Life of Secrets Page 4
One evening shortly before Alyssa went off to college, her father sent the butler to knock on her bedroom door and let her know he was in the library. She had just finished thrashing Matt at tennis and knew better than to come down in her sweats. When H. Franklin Chambers sent the butler for her, he was feeling formal.
When she entered the library, it was in a pair of white summer slacks and a salmon blouse, the sweat of her tennis match thoroughly washed off. She found her father standing at the window, staring out at the late evening landscape of summer. From behind him, she could see that he held a cut-glass tumbler held in the hand hanging down at his side. Between the clinking of ice, the warm brown color of the liquid, and the open bottle of Talisker on the bar, it wasn’t hard to deduce that he had decided to indulge himself.
Alyssa looked at the open bottle of scotch, looked at her father staring out the window – not turning to acknowledge her, simply waiting – and looked back at the scotch. It had been a long time since Matt’s father had caught the two of them in the back yard with a stolen bottle of Glenmorangie. She decided that if her father wasn’t aware that a girl about to start college knew how to drink, then it was time he learned.
She took a tumbler from the service, clinked exactly two ice cubes into it, and covered them with scotch.
Her father never moved. He just stood at the window waiting.
"Good evening, Father," she said after her first sip. He moved his head ever so slightly up and down. It passed for a nod.
"Of course everyone thinks of politics when you say you're going to Georgetown," he began, after a suitable wait. "But that's not all the school offers. They have a very good linguistics program, for example. And a quite respectable pre-med program as well."
Alyssa laughed. "We both know I'd be heading for Hopkins if I wanted to be a doctor, Father."
He gave another of his barely-noticeable nods. "Of course. But I want you to know that, until you have the degree in your hand, you can always change your mind about what to study. And even after. You can still back out of politics. You'll be able to for years yet."
Alyssa arched her eyebrows even though he wasn’t looking at her and treated herself to a sip of the scotch.
"You don't want me to go into politics? Come on Father. Be real."
"Call this the last gasp of my conscience, if you want an explanation."
She simply waited. Prompting him for more would only demonstrate impatience.
“It's not a pretty profession, Alyssa. Oh, everyone's heard about money and politics, and the time that candidates spend grubbing for donations. But that's really not even the point. I'm not so foolish as to think the Chambers family attained its present wealth without a goodly number of ancestors who liked money. Chasing cash is not what makes politics corrupt.”
"No, what makes politics hard on the soul is the need to abandon your ideals if you want to win. There are two kinds of politicians: the ones with clean consciences, and the ones in office. If you get into politics, come prepared to do anything to win. Anything. Lie? Cheat? Steal? Betray friends? Sell out supporters? The question isn't whether you'll have to. The question is how many of them you'll have to do in a single day."
Her father sighed, but she could tell he wasn't done. He took a sip of his scotch before continuing.
"The practice of politics is all levers," he said. "You have to find out how to make people do what you want. With some men it's money, with some it's power. Everyone has one. If you want to be involved in politics, you learn to find people’s levers and use them. "
"It’s the art of shaping destiny. To practice it well gives you a feeling of god-like power. There are few thrills to equal reading the newspapers and knowing that you made all that happen.
"But it has a price. The price is your conscience. Before long in politics, you'll have to decide whether there are things that are beneath you. If there are, you'll get out. If there aren't, you'll make history. I made my choice long ago. Some days I'm ashamed of it, other days I'm actually proud, if you can believe that. It's a talk for another day. When I had to choose, I chose victory and destiny over purity. The only rule is, 'Give anything for victory.' For years, I’ve done that. Winning will take anything you value. You have to learn not to value anything more than winning."
She thought back to her girlhood – running up onto the patio to tell her father something and being ignored while he talked to someone in politics. Or the patient tone in her mother’s voice as she said, "Your father’s working, Dear. Maybe he’ll be here next time."
She wanted to say something. She wanted to ask why it was more important to shape destiny than to spend time with his wife and daughter. She wanted to ask if maybe Mom’s drinking would’ve been more under control if he hadn't made the decision to value politics above his family. But in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to ask any of that.
"You can still turn back, Alyssa," he said, then turned away from the window and walked out without ever meeting her eyes.
♦
By her second year of college, Chambers had taken every political science class she could and spent her spare time with a reading list that would have shocked her father: The most presentable items on that list were true crime books. The worst was a manual she'd found on bomb making. The middle ground covered everything from espionage and surveillance techniques to guides about what constituted admissible evidence in criminal trials.
