Deadsand

DEADSAND

By Paul Wachsmuth

Pending Copyright 2012 Paul Wachsmuth

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 1

Robert Warren never understood why he was paid so much to do laboratory work that he loved. Until now. Warren cursed the dense fog as he navigated the rolling hills of southern Pennsylvania.

Since George Anderson told him who was writing his paycheck, his salary no longer seemed exorbitant, and the mystery of how rich men get rich became crystal clear. They didn’t make fortunes, they stole them. And then they spent them recklessly, attending galas that attracted paparazzi, driving outrageous sports cars, and vacationing in luxury resorts from Puerto Rico to Bali. All because they hired the right people.

Who else knew what was going on besides Anderson? He couldn’t believe that his brilliant, socially awkward boss could be so diabolical. Why did Anderson let Warren in on the plan now, rather than when he was sweating out his invention in the lab? Probably because Warren was a man with moral standards. Now that the necessary science was in company hands, Anderson was spreading the guilt.

The road cut into the side of mountain rock, parallel to the river far below. Visibility was lousy, and he drove like a near-sighted grandma. Ten minutes later Warren parked at the designated Waffle Hut, entered the restaurant, and recognized the paunchy, red-faced Harry Parker from his photo. Parker thought Warren looked seasick. They introduced themselves and shook hands. You going to eat? Parker asked him.

Warren shook his head. He needed to redirect his thoughts, and watched the cook, who slung greasy utensils over the stove as she flipped and scrambled eggs. She had a few stray hairs on her face, and the physique of a running back. Warren found the treacherous drive, the restaurant’s smell, and the cook’s face a nauseating combination.

Parker devoured pork chops, hash browns, runny eggs, and toast slathered in strawberry jam. The waitress brought Warren a glass of water. How far to the site? asked Warren.

Couple of miles.

You been there before?

Yup. Put most of the stuff on the well myself.

What’s the hole outfitted with anyway? Warren asked. He wondered how much Parker knew.

There’s more crap on it than anything you’ve ever seen, Parker answered through toast. Some of it’s one of a kind, or at least I’ve never seen it before, and I’ve been in the field over 25 years."

What’s it supposed to do? asked Warren.

I figured you’d know. That’s typical, sending a guy to do a job even though he doesn’t know the big picture. It’s these damn office scientists. As far as they’re concerned, you can never have enough information about a simple hole in the ground.

Warren nodded. Parker didn’t need to know that Warren was one of those desk riding scientists, who spent more time in the laboratory than at home. But once he heard how his research would be used, Warren couldn’t get to the Mid-Atlantic fast enough. Now he watched Parker swipe his plate clean with limp strawberry toast, and wash it all down with coffee. Parker stood. Time to get to work.

You drive, said Warren. He retrieved two small briefcases from the trunk of his car and climbed into Parker’s Chevy.

Ten minutes later they arrived at a wooden shack built around a well. Warren turned on the control panel in the shack, pulled a laptop from one of the briefcases, and downloaded the new monitoring software. It’s ready.

Warren took a deep breath. He couldn’t stop now; he had to know. A plume of cold steam rose as he opened the second briefcase, which was insulated and packed with dry ice. He put on a glove, and drew a small, egg shaped package from the case. Warren pulled his Buck knife from the leather case hanging on his belt. He popped the blade open with his thumb.

Warren handed Parker the matching glove, and laid the contents in it. Now the fate of the world was in someone else’s hand.

Parker opened the end of a pipe fixture that was fitted with a hinged, flip-top lid, and placed the egg inside. He latched the top, and used a wrench to bolt a steel safety cap over it. Then he started the 25 horsepower air compressor. Here goes, he warned. Warren followed Parker to the back of the room, where they stood behind a long counter for protection. Parker depressed a button and the pipes sang with the release of compressed air until the vibrations subsided. Parker returned to the gauge readouts and observed them for 10 minutes in silence.

That’s it, said Parker. I have to get back to the office. Are you ready? Warren nodded, and they returned to the car. Parker dropped him off at the Waffle Hut. Warren was disgusted with himself. He returned to his car and re-entered the highway. Though he was a quick-thinking scientist, his reaction to Anderson’s news was sloth like and ineffective. He shouldn’t have allowed the egg to be inserted in the well. Although really, there were others back in Oklahoma, and while he invented the science, he didn’t own it. Now his actions were recorded by a computer, and witnessed by another man. How would history judge him?

