The Labyrinth Campaign (23 page)

T
he desk in the corner of the library was lit by two lamps. President Hughes had already read the note twice and was scanning it a third time. When he finally looked up, his face was white as a ghost. “This can’t be happening,” he stammered.

“I don’t believe it,” blurted Randy Conner, Hughes’s chief of staff. “He’s wanted for drug smuggling and attempted murder.”

Hughes responded, “We can’t ignore his claims. He said more accidents would happen. We have to check this guy out.”

“I don’t like it,” Conner continued. “He’s dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as if his accusations are legitimate,” replied the president.

“All right, how do you want to handle it?”

“The first meeting is with just you and me. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“It’s only 5:00 a.m. I’ll make the call at 7:00,” Conner responded.

For the next twenty minutes, the two men went about other Oval Office business. Their discussion of fund-raising down the stretch of the campaign was interrupted by the ringing of Hughes’s private line. He answered with a grunt. For the next thirty seconds, Conner watched the
president’s expression evolve from anger to fear and finally sadness. He hung up the phone without saying another word.

“That was Sam Wilson,” the president said, referring to his secretary of energy. “There’s been a nuclear meltdown at a power plant in South Carolina. Not Chernobyl scale, but the worst since Three Mile Island.”

It was Randy Conner’s turn to go pale. “You’re right, this can’t be happening.” And before he could say another word, the president had lifted the receiver of his private line and begun dialing.

“Who are you calling?” Conner asked.

“Jack McCarthy,” Hughes said. “I want to talk to him—now.”

The great room in the Hawkins house in Vail was bigger than the entirety of most New York apartments. The vaulted ceiling was nearly twenty-five feet high, and the river-rock fireplace climbed the entire distance. In one corner was a large pool table, while a full bar adorned the opposite corner. The décor was a mixture of country and Ralph Lauren western. The leather furniture was as soft as butter. A glance out the glass door and across the huge redwood deck revealed a stunning view of Vail Village’s Vista Bahn.

Behind the bar, Will Hawkins asked Greg Larson if he wanted anything to drink. Larson declined, wanting to stay sharp, but claiming he’d take one when they were finished.

Will Hawkins was dressed casually but still looked as if he had just stepped out of a magazine ad: handsome, confident, and totally relaxed.

The two men approached the middle of the room. Hawkins planted himself in an oversized leather chair, while Larson took a position on one end of the matching couch. Larson launched into his predetermined line of questioning. His strategy was to lob a series of easy pitches that Hawkins would consistently answer with ease. Once the candidate relaxed, Larson would hit him with a couple of tough ones.

Larson’s strategy was working perfectly. Hawkins’s well-rehearsed sound bites sounded very presidential, and he was clearly starting to relax. Larson decided it was time to shift gears.

“Tell me how your administration would continue the country’s war against drugs,” Larson said.

“Our policy will be no tolerance,” Will responded. “It is important that we step up our efforts versus where the current administration has been. I believe they’re giving lip service to the issue, and our plan is to make a difference.”

Larson was smiling inside. It was time to give Hawkins the one-two punch.

“Senator, I know this is a difficult question, but I need to know how you feel about Jack McCarthy, one of your top aides, being implicated in a drug smuggling ring.”

For the first time during the interview, Hawkins was speechless. He had more than likely prepared for this type of question, but the easy line of questioning had lulled him out of his usual political defensiveness. Hawkins was quick to recover, however. “It is very disappointing. When I hired Jack from WPC, I expected a significant contribution on our campaign’s overall strategic direction, and it was working. So when I first heard the report, I gave Jack the benefit of the doubt and assumed we were dealing with some dirty politics. But as the evidence continues to mount against him, I’m now in the difficult position of having to publicly admit I made a very bad hiring decision. It has been a difficult road. We just hope the public won’t be too judgmental surrounding the situation.” Hawkins leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and took in a deep breath. He was obviously happy with the way he handled the answer.

Now for the counterpunch. “Senator, how do you feel about having been the college roommate of the biggest drug trafficker in the free world?”

Hawkins’s reaction was priceless. He watched as Hawkins evolved from stunned silence, to fidgety bewilderment, and, ultimately, to overt
anger. “I will not dignify that question with a response,” the senator blurted.

“But you do want to set the record straight with the American public, don’t you? This unfortunate fact must be addressed, don’t you think?”

“I thought you were on our side,” Hawkins countered.

“I’m not on any side except the side of the truth, and there’s clearly some of that needed here.”

As the men stared at each other silently, John Rollins crossed the room, explaining that the interview was done for now. But Hawkins waved him off.

“Mr. Larson,” Hawkins began, “you do not choose your roommates at Oxford. I also believe it is important to note that neither Carlos Pendrill nor his family were involved in any known illegal activities at the time he and I were roommates. Neither have he and I stayed close since college nor even spoken in more than twenty years. And finally, as a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, I can’t believe that you don’t recognize that this is the type of irrelevant information that has hurt many good, decent men in the past.”

“Irrelevant my ass, Senator. This is the type of reporting that helps people choose their next president.”

