Smokeout   By S.V. Dáte Copyright 2000 G.P. Putnam's Sons All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

 

Trademark smile affixed on carefully made up face, Dorothy Marie Nichols gazed serenely upon a polished mahogany armoire where, inside, on closed-circuit television, a small bald man in a canary sportcoat presided over highway robbery.

With each strand of auburn hair carefully lacquered in place, she watched toady after toady in the bald man's clique propose transferring a million or two or three from the Transportation Department budget to a particular swine festival or catfish farm or alfalfa project in a particular hometown. With every crease of carefully pressed wool suit still razor sharp, she kept mental tally as the bald man muttered "without objection" and pointed to the next of his pals waiting with microphone held high.

And so it was, perfect smile, perfect coif and perfect attire that finally turned away from the TV and toward the neatly tailored, outwardly polite and yet somehow vulgar man who for the past half hour had held her hostage in the Senate president's suite with his allegorical carrots and sticks.

"Senator Nichols? Madame Rules Chair? Not boring you, are we?"

Dolly Nichols maintained inscrutable smile, appraised Bartholomew Simons' single raised eyebrow. A trick he'd no doubt picked up at a management seminar somewhere. Coolly she studied egg-shaped head, narrow gray eyes peering through designer steel frames, an ordinary yet confident chin. He was shiny on top but made no attempt to comb over. Had, in fact, trimmed the remaining ring of blond hair to a buzz cut. She noticed again the gold and scarlet hand prints on his mauve tie.

"Not at all." Her smile dissolved into a grateful laugh. "You've been so kind as to remind us exactly how much Roper-Joyner Holdings has given our campaigns these six years you've been in charge, and how much RJH corporately has contributed to the Party. I know I speak for my colleagues when I say: Thank you."

Behind Simons she saw House Speaker Jon Powers' malignant, tiny-eyed glare aimed her way, heard Senate President Walter Soffit's nervous snicker. Calmly she blinked through the silence and addressed Simons: "Pretty tie. Leukemia Fund? Or Cancer Society?"

Simons grinned neutrally. "Children designed it."

Powers cleared his throat pompously, removed square hornrims to wipe them on a silk handkerchief as he fashioned a look conveying the appropriate degree of steadfast loyalty. "Well, Mr. Simons, I'm proud to say that you ain't got a worry in the world over in my House. We got a solid 95 votes lined up outta 120. That's 15 more than we need. And I don't use that word lightly: solid." He nodded once, solidly. "I ain't too modest to tell you I run a tight ship over there."

Dolly let her gaze fall back to the television as Soffit quickly jumped in to brag about his equally impressive command over the Senate. Soffit had a month earlier declared his candidacy for state insurance commissioner, a factor Dolly and everyone else in Tallahassee knew would only weaken an already malleable nature when it came to big-money contributors.

Inside Soffit's armoire the bald man approved an amendment moving the Transportation Department's District 1 headquarters from Pensacola, the Panhandle's largest city, to Chipley, the bald man's hometown. And now Dolly discerned a pattern. For every pork barrel project Senator T.C. Tuttle approved for one of his cronies, he approved one for himself. One hand washed the other. You steal a cookie, I steal a cookie, no one tells Mom.

"I'm sure Madame Rules Chairman would agree," Soffit finished with a flourish. "Right?"

Dolly had a while ago lost track of what exactly Soffit was promising. "You realize, don't you Walter, that you've left the Floor without adult supervision?"

Cast adrift, Soffit managed a shrug and a she's-such-a-kidder laugh. Nervously he ran a hand through mousey brown hair and over round, accommodating face as he reached onto his desk for a single sheet of paper. "Mr. Simons, I look at the votes again here, and can tell you there's no need for concern." Soffit offered the piece of paper to Simons, returned it to the desk when it became clear Simons had no intention of touching it. "True, we don't enjoy the overwhelming majority in the Senate that Jon has over in the House, but I assure you that we, too, know how to make the trains run on time."

Before Dolly could stop it, the remark had tumbled out of her mouth: "You mean run a tight ship, Walter. Trains running on time, that was Mussolini."

Suddenly Simons uncrossed his legs, stood, an act which sent his unintroduced, neurotic-looking flunkey into a furious round of note-taking. Simons walked past Powers, patting him on the shoulder. He nodded once at Soffit, but avoided even glancing Dolly's way. "Roper-Joyner," he began importantly, "last year saw net profits of $814 million, on sales of $4.3 billion. We are in lawn chemicals, transdermal pharmaceuticals, out-patient clinics, processed food products, beer and, of course, tobacco --"

"I was meaning to ask about that," Dolly cut in, still smiling. "Nicotine patches, cancer clinics and cigarettes: Isn't that a vertical monopoly? Does the Justice Department know?"

"-- both cigarettes and snuff under a variety of brand names. The point here is I'm a busy man. There is a subpoena demanding my presence in West Palm Beach on April 2 in the matter of the State of Florida versus RJH Inc. I frankly have better things to do than waste a single day, let alone a week, God forbid a month, in some courtroom answering some hick lawyer's questions, all because some two-bit governor snuck a law past his legislature letting him rob my shareholders blind."

Dolly casually turned back to the TV. Her peripheral vision caught Simons' eyes flash at the gesture, saw Soffit quickly move between them, hands in the air.

"And that's exactly what we're assuring you, sir," Soffit simpered. "By the end of next week, this legislature will have repealed the Medicaid Third-Party Liability Act and returned tobacco to a level pla--"

"Medicaid Third Party Liability Act," Simons mocked. "You mean the Let's-Make-Tobacco-Take-It-Up-The-Ass Act. Let's cut the bullshit here, ladies and gentlemen. As Speaker Power says, the House will not be a problem. And you, Walter, I can see you're on board."

In the armoire's polished wood, Dolly saw Simons addressing her back.

"But from what I understand, your system down here gives your incoming president-designate as much clout as the outgoing president? His, or her, vote can drag a considerable number with it, am I correct? And I have yet to hear from Madame President-designate a clear explanation of her views."