After this trip to Pennsylvania, Anderson told him his job was done. A big check would be deposited in Warren’s account tonight. They probably hoped he would take his money and disappear. But Warren felt a sudden wave of resolve. He would not settle for being the lynchpin of a global catastrophe. He’d like it a lot more if people remembered him as the man who saved the modern day economy.

He fought through the fog as he eased around the corners of the twisting road. The guard rail wouldn’t keep a bicycle from sailing over the edge Warren thought. Two turns later, the chrome bumper of a Ryder truck flexed slightly as it crushed the door of Warren’s sedan. Warren stomped the brake in an effort to get all four tires back on the ground. They landed, and skid over the gravel breakdown lane like a fat man on marbles. The nose of the car sheared off a wooden post supporting the guard rail. Warren’s mind screamed for oxygen, while the screech of metal against rock echoed to the river bed below.

Chapter 2

Elliot Michaels closed his eyes and rubbed them in the light blue glow of the computer screen. He poured himself a glass of San Pellegrino over ice before returning to the red leather chair that conformed itself to his body over the many hours he spent in it. He had several houses and a handful of apartments, but only one office. It was located on the top floor of his first serious investment, The Marathon Electronics Corporation, in sunny southern California.

He purchased the privately owned company, which manufactured customized electronics equipment, and turned it into the largest manufacturer of surveillance hardware in the country. He took Marathon public after six years, which increased his net worth by several hundred million. Marathon sold more hardware to the FBI, CIA, and military establishment than all other suppliers combined. With the push for privatization, he had single handedly driven most of the competition out of the market. Well, almost single handedly.

Mark Stevens was the cornerstone of his investment. He was as gifted an intuitive in the electronics field as Michaels was in finance. The industry drove itself. A powerful and aggressive research and development program could force even the best products to become obsolete in a matter of months. With the right man driving the program, Michaels knew he could make his industry parallel that of computers and microchips, requiring high end consumers to keep buying the latest technology, or be left behind. Mark Stevens would ensure that there was always a more effective, and therefore necessary product about to hit the market.

Michaels hired Stevens at a reasonable price, and increased his pay as the company’s bottom line grew. But first, he had to teach Stevens to play the role of a high powered corporate executive. He invested $30,000 updating Stevens’ wardrobe. Out went the khakis and the golf shirts. They were replaced by Gianni Manzoni suits and Hermes ties. Next, Michaels taught Stevens how to sell. They became a formidable marketing duo that wasn’t hurt a bit by their good looks. Michaels could get an audience with the right people, and Stevens could close the deal with technical finesse. Together they met with government procurement officials, military field personnel, and technical staff at the FBI and CIA. This access taught them what the insiders needed the surveillance equipment to do. Then all Stevens had to do was design and build it.

As his company developed a menu of neat little gadgets, it was child’s play to convince the military lifers and politicians that they needed to buy them to stay ahead of the enemy. The drive to create more jobs in the private sector carried Marathon Electronics like a wave.

Michaels leveraged himself heavily to purchase the company. After five years of working with Stevens he paid back the loan. His corporate growth was strong, profits were high and steady, and he was hounded by investment bankers. He had access to many millions in investment capital, but he found another revenue source that pleased him more – government grants. Each year the government gave away billions to research and development companies to invent new equipment and technologies. Michaels entered that realm tentatively, but soon realized that the more he contributed to politicians and their action committees, the easier it was to access grant money.

Michaels was a ruthless capitalist. The son of a single mother before it was socially acceptable, Michaels watched her turn into an old woman by the time she was 50. Scrubbing floors, doing other people’s laundry; it made him shudder to think how hard she worked for so little pay. He vowed early and often that he would never be poor. In fact, he vowed to be among the world’s richest men, and as of now, he was on schedule to achieve his goal.

The President of the United States considered him for a high ranking position, but was talked out of it by party members who cited his youth, and lack of experience. President Carson regretted their opinions. He thought Michaels was a natural. He was 38 years old, and worth more than $3 billion dollars.

