THE
BRETHREN


BY




JOHN GRISHAM











ISLAND BOOKS
Published by Dell Publishing a division of Random House,
 Inc. 1540 Broadway New York, New York 10036

Copyright Ž 2000 by Belfry Holdings, Inc.

ISBN: 0-440-29580-7




ONE

For the weekly docket the court jester wore his standard garb of well-used and deeply faded 
maroon pajamas and lavender terry-cloth shower shoes with no socks. He wasn't the only 
inmate who went about his daily business in his pajamas, but no one else dared wear 
lavender shoes. His name was T Karl, and he'd once owned banks in Boston.
The pajamas and shoes weren't nearly as troubling as the wig. It parted at the middle and 
rolled in layers downward, over his ears, with tight curls coiling off into three directions, and 
fell heavily onto his shoulders. It was a bright gray, almost white, and fashioned after the Old 
English magistrate's wigs from centuries earlier. A friend on the outside had found it at a 
secondhand costume store in Manhattan, in the Village.
T Karl wore it to court with great pride, and, odd as it was, it had, with time, become part of 
the show. The other inmates kept their distance from T Karl anyway, wig or not.
He stood behind his flimsy folding table in the prison cafeteria, tapped a plastic mallet that 
served as a gavel, cleared his squeaky throat, and announced with great dignity: "Hear ye, 
hear ye, hear ye. The Inferior Federal Court of North Florida is now in session. Please rise."
No one moved, or at least no one made an effort to stand. Thirty inmates lounged in various 
stages of repose in plastic cafeteria chairs, some looking at the court jester, some chatting 
away as if he didn't exist.
T Karl continued: "Let all ye who search for justice draw nigh and get screwed."
No laughs. It had been funny months earlier when T Karl first tried it. Now it was just 
another part of the show. He sat down carefully, making sure the rows of curls bouncing 
upon his shoulders were given ample chance to be seen, then he opened a thick red leather 
book which served as the official record for the court. He took his work very seriously.
Three men entered the room from the kitchen. Two of them wore shoes. One was eating a 
saltine. The one with no shoes was also bare-legged up to his knees, so that below his robe 
his spindly legs could be seen. They were smooth and hairless and very brown from the sun. 
A large tattoo had been applied to his left calf. He was from California.
All three wore old church robes from the same choir, pale green with gold trim. They came 
from the same store as T Karl's wig, and had been presented by him as gifts at Christmas. 
That was how he kept his job as the court's official clerk.
There were a few hisses and jeers from the spectators as the judges ambled across the tile 
floor in full regalia, their robes flowing. They took their places behind a long folding table, 
near T Karl but not too near, and faced the weekly gathering. The short round one sat in the 
middle. Joe Roy Spicer was his name, and by default he acted as the Chief Justice of the 
tribunal. In his previous life, judge Spicer had been a justice of the Peace in Mississippi, duly 
elected by the people of his little county, and sent away when the feds caught him skimming 
bingo profits from a Shriners club.
"Please be seated;" he said. Not a soul was standing.
The judges adjusted their folding chairs and shook their robes until they fell properly around 
them. The assistant warden stood to the side, ignored by the inmates. A guard in uniform 
was with him. The Brethren met once a week with the prison's approval. They heard cases, 
mediated disputes, settled little fights among the boys, and had generally proved to be a 
stabilizing factor amid the population.
Spicer looked at the docket, a neat hand-printed sheet of paper prepared by T Karl, and said, 
"Court shall come to order."
To his right was the Californian, the Honorable Finn Yarber, age sixty, in for two years now 
with five to go for income tax evasion. A vendetta, he still maintained to anyone who would 
listen. A crusade by a Republican governor who'd managed to rally the voters in a recall 
drive to remove Chief Justice Yarber from the California Supreme Court. The rallying point 
had been Yarber's opposition to the death penalty, and his high-handedness in delaying 
every execution. Folks wanted blood, Yarber prevented it, the Republicans whipped up a 
frenzy, and the recall was a smashing success. They pitched him onto the street, where he 
floundered for a while until the IRS began asking questions. Educated at Stanford, indicted 
in Sacramento, sentenced in San Francisco, and now serving his time at a federal prison in 
Florida.
In for two years and Finn was still struggling with the bitterness. He still believed in his own 
innocence, still dreamed of conquering his enemies. But the dreams were fading. He spent a 
lot of time on the jogging track, alone, baking in the sun and -dreaming of another life.
"First case is Schneiter versus Magruder," Spicer announced as if a major antitrust trial was 
about to start.
"Schneiter's not here;" Beech said.
"Where is he?"
"Infirmary. Gallstones again. I just left there."
Hatlee Beech was the third member of the tribunal. He spent most of his time in the 
infirmary because of hemorrhoids, or headaches, or swollen glands. Beech was fifty-six, the 
youngest of the three, and with nine years to go he was convinced he would die in prison. 
He'd been a federal judge in East Texas, a hardfisted conservative who knew lots of 
Scripture and liked to quote it during trials. He'd had political ambitions, a nice family, 
money from his wife's family's oil trust. He also had a drinking problem which no one knew 
about until he ran over two hikers in Yellowstone. Both died. The car Beech had been 
driving was owned by a young lady he was not married to. She was found naked in the front 
seat, too drunk to walk.
They sent him away for twelve years.
Jo Roy Spicer, Finn Yarber, Hatlee Beech. The Inferior Court of North Florida, better 
known as the Brethren around Trumble, a minimum security federal prison with no fences, 
no guard towers, no razor wire. If you had to do time, do it the federal way, and do it in a 
place like Trumble.
"Should we default him?" Spicer asked Beech.
"No, just continue it until next week."
"Okay. I don't suppose he's going anywhere."
"I object to a continuance," Magruder said from the crowd.
"Too bad," said Spicer. "It's continued until next week."
Magruder was on his feet. "That's the third time it's been continued. I'm the plaintiff: I sued 
him. He runs to the infirmary every time we have a docket."
"What're ya'll fightin over?" Spicer asked.
"Seventeen dollars and two magazines;" T Karl said helpfully.
"That much, huh?" Spicer said. Seventeen dollars would get you sued every time at Trumble.
	Finn Yarber was already bored. With 
one hand he stroked his shaggy gray beard, and with the other he raked his long fingernails 
across the table. Then he popped his toes, loudly, crunching them into the floor in an 
efficient little workout that grated on the nerves.In his other life, when he had titles-Mr. 
Chief Justice of the California Supreme Court he often presided while wearing leather clogs, 
no socks, so that he could exercise his toes during the dull oral arguments. "Continue it;" he 
said.
"Justice delayed is justice denied," Magruder said solemnly.
"Now that's original;" said Beech. "One more week, then we'll default Schneiter."
"So ordered;" Spicer said, with great finality. T Karl made a note in the docket book. 
Magruder sat down in a huff. He'd filed his complaint in the Inferior Court by handing to T. 
Karl a one-page summary of his allegations against Schneiter. Only one page. The Brethren 
didn't tolerate paperwork. One page and you got your day in court. Schneiter had replied 
with six pages of invective, all of which had been summarily stricken by T Karl.
The rules were kept simple. Short pleadings. No discovery. Quick justice. Decisions on the 
spot, and all decisions were binding if both parties submitted to the jurisdiction of the court. 
No appeals; there was nowhere to take one. Witnesses were not given an oath to tell the 
truth. Lying was completely expected. It was, after all, a prison.
"What's next?" Spicer asked.
T Karl hesitated for a second, then said, "It's the Whiz case:' .
Things were suddenly still for a moment, then the plastic cafeteria chairs rattled forward in 
one noisy offensive. The inmates scooted and shuffled until T Karl announced, "That's close 
enough! "They were less than twenty feet away from the bench.
"We shall maintain decorum!" he proclaimed.
The Whiz matter had been festering for months at Trumble. Whiz was a young Wall Street 
crook who'd bilked some rich clients. Four million dollars had never been accounted for, 
and legend held that Whiz had stashed it offshore and managed it from inside Trumble. He 
had six years left, and would be almost forty when paroled. It was widely assumed that he 
was quietly serving his time until one glorious day when he would walk free, still a young 
man, and fly off in a private jet to a beach where-the money was waiting.
Inside, the legend only grew, partly because Whiz kept to himself and spent long hours every 
day studying financials and technical charts and reading impenetrable economic publications. 