A silence fell over Soffit's suite, broken only by the background chatter as Tuttle moved beyond the Transportation Department in ever bolder forays. Dolly kept her eyes on the television as she took a deep breath. "You realize, Walter, that T.C.'s run amok? That last amendment moved the Florida State Fair to Chipley. This amendment now moves the Orange Bowl there...."

Finally she turned toward the others, casually reached into a handbag to remove a checkbook. "Mr. Simons? I'm trying to recall how much you said you and your fellow executives and your secretaries and your janitors and your janitors' wives have given my campaign over the years. Was it $322,000?" All eyes locked onto the checkbook in horror as Dolly put pen to paper.

"Uh, $322,400, ma'am," the flunkey offered helpfully before catching a glare from Simons.

"Thank you." Dolly continued writing. "So we avoid any misunderstanding? This covers the principal. I'll have my accountant look up the exact dates of your contributions so he can calculate the interest. Prime plus four percent sound fair?"

She tore off the check and held it toward Simons, who eyed the piece of paper icily. "And that's supposed to mean ... what, exactly?"

"It means, mister, that I don't know where you're from, but bribery is illegal in Florida. Says so right in our Constitution." She maintained the ever-pleasant smile, despite the words. "So if you're expecting certain treatment because of all the money you've donated, then --"

And Soffit cut in quickly with a louder, more nervous-than-usual laugh, pushed the hand proffering the check back at Dolly. "Senator Nichols! Dolly! There's really no need!" A steady titter continued through his clenched teeth. "Of course there's no quid-pro-quo here, expressed or implied! That would be against the law! Mr. Simons, like anyone else, is simply expressing his constitutionally protected freedom to contribute financially to the political candidates of his choice." Soffit released Dolly's hand, clapped Simons timidly on the shoulder. "Who, in this particular instance, happen to agree with him 110 percent!"

Dolly rolled her eyes, tuned out Soffit's stroking and returned her attention to the television, where T.C. Tuttle had just approved an amendment moving the Kennedy Space Center to Chipley Stables. Chipley Stables, wholly owned by a trust controlled by T.C. Tuttle.

For just a moment, Simons sucked air through clenched teeth before softly clearing his throat. "Madame Chairman, if I have offended in any way, please accept my heartfelt apologies. I intended this as a courtesy call, to answer questions, provide information...."

With Tuttle once more pointing at and yielding the Floor to a crony, Dolly slowly gathered her handbag, shoved the crumpled-up check inside and stood, could almost feel the invisible daggers on the patch of bare skin between pearl necklace and silk blouse. With a final breath she turned to face Soffit's sweat-beaded brow, Powers' poisonous smile and Simons' relaxed grin.

"Mr. Simons, I don't have any questions. Nor should you." She said it pleasantly, a schoolteacher addressing her children. "I, you might remember, was a Republican back when most of my party mates in Florida were still Yellow Dog Democrats. They have any of those up north? Folks who'd rather vote for a yellow dog than a Republican?"

She broadened her smile a hair for the benefit of Soffit and Powers, was rewarded with the beginnings of a tic from one, a steady, hateful glare from the other. "Look, y'all at Roper-Joyner don't know me, so let me save you some time. In 18 years here, I've never promised anyone a vote. I'm not about to start. But before you get too excited, you might want to look up my record, connect the dots a little bit. You might also remember that when T.C. sponsored the law last year as a technical amendment of quote no consequence unquote, I was the only one warning that words like statistical analyses and market share seemed odd in a bill supposedly deleting obsolete language. I said: Don't let this in. We don't know what it does."

Dolly started past Soffit and Powers toward the door. "But everyone's tired. It's 11 o'clock at night, the last day of session, everyone wanting to go home. So we approve the amendment and we go home. And a week later the governor sues RJH." She shrugged, put a hand on the doorknob.

She nodded at Simons. "What I'm trying to say is that changing the rules to sue a legal industry isn't right. No one puts a gun to peoples' heads and makes them smoke. No one keeps them from quitting. Either we believe in individual freedom or we don't."

Simons nodded graciously. "So in other words --"

Dolly pushed open the door to Soffit's office as she flashed a final smile. "Me? I happen to believe. Always have. With or without a dime of campaign money. Now if you'll excuse me, someone needs to retake the Floor before T.C. moves Disney World to Chipley."

Her mouth still chattering about her spring internship in House bill drafting, her two years as an analyst in Senate Finance and Taxation, her four semesters at law school, Jeena Golden began to sense yet another interview slipping away.

On the other side of the cluttered oak desk, the toughest, hardest-ass woman in the lobbying corps clearly had lost interest. Eyes as sharp as flint now only occasionally glanced up at Jeena, remaining for ever longer stretches on a dog-eared draft of a bill that lay atop the heap of paper.

Suddenly Ruth Ann Bronson stood, walked to a stained coffee machine on a side table, and Jeena knew it was pointless, wondered what she'd been thinking when she applied for the job or, for that matter, when she'd decided to leave law school and come back to Tallahassee. Just a couple of feet away, Bronson's dark-brown legs rose from three-inch black heels, with sinuous muscle stretching from sculpted calves through slim buttocks, back and shoulders, each curve on display through skin-tight navy miniskirt and rib-hugging knit top. Jeena tugged self-consciously at the high collar of her blouse, uncrossed her legs to hide long, dowdy skirt and scuffed flats behind the wing-backed chair beside her.

To find a woman more unlike herself would have been impossible, Jeena realized. This woman had the world before her, anything she wanted for the taking. The face, strikingly angular and world weary, a perfect foil to the shameless display of sexual energy of her body. In contrast Jeena was college-girl soft: honey blond hair framing a plain but fresh face, shapeless clothes cloaking an anonymous figure.

Ruth Ann Bronson sat back down, began studying Jeena anew with furrowed brow. Jeena felt pangs of anxiety shoot up and down her spine. She realized she'd stopped talking, wondered whether it had been mid-sentence, decided it didn't matter. The more quickly this ended the better, and she could slink out and away before any more harm was done. Ruth Ann picked up Jeena's resume, studied it, turned back to Jeena's face, studied it, and said finally: "Women of the ACC, 1992, right?"