Occasional unexplained explosions in campus parking lots in the dark of night were written off as student pranks, and she simply threw away the video footage she'd gotten from the dean's bathroom; there was no good use for that.
Over the years, George Pierce had hooked her up with various opportunities to do what she loved. Each time, she grew more comfortable in her clandestine career. Learning people’s secrets and giving them to political opponents became first comfortable for her and then an art form.
She tailed a candidate home from the bar and called in a DUI to derail his campaign. She could walk right behind two people and have them never know someone was listening. Breaking into an office to plant spy software on computers was often her preferred way to get the job done, but it was only one of many.
George put her in touch with others who needed skills like hers, who then put her in touch with still others. Her name was never known. Yet, for those who knew the right people, contact with Alyssa was something that could make or break a political career.
Her friendship with Matt became a professional asset. Even though they were both still only halfway through school, he was trying to get an early start on his career. He took freelance writing work whenever he could and was building a good relationship with a number of different editors. It helped Alyssa to be able to slip documents under his dorm door now and then when a client wanted some facts to make their way into the media.
Of course, as always, friendship with Matt was a double-edged sword. He was useful sometimes, but he still wanted more from her than she wanted to give. It was becoming something of an annoyance.
One night, Alyssa found herself in the middle of an argument with him – the same argument they had been having since high school.
"Look, Matt, I don’t want a husband. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t even want friends. How many times are you going to keep coming back to this? It’s not going to change."
"But Alyssa, we’re such a good fit. We both…"
"Stop, OK? I’ve heard it. I’ve heard it and heard it. We grew up together, we both like politics, we both have trouble with our fathers… you keep pointing all that out without listening to me! I like to be alone. I need to be alone. You don’t even have the first foggy clue of why I can’t have someone in my life who gets too clear a picture of me. The first requirement of a good fit is that both parties feel like they need someone or something. I don’t."
Her cell phone picked that moment to ring. Matt looked like he wanted and expected her to ignore it. Both to vent
some of her anger and to communicate something to him, she picked up the phone, stomped down the hall, and slammed the door to her bedroom before answering it.
It was George Pierce.
"I’ve got someone I want you to meet," he said. "I’m moving up in the world. I’m a consultant for a few different campaigns now. Lance is running for Senate, and he’s got a new campaign manager. I figured you’d want to meet him since he’s got some work that needs doing that’s kind of up your alley."
"Of course. It’s hard to make money without clients. Just make sure he understands my rules."
Pierce gave her a chuckle. "You get more paranoid every time we talk."
"Wouldn’t you, if you did what I do?"
"Probably, but I doubt I’d be as skilled at it."
"Can we meet tonight?" she asked. She named a parking garage that she knew to be poorly lit.
Walking back out of her bedroom, she found Matt still waiting for her.
"Are you still here? We’ve had our argument – again. For like the tenth time. Go home. I answered you. Please stop asking every time the season changes."
The agreed-upon meeting-time was closer to dawn than to dusk. Chambers went to the darkened parking garage and broke a couple of lights to make sure the visibility was next to nothing.
She hid outside the garage, waiting for the two of them to walk in. Pierce, as usual, was looking at his feet as he walked, with his hands in his pockets. The man next to him had a portly build and appeared to be going bald. In the moonlight, it was possible to make out what looked like a birthmark on his forehead.
Chambers emerged from behind a parked car and followed them into the garage. She padded silently, listening to them mutter back and forth about paranoia, until they were in the darkest area of the garage.
"Don’t turn around please. It’s probably too dark to make out my face even if you did, but I still don’t like people being able to identify me."
Both of them jumped a little bit like they were about to whirl and look behind them but controlled the instinct in time. The newcomer spoke softly, facing away from her.
"Pretty melodramatic. A dark parking garage in the middle of the night? It’s just like Watergate."
"Most of my jobs could end in a courtroom if I’m not careful about my identity."
"Not this one," the newcomer replied. "I just want to hire someone to work in an office I already own. Perfectly legal."
Chambers said, "Safer that way. So what’s the problem?"
The new man said, "The press has a mole in our campaign. I don’t know who it is, but I know they’re getting intel. They know our ads before we run them. They’re rebutting our spin before it’s even out. I want to pay someone to find the leaker and make them stop. Nothing illegal about that, right? It’s just that we don’t want the candidate to know about this, so we’re keeping it off the books. Our candidate… well, he has a problem with addictive behaviors. If he knew we knew, he’d probably fire all of us rather than admit there’s a problem. He’s already fired two guys for trying to talk to him about it. That’s how I have a job. So he can’t know. If he finds out we hired you to deal with the problem, he’ll fire me and then you don’t get paid."