Even the warden had tried to cajole him into sharing market tips.
An ex lawyer known as Rook had somehow got next to Whiz, and had somehow convinced 
him to share a small morsel of advice with an investment club that met once a week in the 
prison chapel. On behalf of the club, Rook was now suing the Whiz for fraud.
Rook took the witness chair, and began his narrative. The usual rules of procedure and 
evidence were dispensed with so that the truth could be arrived at quickly, whatever form it 
might take.
"So I go to the Whiz and I ask him what he thinks about ValueNow, a new online company 
I read about in Forbes," Rook explained. "It was about to go public, and I liked the idea 
behind the company. Whiz said he'd check it out for me. I heard nothing. So I went back to 
him and said, `Hey, Whiz, what about ValueNow? And he said he thought it was a solid 
company and the stock would go through the roof."
"I did not say that," the Whiz inserted quickly. He was seated across the room, by himself, 
his arms folded over the chair in front.
"Yes you did:'
"I did not."
"Anyway, I go back to the club and tell them that Whiz is high on the deal, so we decide we 
want to buy some stock in ValueNow. But little guys can't buy because the offering is closed. 
I go back to Whiz over there and I say, Look, Whiz, you think you could pull some strings 
with your buddies on Wall Street and get us a few shares of ValueNow? And Whiz said he 
thought he could do that."
"That's a lie;" said Whiz.
"Quiet;" said justice Spicer. "You'll get your chance."
"He's lying;" Whiz said, as if there was a rule against it.
If Whiz had money, you'd never know it, at least not on the inside. His eight-by-twelve cell 
was bare except for stacks of financial publications. No stereo, fan, books, cigarettes, none 
of the usual assets acquired by almost everyone else. This only added to the legend. He was 
considered a miser, a weird little man who saved every penny and was no doubt stashing 
everything offshore.
"Anyway;" Rook continued, "we decided to gamble by taking a big position in ValueNow. 
Our strategy was to liquidate our holdings and consolidate."
"Consolidate?" asked justice Beech. Rook sounded like a portfolio manager who handled 
billions.
"Right, consolidate. We borrowed - all we could from friends and family, and had close to a 
thousand bucks."
"A thousand bucks," repeated justice Spicer. Not bad for an inside job. "Then what 
happened?"
"I told Whiz over there that we were ready to move. Could he get us the stock? This was on 
a Tuesday. The offering was on a Friday. Whiz said no problem. Said he had a buddy at 
Goldman Sux or some such place that could take care of us."
"That's a lie; " Whiz shot from across the room.
"Anyway, on Wednesday I saw Whiz in the east yard, and I asked him about the stock. He 
said no problem."
"That's a lie."
"I got a witness"
"Who?" asked justice Spicer.
"Picasso."
Picasso was sitting behind Rook, as were the other six members of the investment club. 
Picasso reluctantly waved his hand.
"Is that true?" Spicer asked.
"Yep;" Picasso answered. "Rook asked about the stock. Whiz said he would get it. No 
problem."
Picasso testified in a lot of cases, and had been caught lying more than most inmates.
"Continue," Spicer said.
"Anyway, Thursday I couldn't find Whiz anywhere. He was hiding from me."
"I was not."
"Friday, the stock goes public. It was offered at twenty a share, the price we could've bought 
it for if Mr. Wall Street over there had done what he promised. It opened at sixty, spent 
most of the day at eighty, then dosed at seventy. Our plans were to sell it as soon as possible. 
We could've bought fifty shares at twenty, sold them at eighty, and walked away from the 
deal with three thousand dollars in profits."
Violence was very rare at Trumble. Three thousand dollars would not get you killed, but 
some bones might be broken. Whiz had been lucky so far. There'd been no ambush.
"And you think the Whiz owes you these lost profits?" asked ex-Chief Justice FinnYarber, 
now plucking his eyebrows.
"Damned right we do. Look, what makes the deal stink even worse is that Whiz bought 
ValueNow for himself."
"That's a damned lie," Whiz said.
"Language, please," Justice Beech said. If you wanted to lose a case before the Brethren, just 
offend Beech with your language.
The rumors that Whiz had bought the stock for himself had been started by Rook and his 
gang. There was no proof of it, but the story had proved irresistible and had been repeated 
by most inmates so often that it was now established as fact. It fit so nicely.
"Is that all?" Spicer asked Rook.
Rook had other points he wanted to elaborate on, but the Brethren had no patience with 
windy litigants.
Especially ex lawyers still reliving their gory days. There were at least five of them at 
Trumble, and they seemed to be on the docket all the time.
"I guess so," Rook said.
"What do you have to say?" Spicer asked the Whiz.
Whiz stood and took a few steps toward their table. He glared at his accusers, Rook and his 
gang of losers. Then he addressed the court. "What's the burden of proof here?"
Justice Spicer immediately lowered his eyes and waited for help. As a Justice of the Peace, 
he'd had no legal training. He'd never finished high school, then worked for twenty years in 
his father's country store. That's where the votes came from. Spicer relied on common 
sense, which was often at odds with the law. Any questions dealing with legal theory would 
be handled by his two colleagues.
"It's whatever we say it is," Justice Beech said, relishing a debate with a stockbroker on the 
court's rules of procedure.
"Clear and convincing proof?" asked the Whiz.
"Could be, but not in this case:'
"Beyond a reasonable doubt?"
"Probably not"
"Preponderance of the evidence?"
"Now you're getting dose."
"Then, they have no proof," the Whiz said, waving his hands like a bad actor in a bad TV 
drama.
"Why don't you just tell us your side of the story?" said Beech.
"I'd love to. ValueNow was a typical online offering, lots of hype, lots of red ink on the 
books. Sure Rook came to me, but by the time I could make my calls, the offering was 
dosed. I called a friend who told me you couldn't get near the stock. Even the big boys were 
shut out."
"Now, how does that happen?" asked Justice Yarber.
The room was quiet. The Whiz was talking money, and everyone was listening.
"Happens all the time in IPOs. That's initial public offerings."
"We know what an IPO is;" Beech said.
Spicer certainly did not. Didn't have many of those back in rural Mississippi.
The Whiz relaxed, just a little. He could dazzle them for a moment, win this nuisance of a 
case, then go back to his cave and ignore them.
"The ValueNow IPO was handled by the investment banking firm of Bakin-Kline, a small 
outfit in San Francisco. Five million shares were offered. Bakin-Kline basically presold the 
stock to its preferred customers and friends, so that most big investment firms never had a 
shot at the stock. Happens all the time."
The judges and the inmates, even the court jester, hung on every word.
He continued. "It's silly to think that some disbarred yahoo sitting in prison, reading an old 
copy of Forbes, can somehow buy a thousand dollars' worth of ValueNow"
And at that very moment it did indeed seem very silly. Rook fumed while his club members 
began quietly blaming him.
"Did you buy any of it?" asked Beech.
"Of course not. I .couldn't get near it. And besides, most of the high-tech and online 
companies are built with funny money. I stay away from them."
"What do you prefer?" Beech asked quickly, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Value. The long haul. I'm in no hurry. Look, this is a bogus case brought by some boys 
looking for an easy buck." He waved toward Rook, who was sinking in his chair. The Whiz 
sounded perfectly believable and legitimate.
Rook's case was built on hearsay, speculation, and the corroboration of Picasso, a notorious 
liar.
"You got any witnesses?" Spicer asked.
"I don't need any," the Whiz said, and took his seat.
Each of the three justices scribbled something on a slip of paper. Deliberations were quick, 
verdicts instantaneous. Yarber and Beech slid theirs to Spicer, who announced, "By a vote of 
two to one, we find for the defendant. Case dismissed. Who's next?"
The vote was actually unanimous, but every verdict was officially two to one. That allowed 
each of the three a little wiggle room if later confronted.
But the Brethren were well regarded around Trumble. Their decisions were quick and as fair 
as they could make them. In fact, they were remarkably accurate in light of the shaky 
testimony they often heard. Spicer had presided over small cases for years, in the back of his 
family's country store. He could spot a liar at fifty feet. Beech and Yarber had spent their 
careers in courtrooms, and had no tolerance for lengthy arguments and delays, the usual 
tactics.
"That's all today;' T. Karl reported. "End of docket."
"Very well. Court is adjourned until next week."
T. Karl jumped to his feet, his curls again vibrating across his shoulders, and declared, 
"Court's adjourned. All rise."
No one stood, no one moved as the Brethren left the room. Rook and his gang were 
huddled, no doubt planning their next lawsuit. The Whiz left quickly
The assistant warden and the guard eased away without being seen. The weekly docket was 
one of the better shows at Trumble.


