A Triple Thriller Fest (9 page)

The final piece fell into place when several of Franklin’s subsidiary companies acquired a majority interest in three of the foremost nationally recognized polling companies. Once election results could be shown to match polling predictions—both of which he planned to manipulate—he felt confident he would be able to manufacture the political results that would best serve his interests. The actual scope of his newfound power was unlimited, and his ambition had grown accordingly.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Franklin offered warmly. “General Valdez, how good to see you again. How are you today, my old friend?”

“
Bueno,
John Henry. And you?”

“Couldn’t be better.” Moving to Turner, Franklin grasped his hand firmly. “Senator, it is a great honor to meet you, sir. Thank you for responding to our invitation. You’ve been introduced to my other guests?”

“I have, indeed. I’m pleased to make their acquaintance, Mr. Franklin, and yours.”

“Good. Very good. But, please, my close associates call me John Henry, and I’m hoping you will consider yourself a close friend from this moment on. “And how are you, Paul?” he asked, turning to Spackman. “Who’s reporting the news in the Bay Area tonight?”

“Thought we’d give the new gal, Sandy, a ‘look in.’”

“Better watch her, Paul. She’s nearly as good-looking as you,” Franklin winked. “She’ll get her foot in the door, and you’ll be doing the weekend weather in Eureka.” Everyone laughed appropriately.

“And Chief Cordoba—Rigo, my dear friend, who’s guarding your northern borders tonight?”

“We left them open, just so the appropriate quota of illegals could slip across,” he laughed.

Stealing a quick look at Valdez, Franklin responded to Cordoba’s humor. “Excellent. Just excellent. Well, I see we’re all in fine fettle. And Amelia has taken care of you, Malcolm?”

“If my own staff could only do so well.”

“Well, then. Let’s get down to business,” John Henry said, gesturing for his guests to be seated. “I’ll come straight to the point, Malcolm. Paul, here, tells me that your main opponent this next election has some hot issues on his plate and plenty of financing to fund his campaign. How’s it look to you?”

Franklin seemed to sense that with the right approach—in this case, unlimited campaign financing—the politician in Turner would rise to the surface.

“He’s young, inexperienced, and full of visionary utopia. But,” Turner said, shaking his head, “likely to clean my clock unless I can match, or hopefully exceed, his resources. He’s got quite a war chest, plenty of time to gather more, and an army of young acolytes to spread the word.”

“Malcolm, I’m sure you know that I’ve refrained from getting involved in your previous campaigns. In fact, I’ve generally made it a policy to stay altogether clear of political campaign financing. But don’t let that convince you that I haven’t been in support of what you’ve done for California, and for that matter, the nation. I’ve watched your chairmanship of the senate finance committee with great interest.”

Franklin stood and moved to take a cigar from the humidor on the mantle, then bit off the end, spat it into the fire, and removed a burning stick from the fireplace to light the hand-rolled stogie.

“You were raised in California, weren’t you, Malcolm, and you’re familiar with our Spanish history and Mexican heritage?”

“It’s always been my view that Californians and Mexicans are ‘cousins,’ so to speak. Talking over the backyard fence is something neighbors and relatives do.”

“Exactly!” Franklin said, jabbing the air with his cigar. “I thought you’d see it that way. I’m going to speak boldly, Malcolm, because I know you to be a man of action. You know, of course, from your understanding of your constituency, that western Americans have become increasingly fed up with federally required mandates, lack of funding, and the myriad rules and regulations that tie the hands of the state legislatures. Even the drastic shift to Republican control of Congress back in ’94, and again in 2000, did little to stem the tide of federalism—or the power struggle, for that matter. I know you’ve ruffled some feathers in your own Democratic Party by your support of states’ rights issues. ‘Federal intervention should be the last resort’ is the way you’ve recently put it, if I’m not incorrect.”

Turner’s eyebrows raised slightly. “It seems you
have
followed my career, John Henry.”

