At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (30 page)

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ChAPTER NINETY

Intelligence Secretary Jason Bland took his directives from the president, and he took them seriously. After serving under four previous administrations, he had made friends and avoided enemies. One enemy was unavoidable if he was to do his job, and he dreaded it more than words could express. The pompous asshole has been around longer than I have, and Homeland Security is the farthest thing from his mind. Adam Pryor collects secrets and uses them against anyone who stands up to him, he thought as the limo wound through the streets of Washington. his meeting with the homeland Security director had been hastily arranged after his run-in with the president, and he resented the time he was diverting from the terrorist threat to deal with the president’s insecurities about Max Masterson. If anyone had any dirt to throw at Max, Pryor would be holding the shovel.
he could have taken the secure underground route to the homeland Security headquarters in the Eisenhower office building, but he wanted to be as conspicuous as possible if Pryor were to deny that he had met with the intelligence secretary. he wanted his whereabouts to be documented if Pryor decided to add him to his enemies list, which was becoming longer than the roster of serving members of Congress. If his suspicions were correct, he would be confirming that the director of homeland security was at the center of a conspiracy that had simmered for a generation, and he had no doubt that things would get ugly. Adam Pryor had a lifelong reputation of taking names and destroying his opposition in sinister ways. Max’s father had been the first of a long line of politicians who had stood up to Pryor and had suffered for it in profound ways.

A long-hidden report into the bombing of the Patriot Society meeting many years before had never become public. Anyone who had any intelligence experience would immediately conclude that a domestic conspiracy was directly connected to Pryor, but he would never see justice. he was too slick to leave a trail that would stand up in court, and his enemies in the political world had too much to hide. Adrianna McVeigh’s death and the near-demise of John “Minuteman” Masterson, had Pryor’s modus operandi all over it, and he could see it happening again.

It had been long known in the intelligence community that homeland Security had direct contact with mercenaries who were actively carrying out Pryor’s orders, purportedly in the interest of eliminating terrorist threats within America’s borders. As the years went by, their assignments extended throughout the world, and their purpose grayed into any area that the homeland Security director chose to define. It was his prerogative, and the mercenaries hired to carry out his orders never questioned his intentions.

Bland entered the plush office and marveled at the cost of furnishing the immense suite. Dark mahogany paneling with ornate baroque trim was accented by burgundy curtains that hung heavily to the sides of arched windows, whose obviously security-enhanced thick panes extended from floor to ceiling. he surmised that the walls were reinforced to withstand a bomb blast, and if the building took a direct hit, homeland Security would likely survive intact after the rest of the building burned to ashes.

Bland was scanned for weapons by devices concealed in the doorway. If the scan revealed metal or any chemical residue by the “sniffers,” a silent alarm would trigger an immediate intercept by security personnel who prided themselves on a response time of less than five seconds. he was ushered into Pryor’s office, which elicited a planned response—across a huge expanse of thick gold carpet was a single chair in front of an immense desk that made a visitor feel like he had been transported back to a high-school principal’s office for a welldeserved scolding and punishment.

The homeland Security director was unaccustomed to visitors languishing in his office and got directly to the point. “Bland, what is this cryptic message I received from your assistant that you needed to speak with me about a matter of timely and crucial importance?” Pryor glared over antique reading glasses that revealed a reverence for the past and a disdain for modern science that had all but eliminated eyeglasses of any kind. he didn’t bother to rise and shake the hand of his contemporary, and he had long-since dispensed with the formalities of social discourse.

Their previous meeting had been shortly after the attempt on the life of Max Masterson two weeks earlier, and Bland’s internal radar had immediately sounded alarms at the discovery that homeland Security had been briefed of the details of the shooting before his agency was alerted of the attempt on the life of a presidential candidate. After all, his responsibilities extended to the Secret Service, who were assigned to protect anyone who had a remote chance of running for the highest office in politics. he held a disdain for the man and his imperious ways. Even his body language revealed complicity.

