The Enemy Inside

THIRTY-EIGHT

Cheng settled into the seat on the Chinese Army executive jet as it sped toward the Dabie Mountains. He was halfway along on his journey, the two-and-a-half-hour flight from Hong Kong back to Beijing.

As he looked down on the sprawling foothills he could see another dam under construction, one in a vast series of projects.

China had come a long way. Cheng may have been a godless bureaucrat, but he knew that his nation had been blessed more than once by Joss, the ancient Chinese god of good fortune. They had but one great adversary left in the world, America, and to Cheng’s thinking, based on every measure available to him, America was in decline.

While the United States was distracted with its Mideast adventures and its myopic focus on terrorism, China was busy investing in long-term infrastructure and industry, grabbing up critical global resources-oil, metals, and rare earth among others. Even the fabled iPhone and the Apple computer were assembled in China.

As America’s wars dragged on with no long-term political solution, voters grew weary. Cheng’s analysts in the Bureau predicted this result years before it actually occurred. They based their predictions on an earlier model, the war in Vietnam. The perceived American enemy was different, but the result was the same.

America, once in a war stance, had a tendency to perceive its enemy as a vast unified monolith. Cheng couldn’t be sure whether this was driven by military strategy or political ideology. But he and his analysts could see its effect. In Vietnam the monumental enemy was international communism, toppling dominoes that would consume the world if Vietnam was lost. In fact what was being waged was a war of nationalism by a country the size of California with an economy that was struggling to become third world.

Now the United States was gripped by an Islamic wave of jihad, hostility that transcended national boundaries, launched by a multitude of splintered subnational groups, many of them with different motives and grievances. There were so many of these that they defied identification. Even here, in the tribal chaos and ancient feuds of the desert, America had managed to inflate the balloon of a large unified enemy, an army of Islamic radicals. The violence was real, but the army, if it existed, was unified by only one thing-its hatred for the West, Europe and America. To Cheng and to China, this was a huge boon. They couldn’t have invented anything this beneficial if they had designed it themselves.

Cheng had to wonder if decades from now historians might look back and realize that what was actually in play were numerous wars of nationalism being waged across an entire region in the Middle East. Cheng suspected that this was the result of artificial boundaries drawn by the Western powers in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles at the end of World War One. These boundaries had completely ignored ethnic, religious, and tribal factions. Instead, colonial spheres of influence were carved out of the desert for the Western powers who won the war so that they could plunder the oil reserves just then being discovered. In a place where tribal blood feuds were millennial in duration, this was like planting the seeds of poison to be harvested in the future.

In America, after more than a decade of desert warfare in Afghanistan and Iraq, the party out of power won election and took control. America reversed course and withdraw its forces. Chaos ensued.

The American faction now out of power claimed that the winner so hastily abandoned the field and withdrew that they were now the authors of anarchy in a growing number of places in the Middle East. America’s partisan divide went global. Its allies began to question US resolve. From everything Cheng could see, all of this played into China’s hands. American allies who already had doubts concerning US military and political resolve began to double up on them, including many of the Asian nations that were China’s neighbors, its competitors in the race for the Spratly Islands.

One of these was the Philippine Islands. It was to this that Cheng now turned his attention. He was troubled by a report he had just received, the cable still in his hand.

Cheng knew that Joe Ying possessed his own private jet. It was a modern Gulfstream G650, a plane costing almost sixty million US dollars. It had a range exceeding eight thousand miles. More than enough to fly nonstop from Hong Kong to the American West Coast.

And yet upon leaving Hong Kong, Ying’s Gulfstream didn’t fly to California. Chinese radar and overhead surveillance showed the plane diverting to the Philippines. Cheng wondered why.

He alerted the Chinese embassy in Manila, and two agents were dispatched to see what was happening. As it turned out, Ying wasn’t topping off the Gulfstream with fuel. Instead, a limousine picked him up at the airport and transported him to one of the five-star hotels in downtown Manila.

Ordinarily this might have been a matter of little or no consequence, except for the fact that two hours later another dark Town Car was seen chauffeuring Ying to Malacañang, the white gingerbread building on the Pasig River that served as the Presidential Palace.

This was no coincidence. The Philippines had become China’s most serious rival in the increasingly contentious and sometimes heated conflict to win the Spratly Islands.