Economic returns for Michaels were the result of careful study and animal instinct. Financial advisors watched him closely, and matched many of his moves in the market, though this became more difficult as his portfolio grew larger and more complex. His corporate empire was now veiled by layers of holding companies and corporations that were designed to hide what he was really doing.

Much of his time was spent trying to systematically unlock the mystery of the markets. There were things he had to know before he executed the final dimension of his plan. He could only rely on accountants and economists to a certain extent. Before he would risk it all, he had to know what would happen.

He bought and observed, sold and observed, did nothing and observed, all the while adjusting hundreds of subjective and objective variables that tied into a complex computer matrix designed to predict the market. This was a one shot deal.

He made and lost millions weekly, but always with a purpose. A manufacturing company would call them R & D; he considered these expenditures as investments.

So now Michaels was rich, but was there ever enough money to ensure that he would never be at anyone’s mercy again? Michaels smiled. No. Rich wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to be the richest man alive. In 2009 the world had almost 800 billionaires, the richest of them worth $40 billion. Michaels planned to surpass them in three years. What would they think of a man worth more than $200 billion? And would he be satisfied then? He smiled to himself again. Probably not.

Michaels evaluated his available cash for that day, and switched off his computer at 12:07 a.m. He headed out the door to the roof, walked through the landing lights that illuminated the painted concrete pad, and watched the pilot start his pre-flight checklist. At 1:00 a.m. Michaels left the chopper outside a private hanger in the California desert. He boarded his jet, and was on his way to the District of Columbia.

The plane was equipped with telephones, computers, television sets, and a combination printer, fax and scanner. Michaels would take a nap before touchdown. It had been a typical 20 hour day, and he wanted to be well rested when he met with President Carson.

When the plane landed Michaels was awake and ready for the full email box and basket full of faxes that waited for him in the back of his limousine. He committed what was useful to memory, and deleted and shredded what was extraneous. Then he speed dialed McMaster’s cell phone.

When the electronic chime pierced the darkness, it was 4:56 a.m. Donald McMaster counted four rings before he opened his eyes. He considered not answering, but he could easily assume who was on the other end. He checked the clock. Another day that began with a phone call; not a shower, a shave, or a cup of coffee. That phone had become the bane of his existence. It was the vehicle of his greatest pleasure and pain. It plugged him into the world of 90 hour work weeks and the allure of an untold fortune. He was addicted to the world of Elliot Michaels. He answered the phone.

Yes.

Did you see South American Oil? The edge of Michaels’ voice provided the mood, and from it McMaster correctly guessed where the numbers must be.

Not yet. And what difference did it make? The Japanese markets had hardly closed, and Wall Street wouldn’t come to life for another hour.

Then wake up. You sleep too damn much. It hit our number.

Sorry, McMaster managed.

This is crunch time. Six more months until we set this into motion. Then you can sleep all you want.

I know Elliot.

Get on it first thing. Check our cash. Leverage National Bank. Call Harvey if you have to.

McMaster doubted if the CEO of the country’s second largest bank was in the office yet. He laughed to himself. It didn’t matter. McMaster had his cell phone number, and the call would be returned in minutes.

I’ll let you know, he said, reassuring his mentor.

I’ll be in the car for another 15 minutes.

McMaster shook his head. Can a person go for six months without sleep? For a billion dollars he would give it one hell of a try.

Alright Elliot. I’ll call you in ten.

Michaels punched another speed dial number and it was answered with a gruff Brooklyn accent.

Collins here.

Give me a status.

Jesus Elliot, it’s five in the morning. More used to being interrupted at odd hours, the head of security came to life quickly.

I didn’t ask for the time. How did things go in Pennsylvania yesterday?

Flawless. There was a long pause. I’m telling you, flawless.

Anything new on Stevens?

He talked to a realtor yesterday. Guess the house is kind of empty now. Probably too many memories. Hard to say, he’s the only one there, and he doesn’t talk to himself.

What about the housekeeper?

Not much of a conversationalist. She has dinner ready for him, and leaves when he gets home.

