Drummond didn’t sleep well, and at 4:21 a.m., he found himself riding the elevator down to the first floor. The Satwa conference room door was wide open. Gupta was nowhere in sight. He took the stairs up one flight and made a beeline to the arcade room. The noise he heard told him Gupta was near. He was playing
Sub Hunt
. He tipped his head when Drummond appeared.
“What’s the good news?”
“Finished,” Gupta said, delving his right hand into his pocket and retrieving a crumpled piece of computer paper and handing it to Drummond.
“The figure printed underneath each heading in the table indicates the forecast savings for the line item.”
Drummond unfolded the paper and placed it on his leg, using his hands to smooth out the wrinkles. Then he raised it to his face and scanned the printout. Drummond kissed the paper.
“We’re in the kill zone if we tack on new revenues.” He looked over at Gupta, who was sound asleep snoring in the seat of
Pole Position
, his head and arms draped over the steering wheel.
69
C
hris Drummond acquiesced to Jack Dain’s request to discuss strategy before submitting the file. The team had been on the island for fifteen days and had established kinship. The proposal in Drummond’s hand could save America $800 billion a year in health care expenses. To reach that number, no industry sectors were spared. Health insurance companies would be annihilated—big banks would make a tidy profit taking over their transaction processing. Physicians would see a reduction in payments of eighteen percent, a significant haircut to be sure, absorbed disproportionately among specialists. Some of the pain would be offset by the elimination of fixed costs, with estimated closings of one in seven clinics to reduce capacity. The bloodbath would be acute among hospital systems—twenty percent of facilities would be shuttered, along with a moratorium on new technology for years to come. Forty percent of patients would see rate changes from the move to behavioral-risk underwriting.
According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, fourteen million workers were in health care, twelve percent of the workforce. If implemented in its entirety, three-and-a-half million individuals could lose their jobs. Before, it
was just a number the team was targeting. Now, the full consequences of their actions hit home—no hero’s welcome. Drummond’s team would have a bull’s-eye painted on their backs.
“Tactically speaking, what are our options,” Dain asked, trying to get a lay of the land from Drummond.
“The regulations are clear—we’re required to submit a file. If we don’t submit a draft of our work in progress, we’ll be disqualified. Disqualification equals forfeiture of prize money, and we hold ourselves out to an indemnification claim…but it could also mean we walk.”
“As opposed to being carried out in body bags?” Dain added. “I’m a soldier; it’s what I know. My motto is flush them out, by provocation if necessary. It beats the hell out of the alternative…worrying the rest of your life if your car’s going to blow up when you turn the ignition key.”
“At this point, we don’t have proof these are legitimate threats,” Drummond said.
“It’s early.”
“The other option is we submit a bogus proposal,” Drummond said, talking out loud.
“What would that accomplish?”
“Bennett, Haines, or whoever is behind this threat might leave us alone. We couldn’t substantiate the submittal if they attempt to validate our work…It would be a disqualifying event.
“Our proposal is draconian…Maybe it won’t be taken seriously.”
“My vote is we file ‘as is’ and stay alert for danger.”
“OK, let’s do it.”
Drummond found Gupta in the Satwa conference room.
“Gupta, are we ready to send the file?” Drummond asked.
“I need the access code. It will take a few minutes to attach the files.”
“We’re in,” Gupta said, fervently working the keyboard.
“When we finish, let’s throw a party. I’ll plan the event. I’ve been poking around the game room and it’s set up to mimic a nightclub—high-end stereo, laser lights. The pièce de résistance will be a
Guitar Hero
competition. Individuals or teams…whatever we want. I copied the inventory of songs,” Gupta said.
He handed the printout to Drummond.
“Each person selects a song and then meets with me. I’ll demonstrate how the video game works…the instruments and vocals.”
Gupta’s fingers stopped. He scrutinized the screen in front of him.
“I’ve triple checked—it’s ready to send.”
“Drummond, you get the honors…Push ‘Enter.’”
