It just so happened that matters of banking and finance were on the agenda in the Senate offices of Washington, D.C., that night.
The congressional staffers were working late again. That was one of the things that came with the territory. Low pay and long, grueling hours—at least while Congress was in session. But there was always the hope that soon they could move up the political ladder. Perhaps a job as chief legal counsel on one of the influential committees some day. Or maybe the possibility of moving into the private sector, with a six-figure job in a D.C. law firm or lobbying shop.
A young female legislative assistant, who was part of the political night crew, ripped an urgent note off the top of the message pad in the lobby of Senator Wendell Straworth’s office. In her panic she tore the corner of the note. So she riffled through the receptionist’s desk, found some tape, and slapped it on the torn note, piecing it together.
Then she scurried across the lobby, down the adjoining hall, and up to the closed door at the end, leading to the senator’s office. The LA paused in front of the door. She knew he was in there with the Senate Majority Leader Russell Beyers. They were not to be disturbed unless it was something absolutely critical.
The LA took a deep breath and then knocked twice on the door, still gripping the taped note in her hand.
The door was opened by Senator Straworth’s chief of staff. The LA thrust the note into the COS’s hand. In the background she glimpsed Straworth and Beyers sitting across from each other in leather chairs.
The chief of staff closed the door and handed the note to Senator Straworth.
He read it and then looked up at Beyers.
“The vice president wants a decision. She’s demanding a call. Immediately.”
“We asked for a call directly with the president,” Beyers mumbled to himself. “Why are they cloistering him like this? What’s going on? Does he have cancer or something? Has he suffered a nervous break-down? I get the feeling that Tulrude is now running the Oval Office.”
Straworth just shook his head but suggested they make the call. They had no choice.
When the vice president was finally on the line, they put her on the speaker phone. She was typically blunt. “Are we going to get the vote on this new monetary currency or not?”
Beyers bristled a little. As majority leader he didn’t like being treated like a schoolboy who was turning in his homework late. But then again, that was the style of Jessica Tulrude.
“Madam Vice President, we have everything under control,” Beyers said. His voice was confident, polished. Calm.
“Which means what?”
“A vote tomorrow to begin converting the entire U.S. currency system over to the CReDO.”
“What’s your plan to deal with public opinion?” Tulrude shot back.
“Well, the CReDO issue is buried in a huge omnibus spending bill. The thing’s as thick as the New York phone book. Frankly, most of the senators haven’t read the whole bill. I doubt if the press will. But our people in the Senate generally understand that this is a must do because of the dollar being devastated in the currency exchanges.”
“Have you counted noses?”
Beyers tensed his jaw a little but forced a smile as he spoke. “Of course we’ve counted votes. It shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got a solid majority.”
Then Beyers paused and added another thought. He moved closer to the speaker phone and said, “Madam Vice President, I assume that when we give you the vote on the currency issue, as I know we will, the administration will back me on the three bills I described in my message to the president the other day.”
Jessica Tulrude cleared her throat and said, “Russ, you know I’m as good as my word.”
That’s all that Russell Beyers needed to hear. He said his good-byes to Tulrude and strode out of the office to a caucus meeting while Straworth quickly offered his apologies and said he couldn’t attend.
On a signal from Senator Straworth, his chief of staff left the room closing the door behind him.
Straworth took the call off speaker and began talking on the tiny voice-activated phonecell clipped to his lapel.
“So, as you can see,” Straworth tried to explain to the vice president, “I’ve kept my part of the bargain. I’ve got the majority leader and the Senate behind the currency conversion.”
“And?”
“Are you going to make me spell it out?”
“No need.”
“Good.”
“But you still have one more assignment…”
“Yes, I know, the RTS business. But I just want you to know that this morning I secured the approval of the sub-committee to authorize subpoenas to be served on Joshua Jordan. He will have no choice now but to appear and produce his RTS documents—or risk going to jail. And if he thinks he can weather a jail sentence, he will be sadly mistaken. It will take his professional career and his business reputation and reduce them both to an oil stain on the sidewalk. Checkmate. So, Madam Vice President, I’ve done everything I’ve promised.”
“And the position that you’re interested in, that’s still the same?”
“I think I’d make an excellent Supreme Court justice.”
“Well, the inside rumor is that Justice Manweiller is going to last through the present term and will probably be announcing his retirement after the presidential election next November. If all goes well, I’ll be the person in the Oval Office making that appointment. Wendell, with the support of your fellow senators, your confirmation to the Supreme Court should be a shoo-in.”
Wendell Straworth smiled. He had waited a long time for this. The pieces were falling into place.
“And has the President definitely agreed to step away after only one term and give you his full support during the primaries? That rarely ever happens…”
“We’ve never had a president in this situation before,” Tulrude snapped back. “Just remember, I’m in control over here…”
“I wouldn’t think of questioning that,” Straworth said. His voice was dripping with apology.
“Fine,” the vice president said. Her voice was condescending, but there was also an air of satisfaction now that the big-dog-versus-little-dog situation with Senator Straworth had been cleared up.
