The Election (2 page)

All of them, and especially Shep, knew Edward Burke would be hard to beat, but no one said it. The economy was strong, and that meant the American people would likely vote to maintain the status quo. Burke was also pro-choice, and unfortunately for Mac, a large segment of the voters agreed with him. Shep knew that the biggest problem, however, was money, or the lack of it. The vice president had it. Mac didn't.

Shep loosened his tie, propped his feet on the glass-topped coffee table, and stared at the ceiling. “He's spending millions and millions on television and radio ads, and it never seems to run out,” he mused. “How is that possible?”

“Aside from the campaign funds, the soft money continues to pile up. At this pace he'll have three hundred million to our two hundred million,” responded Jack.

Shep listened as Mac and Jack further discussed the vice president's fund-raising prowess. He heard the concern in their voices. Mac was trailing in the polls, but Shep wasn't about to concede defeat. And he knew Mac well enough to know that Mac wasn't about to either. There were still three months until the general election, and anything could happen.

“The other Democratic primary candidates claimed Burke was receiving money illegally, but they could never prove it,” Mac began as he paced the room. He stretched his arms over the top of his six-foot-two frame, as if trying to chase the soreness from his muscles, then clasped his hands together on top of his salt-and-pepper hair. “The media likes him, so they're not going to start turning over stones.”

He stopped his pacing and turned toward the night skyline just outside the glass doors of the balcony. “Somebody's financing him. That's the only answer. But we'll never be able to prove it. The American people would turn against him if they found out he was selling the presidency to the highest bidder. I'm certain of it from what we've seen and tracked, but how can we prove it?” He shook his head in frustration and pivoted back toward his advisors.

Shep leaned forward in his chair, listening intently. He noticed that Jack followed suit.

“Perhaps we could get a congressional inquiry started,” suggested Jack, his brow furrowed in thought. “At least that would create some media interest, and we could put some spin on it after it breaks.”

Shep was surprised but pleased when Mac nodded slowly. Shep had worked with Mac a long time and knew that Mac rarely, if ever, authorized the investigation of an opponent. And he always refused to allow an opponent's personal life to become the center of the campaign, no matter how devious his sins. Mac didn't play dirty. He was a straight shooter. Honest. Hardworking. That's why Shep was working day and night to get the man elected to the White House.

“I'll call a couple of friends on the House Judiciary Committee,” Jack said.

“I can call in a few favors in the Senate,” Mac added.

All three agreed that something had to be done, and soon. They were getting ready to go head-to-head with a vice president with seemingly unlimited financial resources, and there was no way they could compete.

Shep studied Mac. He saw resolve in his strong, firm jaw and a fiery determination—a determination Shep shared—in his rich brown eyes.

“We can't give up,” Mac commented, running a hand through his hair. “I firmly believe that God has placed us here, at this point in history, for a purpose. We must win. There is no other alternative.”

Shep didn't verbalize his thoughts, but he, too, was convinced that Mac Foster had to win the presidency. After seeing the other option on television tonight, he abhorred even more the idea of Ed Burke winning. He glanced at his watch. Sleep was a rare commodity, and Shep could tell by the faces of his colleagues that they all needed it.

“We have a big day tomorrow. And if we're going to catch Burke, we all need our rest. Let's finish this discussion over breakfast,” Shep suggested.

Mac's two advisers filed out of the presidential suite. Shep suspected that Jack would lie awake, wondering if Mac had any chance of winning. But Shep had other ideas. Even Republican pollsters were reporting that Mac was 10 percentage points behind the vice president. Doubts were beginning to creep in. Mac and his campaign staff needed something big to happen by mid-October, or they had no chance at victory.

And victory,
Shep thought,
is crucial. Especially right now.
He loathed the thought of four more years of a Democratic White House. The country's defenses would be depleted, and the United States would be vulnerable to nuclear-missile attacks from as far away as Asia. The probability existed that one or more Supreme Court justices would retire during the next administration, and Burke's liberal appointments would shape the Court for the next thirty years. Shep just couldn't let that happen. The hearts, minds, and souls of the next generation were at stake in this election.

Even so, Mac would not approve of what Shep was about to do.

Shep closed the door to his modest hotel room and hung his suit coat in the closet. It had been a long day and a longer night, and his body felt it. Every muscle ached. He splashed a handful of cold water on his face from the bathroom sink to rejuvenate himself and peered into the mirror. A tired face stared back at him. His once-parted sandy blond hair was now mussed from a hectic day of campaigning. His hazel eyes drooped from exhaustion, and he could feel the rough stubble on his face when he rubbed his eyes to keep them open for a few more minutes.

