Chapter 23
Kent hated his life sometimes. Most of the time he was master of the universe, moving the earth and exerting power over life and death, a kingmaker, a demigod of sorts. But sometimes he was bitch-slapped by fate and had to grovel and mewl to the real powers that be, who were predictably less intelligent or visionary than he.
This was one of those times.
He pushed the door open to the club, and the perennial, discreet, ageless man in black tie motioned for him to follow without uttering a syllable. They proceeded to a different room than the last time — this one slightly larger and equally ostentatious. Inside, the Speaker of the House and three other older men sat scowling their discontent.
“What the fuck, Kent? Explain to me what happened, and where we go from here…” the Speaker of the House blurted.
Kent studied each of their faces in turn, before replying. He sat down and sipped from the water glass at the side of his place serving.
“We lost this round. Everything was going perfectly, and then at the last minute, something went wrong. It happens. I haven’t gotten a full briefing yet, but I expect details will creep in over time. It appears that the assassin who can never fail…did exactly that.”
“Are we exposed in any way?” a concerned voice asked.
“No. By using a straw man, in this case the drug lord, Santiago, we created a Chinese wall. Total deniability. It was a Mexican, trying to kill the Mexican president, for reasons only known to Mexicans. End of story. They kill each other all the time. This time, it didn’t happen. And everyone goes on to fight another day.”
“Well, this sucks. I’m not sure we’ll get another chance before the elections,” the Speaker of the House complained.
“Probably not,” Kent agreed. “A domestic assassination won’t fly. This was perfect — our beloved President executed by slack-jawed madmen, our Vice President stepping bravely into the breach…shit, it had Lyndon Johnson written all over it. The VP would have been a landslide victory, and we would have been guaranteed another four, or even possibly eight, years. Now, we have to go with the cards we’ve been dealt, namely an unpopular candidate fighting headwinds.”
Another man chimed in — in his seventies, almost completely bald, with rodent-like features and darting eyes.
“What if his plane or helicopter went down? Wouldn’t that stoke the sympathy fires?”
“Not nearly the same. In the first scenario, you have somebody else to blame — in this case, a group that many Americans have been coached to hate. Evil Mexicans. Satan’s foot soldiers, killing our beloved leader as he heralded a message of peace and hope. With a domestic assassination, it’s not so easy or clear, and you can’t harness the fury factor. Let’s learn from the whole war-on-terror gambit. Give the country someone with different cultural mores or skin color or language, and it’s easy to characterize them as the enemy. But if it happens domestically, even by Muslims or whatever, it’s not so clear-cut, especially after the last administration’s flubs, invading other countries. For these things to really work, you need an undeniable, larger-than-life bad guy. That doesn’t work so well if it’s domestic.” Kent paused to let the reality of the situation sink in. “This would have been perfect, but it’s over and done with. We got close enough to kiss, but no sex. It happens. We just have to move on.”
The Speaker of the House pondered his words. “All right. Kent’s talking sense. We need to shift gears and get into campaign support mode. It would have been nice, but hey, we gave it our all and lost in overtime. Next time, maybe we win.” The speaker looked around, trying to collect a consensus. “Are you with me? And Kent. You did a remarkable job. We just had some bad luck. We’re not holding it against you, and I want you to know you’re still a valued member of the team.”
A chill ran up Kent’s spine. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve worked very hard to keep everyone’s confidences, and I hope I get to continue doing so for a long time,” he volleyed. Let them suck on that. There was no way he was going to wind up trying to swim with an engine block chained to his feet. If they had any bright ideas about taking him out, that would give them pause.
The speaker held up his wine glass, toasting Kent.
“To another day.”
~ ~ ~
Cruz stood at the foot of Briones’ bed, Dinah next to him, watching the monitor track the steady beating of his heart. It hadn’t been too long ago that Cruz had been the one in this position. The view from the ambulatory side was better.
“The doctor says you’ll be fine. A week living in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by beautiful young nurses, enjoying the fine dining of the hospital commissary, and then you’ll be playing tennis and cross-country skiing again in no time,” Cruz assured him.
“You might want to get your skull checked while you’re here. You sound delusional,
“Seriously. How are you feeling?” Dinah asked.
“I’ve been better. But all things considered, this could be a lot worse. The blood loss was the main problem; the actual wound wasn’t a big deal. If it hadn’t hit an artery, I could have walked into the doctor under my own power,” Briones assured her.
“Well, it seems you’re going to get a commendation. And you managed to duck all the flack that came from you manhandling that poor innocent tomato-guy. It was hard for anyone in management to bitch when you’d taken a bullet keeping the presidents alive,” Cruz reflected. He turned to Dinah. “Would you give us a few minutes? There are a few work things we need to discuss…”
“I still remember where the soda machine is.” She appraised Briones, and then Cruz. “I’ll see you in a few,
“You’re in real trouble there,
“You may be right.” Cruz pulled a chair to the side of the bed, and sat. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so I’ll just tell you what I know and save you the trouble of drilling me. First, no, we didn’t catch him. Second, no, we don’t know where he is. Third, nothing we did stopped him. The truth is that the two presidents were saved by a hyperactive schoolboy amped up on too much sugar,” Cruz explained.
“Come again?”
“Well, once you’d been stabilized at the local hospital in San Jose del Cabo, I went back over to the site, and we examined the
“I don’t understand. So why didn’t it explode? What happened?”
“The detonator was located in the bull’s nose, concealed by the steel ring. The best our experts can tell, the wire from the battery had worked free — it was less than a millimeter out of place, but that millimeter was enough to render it useless. The battering from the kids slamming it must have jarred it loose. That’s the only explanation,” Cruz concluded.
“But I don’t understand. They weren’t hitting it yet when
Cruz nodded. “Correct. I didn’t understand it either, so I went by and talked to the teachers as the kids were waiting to leave. One of them told me that a few of the boys had been bashing it like mad in the tent, and she had to fix it with a pen to cover up the evidence of the damage — most of it inflicted on the bull’s head. So the kids’ misbehavior saved everyone’s life. Not our efforts. We actually failed quite miserably…”
“My mom used to say, it’s better to be lucky than smart,” Briones observed.
“Your mom was a smart woman. I have no argument,” Cruz agreed. “Though whether she was lucky with her offspring…”
Dinah returned, and they made small talk for another few minutes before Briones began to visibly tire. For all