Eliminate the next liability and propose a schedule for the rest. I’ll be in the car for another 15 minutes. Call me if you need me, and keep me up to date. Grace has my schedule.

Chapter 3

It was 5:00 a.m. and the roads to D.C. were as empty as they get. The stack of paper that awaited him was taller than the photo of his wife beside it. In addition to tackling that, Walker also had a Division to run. He had just been named an FBI Acting Division Head, an honor bestowed on him after his boss filed for an extended medical leave, which was what 30 plus years of government service earned you. The boss had 18 months to use or lose, and he was using it until he retired. Walker was excited about the prospect of a permanent promotion. He was also wary of the increased stress that came with being the big dog.

The most difficult part of any job was dealing with people, and that’s what he did all day. Each personnel conflict he resolved was a victory and a challenge. For the moment Walker would perform the job without additional benefit or pay. When his boss officially retired, he hoped to have earned the position, along with its increased rewards.

Today Walker had to attend to a troubling matter. Under other circumstances, he would have bent this assignment to fit his schedule, but this case was personal, and he was way behind in gathering intelligence. Tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. he would be part of a team being briefed on the investigation of Marathon Electronics Corporation. The company was owned and operated by Elliot Michaels, one of America’s youngest and richest success stories. Walker didn’t know a lot of celebrities, but he had met Michaels twice. The first time they were guests at the same party, thrown by his college roommate and good friend, Mark Stevens. The second time they met was at the funeral, and they exchanged few words.

And that’s why this was personal. The CIA had notified the FBI field agents of a problem. A variety of classified electronic surveillance equipment that was designed exclusively by Marathon Electronics for the United States government was showing up in countries throughout the Middle East. Mark Stevens was the head of research and development for Marathon Electronics. Stevens had top-secret clearance, and top-secret access. He had more than access; he’d designed the majority of prototypes that the company manipulated into hundreds of products purchased by the U.S. government and private corporations.

Various intelligence sources showed that schematics of several Marathon products had shown up in countries where they shouldn’t have. CIA operatives in the United Arab Emirates, Oman, Kuwait, and Iraq had all reported schematic sightings. In an attempt to reconcile the overseas problem with a domestic agency, the FBI was called in to identify a possible leak at Marathon Electronics Corporation.

The FBI was aware that Walker and Stevens had been roommates, and that’s why he was behind schedule. Walker was banned from taking part in the investigation until the FBI used a flea comb to pick apart his relationship with Stevens. It took weeks for Internal Affairs to examine their friendship, their wives’ friendship, the friendship between each of them and each other’s wives, and everything else about his personal life, or so it seemed to Walker. He was finally declared clean. The agent in charge of the investigation delivered that documentation to Walker’s office, and asked to present an appraisal of the situation at the scheduled briefing. That briefing was tomorrow.

Walker checked his watch and figured he had time to drink a pot of coffee and attack the stack of material before the office got too busy. He retrieved the paper from his vault, cranked the coffee, retrieved a mug that said World’s Best Dad, and started where he left off five hours ago. As he read he jotted notes on a legal pad.

He believed Stevens was innocent, believed the system would prove it. Now that he was allowed access to the file, he was eager to help the process do what it was designed to do. The documentation communicated three simple things. There was a large leak at Marathon Electronics. The information being leaked was very sensitive. Mark Stevens was one of the prime suspects.

This would be a complicated case for many reasons. The most obvious was that Elliot Michaels was a significant donor to both the President and his party. That was the thing about billionaires.

As if investigating a friend wasn’t bad enough, the sticky internal politics also threatened to give him a headache. The FBI agent who was assigned to head the case was a rising young star. Martin Mercer was an enthusiastic, politically inspired cutthroat who would love a shot at the job Walker now temporarily held. Walker assumed it was through Mercer’s whisperings that the White House Chief of Staff, Ira Goldston, had mysteriously caught wind of the investigation, and was receiving direct updates from the Bureau. There was no reason to involve that level of politics in a nascent investigation, and it enraged Walker.