TWO

Though he'd served in Congress for fourteen years, Aaron Lake still drove his own car 
around Washington. He didn't need or want a chauffeur, or an aide, or a bodyguard. 
Sometimes an intern would ride with him and take notes, but for the most part Lake enjoyed 
the tranquility of sitting in D.C. traffic while listening to classical guitar on the stereo. Many 
of his friends, especially those who'd achieved the status of a Mr. Chairman or a Mr. Vice 
Chairman, had larger cars with drivers. Some even had limos.
Not Lake. It was a waste of time and money and privacy. If he ever sought higher office, he 
certainly didn't want the baggage of a chauffeur wrapped around his neck. Besides, he 
enjoyed being alone. His office was a madhouse. He had fifteen people bouncing off the 
walls, answering phones, opening files, serving the folks back in Arizona who'd sent him to 
Washington. Two more did nothing but raise money. Three interns managed to further clog 
his narrow corridors and take up more time than they deserved.
He was single, a widower, with a quaint little town-house in Georgetown that he was very 
fond of. He lived quietly, occasionally stepping into the social scene that had attracted him 
and his late wife in the early years.
He followed the Beltway, the traffic slow and cautious because of a light snow. He was 
quickly cleared through CIA security at Langley, and was very pleased to see a preferred 
parking space waiting for him, along with two plainclothes security personnel.
"Mr. Maynard is waiting;" one of them said gravely, opening his car door while the other 
took his briefcase. Power did have its perks.
Lake had never met with the CIA director at Langley. They'd conferred twice on the Hill, 
years earlier, back when the poor guy could get around. Teddy Maynard was in a wheelchair 
and in constant pain, and even senators got themselves driven out to Langley anytime he 
needed them. He'd called Lake a halfdozen times in fourteen years, but Maynard was a busy 
man. His light-lifting was usually handled by associates.
Security barriers collapsed all around the congressman as he and his escorts worked their 
way into the depths of the CIA headquarters. By the time Lake arrived at Mr. Maynard's 
suite, he was walking a bit taller, with just a trace of a swagger. He couldn't help it. Power 
was intoxicating.
Teddy Maynard had sent for him.

Inside the room, a large, square, windowless place known unofficially as the bunker, the 
Director was sitting alone, looking blankly at a large screen upon which the face of 
Congressman Aaron Lake was frozen. It was a recent photo, one taken at a black-tie fund-
raiser three months earlier where Lake had half a glass of wine, ate baked chicken, no 
dessert, drove himself home, alone, and went to bed before eleven. The photo was appealing 
because Lake was so attractive-light red hair with almost no gray, hair that was not colored 
or tinted, a full hairline, dark blue eyes, square chin, really nice teeth. He was fifty-three years 
old and aging superbly. He did thirty minutes a day on a rowing machine and his cholesterol 
was 160. They hadn't found a single bad habit. He enjoyed the company of women, 
especially when it was important to be seen with one. His steady squeeze was a sixty-year old 
widow in Bethesda whose late husband had made a fortune as a lobbyist.
Both his parents were dead. His only child was a schoolteacher in Santa Fe. His wife of 
twenty-nine years had died in 1996 of ovarian cancer. A year later, his thirteen-year-old 
spaniel died too, and Congressman Aaron Lake of Arizona truly lived alone. He was 
Catholic, not that that mattered anymore, and he attended Mass at least once a week. Teddy 
pushed the button and the face disappeared.
Lake was unknown outside the Beltway, primarily because he'd kept his ego in check. If he 
had aspirations to higher office, they were closely guarded. His name had been mentioned 
once as a potential candidate for governor of Arizona, but he enjoyed Washington too 
much. He loved Georgetown-the crowds, the anonymity, the city life-good restaurants and 
cramped bookstores and espresso bars. He liked theater and music, and he and his late wife 
had never missed an event at the Kennedy Center.
On the Hill, Lake was known as a bright and hardworking congressman who was articulate, 
fiercely honest, and loyal, conscientious to a fault. Because his district was the home of four 
large defense contractors, he had become an expert on military hardware and readiness. He 
was Chairman of the House Committee on Armed Services, and it was in that capacity that 
he had come to know Teddy Maynard.
Teddy pushed the button again, and there was Lake's face. For a fifty-year veteran of 
intelligence wars, Teddy seldom had a knot in his stomach. He'd dodged bullets, hidden 
under bridges, frozen in mountains, poisoned two Czech spies, shot a traitor in Bonn, 
learned seven languages, fought the cold war, tried to prevent the next one, had more 
adventures than any ten agents combined, yet looking at the innocent face of Congressman 
Aaron Lake he felt a knot.
He-the CIA-was about to do something the agency had never done before.
They'd started with a hundred senators, fifty governors, four hundred and thirty-five 
congressmen, all the likely suspects, and now there was only one. Representative Aaron Lake 
of Arizona.
Teddy flicked a button and the wall went blank. His legs were covered with a quilt. He wore 
the same thing every day-a V-necked navy sweater, white shirt, subdued bow tie. He rolled 
his wheelchair to a spot near the door, and prepared to meet his candidate.
		
During the eight minutes Lake was kept waiting, he was served coffee and offered a pastry, 
which he declined. He was six feet tall, weighed one seventy, was fastidious about his 
appearance, and had he taken the pastry Teddy would've been surprised. As far as they could 
tell, Lake never ate sugar. Never.
His coffee was strong, though, and as he sipped it he reviewed a little research of his own. 
The purpose of the meeting was to discuss the alarming flow of black market artillery into 
the Balkans. Lake had two memos, eighty pages of double-spaced data he'd crunched until 
two in the morning. He wasn't sure why Mr. Maynard wanted him to appear at Langley to 
discuss such a matter, but he was determined to be prepared.
A soft buzzer sounded, the door opened, and the Director of the CIA rolled out, wrapped in 
a quilt and looking every day of his seventy-four years. His handshake was firm, though, 
probably because of the strain of pushing himself around. Lake followed him back into the 
room, leaving the two college-educated pit bulls to guard the door.
They sat opposite each other, across a very long table that ran to the end of the room where 
a large white wall served as a screen. After brief preliminaries, Teddy pushed a button and 
another face appeared. Another button, and the lights grew dim. Lake loved it push little 
buttons, high-tech images flash instantly. No doubt the room was wired with enough 
electronic junk to monitor his pulse from thirty feet.
"Recognize him?" Teddy asked.
"Maybe. I think I've seen the face before."
"He's Nadi Chenkov. A former general. Now a member of what's left of the Russian 
parliament."
"Also known as Natty;" Lake said proudly.
"That's him. Hard-line Communist, close ties to the military, brilliant mind, huge ego, very 
ambitious, ruthless, and right now the most dangerous man in the world."
"Didn't know that."
A flick, another face, this one of stone under a gaudy military parade hat. "This is Yuri 
Goltsin, second in command of what's left of the Russian army. Chenkov and Goltsin have 
big plans." Another flick, a map of a section of Russia north of Moscow. "They're 
stockpiling arms in this region," Teddy said. "They're actually stealing them from themselves, 
looting the Russian army, but, and more important, they're buying them on the black 
market"
"Where's their money coming from?"
"Everywhere. They're swapping oil for Israeli radar. They're trafficking in drugs and buying 
Chinese tanks through Pakistan. Chenkov has close ties with some mobsters, one of whom 
recently bought a factory in Malaysia where they make nothing but assault rifles. It's very 
elaborate. Chenkov has a brain, a very high IQ. He's probably a genius."
Teddy Maynard was a genius, and if he bestowed that title on another, then Congressman 
Lake certainly believed it. "So who gets attacked?"
Teddy dismissed the question because he wasn't ready to answer it. "See the town of 
Vologda? It's about five hundred miles east of Moscow. Last week we tracked sixty Vetrov 
to a warehouse there. As you know, the Vetrov-"
"Is equivalent to our Tomahawk Cruise, but two feet longer."
"Exactly. That makes three hundred they've moved in during the last ninety days. See the 
town of Rybinsk, just southwest of Vologda?"
"Known for its plutonium."
"Yes, tons of it. Enough to make ten thousand nuclear warheads. Chenkov and Goltsin and 
their people control the entire area."
"Control?"
"Yes, through a web of regional mobsters and local army units. Chenkov has his people in 
place."
"In place for what?"
Teddy squeezed a button and the wall was blank. But the lights stayed dim, so that when he 
spoke across the table he did so almost firm the shadows. "The coup is right around the 
corner, Mr. Lake. Our worst fears are coming true. Every aspect of Russian society and 
culture is cracking and crumbling. Democracy is a joke. Capitalism is a nightmare. We 
thought we could McDonaldize the damned place, and it's been a disaster. Workers are not 
getting paid, and they're the lucky ones because they have jobs. Twenty percent do not. 
Children are dying because there are no medicines. So are many adults. Ten percent of the 
population are homeless. Twenty percent are hungry. Each day things get worse. The 
country has been looted by the mobsters. We think at least five hundred billion dollars has 
been stolen and taken out of the country. There's no relief in sight. The time is perfect for a 
new strongman, a new dictator who'll promise to lead the people back to stability. The 
country is crying for leadership, and Mr. Chenkov has decided it's up to him."
"And he has the army"
"He has the army, and that's all it takes. The coup will be bloodless because the people are 
ready for it. They'll embrace Chenkov. He'll lead the parade into Red Square and dare us, the 
United States, to stand in his way We'll be the bad guys again."
"So the cold war is back," Lake said, his words fading at the end.
"There'll be nothing cold about it. Chenkov wants to expand, to recapture the old Soviet 
Union. He desperately needs cash, so he'll simply take it in the form of land, factories, oil, 
crops. He'll start little regional wars, which he'll easily win." Another map appeared. Phase 
One of the new world order was presented to Lake. Teddy didn't miss a word. "I suspect 
he'll roll through the Baltic States, toppling governments in Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, etc. 
Then he'll go to the old Eastern bloc and strike a deal with some of the Communists there:"
The congressman was speechless as he watched Russia expand. Teddy's predictions were so 
certain, so precise.
"What about the Chinese?" Lake asked.
But Teddy wasn't finished with Eastern Europe. He flicked; the map changed. "Here's where 
we get sucked in.
"Poland?" 
"Yep. Happens every time. Poland is now a member of NATO, for some damned reason. 
Imagine that. Poland signing on to help protect us and Europe. Chenkov solidifies Russia's 
old turf, and casts a longing eye westward. Same as Hider, except he was looking to the 
east."
"Why would he want Poland?"
"Why did Hitler want Poland? It was between him and Russia. He hated the Poles, and he 
was ready to start a war. Chenkov doesn't give a damn about Poland, he just wants to control 
it. And he wants to destroy NATO."
"He's willing to risk a third world war?"
Buttons were pushed; the screen became a wall again; lights came on. The audiovisuals were 
over and it was time for an even more serious conversation. Pain shot through Teddy's legs, 
and he couldn't keep from frowning.
"I can't answer that;" he said. "We know a lot, but we don't know what the man's thinking. 
He's moving very quietly, putting people in place, setting things up. It's not completely 
unexpected, you know"
"Of course not. We've had these scenarios for the last eight years, but there's always been 
hope that it wouldn't happen."
"It's happening, Congressman. Chenkov and Goltsin are eliminating their opponents as we 
speak."
"What's the timetable?"
Teddy shifted again under the quilt, tried another position to stop the pain. "It's difficult to 
say. If he's smart, which he certainly is, he'll wait until there's rioting in the streets. I think 
that a year from now Natty Chenkov will be the most famous man in the world."
"A year;" Lake said to himself, as if he'd just been given his own death sentence.
There was a long pause as he contemplated the end of the world. Teddy certainly let him. 
The knot in Teddy's stomach was significantly smaller now. He liked Lake a lot. He was 
indeed very handsome, and articulate, and smart. They'd made the right choice.
He was electable.