And Jeena was standing, holding her breath, suppressing tears, mumbling incomprehensibly, searching for her briefcase. Coming back hadn't just been a mistake, it had been a huge, gigantic, enormous mistake. Not only had no one forgotten, but they were taking mean pleasure in reminding her! Unable to find her briefcase -- where could it have gone in such a small office? -- she headed for the door, apologizing constantly, when she felt the hand on her wrist.

She was crying, the last shred of control gone, just like earlier in her car, after the last appointment, only now there was a piece of tissue before her eyes. Jeena turned to see Ruth Ann offering the entire box, muttering her own apologies. Then, unprompted, Jeena began explaining about the keg party the afternoon of the last final, and how drunk everyone got, and how the photographer had shown up at the house looking for roommate Melanie. Melanie the exhibitionist, the one who sunbathed nude on the sloping roof in full view of the engineering building. How in the spirit of the moment other roommate Judy had volunteered, too, had goaded Jeena into posing as well. Jeena too liberated by the end of finals, too unused to the strong German beer to say no. How they'd signed their releases and stripped: Melanie getting the whole $250 for the full frontal, Judy earning $150 for her boobs while Jeena, the demure one, taking a mere $100 for revealing only her derriere to a million loyal subscribers. How six months later her small-town parents had for a time disowned her when, lo and behold, her photo actually made the magazine -- a one-in-a-thousand chance, the ever-so-professional photographer had told them -- and the neighbors and co-workers had started with the smirks and the averted eyes.

And finally how just a few hours earlier, during her last job interview, Tallahassee's premiere lobbyist had, as she was explaining about needing a break from law school, reached down and pulled the November 1992 issue out of a drawer, opened it to her page and told her, leering, that she had the job, provided she was willing to use all her assets -- get it? wink, wink -- on behalf of his clients. And then, even as she was stumbling for the door after a moment of stunned silence, he'd called out to her, begging: "Please, at least autograph the picture!"

Ruth Ann let Jeena rest her head on her shoulder, the last of the sobs diminishing, Ruth Ann muttering: "That asshole, that asshole," over and over again, until Jeena eventually pulled away, dabbed at her cheeks, began apologizing anew.

"I'm so sorry. I don't even know you, and here I am --"

Ruth Ann threw a hand up, stood to walk back around her desk. "Forget it. And forget about the picture, too, alright? We all make mistakes." She rifled through a bottom drawer, finally straightened with an ancient copy of the magazine and threw it on the pile of papers. "Co-eds of Florida, 1974. That's what we were back then: co-eds."

Jeena could only stare at the magazine in disbelief. After a few moments she reached for it, paged through it, thumbed through to a pictorial of early-70s college girls. Long straight hair, funky clothes unbuttoned to the waist or draped carelessly over a shoulder. And there suddenly was the hard-as-nails woman who would be her boss, lounging naked in a field, a wild flower in one hand held to her nose.

"Back in another life, I used to be a nurse." Ruth Ann lit a long, thin cigarette, paused for a first puff. "One day, one of the doctors I worked with found out about that picture. He dug up a copy and pinned it up in the scrub room, the son of a bitch."

In the photo Ruth Ann had shiny brown hair that reflected streaks of red in the sunshine, perfect, milky white skin, pert little breasts that pointed triumphantly skyward. Jeena suddenly was aware of the awkwardness of the moment, blushed violently and laid the closed magazine back on the desk. "It's, uh, it's a nice picture."

Ruth Ann snorted, scooped up the magazine and stuffed it back into a drawer. "It's the most ridiculous thing I've ever done, and it'll haunt me until the day I die." She took another drag from the cigarette, a Princess, Jeena could see from the soft-sided packet on the desk. "I'm sorry I embarrassed you, but I remembered your face. I remember all the Florida State girls who get snookered into taking off their clothes with the dream of landing a big modeling contract."

She leaned to the ashtray on a side table to tap the end of her cigarette. "So let's talk about this job. There's a reason my dear friend Martin Remy always keeps a stable full of hot young chicks, and here it is: Hundred and sixty legislators in this town, hundred and twenty-three of 'em are men. Up here two months a year, away from the wife.... You do the math."

Ruth Ann threw tanned, shapely legs up on the corner of the desk. "That's how come I look like this. Every morning, 5 o'clock, in the gym for an hour and a half. I pay with sweat and blood to stay competitive. So here's the deal. You've got the body to get in the door, and the brains to get the job done once you're there. And unlike Mr. Remy, I don't expect you to sleep with the client. Only to dress like you might. That's key." She blew a gray stream toward the ceiling. "Also to know every word, every punctuation mark of every bill you're working." She paused a moment, thinking. "Oh, and no panty lines or bra straps. That's also key."

Jeena blinked at this, found herself studying Ruth Ann's chest, realized, sure enough, that she could see the outline of each areola through the clingy fabric. She glanced up with a gulp to Ruth Ann's gaze.

"I don't ask of my employees anything I wouldn't do myself." She laid the cigarette on the lip of the ashtray and leaned back in her chair, hands locked behind her head. "As you probably know, I'm one of the lobbyists RJH hired to get the override through the Senate, and I've got a half dozen shaky votes. You understand that's what we're doing here, right? Working for tobacco? I see on your resume you interned once for the Cancer Society in college. This isn't going to be a conflict for you? I need a pro...."

It began to dawn on Jeena that this woman was actually offering her a job. Nine interviews in three days with male bosses, and the most they'd wanted was a spring intern, another pretty face to get them through legislative session. Quickly she shook her head. "No problem. Business is business, and I want to learn."

"Good. I can offer $76,000 a year, five weeks vacation, full medical, a 401(k) plan, the works. We got a deal?"

Senator Agustin Cruz watched through narrowed eyes as the white-haired receptionist slowly took a phone message, stuck it in a revolving tree on her desk before answering yet another call in a sleepy North Florida drawl: "Good afternoon, Office of Governor Bolling Waites, how may I help you?"

He watched as she punched a blinking light on her phone, told Waites' secretary that the governor had an important call, then rang the first line through. Gus bit back resentment. An Anglo, no doubt. Cracker governor always had time for Anglos.