“Certainly have. With pleasure, I might add. I’ve always taken an interest in staying informed about those who support important issues. But let me get back to the point. Are you familiar with the fact that back in 1992, a California assemblyman from Redding proposed dividing California into two separate states?”

“I believe my staff did brief me on that.”

“Good, but are you also aware that since statehood in 1850, similar proposals have been made thirteen times?”

Turner rattled the ice cubes in his glass, glancing at the other men in the room. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

“I see,” Franklin continued. “Back when California became a state, the entire southern half of the territory refused to be part of the statehood movement, citing that the north was economically and culturally advantaged over the south—which at that time was mostly comprised of Mexican ranchers. Against its will, the southern part of the territory was included, and California became a very large state.”

“I guess I was absent from school that day, too,” Turner said, his voice taking on a slight edge.

“I beg your indulgence here, Senator,” Franklin said, again pointing with his cigar. “I don’t presume to teach history, but from those previous attempts and the more recent movement, we can gain an understanding of how Californians feel. In the primaries of ’92, twenty-seven of thirty-one northern counties voted
yes
to forming a fifty-first state. And now that the immigration issue has become so intense … well, you understand the nature of that problem, I’m sure.”

“I do recall the ’92 vote. It was an important issue, but numerically, the north is—”

“I know,” Franklin interrupted, “they don’t have the numbers.” He paused again and glanced at Spackman.

“Let’s look at this from an economic perspective, Senator. California is possessed of more natural resources than many of the third world’s sovereign nations. And our production capability staggers the imagination—lacking, perhaps, only the cheap labor force available in other parts of the world. We could correct that by assuring better relations with Mexico. And don’t forget the creative power of Silicon Valley—it’s the envy of the world. Ah, but if we could bring those resources together. Think of the possibilities if our wealth of resources could somehow be paired with controlled labor costs, and the two were linked to the finest air, sea, and land transportation system in the world. It would be an unbeatable combination. The trouble is, Malcolm, California is bankrupt, not from internal economic policies, but from federal political decisions. Our own state politicians haven’t helped. We try to give everything to everyone, and someone has to pay the bill. California has come to the end of that road, Senator. We can’t tolerate it anymore. But the state, the people, deserve more, don’t you think. Senator?”

“California’s like a fine wine, John Henry, well aged and finely presented,” Turner said, laughing. “Under the right leadership and vision, California should be a leader in the world, not a financially inept, struggling state. I have to admit, the federal government has brought us to our knees, financially speaking.”

Jabbing his cigar at Turner, Franklin continued: “Economics is the key. Military might is nothing anymore, except to keep the third world dictators in line. Financial control, Senator—that’s the
real
world power. With no disrespect to our Mexican guests, Mexico’s national economics have been in shambles for decades and American trade policies have had a lot to do with that. As Chairman of the senate finance committee, I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

“Indeed I do. You’re speaking my language now.”

Franklin paused to puff his cigar and move to the bar to freshen his drink, allowing Turner some time to recoup his thoughts and assimilate the philosophy Franklin had been expounding. Returning to the fireplace, Franklin studied Turner for a few seconds, taking his measure and determining if he was ready for the
coup de grâce
.

“Senator Turner, the Franklin Foundation is prepared to underwrite your campaign—a blank check, in the usual circuitous way, naturally. This support will in no way tie your hands. You’re free to establish your own platform. We have but one point we wish you to vigorously support throughout the election.”

Turner hesitated for a moment, glancing again at the other men in the room, his political antennae vibrating. “John Henry, how may I be of service?”

Franklin smiled and took a long puff of his cigar, then exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Malcolm,” he began, moving closer, “it’s time for California to reach for her destiny. I’m not just talking about splitting into two or three states—I’m talking about a new
nation.
It’s time for California to take her place among the nations of the world. It’s time for California to become an independent republic.”

Turner had always been good at affecting a poker face that masked his true feelings, but Franklin’s message had left the senator stunned, and he knew Franklin saw it.

