Without invitation-he didn’t need one after all these years-Chris took his assigned seat in the leather chair in front of Clayton’s desk. By now, he swore that the seat bore his buttprint. In the midst of chaos, Chris remained forever unflappable. And as a twenty-five-year veteran of Senator Albricht’s political wars, Chris MacDonald was exactly the right man to have on your side in a crisis. Clayton knew it, and so did Chris.
“Let me have it,” Albricht opened. He knew from his chief of staff’s body language alone that the day had yet to bring its first bit of good news.
Chris opened the leather binder on his lap, exposing a rat’s nest of papers and chicken scratchings. “It’s just getting uglier, sir,” he said evenly. “The distinguished gentleman from Arizona has called for your resignation from the chamber floor.”
“Oh, now there’s a surprise,” Clayton scoffed, lowering himself into his high-back leather chair.
Chris produced a pair of drugstore-issue half-glasses from his suitcoat pocket and flicked them open with a jerk. He settled the white plastic monstrosities just so on his nose, then read from the transcript. “‘So loathsome are pedophiles to the American people that the mere accusation of such deviancy lessens a legislator’s ability to govern…’ ”
“Oh, Christ!” Clayton boomed. “This from a man who’s tried to defile every pretty young thing on the Hill!”
Chris continued without breaking stride. “‘… I’d like to believe that for the sake of not only his own reputation but that of this esteemed chamber, the senator from Illinois would have the common decency to step down and save us all the embarrassment of his inevitable fall.’ ” He looked up. “God, how that man does ramble!”
Albricht shook his head. “I don’t suppose he mentioned the billions he’s stolen from the taxpayers just to keep those useless Army bases open in his home state, did he?”
Chris smiled and pretended to search through his stack. “No, I don’t remember seeing anything to that effect.”
A moment of silence passed between them. Typically, Chris ended up being the de facto leader of these thrice-daily briefing sessions, but under today’s circumstances, he felt that the senator should set the agenda.
Finally, Clayton began with a deep sigh. “Anyone from our side of the aisle weighed in yet to help?”
He already knew the answer, and Chris replied only with a look. As the feeding frenzy grew geometrically by the hour, both in size and in ardor, Albricht understood that his colleagues would pull away from him. He already felt it happening. The media had convicted him as the worst type of criminal, and try as they might to retain an open mind, the general public believed what the media told them. Some crimes-or even rumors of some crimes-were simply unforgivable to the average American, and a smart politician would never provide such low-hanging fruit for his political enemies as to be seen within fifty feet of a man who diddles boys.
The more Clayton proclaimed his innocence, the more defensive he looked, and everybody knew that only guilty people were ever defensive.
Good God, Frankel was good. However he’d managed to put this all together, he’d done a masterful job. But there was time. Clayton’s constituents wouldn’t really have to get involved in any of this for another five years. Fortunately, rhetoric alone didn’t seem to do permanent damage anymore-a fact proved every day by the lying sack of shit who currently owned the White House. It was all about the length of a story’s legs. When the media got bored, the public forgot. And there, the president and his friends had the advantage of leading the media’s preferred party. Still, Clayton couldn’t imagine how the story could stay active for another five years. Certainly, his future opponents would dredge it back up, but by then, the voters’ passions would have dimmed.
“I want Frankel’s head,” Clayton announced.
Chris arched his eyebrows high. “You mean, you’re still gonna fight him for the directorship?” Politically, there was only one right answer here, and it involved the consumption of a pound of crow.
The senator scowled and blew a puff of air through his lips. “I’ll hang the son of a bitch with his directorship. The higher he climbs, the bigger the grease spot will be when he hits bottom.”
Chris suppressed a smile. His boss’s colorful imagery was the single attribute that had made the most popular politician in Illinois the most hated man in Washington. “Do I hear a plan brewing here, or are you just dreaming?”
Clayton leaned forward in his chair and planted his elbows on the mirrored mahogany of his desk. “That son of a bitch broke the law and he did it with specific intent of hurting me and my family. For the second time, I might add. I want to find a way to ruin him, Chris, and when I’m done, I want the public clamoring for body parts!”
Chris’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting, sir?”
Albricht seemed startled by Chris’s tone. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not suggesting anything illegal. Well, certainly not as illegal as what he tried to pull on me.”
MacDonald scowled and fell silent. As he shifted in his chair, he closed the leather binder. “Senator,” he said carefully, “I know how upsetting all of this is, but you’ve got to remember who exactly we’re dealing with here. This is no minor political rival, sir. This is the FBI. And he’s got the full support of the president of the United States. You’re the one presumed guilty here. If they so much as sense that you’re jiggling the web they’ve worked so hard to spin, they’ll slap you with a felony. The country loves Frankel, and they’ve shown an unending willingness to believe that grass is pink if the president declares it to be so.”
Albricht completed the logic for him. “And everyone outside the Midwest thinks I’m Adolf Hitler.”
Chris shrugged. “Well, you do want to kill off all those children and old people.”
“Don’t start with me.” Clayton’s forefinger threatened, but his wry smile was genuine. “So what do you suggest, Chris? Just sit and do nothing?”
MacDonald shrugged. “Well… yes. Politically, I think that’s the best course. If you let it go, Frankel gets his big chair, and all the rest of this just runs its course and dies. In five years, if you still want this thankless job, you’ll still have an even shot with the voters.”
Albricht leaned back again and spun his chair around to face the Capitol. He considered his chief of staff’s advice carefully, then spun slowly back around to face him. “To hell with the political prudence. I’m older than fossil shit as it is. Last time Frankel had me in his sights, I just let him go. I took the politically expedient route, and now the cockroach has come back to infest me again. This time it’s personal, Chris.”
Chris shook his head and closed his eyes. “I won’t do that, Senator, and it’s not appropriate for you to ask. I will not…”
“For crying out loud, Chris, will you relax? I’m not suggesting that anyone break any laws, okay? I don’t even want to stretch them a little. Just get people working on Frankel’s background. In a perfect world, I’d have accumulated a ton of shit on him and nailed him on the witness stand during the confirmation hearing, but now that’s not going to happen. C’est la vie. Frankel’s still got enemies stashed all over the country, though, and I want you and your people to get to know every one of them.”
“Under what auspices?”
Albricht shrugged. “I don’t care. Keep it all unofficial. Just find the people who hate him, and take lots and lots of notes. Sooner or later, we’ll have enough to choke him.”
Chris opened the binder again and scribbled a few notes. “And how do you want to fund it?” he said, looking up.
The glare he got in return said, Give me a break.
“Gotcha.” Chris stood. “And as for the media?”
Albricht frowned. “Tell Julie to keep ’em well fed.”
His orders clear, Chris MacDonald rose from his formfitting chair and left Albricht’s office, closing the door behind him.