After the vice president said good-bye, Straworth exhaled a long breath and leaned back in his chair. He was poised to set in motion a series of events that would be certain to cinch his professional future. He reached over to his work table and grabbed his copy of the subpoena. The original was being couriered over to the U.S. Marshals Service first thing in the morning.
Straworth relished the words at the top of the document:
BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE SENATE OF THE CONGRESS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO: MR. JOSHUA JORDAN
YOU ARE HEREBY COMMANDED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE BELOWNAMED COMMITTEE OF THE U.S. SENATE, AT THE TIME AND PLACE BELOW DESIGNATED, AND THEN AND THERE TO PRODUCE ALL DOCUMENTS, RECORDS, AND PAPERS RELATING TO THE DESIGN, CONCEPTION, ENGINEERING SPECIFICATIONS, PRODUCTION, AND OPERATING PRINCIPLES OF THE WEAPONS SYSTEM COMMONLY KNOWN AS “RETURN-TO-SENDER” (RTS), INCLUDING THE USE OF LASERS TO REVERSE THE DIRECTION OR TRAJECTORY OF OFFENSIVE MISSILES.
FAIL NOT OR YOU WILL FACE THE FULL PENALTY OF LAW.
THIRTY-FIVE
The crowds were spilling out of Eternity Church now that the evening service had ended. Deborah Jordan was busy chattering with some friends in the vestibule, making use of her time off from West Point and quickly catching up before she had to return the next day. At the front of the sanctuary by the pulpit, Abigail was holding one of Joshua’s hands with both of hers as they approached the pastor, but she let go so her husband could shake hands with Paul Campbell.
“Pastor Campbell, this is my husband, Joshua. I think you’ve met before…”
“Yes, once or twice awhile back,” Campbell said with a relaxed grin. “It’s a pleasure. And a privilege. I consider you an American hero.”
Joshua always flinched a little with that one. Not that he was embarrassed. But he could never see himself that way. He was a mission-and-duty guy. How could he accept the “hero” label for just doing his best at what had to be done?
“Some folks might disagree with you on that.”
“That doesn’t change my opinion.”
“Thanks for your message tonight,” Joshua said. “Very interesting.”
Joshua was minimizing the impact that the sermon had on him. He was holding back and he knew it. But he didn’t see any reason to spill his guts all over the floor of the church. Campbell had given him some food for thought.
Campbell said simply, “Glad to hear it. You folks back in the city for a while?”
“Just got back from Colorado,” Abigail said.
Then Campbell looked over at Joshua and studied him for a minute. “This may be a shot in the dark. But here goes. Are you a golfer by any chance?”
Abigail giggled. She was struggling to keep quiet.
Joshua quickly threw his wife an amused glance before he answered.
“Yes, I’ve been known to hit a few golf balls.”
She couldn’t hold back any longer and blurted out, “He’s understating it, pastor. He’s practically a pro. You ought to see his handicap.”
“Oh,” Campbell said with a chuckle. “Maybe I’d better rethink my invitation then. You’re liable to humiliate the rest of us…”
Joshua’s curiosity was piqued and he asked, “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, tomorrow is my day off. It’s a dark secret among the clergy. We really do like to go out and play rather than work all the time. Anyway, we had a foursome scheduled for eighteen holes tomorrow. But one of our group had to bail out. So we need a fourth. Would you be interested?”
For an instant Joshua knew exactly what his answer was going to be. He had a ton of work waiting for him at the office. He had financial reports from his multiple companies that needed review. He had an R&D meeting with his engineers on refinements for the RTS system. And he also planned to have an extended phone call with his lawyer, Harry Smythe, to find out what else he knew about his congressional situation.
Then Joshua caught his wife out of the corner of his eye. She was looking right at him, straight as an arrow, with a glowing smile on her face.
Wow, he thought, there is a beauty about her right now that I can’t really describe. Different. He was caught off guard for a second.
“So,” Campbell prodded, “are you going to join us and show us how the game is played?”
“Sounds like your kind of fun,” Abby added.
That is when Joshua surprised himself. “Sure. All right. Why not? I’ll make the time. I was supposed to shoot some golf in Colorado with a buddy of mine yesterday, but it didn’t work out. This will make up for it.”
“Great. How about we all meet out at the Hanover Golf Club? Do you know where it is?”
“I do. What time?”
“Tee-off is nine thirty a.m. Let’s get together in the clubhouse at nine fifteen.”
“I’ll be there.”
As Joshua was driving home through the New York City traffic, he noticed that Abigail wasn’t talking, but she had her head back against the headrest and a smile on her face. There was a special aura of peace about her.
“You’re noticeably quiet.”
“Contented, that’s all.”
Joshua almost chuckled at that. During the sermon that night he had felt like he had a freeway rush-hour running through his brain. Contentment?
“I wish I was,” he shot back. “You’ll have to share your secret with me.”
Deborah suddenly laughed in the back seat.
“What’s so funny?” Joshua asked.
“Okay, Mom, share your secret of contentment with Dad…”
Abigail threw her daughter a look that without any words seemed to contain all the wisdom and experience of womanhood in it.
