Divine Fury (9 page)

However, the Bunker’s location at the USF Medical Center – with easy access to the bay Bridge – and the hospital’s parking garage made it convenient, particularly for those pressed for time and commuting in from Berkeley, San Jose, Palo Alto and other suburbs.

So, Harry Blount, who had the dual roles of Harper’s campaign manager and his live-in lover of a dozen years, had commandeered the Bunker for the campaign’s occasional use thanks to his clout as the medical center’s planning director.
 
Since the beginning of the year, it had served as the campaign’s weekly war room, where Harper, Blount and other key advisors gathered to decide how to get Harper into the governor’s mansion.

“All right,” began Blount.
 
“Let’s talk about opponents.
 
Is there any way George Chapman can lose?”

“Almost impossible,” said
 
Salvatore Watkins, the campaign’s media manager.
 
“He’s got the money.
 
He’s got the endorsements.
 
Name recognition.”

“Plus, his competition is going nowhere,” said Harper.
 
“Smythe is the only other one with any money and that’s only because he’s got his own.
 
Chapman is painting him as a filthy rich high-tech guy who gets fired and needs something to do.
 
Instead of taking up golf, he runs for governor. “

“And, then there are Smythe’s wives.
 
How many?” said Blount.
 
“Three and counting? His flirtation with Zen Buddhism and the admission that he experimented with psychedelics in college.
 
That might be okay up here, even for Republicans.
 
But down South?
 
No way.
 
He’s toast.”

“All right,” said Harper.
 
“Chapman it is. And his themes as usual will be…what?
 
Family values?
 
Christianity?
 
Cut government spending?
 
Demonize the environmentalists, the unions…anyone with a Ph.D?”

“Let’s face it,” said Blount.
 
“That’s just going to be the background music.
 
The main chorus will be, ‘Don’t vote for a gay man.’
 
Homophobia is the elephant in the room.
 
And don’t expect Chapman to pull any punches.”

“He’ll run on fear,” Blount added.
 
“What’s next? Do you want your sons and daughters to be gay?
 
Do you want homosexual perverts teaching your second graders?
 
It would probably be easier to elect a black man president.”

As he and the others in the room spoke, Blount typed furiously on his IBM Thinkpad.
 
He was a legendary note taker and de facto secretary of every meeting he attended.
 
Everyone knew they would receive a summary of this meeting in their email an hour after it ended, complete with additional thoughts that occurred to Blount in the intervening time.
 
The words that flowed from his keyboard – including the 100-plus emails he sent out each day – formed a virtual diary of his day.

Unknown to Blount, each of his keystrokes was being recorded by a hidden program inside the Thinkpad.
 
At least once an hour, the program created a file recording those keystrokes and sent it from the laptop through the invisible data tunnel that bore through the Medical Center’s firewall.
 
Its destination was a server located in the Singapore office of an unsuspecting accounting firm.
 
There it sat waiting to be downloaded by anyone who knew its exact digital address and a set of three passwords.
             

* * *

Rev. Jimmy Burgess and Brent Daggart faced each other over a small table in Daggart’s office at Soldiers of Christ Ministry’s Los Angeles offices.
 
Each held a sheaf of papers.

“So, I’m a little concerned about this part, Brent,” said Burgess.
 
Leafing through the pages and stopping on one page he’d underlined.

“I think I can punch that up a bit,” he said.
 
“I think it will read better if I turn the last part into some questions.”

Burgess cleared his throat and invoked his resonant voice and preacher’s cadence:
 
“Is it better to let the whole body
rot
?
 
Or, do we
cut out
the
sick
and
diseased?
 
Even a surgeon will
remove
the
cancer
so the
rest
can be
saved.
’”
 

Daggart stared across the table at Burgess.
 
Then, he broke into a wry smile.

“Jim, that’s brilliant,” he said, shaking his head ruefully.
 
“Much better than how I wrote it.
 
Puts it more in the moral context.”

“Teamwork,” said Burgess.
 
“Your stuff is great, as always, but it’s coming out of my mouth.
 
Got to tweak it sometimes so I can really let it fly.
 
Okay.
 
That’s it then.
 
Let me outta
 
here so I can run through it a couple more times.”
     

After Burgess left, Daggart saw that it was time for a scheduled conference call.
 
First, he called a 30-year-old Capitol Hill aide in Washington D.C. who worked for Congressman George Chapman.
 
Daggart considered Chapman, voted the third most conservative member of Congress by the American Women’s Caucus, to be a shoo-in as the Republican candidate in California’s governor’s race.
   
