atmospheric pollution within the same length of time, a surcharge on automobile license fees for owners of more than one vehicle, a mandatory air-exhaust filtration system outside restaurants, dry-cleaners, and…
TWO
Georgetown, Washington.
As was his custom, the Republican senior senator from Michigan, Roland Davis, woke at six a.m., careful not to disturb his wife. He went downstairs, made coffee, fed his cat, leaned out the front door to pick up the Washington Post, and carried the folded newspaper into the kitchen. The June sunrise shone dully through a smog-hazed bay window onto the table. Davis sipped his steaming coffee, put on his glasses, spread open the paper, and scanned it for any mention of his name.
He didn't have to read far. The headline referred to the Barker-Hudson bill, and in the ensuing two-column story, Davis was frequently cited as the leader of the Republican party's opposition to 'an extreme, repressive, radical, and economically suicidal approach to a temporary, admittedly serious problem that requires time and care to be corrected.'
Davis nodded, approving both his rhetoric and the reporter's accuracy in quoting him. He was fifty-eight, tall, with a full head of distinguished-looking gray hair, a patrician's face, and a photogenic slender body that he kept in shape by a half-hour daily workout on a stationary bicycle. Better get peddling, he thought. Got a busy day coming up. Besides, he was eager to watch the early morning news.
But first he wanted to finish the story in the Post. Barker and Hudson made more apocalyptic statements about 'poisonous air pollution contributing to the greenhouse effect and the depletion of the ozone layer… increasing rate of skin cancer… risk of drought… melting polar icecaps… rising ocean level… state of emergency.' Sounded like a plot for a science-fiction movie'.
Davis snorted. Those Democrats didn't stand a chance of getting their bill through the Senate, although he had to give Barker and Hudson credit – they knew how to get the attention of the media, and that wouldn't hurt come election time, at least with the liberals in their districts. Or maybe their tactic would backfire. Nobody wants to re-elect losers, and Barker and Hudson were sure to lose today. Clean air? Great idea. The trouble is, Americans didn't like making sacrifices. What they preferred was for the people down the street to make the sacrifice. Every smoker, multiple-car owner, factory worker worried about his job, everyone whose life style or pocketbook would be affected by the bill would urge his senators to vote against it.
Hadn't Barker and Hudson ever heard of compromise? Was 'moderation' not in their vocabulary? Didn't they realize you had to approach a problem one step at a time instead of jumping on it all at once?
Davis finished the story, pleased that he'd been quoted once more near the end, the voice of reason: 'I think we'd all agree, the air's not as clean as it could be. We've got a problem, yes, at least in some big cities, at least in June through September. Conditions will improve, though, when the weather gets cooler. That doesn't mean I recommend we sit on our hands. But we can't change society overnight, although my distinguished colleagues seem to want to do just that. What we need instead, and what I intend to propose as soon as I've evaluated all the statistics, is a balanced, moderate, carefully implemented, non-disruptive solution. Time. Air pollution took time to develop, and it requires time to be reduced.'
Excellent, Davis thought. The Post gave me plenty of space, and I'm sure to get even more press in Michigan. The smokers in my constituency will feel less put upon. So will two-car families threatened with a surcharge on their license fees. But most important, Davis thought, the automobile manufacturers will be awfully grateful when they don't have to worry about meeting new restrictions on exhaust from their cars and their factories.
Awfully grateful.
And mighty generous. Yes, indeed.
The doorbell rang. Davis frowned at the digital clock on the microwave across from him. 6:14. Who'd be here so early? At once the obvious answer occurred to him. An eager reporter. In which case, I'd better make sure I look presentable. Davis used his hands to neaten his hair, tied his housecoat securely, left the kitchen, and did his best to look cheery when he opened the front door.
Abruptly he scrunched his eyebrows together, because no one was there. He scowled up and down the hazy street lined with elegant townhouses, but except for a car disappearing around a corner, he saw no activity.
Who the-?
Why the-?
Suddenly an object on his doorstep attracted his attention. A large manila envelope. Frowning harder, Davis picked it up, peered once more along the street, went back inside his house, and locked the door behind him.
Couldn't have been my assistant, Davis thought. Susan would have called first if she had something important for me to look at this early. Even if she didn't have time to phone, she wouldn't merely have left this envelope and rushed away without an explanation.
Troubled, Davis unsealed the envelope and pulled out several documents. Too curious to wait to go into the kitchen and sit down to read them, he quickly scanned the first page but managed to complete only half of it before a moan escaped him.
Jesus.
Oh, dear Christ.
He rushed to finish the page and flipped through the others.
Fucking mother of-!
The documents provided dates, places, names, and amounts, every bribe he'd ever received, every illegal campaign contribution, every expense- paid vacation, every…!
And after the documents, there were photographs that made Davis grope for a wall to steady himself, afraid that his sudden chest pain meant he was having a heart attack. The photographs -clear, glossy, professional-looking black-and-whites – depicted Davis and his gorgeous young female assistant naked on the deck of a yacht and not simply having sex but performing several illegal versions of it, including sodomy and cunnilingus.
Davis vividly remembered that exquisite summer afternoon. He and his assistant had been alone. Taking care that they weren't followed, each had traveled separately to the small private Caribbean island owned by one of Davis 's most powerful constituents. They'd been assured that the island would be deserted, but just to be extra cautious, Davis had taken the yacht out to sea, where no one could spy on them. No Gary Hart screwups for him.
But someone had spied on them! From the downward angle of the photos, Davis concluded that they'd been taken with a long distance lens from a plane. And the photos were so sharply defined that Davis and his assistant almost appeared to be posing. Certainly their faces were easily recognizable, except when Davis had the back of his head to the camera while he hungrily burrowed his mouth between his assistant's legs.
And damn it, there was more! After the photographs, which made Davis's chest heave no longer in pain but rage, he shuddered at the sight of an unsigned typed note, its implied threat as chilling as it was proportioned:
WE SUGGEST
THAT YOU RETHINK
WHICH WAY YOU'LL VOTE
ON THE BARKER-HUDSON BILL.
Davis tore the documents, the photographs, and the note into halves, quarters, then eighths. The clumps became so thick that he had to subdivide them as he kept tearing. All the while, he cursed, with furious quietude so he wouldn't waken his wife.
Cocksuckers! he thought, dimly aware of the irony that one cocksucker, the evidence about whom he wanted desperately to destroy, was his female assistant.
At the same time, he was also aware that no matter how many times he shredded the damning evidence, his frenzy was useless – because whoever had sent this package wouldn't have been so foolish that they hadn't kept copies.