Deborah got the silent message and muttered, “Fine.” She quit talking and sat back in her seat.
Then Abigail turned to her husband and said, “I’m glad you’re golfing. I think it will be a nice change for you.”
“You know how seriously I take my golf game. Your pastor won’t be preaching to me out on the links will he?”
After a long dramatic pause, Abigail took a deep breath. “Probably will.”
Both she and Deborah burst into laughter.
Joshua shook his head and groaned, “Wonderful…”
Despite his misgivings about being a captive audience to a sermon lasting eighteen holes, Joshua was looking forward to playing golf. The Hanover Course was an excellent one, and he’d had the chance to play it only twice over the years.
Standing on the high plateau at the first hole, Joshua took a few seconds to gaze over the forest tree tops, out to the cityscape at the end of the horizon. He had forgotten what an impressive view there was of the New York City skyline from the first tee. What if the RTS hadn’t worked perfectly…just think. Abby and I would both be gone. Cal and Deb too. Manhattan out there would be nuked. So many dead. Come on, Josh, it wasn’t really you who saved the city. No way. You’ve always known that…
“Okay, you’re the leader of the foursome.”
Paul Campbell was taking a few swings with his driver as he approached. He was flanked by the other two golfers, Bob and Carl, businessmen from his church board.
Then the pastor added with a mock grimace, “Now let the pain and suffering for us duffers begin…”
Joshua walked over to the tee. He set his ball. After his customary stretching exercise while holding the shank of the driver over his head with both hands, he stepped back and took two practice swings.
“You guys may want to keep a safe distance,” Joshua cracked. “I’m about to commence firing…”
The other three laughed.
But when Joshua swung through, it was with the velocity of a pitching machine. There was that sound of the solid crack as his round, little white-coated Bridgestone B330 lifted up into the air and continued arching and then finally disappeared down onto the fairway past the two-hundred-yard marker. The laughing had stopped.
“Beautiful shot,” Campbell said with admiration.
The pastor was second.
Joshua noticed that Paul Campbell had a strong athletic build and an easy swing. He didn’t tee off with the power that Joshua had. But he was controlled. He put his ball about sixty feet behind Joshua’s.
Joshua was on the green in two strokes. Campbell was there in three. But Joshua had a long, tough putt, and it just rimmed the cup. They both ended up tying the first hole with a par.
By the seventh hole Joshua was feeling at ease with Campbell as his playing partner and had sized him up as a decent golfer. He was ahead of the pastor by two strokes. The other two were playing back, lagging behind.
“You like the course?” Campbell asked.
“It’s well laid out. Beautiful, really. But you can’t let your guard down on this course.”
“No, you’re right. Hazards popping up everywhere. Shifting elevations. I’ve been out here a half dozen times with Bob and Carl. They’re both members. But I never got the feeling I’ve completely mastered a single hole.”
“That view from the tee-off by the clubhouse is spectacular. You can see all the way to the skyline.”
“You can, when the air’s clean and the sky’s right. Like today.”
There was a pause while Joshua took a second to dunk his ball in the ball washer and wipe it clean.
Campbell went on to say, “Golf always reminds me of something.”
“What’s that?”
“It reminds me of life. Similar in some ways. But also dissimilar.”
Joshua thought to himself, Here it comes. I wonder if he’s got his Bible hidden in his golf bag.
Campbell had posed an intriguing question. But Joshua didn’t want to bite. What he wanted to do was lengthen his lead on this par four comin
g up. But he engaged him anyway.
“Let me guess,” Joshua said with a slight air of amusement. “Golf is like life because it’s full of unexpected hazards. Water hazard over here. Sand trap over there. Deep woods that will put your ball down onto a tree root. Am I close?”
“Right on target,” Campbell said with a chuckle. “You’ve landed on the green…”
“So, how is golf dissimilar then?”
Campbell didn’t respond. Instead he looked Joshua Jordan in the eye with a look that had nothing to do with swinging a club.
The pastor finally said, “I think I’m going to let you figure that one out on your own.” Then he added, pointing to the tee, “Okay, leader, swing away…”
THIRTY-SIX
Agent John Gallagher was now looking at another dead man. Oh well. All in a day’s work.
The FBI agent was in a dark, sardonic mood as he hunched over the corpse. The victim was still strapped to a chair in his inner office in the insurance company. The police had to get a locksmith to open the door, which had been locked from the outside.
“What’s his name?”
One of the two Philadelphia police detectives on the scene flipped open his little day book where he had written it down.
“Roger French. Insurance broker. Commercial insurance.”
“So, any thoughts on all this?”
“Remind me again,” the detective said. “Why’s the FBI interested in this?”
“I am investigating a federal crime.”
“And what federal crime would that be?”
“One that is currently under investigation.” Gallagher said with a half-smile. “Look, fellas, I caught the report on my laptop while I was out doing fieldwork on a case a couple states away. I had put a crime profiler submission out over interagency-net. Crimes within driving distance from upper state New York…crimes of a certain nature. Yours popped up. Here I am. Don’t mean to be pushy, but you know we feds have superior jurisdiction. So, what’s your theory?”