Barry Lando: Deep Strike

Pearlstein emerged from the pool. At seventy-five, the billionaire had the tight-ribbed body and sinewy arms of a fit and robust forty-five year old. He toweled himself, donned a dark-blue terrycloth robe and leather sandals, and crossed the flagstones to shake hands with Steve.

“Fifty laps a day,” he said, “Only way to keep young. Already worked out with my trainer. You’re welcome to use the gym or pool. We’ve got shorts, shoes, whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” said Steve. “Maybe another time.”

The windows to the den were also open. A woman reclined in a scooped, leather Eames lounge chair, drinking coffee, and reading a book.

“Steve, meet Veronica,” Pearlstein shouted. “Veronica, Steve.”

She sat up to wave, her blond hair spilling over bronzed shoulders. Steve waved back. She was wearing a tiny red bikini: Thirty at most – the vacuous trophy wife, Steve speculated, until he saw she was reading the book Dark Money , a brilliant expose of the role of the billionaire Koch Brothers in American politics.

“Veronica graduated Phi Beta from Wellesley,” said Pearlstein. “Met her when she went to work for The Rand Corporation. I’m helping her set up her own think tank.”

Another attendant in monogrammed t-shirt appeared. “What can we offer you,” said Pearlstein, “coffee, eggs, smoked salmon, caviar?”

“Coffee would be great,” said Steve. “And maybe some toast. Rye?”

“I’ll have coffee, granola, and yogurt,” said Pearlstein. “Serve us downstairs.” He turned back to Steve. “Just give me a minute to change,” he said.

Steve strolled around the living room to admire the Rauschenberg and a Rodin he had spotted by the fireplace.

“A plaster model for ‘Le Baiser. ’ There’s only two in the world,” said Pearlstein, now wearing a black jogging outfit. “We’ll go downstairs to talk.” He led Steve along a white Carrara hallway to an elevator. “People like us can never be too security-conscious,” he said as the door slid open. “It’s a jungle out there. A crazed world of hackers and the NSA vacuuming up every bit of data on the planet. Everyone’s into it: Japanese, Chinese, Russians, Israelis, even the goddamned North Koreans. Not to mention my business rivals. You’re never really safe.”

They exited the elevator, facing what looked a large bank vault. Pearlstein placed his right eye to a sensor and a massive steel door gaped open. “This bunker could take just about anything,” he said, “but a direct nuclear hit.” Inside was a large, white-walled room with floor to ceiling cabinets on two sides, like a suburban supermarket. “Enough food and water for a couple of months,” said the billionaire. “Bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, and study down that hall.”

Before them was the closed entry to another room. There was a digital readout of two persons and their respective weight. Pearlstein used the retina scan on his left eye to open the door. “Not there yet.” He led Steve along another short passageway. After the door closed behind them, a panel on the wall ahead swung open, revealing a windowless room about the size of a squash court. Inside were five plush leather chairs and a mahogany desk.

“It’s as good as anything you folks at the CIA have,” said Pearlstein. “This room actually floats on springs inside the other room. Not even the slightest vibration from in here gets out. One of my companies in Israel built it. Got a room like this in each of my homes: here, San Francisco, New York, and London. They’re regularly swept every day. Got a bodyguard and security specialist who travels everywhere with me.”

He gestured at a nearby table set with the breakfast they had earlier ordered. “Pull up a chair and let’s talk.”

Over the next hour, Steve briefed the billionaire about the Russian hacking investigation, the murder of Brian Hunt, and the decision to set up Deep Strike.

“What’s your goal?” asked Pearlstein, finishing his cereal.

“To get rid of Stokes by coming up with material shocking enough that the Republican Congress will have no choice but to impeach.”

“You’re how many?”

“Three, including myself.”

Pearlstein poured them each another cup of coffee. “Not exactly an army.”

“We don’t need an army. We’re good, among the best in the business. The material to nail Stokes surely exists. It’s somewhere. We still have an excellent source in place in Moscow. It may take a few months, but we’ll find it.”

Pearlstein raised his eyes to the ceiling. “A few months ?”

“A major problem for us of course is security,” said Steve. “If we could operate from rooms like this all the time, it would be one thing. But we can’t. We’re going to be moving around, constantly exposed on a planet where every single communication is monitored.”

“And where drones and satellites can identify individual faces from hundreds of miles away,” said Pearlstein.

“And our operation is not going to be cheap.”

“Which is why you’re here,” said Pearlstein. “How much are you talking about?”

“No way of knowing yet,” said Steve. “But it will certainly be many, many millions.”

“Also dangerous; if Brian Hunt’s death is any indication,” said Pearlstein, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“It’s also dangerous for anyone who supports us. Stokes takes no prisoners. To be frank, I was surprised you agreed to see me.”

“And why is that?”

“It could be risky for your various interests. You’ve got a great deal on the line. If Stokes turned against you, he could do a lot of damage.”

“Probably,” said Pearlstein. He stood and placed his hands on the back of his chair, bent over, and stretched. “I’ve been pissing off my right-wing friends for a long time though. With the Koch brothers and Adelson pouring billions into the fascist right, that leaves only a few like Soros and myself trying to help the good guys.”

“You never had dealings with Stokes?” asked Steve.

“I got into a real estate venture with him a few years back – a housing development near Houston. He screwed me royally, and all the other investors. But that’s not the reason I’m doing this.”

He sat down again and looked squarely at Steve. “My parents were Holocaust survivors. Their stories were horrific. I became a student of German history. How Hitler rose to power. How the German political leaders and businessmen who might have stopped him, didn’t.

“You guys are putting your lives on the line. I might as well chip in. I’m not saying Stokes is Hitler.” He raised both hands. “But he isn’t George Washington, either.”

They talked for another hour about potential operations, what their needs might be. At the end, Pearlstein jotted down details of a special bank account. “It’ll be set up by tomorrow. You’ll get the password. Also, if you need a secure place to operate in London or New York, I’ll give you access to a room like this in my home in either city.”

Steve began to stand. It seemed like they were wrapping it up, but then Pearlstein asked, “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re basically painting a bull’s eye on your back. Why?”

Steve sat down again. It was like the discussion he’d had the other night in the park with the other two CIA officers. “I’m furious because Stokes is now running this country despite everything we found about him and the Russians. I’m furious because I think he’s unhinged – borderline psychotic – a danger to this country and to the world. I’m also convinced that people working for Stokes killed my closest friend. Finally, I can take the lead in this battle because I don’t have any family. I’ve got less at risk.”