His desk looked as though children had made a game of constructing a city out of manila folders crammed thick with paper. Small towers of the buff-coloured folders rose up from the leather desktop in a strict grid formation, giving the impression in the soft lamplight of a city skyline, built for play. But games, he didn’t need. Culver was tired.
He glanced across at the old, brass wind-up chronometer on his bookshelf. It was coming up on six in the evening. The ticking of the clock, the green shaded desk lamps throwing their mellow light down on the miniature city blocks of paper files, but leaving the upper reaches of his high-ceilinged office in relative gloom, all created the impression of an archaic museum exhibit. The office of a university don, preserved from the late 1800s. But he preferred it that way. Clockwork timepieces did not fail when the power went down, or their batteries ran out, and the necessity of winding them up at regular intervals imposed an exemplary discipline upon the mind. The paper files, too, might give the impression of bygone inefficiency, but in his experience, the efficiency with which electronic files could be copied and rapidly disseminated to a virtually infinite audience made working with hard copy a no- brainer. The security issue he dealt with by having two Marines on guard at his door whenever he had to break out the files. These folders, for instance, would remain stacked on his desk overnight, just in case he was able to sneak away from the President’s fundraiser in a couple of hours, to squeeze in a little bit more Machiavellian plotting.
For now, unfortunately, duty called him back to human contact. He had a short amount of time to freshen up and change before dinner and drinks with a roomful of potential donors. He already knew from past experience that Kipper would be absolutely hopeless when it came to putting the bite on people, so that was another unpleasant necessity that would fall to him.
He stood, with arms folded, his chin resting on his broad chest, and sighed. Somewhere in that mini Manhattan of paper was an answer. He had towers of documents detailing Blackstone’s official efforts to resist and undermine the settlement programs down in the Federal Mandate, and two solid blocks of binders containing classified files, among them investigators’ reports about Fort Hood’s suspected complicity in the ‘unofficial’ resistance to Seattle’s settlement program.
He had Treasury reports going into fine, granular detail about Blackstone’s abrogation of federal-state cost and revenue sharing agreements, and more Treasury reports, from the Secret Service this time, particularising his administration’s many and complex contractual arrangements with foreign governments and corporations, all of them of contested legality, all of them designed to siphon off income that should have been going into the federal budget. Salvage agreements, mining and pastoral leases, technology transfer, even military sales. Blackstone was effectively running a shadow state. It didn’t matter how many times they dragged him off to the Supreme Court, his state law officers simply played to delay, or reformatted any commercial agreements to negate the case against them. Or sometimes, thought Jed with a great deal of chagrin, Blackstone just did as he damned well pleased and flipped off any court ruling he found inconvenient. As Kipper and he had discussed to the point of collapse, a law that cannot be enforced is not a law. It is a fatal weakness and a provocation to calumny.
He collected his jacket from the hanger on the back of his door, accepting that he would be back here later in the evening, probably working until the early hours. Because somewhere in that mountain range of files, he knew there had to be some point of weakness where he could apply pressure and break the administration of General Jackson Blackstone like a dry twig.
As he left the office, the two Marines standing guard outside, both of them armed, snapped to attention.
‘Thanks, fellas,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you got this shit job, but I’m very grateful that you’re doing it. When is your changeover?’
‘We will be relieved at 2100 hours, Mr Culver,’ replied the Marine nearest him. ‘It could be worse, sir. We could be standing sentry out in the cold.’
‘I suppose you could,’ he conceded. ‘And at least you’ll get to see some pretty secretaries walk by when they all go home in half an hour.’
‘Sir, yes sir!’ the men replied in unison, bringing a smile to Culver’s face.
‘Okay, same drill as always, then. Nobody goes in there but me. Also, the damn window is rattling around. I’ve got it locked, but I really don’t want to trust the security of the nation to a Depression-era thumb latch. So maybe if you just put your head in there occasionally and chase off any cat burglars who might come by, that’d be cool too.’
‘I’m a dog person, sir. It would be my pleasure,’ said the first Marine.
‘Good to hear. There’s hope for this country yet.’
He gave them a friendly wink and left to find his driver.
*
Jed had his family ensconced in a large four-bedroom house over in Madison Park. Back in 2003 it had been leased by Arthur Andersen on behalf of one of their executives who was working in-house with Boeing. The place itself had been owned by a two-dollar shelf company, the ownership of which receded in clarity through a series of property trusts, holding companies and increasingly obscure corporate entities. The executive, and Arthur Andersen for that matter, had both Disappeared. For all intents and purposes then, the house had no owner. Under the Real Property Act of 2005, it had become an asset of the state, and from there the family home of the Chief of Staff of the President of the United States. It wasn’t a sweetheart deal. He was paying full market price for the lease.
Marilyn and the kids loved the house. Unfortunately, for Culver’s purposes, it was just too far away. There were weeks when he virtually lived in his office, and to save time he had taken a small one-bedroom apartment two minutes away from Dearborn House. His wife, his third wife actually, who loved, loved,
‘Jedi Master!’ she squealed when he hurried in through the door.
Marilyn Culver was not going to be bothering the selection committee at Mensa anytime soon. But Jed had not married her for her brains. He had been attracted by her smokin’ hot bod and well-preserved looks - unashamedly so. She was one of those women other women hate, the sort who looked better as they got older. Having been drawn to his previous wives because of their looks, however, that had not been enough to put a ring on her finger. In Marilyn, Jed found an innocent soul, possessed of a naive faith in humanity that was entirely uplifting after having to spend his working day dealing with the worst aspects of his fellow man. Some of which aspects, he had to confess, he himself possessed in full measure.
He knew, as soon as he saw her standing all but naked in front of the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway, holding three formal dresses under her chin, what had been going on. She had been trying to choose an outfit for hours. The bed would be piled high with them. Even though this was just their bolthole in the city, Marilyn maintained a full wardrobe here. Some men would’ve lost patience, but he felt his spirits lifting and his eyes crinkling with a delighted smile.
‘There will be a great disturbance in the Force if you do not wear the glittery silver one that shows off your boobs, sweetheart,’ he called out down the hall.
She brought it to the forefront and tipped her head to one side, considering his advice. ‘You think so?’
‘If you don’t wear that dress, Marilyn, the terrorists have won.’
‘Can’t have that then,’ she said, sounding convinced.
He gave her a peck on the cheek and a playful pat on the rump as he hurried past to have a quick shower and climb into his monkey suit. ‘Don’t be long now,’ he told her. ‘We have to be at Kip and Barb’s place by seven.’
‘Just making myself beautiful,’ Marilyn pouted.
‘Too late,’ he shot back. ‘You already maxed out on that. Now, get into that sexy, sexy dress and get ready to distract some rich morons while I shake them down for filthy lucre.’
Unlike the choice of formal wear, which really could go on for hours - days if you counted the phone hook-ups and girlfriend conferencing that went into compiling a short list - Marilyn Culver was something of a Picasso with a make-up case. A few minimal brushstrokes here and there and she could create a masterpiece.
Jed found himself stirring in arousal as he emerged from the bedroom doing up the buttons of his dress shirt. She really was stunning, and unlike the trolls he had previously married by accident, her beauty went deep. It was a pity to waste it on some of the assholes she’d be entrancing tonight.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s take you out to dinner and a show.’