Gus watched as the old lady went back to a stack of mail on her desk and resumed sorting it into various bins on the long leaf of her desk. She'd been the governor's gatekeeper, he remembered somebody telling him, through the 18 years he was a United States Senator, plus the 12 years before that he was a state legislator. Sweet as honey on the outside, tough as a bull dog when she needed to be, was how she was described. Dumb old cracker was more like it, he thought. Just like the old man.

He forced his eyes back to the magazine he held, tried to read some endlessly boring article about election fraud in Miami, the writer trying to make it sound like some great big hairy deal, when a tall redheaded man in cowboy boots and a string tie strode into the reception area, to the door leading to the inner offices and, with a nod to the receptionist, pulled the doorknob when it buzzed and slipped inside. Another Anglo. Figured. More than an hour on this stupid couch, and not one Cuban in or out of the governor's office the whole time. He should call a press conference, was what he should do. Get the Miami Herald to write a story about the Hispanic-hating governor. See how the old fool liked that.

"Ma'am, are you sure he knows I'm here?" He made a show of checking his watch. "That I'm a state senator?"

Another white person, this time a middle-aged woman in a gray suit and a briefcase, stood in front of the door until the receptionist buzzed her in. "Yes sir, Senator Cruz. He's been in meetings all afternoon. It'll be just a few more minutes."

Gus returned to his magazine, stewed about the locked door. He'd wait for a group of people to get buzzed in, then slip in before the door swung shut. That's what he'd do: strike up a conversation with one of them and walk on back like he belonged. Even better, he would just lean over that desk, press the button and buzz himself back. Now that would teach her --

And suddenly the door was open, a tall, liver-spotted man with thinning silver hair and plaid Madras shirt striding through followed by a gaggle of aides. They were out the double doors opening onto the Capitol lobby before Gus could jump up and start after him, falling in behind the pack of young men and women, each of them muttering something or thrusting a clipboard at him to sign before peeling away.

"Governor, sir," he began before yet another aide cut him off with some papers, and he was crowded into the elevator down to the parking garage, and then out across the concrete, only two aides left now as they neared the white Ford Expedition with the "FLORIDA 1" license plate, and even they left, leaving Waites to climb into the truck with his FDLE guard.

"Governor, sir, please," Gus shouted.

Waites stopped, stood on the running board, stared over the truck at Gus, who was speechless now that he had the old man's attention. "The tobacco vote, sir," he blurted.

Waites nodded once, then slipped inside. Gus tugged at the handle, climbed into the back seat beside Waites as the FDLE driver pulled out of the parking spot and turned up the ramp toward Jefferson Street. Waites nodded at him again as he checked the contents of a small overnight bag in his lap. Immediately Gus launched into the pitch he'd rehearsed in his head for days.

"Governor, sir, you and I can be of great benefit to each other." He flashed a conspiratorial grin at Waites, who had his head bent over the overnight bag and therefore missed it. "You, sir, face a great battle over the tobacco law, and I face a great battle of my own." Gus allowed his voice to quaver with emotion: "One which is shared by a great many of my countrymen. The struggle for a free Cuba."

Still the governor said nothing, and Gus continued. "What I propose is this: I will support your veto to preserve Florida's historic lawsuit against tobacco. I think I could be your 14th vote. The difference between victory and defeat."

Waites grunted, reached over the seat into the cargo area, sat back down with a black nylon case on his lap. Gus watched with curiosity, then alarm as Waites unzipped the case and removed a spear gun.

"In, ah, consideration, I merely ask that you support my foreign trade office for Cuba's government-in-exile. A first-year appropriation of $25,000 to the Cuban-American Freedom Association to provide office space and support staff for our government-in-exile for the day, which we can all hope is not so far now, that Castro is gone and Cuba returns to democracy and capitalism." Gus swallowed as Waites cocked the complicated weapon. "Going fishing, sir?"

Waites glanced up brusquely, quickly returned his attention to the spear gun's firing mechanism. "Grouper. Nothin' like the taste of fresh grouper, swimmin' around in the coral one minute, on your plate a half hour later. Goin' to Key West for the Southeastern Governors Association conference, might as well do something productive." He poked his little finger into a slot above the trigger, wiggled it around. "You were saying about your $25,000?"

Gus told him how the money would be used for outreach, to develop a Constitution for the freed Cuba, when Waites pulled the trigger and the spear gun fired with a loud snap. Gus swallowed, tried to control his pounding heart. The gun's business end had been pointed at his spleen when it went off, and for a moment he imagined the metal stick emerging from his torso.

Gus looked around, realized they'd arrived at the state air pool, an asphalt apron spread before a rusting corrugated steel hangar. A six-seat Beechcraft Kingair had its boarding ladder down, its starboard propeller already whirring noisily as Gus followed Waites to the foot of the ladder, shouting over the din about the unbelievable value to Florida businesses a free Cuba represented, and how CAFA was uniquely poised to make such a thing happen.

Waites stood on the bottom step as his driver removed luggage from the rear of the truck and loaded it into a cargo compartment under the plane. He considered Gus for a long minute, his tongue exploring around inside his mouth. "Gus, you're chairman of this Cuba association, right?"

Gus nodded enthusiastically. "Cuban-American Freedom Association, sir."

"And the sole employee?"

Suddenly Gus had a bad feeling about where things were headed. He swallowed, nodded again, more weakly this time.

"But you're actually from New Jersey, right? Not Cuba?"

Gus could only shrug. "I think we could work together, governor."

Waites nodded at the thumbs-up from his driver, then climbed the remaining stairs, addressed Gus without turning. "I'll have someone get back to you on that."

Then he pulled up the staircase behind him as the plane lurched forward and taxied to the top of the runway. Gus cursed under his breath, berated himself for his clumsy approach. He'd have to think of a way to salvage it, and soon. Damn! What had gone wrong? Too much money, that must have been it. Well, he'd show the old man he was nothing if not reasonable. Twenty-five grand too much? Okay, how about twenty? Fifteen, even ten, was better than nothing!