The clock on the nightstand read 2:00, but it didn't matter to Shep. He had to make the call. He was convinced that the entire campaign hinged on what could be discovered about Ed Burke's campaign fundraising. He scrolled through his PDA until he found the phone number he needed.

 

Washington DC

The first ring was intertwined into Dalton Miller's recurring dream of being chased by the DC police through the streets of downtown Washington. The second ring jolted him from deep sleep, and he knocked his wireless phone from its resting place. It fell from the nightstand and landed loudly on the floor. His bedmate, the fourth in as many weeks, never flinched.

“Hello,” Dalton muttered after retrieving the phone from the floor and opening the lid.

“Dalton,” an anxious voice said, “this is Shep Taylor. I'm sorry to call at this hour.”

“That's OK,” Dalton responded. His brain felt half asleep, and he had already returned to a horizontal position on the bed. But when he recognized the caller and heard the urgency in Shep's voice, Dalton's interest was immediately piqued. Something with a large fee was on the horizon, particularly if Shep Taylor was calling at this hour.

Dalton shook the sleep from his voice. “What can I do for you?”

There was a pause, then Shep admitted, “I need your help.”

Dalton smiled. He was known to be the best private investigator in Washington, DC. If information could be found, Dalton was confident he would find it. He could follow an unfaithful spouse and never be noticed. He knew dirt on more senators and representatives than anybody else, and he was proud of it.

“What kind of help?” Dalton asked.

Again a pause. “It involves the vice president and the election.”

Dalton sat up. Shep Taylor sounded desperate. Dalton knew the Foster campaign was behind in the polls, but were things really that bad?

“Can you help us?” Shep asked again.

Dalton glanced at the woman lying with her back to him on the other side of the bed. For the life of him, he couldn't recall her name. “Hold on,” he added in a voice barely above a whisper. “I need to change rooms.”

Dalton left the warmth of his bed and stumbled through the darkness to a small office adjacent to the kitchen. “You realize it's going to be expensive,” Dalton informed Shep when he was safely out of earshot of the woman in his bedroom.

“How much?” Shep inquired.

Dalton smiled again. The amount really didn't matter, since his fees were always met. But it was logical to ask the question. “One million, plus expenses.”

“Agreed,” Shep responded without hesitation.

“I'll also need protection. I am not taking a fall for your guy.”

“I'll work on that.”

Was there hesitancy in Shep Taylor's voice on that demand? Dalton wondered. But he wouldn't let that issue stand in the way of a large payday.

“Anything else?” Shep asked.

“That's it. Tell me what the job is.”

As Shep talked about their suspicions regarding the vice president's fund-raising, the picture became clear to Dalton. Mac Foster's staff needed to know who was funding Ed Burke's campaign, and they needed to know quickly. Dalton was to communicate with Shep, and only Shep. Dalton could not tell anyone who employed him.

“This is important,” Shep urged. “I need you to give this top priority.”

“I'll get started first thing this morning,” Dalton promised.

 

Hyatt Regency hotel, Miami

After Shep hung up the phone, he was more than ready for bed. His sleep tonight would finally be restful. The best he'd had since Mac clinched the Republican nomination in the April primaries.

Apollyon Associates, Inc., lower Manhattan

As the presidential election loomed, the Federalists' meetings on the top floor of the Apollyon Associates, Inc. headquarters became more frequent. They had been close to their goal once before, but their technology had not been complete.

Nor had it helped that pictures of their candidate in the arms of a woman other than his wife had appeared in the
Washington Post
. That candidate, John Franklin, was a former governor of Florida. Only a few weeks after losing the presidential election four years ago, he died—apparently of a heart attack. Everyone assumed he succumbed to the pressures of defeat, so no autopsy was performed. If one had been, it would have revealed traces of an obscure Asian toxin known to cause cardiac arrest if taken orally.

The name
Federalists
was a self-appointed title adopted by this trio of American businessmen, but their political beliefs were far from academic federalism. It was more a hybrid of globalism and plutocracy. A one-world government, but controlled by three multinational companies. And not just any companies, but companies owned by the Federalists. Through their companies, they had sufficient resources to control the world's financial markets and its communications. If the Federalists succeeded, they could force every country in the world to submit to their authority. A heady, powerful thought indeed.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Winston,” the receptionist said as William Randolph Winston IV entered the lobby through the revolving front doors of the Apollyon headquarters.

Randolph glanced down for a moment. It was still evident that he had been athletic as a young man, but his age was beginning to gain on him. He was slightly overweight, and his black hair was beginning to gray around the fringes. His face was clean-shaven, with the exception of a small goatee. Although he considered himself charming and others agreed, he had never married. A wife and family would have been unnecessary distractions in his trajectory of success.

