John Gilstrap - At all costs

Helping himself to one of the wine-colored calfskin chairs at his conference table, Albricht shoved his thumb up under the seal and pulled open the Tyvek envelope, revealing a short stack of photocopied documents, along with a cover letter on Washington Post stationery.

Dear Senator Albricht,

Enclosed, please find copies of documents we recently received from an anonymous source, in support of allegations that you have regularly engaged in pedophilic and homosexual activities. Because of the criminal nature of these allegations, I thought you might want to comment before we went to press with it.

Should you be so inclined, I have included my business card for your use. As I’m sure this is very troubling news, you have my deepest sympathies, sir. Under the circumstances, however, I have no choice but to go with the story.

Sincerely,

Tom Ford

Albricht’s stomach seized as he tore the paper clip away and turned the page. He gasped audibly at what he saw: credit card receipts for membership in some outfit called the Homosexual Freedom Congress and for subscriptions to a half dozen underground publications specializing in pedophilic photographs.

“Oh, my God,” he moaned. The blood drained from his head. “Oh, my God.”

These were his signatures and his credit card numbers, but he’d never ordered any such materials! He’d authorized the legislation that made it a federal crime even to possess such things, for crying out loud. He’d even suggested the death penalty for the animals who produced them. How could anyone think for even a moment…

Then, in an instant, he saw what had happened. What was it that Frankel had said? We’ll both be on the news tonight… Jesus.

His phone rang, and Albricht closed his eyes. It had to be the reporter. Who else would call at this hour? He considered ignoring it but rose from his chair, anyway, his mind racing to put together a quotable quote but coming up empty. It was too soon, too new. He needed his staff, dammit, and he needed them right now, to put a respectable spin on it all, before he talked to the press. Before he said something he’d regret.

The phone rang a fourth time. As a practical matter, he had to issue a denial. The sooner the better. Otherwise, the morning paper would tell the world that he “could not be reached for comment”-code words interpreted by the public as a tacit admission of guilt. Still unsure of what he was going to say, the senator inhaled deeply, then lifted the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Hello, Clay,” a voice said. “I see your light is on. Have you opened your mail yet?”

Albricht scowled. Even at the Post, reporters had the decency to call him Senator. “Who is this?”

“Why don’t you call me Wiggins,” the voice urged. “Impressive materials, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The senator stalled for time as he turned on the recorder.

Wiggins chuckled. “Of course you don’t. Such shameful, horrible acts. I mean, really, Clay. Must you really turn to little boys for sexual relief?”

Albricht’s hands trembled as he listened to this outrage, and he clenched his teeth tightly enough to cause pain. “I don’t know who you are, Wiggins,” he hissed, “but I’ve got a message for you to deliver back to Mr. Frankel. If he thinks that I can be blackmailed…”

Wiggins continued to speak, without breaking cadence. “… I can’t imagine what the public reaction will be once the photographs are released.”

The words jolted Albricht into silence; and though he recovered quickly, the damage was already done. He’d shown a moment of fear, and now his opponent knew who was stronger. “There can be no pictures of something that never happened,” he scoffed.

Wiggins laughed again. “Oh, yeah? Well, I gotta tell you, Clay, they sure as hell look like you, with your pants down around your ankles. And that boy on his knees in front of you sure as hell isn’t old enough to shave…”

Albricht sat down to avoid falling. As he saw the whole game played out before him, he knew right away that he had lost. The documents in the envelope proved Frankel’s talents as a forger. Even if the pictures Wiggins described didn’t yet exist, in these days of computer morphing-where any face could be put on any body-how difficult could it be? And once released, the pictures would scuttle his career.

The Post would run a censored version of the photos, while the smut rags would doubtless run the uncensored ones, and the truth would become irrelevant. Even if he were miraculously to prove that the photos were the hoax that he knew them to be, he’d forever be the brunt of jokes in every comedy cafe in the world.

His hands shook as Wiggins droned on, the condescending tone in his voice churning Albricht’s bowels.

“… of course, I suppose those receipts in the envelope could be explained away pretty easily. You could always claim forgery. God knows there are a million ways to get a man’s credit card numbers.” Wiggins paused, as if to make sure he had Albricht’s full attention. “Are you with me, Clay?”

“What do you want?” Albricht growled.

“Just what’s best for you and your family. I’d just hate like hell for these pictures to end up on the networks. I’ll bet you’d have a hell of a time explaining them as forgeries. I mean, the media isn’t exactly your friend to begin with, and given the corroboration of those receipts, well, that’d be just one hell of a mess, don’t you think?”

Albricht closed his eyes, wanting to reach through the telephone to kill this man but able only to listen.

“Well, Clay, I’ve got to run. And listen, I’m sure you’ve recorded this call-maybe even traced it. You just say the word, buddy, and I’ll be happy to come forward. Maybe I can even have these things blown up to poster size for the news conference. That’d be a hoot, don’t you think?” Wiggins laughed one more time before the line went dead.

Albricht stared at the telephone for a long time after hanging it up. It was over. Everything. Just like that. A noble career brought to a disgraceful end. He could already hear his colleagues’ conversations in the hallways: He may deny it, but I’ve seen the pictures…

Washington was a town of images, and no force on earth was powerful enough to counteract the images just described. Even if he could prove them all to be forgeries, the damage to his career and to his reputation would last forever. The traditions of the Washington press corps were clear: speculation of guilt sold newspapers; innocence was something for the courts to prove. Once proved, the media might even report on the verdict-on an inside page, of course, unless the story ran as a sidebar to someone’s front-page insistence that the jury was wrong.

“God damn you, Frankel,” he said aloud. The son of a bitch had warned him, hadn’t he? Even as the anger swelled, a part of him admired the simple brilliance of Frankel’s plan. It left him utterly defenseless. If Albricht declared the truth-that Frankel had created these documents to deflect attention from his own questionable past-the nation would collectively roll its eyes and dismiss him as paranoid. Meanwhile, insiders who knew Albricht well, and who knew exactly what was going on, would merely become an extension of the problem. They’d scramble like frightened rabbits to distance themselves from their wounded colleague, even as they extended a handshake toward the perpetrator of the lie. No one could know when they’d find themselves next on his list.

It all crystallized for Albricht in an instant. Folding his arms on the table, he lowered his forehead onto his wrists and moaned.

“I’m fucked.”

Irene stood with her hands on her hips, mouth agape, as the manager of the U-Lockit Storage Company raised the door to unit 627. “I’ll say they were prepared,” she said.