The Patriots' Club

52

In the spacious parlor of his Georgetown townhome, Senator Hugh Fitzgerald kicked his stockinged feet onto an ottoman and succumbed to the pleasures of his worn and comfortable leather chair.

“Ahh,” he sighed loud enough to rattle the windows. “Marta, a glass of Tennessee’s finest, por favor. And generoso. Muy generoso.”

From the start, it had been a taxing day. A prayer breakfast with his conservative counterparts across the aisle at seven-yes, even Democrats like Fitzgerald believed in God-was followed by the usual office business, the meeting and greeting of visiting dignitaries from his home state. Today, that meant pumping hands with the head of the Vermont Dairy Promotion Council and saying hello to this year’s National Spelling Bee champion, an impressive young man who hailed from Rutland. Then came the “specially scheduled” appropriations hearings that had drawn on and on.

Six point two billion dollars to refill the military’s pre-positioning depots, or pre-pos, as they were called so affectionately. It boggled the mind that the armed forces could require so much money. Six point two billion… and that just to return the country to fighting fettle. It was a minimum. Not in any way earmarked to expand manpower, or to gear up for imminent conflict. Six point two billion dollars to bring the water back to the level mark and ensure that the United States of America could respond with adequate force to two regional conflicts. Six point two billion dollars to buy boots and bullets and uniforms and MREs. Not a dollar of it to commission a new tank, buy a new airplane, or build a new boat.

The terrible irony was that while America had the finest equipment and the best-trained troops, she did not have enough money to finance their use in battle. Waging modern war was prohibitively expensive, even for the wealthiest nation on the face of the globe. One year prosecuting a half-assed war against a pitiable opponent had cost the country over two hundred billion dollars. And for what?

As chair of the appropriations committee, Hugh Fitzgerald was party to the nasty details the public could never see. Like the fact that a crack division of the army had run out of food for two days-not a biscuit or tin of peaches to eat. Another had gone short of water, preventing it from joining in an attack. His favorite tidbit belonged to the marines. An entire battalion had actually run out of bullets during a prolonged engagement in the Sunni Triangle. Bullets. The little devils cost fifty cents apiece, and the fightingest men on God’s green earth had run out of them. Even those dirty little Arab bastards had bullets. They had ’em by the truckload.

“Here you are, Senator.” Marta padded into the room and handed him the evening’s cocktail.

“Gracias,” he said. “Yes, yes, muy generoso. You’re too good to me.” He took a generous sip and set down the glass. “Come, Marta, sit next to me. An old man requires some attention after a long day.”

Marta squeezed onto the arm of the leather chair. She was a svelte woman, barely a hundred pounds. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she smiled at him with dark, mournful eyes. Slipping a hand behind his neck, she began massaging his shoulder.

“That’s better,” he said. “Very good, indeed.”

Fitzgerald closed his eyes and let Marta’s hands do their work. It was hard to believe such a slight woman could be so strong. Her fingers were like steel. He sighed as her kneading broke his tension into little pieces and banished it to another place. He decided he needed more of this and fewer battles on the Hill.

Six point two billion dollars. He couldn’t get the figure out of his mind.

He might be able to push off the bill this session, but it would be back the next, and then with another billion or two tacked on for inflation. Part of him thought this the best course. Delay. The fox couldn’t raid the henhouse if he didn’t have any teeth. On the other hand, there was the security of the country’s men and women to think of.

Fitzgerald considered Jacklin’s offer of a post at Jefferson Partners. There were worse places to end a career, he conceded, even if he did despise the vain, cocksure man. Politics, however, had forever ruined his ability to hold a grudge. There was no such thing as friendship on the Hill, or its opposite. There was only pragmatism. He imagined himself strutting the halls of the investment bank, welcoming clients to his large, well-appointed office. A view of the Potomac would be mandatory. There would be prestige and power and money by the boatload. He didn’t have to look far to see what a partner at Jefferson earned. Jacklin and his ilk were billionaires to a man. Billionaires. He’d seen a few of the homes and the cars purchased by men who’d made their name on the Hill, then gone and sold it to Jefferson.

Fitzgerald had grown up on a dairy farm in the thirties and forties. Having money meant buying a new set of clothes for Christmas and putting three meals on the table each day. If they were lucky enough to make a trip to the coast each summer, they were considered rich. His father never made more than two thousand dollars a year his entire life.

A billionaire. If Jacklin cared so deeply about the troops’ well-being, he should throw a few hundred million of his own into the kitty. Not that he’d notice it gone.

The strong, supple fingers continued their work, kneading away the tensions of the day, clearing his mind. Fitzgerald weighed his alternatives. Another run for office. Six more years working the corridors of power. Six more years of horse-trading… and with it, the promise of expiring under the Chesapeake sun. It was too much for a Green Mountain boy to take.

Of course, he could return home to his wife, take up a teaching post at the university, and earn even less than he did now. He snorted loud enough to make Marta jump. “Excuse me, dear,” he said, opening his eyes and gazing at the kind, loving woman next to him. And Marta?

Reaching out a hand, he patted her leg. She grasped it, and slid it toward her thigh.

“Lord, no,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, guiding his hand back to a safer area. “The very thought exhausts me. I’ve got a party to go to this evening. Any hanky-panky, and I’ll be out till the morning.”

Marta smiled. She was hot-blooded, was what she was. He brought her close and kissed her on the cheek. He could not leave his Marta.

Six point two billion dollars.

These days, it wasn’t that much money, was it?

Later, he told himself. He would decide later.