THE STAKES
70
S
peaker Bennett had correctly deduced that Clive Donald and President Cannon were planning to post the proposals submitted by the contestants to the White House website, where the American public could vote on it—but Donald still had the edge. He had carefully selected the industry representatives and think tanks participating in the contest. Donald was confident their proposed solutions would be predictable—incremental reforms. The threat of Drummond’s radical ideas would keep the others honest. By placing the teams in undisclosed locations and restricting their communication, Donald could guard against outside deal-making and collusion. The requirement of interim reporting guaranteed Donald would know the gist of all of the proposals in advance. Armed with that information, he could adjust his tactics, if necessary. The written agreement signed by the contestants was wired tight. Any unauthorized disclosure would result in financial ruin, maybe even jail time.
Donald understood he could never be elected governor on his own. In New York State he was known for his success as an industrialist. In political parlance, he was a “money grubber.” Donald had burned too many bridges
building his vast empire. If he wanted to be governor, Donald would have to play ball with Bennett.
It made sense to offer Bennett copies of the interim reports in exchange for assurances to elect him governor. It would buy Donald time to evaluate Bennett’s gubernatorial commitment. If it looked promising, he’d betray President Cannon and back out of their deal. If not, there would be no harm done. He’d simply deny any accusations that he provided copies to Bennett and frame Matson to take the fall. Hell, the interim reports might motivate the health care leaders to negotiate more earnestly with the super committee, he thought, even if he decided to stay loyal to President Cannon.
71
T
ourists gawked at the image of the Washington Monument floating on top of the Reflecting Pond. Speaker Bennett sat on a concrete bench outside the Lincoln Memorial. The scent of cherry blossoms in full bloom was omnipresent. Haines took a seat beside Bennett, leaving eighteen inches of separation. He was ten minutes late to the rendezvous. The two men did not shake hands or make eye contact.
“I placed six calls to your office.”
“I’ve been busy. The committee’s in session twelve hours a day. My responsibilities as a representative haven’t diminished.”
“You violated our covenant…I was to attend all committee media events. My page interrupted a conference call so I could watch it on television. I gave specific instructions.”
“It couldn’t be helped. We finished for the afternoon and the media were waiting outside the Capitol Building. Swarming Paparazzi—it was out of my control.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been ducking me, and I want to know why. I suppose the committee front men haven’t bothered to call because they lost my phone number. You assholes have been meeting for two weeks. The plan was
for them to make contact with me outside of the committee to discuss terms of a real deal.”
Haines continued to look at the horizon, avoiding eye contact with Bennett.
“Do you think I’m an idiot? You and your cabal are plotting to use the chair position to launch a bid for the presidency. I suspect in collusion with health care leaders. That’s the only plausible explanation.”
Bennett turned crossways, his ass still planted on the bench. He grabbed Haines’s jacket lapel with his right hand and made a wool fist.
“You’d be a lowly representative with piss-ant committee responsibilities without me. I elevated your stature…gave you power.” He felt mucus in the crease where his lips intersected, and he used his tongue to clean out the catchment. His extended arm stressed the seams of his suit coat, girding rolls of body fat.
Haines stood, pulling hard from Bennett’s grip.
“There are a growing number of congressional men and women who believe I represent the future of our party…They say I’m more presidential. They won’t tell you to your face because they know how you’ll respond. Look at media tapes—you’re too raw…not electable. You can’t nuke everybody who doesn’t consent. This is Congress, not Atlantic City. Your mob-boss behavior is uncouth. Too scary.” Haines stepped back from Bennett and raised his forearms in a defensive posture.
“I appreciate what you have done. I acknowledge without your support, I wouldn’t be Ways and Means chair. But you’re damaged goods. Stay away from me.”
Haines took another step and pivoted, striding to freedom. Bennett sat back down on the bench and pulled out his cell phone. His hands were shaking involuntarily. He could barely punch in a number from his favorites.
