The Dirty Secret (4 page)

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Vincent turned and saw his wife, Donna, staring back at him with a wan smile. Her graying hair was cut short and layered, neatly framing the soft angles of her porcelain-hued, cherubic face. Drab rays of daylight permeated the room through bulletproof windows that adorned all three of its exterior walls. An air of dreariness infused the room, broken only by the fresh-cut white and pinkish flowers that the First Lady was placing into a vase atop the mahogany Pembroke table situated along the east wall.

The governor turned from the window, walking toward his wife. “What kind of flowers are those? I don’t think I’ve seen them before.”

The First Lady’s hazel eyes twinkled as she used her fingertips to daintily tuft up the flowers. “They’re Japanese anemones. They just started blooming around Halloween.”

Strolling behind his wife, Vincent draped his right arm around her neck. Bending almost a foot, he kissed the crown of her head. “They’re beautiful, Donna. Really brighten up the room. Lord knows we all could use a little cheer around here.”

The First Lady turned and nuzzled the side of her face against his chest. “You need to stop worrying about everything and put your trust in God. As the Bible says, ‘If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed,
nothing
shall be impossible unto you.’”

Luke Vincent felt his stomach tighten, but his face remained plastered with a calm smile. Shamefully recalling his recent encounter with Tabatha McCallen and the lustful thoughts she always invoked, he wasn’t optimistic The Big Guy would be moving mountains for him anytime soon.
Wanton disregard for the Seventh and Tenth Commandments doesn’t strike me as the modus operandi God rewards with high office and public acclaim. The examples of Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich notwithstanding.

The governor’s train of thought was interrupted when Marshall University’s fight song, the “Sons of Marshall,” erupted from his cell phone. Vincent glanced at the screen and was greeted by his running mate’s smiling campaign headshot and home number. He smoothly exited his wife’s embrace. “I gotta take this. It’s Senator Wilson.”

Donna smiled, patted him lovingly on the cheek, and dutifully returned her attention to the flowers.

“Hello, Senator. How are you doing?”

“Well, I’m drinking more Pepto Bismol than vodka, so I guess I’m holding up pretty well,” Melanie Wilson replied. Her voice was pleasant, although utterly bereft of any regional dialect. Whether that was the result of deliberate effort or merely the happenstance of an Ivy League education combined with her Midwest upbringing, Vincent had no idea. “How are things looking over in West Virginia?”

Vincent knew Senator Wilson had all four fingers and her thumb wrapped competently around his state’s wrist, monitoring its pulse from her campaign headquarters in D.C. Nevertheless, he respected the fact that she
acted
as if his insight warranted a personal call.

“I think we’ll pull it out,” Vincent declared. “Gobs of ballots down south weren’t counted Tuesday night. You know … a few glitches with machines here, a few overlooked boxes there. Those things add up pretty quickly.”

“Not
too
quickly, I hope,” Wilson interjected. “But I’ll sleep better knowing
all
the votes are being counted.”

“Absolutely. There’s no way we’re going to let a bunch of Republican thugs steal this election.”
Not as hard as
our
thugs are trying to even the playing field.

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Luke. Keep up the good work.”

“Will do, Melanie. You worry about New Mexico and Iowa and everywhere else. We have West Virginia well under control.”

The phone died as Senator Wilson hung up. Vincent pressed a button and returned the phone to his belt clip, hoping he could live up to that promise.

CHAPTER 7

PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 6:30 P.M.

State Senator Jack McCallen slumped over his cherry desk with his face cupped in his hands. The discovery requests were stacked upon virtually every flat surface in the office. His temples throbbing, Jack struggled to control the anger and anxiety rising in his chest.

Jack felt the lawyers were burying him in an avalanche of paperwork:

They demanded he recite the details of every conversation he – or any of his employees – ever had with any of the mineral owners about the lease that gave his company the right to extract the property’s oil and gas.

They insisted he turn over copies of every royalty check his company had given the mineral owners during the past ten years.

They wanted copies of the production logs reflecting every drop of crude oil and every cubic foot of natural gas extracted from the 2,500-acre Schoolcraft property during the past decade.

