T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“Congressman Bryant’s office.”

“It’s me. Wynn.” He stepped back into the shadows of the Senate office building. “Who in our office is handling this Jubilee Amendment?”

“I believe Carter is holding those files.”

“Perfect.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m headed over to the White House now.”

“Your meeting’s been changed to the OEOB.”

Wynn started to ask what that was, then decided he’d rather reveal his ignorance to a taxi driver. “Have Carter meet me in the lobby.”

He clicked off, then dialed another number from memory. He still had some fury to vent, and his sister was scheduled to have arrived back from Ecuador that morning. Her convenient absence throughout the campaign had rankled deeply.

“The governor’s mansion.”

“Is Sybel Wells back yet?”

“Who is calling?”

“This is her brother, Wynn.”

“Of course, Congressman. She arrived about three hours ago. I believe she’s in her office. One moment, please.”

A pair of clicks, then, “Wynn? I was going to call you tonight-”

“What have you gotten me into here, Sybel?”

“Just a moment.” She spoke in low tones to someone else, then, “All right. What’s the matter?”

“I’m trapped up here in Washington. I’m drowning in bureaucratic garbage. Everybody is an enemy with an agenda I don’t understand.”

“Not everybody.”

He hated her calm, tight control. “Jackson Taylor is here, Sybel.”

“Of course he is. He’s the chairman of your party.”

“He asked to see me. Just to make sure I’d drop the Jubilee Amendment. You know what that is?”

“Certainly.”

“Did you also know Grant ordered me to kill it?”

“Grant told you that?” A pause, then, “So that’s why he didn’t fight my idea any more than he did.”

“Wait, it gets better. Grant threatened me, Sybel. He said he’d go public with our funds transfer-”

“Stop right there.” It was her turn for panic. “You’re a congressman now, do you understand me? You’re calling the governor’s mansion.”

“All right. Fine.”

“I’ll deal with Grant. You deal with Washington.”

“I don’t think I can.” A wrenching confession.

“Deal with it, Wynn.” Revealing her core of stainless Sybel steel. “I’ve got to go.”

The driver was from Outer Slombonia and drove a taxi that smelled like an imported camel. But even he knew what OEOB stood for, or at least he took off as soon as Wynn repeated the letters. Only they soon became caught in a long, simmering Pennsylvania Avenue traffic jam. Wynn glanced at his watch and saw he was soon to be late for his first appointment with White House personnel. He leaned forward to repeat, “OEOB?”

“Is Old Executive Office Building just there.” A swarthy finger pointed at the appendage attached to the White House’s right side. “You are walking maybe, yes?”

“Absolutely.” He paid and started hoofing it down the sidewalk. Someone should hand out a booklet to all incoming politicians, he mused, something entitled Welcome To The City That Will Eat You Whole. He glanced at his watch, started sprinting.

The OEOB was the kind of building Wynn might have enjoyed researching for a couple of days, entering only when he could greet it properly. This had become a habit of his in the first empty days, studying up thoroughly before diving into any new experience. The OEOB’s exterior invited that kind of study, a palace of age and dignity, an appropriate home to federal power. But Wynn was running to somebody else’s schedule now. He took only a moment to stand with a group of tourists, gasping for breath and combing his hair with his fingers while they flashed their video cameras. When they moved on, so did he.

Carter Styles was in the lobby waiting for him, and for once the man looked right at home. The lobby was utterly without charm, a monument to just how awful a job bureaucrats could do. Take one incredibly beautiful building and remodel the entry with a plywood security desk, steel-reinforced doors, and institutional gray-green paint. Fill the stone-walled chamber with echoes of self-important people, clanging metal detectors, ringing phones, and crashing security locks. Light it poorly with asylum-style hanging fluorescents. Welcome to the machine.

Carter Styles displayed a charm as paltry as the lobby’s. He showed his driver’s license to the guard, gave the name of their host, passed his briefcase through security, and marched Wynn down a high-ceilinged hall. All without speaking a word to his new boss.

The President’s gophers were a pair of quietly intense midlevels. A young man in an ill-fitting suit and checked wool tie met them in an outer office as cramped as Wynn’s, and led them into another tight cubicle. Only this one had an utterly awesome view of the White House, seen through the brushwork of new leaves. As Wynn gaped, the trio exchanged tight little smirks.

“We’re so grateful you could grant us a few moments of your time, Congressman. Why don’t you have a seat over here.” The spokesperson, Harriet something, was a tightly unattractive package with burning hazel eyes and a bulky knit suit. “Could we ask you what you have planned for this weekend and the Easter recess that follows?”

“I’ve got a little catching up to do.”

“We were wondering if we could ask you to represent the administration at a pair of international finance conferences.” The woman’s preppy tone managed to turn the request into a slur. “Apparently Congressman Hutchings was an official sponsor of both events. The first one takes place this Saturday in College Park, that’s about an hour’s drive from here. Congressman Hutchings was pressuring the President to attend. But you must already be aware of this.”

Wynn resisted the urge to turn and glare at Carter. “Is the President going?”

“Unfortunately he has meetings scheduled at Camp David. The Treasury secretary is also involved. The President thought you might make a natural replacement.”

The young man spoke up. “You’re no doubt aware of the Easter Conference. The Jubilee 2000 assembly in Cairo has been one of Hutchings’ pet projects for over a year.”

“He’s deluged the entire city with papers on this subject,” the woman agreed.

Wynn said slowly, “Cairo.”

The woman registered surprise. “You weren’t aware of this?”

Carter pointed out, “This is the congressman’s first day on the job.”

“It’s no big deal, Congressman,” the young man said. “If you refuse, it won’t cause an international crisis.”

“As far as this administration is concerned, the debt-relief issue is dead in the water,” the woman agreed. “Something we never could get Hutchings to understand.”

“Obviously the President wouldn’t expect someone fresh on the Washington scene to drop everything and fly off to the ends of the world,” the young man added. “Especially for a non-starter like debt relief. We were told to sound you out. Nothing more.”

“The College Park Conference is equally back burner,” the woman agreed. “According to our read on the situation, attendance will be limited to the sort who don’t matter.”

“We’re doubtful it will even get a mention in the national papers.”

“Anything the press considers below the event horizon definitely is not going to raise this administration’s flags.”

Wynn rose to his feet. “This has been most enlightening.”

The young man said, “So we can tell the President you won’t be attending?”

“College Park sounds fine.” If for no other reason than to do the opposite of what this snide pair expected. He headed for the door, not caring whether Carter was with him or not. “Cairo is definitely out.”