“I won’t take much of your time. I need to know what you know about Max Masterson. Anything that might weaken his candidacy. And I want to know how you knew that someone took a potshot at him before I was briefed.”

Pryor shifted in his chair, his face showing that he was pondering how much to reveal.
“It is my duty to report to the president anything that could compromise national security. My sources report directly to me. Your sources report directly to you.”
Bland knew that the only way Pryor could know more than the CIA and its web of operatives would be for him to be involved in the conspiracy itself, and he was involved up to his eyeballs. If he reported directly to the president, Blythe’s complicity was confirmed by the feigned surprise the president displayed when Bland disclosed that Max was being targeted by mercenaries, a smoke screen. he was sitting in the same room as the ringleader. he struggled to remain expressionless.
“Bland, you and I go back a long way. You know how the game is played at this level. Anyone that gets in the way of our shared ideals is to be eliminated. That’s what the president wants, and you aren’t going to stand in my way. Don’t you think that if I had any dirt on that young rabble-rouser that it would be splattered all over for the world to see? It’s that damned privacy cloak that his daddy set up. We can’t penetrate it. If we could, we would have planted enough false propaganda to sink him for good.” he sat back and took a long draw on a cigar that smoldered in a crystal ashtray, the only adornment on his massive desk.
Clean desks can say a lot, Bland surmised.
“Mr. Director, I also report to the president, but I take it he has already been briefed on this. I anticipate that he will know of my visit by the time I leave the building.”
“he already does.”

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ChAPTER NINETY-ONE

Bland wasted no time in seeking out the president. If his position as intelligence secretary couldn’t get him into the Oval Office unannounced, then nobody could get there, and if a door opens in Washington, the opportunist takes it. It was of no consideration to him that the final debate was two days away. To continue to exist in this town and to save his own ass, he was going to take the initiative. The limo ride to the White house was brief but gave him enough time to gather his thoughts and make two phone calls from his secure connection. The first was to Luke Postlewaite. The second was directly to Max Masterson.

By the time the limo was two blocks from the White house, Bland had passed security, another perk of his being the symbolic head of the world’s largest intelligence agency. Once inside the building, he was ushered directly into the Oval Office and sat waiting for Blythe to appear.

The president came in red-faced and sweating, his jogging suit sticking to the lumps of adipose tissue it concealed. “Bland, this better be good. You forced me to pull out of an important meeting. Don’t you know that I am preparing for a debate?” Blythe was acutely aware that his intelligence secretary was not buying any of his window dressing, but he was equally unconcerned that his activities would become public.

Bland had no intention of engaging in social niceties. he would speak his mind for once, and get out, “Mr. President, I resign.”
“What the hell are you talking about, resign? You resign when I tell you to resign. I own you!” his face took on a deeper shade of red.
Bland calmly pulled an envelope from his suit pocket and slid it across the Kennedy desk.
“In my resignation letter, you will find my reasons. You and Adam Pryor have been implicated in a long-standing conspiracy to commit treason against the United States of America, and I have disseminated a full report, together with a recording of Pryor’s admission, that I obtained an hour ago during a visit to his office. But you already knew of my visit when you walked into this room, didn’t you, Mr. President?”
“Do you actually believe that the American public will believe you over me? You dirty . . .” Blythe slumped in his chair and pressed a concealed button. he was used to the immediate response of the Secret Service and was rewarded with the appearance of two black-suited men who stood silently on either side of Bland’s chair.
Bland was not easily intimidated. “I have also gathered convincing evidence that you authorized an attempt on your opponent’s life on the eve of the election. As I speak, this information is being broadcast on all major networks.”
Blythe growled in a tone reserved for professional wrestlers. “Before I order my men to take you away, I have a question. What do you expect me to do with this information?”

