Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

Brooks looked down at the yellow legal pad and then up at the two stone-faced sentries. The receptionist finally acknowledged her presence by saying, “That Mitch Rapp is a real charmer, isn’t he?”

Brooks looked at the woman. She was approximately fifty. A little overdone. Hair a bit too red, and makeup a bit too heavy.

“Excuse me?”

“Didn’t you spend a month in Europe with him?”

“It was hardly a vacation.”

The woman smiled and said, “I’ll bet.”

Brooks looked down at the blank piece of paper, her mind struggling to reconcile the severity of the situation with this older woman’s lustful fantasy. Brooks was way out of her league, without any sign of this thing turning out well for her. Sure, Rapp would be fine. He was Mitch Rapp. He had a career of successes he could point to, but she was just some little peon who would be labeled an insubordinate malcontent for the rest of her career. How could Rapp have possibly expected her to withstand this kind of pressure?

Stu Garret exited the Willard lobby onto Pennsylvania Avenue and turned immediately to his left. It was five to seven in the morning. He was tired and crabby. A night owl even as he approached sixty, Garret didn’t like to get out of bed before 9:00 or 10:00 if at all possible. But this morning he couldn’t sleep. There was simply too much on his mind. He needed to make a call. A gust of wind hit him square in the face and he swore out loud as he clutched for the fur-lined hood of his puffy down jacket.

“Six more days and I’m done with this shit hole,” he grumbled to himself.

Garret pulled the hood over his head and zipped the jacket all the way up under his double chin. Born in Detroit, he left when he was eighteen and never returned. He hated the weather, and the people. Detroit was for losers, and Garret wasn’t afraid to tell that to people. Especially his clients. The place was a shining example of how unions and special interest groups could come together to suck a city dry by driving off its tax base.

Southern California was the place to be. San Diego in particular, where Democrats were liberal on social issues only. Fiscally, they were as conservative as any northeastern Republican. The people who flocked to San Diego sunk their money into real estate. Very expensive real estate. They had worked too hard for their money to watch property values plummet due to the governance of a few bleeding-heart liberals. Abortion, gun control, and the environment were all hot-button issues across America, but in San Diego real estate was the big overarching issue. People’s entire life savings were tied up in their homes, and after living in sunny San Diego, retiring to Arizona or Florida made no sense. Garret couldn’t wait to get back to San Diego and his toys.

Garret took quick strides and kept his head down. His retainer for the campaign had been a million dollars. That was just for him. He was a one-man gun for hire. Stu Garret, the political savant. By the time the campaign was over he’d burned through the retainer plus another million. On top of that his contract called for a million-dollar bonus if they won. Garret was flush with cash. He’d now managed two separate presidential campaigns and won both. Candidates across the country were reaching out for his advice. He’d even received a few calls from abroad. He was at the top of the heap. People were lining up to hand him large retainers. For the first time in his career he considered bringing someone else on board.

Garret tried to tell himself it wasn’t about money. His home was paid for, his wife was as frugal as he was, and their only child, a daughter, had married an SOB of a trial lawyer who made gobs of money. The two of them, and their two children, lived up in L.A. with all the beautiful people. There was one area where Garret really spent money, though. He loved to collect vintage muscle cars and rare motorcycles. Beyond that he was pretty much addicted to golf, and then there was the big forty-two-foot cruiser he kept down at the marina. The boat and golf membership were for entertaining clients. Golf was a must. It was an intricate part of his business. He’d sealed more deals on the golf course than in an office by a landslide. The cars and the motorcycles, those were purely for his own gratification. He supposed they brought him back to his youth and his own father who had worked on the assembly line for General Motors. Back when they made great cars. Garret only collected American vehicles made before 1970. Everything made after that was shit. Although, Detroit had begun to turn out some decent vehicles lately. Ford had a new Mustang Shelby that was supposed to be out of this world, and Chevy was coming out with a new Camaro. If he caught another big fish this week he could buy one in every color.

That was part of the reason Garret had given into hanging around town. It was only Monday, but already the party’s big-money people were arriving for Saturday’s inauguration. He had meetings set up all week. Those running for the U.S. Senate or a state governorship were the only two he’d touch. He was done with congressional races no matter how much money they were willing to pay. He already had his eye on the next presidential campaign. No campaign manager had ever won three presidential elections.

Garret cleared the Treasury Department and was hit with another blast of wind. He turned left, put his head down, and reminded himself to avoid taking on any new clients from northern states. He continued east, passing the White House and picking up Pennsylvania Avenue at 17th Street. From there he angled northwest for two blocks to the building that housed what was left of the campaign offices. At the height of the campaign they’d leased two full floors. After their victory, ninety percent of the space was converted into transition offices for the new administration. The personnel and furniture all pretty much stayed the same. The only real difference was who paid the bills. During the race, the campaign wrote the checks. Now it was the federal government. To the victor go the spoils, or something like that.

The lobby was enclosed in glass. The floor was covered in white marble with a green border around the edges. In the middle was a black elevated desk that looked like it belonged on a sci-fi movie set. There was a black woman sitting behind the desk and beyond her were three elevator banks. Garret pushed his way through the main door and started for the elevator bank on the far right. Still chilled, he didn’t bother to take his hood off. He walked straight past the toy cop and the stupid little sign-in sheet.

“Excuse me, sir,” the security guard called from behind her desk. “I’m going to need you to sign in.”

Garret didn’t break stride. He pulled his office badge out of his left pocket and went straight for the elevator. He took it up to the fifth floor and stepped into an empty reception area. Red, white, and blue campaign signs hung from the wall like vintage artwork. The big banner right behind the reception desk was filled with signatures and a few drawings. It had been Ross’s idea to motivate the troops. They were going to present it to Alexander after he was sworn in on Saturday. Garret supposed it would be hanging in the man’s presidential library someday. Garret looked to his left and then his right. The floor was covered with dark gray carpeting and the walls were covered with light gray wallpaper. The place was bland, but more importantly, empty.

Garret pictured all the young volunteers still sleeping in the their hotel rooms. They were no longer volunteers of course. They were now on the government payroll. With the pressures of the campaign behind them, they were partying even harder than they had during the election, which one would think impossible. It was standard operating procedure on campaigns to provide volunteers with four things: coffee, food, liquor, and a place to sleep. The booze, the fact that the bulk of the volunteers were in their twenties, and the fact that they all pretty much stayed at the same hotel, created an interesting environment. If the general public had any idea how much fornicating happened on these campaigns, they’d be shocked.