They commanded he provide them copies of any bank statements and invoices reflecting the money generated from sales of the property’s mineral resources to third parties.

Jack’s father, Duke McCallen, had returned from World War II and used his GI Bill money to obtain a geology degree from Marietta College. After three years working for Quaker State, Duke had quit his job and used his life savings to start McCallen Resources. Three wells drilled on his first 50-acre lease in Doddridge County hit big, and the resulting cash flow helped turn his company into one of the state’s biggest independent oil and gas companies. Over the next forty years, Duke had expanded operations whenever possible while riding out the inevitable bust cycles as best he could.

Jack learned a lot watching his dad over the years: How to put suspicious landowners at ease with a joke and how to earn their trust by honoring the terms of a handshake deal. How to maintain organized records and keep the local bankers happy. And how to take off the gloves and fight like hell when another operator tried to screw you over. If someone tried to place a wellhead capable of stealing oil or gas from under your leasehold, it was war. If someone instigated mineral owners to attack the validity of your lease, it was war.

When you’re at war, you use
nukes
if you have to. You do whatever it takes to win.

Although the issues in the Schoolcraft case were the same ones Jack had litigated with other mineral owners, the stakes were much higher this time. First, the sheer size of the land involved dwarfed any other leasehold the company held. Secondly, if the test results his geologists had reviewed were accurate, a wide swath of the gas-rich Marcellus Shale was situated about 6,500 feet beneath the entire tract. There also appeared to be a colossal pocket of natural gas lying untapped in the sandstone another 2,000 feet below the Marcellus. In all, McCallen Resources stood to make a fortune extracting gas from the property, but only if he and Rikki could fight off this lawsuit.

“So did that camel jockey lawyer of yours squeeze any more money out of us today?”

Jack looked up and saw his wife standing in the doorway. She was sneering at him with her arms crossed, dressed to kill in a black business suit. Black hose covered her sculpted legs and she tapped the toe of her two-inch-high black heel twice on the reddish-gold hardwood flooring. The sound resonated like gunshots against the office’s paneled walls.

Jack slowly removed his hands from his face and took a deep breath. Long ago, he might have cared enough to explain that Indians were more likely to ride elephants than camels. Now, he just sighed and gritted his teeth without even addressing her ignorant and gratuitously nasty comment. The look on Tabatha’s face was the very definition of smug.

“I don’t know what you have against Rikki. She can’t work for free and we’d be sunk in this case without her.”

Tabatha’s blue eyes flashed. “That’s what you keep saying, Jack. But I haven’t seen her do anything except send us
bills!
”

The senator felt his face flush. It was tough enough fighting this lawsuit. If he lost, all the money he had invested in geological reports and test drilling would go up in flames, and his most lucrative leasehold would be reopened to other bidders. Developers with much bigger pockets were slobbering at the thought of drilling wells on that land if his lease fell through and these constant battles with his wife were grating his nerves to no end.

“Damn it, Tabatha!” The scream rattled his chest and strained his throat. His face twisted with rage, he hurled two high stacks of papers from the desk onto the floor with one quick backward sweep of his left hand and stood to face her. “Why can’t you get off my back, shut the hell up, and
support
me for a change?”

Tabatha’s pupils widened and her lips peeled back from her teeth, morphing into an adrenaline-fueled grin. “If you were any kind of a man, Jack, the precious little company your daddy left you wouldn’t be on the brink of bankruptcy.” Her voice dripped with detestation. “And you’d be able to support your wife and kids the way we deserve.”

McCallen knew she was pushing his buttons, but he felt powerless to ignore her attack. He could see in her eyes how much she relished pummeling his self-esteem. For perhaps the millionth time, he wondered how he had fallen in love with such a sadistic, hate-filled woman.

Breathing heavily, Jack balled his hands into tight fists. “You’re lucky my dad taught me to treat a woman with respect,” he said slowly. “Because if you were a man and tried talkin’ to me like that, I’d kick the dog shit out of you right where you stand.”

