Free Fall (6 page)

"I don't know what's going on, Mark, but take my advice and run away."

"I'm going to do my best, believe me. See you in a few hours."

Beamon replaced the phone and surveyed the floodlit landscape around him as the car moved slowly through the gate. Hallorin's house wasn't yet visible, but Beamon could see a powerful glow escaping a group of trees more than a half-mile in the distance. He tried to roughly calculate the cost of this kind of acreage so close to Georgetown, but more than twenty years on a government paycheck wouldn't allow him to count that high.

"What's that?" Beamon said, pointing to something that looked like a primitive machine that had been turned into a piece of lawn art. He leaned in close to the window, but the glare reflecting off the metal sculpture made it impossible to read the plaque on the pedestal.

"It's an original piece of Henry Ford's assembly line," the driver said.

"I don't know exactly what it did helped put the body on the chassis or something like that."

Beamon nodded and sank back into the narrow seat. It made sense.

According to one of the countless daytime TV programs Beamon had watched since his suspension, David Hallorin had quit his job as a D. C. prosecutor while he was still in his twenties, borrowed against everything he owned, and purchased a failing tractor parts manufacturing plant in Maine. Over the following two decades, Hallorin had clawed his way to the top of the industrial heap with an aggressive program of embracing and often creating new technology in the field.

Hallorin had explained his transition from manufacturing to politics as a need to give back to the country that had given so much to him.

He'd won one of Maine's Senate seats in his first go-round, promising to bring the efficiency and can-do attitude of American business to the government, and begun a policy of outspoken criticism of the political elite.

The media had always given him a little more than his due time-wise, but it had been mostly for his entertainment value on slow news days. It was usually Hallorin decrying the moral bankruptcy of the country's leaders Hallorin predicting doom for the then booming economy, Hallorin proposing a long-term plan that included a substantial amount of shortterm pain for an electorate with a low threshold for such things.

Like most of America, Beamon had given Senator David Hallorin a hard second look when Asia's economy had stumbled, recovered slightly, and then crashed violently almost exactly as he had predicted. When the rest of the world's economies followed Asia into the toilet and the former Soviet Union had briefly turned dangerously nationalistic, Americans had begun to ask why Hallorin had been the only person watching the store over the last decade. This change in attitude had not been lost on the astute senator, and six months ago, he had announced his bid for the presidency.

It had been an unorthodox campaign from the start, beginning with introductory television spots that spun the yarn of Hallorin's rise in the world of manufacturing and entry into politics.

His opponents had seen blood in those early spots, laughing behind closed doors at their colleague's surprising ineptitude at campaigning on a national level. They'd instantly mounted a counteroffensive, pointing out the fact that Hallorin had replaced people with machines at every opportunity. The strategy had seemed sound until Hallorin had shown the American people the jobs that he'd created building the machines, operating them, repairing them, exporting them. And it had then turned into a disaster for Hallorin's opponents when he pointed out that not one of his companies used any foreign labor and that many of the companies supporting his political competition manufactured in such exotic locations as Vietnam, Mexico, and Korea.

Pundits everywhere took notice, asking themselves if Hallorin was a lucky amateur or a brutal player who had drawn his opponents in for the kill. As far as Beamon knew, the jury was still out on that.

"You wouldn't have any idea why Senator Hallorin wants to see me, would you?" Beamon said over the quiet hum of the mahogany-lined elevator as it took them to the second floor of Hallorin's twenty-thousand square-foot home. His escort, an efficient-looking woman who's name he'd already forgotten, looked horrified.

"I'm sure I wouldn't."

Of course not.

They finished the ride out in silence. When the doors finally opened it was into a room so large that Beamon literally wasn't sure where the other end of it was. Pausing after he'd stepped out of the elevator, he looked up at the ceiling at least thirty feet above him and examined the elaborate frescoes that covered it. His escort must have been used to the reaction, because she seemed to automatically pause as his eyes wandered to the heavy gold-leaf molding running along the top of the walls and then to the pandemonium in front of them.

Despite the fact that it was closing in on nine o'clock, the room was packed with people of all ages, sizes, and races charging back and forth carrying boxes, computer printouts, cell phones, portable computers, whatever. No one seemed to notice Beamon and his escort as they threaded their way through the room.

"He runs his campaign out of his house?" Beamon had to raise his voice to be heard over the background noise.

"Wait here, please," the woman said, ignoring his question and melting into the riot. Beamon turned his attention to the bank of televisions secured to the wall, each silently playing various news programs from across the nation. Next to them was a colorful poster at least five feet high. In large black letters it read: "R: 33, D: 26, U: 16."

Beamon assumed that those were the latest poll numbers for the Republican candidate, Democratic candidate and Undecideds. Beneath that was "28 days to go!"

And beneath that, in bold green letters was: "Us: 19."

Beamon reached for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket, thought better of it, and went back to examining the numbers on the poster again.

Hallorin had fought a valiant and insanely expensive campaign, sprinkled lightly with flashes of brilliance, or perhaps dumb luck, depending on who you asked. But despite everything that had happened, it looked like America wasn't ready for a man like him. Less than a month to go and he was still in the cellar.

"Mark!"

A small knot of young people scurried away like frightened animals, creating a clear path for David Hallorin to rush up and completely envelop Beamon's hand.

"Thanks so much for coming. I know you're anxious as hell to get out of D. C. Come on back to my office."

