The Alexandria Connection (24 page)

T
he EVRAN jet carrying Rachel Bannister and the governor of Montana, Carter Davis, came to a stop at the Business Jet Centre at Love Field. Bannister and Davis were whisked through arrivals and Crowley’s driver was waiting with one of EVRAN’s specially armoured DTS Cadillacs. Despite his media-shy profile, Crowley hadn’t got to be the most powerful industrialist in the world without making a lot of enemies, and when Area 15 assessed the risks as being high, the 4.6 litre, three-tonne V8s were there to minimise them. The cars were protected with hardened ballistic steel that was impervious to both 7.62-millimetre and 5.56-millimetre high-powered rifles. The floor and roof provided anti-mine and grenade protection and the heavily tinted windows were made from multi-layered ballistic glass. The fuel tanks, computer modules and batteries were similarly armored and normal tyres had been replaced with high-grade ‘run-flat’ wheels. Crowley insisted the EVRAN armoured fleet be of identical design to that of the Beast, the specially armoured Cadillac used by the president.

It had taken a bare ten minutes from touchdown to Crowley’s driver saluting and ushering the governor and Rachel into the spacious, finely crafted leather seats.

‘So . . . what does a gorgeous looking woman like you do when you’re not working for Crowley?’ Governor Davis asked, placing his hand on Rachel’s thigh.

Rachel sighed audibly. On the Gulfstream 550, Rachel had managed to keep the governor’s wandering hands at bay by ensuring the seating configuration had them facing each other over a coffee table. She took his arm and firmly placed the governor’s hand back on his own flabby thigh. He might have had a ‘million dollar body’ in the earlier days, but good living had turned his once toned muscles to fat. What looked suspiciously like a double chin was forming, and his reddish hair was greying at the temples. ‘Working for Mr Crowley is a full-time occupation, Governor. Now, if you look to your right, we’re coming in to the Mayflower Estates area of Preston Hollow . . . As you’re probably aware, George W. Bush and his wife have moved here, and it’s home to the likes of Ross Perot, along with any number of business tycoons.’

‘The Crespi-Hicks estate is somewhere around here?’ asked Davis, his hand once again creeping across the plush leather of the rear seat.

‘Valued at US $135 million and it sits on 25 acres, but none of these mansions come even close to Ploutos Park,’ Rachel said, once more removing Davis’s hand. Named after the Greek god of wealth, Crowley’s estate sat on a staggering 79 acres. The six-storey stone mansion included fifteen bedrooms, twenty bathrooms, a library, a ballroom where ten huge crystal chandeliers hung from a cavernous ceiling, a large art-deco bar, a main kitchen lined with eighteenth-century Delft tiles, and a separate indoor commercial catering kitchen. The home theatre took up half the third floor, with the other half allocated to a games room.

The driver slowed the big Cadillac and pressed the remote, and the big wrought iron gates swung silently on their hinges.

‘Impressive driveway,’ Davis observed, as they came to a halt under a stone portico supported by four immense Greek-style stone pillars. The driver opened the rear door and saluted. Sheldon Crowley waited beside the heavy double cedar doors of the main house.

‘Welcome to Ploutos Park, Carter,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘My wife Lillian sends her apologies, but she will join us later. We’ve put you in one of the guesthouses. Hank will take your bags over, and in the meantime, Chef has prepared lunch which we’ll have in the cellar.’

Crowley led the way across the expensive black-and-white Italian tiles of the entry foyer, where four of the great masters, acquired legitimately, took pride of place: a Renoir, a Monet, a Raphael and a Cézanne. He turned left into the library, which was panelled in Italian walnut, past a feature wall that had cost a cool US $1 million per square metre, tiled in diamond, mother of pearl, abalone shell and black onyx. Rachel and Davis followed Crowley past display cases of priceless Egyptian artifacts, including a full-size mummy, down heavy wooden steps to the underground cellar.

‘I had it modelled on the barrel room of Château Margaux. Are you familiar with that château?’ Crowley asked.

‘Can’t say I am,’ said Davis, casting his eyes around the cavernous cellar.

No surprises there, Rachel thought. Davis, she suspected, would have difficulty distinguishing a chardonnay from a chablis. Stone pillars supported the roof, and soft lighting played on the arches of the ceiling. Chef stood ready to carve rare roast beef. Crowley’s personal sommelier was on hand to serve the wine. The rest of the cellar lunch, including crabs and freshly shucked oysters, was laid out on a long rough-hewn table in the centre of the cavern, the walls of which were lined with stone recesses containing thousands of bottles of the world’s rarest wines.

