The chamber, with its rich oak paneling and dark heavy furnishings, seemed a throwback to a day when industrialists openly ruled the nation from behind closed doors. The same was true for the formal table settings with their bone china, impossibly white dinnerware with intricate hand-painted cherry blossoms. Baccarat crystal water glasses, Reed & Barton sterling silverware, hand-embroidered table linen, the outlay fairly dazzled Morris. He knew, for example, that these napkins ran over $150 each, which meant that for tonight’s dinner with the six-body board, plus the chairman, plus Morris himself, brought the napkin cost alone to $1,200. Toss in the fine tablecloth, and linens, and it tallied more than the price of his first car. (Working as he did in the Government Accountability Office, knowing what things cost was Morris’s specialty.)
The male staff wore tuxedos, the females old-fashioned maid-uniform livery. Whenever staff entered the room, all conversation stopped, and — other than giving orders or responding to questions from waiters — the board members remained silent until they were alone again.
With dessert done, and coffee served, the liveried army retreated to the kitchen. The chairman waited a full minute, then tapped his knife against his water glass, just once.
Every eye went to Senator Wilson Blount, his sharp light blue eyes peering from above the low-riding tortoiseshell glasses, his silvery blond hair barbershop perfect despite the late hour. Even before that single tap of metal on glass, all here were already under his sway. The chairman of the American Patriots Alliance led the way of this joint effort to restore the United States from “the sniveling weakling it had become,” as Blount himself sometimes explained it, “to its rightful place as the world’s preeminent superpower.”
“We all know why we’re here, gentlemen,” Blount said in his lilting Tennessee accent.
The six board members nodded as one.
Their attire varied in style but not in monetary value — Morris was out of his depth as to the exact price of their wardrobe (tailored suits rarely came up at the GAO). And admittedly he felt somewhat self-conscious in his own Men’s Wearhouse number. But actually, Blount’s off-the-rack brown suit, which fit his contrived folksy persona, may have cost even less.
Morris recognized two of the board, powerful men with national reputations who occasionally made it into the media — a major hotelier from New Jersey, and a trucking magnate from Wisconsin. The other four Morris drew a blank on, though that was hardly surprising. Anonymity was something the Alliance board cultivated.
They were all low-profile players now, with the one exception — an individual who had unwisely sought the political limelight — conveniently deceased. When the man had refused to step back in line with the Alliance’s plans for the greater good, Senator Blount and the board simply distanced themselves from him. No further action was taken, since the natural course of events had resolved the situation.
The chairman swung his eyes toward Morris and so did everyone else. “Your report, sir, if you please.”
Morris cleared his throat and stood, nodding to one and all, allowing a tiny polite smile to flicker. Blount had personally given Morris his task and, other than the Senator himself, no one in the room would have the slightest idea of his identity, foot soldier that he was.
Which was fine with Morris. He believed in the American Patriots Alliance’s motto: Serve Country, Not Self. Someday that would be on currency. What he and all of the loyalists enacted was part of their overall mission to restore the greatness that President Harrison had so recklessly squandered.
Still, this was a chance to make an impression, to demonstrate his value to the movement. Not that he had any illusion that a regular chair at this table might become his — the money and power here were out of his reach. But he would happily serve.
He said, in a firm voice that disguised his unease, “I met with Joe Reeder and Special Agent Patti Rogers after their meeting with the Director at the Secret Service. As instructed, I proffered both carrot and stick.”
“And their response?” the chairman asked.
“As you predicted, sir, they were not receptive to the carrot... but somewhat so to the stick. They did seem to have a sense of the precariousness of their situation — the implications of what further inquiry by them might cost.”
“Reeder has two weaknesses,” came the folksy drawl. “His pride and what we might call his... ‘family.’”
Morris asked, “His ex-wife and his daughter, sir?”
“No. They are out of reach for the moment. Efforts are being made to find them, but Mr. Reeder is not a man without his own resources.”
Morris leaned a hand on the linen-covered tabletop. “Reeder betrayed emotion, sir. I realize his reputation is one of rather... restrained behavior and self-expression. But he laid hands on me — twice.”
The other eyes at the table were moving from the chairman to Morris and back again, as the two men exchanged remarks in a tennis-match fashion.
“Joseph Reeder,” drawled Blount, “is such a self-righteous soul that the very idea of his character bein’ besmirched likely gives him physical pain... but he would sooner endure that than allow anything untoward to happen to those he cares about.”
“Sir, you... you don’t refer to his ex-wife and child?”
“Well, they’re the major part of the mix, of course. But he’s become attached to this agent, this Rogers woman. I don’t believe it’s a sexual relationship. Call it... father-and-daughter, or big-brother-and-little-sister. However you might characterize it, she is important to him. So are those he’s worked with at the FBI, as a consultant — the so-called Special Situations Task Force.”
Morris nodded, understanding the weak spot the chairman intended to penetrate.
Blount asked, “Did our people track the pair after they left the Secret Service buildin’?”
Morris offered an apologetic open-handed gesture. “I’m afraid, sir, within minutes, they went off the grid. If we find them... that is when we find them... what action do we take?”
The chairman leaned back in a chair taller than he was. “For now, nothin’ — we’ll let ’em flail and flounder.”
“Sir.”
“They’re tryin’ to find a way to keep out of harm’s way and yet contin-yuh their investigation at the one-and-the-same time. Eventually they will come to perceive the hopelessness of that goal.”
“Sir, Reeder is a top investigator, and so is that FBI female.”
Holding up a hand, the chairman said, “Keep your powder dry, my friend, and wait. They have not yet grasped the untenable nature of their position. They will contin-yuh to flail around for a time, likely gettin’ nowhere a’tall.” Blount pointed a thick forefinger at Morris. “But if they get close, we will have no choice but to shut them the hell down. Do you follow?”
Morris nodded. He followed, all right.
These men, the patriots on the board, were willing to make such sacrifices to return America to its greatness. A soldier kills in battle, at the direction of generals. The four CIA agents and Secretary Yellich had not been murdered; they were casualties of the cause.
For something as far-reaching as the ongoing operation, individuals would occasionally have to be sacrificed — for the greater good. That was at the core of the American Patriots Alliance.
Patrick Reitz, the trucking magnate — a heavy man with receding dark hair and a lizard’s hooded eyes — shook his head. “Why not eliminate them now? Aren’t they a genuine threat to our current goal?”