Glumly he watched the plane climb into the sinking sun before banking left. He finally turned around, only then realized that the governor's driver had gone. He was all alone at the now-deserted, general aviation side of the airport, three miles from the passenger terminal. He let out a pained groan, cursed aloud now with no one to hear him, then pulled off the polyester suitcoat that chafed at his underarms and slung it over a shoulder.

With a final curse for the disappearing plane, he started walking.

Murphy Moran didn't even have to pay close attention, the walls were so thin. Over and over, a midwest accent disparaged somebody in low tones, then at the whole, backwoods political culture down here. He'd gone to an actual fish-fry the past weekend, for Christ's sake, would you believe it? They fry their fish!

A politician, Murphy thought from the context, and a woman, based on the gender-specific epithets, although he supposed he couldn't be certain.

Murphy continued reading the magazine in his lap, idly picking at the rawhide lace on his boat shoes. They were fraying at the tips. Eventually, soon, he would have to make an actual effort to replace them. Perhaps this weekend, if he could find some time. If whatever he was doing didn't consume the whole three days. If, that is, if his client on the other side of the wall ever got around to explaining what exactly he was supposed to be doing. He'd been sitting in the outer room of the hotel penthouse for some 45 minutes, he and a receptionist who occupied the rented desk guarding the suite's inner room. She'd buzzed in on the intercom when he'd arrived, then told him to have a seat.

The midwesterner's tone was more animated now, and Murphy peeked over his magazine at the receptionist, ready to trade a raised eyebrow and an embarrassed smile, but the woman kept working intently on some paperwork, like she hadn't heard a thing. A perfect company secretary, hearing nothing that wasn't meant to be heard. Or maybe, Murphy thought after a moment, she actually was hard of hearing.

He toyed with staging an experiment to find out, instead shifted his legs to pick at the lace on the other shoe and began wondering again whether he'd made a colossal mistake. Here it was, the spring after a general election, a rare chance to get away, grab some precious time for himself before the governors' races and the mid-term elections began again. Yet here he was, once again in a small town state capital. The call had come out of the blue: How would he like to run publicity for a major legislative battle? A battle with national implications? A battle that would last two weeks, tops, and pay a guaranteed million, with another million if they prevailed?

He'd caught the next flight down from Washington. Two million was two million, equal to the earnings from two full campaign cycles consisting of eight months of 80-hour weeks. Two weeks of highly concentrated sleaze in Florida paying the same as two years of run-of-the-mill, campaign-trail sleaze, allowing him to chuck it all and retire how many years sooner?

His mind ran through the familiar calculations: $5 million returning a before-tax yield of seven percent in the bond market, maybe 10 percent in a good mix of large-cap stocks. In the alternative, maybe three or four percent in tax-free munis. Either way he was looking at a few hundred thousand a year, after taxes. He recalled a time when one million, a single lousy million, had been the magic number. A million in the bank and he could retire on fifty or sixty grand a year. And then he'd started pulling in three and four hundred thousand a year, and began wondering how he could possibly survive on just fifty. He'd raised his target to three million, then five.

He supposed at some point it had dawned on him that he had no idea what he would do with himself if he did retire. Three years back he'd splurged, bought himself a gorgeous, perfectly maintained 54-foot Hinckley Sou'wester. Because he'd taken delivery in the middle of a presidential race and couldn't make the time to learn to sail her, he'd bought himself a captain, too, and now Dark Horse happily plied the Atlantic circuit each year: Bermuda and the Azores each spring, Gibraltar, the Italian Riviera, the Greek Isles and the Balearics each summer, the Canaries in the fall and the eastern Caribbean each winter. Murphy had so far found time for a week, at most 10 days afloat each year, thus turning over a million-dollar yacht to his 28-year-old skipper and whatever 19-year-old "cook" he happened to be shacking up with at the moment.

Chasing sunsets, he'd eventually decided, played better as a long-term dream. Even better, as his old man's dream. For now, amazingly, even though he typically loathed the people he did it for, he'd actually come to enjoy what he did, not to mention that he was damn good at it. Hell, just last summer, hadn't U.S. News ranked him among the top five political consultants in the country? And hadn't RJH called and offered to double his net worth in a matter of two weeks?

Murphy leaned back, stroked perfectly trimmed mustache-goatee combo, when he picked up on the discussion in the other room, heard a scared voice say that the Chairman had called, had wanted to know if there were any new details about the memo. And the midwesterner was in a tirade again. For the last time, there was no fucking memo, never had been. Abruptly he changed subjects, and Murphy realized the new target of his wrath was him: Where is that goddamned political expert, whatsisname, Muller, Morgan....

Moran, the other voice corrected.

Whatever. Should have been here an hour ago.

Actually, sir, I believe it has been an hour. You don't recall? Mrs. Kennedy buzzed?

She did? Why the fuck....

Murphy stood, stretched, put his magazine back on the table and started walking as the intercom on the receptionist's desk buzzed. She nodded him toward the door, and Murphy entered a large, corner room with windows looking south and west toward a still-orange horizon. A balding, barrel-chested man in rolled-up shirtsleeves arose from an enormous desk arrayed with three different computers, hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and nodded confidently.

"Mr. Moran. Well, well. Have a seat."

Murphy glanced around the room, wondered for a moment whether the guy had been talking to himself, finally noticed a mousey-looking man with a notepad standing against the wall.

"Sorry to have kept you." Simons said, sitting back down. "At the rate I'm paying you, you don't know how sorry. Good flight?"

"Not bad. Can't get to heaven or hell without changing in Atlanta." Murphy smiled, remembering the hitchhiker. "Funny thing coming in to town. There's this smarmy looking guy walking down the road in a Sears suit, thumb out, sweating like a dog. Says he's a state senator." Murphy pulled a business card from his pocket. "Turns out he is. Senator Agustin Cruz. But I can call him Gus. If I'm ever in Little Havana and need anything, he's my man."

