No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2) (3 page)

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CHAPTER 4

F

or the moment, the control center of the presidency consisted of the kitchen and den of the Masterson estate, Fairlane. The large, antique, oak table was strewn with laptops, iPads, and file folders. The paper files had been delivered by courier from some

nameless government department that presides over the transition from one administration to the next, and they were marked with time-worn labels of the past.

Max thumbed through one 300 page binder marked “Ambassadorships,” but he rapidly lost interest when he realized that the protocol for choosing ambassadors was directly linked to the size of the contributions that were made to political campaigns. His philosophy was fresh and untried, but he knew it would work: The ambassadors of the United States would be visible negotiators, who had been trained as mediators and excelled at their craft. They would represent what is right about America, and they would be charged with the responsibility of providing the world with what they craved most: to be American. The goods and styles, music and movie stars, cars and planes, technology and ideas—all crafted with quality and innovation—were the products that Americans would sell to the world.
“Our friends and trading partners will benefit from peaceful alliances with the United States of America, and our enemies will be deprived of the benefits of doing business with us. During my time in office, I believe that I can transform the country from a consumer society to a productive economy. We will restore our standard of living,” said Max.

“For now, we are bound to debt through dependence on foreign oil and products built with technology stolen from our ingenuity. I believe this. I see it happening, and I don’t like it. There are others who don’t share that belief.” He shifted impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I can’t sit idly by and watch as America gets lazy and soft, while the rest of the world out-competes us,” Max continued, still fidgeting. He had sat still for as long as he could without doing something. It made for short meetings, but it was annoying to Scarlett, who thrived on committee hearings that went on for hours. She didn’t fidget. Max was at his best when he could dive into a problem, devise a course of action, and go for it without prolonged deliberation.

In Max’s campaign, he only owed allegiance to the legacy of his long-departed father, Senator John Masterson, who had left him more money than he could ever spend, and to the American people, who had given him their votes. Masterson and Conroy had won the presidency with 80% of the popular vote, a landslide by anyone’s account.

Setting the folder aside, he turned his attention to his iPad, and he accessed the confidential information that had been prepared for his transition team from the nameless bureaucrats that had provided invisible support for previous incoming administrations.

Like most social gatherings, people tended to congregate in the kitchen. Various staffers sauntered in and out, but they left Max and Scarlett deep in conversation without interruption, assuming that the affairs of government were being crafted by the two individuals who were best suited for the job. After all, the people did elect them.

“You know that we aren’t supposed to be together,” Max said. “What if some psychotic terrorist is evil enough to predict when we’re in the same spot, and they make history? We are going to have to be really sneaky.”

Scarlett Conroy was unphased. Unlike Max, she was a politician first and foremost, and her years in public office had taught her to be cautious. Cautious meant safe, but she was not one to obsess about the unknown.

“That’s why we have the Secret Service, the CIA, the NSA, three branches of the military, and Homeland Security to protect us,” she countered. “With you in office, they may as well paint a bullseye on your forehead and toss you out on the street for target practice, but I am not going to sit around worrying about it. We have a country to run.” Scarlett had shifted from the news to an online search centered on the duties of the Vice-President.

“You know, Max, at the start of our nation’s history, vicepresidents weren’t running mates, they were runners-up. So the president and the vice-president were political enemies from rival parties who probably hated each other. My
friends
would have been gunning for you, not some terrorist.” She chuckled at the thought. “Here’s a quote from Will Rogers that I know you’ll like,” she teased.
“The man with the best job in this country is the vice-president. All he has to do is get up every morning and say, ’How is the president?’”

Max smiled at the thought and responded. “Scarlett, if you want to be the first woman in the Oval Office to legitimately sit behind Jack Kennedy’s desk, I respectfully request that you wait until the voters put you there…after I have completed my second term.” He smirked, and both of them broke out in laughter. Scarlett was content, for the moment, being vice-president, and Max had delegated to her most of the politicking and social functions of the presidency, which she enjoyed.

“Okay, Mr. President, if you think you’ll last that long,” she answered. “But let’s get back to work. We have cabinet members to pick and calls to make.”

They retreated to the conference room at Fairlane, created by his father. Called “the den” all of his life, the room was modeled after the Jefferson Library at Monticello. Senator Masterson had studied and emulated Thomas Jefferson during his political career. He was most comfortable here, and most of his best thoughts were created in this room, recorded for posterity for Max to review after his death. He had not only devised the schematic Max had used in the campaign for president ten years after his death, but also the Maxims that his son had revised to address the issues of the presidency: a code of conduct that would govern his approach to the challenges ahead of him.

Max leaned back and admired Scarlett’s ability to achieve the kind of intense focus that blocks out all distractions and allows creative people to achieve great things. He could do it sometimes, but she could do it at will, and that reason alone had her on the path to succeed him. She would become president after he had served his time.