Walker spent the next 20 hours devouring the file. The case had progressed without him, and he read it in chronological order. Ten weeks earlier there was a long list of suspects. Mark Stevens was on it. The only other name on the list that Walker recognized was Michaels. Walker knew the FBI would work diligently to get Michaels’ name off of the list so that there was not any hint of negative publicity for the President. Damn if he wasn’t right. As Walker read on, the list winnowed to 12 names, with Mark Stevens on the top, in bold font. Walker wondered how three agents could have culled through so many suspects so quickly. The clues were buried in the files before him.

Mercer wasn’t an idiot. He knew Walker would take a personal stake in the investigation. He also knew that Walker had a respectable reputation, and therefore clout within the Bureau. For that reason Mercer kept him off the case as long as possible, using Internal Affairs to his advantage. But Walker was an Acting Division Head, and couldn’t be toyed with indefinitely. Once the delay tactics were exhausted, Mercer delivered the documentation personally to Walker, and invited him to the meeting.

If it was calculated to make his weekend miserable it worked, and Walker was determined to return the favor. He had investigations to lead, a department to run, and a family to nurture. He would put all on hold until he reached top speed on the Marathon Case, as it had been so imaginatively named.

When Walker finished the review it was 3:00 a.m. He had to resolve a conflict. The evidence was vague and thin, but fairly consistent. If Walker had been the leading agent on the case, he knew Stevens would be on the top of his suspect list as well. But he knew Stevens personally. They had been like brothers as undergraduates. As they married and aged and worked on opposite sides of the country, the frequency of their contact waned. But Walker still considered Stevens one of his best friends. And he felt sick to think that Stevens was going to have to contend with accusations of this nature, when he surely was going through the most horrific days of his life.

The funeral had been almost six weeks ago, and the thought of that day almost made Walker tear up. He stood next to Stevens as the prayers were said. He shook many hands, drank many drinks, and stood by helplessly as Stevens buried his wife. They hadn’t spoken much. What was there to say? Walker hoped his presence brought comfort to his friend.

Walker and Susan both knew Barbara was dying, but it happened so fast that they weren’t prepared for the phone call. It was too late to make arrangements for the kids, so Walker went alone, though Susan and Barbara had been close. Susan cried when he left the airport, and hadn’t been doing well since he returned. She’d been prescribed Atavan, which Walker hoped and prayed was a temporary cure. The kids were spending two weeks with her parents. Mark and Barbara didn’t have children. Tom couldn’t decide if that was good or bad, but that was that.

Walker thought about their undergraduate days. He had distant memories of being young, restless, and full of unleashed ambition. It was the longest period of unadulterated fun he’d ever had. There were fun times now, but it they were in conjunction with the stress that came with being an adult and a parent. His life had a different meaning now, with different dreams and goals. Perhaps Mark’s did too. It had to. The degree of the difference, and the new direction of focus, were what he didn’t know. The paths available to each man were countless, and whichever one Stevens had chosen, Walker knew he was not the same person Walker had run with ten years earlier, because how could he be?

Look at how different their choices were. Stevens went for a high profile corporate job that ate hours of his life, but paid him well. Walker put in a whole lot of hours too, but as a government guy, which he thought of as part public servant and part patriot. Life changes everyone. Still, Walker knew the essence of the man, and he was repulsed by the accusations leveled against him. Though they didn’t know the intimate details of each others’ lives, surely they had the same moral fiber they had in college. Stevens was smart, and the work he did served his country. Plus, he had always been a kind and decent guy.

But Walker was an FBI agent. His professional mind was trained to play the devil’s advocate, and that’s what he did now. He knew you couldn’t be sure of anyone. He and Steven’s weren’t really close any more. The ties they felt for each other were built on a thread that joined them to the past. Barbara’s death had the potential to draw them closer, or alienate them from each other. Death affects people in many ways. The loss of his wife probably could change a man beyond recognition. These thoughts danced in Walker’s mind as he considered their plausibility.

Walker thought about Barbara, and how the fact that he hadn’t seen her in two years probably eased the pain of her death. He loved Barbara, but the miles and the years had dulled the sharpness of her image. He remembered her beauty, her smile, the way she and Mark looked at each other. They had been happy.

