Close Quarters

TWENTY-SIX

Walter Conkley was in a blue funk. Ever since the meeting with Chapin, Cassler, Teller and the brutally threatening Howard J. Benson, he’d been looking over his shoulder. He had no illusions about his position relative to their activities, and was aware that he was allowed into their circle solely because of the level and nature of the information he could bring them from his place at the seat of government. He was also aware that the four men clearly had interests that went far beyond their think-tank status and their stated interests in the intelligence and security apparatus or, as it now seemed, the welfare of their country.

After what he’d heard Teller say earlier, he knew that there had been a subtle shift in his situation, and that there was no going back. Making profits out of war was nothing new; men had done so over the years, both in and out of government. But it was mostly unsaid and understood to be the prerogative of a few ruthless — and mostly nameless — entrepreneurs. What Teller had inadvertently opened the door to was the idea that this small group had plans which were not solely centred on the continued welfare of the Intelligence Community, as they pretended, but on their own financial interests. That their patriotic support of that community and the future of American foreign policy had been little more than a front for their own plans.

He wasn’t a friend of such men, but he knew enough about them to have instantly divined where their discussion regarding European fuel and energy problems was taking them. And the idea of being caught up in that kind of deal worried him.

But not as much as the knowledge that he was now a marked man.

That had become evident in the seconds following Teller’s comment, when Conkley had seen a glint of something in Benson’s eyes; something that had sent a shiver right through him. Working alongside the most powerful men and women in the United States, individuals with the ability to make things happen that could shake the entire world, had become something of a norm. He’d been impressed, even intimidated by their personalities and the aura surrounding the real movers and shakers, but that had diminished over time at the knowledge that it was merely politics, and that the power was usually aimed at others far away.

However, the look Benson had thrown at him was something he’d never seen before. It was a malevolence that had come out of nowhere and aimed right at himself.

The look of a predator.

And Conkley was the prey.

He checked the ATM slip in his hand. It showed the balance of the secret account he had set up when first suborned into providing information for the Dupont Group; the account where regular payments were deposited that would go some way, he hoped, to cushioning a retirement against the privations of an inadequate pension and a depressing future. He had no idea which of the four men physically paid him the money, only that it came with the unspoken proviso that it guaranteed his absolute discretion and lack of curiosity about their work.

Well, he’d certainly come as close as he’d ever imagined to blowing that proviso out of the water. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He scrunched up the ATM slip and threw it in a nearby trash can. Then in a moment of panic snatched it out again and tore it into tiny pieces. In a town where guarding secrecy was a way of life, paper trails were every bit as useable as electronic ones. And the amount on the slip was substantial enough to cause an instant investigation by Justice Department officials and the FBI if it was ever revealed.

He checked his watch. Several hours had gone by since the meeting. There had been no follow-up from Benson or the others, which was a bad sign. Common sense and a civil servant’s in-bred instinct for survival told him he should talk to somebody; somebody with a Teflon disregard for the kind of power people like Benson could wield. But that encompassed a very small and select group of individuals and would mean signing off the end to his career. Guilt by association was a hard charge to shake off — but possible given the right support. However, taking financial fees — payoffs — for the unauthorized disclosure of confidential government information was covered by all manner of secrecy regulations, and would settle around his head like a black cloud.

It would mean jail time.

He imagined the alternatives, toying with options and trying to convince himself that he was overreacting. If he kept quiet, maybe the problem would simply go away. What if he’d imagined the look in Benson’s eyes as being nothing more than annoyance with his friend and talkative co-schemer, Teller? Maybe Benson had been embarrassed, and the look had been nothing more than that of a man trying to cover up a friend’s indiscretion.

But the idea refused to go away and he felt sick with indecision.

Traffic was light, so he decided to walk. Clearing his head through exercise and fresh air would allow him time to think about what he should do next. He waited for a gap in the traffic and turned across the street towards a small park bordered by trees. Trees brought calm and serenity.

He took out his cell phone and scrolled through his address book. His mind was made up. It was too late for regrets; all he could do was make sure that he maximized the potential of the situation.

Over the years he had amassed an impressive roll of contacts throughout government and the private sector, including the media. Maybe it was time to consider the fourth estate to help resolve his fears, just in case a backup plan was required and he needed some protection.

After all, there were plenty of journalists out there who would give their mother’s right arm to be able to bring down a self-important and overbearing bully like Senator Howard Benson. All they needed was a nice juicy scandal. Sex used to be good, but Clinton had rubbed the magic stone on that one and reduced its effect. Financial, then. Like most politicians Benson had enemies; you didn’t get to the top of a local, state or national tree without stamping on toes, and some people never forgot an injustice. And if self-interest and financial gain while in high office were part of the mix, that would be enough for the knives to come out.

All Conkley had to do was find the right media person — one who would relish the opportunity to get his or her own back on one of the big beasts of Washington. Someone who would pay for the privilege and add to his secret account. Then he had to work out how to keep his own name out of the spotlight and his hands clean.