“Good afternoon,” he returned and energetically made his way into a waiting elevator that would transport him to the top-floor conference room.

Randolph Winston was from old East Coast money, and the Federalists' plan had been his idea, born while the three men were classmates and fraternity brothers at Harvard. When his father passed away, Randolph inherited his family's fortune and used it to create a company that ultimately became the exclusive licensing agency for Internet users' identification numbers.

Each time a computer user tried to open an account for Internet access, regardless of what company provided the access, he or she was asked to provide a name, street address, e-mail address, and other statistical information, which was transmitted to Apollyon Associates headquarters via the Internet. Most users provided the requested information without any thought about its ultimate destination. They had no way of knowing that a computer file was being created about them at Apollyon.

In return for providing the needed information, the user would be assigned a ten-digit user-identification number. This number would be transmitted to the user after an account was registered with Apollyon. Each time the user logged in to the Internet, the Internet access provider would ask for the user's number. The number had to be entered or access was denied.

Once the user was logged in, Apollyon was able to track which Web sites the individual user visited, what purchases he or she made online, and the content of e-mails sent and received. This information was then stored in the user's computer file at Apollyon headquarters. Randolph knew that 99 percent of all Internet users were not sophisticated enough to realize how much his company would be able to intrude into their lives through their home computers.

By the time they did realize, it would be too late.

A company intern brought Randolph a cup of coffee while he waited for his two partners. He could relax because his part of the plan was in place. His trip to the West Coast had been successful. He would report to his partners that the technicians at the research and development division had completed the newest software in the Apollyon arsenal. A smile formed as he remembered the clever name he had given the new software: Cannibal.

The access numbers assigned to users could now be required each time they wanted to purchase groceries or gasoline, go to the doctor, or pay their utility bills—whether using the Internet or not. The user number would become the most important set of numbers in a person's life, more important than a social security number, a driver's license number, or a telephone number. It would become a person's signature, or mark, and soon every person in the world would be unable to even purchase basic necessities without it.

That is, if the Federalists accomplished their mission. And Randolph Winston was determined they would do just that.

The opulent conference room at Apollyon was dimly lit at Randolph's direction. He couldn't tolerate much light. He sat at the end of the conference-room table and sipped his coffee. His expensive taste was evident from the décor. The furniture was the rarest antiques. The paintings that lined the walls would make the curators at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York envious. Randolph's father had once told him that to
be
successful, he had to
look
successful. Randolph considered the room. He certainly looked successful. His father would have been proud of him.

“Mr. Winston,” the receptionist's voice interrupted over the telephone intercom, “Mr. Montgomery is here to see you.”

“Send him up,” Randolph ordered. Finishing the last of his coffee, he walked toward the conference-room door to meet his compatriot.

Pierce Anthony Montgomery was slightly taller than Randolph, and his navy blue double-breasted suit was tailored to fit his tall frame. Unlike Randolph, Pierce managed to maintain his athletic physique. Racquetball three times a week at the athletic club downtown helped him stay in shape, he had told Randolph. Even though Pierce was nearing fifty, he still combed his black hair from front to back and kept it in place with a styling gel that gave his hair a wet sheen.

Pierce was the founder and controlling stockholder of TransWorld Communications, Inc., the world's largest telecommunications and media conglomerate. Pierce, a self-made billionaire, was confident, bordering on arrogant. He was shrewd. Driven. The current Mrs. Montgomery was his third wife. And Randolph knew she would soon realize, like the ones before her, that Pierce was actually married to TransWorld, or, more accurately, to the Federalists.

Through holding companies, subsidiaries, and foreign corporations, TransWorld had secretly acquired satellites that controlled 60 percent of all the world's wireless communications and 80 percent of all Internet and broadband communication cables. The communication companies TransWorld didn't own were insignificant and would dismantle soon after the Federalists' ascension to power.

Telephone calls from New York to London either traveled through TransWorld's cables or were relayed through TransWorld's satellites. News events that happened in France or South Africa were disseminated through TransWorld's media outlets to the rest of the world. The Federalists had at first planned to isolate allies through TransWorld's infrastructure but then realized that complete isolation would be virtually impossible. But Randolph convinced his partners not to worry about the fact that each country maintained its own secure communications. He had demonstrated that TransWorld could create a temporary disruption in communication among world leaders, giving the Federalists time to fully implement their plan. Creating such a disruption was one key to the Federalists' plan, and TransWorld held that key.