Simons cleared his throat, the niceties concluded. "So here it is. Last year the good Gov. Waites snuck a law through letting him sue me. Three weeks ago the legislature --"

"Repealed the law," Murphy cut in. "Waites vetoed the repeal. On Monday the vetoed bill comes back to the legislature. If they override, the law is off the books, the suit gets thrown out, and Roper-Joyner saves hundreds of millions of hard-earned, shareholder dollars."

"Right." Simons nodded approvingly, then looked down to some paperwork. "Done your homework. Good."

Murphy slid forward to the edge of his seat. "In fact, I've already started working up scripts for some broadcast ads. You know, to give this thing a higher profile. Maybe set up phone banks to generate some constituent calls." Murphy waited for a response, but Simons was engrossed in some report on his desk. "Also, I went through the list of lobbyists you usually use and added a couple of names a friend of mine said would be good. I, ah, also deleted a couple of people with a black mark or two on their record. I thought we'd want to run as clean a fight as possible, give the opposition --"

"In the interest of time, allow me to be crass: I don't give a fuck what kind of fight you run, as long as I win." Simons looked up with a hard grin. "Hire who you want, don't hire who you don't want. Spend however much you need. Just make damn sure that when they take that vote in the Senate, we have the two-thirds majority necessary for an override. Understood?"

Murphy shrugged. "Sure. It's just -- well, I'm sure you know of my reputation. My ads tend to go for the jugular. You know, real grab-you-by-the-collar type stuff, even if that means we take a little poetic license with the facts. I just need to know if you're going to be okay with that."

Simons set down his pen with a thoughtful look. "Mr. Moran, have you ever read Nietzsche? The will to power? Thus Spake Zarathustra?"

Murphy couldn't help a blink. "Sure. In college. It's been a while."

"Do you consider yourself a common man? Or superman?"

Murphy stared a moment, realized the question wasn't rhetorical. Simons actually expected an answer. "Well, given the choices ... superman, I guess."

Simons returned to his reading. "Good. So do I. I'm 52 years old, but I'm the same weight I was when I wrestled at Dartmouth. I bench press 280. I do 500 situps in 10 minutes. I don't drink, smoke or consume red meat. What I do is win. What any superman does is win, regardless of the obstacles in his way. I expect you to win. That said, I expect I can allow you to go about your business, and I will return to mine."

Behind him Murphy heard the little man against the wall scribbling on his notepad. That and the ticking of a clock. It dawned on him slowly that, as abruptly as it had started, his briefing with the chief executive officer of one of the world's largest tobacco conglomerates was now finished. More than a little puzzled, he arose and turned for the door. "I'll, uh, get those ads done over the weekend for you to sign off on."

"That will be marvelous."

Simons never looked up, and Murphy nodded at the acolyte with the notebook and left the room.

The red and green lights receded slowly, eventually became a single point of green as the plane banked right high above the Capitol, then eased earthward, dropping out of sight amid the trees. Last flight in for the night, Simons guessed. Getting up on 9 o'clock, if the plane was on time.

In the darkened office he eyed three idle computers arrayed on the curved walnut desktop. It would be any time now.

He refilled his ice-tea glass from a pitcher of chilled mineral water and turned to the picture windows. Before him was spread Florida's capital city, insofar that a small, basically South Georgia town could be considered a city.

Four square blocks of "downtown" surrounded by old neighborhoods shaded by sprawling live oaks and towering long-leaf pines. The 70s-era, rectangular Capitol high-rise stood out like a sore thumb, particularly right beside the antebellum Old Capitol with its columns and dome. He'd visited only once previously, a few years earlier for a series of fundraisers for the Republican gubernatorial candidate, and had thoroughly enjoyed it, even allowing himself the rare indulgence of one of the many young, beautiful ladies who disproportionately populated the staffs of the various powerbrokers.

This visit, of course, there would be no time for that. This time would be all work, no play, thanks to the conniving Bolling Waites, whose leadership had made genteel Tallahassee the first state capital to bite the hand that fed it. Until Waites' law, a state hoping to sue tobacco had had the impossible burden of proving that a particular brand of cigarette had caused a particular cancer in a particular smoker. But now, in Florida, the shysters would only have to show a statistical increase in disease among smokers, and then apportion blame by market share.

It was a rigged game, the company lawyers had warned the Board, and the rules had to be changed back or Roper-Joyner brands' historical dominance in Florida would come to bite them in the ass. How bad a bite? the Chairman had asked. Hundreds of millions, the lawyers had shrugged. Unless of course they got punitive damages by showing a conspiracy ... for example, hiding in-house medical studies about the effects of smoking or, for instance, targeting minors with advertising. Then the sky was the limit. Ten billion. More. Years and years of net profit.

The Chairman had stared at the lawyer for what seemed like ages, and then had gone off, the other directors nodding like children, a stenographer taking it all down, about how it was now and always had been against the Roper-Joyner canon of ethics even to contemplate such things. About how such things were not tolerated at the company, not at any level. Simons had left the meeting gritting his teeth, on the flight from Durham back to New York had re-arranged his schedule so as to personally spend the whole of the month in Tallahassee directing the legislative fight and, unofficially, continuing the hunt for MRK93-1321, goddamned MRK93-1321.

He took a deep breath. No point in getting worked up about it. Not yet, anyway. In a few moments the message he'd been waiting for might very well flash across his computer, giving him an "all clear" on MRK93-1321 and letting him concentrate on the relatively easier task of pinning down the stubborn Ms. Nichols and defeating the uppity Governor Waites.

Still, Simons couldn't help just a little bit of resentfulness. Putting something like that down on paper had been -- whose else? -- the Chairman's idea. The same man who'd dreamed up the idiotic "Smokers Care!" campaign with its RJH-emblazoned Sharper Image smokeless ashtrays, given away to employers from coast to coast. A feeble attempt to counter the workplace smoking bans that had spread like a cancer across the nation.

As Simons had predicted, the idea had been a total flop. More than 800,000 of the silly things had been shipped, unit cost $72.16 plus freight. Yet as far as Simons knew, auto parts stores and some mini-marts in the South were the only workplaces left in America you could still light up. But would the moron admit he'd been wrong? Of course not, the hypocrite. If company stock went up, it was because he was a genius. If it went down, well, that was management's fault. Like that "canon of ethics" bullshit he'd pulled at that meeting: Where in hell did the man think new smokers came from? Did adult smokers just magically appear at age 18, ready to puff an average 1.6 packs per day each for an average 38.7 years?