After a round of coffee and a phone call Teddy had to take-it was the Vice President-they 
reconvened their little conference and moved forward. The congressman was pleased that 
Teddy had so much time for him. The Russians were coming, yet Teddy seemed so calm.
"I don't have to tell you how unprepared our military is;" he said gravely.
"Unprepared for what? For war?"
"Perhaps. If we are unprepared, then we could well have a war. If we are strong, we avoid 
war. Right now the Pentagon could not do what it did in the Gulf War in 1991."
"We're at seventy percent;" Lake said with authority. This was his turf.
"Seventy percent will get us a war, Mr. Lake. A war we cannot win. Chenkov is spending 
every dime he can steal on new hardware. We're cutting budgets and depleting our military. 
We want to push buttons and launch smart bombs so that no American blood is shed. 
Chenkov will have two million hungry soldiers, anxious to fight and die if necessary."
For a brief moment Lake felt proud. He'd had the guts to vote against the last budget deal 
because it decreased military spending. The folks back home were upset about it. "Can't you 
expose Chenkov now?" he asked.
"No. Absolutely not. We have excellent intelligence. If we react to him, then he'll know that 
we know. It's the spy game, Mr. Lake. It's too early to make him a monster."
"So what's your plan?" Lake asked boldly. It was quite presumptuous to ask Teddy about his 
plans. The meeting had accomplished its purpose. One more congressman had been 
sufficiently briefed. At any moment Lake could be asked to leave so that another committee 
chairman of some variety could be shown in.
But Teddy had big plans, and he was anxious to share them. "The New Hampshire primary 
is two weeks away. We have four Republicans and three Democrats all saying the same 
thing. Not a single candidate wants to increase defense spending. We have a budget surplus, 
miracle of all miracles, and everyone has a hundred ideas about how to spend it. A bunch of 
imbeciles. Just a few years ago we had huge budget deficits, and Congress spent money faster 
than it could be printed. Now there's a surplus. They're gorging themselves on the pork."
Congressman bake looked away for a second, then decided to let it pass.
"Sorry about that;" Teddy said, catching himself. "Congress as a whole is irresponsible, but 
we have many fine congressmen."
"You don't have to tell me."
"Anyway, the field is crowded with a bunch of clones. Two weeks ago we had different 
front-runners. They're slinging mud and knifing each other, all for the benefit of the 
country's forty-fourth largest state. It's silly." Teddy paused and grimaced and tried to reshift 
his useless legs. "We need someone new, Mr. Lake, and we think that someone is you."
Lake's first reaction was to suppress a laugh, which he did by smiling, then coughing. He 
tried to compose himself, and said, "You must be kidding."
"You know I'm not kidding, Mr. Lake," Teddy said sternly, and there was no doubt that 
Aaron Lake had walked into a well-laid trap.
Lake cleared his throat and completed the job of composing himself. "All right, I'm 
listening."
"It's very simple. In fact, its simplicity makes it beautiful. You're too late to file for New 
Hampshire, and it doesn't matter anyway. Let the rest of the pack slug it out there. Wait until 
it's over, then startle everyone by announcing your candidacy for President. Many will ask, 
`Who the hell is Aaron Lake?' And that's fine. That's what we want. They'll find out soon 
enough.
"Initially, your platform will have only one plank. It's all about military spending. You're a 
doomsayer, with all sorts of dire predictions about how weak our military is becoming. 
You'll get everybody's attention when you call for doubling our military spending."
"Doubling?"
"It works, doesn't it? It got your attention. Double it during your four-year term."
"But why? We need more military spending, but a twofold increase would be excessive."
"Not if we're facing another war, Mr. Lake. A war in which we push buttons and launch 
Tomahawk missiles by the thousands, at a million bucks a pop. Hell, we almost ran out of 
them last year in that Balkan mess. We can't find enough soldiers and sailors and pilots, Mr. 
Lake. You know this. The military needs tons of cash to recruit young men. We're low on 
everything-soldiers, missiles, tanks, planes, carriers. Chenkov is building now. We're not. 
We're still downsizing, and if we keep it up through another Administration, then we're 
dead."
Teddy's voice rose, almost in anger, and when he stopped with "we're dead;" Aaron Lake 
could almost feel the earth shake from the bombing.
"Where does the money come from?" he asked.
"Money for what?"
"The military"
Teddy snorted in disgust, then said, "Same place it always comes from. Need I remind you, 
sir, that we have a surplus?"
"We're busy spending the surplus."
"Of course you are. Listen, Mr. Lake, don't worry about the money. Shortly after you 
announce, we'll scare the hell out of the American people. They'll think you're half-crazy at 
first, some kind of wacko from Arizona who wants to build even more bombs. But we'll jolt 
them. We'll create a crisis on the other side of the world, and suddenly Aaron Lake will be 
called a visionary. Timing is everything. You make a speech about how weak we are in Asia, 
few people listen. Then we'll create a situation over there that stops the world, and suddenly 
everyone wants to talk to you. It will go on like that, throughout the campaign. We'll build 
the tension on this end. We'll release reports, create situations, manipulate the media, 
embarrass your opponents. Frankly, Mr. Lake, I don't expect it to be that difficult."
"You sound like you've been here before."
"No. We've done some unusual things, all in an effort to protect this country. But we've 
never tried to swing a presidential election." Teddy said this with an air of regret.
Lake slowly pushed his chair back, stood, stretched his arms and legs, and walked along the 
table to the end of the room. His feet were heavier. His pulse was racing. The trap had been 
sprung; he'd been caught.
He returned to his seat. "I don't have enough money;" he offered across the table. He knew 
it was received by someone who'd already thought about it.
Teddy smiled and nodded and pretended to give this some thought. Lake's Georgetown 
home was worth $400,000. He kept about half that much in mutual funds and another 
$100,000 in municipal bonds. There were no significant debts. He had $40,000 in his 
reelection account.
"A rich candidate would not be attractive;" Teddy said, then reached for yet another button. 
Images returned to the wall, sharp and in color. "Money will not be a problem, Mr. Lake," he 
said, his voice much lighter. "We'll get the defense contractors to pay for it. Look at that;" he 
said, waving with his right hand as if Lake wasn't sure what to look at. "Last year the 
aerospace and defense industry did almost two hundred billion in business. We'll take just a 
fraction of that."
"How much of a fraction?"
"As much as you need. We can realistically collect a hundred million dollars from them."
"You also can't hide a hundred million dollars."
"Don't bet on it, Mr. Lake. And don't worry about it. We'll take care of the money. You 
make the speeches, do the ads, run the campaign. The money will pour, in. By the time 
November gets here, the American voters will be so terrified of Armageddon they won't 
care how much you've spent. It'll be a landslide."
So Teddy Maynard was offering a landslide. Lake sat in a stunned but giddy silence and 
gawked at all that money up there on the wall-$194 billion, defense and aerospace. Last 
year's military budget was $270 billion. Double that to $540 billion in four years, and the 
contractors would get fat again. And the workers! Wages soaring through the roof! Jobs for 
everyone!
Candidate Lake would be embraced by executives with the cash and unions with the votes. 
The initial shock began to fade, and the simplicity of Teddy's plan became clear. Collect the 
cash from those who will profit. Scare the voters into racing to the polls. Win in a landslide. 
And in doing so save the world.
Teddy let him think for a moment, then said, "We'll do most of it through PAC's. The 
unions, engineers, executives, business coalitions--there's no shortage of political groups 
already on the books. And we'll form some others."
Lake was already forming them. Hundreds of PAC's, all flush with more cash than any 
election had ever seen. The shock was now completely gone, replaced by the sheer 
excitement of the idea. A thousand questions raced through his mind: Who'll be my Vice 
President? Who'll run the campaign? Chief of stag? Where to announce? "It might work;' he 
said, under control.
"Oh yes. It'll work, Mr. Lake. Trust me. We've been panning this for some time."
"How many people know about it?"
"Just a few. You've been carefully chosen, Mr. Lake. We examined mate potential candidates, 
and your name kept rising to the top. We've checked your background:'
"Pretty dull, huh?"
"I suppose. Although your relationship with Ms. Valotti concerns me. She's been divorced 
twice and likes painkillers."
"Didn't know I had a relationship with Ms. Valotti."
"You've been seen with her recently."
"You guys are watching, aren't you?"
"You expect something less?"
"I guess not."
"You took her to a black-tie cry-a-thon for oppressed women in Afghanistan. Gimme a 
break." Teddy's words were suddenly short and dripping with sarcasm.
"I didn't want to go."
"Then don't. Stay away from that crap. Leave it for Hollywood Valotti's nothing but 
trouble."
"Anybody else?" Lake asked, more than a little defensive. His private life had been pretty 
dull since he'd become a widower. He was suddenly proud of it.
"Not really;" Teddy said. "Ms. Benchly seems to be quite stable and makes a lovely escort."
"Oh, thank you very much."
"You'll get hammered on abortion, but you won't be the first."
"It's a tired issue," Lake said. And he was tired of grappling with it. He'd been for abortions, 
against abortions, soft on reproductive rights, tough on reproductive rights, pro-choice, pro-
child, anti-women, embraced by the feminists. In his fourteen years on Capitol Hill he'd 
been chased all over the abortion minefield, getting bloodied with each new strategic move.
Abortion didn't scare him anymore, at least not at the moment. He was much more 
concerned with the CIA sniffing through his background.
"What about GreenTree?" he asked.
Teddy waved his right hand as if it was nothing. "Twenty-two years ago. Nobody got 
convicted. Your partner went bankrupt and got himself indicted, but the jury let him walk. 
It'll come up; everything will come up. But frankly, Mr. Lake, we'll keep the attention 
diverted elsewhere. There's an advantage in jumping in at the last minute. The press won't 
have too much time to dig up dirt."
"I'm single. We've elected an unmarried president only once."
"You're a widower, the husband of a very lovely lady who was well respected both here and 
back home. It won't be an issue. Trust me."
"So what worries you?"
"Nothing, Mr. Lake. Not a thing. You're a solid candidate, very electable. We'll create the 
issues and the fear, and we'll raise the money."
Lake stood again, walked around the room rubbing his hair, scratching his chin, trying to 
clear his head. "I have a lot of questions;" he said.
"Maybe I can answer some of them. Let's talk again tomorrow, right here, same time. Sleep 
on it, Mr. Lake. Time is crucial, but I suppose a man should have twenty-four hours before 
making such a decision." Teddy actually smiled when he said this.
"That's a wonderful idea. Let me think about it. I'll have an answer tomorrow"
"No one knows we've had this little chat."
"Of course not."