Randolph greeted Pierce as he entered the room. The two men shook hands firmly.

“How are you, my friend?” Randolph asked.

“Fine,” replied Pierce civilly. “And how was your trip?”

“The flight was fine,” replied Randolph. “We made it to LaGuardia from LA in just under six hours.”

“Burke's looking good in the polls. Do you think he can hang on to his lead?”

Randolph winced. Already Pierce had changed the subject to the weakest link in the plan. There was no legitimate chance of success unless the Federalists obtained control of the White House.

“He's scoring points with Hispanic voters with his promise to open the Mexican border to more immigration,” responded Randolph, as if Edward Burke was Harvard's star quarterback rather than the man projected to be the next president of the United States. “The African American supporters are ecstatic over his position on affirmative action. He's promising to fill vacant judicial seats with minority jurists and, of course, we will tell him who those will be. The economy is still strong, and that keeps the middle class satisfied. We just can't have any surprises like last time.”

The receptionist's voice interrupted their conversation—this time to announce the arrival of Milton Hawthorne McAdams.

Randolph knew it would be more difficult to convince Milton than Pierce that a problem had to be eliminated for the good of the cause. But he also knew Milton believed in their cause as much as, or more than, Randolph did and that he would agree the presidential race was too important to take the risk of being exposed.

Again the elevator doors opened, and Milton McAdams strolled across the hall to the conference room. He was shorter than the other two men, slightly slimmer, and almost completely bald. The few wisps that remained of his prematurely gray hair gave him a dignified, fatherly appearance. He wore a conservative gray suit, white shirt, dark tie, and wingtip shoes.

Milton controlled the largest bank in the world, World Federal Bancshares. Its headquarters were in New York, but it had offices in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Sydney, and London. Over the last several years his brokers had been acquiring large positions in all the world's currencies. Very discreetly World Federal had cornered the market on the dollar, the yen, and the euro. Through its sophisticated maze of subsidiaries, it had acquired more Treasury notes guaranteed by the United States than all other banks and individuals combined.

With these acquisitions came the ability to manipulate the bond market and, therefore, long-term interest rates. Milton had explained to Randolph that it was a simple case of supply and demand. A few days after Edward Burke's inauguration, Milton's brokers would be instructed to begin dumping bonds on the Chicago market, driving bond prices down. Long-term rates would soar, causing widespread panic and selling on Wall Street. Then the Federalists would ride in like white knights to save the world economy…at a price, of course. Randolph, Milton, and Pierce had all agreed it was a great plan.

World Federal was also the largest issuer of credit cards. It had for years issued credit cards to unemployed college students. It wasn't as much of a risk to Milton's company as it sounded, since a student's parents would pay the bill, if necessary, to protect their child's credit rating. But Randolph knew that Milton didn't really care whether the debt was repaid or not.

The purpose of issuing credit cards to consumers, whether they qualified or not, was to condition the population to accept that credit cards were the same as currency. Anything could be purchased with a credit card—from groceries to pet food to furniture to automobiles. When the Federalists assumed world control, cash as a form of payment would no longer be accepted.

“Randolph, Pierce, how are you?” asked Milton, shaking hands.

“We are both well,” responded Pierce, his voice deep and rich.

“Shall we sit down?” Randolph suggested as he moved toward the table in the center of the room.

Randolph began the meeting by describing the new Cannibal software, the user numbers, and how the software worked into their plan. Pierce and Milton listened intently as Randolph described how computer chips with the Cannibal software could be implanted into Milton's credit cards.

“You see,” Randolph explained, “we are close to world supremacy.” Pierce and Milton nodded in agreement, and Pierce smiled broadly.

“Everything appears to be in place,” Pierce noted after Randolph's presentation. “We are closer than we've ever been to reaching our goal. We can't let anything interfere with our objectives, and we can't take any risks. That being said, what do you think we should do with James Davidson? Do you think he'll keep quiet about us?”

“It was brilliant on our part to have both a Republican and Democratic candidate,” Randolph replied. “Davidson came close, but he simply couldn't generate the excitement and support in the Republican party that Burke did among the Democrats. Davidson is of no value to us since he lost the Republican nomination to Foster.”

Randolph caught the other two Federalists' eyes as he continued. “There's really no need to keep Senator Davidson around. He knows too much about our plans. I, for one, don't trust him. I think it's time he met a fate similar to Governor Franklin's.”

Milton and Pierce were both silent. They looked away from Randolph's penetrating glare.

“We're in agreement then,” Randolph announced when there was no debate. “I'll make the arrangements.”

“Is that all for today?” Milton asked as he stood to leave.