She made a noncommittal noise, and the new guy continued.
"But if we don’t do something to stop this leaker, then the whole world’s going to know about Lance Reeder and women. So we need you."
"I already know about Lance Reeder and his… love life," she shrugged. "None of that is really my problem, right? You don’t want me to get him into a 12-step program; you just want me to stop the leaker, right?"
"Right."
Chambers nodded.
"Tell me who you are, so I know who to call when I find out."
"My name’s Tilman. You’re not going to tell me yours?"
There was no answer. When the two men looked around, no one was there.
Alyssa waited a day before starting on the job.
Dressed in the gray coveralls of a janitorial worker, Alyssa pushed a cart laden with cleaning supplies and an oversized trash can. The elevator dinged, she pushed her cart in, and rode to the twentieth floor. Once there, she went down the darkened hallway until she reached the office of the Lance Reeder for Congress Committee. The real cleaning company wasn’t scheduled to come until tomorrow.
Inside, she quickly located the offices of the communications director and finance director. Together with the campaign manager – this Tilman person, who hired her – those two were usually the top staffers on a campaign. If one of Gibson’s people was leaking crucial intelligence to the press, it was likely to be one of them.
Unfortunately, the communications director was in his office.
Alyssa glanced at her watch. It was eleven at night. This guy was a real workaholic.
She busied herself with pretending to be a custodial worker: emptying trash, dusting, etc. The employee gave her a friendly wave. Alyssa waved back and made her way into the finance office instead. She rifled through the trash and found nothing incriminating, so she emptied the garbage into her cart, working slowly to allow for a lucky break.
She got it. The man working in the communications office left. He waved once more and walked out the door of the headquarters.
At once, Alyssa sat down at the finance director’s computer. She popped in a thumb drive. Soon, she was copying the entire contents of the computer to sort it out at leisure later on and figure out if one of these two was the mole.
When the file transfer finished, she shut the computer down and popped out her thumb drive. Then she went to the office next door.
The sign on the door read, "Communications Director Michael Vincent."
Alyssa eased into his chair. It was still warm from his recent departure. She plugged her thumb drive in, started the computer, and again began copying files.
"What’s going on here?"
The communications director was back. He was tall, with wavy blond hair that was blow-dried perfectly into place. Alyssa’s head whipped up to meet his eyes, and her brain began searching for an answer that might alleviate the situation.
"What are you doing with my computer?"
When Alyssa still didn’t answer, the man backed up, and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. This was unacceptable. Alyssa saw all her careful secrecy going up in smoke with one phone call. She saw her budding career destroyed. The possibility made her angry. It made her angry enough to do something stupid.
She vaulted over the desk and tackled the man, quickly knocking his phone out of his hand. She was better trained, but there was a substantial difference in physical size that made it hard to keep him pinned down. He got an arm free and tried to throw a punch at her. Alyssa blocked it easily with a forearm block, then grabbed his wrist and pinned his arm back down, sitting on his stomach. He kept trying to break his arms free.
Caught up in the moment, mad at the man for turning a simple job into a potential disaster, Alyssa made a fateful decision. She reached inside her baggy coveralls and pulled out her silenced Ruger .22 to aim it at the man’s face. That pretty much put an end to his struggling, but it created a new problem.
"Never point a gun at someone you don’t want to shoot," was the first rule of firearms safety classes. Likewise, "Never make a threat you can’t follow through on," was the first rule of negotiation. Since she was emphatically not going to shoot him, she was breaking both rules. It made her path forward rather awkward.
"Just let me do my job…" she muttered, unsure how to solve the problem. She had no desire to hurt the man, she just wanted to do what she’d been paid for and get out but how was she supposed to get out when this guy was here?
"What job?" he asked.
Alyssa growled under her breath. She hadn’t really meant to say that aloud. Instead of a direct reply, she asked, "What will it take for you to just leave?"
"What job?" he asked again.
When she didn’t answer, he said, "Is this job abou
t me?"
Alyssa didn’t know what to say. It might be about him, if he was the guy leaking campaign secrets. He took her silence as agreement.
"Did Tilman figure out I’ve been telling the press about him? He hired a private detective to get evidence to fire me?"