THREE

In terms of space, the law library occupied exactly one fourth of the square footage of the 
entire Trumble library. It was in a corner, partitioned off by a wall of red brick and glass, 
tastefully done at taxpayer expense. Inside the law library, shelves of well-used books stood 
packed together with barely enough room for an inmate to squeeze between them. Around 
the walls were desks covered with typewriters and computers and sufficient research clutter 
to resemble any big-firm library.
The Brethren ruled the law library. All inmates were allowed to use it, of course, but there 
was an unwritten policy that one needed permission to stay there for any length of time. 
Maybe not permission, but at least notice.
Justice Joe Roy Spicer of Mississippi earned forty cents an hour sweeping the floors and 
straightening the desks and shelves. He also emptied the trash, and was generally considered 
to be a pig when it came to his menial tasks. Justice Hatlee Beech of Texas was the official 
law librarian, and at fifty cents an hour was the highest paid. He was fastidious about "his 
volumes," and often bickered with Spicer about their care. Justice Finn Yarber, once of the 
California Supreme Court, was paid twenty cents an hour as a computer technician. His pay 
was at the bottom of the scale because he knew so little about computers.
On a typical day,. the three spent between six and eight hours in the law library. If a Trumble 
inmate had a legal problem, he simply made an appointment with one of the Brethren and 
visited their little suite. Hadee Beech was an expert on sentencing and appeals. Finn Yarber 
did bankruptcies, divorces, and child support cases. Joe Roy Spicer, with no formal legal 
training, had no real specialty. Nor did he want one. He ran the scams.
Strict rules prohibited the Brethren from charging fees for their legal work, but the strict 
rules meant little. They were, after all, convicted felons, and if they could quietly pick up 
some cash on the outside then everyone would be happy. Sentencing was a moneymaker. 
About a fourth of the inmates who arrived at Trumble had been improperly sentenced. 
Beech could review the records overnight and find the loopholes. A month earlier, he had 
knocked four years off the sentence of a young man who'd been given fifteen. The family 
had agreed to pay, and the Brethren earned $5,000, their biggest fee to date. Spicer arranged 
the secret deposit through their lawyer in Neptune Beach.
There was a cramped conference room in the back of the law library, behind the shelves and 
barely visible from the main room. The door to it had a large glass window, but no one 
bothered to look in. The Brethren retired there for quiet business. They called it their 
chamber.
Spicer had just met with their lawyer and he had mail, some really good letters. He dosed the 
door and removed an envelope from a file. He waved it for Beech and Yarber to see. "It's 
yellow;" he said. "Ain't that sweet? It's for Ricky"
"Who's it from?" Yarber asked.
"Curbs from Dallas."
"The banker?" Beech asked excitedly.
"No, Curtis owns the jewelry stores. Listen." Spicer unfolded the letter, also on soft yellow 
stationery. He smiled and cleared his throat and began to read: " `Dear Ricky: Your letter of 
January eighth made me cry. I read it three times before I put it down. You poor boy Why 
are they keeping you there?"'
"Where is he?" asked Yarber.
"Ricky's locked down in a fancy drug rehab unit his rich uncle is paying for. He's been in for 
a year, is clean and fully rehabbed, but the terrible people who run the place won't release 
him until April because they've been collecting twenty thousand dollars a month from his 
rich uncle, who just wants him locked away and won't send any spending money. Do you 
remember any of this?"
"Now I do."
"You helped with the fiction. May I proceed?"
"Please do."
Spicer continued reading: " `I'm tempted to fly down there and confront those evil people 
myself. And your uncle, what a loser! Rich people like him think they can just send money 
and not get involved.
As I told you, my father was quite wealthy, and he was the most miserable person I've ever 
known. Sure he bought me things-objects that were temporary and meant nothing when 
they were gone. But he never had time for me. He was a sick man, just like your uncle. I've 
enclosed a check for a thousand dollars if you need anything from the commissary.
"Ricky, I can't wait to see you in April. I've already told my wife that there is an international 
diamond show in Orlando that month, and she has no interest in going with me."'
"April?" asked Beech.
"Yep. Ricky is certain he will be released in April."
"Ain't that sweet," Yarber said with a smile. "And Curtis has a wife and kids?"
"Curtis is fifty-eight, three adult children, two grandchildren."
"Where's the check?" asked Beech.
Spicer flipped the sheets of stationery and went to page two." `We have to make certain you 
can meet me in Orlando,' "he read." `Are you sure you'll finally be released in April? Please 
tell me you will. I think about you every hour. I keep your photo hidden in my desk drawer, 
and when I look into your eyes I know that we should be together."'
"Sick, sick, sick;" Beech said, still smiling. "And he's from Texas."
"I'm sure there are a lot of sweet boys in Texas," Yarber said.
"And none in California?"
"The rest of it is just mush," Spicer said, scanning quickly. There would be plenty of time to 
read it later.
He held up the $1,000 check for his colleagues to see. In due course, it would be smuggled 
out to their attorney and he would deposit it in their hidden account.
" When are we gonna bust him?" Yarber asked.
"Let's swap a few more letters. Ricky needs to share some more misery."
"Maybe one of the guards could beat him up, or something like that," Beech said.
"They don't have guards;" replied Spicer. "It's a designer rehab clinic, remember? They have 
counselors."
"But it's a lockdown facility, right? That means gates and fences, so surely there's a guard or 
two around. What if Ricky got attacked in the shower or the locker room by some goon who 
wanted his body?"
"It can't be a sexual attack;" Yarber said. "That might scare Curtis. He might think Ricky 
caught a disease or something."
And so the fiction went for a few minutes as they created more misery for poor Ricky. His 
picture had been lifted from the bulletin board of a fellow inmate, copied at a quick print by 
their lawyer, and had now been sent to more than a dozen pen pals across North America. 
The photo was of a smiling college grad, in a navy robe with a cap and gown, holding a 
diploma, a very handsome young man.
It was decided that Beech would work on the new story for a few days, then write a rough 
draft of the next letter to Curtis. Beech was Ricky, and at that moment their little tormented 
fictional boy was writing his tales of misery to eight different caring souls. Justice Yarber was 