There was never any doubt among Chinese leaders that the government in Washington coveted the Spratlys because of their rich treasures. US oil and gas interests salivated at the thought. America no doubt regretted the fact that it had not claimed the islands as part of its vast Pacific “protectorate” in the days immediately after the Second World War, when American power went unchallenged. But at that time no one knew their value.

Now the United States was hobbled by new realities: the government in Beijing was a rising power, the waters around the islands were becoming a Chinese lake, and Washington could make no colorable claim to the islands due to their location remote from any US territory or possession.

For this reason they needed a game piece. Chinese intelligence, Cheng’s bureau, now believed that the Philippine government in Manila had become just that-America’s pawn in the battle for the Spratlys. If the United States could muscle the islands into Philippine hands, they would no doubt receive their share of the treasures.

Ying knew that his own intended prize, a generous slice of the rich oil and gas concessions, required that he be on the winning side. If he backed the loser, he stood to gain nothing.

The stakes in this contest were sufficiently high that Cheng couldn’t afford to take a chance. What was Ying doing at Malacañang Palace? If the United States prevailed, and it was later determined that Ying played a hand, Cheng’s association with him would be more than enough to take the dragon down. He would end his days chopping wood in some mountainous frozen gulag, or worse, tied to a concrete post already pockmarked by bullets.

It was near midnight. Proffit was back in L.A., lying in bed wide awake, listening to his wife snore through the wall in the adjoining bedroom. Home two days and he was already missing his liaisons with Vicki Preebles. The supple secretary may have been manipulative, but she didn’t snore.

Yet that wasn’t the reason Proffit couldn’t sleep. He was wondering whether to tell his wife about the phone call he received earlier in the day. He was afraid if he did, she would rip his head off. More than that, he was petrified that whatever he was now caught up in might take the firm down, or himself. He knew it had to do with Serna, but how? Until he had the answer to that, he had no choice but to keep it to himself.

Proffit was in his L.A. office and had been on the phone with Cyril Fischer, his number two in D.C., when the call was interrupted by a breaking tone from the intercom.

“Just a sec.” Proffit pushed the button on the phone. “I left instructions not to be disturbed!”

“Sorry, but I thought you might want to take this one,” said his secretary.

“Who is it?”

“An assistant to Senator Maya Grimes, says his boss would like to talk to you.”

“She’s on the line?”

“Extension six.”

“Tell him I’ll be right with her.” Proffit punched the button to Fischer. “Gotta take another call. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” He hit extension six. “This is Cletus Proffit.”

“Just a moment for Senator Grimes.”

A few seconds later the familiar voice came on the line. “Mr. Proffit?”

“Hello, Senator. How are you?”

“I’m good. I hope I didn’t catch you at a busy time.”

“Not at all.”

He wondered what she wanted. If it was a campaign fund-raiser, his firm’s dance card was already punched full. Since Serna’s death he had a drawer full of these, all of them bundled and mailed from the Washington office to his personal attention in case there was something Serna had been up to that he should know about.

“To what do I owe the honor?” said Proffit.

“It’s not about money, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She must have had a crystal ball. But then, these days why else would any politician be on the phone?

Proffit knew her, of course. Who in the state didn’t? They had met a few times, just in passing at crowded political and social events. But they were not intimates.

Proffit was a Democrat, a dyed-in-the-wool liberal who, when necessary, wore it on his sleeve. His specialty was entertainment law. He did enough work in and around Hollywood that his liberal credentials were as necessary to survival as breathing air.

Grimes had once been a Republican, a former state legislator, and was elected secretary of state for California. She had parlayed this into a successful bid for the US Senate almost twenty years ago. As the state turned increasingly blue, Grimes saw the fiery finger etch its warnings on the wall. She switched parties, but only halfway. She went Independent. That was twelve years ago.

This was about the same time that she and Serna had become tight, doing the women’s thing up on the Hill. At least according to the information that Proffit was able to dredge up. Grimes now caucused with the Democrats. Serna had taken bows for this. She claimed to be the instigator of Grimes’s conversion. Now there were growing rumors that the senator might actually become a Democrat before the next election. The world was full of opportunity for those who were sufficiently flexible.

Proffit wondered if that’s what the call was about. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually it involves an important matter of Senate business. I need help from someone who is knowledgeable and somewhat connected with the organized bar in our state. You come highly recommended.”

For a moment Proffit was flattered. “Of course, assuming it’s something I can do, I would be happy to help.”