Alyssa blinked. She hadn’t expected the man to just come out and admit that he was the one she was looking for.
Her facial expression must have told him he’d hit a nerve. He’d given up struggling now and simply lay there with his head on the carpet, watching her eyes.
"Look, Lance Reeder cheats on his wife," the guy said. "And not in some kind of one-time slip either. He goes through mistresses like an alcoholic through bourbon. He likes them young and naive and easily impressed by a Congressman. He uses his position of power…"
The young man shook his head and looked away.
"I can’t just sit idly by and do nothing about that. I don’t believe a man like that should represent me in the Senate."
Alyssa couldn’t really disagree. She didn’t like helping a man like that stay in office much more than this guy did, but opportunities to get paid for work like this were rare, and she didn’t want to blow one.
"I can see it in your eyes. You agree with me. So why are you trying to rat me out?"
"It’s a job," Alyssa replied, surprised to find herself talking to him.
"Yeah, me too. I want to be in politics, and I can’t just quit this job. I need the income, and I don’t need to get blackballed from the biz, so I sneak info to the press in hopes of getting this dirt bag out of office without losing my career. Not exactly brave or noble, is it? I just want to try to do the right thing without going broke over it."
Alyssa remembered her father’s advice and repeated it back to Vincent. "Trying to do the right thing is a good sign you don’t belong in this business."
"I don’t believe that," the man replied. "I get that it’s what most people think. Just do what you have to do to win and stop caring about the details. But that’s not how I am. And I don’t think it’s how the business should be."
Alyssa shrugged, still holding him down.
"Doesn’t really affect our little problem, does it? I let you go, and you can pick me out of a lineup easy. But what are the alternatives? I could shoot you, but that’s not a line I want to cross if I don’t have to."
"Sounds like I’m not the only one who still believes in doing the right thing."
"That’s different."
He only smiled at her.
"Give me an option – other than you dying – that keeps my secrets."
The young man said, "Look, I told you the truth. If you’ve been hired to find out who’s leaking to the press, I’m him. Doesn’t that show you can trust me?"
Alyssa replied, "Trust doesn’t mix well with the ethic of doing anything to win."
Both of them were silent for a time, in their awkward position on the floor, until Alyssa asked, "You say you’re leaking to the press instead of just quitting because you value your career, right?
He nodded.
"Politics feels like I’m making a difference – like I’m changing the world."
"So here’s the deal: if we both just walk away from here, you could identify me if you chose. That’s not too big a deal – I’m here legally; Tilman hired me to do this, but it’s a career setback for me. Anonymity is a valuable professional asset."
She went on, "On the other hand, if we both just walk away, I can ruin your political career if I choose. No one’s ever going to want to hire a staffer with a reputation for giving confidential information to the press. It won’t kill you, but it’s a career setback."
"Yeah," he agreed. "And embarrassing. I’ve started building a good relationship with Tilman. He’s really helping me get my career started. If he knew I was giving away his secrets, it would ruin that."
"OK. I was hired to stop the leak, not necessarily to turn anyone in, so let's say both of us walk away and keep our mouths shut. You keep your career; I get to stay anonymous. All you have to do is stop leaking and keep my secret for life. The minute you ruin me, I ruin you. So we both keep the secret, right?"
He sighed. "Yeah. Stop leaking. And let a womanizing, walking wanted-for-sexual-harassment poster get into the Senate."
"Let me give you some advice my f… my mentor gave me."
Vincent looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
"Before long in politics, you'll have to decide whether there are things that are beneath you. If there are, you'll get out. If there aren't, you'll make history."
"I don’t think I’d like your mentor very much."
"Like him? I don’t like him either. But that’s not relevant. Do we have a deal?"
Vincent sighed.
"Yeah. I don’t like it, but I don’t want to get fired. I hate this. I know I’m going to regret it. The reporter I’ve been talking to is kind of a nice guy, too. Probably going to mess with his life when his editor discovers he can’t keep delivering juicy insider stories about the Reeder campaign. It’s a shame. He's just getting started on his career. Young kid working freelance. Probably this’ll mess up his whole career."
Alyssa didn’t ask. She wavered somewhere between not wanting to know and being certain she already knew. She knew only one reporter who had just started with freelance journalism. Matt was way too persistent, but that didn't mean Alyssa liked the idea of hurting his career. With bitter irony, she heard the echo of the words she had just spoken.
"You'll have to decide whether there are things that are beneath you."