“Morning, Haley,” said a voice behind her. It was a familiar voice, gruff and deep, belonging to the Senator.
Haley turned as the coffee began to brew. “Good morning, sir. You’re in early. How are you this morning?”
Senator Joseph McCraiben was a tall man, towering above his peers at six foot four. He was about sixty-five and his leathery face was lined with wrinkles, especially around the corners of his eyes and in between his brows. His clear, ice blue eyes were deep set in his face, fiercely glaring with Jacksonian fire. He had thick reddish-brown hair with streaks of gray along the temples and was clean shaven, making him look younger than he was. His ears were larger than average, as were his hands, great knobby knuckles that reminded one of a rancher’s hands. Broad shouldered, he was not overweight, but gave the impression of heaviness from the stocky yet tall frame of his build. He wore a black suit and red tie, straightforward in cut and with no fine cufflinks or lapel decoration. He was a simple, honest man who spoke gruffly, but to those who truly knew him, he was a most trusted individual with an undefeated love for his family, his friends, and his people. He had served in the army from ages eighteen to thirty, before settling down, marrying, and having three children, who were now quite grown. There still hung about him a military air, a certain discipline and total intolerance of waste or laziness. He moved with quickness somehow simultaneously rigid and agile.
“Feeling just fine as of now, seeing as I haven’t looked at the agenda for today yet. I heard rumors that I would be visited today by Ambassador Zepeda. I am a little less than thrilled at the prospect of having to express to him why his government should not be deploying their troops to the Columbian border. The escalation will be catastrophic. I have met many fine people from Venezuela. He is not one of them.” The Senator’s tongue was sharp, and before his morning coffee, decidedly so.
“You’ve spoken with him before, then?”
“Briefly,” replied the Senator. “Last year, when I was chair of the Foreign Affairs Committee. Remember, we voted to put sanctions on countries purchasing petroleum from Venezuela. Well, Zepeda comes into my office and tells me that I am single-handedly creating a scenario in which Venezuelan children are starving. He failed to mention that his government is the most corrupt in the world, and that this corruption - not my sanctions - is inflating the price of bread to 343%. When I gently reminded him that four individuals in the legislative body and the president of his country had been recently implicated in a financial and political scandal, and that perhaps mismanagement was the cause of the economic collapse, well, that went over like a lead balloon.”
Smiling, Haley lifted the glass carafe that now contained a decent cupful of coffee and poured its contents into her mug.
“I’ll be reviewing the markup materials for this afternoon, sir.”
The Senator nodded, and took a mug from the cupboard on the wall. “Oh, and Haley,” he said, as she stepped towards the door, “Come by my office before you start your work. I’d like to talk to you about something before everyone gets here. Get a second pair of eyes on something.” He disappeared from the doorway; Haley stirred cream into her coffee and then followed him.
She entered into his office and sat down across from him, resting her elbows on the wide wooden desk. Before him were the normal stack of files and papers, and on top lay an open folder full of papers. Philanthropic donation reports. The Senator had agreed to chair the recently-established Senate Oversight of Donation Reporting Committee, which was created after the philanthropic donation scandal two years prior that had incriminated seventeen legislators, three judges, and the director of the Office of Management and Budget. The one thing that the Senator appreciated less than stupidity was corruption.
“Here,” he said suddenly, and pointed with a knobby finger to one line on the report. He turned the paper towards Haley. “Look at this. This is actually kind of serious. I think the White House Chief of Staff is doing something financially shady.”
“Fifteen thousand donated by Snyder Reed to The Bluechrest Foundation.” She read the line, and shook her head. “I don’t see the issue. That’s not very much money. The Chief of Staff can donate his own funds. Were these not his own funds?”
Snyder Reed was the President’s Chief of Staff, a man of about forty five years with deep blue eyes and black hair, practical intelligence and military experience.
“No, they were his funds.”
“I don’t--I don’t see the issue.”
The Senator pulled out another paper and pointed again.
“Fifteen thousand donated…” read Haley, as he held the paper out to her. “This is from last month. Regular giving is not unusual, though.”
“Oh, well in this case it is very unusual, Haley.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t see why.”
“The issue,” said the Senator, turning the paper back toward himself and leaning back in his chair, “the issue is that The Bluechrest Foundation doesn’t exist.”
Haley frowned, skeptical, and googled it.
“Look,” she said. “Here it is--The Bluecrest Foundation--a philanthropic foundation dedicated to improving education standards.”
“That’s The Bluecrest Foundation.” The Senator smiled.
“Yes, that’s what I said,” answered Haley, very confused.
“Haley,” he said, closing the folder in front of him. “There is no ‘h’. Look again.”
Bluecrest. Bluechrest. Haley frowned.
“It must be a typo,” she said.
“No,” said the Senator. “Snyder Reed is not a donor to The Bluecrest Foundation.”
“How