 “Malcolm …” Franklin said quietly, but forcefully, moving to stand inches from Turner’s face. “… we
need
you in this.” He paused as the clarion call echoed in Turner’s mind. After a few moments, Franklin said, “Your voice is well respected. And in the end, should Washington see their way clear to recognize the message we’re delivering, perhaps we can yet come to some accord. Maybe by rattling their cage, we can get their attention, and yet remain a member state in this grand Union, and still achieve our objectives. That will remain to be seen. In any event, General Valdez assures me that Mexico is ready to recognize our new nation and to support us as we work through the transition. But to get Washington’s attention, we need you to stand for California, Malcolm. Throughout this next campaign, we need you to rattle that rusty, old cage.”

Shortly before midnight, on his helicopter flight back to San Francisco, with the twinkling lights of the city on the horizon, thoughts of the evening’s discussion had swirled around in Malcolm Turner’s head. A refusal to cooperate with Franklin meant more than no campaign funds—in fact, it could well mean additional funding—
unlimited
funding—to the smart, young whippersnapper who was trying to unseat him. He leaned his head back against the leather headrest and closed his eyes, the drone of the helicopter’s engine relaxing him.

Secession
! A new nation! Incredible!

* * *

More than one meeting had taken place at Franklin’s Sea Ranch estate after that eventful evening over a year previous. After Senator Turner left, Spackman, Cordoba, and Valdez made their excuses one by one and departed. Franklin was then joined in the library by Amelia and a tall, erect man in his early forties. Franklin greeted him with a broad smile.

“My dear Mr. Wolff. How good to see you again, Jean.”

“And you, John Henry.”

“So, what did you think of our little meeting?”

At just under six feet, lean and wiry, Jean Francois Wolff was of French and Algerian extraction. He possessed dark hair, an olive-skinned complexion, and deep brown eyes. Wolff had learned early in life that those eyes, along with a soft, understanding demeanor, made him irresistibly attractive to women. But it was an entirely different set of physical attributes—specifically a thin, colorless scar that ran from his left ear diagonally across his cheek nearly to his chin, and a piercing, unblinking stare—that gave him immediate psychological command over most men.

Following a largely unpublicized but impressive career in the service of third world leaders, Wolff had, for the past six years, surreptitiously been in Franklin’s employ. Experienced as a contract-for-hire agent for the American CIA, as well as the French
Surrete
, Wolff had found his assignments from Franklin personally satisfying as well as financially rewarding. Two of Franklin’s European competitors had found Wolff’s employment less rewarding, dying early in unfortunate circumstances and leaving their empires to less capable heirs, from whom Franklin had subsequently purchased controlling interests.

For the first four years of his association with Franklin, Wolff worked as a freelance soldier-of-fortune, checking his European postal drop and his bank account routinely, and responding from a distance to Franklin’s infrequent requests. Two years before, Franklin had brought Wolff closer to the center of action, naming him head of the intelligence division of the Franklin Group.

Wolff’s preferred method of operation was to work through other organizations, learning their objectives and feigning alliance with them. Unearthing, developing a familiarity with, and then becoming the covert source of funds for most of the militia units in California had consumed nearly a year of his time and over ten million of Franklin’s dollars.

Wolff moved across the room and took a seat near the fire. “Turner will come along, John Henry. You knew that before you invited him. Like most politicians, he probably heard only two words—blank check.”

“Yes, he’s predictable, isn’t he? He’s the first and most important step in our public airing of the plan. I’m directing you to coordinate the effective use of the remainder of our ‘friends’ and to see to their needs.”

Wolff leaned back in his chair and watched as John Henry paced the floor, refilled his drink, and moved to the French doors, stopping in the doorway leading from the room to the veranda.

“So, it all comes together now,” Wolff said.

Franklin turned and looked at Wolff silently for a moment, then returned his gaze to the horizon and the moon’s reflection off the ocean.

The Plan, as Franklin referred to his vision, had been formulated over a period of several years. Franklin had watched scores of American companies move their operations overseas, primarily to access the cheap labor available in underdeveloped nations. He himself had moved his entire computer consulting operation to India.