‘So how are things up in Montana?’ Crowley asked, after the first course of Chesapeake Bay chowder was served and the sommelier had poured a 2004 Tyrrell’s Vat 1 semillon from one of the world’s leading semillon
terroirs
in the Hunter Valley of Australia.

‘We’d be doin’ a whole better if it weren’t for those latte-sippin’ greenies tryin’ to tell us what we can and can’t mine,’ said Davis, emptying half a glass of semillon in one gulp.

Rachel nodded surreptitiously toward the sommelier, who immediately refilled the governor’s glass.

‘There’s enough shale oil in Montana to make American self-sufficient into the next century, but all those greenies do is whinge and whine about the water table this, and the toxic waste that, hazardous methane this, and contaminated drinking water that . . . they’re like a broken record.’

Crowley smiled. The conversation was going in precisely the direction he wanted. ‘Washington any help?’

‘Washington? You’ve got to be kidding me, Sheldon. Washington’s nothing but a contraceptive to the prick of progress. They can’t even get their act together over gray wolves. I doubt half of ’em have ever been outside the beltway. Congress keeps wolves on the endangered species list, and in the meantime they’re wreaking havoc on the herds. The ranchers have had a gut full of Washington, and so have I,’ Davis grumbled, alternately gulping at his wine and attacking a full lobster and rare roast beef. ‘Hunting wolves might not be legal in Pennsylvania and Constitution Avenues, but up where I come from, wolves are vermin, end of story.’

Crowley nodded to the sommelier. The sommelier had decided on an Australian theme, and Kellermeister’s 2008 shiraz from the Barossa in the south of Australia had not only taken out ‘Best Barossa Shiraz’ and ‘Best Australian Shiraz’, it had been accorded the ‘Best Shiraz in the World’ by over 400 judges at the London Wine Show. That achievement, Crowley decided, would be lost on Davis, so he moved straight to the punch line. ‘There’s a way to fix all of this,’ he said.

‘And how’s that?’ asked Davis.

‘You could call the shots from Washington.’

‘And how do you suppose I might do that, Sheldon?’

‘Simple. Run for president.’

‘Yeah, right. Those assholes have got the game sewn up down there. Besides, if you want to compete, you’ve got to have some very big backers, Sheldon. I’ve seen the figures . . . the campaign in 2008 cost over US $750 million.’

‘Have a look around you, Carter. What do you see?’

‘Huh?. . . Wine.’

‘Not just any wine, Carter. There are over 8000 bottles of the world’s rarest wines in this cellar, including two cases of Henri Jayer Richebourg Grand Cru, which, if you can get hold of it, comes in at over $20 000 a bottle. The jet that picked you up would set you back around $70 million.’

‘Meaning . . .’

Oh God, thought Rachel. He’s thicker than I thought.

‘After we’ve finished here, I’ll get Rachel to show you around, Carter, but this is no ordinary estate. The backing is here, and we want you to run.’

Davis shook his head. ‘I’m quite comfortable where I am, thanks. They don’t call Montana “Big Sky Country” for nothing. I’m mountain born and bred.’

And doesn’t it show, Rachel thought.
Surely
Sheldon can’t be serious.

‘We’d still like you to run.’

‘Afraid not, Sheldon, but it’s mighty nice of you to offer, just the same,’ said Davis, draining his glass again.

Crowley dismissed the staff, and turned back to Governor Davis. ‘It’s not that simple, Carter. You see, Washington and the greenies are not only causing you problems in Montana . . . they’re causing me big problems down here. Granted, there are a lot of attractions for you in Montana. Stunning mountains, beautiful four-legged wildlife, and then there are the two-legged locals . . . and some of them are
very
attractive, in and out of bed.’

Davis coloured visibly. ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about, Crowley? I’ll have you know that I’ve run on a ticket of faith and family values for the last ten years, and I’m not about to —’

‘Spare me the crap, Davis,’ said Crowley, an icy edge to his voice. ‘You might have run on that hogshit, but you’ve been screwing your ass off every chance you get.’

‘How dare you . . . who the fuck do you think you are? I’m leaving!’ Davis got up, unsteady on his feet, and the chair fell backwards behind him.