Percy, also a young man locked away for drugs but now clean and nearing release and 
looking for an older sugar daddy with whom to spend meaningful time. Percy had five 
hooks in the water, and was slowly reeling them in.
Joe Roy Spicer didn't write very well. He coordinated the scam, helped with the fiction, kept 
the stories straight, and met with the lawyer who brought the mail. And he handled the 
money.
He pulled out another letter and announced, "This, Your Honors, is from Quince."
Everything stopped as Beech and Yarber stared at the letter. Quince was a wealthy banker in 
a small town in Iowa, according to the six letters he and Ricky had swapped. Like the rest, 
they'd found him through the personals of a gay magazine now hidden in the law library. 
He'd been their second catch, the first having become suspicious and disappearing. Quince's 
photo of himself was a snapshot taken at a lake, with the shirt off, the potbelly, the skinny 
arms, the receding hairline of a fifty-one-year-old-his family all around him. It was a bad 
photo, no doubt selected by Quince because it might be difficult to identify him, if anyone 
ever tried.
"Would you like to read it, Ricky boy?" Spicer asked, handing the letter to Beech, who took 
it and looked at the envelope. Plain white, no return address, typed lettering.
"Have you read it?" Beech asked.
"No. Go ahead."
Beech slowly removed the letter, a plain sheet of white paper with tight single-spaced 
paragraphs produced by an old typewriter. He cleared his voice, and read: " `Dear Ricky: It's 
done. I can't believe I did it,
but I pulled it off. I used a pay phone and a money order so nothing could be traced-I think 
my trail is clean. The company you suggested in New York was superb, very discreet and 
helpful. I have to be honest, Ricky, it scared the hell out of me. Booking a gay cruise is 
something I never dreamed of doing. And you know what? It was exhilarating. I am so 
proud of myself. We have a cabin suite, a thousand bucks a night, and I can't wait."'
Beech stopped and glanced above his reading glasses halfway down his nose. Both of his 
colleagues were smiling, savoring the words.
He continued: " 'We set sail on March tenth, and I have a wonderful idea. I will arrive in 
Miami on the ninth, so we won't have much time to get together and introduce ourselves. 
Let's meet on the boat, in our suite. I'll get there first, check in, get the champagne on ice, 
then wait for you. Won't that be fun, Ricky? We'll have three days to ourselves. I say we 
don't leave the room.' "
Beech couldn't help but smile, and he somehow managed to do so while shaking his head in 
disgust.
He continued: "I am so excited about our little trip. I have finally decided to discover who I 
really am, and you've given me the courage to take the first step. Though we haven't met, 
Ricky, I can never thank you enough.
"Please write me back immediately and confirm. Take care, my Ricky. Love, Quince."'
"I think I'm gonna vomit;" Spicer said, but he wasn't convincing. There was too much to do.
"Let's bust him," Beech said. The others quickly agreed.
"How much?" asked Yarber.
"At least a hundred thousand;" said Spicer. "His family has owned banks for two 
generations. We know his father is still active in the business, so you have to figure the old 
man might go nuts if his boy gets outed. Quince can't afford to get booted from the family 
gravy train, so he'll pay whatever we demand. It's a perfect situation."
Beech was already taking notes. So was Yarber. Spicer began pacing around the small room 
like a bear stalking prey. The ideas came slowly, the language, the opinions, the strategy, but 
before long the letter took shape.
In rough draft, Beech read it: "Dear Quince: So nice to get your letter of January fourteenth. 
I'm so happy you got the gay cruise booked. It sounds delightful. One problem, though. I 
won't be able to make it, and there are a couple of reasons for this. One is that I won't be 
released for a few more years. I'm in a prison, not a drug treatment clinic. And I'm not gay, 
far from it. I have a wife and two kids, and right now they're having a difficult time 
financially because I'm sitting here in prison, unable to support them. That's where you 
come in, Quince. I need some of your money. I want a hundred thousand dollars. We can 
call it hush money You send it, and I'll forget the Ricky business and the gay cruise and no 
one in Bakers, Iowa, will ever know anything about it. Your wife and your children and your 
father and the rest of your rich family will never know about Ricky. If you don't send the 
money, then I'll flood your little town with copies of our letters.
" It's called extortion, Quince, and you're caught. It's cruel and mean and criminal, and I 
don't care. I need money, and you have it."'
Beech stopped and looked around the room for approval.
"It's beautiful;" said Spicer, already spending the loot.
"It's nasty;" said Yarber. "But what if he kills-himself?"
"That's a long shot," said Beech.
They read the letter again, then debated whether the timing was right. They did not mention 
the illegality of their scam, or the punishment if they got caught. Those discussions had been 
laid to rest months earlier when Joe Roy Spicer had convinced the other two to join him. 
The risks were insignificant when weighed against the potential returns. The Quinces who 
got themselves snared were not likely to run to the police and complain of extortion.
But they hadn't busted anyone yet. They were corresponding with a dozen or so potential 
victims, all middle-aged men who'd made the mistake of answering this simple ad:

SWM in, 20's looking for kind and discreet gentleman in 40's  or 50's to pen pal with.

One little personal in small print in the  back of a gay magazine had yielded sixty responses, 
and Spicer had the chore of sifting through the rubbish and identifying rich targets. At first 
he'd found the work disgusting, then he became amused by it. Now it was a business 
because they were about to extort a hundred thousand bucks from a perfectly innocent man.
Their lawyer would take a third, the usual cut but a frustrating percentage nonetheless. They 
had no choice. He was a critical player in their crimes.
They worked on the letter to Quince for an hour, then agreed to sleep on it and do a final 
draft the next day. There was another letter from a man using the pseudonym of Hoover. It 
was his second, written to Percy, and rambled on for four paragraphs about birdwatching. 
Yarber would be forced to study birds before writing back as Percy and professing a great 
interest in the subject. Evidently, Hoover was afraid of his shadow. He revealed nothing 
personal, and there was no indication of money.
Give him some more rope, the Brethren decided. Talk about birds, then try to nudge him to 
the subject of physical companionship. If Hoover didn't take the hint, and if he didn't reveal 
something about his financial situation, then they'd drop him.