AT RISK OF WINNING

Bland paused, knowing that the words he spoke would be the last the president of the United States would hear from his mouth.
“If I were you, I’d be looking for a new job.”
“Bland, surely my own intelligence guy would know that I have nothing to do with Mr. Masterson’s recent string of mishaps. I am the most monitored man in history. If I allowed it to happen, every word I speak in the White house would be recorded.”
Bland watched the sweat form on Blythe’s forehead and imagined that he was interrupting another basement fencing match. The First Lady hadn’t been seen in public with her husband for a year, but she had his sympathy.
The president went on. “I said no to that idea. Didn’t think I should share everything with the voters. They might not like the real Warren hudson Blythe as much as the suit they see on TV.” he took a long swallow of imported beer from the can that he had pulled from a minirefrigerator disguised as a wooden file cabinet. he leaned far back in his chair before placing his stocking feet on the smooth walnut surface.
he sighed.
“You have got to understand, my man.” he took a longer drag on the can, draining it, and crumpled it loudly. “I will expect you to report to the American people the truth about me. I am innocent.”
Bland took a moment to absorb all the strangeness, then fired back. “Mr. President. If my job was to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I would have been gone a long time ago. There isn’t a politician alive who can stand the truth.”
Blythe smiled and wiped his forehead. “Then we have an understanding, Mr. Bland?”
“No, you misunderstood,” he said, weighing his words. he fought the urge to speak the thoughts that were screaming inside of his mind, begging to get out. If he said those words, he wouldn’t be counting the days to retirement. he would be counting the seconds.
“If there is one thing that I have learned in my thirty-seven years in the espionage business, it’s the basic fact that the truth doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether you plotted with terrorists to kill off your strongest political opponent. You wanted it to happen. It doesn’t matter whether, years from now, you are vindicated, and the bastards who took you down are all dead along with you. It only matters what the people are thinking at the moment. You’re going to go down because the people believe you were involved, and all of them are pointing at you.”
Bland turned to leave and was startled to see two Secret Service agents standing at arm’s length and aligned with each of his shoulders. They were poised to immobilize him and restrain any movement he foolishly chose to make. These were his employees at the moment, but they answered to the man popping a beer behind his desk. he quietly left the room with his escorts at each arm.
With his intelligence secretary secured away from the world for the time being, Blythe ordered the door to the Oval Office closed. Using the voice-activated intercom, he notified his secretary that he was not to be disturbed, leaving his cabinet members waiting in the conference room.

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ChAPTER NINETY-TWO

Our intelligence secretary has betrayed the American people and has brought my administration into disrepute,” said President Blythe in a hastily assembled press conference. he addressed the world from the Oval Office and spoke in measured tones, his heavily made up face and hair resembling a caricature of his previously manicured features. Years of prescription drug abuse and alcohol had bloated him, and he no longer carried the swagger of a confident young politician. he was succumbing to years of stress and physical abuse, and no amount of makeup could restore the past.

“he has been taken into custody and charged with treason, the highest crime an American can commit against his country,” he continued. “My message will be short, as you know that in two days, I will be debating Masterson and Conroy in North Carolina. After that, I will be spending the final time before the election attending to the business of running this great country, as I intend to spend the next four years of my presidency.”

The camera and lights were turned off. “Are we through?”asked Blythe.
“Yes, Mr. President,” replied the cameraman.
“Good, now get the hell out of my office,” Blythe bellowed.
The assembled crew scrambled to comply with the demands of the most powerful person in the country and were gone in minutes.

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ChAPTER NINETY-ThREE

There was no valid reason for the president of the United States to enter into the most contentious debate of his career unprepared, but Blythe’s rapid decline was of his own creation. Inside the isolation of the White house, the only witnesses to the deterioration of his mind were the very same people who were there to promote his image. By design, Party Chairman Portman and Vice President Case spent no time in the presence of the president to witness it, but Presidential Advisor Ted Schoolcraft and Chief of Staff Walsh occupied the outer offices of the White house. They saw it manifested in the ever-growing wall he was building around himself.