stood a few steps away with a frown on his face. He fell into step with Ross as they left the room.
“What’s the matter, Michael?” Ross asked with a smile. “You’ve never been stoned?”
“I don’t do drugs, sir. Never have.”
“You don’t have to lie to me,” Ross said casually. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”
Five more agents fell in around them. The shortest was six feet one and the tallest was six feet six. They looked more like a basketball team than a security detail.
“I don’t lie, sir.” Brown’s eyes scanned the crowd in the lobby. “Just so you know, I’m going to have to put this in my report.”
“What, in your report?”
“The presence of marijuana.”
Ross looked at him sideways. “You can’t be serious?”
“It was pretty thick in there, sir, and we take drug tests. I have to write it up.”
Ross frowned. He could just see the press getting a hold of something like this.
“Don’t worry, sir. It’ll be internal. We’re good at keeping secrets.”
The Secret Service agents and the vice president–elect stepped through the front door and onto the sidewalk. Two more six-plus-foot agents were waiting for them. They were traveling light, which was the other reason for Agent Brown’s foul mood. Motorized vehicles were banned in the town of Zermatt. Brown wanted to get an exemption from the Swiss, but Ross wouldn’t let him. It was after all an environmental conference. Ross would ride the electric city busses just like everyone else.
This was both a logistical and security nightmare for the Secret Service. There was no bombproofing, let alone bulletproofing, electric vehicles. They simply didn’t have the horsepower to handle the extra weight, especially with some of the steep inclines they had to deal with. That meant Ross would be exposed to and from every venue all weekend long. In light of the attack on the motorcade, no one at the Secret Service liked this idea, but Ross held his ground.
The other problem was that Ross had sprung this trip on them at the last minute. That meant the advance team had arrived barely a day before the rest of the detail. A city bus was commandeered for the weekend, and two agents set about learning how to drive the large, low-powered vehicles. Brown arrived the next day to discover that his boys had crashed the bus. The narrow village streets were simply too difficult for amateurs to navigate. So now they had a civilian driving them, and no backup bus available as a decoy, nor a replacement should this one fail. The entire trip had degenerated into everything he’d been taught not to do. With Ross refusing to allow him to bring in one of the limos or Suburbans on standby in Milan, they were forced to adapt and settle for a less than ideal situation.
A perimeter had been formed around the yellow and green village bus. Black paper had been taped over the large windows along the back half. Brown escorted Ross onto the bus and walked him to the rear, where he sat him down between two black clad and heavily armed members of the Counter Assault Team. More agents piled on the bus and they started to roll. A light fluffy snow was falling as the bus hummed through the narrow streets. They didn’t have far to go. That was one good thing about Zermatt. The village was small. Speyer’s house was barely a mile away, most of it uphill. Two agents had been deployed in advance. Brown had wanted to send a team of six to sweep the house and wand the other guests as they arrived, but when Ross got wind of it he hit the roof. Ross chewed his ass out and Brown had to stand there and take it. He kept headquarters appraised of his every move and left a significant e-mail trail explaining that Ross had overruled him every step of the way. If something happened Brown wasn’t going to take the blame for it. He’d watched what they’d done to Rivera after the attack on the motorcade. She’d been put on administrative leave pending the completion of the investigation. Now she’d been cooling her heels for two and a half months. Even if they cleared her, there was no way she would get anywhere near the president’s detail.
With barely a hundred meters to the house the bus rounded a hairpin turn and stalled. The driver turned to Brown and in clear English said, “Too heavy. Too much weight.”
“Wonderful.” Brown scowled and then mumbled to himself, “What a chicken shit operation.” He looked around at his fellow agents and said, “Everybody off accept Kendal and Fitz.” Brown was referring to the two men sandwiching Ross.
One by one eight agents piled off the bus and then slowly but steadily, the vehicle climbed the last steep incline. The agents who had disembarked dogged it up the hill double time without having to be ordered. The bus couldn’t go very fast so they kept pace, but when they got to the top they were all panting due to the thin mountain air. One of the two advance agents was waiting for them with a smile on his face. It vanished as soon as Brown stepped off the bus.
“What in the hell do you think is so funny?”
“Nothing, boss,” the man said sheepishly.
“What’s the situation in there?” Brown jerked his head toward the house.
“Eighty-three guests plus sixteen people from the caterer. No whack jobs.”
“Exits?”
“We’re piggybacking his security system. Everything is wired and covered.”
Brown stepped back onto the bus and said, “Sir, we’re ready.”
Ross stood and buttoned his tweed sport coat. He was wearing a gray and blue Nordic sweater underneath and some jeans. He exited the bus and proceeded to the front door, where it was opened for him by one of the host’s servants. The heavy wooden door swung in, and Ross was met by Speyer, who was waiting for him.
The banker was dressed in a red velvet smoking jacket, black pants, and a pair of black suede house slippers. He was every bit the stylish host, even here in the mountains.
“Mr. Vice President.” Speyer made a rolling motion with his right hand and then bowed at the waist. “It is an honor to have you as a guest at my humble abode.”
Ross laughed. “I’m still just Mark to you, Joseph. I won’t be sworn in for another week.”
“Oh…do not deprive me the joy of using such an exalted title.” The banker looked up at Ross and smiled.
“Stand up you imbecile, before I have you flogged.”
Speyer winked and said, “Promises, promises.”
“You look well.”
“And so do you. What can we get you to drink?”
“I would love a martini.”
“We will get you one, and then I would like to show you my new wine cellar. I think you will be most impressed.”
Ross started to follow the host and after a few steps could feel that someone was following him. He looked over his shoulder at Agent Brown and gave him a look that clearly told him to back off. “Wait by the front door. If I need you, I’ll scream.”
A bar was set up between the stone fireplace and the massive picture window that looked down on the village and out onto the most recognizable peak in the world. The Matterhorn. With the light snow falling the sheer face was all but obscured, but Ross knew it was there. He’d stood at this window just three months before and coveted the view.
The guests all gravitated toward him, extending their sincere congratulations. Many of them had helped finance the campaign. He was their horse, and they had backed him. Ross was well into his martini and Speyer was well into his second hilarious story, when Ross noticed a familiar face watching him from across the room. Ross became uncomfortable before he even knew it. His hands got sweaty and his throat tightened a bit. He avoided looking at the man directly. He expected him to be here, but not out in the open. Ross suddenly felt the need to dull his nerves a bit. He turned to the bartender and motioned for another martini. A little liquid courage was what he would need to get through the evening.