Hawkins took a deep breath and changed his approach.

“Greg, I’ve had nightmares about this information becoming public. I’ve considered announcing it myself, but my advisers told me it was political suicide. I cannot go back in time twenty-five years and change the situation, but I would if I could. In my defense, this information does not have an impact on my ability to run this country. So I ask you, as a voting citizen, does having the wrong college roommate make me unfit for office?”

“For me, probably not. But I can’t speak for all Americans. My job is to present the facts and let the public decide for themselves.”

The room was silent. John Rollins said, “I think that will do it for today. Mr. Larson, I’ll arrange for your return trip to Dallas.”

T
wo men, one dressed in an expensive navy blue suit, the other in the uniform of a US Army general, strolled down the hallway. They were about a hundred feet underground in a top-secret facility code-named Husker. Their conversation was still in the pleasantry stage when they turned left through a vault-like door leading to a viewing area outside a laboratory. The facility resembled a movie set, with scientists behind the thick glass partition executing their tasks, unaware that they were being observed.

Brad Olsen, the director of the facility, was giving Gen. Peter Buffer a tour. “These men and women have made a significant breakthrough in the development of our next chemical weapon. It is a newly developed strain of sarin gas that is harmless in its inert state, but when exposed to a significant force, it becomes the most deadly biological weapon ever invented.”

“I’m not sure I understand the benefit,” the general asked, seemingly uninterested.

“Well, General, the simplest explanation I can give would be that if I spilled a small amount of the liquid in the laboratory we’re now observing, there would be no impact on those people, regardless of whether they were wearing their protective suits or not. However, if I dropped
a full test tube of the same liquid from chest-high and it broke on the floor, within ten to twelve seconds of exposure, everyone in that laboratory would die a quick but excruciating death. The beauty of this stuff is our ability to contain the way it spreads. Though it is extremely deadly, it will dissipate in the wind; it will dilute when exposed to water. But used correctly, it will eliminate anyone in the contamination zone. So, while these people’s work is still extremely delicate, a small spill that just six months ago would have killed can now be wiped up with a paper towel. And you can obviously envision its usefulness in the type of war we’ll be fighting in the future.”

The general’s reaction was noncommittal.

The two men watched through the glass in interested silence as the scientists continued to work. Just as General Buffer turned to continue his questioning, he was startled by a bright flash from the laboratory. As the two men struggled to comprehend what was happening, they watched the metal shelves holding dozens of sarin test tubes tip toward the floor. Neither man moved as the tubes shattered against one another, spilling clear liquid across the heavily padded floor. The scientists’ reactions were equally slow. By the time the group behind the glass consciously realized what had happened, escape was impossible. The inner door had already automatically sealed due to a signal from the floor-level impact sensor. Olsen and Buffer were still paralyzed by disbelief as the scientists fell to the floor, writhing in agony.

As if slapped, the two men looked at each other and at the same instant lurched toward the exit. As they reached the huge metal door, they heard the all-too-familiar clank of the door latching from the outside. They looked at each other, neither able to speak. They were trapped in a tomb; they would never escape.

Will Hawkins was sitting behind the large mahogany desk in the study of his family’s Vail home. As he sat staring out the window at the magnificent view of a steep slope that dropped down into Vail’s main village, he
pondered his upcoming meeting with Sgt. Maj. Ian McKay. How could things get more fucked up? he wondered to himself. Terrorism, murder, and blackmail. This shit wasn’t even believable in Hollywood. But it was happening … it was happening to him.

A soft knock at the door startled Will from his thoughts. The door opened, and Ian McKay entered with one of Hawkins’s bodyguards.

McKay found himself in awe, entering the lavish office of one of the most powerful men in the free world. He’d been practicing for this moment for months but now found himself speechless. Hawkins gave the bodyguard a nod, and he exited silently.

“Sergeant Major Ian McKay,” Hawkins opened formally, “I wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Well, Senator, that makes two of us. You can imagine my discomfort when I discovered that the leading candidate for the world’s most powerful office was the man who beat my brother to death in a London alley more than twenty-five years ago.” As McKay spoke, he moved toward the massive desk.

Hawkins held up a hand. “Before we go any further, I must inform you that I am armed, so I would suggest you don’t try anything silly.”

“Senator, I am not here for physical revenge. My revenge is of the monetary sort.”

“Well, then, let’s get down to business. First, I was completely unaware of the outcome of this unfortunate incident until a few weeks ago. My recollection of the events is vague, but what I do remember is that you and your brother started the fight, and my friend and I ended it in the alley. There is no way we could have known anyone was going to die.”

McKay’s temper exploded. “You beat him with a piece of wood. You hit him repeatedly, even after he was still. Then you ran. Don’t you dare play the innocent! You killed a man, an expectant father of a now beautiful young woman, a woman who never knew her father.”

The news struck Hawkins like an electric shock. He had never entertained the idea that McKay’s brother was a father. He was completely caught off guard. McKay noticed Hawkins’s momentary lapse and seized the opportunity.