Within the Bureau of Prisons, Trumble was officially referred to as a camp. Such a 
designation meant there were no fences around the grounds, no razor wire, no watchtowers, 
no guards with rifles waiting to nail escapees. A camp meant minimum security, so that any 
inmate could simply walk away if he chose. There were a thousand at Trumble, but few 
walked away.
It was nicer than most public schools. Airconditioned dorms, clean cafeteria serving three 
squares a day, a weight room, billiards, cards, racquetball, basketball, volleyball, jogging track, 
library, chapel, ministers on duty, counselors, caseworkers, unlimited visiting hours.
Trumble was as good as it could get for prisoners, all of whom were classified as low risk. 
Eighty percent were there for drug crimes. About forty had robbed banks without hurting or 
really scaring anyone. The rest were white-collar types whose crimes ranged from small-time 
scams to Dr. Floyd, a surgeon whose office had bilked Medicare out of $6 million over two 
decades.
Violence was not tolerated at Trumble. Threats were rare. There were plenty of rules and the 
administration had little trouble enforcing them. If you screwed up, they sent you away, to a 
medium-security prison, one with razor wire and rough guards.
Trumble's prisoners were content to behave themselves and count their days, the federal 
way.
Pursuing serious criminal activity on the inside was unheard of, until the arrival of jot Roy 
Spicer. Before his fall, Spicer had heard stories about the Angola scam, named for the 
infamous Louisiana state penitentiary. Some inmates there had perfected the gay extortion 
scheme, and before they were caught they had fleeced their victims of$700,000.
Spicer was from a rural county near the Louisiana line, and the Angola scam was a notorious 
affair in his part of the state. He never dreamed he'd copy it. But he woke up one morning in 
a federal pen, and decided to shaft every living soul he could get close enough to.
He walked the track every day at 1 p .m., usually alone, always with a pack of Marlboros. He 
hadn't smoked for ten years before his incarceration; now he was up to two packs a day. So 
he walked to negate the damage to his lungs. In thirty-four months he'd walked 1,242 miles. 
And he'd lost twenty pounds, though probably not from exercise, as he liked to claim. The 
prohibition against beer was more responsible for the weight loss.
Thirty-four months of walking and smoking, twenty-one months to go.
Ninety thousand dollars of the stolen bingo money was literally buried in his backyard, a half 
a mile behind his house next to a toolshed--entombed in a homemade concrete vault his 
wife knew nothing about. She'd helped him spend the rest of the loot, $180,000 altogether, 
though the feds had traced only half of it. They'd bought Cadillacs and flown to Las Vegas, 
first class out of New Orleans, and they'd been driven around by casino limos and put up in 
suites.
If he had any dreams left, one was to be a professional gambler, headquartered out of Vegas 
but known and feared by casinos everywhere. Blackjack was his game, and though he'd lost a 
ton, he was still convinced he could beat any house. There were casinos in the Caribbean 
he'd never seen. Asia was heating up. He'd travel the world, first class, with or without his 
wife, stay in fancy suites, order room service, and terrorize any blackjack dealer dumb 
enough to deal him cards.
He'd take the $90,000 from his backyard, add it to his share of the Angola scam, and move 
to Vegas. With or without her. She hadn't been to Trumble in four months, although she 
used to come every three weeks. He had nightmares of her plowing up the backyard looking 
for his buried treasure. He was almost convinced she didn't know about the money, but 
there was room for doubt. He'd been drinking two nights before being shipped off to 
prison, and had said something about the $90,000. He couldn't remember his exact words. 
Try as he might, he simply could not recall what he'd told her.
He lit another Marlboro at mile one. Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Rita Spicer was an 
attractive woman, a little chunky in places but nothing $90,000 couldn't hide. What if she 
and a new squeeze had found the money and were already spending it? One of Joe Roy's 
worst recurring nightmares was a scene from a bad movie-Rita and some unknown male 
with shovels digging like idiots in the rain. Why the rain, he didn't know. But it was always at 
night, in the middle of a thunderstorm, and the lightning would flash and he would see them 
slogging their way through the backyard, each time getting nearer and nearer to the toolshed.
In one dream the new mystery boyfriend was on a bulldozer, pushing piles of dirt all over 
the Spicer farm while Rita stood nearby, pointing here and there with her shovel.
Joe Roy craved the money. He could feel the cash in his hands. He would steal and extort all 
he could while he counted his days at Trumble, then he would rescue his buried loot and 
head for Vegas. No one in his hometown would have the pleasure of pointing and 
whispering and saying, "There's old Joe Roy. Guess he's out of the pen now" No sir.
He'd be -living the high life. With or without her.

FOUR

Teddy looked at his pill bottles lined along the edge of his table, like little executioners ready 
to take away his misery. York was seated across from him, reading from his notes.
York said, "He was on the phone until three this morning, talking to friends in Arizona."
"Who?"
"Bobby Lander, Jim Gallison, Richard Hassel, the usual gang. His money people."
"Dale Winer?"
"Yes, him too;" York said, amazed at Teddy's recall. Teddy had his eyes closed now, and was 
rubbing his temples. Somewhere between them, somewhere deep in his brain, he knew the 
names of Lake's friends, his contributors, his confidants, his poll workers, and his old high 
school teachers. All of it neatly tucked away, ready to be used if necessary.
"Anything unusual?"
"No, not really. Just the typical questions you'd expect from a man contemplating such an 
unexpected move. His friends were surprised, even shocked, and somewhat reluctant, but 
they'll come around."
"Did they ask about money?"
"Of course. He was vague, said it would not be a problem, though. They are skeptical."
"Did he keep our secrets?"
"He certainly did."
"Was he worried about us listening?"
"I don't think so. He made eleven calls from his office and eight from his home. None from 
his cell phones."
"Faxes? E-mail?"
"None. He spent two hours with Schiara, his-"
"Chief of staff."
"Right. They basically planned the campaign. Schiara wants to run it. They like Nance of 
Michigan as VE
"Not a bad choice."
"He looks fine. We're already checking him. Had a divorce when he was twenty-three, but 
that was thirty years ago"
"Not a problem. Is Lake ready to commit?"
"Oh yes. He's a politician, isn't he? He's been promised the keys to the kingdom. He's 
already writing speeches."
Teddy removed a pill from a bottle and swallowed it without the aid of anything liquid. He 
finwned as if it was bitter. He squeezed the wrinkles in his forehead and said, "York, tell me 
we're not missing anything on this guy. No skeletons."
"No skeletons, Chief. We've examined his dirty underwear for six months. There's nothing 
that can hurt us."
"He's not going to marry some fool; is he?"
"No. He dates several women, but nothing serious."
"No sex with his interns?"
"None. He's clean."
They were repeating a dialogue they'd had many times. Once more wouldn't hurt.
"No shady financial deals from another lifetime?"
"This is his life, Chief. There's nothing back there."
"Booze, drugs, prescription pills, gambling on the Internet?"
"No sir. He's very clean, sober, straight, bright, pretty remarkable."
"Let's talk to him."