The pain in his friend’s voice bridged the 3,000 miles as it tore through the ether. He didn’t have the right words to respond, but that was okay, none had been wanted or needed. Both men stayed on the phone, listening to each other cry. That recent moment of pain and love is what galvanized Walker’s opinion of Stevens, despite the questions he asked himself.

Walker was the Acting Division Head. He was the lead agent in a number of active investigations, and he couldn’t spare the time to go to the funeral. He went anyway. What seemed important the day before became insignificant. He came home to a sobbing wife, worried and confused children, and with a focus and conviction to do right by them.

He remembered Stevens standing at the funeral. Sunglasses hid his blue eyes as they streamed tears, his mouth set as if cast in bronze. Stevens’ in-laws were also in terrible shape. Burying a wife was a terrible thing. Walker supposed that burying a child was the only thing that could be harder. Walker spent the night with Stevens, and hoped his presence communicated what neither man could say in words.

Walker returned the files to the vault and went home to check on Susan.

Chapter 4

Presidents long to make a substantial mark on history. After five years of service, President David Carson feared his legacy lacked inspiration. He was a man who sought to define the office, but knew that in all but a handful of instances, the office defined the man. This ate at his ego.

The President stared out the window of the Oval Office. He stole a five minute hiatus from the frantic pace that surrounded his morning briefings. His thoughts followed their familiar pattern. At the age of 25, Alexander the Great had the greatest military force on earth, used it to wield ultimate power, and conquered the world. The President had at his disposal military power that would have defeated Alexander’s armies in minutes, but territory was no longer the fight of the day. Power was now defined by money, more so than by military might. Too bad.

At 63, the President was engulfed by domestic agendas rammed into his office by a petty Congress. He was annoyed by trivial foreign conflicts to which he was unable or unwilling to decisively commit. He was a victim of his predecessor’s ability to end two major wars, leaving Carson a peacetime President; unsatisfied with his position in the world, and in history.

I am the scourge of, of – nothing, he thought. While he had troops in dozens of countries, the current military conflicts seemed unwinnable, the leftovers of his predecessor’s decisions. Why wasn’t there some huge worldly division, a threshold moment in history through which only he could guide the masses? Kennedy had the missile crisis, Lincoln had a divided nation, Bush had 9/11, though Carson surely didn’t wish for that kind of horrific opportunity to lead.

Where was his legacy? Not in the pounds of newly written legislation that covered his desk each week. He knew he was worthy of significance. These years he was dedicating to the public service of the world’s greatest superpower were running out, spending themselves without effect like a brief shower in the Sahara.

Pictures of his 13 grandchildren graced his desk. Was that all it meant? All this time, all the posing, fighting, maneuvering, lying, promises, campaign speeches, sleepless nights, all this…crap. For what? There had to be more than to be the guy after so and so and before so and so, lost in the history books. How could he be the guy who set the course for the modern world?

It was difficult to remain enthusiastic while giving speeches. He was tired of saying This is an historic moment… and then talking about welfare. He prayed for the opportunity to make himself as important to the world as his vision beheld it.

His recess ended with a buzz from the intercom.

Yes?

Elliot Michaels is here, sir.

Send him in please.

The door to the Oval Office opened and Michaels strolled down the hall. He carried a large legal briefcase in each hand and was flanked by two Secret Service escorts. The President was struck by how comfortable he looked in this building. These were the halls of ultimate power. Heads of state approached with some anxiety, but not Michaels. He acted like he owned the place.

Michaels, of course, knew that he did. Speaking as if addressing a full auditorium, his voice was clear, the words thoughtful and carefully chosen; the tone rich and uplifting. Even in times of uncertainty he could dictate a positive message. His motivational speaking skills were superb, and though he was the only man before Michaels, Carson felt he was part of a larger audience.

Good day, Mr. President, Michaels said as he put down his cases and extended his hand.

The President shook it, allowing himself an amused look. Not too many people are able to get an audience with the President on such short notice. At all, is what he meant to say, even when they are a friend of the family. But every politician made time for the heavyweight campaign contributors during an election year; even mid-term elections, and Elliot Michaels was the Mike Tyson of his election fund, and of the party. The party received over $10 million in soft money contributions from the man, his companies and his political action committee during the last campaign.