“I won’t be like the others,” Max exclaimed.
“You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know to the core of my being,” Scarlett responded sarcastically. In time of need, she reverted to her best Charleston accent, delivered like honey pouring off a cliff.
“It’s bigger than you can imagine,” Max explained. “I’m not a politician, and I intend to be a non-political president.” Scarlett began to protest, but Max raised his hands in a nonverbal
shush
. He needed to get his words out while they were clear in his mind.
“I know that’s hard for you to understand, but hear me out. Congress is composed of politicians who believe that they have unlimited power. They don’t. If they took the time to read the Constitution, which I have memorized down to the last word, they would realize that I can make treaties, appoint ambassadors, and take care that the laws are faithfully executed, but not much else.”
“I’m basically the Commander in Chief of the whole country, not just the military, and people are going to look at me to lead. I can’t do that by being a politician, worried about getting elected to another term. If I fail to lead, I won’t get re-elected. I won’t even run if I fail, but I’m not going to tell them that. I’m going to be the big idea guy, the nation’s cheerleader, and you are going to be the big explainer, making speeches that expound on those ideas. I know how you like to make speeches.”
Scarlett sat silently for as long as she could. She was used to being talked at, having sat through endless hours of hearings and meetings during her Senate career. In private conversation, though, the words couldn’t stay bottled up for long. “I suppose that you’re going to have me make your State of the Union speech, too, and maybe wipe your butt for you?”
Max ignored her, choosing instead to read over her shoulder, a habit that she found particularly annoying, especially when she wanted his focused attention. She was rapidly realizing that the president dreaded the political aspects of the office to which he had been elected three days earlier. “Since I’m going to be doing your job, what do you intend to do for the next four years, play golf while the country wallows in debt? I don’t mind if I’m going to be your mouthpiece, but if you think—” Max cut her off.
“I don’t do golf. It moves too slowly for me. Not my idea of exercise.” He had enlisted her to be his running mate by a direct process of elimination: She possessed all of the traits of a leader that he lacked, and she resented that to her core. But still, she admired the way he could annoy and charm at the same moment, and the charm always won.
“That story about the oil spill in the gulf has a big hole in it. If that isn’t espionage, I don’t know what is…” He continued reading over Scarlett’s shoulder while drying his head with an undersized hand towel. The effect was similar to sitting next to a drenched Labrador Retriever, and Max sprayed her proper clothing with vigor.
“Max, stop it! You’re soaking me! If you mess up my hair, I’ll…”
He was doing it on purpose, and she knew it.
“Rich buffoons are better qualified to be president,” she added.
“Yeah, probably,” he replied.
“How? Why?”
“Look. My Dad reared me to be president. I can think of about a thousand better jobs. He programmed me for a higher purpose. Higher than president.” Max paused for the effect he intended. Scarlett’s face told him what he needed to know. To her, there was no higher calling. Before she could properly express disagreement and launch into a debate on the subject, Max quickly changed the subject. He would never reveal to Scarlett his greater goals in life, and Scarlett would never understand. He may as well have been having a conversation with a mannequin.
Max continued, but his voice was more subdued. “I remember when he was almost gone. He was in pain for a long time. I think that after awhile, it makes a person hallucinate, and then they become profound.” Scarlett realized that it was time to listen. “My dad died of a broken heart after my mom…when Adrianna… died.” He took a deep breath. “She was my teacher. She was his girlfriend…they killed her.” It hurt to look at his eyes, projecting the pain of his memories. For a brief moment, she felt sorry for him, but only for a moment. They had a country to run.
“Are you going to sit there and have a pity party, or are you going to do something?” Scarlett was determined to get Max on task. Tough love.
“What?”
“You need to get out there and show that you are in charge. You don’t get a chance to think about the past. You need to build a future.” She was hard on him, but right. He needed to be president. “Aren’t you always yammering about how the image is more important than the candidate? You can’t lead if you’re stuck in reverse,” Dwelling on the past, in her mind, was the equivalent of worrying about the future. Both activities were a waste of time. Her determination was unshakeable. Before he could protest, Scarlett took the initiative.
“Until you talked me into being your running-mate, and too soon before the election, I might add, I was your opponent.” She stood, and grabbed the wet towel from his hands. “I already knew about your strange ways, and your strange ideas, and I signed on for this voyage despite my strongest instinct to turn and run. Don’t you disappoint me, Max Masterson.” She deftly snapped the towel at his bare midriff. Decorum kept her from aiming lower.
“Ow, that hurt!” Max retrieved the towel and prepared to retaliate, but Scarlett gave him a stern look that transformed his horseplay into seriousness. He had seen her employ it in several senate hearings he had viewed of her in action, and she was very adept at controlling an audience through nonverbal cues.
That’s a talent that might come in handy. A politician who can get people to do something without saying a word. I wonder if she’ll teach me.
“Max, are you listening to me? ”

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CHAPTER 5

T

he report had riveted Scarlett’s attention. It linked a recent oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico to the previous Deepwater Horizon spill that placed the blame on BP and Transocean, the contractor that supplied the equipment and engineers to do the

drilling. The report implicated three employees who had reported for duty two weeks before the oil platform explosion, and were listed as missing or dead when the explosion illuminated the night and eventually sank the oil platform. Their bodies were never found. According to the article, they were not found because they were not dead. The three oil workers left the oil platform by speedboat in the late hours before the natural gas blowing to the surface ignited in a massive ball of flame.

The witnesses to their departure were two fishermen who had come to catch their limit of large grouper that were attracted to the lights of the structure. They had moved their boat away from the platform when huge gas bubbles began breaking on the surface, and became fearful when their shouts to the deck 90 feet overhead were disregarded. They were 200 yards away drifting in the darkness without their running lights on when the speedboat idled up to the platform and loaded three dark figures aboard.

It was espionage, or “industrial terrorism” as the press would soon call it. Whatever words they chose, the terms didn’t describe the economic and environmental damage the perpetrators were capable of inflicting. They were a loose group of mercenaries funded by Chinese and North Korean interests, chosen for their ability to blend into the American work force without attracting attention. Their European ancestry and homegrown accents put them above suspicion on the oil platforms, where they were employed for weeks before the explosion. These men were trained to get in, place the charges in areas where nobody would find them, and get out long before detonation.

The terrorists performed their deadly tasks with precision and stealth, and were many miles away before the first charge soundlessly ignited the cloud of natural gas that enveloped the platform. The resulting explosions spread quickly, and when the heat of the fire ignited welding tanks stored on deck, the oil platform and many of its occupants were doomed. It was a miracle that more of the drilling team didn’t perish in the ninety-foot plunge to the gulf waters after the life boats ran out.