“And ended his connection?”
“Hardly. I can’t tell you how much stock he still owns, but I guarantee it’s a hell of a lot.”
“It’s all in a blind trust,” Jonathan Westwood added. “Common practice for elected officials.”
“That’s his financial connection. And he certainly didn’t end his personal connections. Or his political connections, for that matter. Brad Collins probably raised more money for Anderson and Dandridge than anyone in the country. EGenco loaned them their private jets during the campaign, supplied a fortune to PAC groups under the guise of organizing nonprofit organizations, whatever they could do.”
“All this stuff. . the things that are being investigated. . the business irregularities. . happened under Dandridge’s watch.”
“That’s the question. Very little has been made public.”
“And the lawsuit about the energy policy. .”
“Same answer. These guys are so damn secretive. And no one’s been able to force Dandridge to reveal a thing. Thus the lawsuits.”
“But what’s being thrown around as an accusation. .”
“What’s being thrown around is that Dandridge, soon after he and Anderson were elected, called a meeting of some of the top energy experts in the country. And that’s where they set the administration’s energy policies. Which were, obviously, extraordinarily favorable to the energy industry. The only irregularity, the only bump in the policy, was when they shocked everyone and went against the oil companies to protect that land up in Alaska.”
“The National Petroleum Reserve,” Jonathan put in. “It’s several million acres.”
“Yeah,” Justin said. “I read about that. Why do you think they did that?”
“Why do they do anything?” Jonathan’s dad answered. “Political expediency. They feel confident they’ve got big business and energy support no matter what they do. So I assume this was a nod to environmentalists, a way to stave off criticism that they’re in anyone’s pockets. Pretty effective, too.”
“So who was at the big energy policy meeting?” Justin asked.
Mallone shrugged. “No one knows. That’s part of what they’re refusing to release. All I’ve got are rumors.”
Now Jonathan Westwood shook his head and said, “Christ, everyone knows who was there. It was Dandridge’s cronies from EGenco and a few of the Saudis.”
“Why would they include the Saudis?” Justin asked his father.
“Why would they tell the Saudis about attacking Iraq before they tell their own secretary of state? Because the relationships between Dandridge and Anderson and the Saudis go way beyond anything political. They’ve all made each other rich. The Saudis don’t do anything that’ll piss us off-at least not when it comes to oil supplies and prices-and we don’t do anything to piss them off. We keep them in power-we’ve got military forces over there to make sure no one rises up against them-and they make guys like Dandridge and Anderson even richer. And you wonder why no one trusts politicians.”
Justin took a deep breath. What the hell was he doing? He was supposed to be investigating a rigged plane crash. Now he was talking about Saudi royalty and the vice president of the United States and oil prices and SPEs. He wanted a nice little shot glass of scotch. Maybe even two. Or, now that he thought about it, three. Instead, he gulped from a plastic bottle of Fiji Water and listened as his father took over the conversation, explaining what he knew-either personally or secondhand-about the past and present personalities that ran EGenco. Justin absorbed a crash course in big-money backroom political relationships and financial kickbacks and government contracts and the cost of money. And he’d never been so glad in his entire life to hear a knock at his front door because his head was spinning and he was overwhelmed at how all he’d meant to do was open a door just a crack and what he’d really done was let in a cyclone.
He had to smile when he opened his front door for real. The cyclone analogy was not a terrible one, because standing there was Bruno Pecozzi and a woman Justin thought might be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Thought you might like to have some lunch,” Bruno said. “This is Connie Martin. She’s the star of the movie I’m working on. We’re hungry and I told her about you so she thought maybe you’d want to get a sandwich.”
“Nice to meet you,” Justin said to the actress. To Bruno he said, “How’d you find the house?”
“Very difficult,” Bruno told him. “But you know I have, how shall I put this? — contacts. So I made a few calls and asked around and then, ’cause I’m kind of a nut, I looked you up in the fuckin’ phone book. You gonna ask us in or what?”
Justin stepped aside and waved them forward. “We were in the middle of a business meeting, but I think we can use a break.”
“Mr. Westwood.” Bruno recognized Justin’s father, took a step toward Jonathan. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Bruno Pecozzi,” Justin said, as his father’s eyes narrowed and he moved his hand in Bruno’s direction so it could be shaken. “And Connie Martin.”
Justin turned to see that Roger Mallone’s mouth was agape and his jaw had dropped, cartoon-like, as far as a human jaw could stretch. At first Justin thought it was a not uncalled-for response to Connie Martin’s presence. Then he realized that Roger wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to the blonde woman in jeans and a midriff-baring T-shirt. He was staring at the huge man who was dominating Justin’s living room.
“Hey,” Bruno said, turning slowly to Mallone, “I know you.”
Roger didn’t say anything or make a motion to shake hands. He just swallowed deeply, and then Bruno said, “Where do I know you from?” When Roger still said nothing, Bruno snapped his fingers and said, “You were on the jury.” He turned to Connie. “Talk about your small world. I was on trial for somethin’. . not a big deal. . and this guy was on the jury.” Turning back to Roger, he said, “Right? I never forget the face of a juror.”
“That’s right,” Mallone said. He spoke as if the words were physically stuck in his throat.
Turning to Connie Martin, Justin added, “It was a little bit more of a deal than Bruno’s making it out to be. He was on trial for loan sharking and extortion, if I recall.”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Bruno said.
“He got off because one juror refused to convict. Seems to me there was a decent amount of talk about jury tampering.”
“You musta been one of the ones voting guilty, huh?” Bruno said to Roger.
The financial adviser, as white as Justin had ever seen him, nodded stiffly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bruno said. “I don’t hold a grudge. And the whole thing had a happy ending anyway, right? So forget about it.”
Bruno stuck out his hand and, with one more gulp, Roger shook it.
“So we gonna have lunch or what?” Bruno said. “My treat.”
21
Nuri Al-Bazaad sat in his Buick, in the parking lot of the fast-food restaurant, and used the cell phone he’d been given to make the call he’d been instructed to make. When the voice on the other end answered, all it said was, “How long?” Nuri had already calculated the time it would take to get out of his car, walk into the restaurant, and find what he needed to find.
“Two minutes and twenty seconds,” he said into the phone.
The voice said, “You have three minutes. Starting. . now.”
Nuri was already moving when he hung up the phone. Out the door, across the lot, past the five or six big American cars parked there. Through the heavy glass door. Step inside. He looked around, as he’d done during his test run, but things had changed. They had moved. No. Just two of them had moved. The third one was right where she’d been.
Nuri had to make a decision. He went for the two. They were standing in front of a small counter that held ketchup and mustard and napkins and plastic forks and spoons. He went up to the person he was supposed to go up to. They had said not to talk, just to stand there, but he wanted to speak, wanted to say something that might be comforting. So he walked right to her, leaned forward, and spoke into her ear.