“It is,” said Grimes. “You’re aware there are some vacancies on the federal courts in the state, for both the Southern District as well as the Ninth Circuit?”

“So I hear.” Proffit’s wife, who sat on the District Court in Los Angeles, was in fact a candidate for the appellate slot on the Ninth Circuit. According to information, she was on a short list in the White House, people who had already cleared all the non-binding hurdles at the American Bar Association and the State Bar. Proffit had put his own shoulder to the wheel, if for no other reason than to get his wife out of town. Once nominated and confirmed by the Senate, she would spend at least four days a week in San Francisco. Paradise to Proffit.

“The fact is, I am getting tremendous pressure from the criminal defense bar back there to the effect that they are underrepresented on the Ninth Circuit,” said Grimes.

“Is that so? I hadn’t heard.”

“I have talked to people in the White House and it seems there is some sympathy for this position there.”

Proffit thought about asking who at the White House, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him. His wife had been a civil practitioner before being appointed to the bench. Proffit could smell a rat. She was about to be passed over. Still, why would Grimes be calling him? Perhaps there was some way he could turn it around.

“One name keeps popping up,” said Grimes. “A criminal defense lawyer in Southern California by the name of Madriani. I’m told that you know him.”

Proffit’s heart skipped a beat. Couldn’t be the same one. Not the lawyer representing the driver who killed Serna?

“Where’s he from? What city?” said Proffit.

“San Diego area, I believe.”

“Paul Madriani?”

“That’s the one.”

“Somebody must be walking in my shadow,” said Proffit. “I met him one time. Couldn’t have been more than two weeks ago. If you’re looking for an endorsement or a review, I couldn’t recommend him. From what little I know, he doesn’t have the background.” What Proffit meant was the pedigree, hailing from a small firm outside the cloistered club of the organized bar. “Do you mind my asking where you got your information that I knew him?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. But he does have significant support in certain quarters, and according to these people he appears to be highly qualified,” said Grimes. “Beyond that, my office has already conducted a thorough background check. And I’ve notified the White House of my endorsement.”

“Then you didn’t call me for a personal review?”

“No,” said Grimes.

Proffit wasn’t stupid. Whatever was going on, he could smell Serna all over it. The fact that Madriani represented the man accused of killing her in an accident was no coincidence. He was curious to discover the connection so that the firm could tiptoe around it, avoid any fallout. At the same time he didn’t want to become personally involved.

“If you don’t mind my asking, can you tell me if Mr. Madriani has formally applied for the Ninth Circuit position?” Proffit was familiar with all the contenders. He didn’t remember seeing his name. If he had, he would have put the word out to his friends on the various reviewing panels to deep-six him. Two or three black balls were usually all it took to finish off somebody who didn’t have the horses in terms of political pull with the appointing power.

“The people who recommended you told me you had a way of coming directly to the point. That’s exactly what we were hoping you could help us with,” said Grimes.

“What?”

“We’d like you to approach Mr. Madriani and tell him that my office is inviting him to apply. We would like him to do so as soon as possible, unless of course he is not interested. But we think there’s a good chance he will be.”

“Wait, wait, wait! This is all very awkward,” said Proffit. “You do know. .”

“That your wife is a candidate for this position as well? Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that,” said Grimes. “I know this must be very disappointing for you, but you are aware of the custom known as senatorial courtesy? Sometimes they call it privilege.”

“Go on.”

“The fact is, for that vacancy, because it’s assigned to California, no other candidate can be scheduled for confirmation before the Senate without my consent.” She listened to him breathing on the other end of the line. “Just to let you know, I am already committed to Mr. Madriani’s appointment. I have advised White House staff to that effect. So you see, it would be to your benefit to use your best efforts to persuade Mr. Madriani to apply.”

“Just how do I do that?” Proffit was beginning to lose his temper. Smoke coming out of his ears.

“We have something that I am told will help. But before we get to that, you need to understand that there are currently twenty-nine active seats on the Ninth Circuit, and several judges who are nearing retirement. We expect at least two, possibly three vacancies in the next two years. Just so you know, your wife would be in an excellent position for any one of those other appointments. I would give you my assurance in those regards.”

For a moment Proffit wondered whether Grimes and Madriani might have been meeting together, in the sack. He took a deep breath. Grimes was putting him in a box and nailing the lid on. If he refused or failed, Grimes was in a position to block his wife’s nomination for higher appointment for as long as she was in the Senate. If so, and his wife found out, she would make Proffit’s life miserable, or worse, divorce him and take half the value of his partnership in the firm. She could ruin him.

