Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“If there’s no e-mail on his computer, why would there be any on her damn computer?”

“Well, sir…” A gym, even one with only two people in it, not counting Secret Service, is no place for nuanced conversation, and what Bucky had to tell the president was all nuance, little black dandelions of scheming. “I was thinking that it might be interesting to see what’s on her computer. If you see what I mean.”

“Huh?”

“If you see what I mean. Sir.”

The president grunted. “You don’t have to shout. Yeah, yeah. Well, what’s holding them up? Seize the fucking computer. They’re the FBI, aren’t they? You get a warrant, you say, ‘Hand over the computer.’ What’s the big deal?”

“The Fourth Amendment?”

“Fuck the Fourth Amendment.”

“That would be the FBI’s view of it, sir, but her lawyer is maintaining a different interpretation.”

The president pressed “Stop” and climbed off the treadmill. He was breathing heavily and glistening with sweat.

“The problem, sir,” Bucky continued in a lower voice, grateful for the cessation of the machinery, “is that to the extent we-that is, the attorney general and the FBI-put her in the hot seat, it could impact on our friend the Reverend Payne.”

“Prick.”

“Yes, sir, but nonetheless, our prick. Turns out that his nursing home corporation, Elderheaven, owns a one-third stake in the Budding Grove home where the incidents took place-”

“Incidents? Place was a damn slaughterhouse .”

“Yes. And the families of the thirty-six dearly departed are making quite a hullabaloo.…”

A smile came over the president’s face. “Well, isn’t that a damn shame.”

“But let us bear in mind, sir, that his support among the pro-lifers and evangelicals is going to be critical next fall. We’re going to need every single vote. So to the extent-I’m speaking hypothetically here, you understand-to the extent that Cassandra Devine were…somehow linked to this madman…that would certainly take the heat off of Gideon.”

“Hm. Yeah. Go on.”

“And to the extent that Cassandra Devine was implicated in a serial murder investigation, well…it would collaterally implicate Senator Jepperson. Problems solved.”

The president gave Bucky an appreciative look. “Keep going.”

“Jepperson and Devine are intimately linked. There’s even talk that they might marry.”

“Buck, is this one of those situations where I don’t really want to hear the rest of what you have to say?”

“I don’t see any need to drown you in details,” Bucky Trumble said, smiling. “You’ve got a country to run.”

“Awfully good of you to come, Frank, on such short notice,” Bucky Trumble said to Frank Cohane.

“No problem,” Frank Cohane said without bothering to sound sincere. He was wondering why this urgently requested interview was taking place not in the Oval Office, or at least somewhere in the West Wing of the White House, but in a decidedly downscale restaurant of indeterminate Oriental orientation called Wok’n Roll, in a decidedly downscale neighborhood of Arlington, Virginia. From the characters outside on the sidewalk, it looked more like downtown Santo Domingo or Citй-Soleil than an exurb of the capital city of the United States. The place felt- uch -sticky. At this stage in his life, Frank was more accustomed to starred Michelin restaurants.

Frank leaned in toward Bucky across the table. His body language said, I don’t want to be here, so why don’t you get right to the point.

“Frank, you know all about computers.”

“Bucky,” Frank said, “I own a software company with a market cap of fourteen billion. So, yeah, I guess I ‘know all about computers.’”

“I was wondering if we might enlist your help on a somewhat sensitive matter.”

Frank listened to what Bucky Trumble proposed. Bucky managed to make it sound like just an elaborate fraternity prank.

“Jesus, Bucky.”

“Is it technically feasible?”

Frank stared back. “Yeah. And technically illegal.”

“One day President Theodore Roosevelt was discussing a matter with Philander Knox, his attorney general. Knox said, ‘Oh, Mr. President, do not let so great an achievement suffer from any taint of legality.’”

“That’s a really inspiring story, Bucky. And how did it turn out?”

“Everyone lived happily ever after, prospered, and died in their sleep, old men.” Bucky stood and put out his hand. “The president said to give you his very best, Frank, and to let you know how grateful he is for your continued support. He also said to tell you how much he’s looking forward to showing you just how grateful he is.” Bucky winked. “At the start of Peacham version two. Thanks for making the trip east.”

Thus Frank Cohane, billionaire entrepreneur, was left to contemplate his stale bowl of kung pao seagull or whatever it was congealing in the bowl, in a dingy restaurant 2,500 miles from his coastal California Xanadu, where the air had the tang of salt and kelp and pine.

What a thing to ask a father to do, he thought. The nerve of these people.

Allen Snyder arrived at the office of Tucker Strategic Communications wearing an expression that did not augur good news. He told Terry and Cass that the FBI would be arriving shortly with a federal warrant authorizing seizure of Cass’s desktop and laptop computers. The judge had assented to the U.S. attorney’s argument that Cass’s scribble on the photo-“Keep up the good work!”-constituted probable cause to investigate whether she had directly influenced the Death Angel of Budding Grove.

“Bye, bye, autographs. Jeez,” Cass said.

Terry said, “At least we were able to delete some of the sensitive client-related stuff.”

Allen frowned. “Terry, there are certain things I’d rather you not tell me.”

“Whatever,” Terry said.

“I’ve done some research into data storage,” Allen said. “The bottom line is that there’s really no such thing as delete. There’s something called ‘hard drive mirroring.’ You think you’ve deleted it, but it lives on in some server in Kuala Lumpur. And it’s gettable. You remember the Abramoff e-mails, the Enron e-mails. Those were all deleted, too.”

Terry blanched. “Oh, my God.”

“I’ll do everything I can to limit the search. Under Rule 41 I can try to insist on being present during the search.”

The FBI arrived. As they were unplugging Cass’s desktop, Terry pulled Allen aside and whispered to him, “If you see any file names labeled ‘North Korea’ or ‘Otters’ or ‘Mink Ranchers’…”

The FBI agents left, Allen following.

“Well, gosh willikers,” Terry said, clapping his hands together, “what a great way to start the week. So, did you sign autographs for any other interesting people? Osama bin Laden? The Taliban?”

“Oh, relax, Terry. They didn’t seize your computers. No one cares about your sea otters.”

“Oh yeah? I promise you, my little senior vice president of Tucker Strategic Communications, that ExxonMobil will definitely care about our sea otter proposal-if they read about it on the front page of The Washington Post. ”

“All right,” Cass said. “I’ll activate Randy. What’s the point of having a U.S. senator for a boyfriend if he won’t intervene with the FBI for you?”

Terry snorted. “I hear the galloping hooves of cavalry.”

“Honey bun,” Randy groaned, “I can’t meddle with an FBI investigation. For heaven’s sake. I might be appointed vice president of the United States. How would it look?”

“I’m not asking you to meddle. Just to call up the director of the FBI and tell them not to leak client-related stuff to the press.”