Tabatha stepped out of the doorway, laughing as she stalked toward him. “Don’t let that stop you, big boy. Go ahead and try it! You lay a finger on me, and I’ll have state troopers hauling your ass out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

The Senator closed his eyes, struggling to control his emotions. He shook his head in disbelief as he stormed past his wife and out of the office. “Go fuck yourself, Tabatha.”

She turned and watched him walk out. “I don’t need to fuck myself, Jack! There’s a long line of guys just begging to tap this since you’re no longer man enough for the job!”

McCallen did not turn around or say a word. Continuing to walk away, he paused just long enough to punch a hole in the drywall before barreling out the front door.

CHAPTER 8

NEW YORK CITY
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 7:45 P.M.

The relaxing sounds of a string quartet floated through the room like the soundtrack to a dream. In another environment, Yuri Petrenko would have found the music soothing. Tonight, he took another tiny bite of his entrée and hoped he looked like he enjoyed it.

No matter how many times Yuri sat down to his host’s table, trying to keep an open mind when faced with yet another dish from the Caucasus, the meal always ended with him slipping into the bathroom to shovel Mylanta into his mouth while praying he wouldn’t hurl.

In his heart, Yuri knew this night would end no differently. Nevertheless, he heroically kept chewing. He even managed to emit a few grunts of feigned pleasure.

Dmitri Mazniashvili, on the other hand, loved the food of his homeland. He insisted guests broaden their culinary horizons whenever they joined him for dinner at the luxurious condominium often referred to by insiders as “Cloud Nine.” Located atop a building near the corner of East 59th Street and Park Avenue, Mazniashvili spared no expense when he remodeled his home, fully intending to impress even the fortunate few who could afford to own property in this exclusive neighborhood.

Having heard the story more times than he could count, Yuri knew the entire project had been orchestrated by the hottest young designer in town. The rich cherry planks adorning the walls were purchased from a Revolutionary Era mansion upstate, painstakingly refinished and installed here at mind-boggling cost. Recessed lighting imbued the room with a warm, cozy glow. A carefully chosen assemblage of colorful artwork by recognized masters like Matisse and Lievens, as well as up-and-coming contemporary talents, were strategically placed throughout the expansive room. An enormous window stretched floor-to-ceiling the entire length of the western wall, providing the same soothing view of Central Park’s green open spaces that Andrew Carnegie and other titans of the Gilded Age had appreciated from nearby mansions over a century ago.

“Would you like some more
muzhuzhi?
” Mazniashvili smiled, gesturing enthusiastically toward a plate of pig legs that reeked of vinegar and looked like they had been boiled. “Niko really outdid himself this time!”

Yuri felt his mouth water. Not in a good way. From his experience with Georgian cuisine, he knew it probably signaled a rapidly approaching visit from the Gods of Angry Vomitation.

Donning his best poker face, Yuri swallowed his food and shook his head negatively. “No thank you,
vozhd,
” he replied, knowing Mazniashvili worshiped Josef Stalin and savored his use of the dictator’s intimate moniker. “I’m trying to save room for his dessert.”

The host clucked disapprovingly but wore an indulgent smile. He was a good bit older than Yuri, with a shock of white hair and uncontrollable eyebrows perched atop shrewd dark brown eyes. “Very well,” he said, grabbing another pig leg for himself. “Fortunately for you, Niko is making his
nigvzis torti
tonight.”

Yuri felt his nausea subside. The walnut-raisin torte was by far one of his favorite Georgian dishes, and it would serve as a welcome change from this evening’s main course. In the meantime, he reached into his pocket and extracted a watermelon-flavored Jolly Rancher to help remove the taste of the
muzhuzhi
from his mouth.

After savoring his meal a few more bites, Mazniashvili finally turned the conversation to the matter at hand. “The election isn’t looking as good as we had hoped.”

Yuri nodded crisply. “
Da
. I’ve been watching the news. No chance of winning Louisiana, so we’re just left with West Virginia.”

Mazniashvili grunted. “And we still have to hang on to New Mexico. Nine hundred votes isn’t a very large lead, but it should be much harder for Royal to gain that many in New Mexico than for Vincent to find three hundred in West Virginia.” The determined glint in his eyes bespoke the ruthlessness Yuri knew had made him one of the richest men in the world.