The checks came from an array of sources, but everyone knew who was behind them. The money bought a blitzkrieg of TV spots which, even the media analysts had agreed, sealed the president’s victory. With that kind of support in the coming year, the party would take Congress, and maybe he could make some of the more significant social changes he craved. His party’s new political campaign was about to swing into action. All they needed was money; that’s all they ever needed, and in this way the two men were not so un-alike.

Michael’s played to Carson’s political side. Thank you for your time, sir. The President nodded, sitting behind the imposing edifice of his desk, while his guest continued. I wanted to deliver the latest information on the new environmental breakthroughs your administration has been so helpful in achieving. Here are our latest developments in air abatement technology. The President’s eyes glazed over as Michaels summarized a half a dozen large three ring binders and placed them on his desk.

Maybe I’ll be known as the man who cleaned the earth. What kind of legacy was that? He applauded environmental efforts, really, but there had to be more to being in his position than undoing the neglect of decades of industrialization. What would he be doing next, chipping lead paint from houses?

Have you sent copies to the EPA and the Hill?

Yes, but I wanted…

Excellent. The campaign will ensure that this information is accessible to the public, perhaps through some of my own media releases.

Always to the point, thought Michaels. It took a whole 30 seconds to get down to money. That would certainly work toward getting further endorsements on the Hill, Michaels conceded.

It will have to be done with a high degree of discretion. I’ve got a new publicity man from New York working on the TV spots now. You know how important they were last time.

Yes. Michaels paused just slightly longer than necessary. I hope that I’ll be able to contribute in a similar manner for you this time around.

I’m sure you will. We should be able to pick up at least six seats in the Senate, and 12 in the House just on my coattails if we play it right. And after all, hasn’t it been a mutually beneficial experience? This was an understatement.

Yes sir, it has. Along those lines… Michaels briefly laid out his plans for technical research into the area of clean air. It was an important issue to the American people, and one of the leading priorities for certain Congresspersons who were being pitched by Michaels’ lobbyists at the same moment. They would all be primed for upcoming briefings on budget constraints and cutbacks. Armed with the right reports, they could counter the nay-sayers with hard numbers on revenues generated from exporting such technologies.

America had already allowed many of the environmental technologies developed during the 1970s to be privatized by Europeans who were now making generous profits from them. In industrial nations, it was an inevitable trend, and lowering the trade deficit was always good political ammunition.

The President watched the clock and limited the conversation to 10 minutes. In typical fashion, he closed the meeting with an upbeat motivational tone, which Michaels understood for its true lack of value.

Very well done Elliot. You are responsible for handing us the environmental vote this year.

Thank you sir, Michaels replied.

The phone rang on cue and the President picked it up, pretending to listen intently. Hold on, he spoke into the receiver. Elliot, please excuse me will you? And thanks for coming.

Certainly, Mr. President.

See you tonight at dinner.

Of course, Mr. President. Michaels followed a Secret Service agent out of the office to his car, and went to his hotel room a few blocks away. He occupied the remainder of the day reviewing stock prices, making deals, and checking in with the office. At 7:00 p.m. he showered, shaved, and donned the black tie. Shortly thereafter he arrived at a hotel ballroom for the first of what would be a dozen such events this year. He worked the crowd to the maximum benefit of what he was paying for – access.

The $1000 plate dinner was unremarkable, but not many noticed. Too taken in by the power circle of the city, most just drank and tried their best to get close to the President and Vice President of the United States, with varying degrees of success.

Elliot Michaels, on the other hand, stood off to the side of the room, and people came to him. Guests, career politicians, and Washington insiders hovered. He doled out his attention to the elite as he felt due. Now he was surrounded by several ranking members of the Senate Arms Services Committee.

The alcohol flowed, and Michaels paced himself accordingly, unlike many others in the room. Nursing his vodka martini, he considered his position. The men around him, the power brokers, came to him for advice, conversation, and money. Ironically, in the form of billions of dollars of grants, he was receiving much more than he gave. It made him laugh to himself.

Michaels held no political ambitions or aspirations. Power, he knew, was money, and he was the individual with the most money in the room. The men who sought him were dealing from positions of weakness. They presented topics, debated merits and flaws, took sides, and failed to