And like snagging kids, or fudging medical research, or flat out destroying it, for that matter, was somehow the worst thing the company had ever done in the name of shareholder value. Like a dozen congressmen weren't enjoying mistresses, all expenses paid, thanks to a company slush fund and another couple dozen weren't fully "leverageable," thanks to the work of company investigators and photographers. Like their competitors hadn't suffered the occasional unlucky catastrophe at their research centers. Like a whistleblower or two hadn't boarded a doomed commuter flight.

Simons peered into the night and saw another set of airplane lights approach from the west, slowly turn and head south over the Capitol with its red blinking lights on top. A private plane, from the sound of it, zipping low over the building before banking to line up on the runway.

That's what would've done the trick a year earlier: a company plane and a pilot ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. It would have been the perfect teachable moment for all the other governors and attorneys general thinking about suing the industry. Let's see how eager they would have been to mess with Roper-Joyner as they watched their CNN Headline News, saw the blackened bodies of turncoat legislators pulled from the rubble of Florida's statehouse.

But no, instead, their intelligence had failed them. His director of legislative affairs had been blindsided, and Simons himself had been overseas on a trade mission, had come home to an emergency Board meeting to learn of the evil little law Florida's governor had snuck through in the wee hours. Which meant that now a plane or bomb or similar means of mass destruction would be pointless, even counterproductive if it left Waites' law on the books. A judge had the case, a jury was already hearing it. If the thing didn't go away, and soon, the jury would hear too damn much, and then it would be all over. The high-seven-figure salary, the lower-eight-figure stock options, the mid-eight-figure retirement package: gone.

He sipped his ice water and pushed the doom-and-gloom from his mind. He had things in hand now, and could guide his own destiny. Hell, the worst-case scenario was still do-able, and he most likely wouldn't even be facing that. In another week, it would all be over, like it had never happened, and he could get on with the business of catapulting Roper-Joyner into the number two position like he'd promised --

The Toshiba laptop chimed softly, and Simons turned to it with the beginnings of a grimace. He'd been hoping it would come on either the Compaq or the Dell, both configured to receive company e-mail, rather than the laptop, which was his personal machine. A note on a company computer would have suggested things could be talked about in the open. This, to his personal e-mail account....

With an index finger he moved the pencil-eraser nub in the center of the keyboard, clicked with his thumb. His grimace hardened as he read the note from his former fraternity housemate who was now Roper-Joyner's general counsel. Subject: MRK93-1321. Company shorthand for a memorandum originating in the Marketing Department in 1993, the one-thousand, three-hundred, twenty-first such document created that year, the whereabouts or destruction of which he still could not definitively say but which in increasing likelihood had inadvertently been included in a shipment of documents sent to Tallahassee a week earlier. In regards to Simons' other query: the federal sentencing guideline range for perjury was 18 to 36 months in prison. However, that could be adjusted upward at the judge's discretion....

Simons read the message through twice, realized he was sucking air through his teeth. He willed himself to stop, heard a new noise, the gentlest tapping at the door. He read the message a third time, then hit the delete key.

"Come in, Andrews."

His assistant entered meekly, shut the door behind him. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I finished that project you wanted. I thought you'd want to know."

Simons spun to face him, switching on his desktop lamp en route. The fucking thing was in Tallahassee. Of all the places it could have gone.... He watched Andrews for half a minute, then began rapping his fingers on the desktop. "Well?"

Andrews cleared his throat and began reading from his clipboard. "About Senator Nichols, sir. I looked up her voting record, like you wanted. She was one of three votes against the Medicaid Third-Party Liability Act last spring. According to the Senate Journal, she was the only one to speak against it during floor debate. And also, let's see ... that guy from that business group, United Industries, he gives her an A-1 rating. Says that over 18 years, on 816 separate votes, her record is 100 percent in favor of private enterprise over government regulation. He says he considers her a safe vote."

Simons squinted. "Really. A safe vote. Why, then, does she fuck with us?"

Andrews shifted nervously, like it was his advice that was under question. "Well, sir, he said that's just how she is. She's real serious about her office and her constituents and that kind of stuff."

Simons snorted, leaned back in his chair to remove his glasses and squeeze the bridge of his nose. "Serious about the office. Of course. Why didn't I see it myself?" He squeezed until the pain built behind his eyes, became a vivid, red thing. First this Nichols woman, now the damned memo. It should have been easy, this. The company had collectively given the Florida Legislature $16 million in the last six years. That ought to buy something. And of course if that memo got out.... Christ. Eighteen months. More if the judge happened to be pissed off that day.

Well, it simply wasn't going to happen. That was all there was to it. He would get the memo back, then strategically erase its existence from living memory. And as to Madame Chairman Nichols, Miss 100-percent Voting Record.... He recalled with a wince the last goody-two-shoes, vote-my-conscience politician he'd dealt with. A New York State assemblyman, also with a perfect voting record, also with the always suspect my-vote's-not-for-sale attitude, who'd ultimately rolled to the other side to become the swing vote on a cigarette tax increase. Well, that's what history was there for. To learn from.

He released his fingers and the pain disappeared. He put his glasses back on and opened his eyes. "I want Lambert. He should still be down in South America. Find him."

Andrews went pale, shifted his feet again. "Sir, I uh.... Well, I thought the Chairman didn't want Lambert back in the States, not so soon after Limpkin --"

Simons blinked twice and affected a smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. For a moment I was under the delusion that I was the CEO and you were the flunkey, but here, I seem to have got that backwards." He let Andrews stare at the floor for a few long seconds. "Oh wait, I wasn't wrong. I am the CEO, aren't I?"

Andrews, eyes still downcast, reached behind him for the doorknob. "I'll get right on it."