   

The third member of the conference was known in political circles as “The Terminator”
 
and, for billing purposes, as Dirk Renstrom.
 
Only a handful of intimates realized that this, too, was an alias.
 
The Terminator was a legend among political operatives who specialized in hardball ‘opposition research’ – the dark art of ruining campaigns and lives through unearthing scandal and occasionally manufacturing it.
 
Most thought he was some sort of private detective based in Las Vegas.

 
“Okay, gentlemen,” said Daggart.
 
“I know we’re on this call to talk business and strategy.
 
So, I shouldn’t need to convince you of anything.
 
But I want to make sure you understand the context so there is no confusion about where I’m coming from and what the end goal is here.”

Daggart paused for a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Our ministry is devoted to stopping Andrew Harper from becoming governor of California,” he said.
 
“In our view, there is nothing more dangerous.

 
“You can say what you want about California crazies,” continued Daggart.
 
“The reality is that it’s the largest state in population and has even more cultural influence first with Hollywood and television, and now leading the way in high tech.
 
Just look at the influence it’s had on the environmental movement.
 

“If Harper becomes governor, the effect will be like a bomb going off in church,” he said.
 
“It opens a thousand doors to these people.
 
It can’t happen.
 
It simply can’t.

“We…and by that I mean Reverend Burgess, myself and Soldiers of Christ Ministry…we will continue using everything at our disposal, to stop Harper and, while we’re at it, the gay rights movement.
 
Along with some of our biggest donors, we consider this akin to a Holy War.
 
No effort – or dollars – will
 
be spared.”

There was silence while Daggart’s words sank in.
 

“Okay,” he said finally.
 
“Comments?
 
Questions?”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said the Congressional aide.
 
“And I think the congressman is in total agreement.
 
We’ll do…umm…whatever we can to make sure Harper stays in private practice.”

The Terminator grunted his agreement.
 
He could care less about justifications or motivations.
 
He just cared about whether Daggart’s check would be as good, and as big, as
 
promised.
 
From long experience, he knew that having his money come from the church and not through a campaign with all the attendant record keeping and legal red tape, avoided many potential problems.

The Terminator’s first foray into politics had come right after college when he landed a job as the personal aide to a young presidential contender considered the heir apparent to the Kennedy legacy.
 
His candidate, charismatic and idealistic, swept the early primaries until rumors of scandal began to plague the campaign.
 
Late one night over a shared bottle of single-malt Scotch, his candidate broke down and confessed to a stream of adulterous affairs and the trading of votes as a state official in exchange for campaign contributions and jobs for his girlfriends.

In disgust, the Terminator sold the information to an opposing campaign for enough cash to pay for a three-month European vacation.
 
He returned determined never to be made a fool of again and with the conviction that few men in positions of power can resist the accompanying temptations.
 
This belief had been proven true over and over again in the subsequent 18 years, giving the Terminator ample opportunities to ruthlessly exploit those weaknesses.

His usual clients were political campaigns.
 
He’d earned his nickname because of what he usually did to the opposing candidates.
 
From his experience, the Terminator knew that the person who controls the money controls the campaign.
 
So, he assumed Daggart would be making the important decisions from here on.
 
He also knew that part of Daggart’s role was to insulate Chapman’s campaign from any activities that might cross the legal lines.
 
Chapman would preserve his deniability.
 
He was fine with that.
 
It made his life easier.
 
It freed him up to do what he did best – leave campaigns and reputations in utter ruins.

“Okay,” said the Terminator.
 
“Let’s do this.”

Chapter 11

LEE WATCHED LORRAINE Carr from across the newsroom.
 
The city editor was talking with a reporter seated at a desk just outside her office.
 
She was facing away, arms crossed with her head tilted toward the reporter while she conversed.

Her chin-length hair was swept over to the left side of her head and somehow made to hold its shape without simply falling to the side.
 
She looked great.
 
Her neck was exposed and Lee knew that close up he would be able to see every graceful muscle.
 
He suddenly pictured himself running his fingers lightly along her skin there.
 
What would that elicit?
 
A smile?
 
Goose bumps? He felt a surge of…what?
 
Probably equal parts adrenaline and testosterone.

The next morning at work after she’d walked out of Slim’s he looked for something from her.
 
Flirtation.
 
A recognition of attraction.
 
More intimacy at some level, even if just better pals.
 
Nothing.
 
She acted as if the evening had never happened.
 
So, Lee planned to put the event away in his “that was interesting” mental file but after the weekend it was still stuck in his “What the…..?” folder.