Sanders smiled. “I can’t argue with that,” he said. “It might be easier to get that shit out if his mouth if he was facing down.”
She looked over at him and nodded, so he helped her lower the chair to the ground.
“Hold on a sec,” she said.
Moynihan went to the water cooler and quickly filled two cups. The Russian’s head was on its side as she poured the water into his mouth to wash out the vomit, and then she used his shirt to wipe off his mouth.
“Thanks,” Sanders said with a wink.
She began counting out the compressions as she pumped the center of his chest. The rate was relatively fast — more than one per second.
“…twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.”
He pinched the Russian’s nose and covered his mouth with his own. It looked as though his first breath was met with resistance, but she then heard the air push through and saw the man’s chest begin to rise. Sanders blew another breath into his mouth; both were only for a second.
Moynihan quickly checked for a pulse and began counting out the compressions again. They continued to perform CPR on the Russian for several minutes. It was sweltering hot in the small trailer. Sweat poured from Moynihan’s face when she checked his pulse one final time.
“Dammit,” she said. “I can’t believe he drowned in his own vomit.” She looked at Sanders. “Do you think he was the new drummer for Spinal Tap?” She knew the joke was in poor taste, but she couldn’t help herself.
She doubted he’d seen the movie, but then Sanders replied, “Well, it’s pretty much an open-and-shut case here. Good thing because…”
“You can’t really dust for vomit!” they said in unison.
Both of them laughed, and once the laughter subsided it turned uncomfortably silent. She looked down at the dead body and tried to take it all in.
“Your first?” he asked.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have extended the courtesy to either one of us, that’s pretty obvious,” Sanders said, referring to the CPR. “It was him or us.”
She looked up at him. “Sure, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about it.”
“He had a concussion. That can make you nauseous. I nearly tossed my cookies too — he gave me a hard knock. Hell, I might puke my brains out yet.”
He returned her look of guilt with a caring smile before putting his arm around her.
She pulled him closer. Moynihan pondered the possibilities, the chances of a relationship, until the vibration from Sanders’s phone stole the moment. He pulled the phone out, and they both looked down at the display to see FBI Director Frank Culder was calling.
“I have to take this outside,” Sanders said.
She could sense that there was something wrong. They both headed outside as Sanders answered the call. She stayed by the door to the trailer and watched him continue to walk until he was out of earshot.
“Yeah,” she heard him answer.
Moynihan observed Sanders from a distance as he paced back and forth gesticulating, tugging up his pants at the small of his back on occasion. The electricity between the two of them had just been shorted out, and intuition was telling her it had nothing to do with the man she had just killed. He ended the call and stopped pacing before looking up to the sky. Sanders stayed that way for a long moment, looked down to the ground and then strode purposefully toward her. His eyes were somehow increasingly distant the closer he got, but they narrowed as he reached back to adjust his pants again.
Chapter 69
The lights were off. Senator Soller had been steaming in silence at his desk since the call with his wife. His eyes were closed when he raised the tulip-shaped glass to his lips. The darkness enhanced the familiar smell that greeted his nose. It was the only sense that hadn’t been overcome by anger. Scotch, Macallan, 1939. Its peaty taste and potency wiped away his thoughts once again.
There was a rhythm to his drinking. Pour, swill, close eyes, sip, and repeat. It was a sacred habit, a ritual he had developed over the years. Even in darkness, nothing changed. This was his escape, his paradise. He would take another drink when there wasn’t enough taste for him to savor.
A ring destroyed his fleeting tranquility. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Yes?” Soller answered.
“Max?” The voice sounded unsure.
“Who is this?” Soller barked impatiently.
“It’s Bart.”
There was a short pause while Soller connected the voice to Bart Stapleton. He had already spoken to the Federal Reserve chairman once today. As he tried to gather his thoughts, he realized the scotch was having its intended effect.
“Bart?”
“Did I wake you up?” Stapleton asked. “You sound distracted.”
Soller rubbed the bridge of his nose and said, “No, no. What do you need?”
“It’s that president of yours. He’s trying to dig into our business.”
The two men forever lamented the fact that Vincent Cross couldn’t be bought, and referring to him in that manner had become commonplace.
“What? How do you mean?”
“He said he wants access to everything. He wants me to let some geek squad into the Fed’s computer systems to”—his voice switched to a mocking tone—“check things out.” The chairman let out an exaggerated sigh. “He says it has to do with national security. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
Soller’s brow creased. “You’re kidding?”
“I would never joke about something like this. I’m not sure if he’ll try to apply some pressure on you in the morning, so I wanted to give you a heads up.”
“I see.”
“Who knows what he’s up to?” Stapleton said. “I don’t like it. He could be trying to dig up some dirt.”
Soller knew just what Stapleton meant. He was referring to the secret society to which they both belonged. The bankers and politicians who breathed the rarified air that had anointed them into its ranks simply referred to it as The Group. Death and the fall of communism had been the only events that had changed the faces of its membership, and they had begrudgingly agreed to involve the Russians.
The Group increased the wealth of its ranks in many ways, chief among them by manipulating interest rates and controlling the derivatives market. It was in the business of growing money and abusing the power that came with it. Recently, a crack had appeared in The Group’s armor when a few of its members were implicated in a recent Libor rate scandal. Those involved were removed unceremoniously from The Group in an unprecedented action, and the subject still sparked flare ups between its members. The Group was still tying up loose ends from the incident, not the least of which was finding the leak, and they were still on edge after the recent shakedown. Soller was soon planning to take care of things on his own with his special arrangement.
Buzz about the possibility of The Group’s existence had again found its way into the news, and any press was bad press. Soller was chairman of the Senate Committee on Finance, so the job to keep politicians in America in check fell squarely on him. President Cross wielded great media influence, and since he couldn’t be bought, he was a difficult man to rein in.
“He won’t get past me on this,” Soller said.
“I know. I didn’t want him to catch you by surprise, so I called.”
“Maybe it’s time we take care of Cross for good.”
“I like the sound of that. We need to get someone who understands his place in the grand scheme of things back in office.”
Not having the US presidency in their pocket had made things complicated.
Soller swilled his glass and snuffed another shot. “I think Culder might be able to help us out with this.”