Staying low, one arm around his back to keep the contents of his field pack from rattling and giving away his position, Col. Marvin Lambert moved tree to tree, always in shadow opposite the moonlight. Getting in unnoticed was crucial. He could easily find himself outnumbered, and the element of surprise would be the only thing in his favor.

He cleared another clump of pines and there, finally, was the top of the ridge he'd been climbing since dusk. Thirty-one hundred vertical feet and more than eight miles, a glance at his GPS position finder told him. Clear up the side of the valley from the road where an astonished bus driver had let off the Norte Americano Loco, shouted warnings of guerrillas and narcotraficantes had gone unheeded.

He was close, he knew, and let himself breathe through his mouth for the final sprint. Ahead he could finally see the next moonlit ridge, and he dropped to his belly to crawl the rest of the way. A few minutes of slithering through leaves and underbrush and there: Target Area Romeo. He breathed deeply with mouth closed, settling into position, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the pattern of shadows in the next valley, comparing them in mind's eye to the aerials he'd studied in his hotel room in Cartagena, the one that showed the subtle, greener-than-the-surroundings square that hinted of a human presence.

Based on the plane's altitude when the photo was shot, the square was one-quarter mile by one-quarter mile, about 40 acres. It would take four to five hours to get everything set up, so he didn't have much time to waste.

A flicker appeared for an instant several hundred yards away. Lambert slid the heavy pack off his back, removed the night-vision binocs and focused. Through the infrared glasses there appeared a glowing wooden shanty. In front of it, a man, holding a small bright light to his lips. A cigarette. Lambert smiled, congratulating himself on his navigation. He'd arrived, as intended, at the northwest corner of the square, where even from the grainy photo he'd deduced that a tiny smudge was in fact the guard shack now before him.

Slowly Lambert moved the glasses over the target, then back to the solitary sentry. Quietly he shed all his gear save for the knife on his calf and the Glock on his hip, sank to the soft carpet of leaves and pine needles, started crawling downslope toward the edge of the square 200 meters south of the lone smoker.

Soon he could see that his interpretation of the aerial was correct: Ahead stood a line of bamboo poles, each supporting an edge of a giant camouflage net covering rows and rows of plants. He smiled to himself again. He'd done it. Two months ago they'd said that without a break from their source at enemy headquarters, finding the site would be next to impossible. Well, here he was, once again doing the impossible!

Yes, it was definitely time to strike out on his own. Leaving on a high note was best, and what could possibly be higher than this: a one-man infiltration, deep in enemy territory? With the footage from this op, his demo tape would be downright irresistible: proof positive that Lambert Security Ltd. and its president, Col. Marvin Lambert, were new forces to be reckoned with in the crowded world of security consulting.

He cleared his mind to concentrate on the job at hand, reminded himself he was well behind lines now and therefore in constant peril. Stealthily he crawled, sacrificing speed for silence, until he was under the net, approaching the first row of mature, potted plants. He peered down toward the guard shack, rose to his knees to tear off a single leaf. He held it to his nose and breathed in deeply.

The grin widened as the aroma filled him. Yessir, the killer weed. He was in business.

Lambert stared down into the darkness for a moment, allowed a warm sense of satisfaction to bathe him. He was almost finished, and he wanted to savor the feeling, of watching a carefully executed project come to fruition. Soon would be the powerful finale, followed by the hasty exit, and although the adrenalin rush those provided was great, he wanted to enjoy the subtlety behind it, too.

Finally he turned away from the valley and down to his pack. He removed a microwave transmitter, opened a panel in back to insert a battery and tested the circuitry. Then he walked back to the low-light videocamera he'd mounted on a tripod. He peered through the viewfinder one last time, hit the record button and walked back to his field pack and picked up the radio. It was show time.

God, he loved this part. With a deep breath of cool, pine mountain air, he gazed into the darkness below and flicked his thumb over the red toggle switch.

Flashes of light instantly lit the valley a couple of seconds before a series of booms rolled over him. He watched the fires in the field with the beginnings of a smile before he noticed something was wrong: There were only three fires ... and yes, he realized now there'd only been three explosions, not four.

Damn it all to hell! One of the remote detonators had failed! He'd wanted four explosions and fires, one at each corner of the farm, enough to generate a vortex of inrushing air: an honest-to-God firestorm to consume every plant, every leaf within its perimeter. And now he would only burn three of the field's edges, if that. He'd even brought a spare detonator, too, if only he'd checked his equipment. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

He grimaced, shaking his head. Well, this really fucked things up good. Mission success was the destruction of every single mature plant because, it had been made clear, the competition would be able to salvage usable data from even a few survivors. Well, they weren't going to have just a few surviving plants. They were going to have hundreds. Thousands. The damage he'd inflicted would be minimal, and they'd post a heavy guard contingent, not the single lazy bastard they had there now. In fact, Lambert could see him, awakened from the shack, standing, staring at the fires before turning and running into the woods.

He snorted at the guard's cowardice ... and then noticed something he'd missed. Just behind the shack, an oil barrel. Yes! An accelerant!

He grabbed his Uzi from his pack, fired at the backlit silhouette of the barrel, but to no avail. Either he was completely missing or the bullets weren't hot enough. He emptied both clips, and then the 14 rounds in his pistol, when he remembered the light, anti-tank weapon he'd lugged all the way up the ridge. He smiled wide, vindicated now for having bothered, and hurriedly assembled it in the dim glow of the already dying flames.

He squinted through the scope, put the bright red dot on the barrel and fired. The rocket streaked hot and yellow through the night, and he wondered whether the barrel contained kerosene or gasoline. Kerosene would just burn, but gasoline --

A loud whoosh sent him sprawling, as air rushed past him in a tremendous concussion. He stood, awestruck. It indeed had been gasoline, just the right amount, too, to explode in a blast of light and heat, creating a fourth pillar of fire to complete the perimeter and ignite his firestorm: a white blaze that towered high into the night. He admired the majesty of it reverently, finally reminded himself about leaving under the cover of darkness.

Reluctantly he turned from the leaping flames, switched off and packed the video camera, hoisted a significantly lightened pack onto his shoulders and, with final proud gaze upon his handiwork, started down toward the highway.

 

 
 
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