“Of course this is assuming he’s inclined to do so. Not everybody wants to be on the bench,” said Proffit. “You say you believe he’s interested, but he hasn’t filed. I don’t get it.”

“Good. If you’re curious, then I’ll assume you’re on board,” she said. “Now this is all confidential. You do understand that?”

“I haven’t said I’d do anything.”

“But I’m sure you will. Right?”

Proffit thought about his options. “I suppose.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic,” she said.

“I’ll have to work on that later,” said Proffit.

“Of course. Take your time. But don’t take too long. So that there is no confusion later,” said Grimes. “I will be sending you a check in today’s mail, a retainer. Be kind enough to send me a fully executed retainer agreement, signed by you, to my office here in Washington.”

There was no response from the other end.

“Are you there?”

“You want to treat this as a legal matter?”

“Absolutely. I’m asking you for your assistance and advice as a lawyer.”

“On this?”

“You haven’t heard everything yet.”

“What else?” said Proffit.

“On the retainer agreement, if you have to describe any of this, just call it general legal advice. No need for any specifics.” She was being careful to cover her tracks.

Establishing an attorney-client relationship would seal Proffit’s lips, prevent him from talking to anyone else about their conversation without her prior, expressed written approval.

“There’s a case, a federal appeal. Well, actually, it’s more of a negotiation at this point, or will be shortly. In any event, the case is United States versus Rubin Betz.”

The instant the name was mentioned, Proffit sat bolt upright in his chair. He’d heard it before. In fact, he had scoured the Internet search engines at the office looking for anything he could find on Betz. Rubin Betz was the name Madriani had given him the night they met in the restaurant in Georgetown. The name of Serna’s old boyfriend. The synapse in his brain sent a jolt of adrenaline to his heart. Now Grimes was calling with the same name. Whatever it was, Serna was in the middle of it. Shit was about to rain down on the firm. Proffit could smell it.

“Mr. Betz is in the federal penitentiary at Florence, Colorado,” said Grimes.

“Supermax!” Proffit almost said, “I know,” but he didn’t. Instead he bit his tongue. Florence was dubbed the “Alcatraz of the Rockies,” where the feds sent the worst of the worst, tight controls, stories of complete isolation. From everything that Proffit had read, it was the one thing that didn’t make any sense.

Betz was a banker. At one time he worked for one of the large Swiss banks with branches in the United States. That was what got him in trouble, the charge that he had conspired with some US deposit holders to conceal overseas profits from the tax man. It was a white-collar crime, but he was doing time in the tightest maximum security prison in the United States.

“What did the man do? This guy Betz? You’ve got to do something bad to get sent to Florence.” He was hoping Grimes might tell him.

“You don’t need to be concerned about that. You can look it up later.” Grimes knew he would. She also knew that Betz wasn’t in Florence because of anything he’d done. The government put him there to prevent any harm from happening to the man, and not because they loved him. It was to avoid the public fallout that they believed would occur should he die in prison. Florence was the only place of incarceration within the federal system where they could adequately protect him and, at the same time, keep him from talking to anyone else. Betz had what a few of her colleagues on the Hill were now calling the Midas key. They were trying to deal with him, to put closure on the entire affair. The fear was that sooner or later some federal judge might cut him loose, or worse, reduce his term and send him to a minimum security institution, where if he got into an argument or crosswise with one of the gangs, another inmate might kill him. Even the fear that he might fall down a flight of stairs had some members of Congress walking the floors at night.

“Mr. Betz requires the assistance of a good criminal lawyer,” said Grimes. “He doesn’t yet know it, but he’s about to become involved in some rather complicated negotiations.”

“What kind of negotiations?”

“As they say in the military, that’s beyond your pay grade,” said Grimes. “All you have to do is carry the message. We want Mr. Madriani to offer his services. Betz has no lawyer at the moment. Tell Madriani he will be well paid for his services, if he cooperates.”

“What makes you think he’ll do it?” said Proffit.

“Trust me. He will.”

“How much is he being paid?” said Proffit. “He may want to know.”

“He won’t. We have it on good authority that he’s been dying to talk to Mr. Betz for some time. This is his chance.”

“And because of this you think he’ll file for the judgeship?”

“Even if he doesn’t, he’ll talk to Betz.” With that, Grimes hung up in his ear.