72
T
imoteo opened the car door and Skip Davis stepped off the curb, ducking low to fold his gangly frame into the back seat of Bennett’s limo. Davis settled in the rear seat, facing Bennett, and the driver closed the door. Davis heard the click of the door lock as the car sped into traffic. Bennett barked. Timoteo responded, mechanically raising the opaque privacy glass, deadening the sound in the passenger compartment. The black limo crossed the Potomac River, and for another fifteen minutes, they rode in silence. Timoteo veered right, into the entrance of a parking garage, and for eight floors the tires squealed as the car climbed. They stopped the car on the blue level. It was deserted, except for a few parked cars.
“Get out,” Bennett said. Davis complied.
Timoteo used a fourteen-inch gray plastic wand, similar to the handheld devices used to screen travelers at airport security, to check Davis for a wire. He waived it up his chest and down his back, repeating the procedure with Davis’s arms extended and then at his sides. He continued to scan his lower body by outlining his legs—front, back, inside, and outside.
“He’s clean.”
Davis stepped back into the car. Timoteo made a U-turn, his instructions to retrace the route back to DC.
“Why the meet?” Davis asked.
“I have another job for you.”
“I didn’t think we were taking a Sunday drive.”
“Cut the crap. This is important; that’s why I wanted to meet in person.”
“Didn’t Duncan’s homicide satisfy your wrath?”
“Dammit. Just tell me whether you want the job and your fee. I’m not interested in your observations. I don’t leave things to happenstance. If you’re not capable of a high-profile kill, just say so and I’ll stop the car. I have other options.”
“Who is it?”
“One of my colleagues in the House.”
“Are you kidding me? Pull your head out if your ass and think. The United States hasn’t had a high-profile terrorist act on its soil since 9/11.”
“No shit.”
“Do you have any idea what response assassinating a congressman will elicit? FBI, CIA, the entire arsenal of Homeland Security crawling up my anus. You’ll shake the foundation of this country.
“What’s your time frame?”
“Immediate.”
“I suppose you want it to look like an accident…natural causes?”
“Hell no, I want to blow the mofo to kingdom come.”
“Gangbangers don’t blow people up. That’s the MO of terrorists.” Davis looked out the window in silence, his brain working overtime performing mental calculations.
Davis eyed Bennett. He underestimated the satanic ambition of the man. But it was too late to back out now. This job would shorten his timeline to retirement by five years.
“Seventy-five million…half now, the remainder upon confirmation.”
“There’s another nuance,” Bennett quipped.
“What?”
“I need to be in close proximity when it happens.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Can you trust me? What if we make a mistake and there’s collateral damage?”
“I’m betting you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder.”
73
P
resident Cannon, his secretary of defense, the director of Homeland Security (DHS), the director of FBI, the director of National Intelligence, his treasury secretary, and his press secretary were gathered in the president’s Emergency Operations Center, PEOC, a bunker underground the White House East Wing. In minutes, Cannon’s administration would field a barrage of questions—so far, no answers.
“Replay the video.”
A three-minute video, recorded twelve minutes ago, was projected onto the screen on the west wall. “Breaking News” scrolled across the bottom.
“At 4:42 p.m., a car bomb exploded, taking the lives of Representative Haines, his driver, and two pedestrians at the corner of H Street and Third,” a woman journalist reported, who was wearing a beige trench coat and black boots. Her dark hair was pushed behind her ears, covering the temples of her politically correct eyewear. The maroon scarf tucked inside her coat collar accentuated her red lipstick.
“Sources say House Speaker Bennett narrowly escaped death after being dropped off just seconds before detonation.”
The journalist cut to Bennett, who looked disheveled. The cameraman was having difficulty keeping his head in the viewfinder—Bennett’s upper body was swaying, and he appeared to be in shock, his eyes glazed over. He extended his left hand to brace himself, as he slumped against the news van, desperate to steady his body. Bennett rubbed his face with the back of his right hand, smearing blood across his cheek. After some difficulty, he removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped blood from his face. Pieces of the victims’ bodies—the consistency of coleslaw—stuck to his chin and suit coat. He folded the handkerchief in half and used it to brush aside the carnage. Paramedics were arriving on scene. A second videographer appeared. The camera crew stepped back so emergency personnel could assess the severity of his injuries. Bennett held the paramedics at arm’s length—combative—demanding to be interviewed by the journalist.