Beamon followed without a word, watching Hallorin ignore the people rushing to get out of his way. Even Beamon had to admit that he cut an incredibly imposing figure. Usually politicians used the tricks of television to make themselves seem more powerful and presidential, but if any thing, Hallorin had been forced to use the medium to tone himself down.

What Beamon was seeing now was the uncensored David Hallorin. The mildly stylish glasses and the thin lenses that had given a more cheerful glitter to his cold gray eyes were missing now, as was the warm brow nand-tan color scheme that had replaced the blacks and charcoals that he'd favored before his presidential bid. What was even more noticeable, though, was the way he walked. It wasn't something you saw that much of on television, but it was quite remarkable. It seemed that every motion was punctuated by a strange sense of physical power, a barely contained whirlwind.

Hallorin stopped at an unobtrusive door in the back wall, threw it open, and stepped aside to allow his guest to go first. Beamon paused for a moment, stifled a sigh and stepped through. No good could come of this.

Of that he was sure.

The office was much smaller than Beamon had expected, but other than that was fairly typical. The obligatory antique desk favored by men of power dominated and was surrounded by uncomfortable-looking chairs.

Strangely, the two bookcases along the wall were full of books and not the reaffirming knickknacks and souvenirs that were the staple of most politicians.

"Nice place you have here," Beamon said, and instantly felt stupid for opening his mouth.

Hallorin fell into the chair behind his desk and motioned to the one in front of it.

"You think so?" He looked around him at nothing in particular.

"Kind of a vulgar display of wealth, actually. I built it when I was much younger and much more impressed with myself."

Beamon thought the answer had a slightly practiced ring to it, like his driver's speech about the car but couldn't be sure. His normally acute perceptions were unreliable around politicians meeting with one always made him want to take a shower. Admittedly, the sensation was less urgent with this one than with most.

Hallorin looked like he was about to continue when the phone on his desk rang. He sighed and held up a finger as he picked it up.

Beamon only partially listened to Hallorin's half of the conversation he was answering the person on the other end with one-word sentences, obviously wary of giving too much away to his guest.

Beamon leaned forward and took a framed photograph from the desk before realizing that he probably shouldn't be grabbing at David Hallorin's personal effects. Too late now.

The woman in it was quite beautiful, with medium length blond hair and the tall, thin body of a model. Next to her stood a much younger David Hallorin. His jet black hair was a little more severely cut and the crow's-feet around his eyes were a little shallower, but other than that he looked pretty much the same. The picture, Beamon knew, was at least ten years old that's how long Hallorin's wife had been dead.

"She was killed by a drunk driver," Hallorin said as he replaced the handset.

Beamon felt he should say something consolatory, but couldn't come up with anything that wouldn't sound stock.

"I remember the legislation you tried to have passed after her death."

Hallorin leaned back in his chair.

"Before she died, I didn't really know anything about the problem. The thousands killed every year."

Despite being something of a drunk himself at the time, Beamon had supported Hallorin's stand: Drunk drivers would have their licenses revoked for the rest of their lives on the first offense. He couldn't remember the proposed penalty for the second offense, but it probably involved pliers and thumbnails. More power to him.

"I'm sorry you never got it passed," Beamon said sincerely.

"I believed in what you were trying to do."

Hallorin looked him straight in the eye.

"That's because you and I are rare birds in the government, Mark. We put results above politics. The American people are just now coming around.

I think they'd sleep better knowing their children's stomachs were full than knowing that there " Beamon finished the sentence in his head. " are a bunch of generals at the Pentagon sitting on $700 toilet seats."

It was one of Hallorin's favorite lines.

"I'm sorry," Hallorin said.

"I'm making a speech."

Beamon studied the man. Had the senator seen through his normally infallible poker face and read his disinterest? He'd have to be more careful in the future.

"I have to wonder why we're meeting, Senator."

"Why do you think?"

"I assume that it relates to the Vericomm tapes. But I'm not sure what I can tell you that wasn't in my report or won't be on the transcript of today's hearing."

"The last tape just cuts off," Hallorin said bluntly.

"Why?"

"It's in my report, Senator. I was downloading those wiretaps from a central mainframe where they were stored. I lost the feed."

Hallorin laced his hands in front of his chest.

"You're sure?"

Beamon got the impression that they were negotiating but wasn't sure for what. Hallorin seemed to be searching for something in his expression.

Whether or not he was telling the truth? Whether or not he had a price?

"I'm sure, Senator."

Hallorin didn't respond, but continued examining Beamon's face for whatever it was he was looking for. After another thirty seconds or so, he must have found it.

"I know what you're thinking, Mark. That my credibility has benefited greatly from the discomfort of some of my colleagues."

Beamon looked on impassively. He really didn't want to be here. His life was already too complicated for him to comfortably manage, and frankly, he truly, deeply, didn't give a shit who the next president was.

"I've been critical in the past, it's true," Hallorin continued.

"But I think things are starting to get out of hand."

"I thought your campaign was about clearing the air," Beamon said, paraphrasing one of Hallorin's ads as respectfully as he could and concentrating on not letting his skepticism show.

"The air's getting a little too goddamn clear," Hallorin said, raising his voice a bit.

He stood, rising to his full height for a moment and then leaned forward against his desk.

"The people of the world are looking to be led out of the hole they've dug for themselves. If we don't do it, the Europeans or Japanese will.

We've just started a new millennium and we're at a crossroads. Will we regain our power or will we fall from grace?"