‘Your bedroom’s in Helena, in the governor’s mansion at 2 North Carson Street, two blocks from the Montana State Capitol building. Yet you seem to have two more bedrooms in Billings, or at least Emma Cooper and Brooklyn Murphy do, and you spend quite of bit of time in theirs, which is interesting, because they’re both on your staff, yet neither is aware of your involvement with the other.’

Davis steadied himself, gripping the edge of the heavy wooden table, and Rachel watched the colour drain from his face.

‘And then of course there’s Harper Scott in Bozeman, and Abigail Roxburgh in Missoula.’

‘You’ve got no proof of this, Crowley. You’re just picking out names of employees I mix with in the course of my duties.’

‘“Duties” has a broad definition in your lexicon, Davis. Missoula’s a nice spot for picnics – confluence of the Clark Fork and Bitterroot Rivers – and given your platform of faith and family, you were smart enough to park out of sight, or so you thought.’ Crowley paused, and then came in for the kill.

‘Sit down, Davis.’

Rachel picked up the chair, more out of practicality than sympathy. What a pathetic individual this politician was, she thought. One of the many who preached faith and morals the loudest, and ignored them most often. And Crowley wanted him in the White House, the most powerful position in the world? For a fleeting moment, Rachel wondered about her involvement with Crowley and his empire. In her darkest moments, she increasingly questioned this, but she had long planned to oust the cloying Lillian. Now was not the time to lose focus.

‘We are well aware that neither your wife nor your three children have any idea of your infidelities, Carter, and you’re very fortunate that your peccadillos haven’t come to the attention of the media . . . but when they do, you’ll be finished, not only as a politician, but as a husband and a father. Not because you’ve been found out – plenty of politicians in this country have survived sexual scandals, but I can’t think of one of them who survived when he was running on a campaign of faith and family.’

‘When they come to the attention of the media? Are you threatening me, Crowley?’

Crowley shrugged. ‘You can take it any way you like. To be frank, up until now, I couldn’t have given a shit whose bedrooms you’ve haunted.’

‘What do you mean “up until now”?’

‘It’s quite simple, Carter, because now, I need someone in the White House who can ensure policies are favourable for big business. Policies that are not held hostage by objections to fracking, or coal seam gas, or any of the other rubbish that the Left comes up with. I need someone in the White House who is unequivocally pro-jobs and pro the economy, and none of the Republicans running at present would know if a San Francisco trolley car was up their ass until the people got off, and even then you’d have to ring the bell – so that
someone
is you. You
will
run for the White House, and EVRAN will fund your campaign. Rachel here is not overjoyed at the prospect of managing it, but you will do exactly as she says.’

‘And if I don’t?’ Davis demanded truculently.

Rachel rolled her eyes. This guy just didn’t get it. For her to manage Davis through the primaries and gain the Republican nomination would be a monumental achievement, but the White House? That, Rachel mused, was miracle territory. General Dwight D. Eisenhower might have slept with his driver, Kay Summersby, during World War Two, and Kennedy may have slept with Marlene Dietrich and Marilyn Monroe, to name but two, but they were intelligent men. Still, if Warren Harding, arguably the dumbest candidate in the history of the Presidency, could win in 1920, and if Andrew Johnson, who had turned up drunk at Abraham Lincoln’s inauguration and was later one of only two presidents to be impeached – if they could gain the White House, it was possible, and she turned her thoughts to how she might secure the million dollar bonus Crowley had offered.

Crowley had anticipated Davis’s reaction and he nodded to Rachel. Area 15 had obtained the video using cutting-edge surveillance techniques. Better equipped than either the CIA or the Mossad, Area 15’s results were invariably impressive. The video had been shot at a distance, but Area 15’s laser technology captured the audio, and the facial expressions of both Davis and Abigail, the well-endowed blonde PR executive from Missoula, were very clear.

The vision showed Davis parking his big Chevrolet Tahoe in the bushes opposite Kelly Island and the Bitterroot River.

‘I promise you, sweetheart, when the next election is over, I’ll be in my second term, and a divorce won’t matter, but you’ve got to stay with me on this. It’s you I love, and we’ll be together.’

‘You promise, Carty?’

Rachel stifled a desire to vomit.

‘I promise . . .’ The audio was reduced to heavy breathing and the camera caught their embrace in all its steamy detail, Davis plunging his hand down Abigail’s ample cleavage, then fumbling for her dress zipper and the catch on her bra.