Aaron Lake was once again escorted to the same room deep inside Langley, this time with 
three handsome young men guarding him as if danger lurked at every corner. He walked 
even quicker than the day before, his head even taller, his back without the slightest curve. 
His stature was rising by the hour.
Once again he said hello to Teddy and shook his calloused hand, then followed the quilt-
laden wheelchair into the bunker and sat across the table. Pleasantries were exchanged. York 
watched from a room down the hall where three monitors hooked to hidden cameras 
relayed every word, every movement. Next to York were two men who spent their time 
studying tapes of people as they talked and breathed and moved their hands and eyes and 
heads and feet, in an effort to determine what the speakers really meant.
"Did you sleep much last night?" Teddy asked, managing a smile.
"Yes, actually," Lake lied.
"Good. I take it you're willing to accept our deal."
"Deal? I didn't know it was exactly a deal."
"Oh yes, Mr. Lake, it's exactly a deal. We promise to get you elected, and you promise to 
double defense spending and get ready for the Russians."
"Then you have a deal."
"That's good, Mr. Lake. I'm very pleased. You'll make an excellent candidate and a fine 
President."
The words rang through Lake's ears, and he couldn't believe them. President Lake. President 
Aaron Lake. He'd paced the floor until five that morning trying to convince himself that the 
White House was being offered to him. It seemed too easy.
And as hard as he tried, he couldn't ignore the trappings. The Oval Office. All those jets and 
helicopters. The world to be traveled. A hundred aides at his beck and call. State dinners 
with the most powerful people in the world.
And, above all, a place in history.
Oh yes, Teddy had himself a deal.
"Let's talk about the campaign itself," Teddy said. "I think you should announce two days 
after New Hampshire. Let the dust settle. Let the winners get their fifteen minutes and let 
the losers sling more mud, then announce."
"That's pretty fast," Lake said.
"We don't have a lot of time. We ignore New Hampshire and get ready for Arizona and 
Michigan on February twenty-second. It's imperative that you win those two states. When 
you do, you establish yourself as a serious candidate, and you're set for the month of 
March."
"I was thinking of announcing back home, somewhere in Phoenix."
"Michigan's better. It's a bigger state, fifty-eight delegates, compared to twenty-four for 
Arizona. You'll be expected to win at home. If you win in Michigan on the same day, then 
you're a candidate to be reckoned with. Announce in Michigan first, then do it again hours 
later in your home district."
"An excellent idea."
"There's a helicopter plant in Flint, D-L Trilling. They have a large hangar, four thousand 
workers. The CEO is a man I can talk to."
"Book it;" Lake said, certain that Teddy had already chatted with the CEO.
"Can you start filming ads day after tomorrow?"
"I can do anything;" Lake said, settling into the passenger's seat. It was becoming obvious 
who was driving the bus.
"With your approval, we'll hire an outside consulting group to front the ads and publicity. 
But we have better people here, and they won't cost you anything. Not that money will be a 
problem, you understand."
"I think a hundred million should cover things."
"It should. Anyway, we'll start working on the TV ads today. I think you'll like them. They're 
total gloom and doom-the miserable shape of our military, all sorts of threats from abroad. 
Armageddon, that sort of stuff. They'll scare the hell out of people. We'll plug in your name 
and face and a few brief words, and in no time you'll be the most famous politician in the 
country"
"Fame won't win the election."
"No, it won't. But money will. Money buys television and polls, and that's all it takes."
"I'd like to think the message is important."
"Oh, it is, Mr. Lake, and our message is far more important than tax cuts and affirmative 
action and abortion and trust and family values and all the other silliness we're hearing. Our 
message is life and death. Our message will change the world and protect our affluence. 
That's all we really care about."
Lake was nodding his agreement. Protect the economy, keep the peace, and American voters 
would elect anyone. "I have a good man to run the campaign," Lake said, anxious to offer 
something.
"Who?"
"Mike Schiara, my chief of staff. He's my closest adviser, a man I trust implicitly"
"Any experience on the national level?" Teddy asked, knowing full well there was none.
"No, but he's quite capable."
"That's fine. It's your campaign."
Lake smiled and nodded at the same time. That was good to hear. He was beginning to 
wonder.
"What about Vice President?" Teddy asked.
"I have a couple of names. Senator Nance of Michigan is an old friend. There's also 
Governor Guyce from Texas."
Teddy received the names with careful deliberation. Not bad selections, really, though Guyce 
would never work. He was a rich boy who'd skated through college and golfed through his 
thirties, then spent a fortune of his father's money to purchase the governor's mansion for 
four years. Besides, they wouldn't have to worry about Texas.
"I like Nance," Teddy said.
Then Nance it would be, Lake almost said.
They talked about money for an hour, the first wave from the PAC's and how to accept 
instant millions without creating too much suspicion. Then the second wave from the 
defense contractors. Then the third wave of cash and other untraceables.
There'd be a fourth wave Lake would never know about. Depending on the polls, Teddy 
Maynard and his organization would be prepared to literally haul boxes filled with cash into 
union halls and black churches and white VFW's in places like Chicago and Detroit and 
Memphis and throughout the Deep South. Working with locals they were already 
identifying, they would be prepared to buy every vote they could find.
The more Teddy pondered his plan, the more convinced he became that the election would 
be won by Mr. Aaron Lake.

Trevor's little law office was in Neptune Beach, several blocks from Atlantic Beach, though 
no one could tell where one beach stopped and the other started. Jacksonville was several 
miles to the west and creeping toward the sea every minute. The office was a converted 
summer rental, and from his sagging back porch Revor could see the beach and the ocean 
and hear the seagulls. Hard to believe he'd been renting the place for twelve years now. Early 
in the lease he'd enjoyed hiding on the porch, away from the phone and the clients, staring 
endlessly at the gentle waters of the Atlantic two blocks away.
He was from Scranton, and like all snowbirds, he'd finally grown weary of gazing at the sea, 
roaming the beaches barefoot, and throwing bread crumbs to the birds. Now he preferred to 
waste time locked in his office.
Trevor was terrified of courtrooms and judges. While this was unusual and even somewhat 
honorable, it made for a different style of lawyering. It relegated Trevor to paperwork-real 
estate closings, wills, leases, zoning-all the mundane, nondazzling, small-time areas of the 
profession no one told him about in law school. Occasionally he handled a drug case, never 
one involving a trial, and it was one of his unfortunate clients at Trumble who'd connected 
him with the Honorable Joe Roy Spicer. In short order he'd become the official attorney for 
all dime-Spicer, Beech, and Yarber. The Brethren, as even Trevor referred to them.
He was a courier, nothing more or less. He smuggled them letters disguised as official legal 
documents and thus protected by the lawyer-client privilege. And he sneaked their letters 
out. He gave them no advice, and they sought none. He ran their bank account offshore and 
handled phone calls from the families of their clients inside Trumble. He fronted their dirty 
little deals, and in doing so avoided courtrooms and judges and other lawyers, and this suited 
Trevor just fine.
He was also a member of their conspiracy, easily indictable should they ever be exposed, but 
he wasn't worried. The Angola scam was absolutely brilliant because its victims couldn't 
complain. For an easy fee with potential rewards, he'd gamble with the Brethren.
He eased from his office without seeing his secretary, then sneaked away in his restored 1970 
V W Beetle, no air-conditioning. He drove down First Street toward Atlantic Boulevard, the 
ocean visible through homes and cottages and rentals. He wore old khakis, a white cotton 
shirt, a yellow bow tie, a blue seersucker jacket, all of it heavily wrinkled. He passed Pete's 
Bar and Grill, the oldest watering hole along the beaches and his personal favorite even 
though the college kids had discovered the place. He had an outstanding and very past-due 
bar tab there of $361, almost all for Coors longnecks and lemon daiquiris, and he really 
wanted to clear the debt.
He turned west on Atlantic Boulevard, and began fighting the traffic into Jacksonville. He 
cursed the sprawl and the congestion and the cars with Canadian plates. Then he was on the 
bypass, north past the airport and soon deep into the flat Florida countryside.
Fifty minutes later he parked at Trumble. You gotta love the federal system, he told himself 
again. Lots of parking dose to the front entrance, nicely landscaped grounds tended daily by 
the inmates, and modern, well-kept buildings.
He said, "Hello, Mackey," to the white guard at the door, and "Hello, Vince," to the black 
one. Rufus at the front desk X-rayed the briefcase while Nadine did the paperwork for his 
visit. "How're the bass?" he asked Rufus.
"Ain't biting," Rufus said.
No lawyer in the brief history of Trumble had visited as much as Trevor. They took his 
picture again, stamped the back of his hand with invisible ink, and led him through two 
doors and a short hallway. "Hello, Link," he said to the next guard.
"Mornin, Trevor;" Link said. Link ran the visitors' area, a large open space with lots of 
padded chairs and vending machines against one wall, a playground for youngsters, and a 
small outdoor patio where two people could sit at a picnic table and share a moment. It was 
cleaned and shined and completely empty. It was a weekday. Traffic picked up on Saturdays 
and Sundays, but for the rest of the time Link observed an empty area.
They went to the lawyers' room, one of several, private cubbyholes with doors that shut and 
windows through which Link could do his observing, if he were so inclined. Joe Roy Spicer 
was waiting and reading the daily sports section where he played the odds on college 
basketball. Trevor and Link stepped into the room together, and very quickly Trevor 
removed two twenty-dollar bills and handed them to Link. The closed-circuit cameras 
couldn't see them if they did this just inside the door. As part of the routine, Spicer 
pretended not to see the transaction.
Then the briefcase was opened and Link made a pretense of looking through it. He did this 
without touching a thing. Trevor removed a large manila envelope which was sealed and 
marked in bold "Legal Papers." Link took it and squeezed it to make sure it held only papers 
and not a gun or a bottle of pills, then he gave it back. They'd done this dozens of times.
Trumble regulations required a guard to be present in the room when all papers were 
removed and all envelopes were opened. But the two twenties got Link outside where he 
posted himself at the door because there was simply nothing else to guard at the moment. 
He knew letters were being passed back and forth, and he didn't care. As long as Trevor 
didn't traffic in weapons or drugs, Link wouldn't get involved. The place had so many silly 
regulations anyway. He leaned on the door, with his back to it, arid before long was drifting 
into one of his many horse naps, one leg stiff, the other bent at the knee.
In the lawyers' room, little legal work was being done. Spicer was still absorbed in point 
spreads. Most inmates welcomed their guests. Spicer only tolerated his.
"Got a call last night from the brother of Jeff .Daggett ;" Trevor said. "The kid from Coral 
Gables."
"I know him," Spicer said; finally lowering his newspaper because money was on the 
horizon. "He got twelve years in a drug conspiracy."
"Yep. His brother says that there's this ex-federal judge inside Trumble who's looked over 
his papers and thinks he might be able to knock off a few years. This judge wants a fee, so 
Daggett calls his brother, who calls me." Trevor removed his rumpled blue seersucker jacket 
and flung it on a chair. Spicer hated his bow tie.
"How much can they pay?"
"Have you guys quoted a fee?" Trevor asked.
"Beech may have, I don't know. We try to get five thousand for a two-two-five-five 
reduction." Spicer said this as if he had practiced criminal law in the federal courts for years. 
Truth was, the only time he'd actually seen a federal courtroom was the day he was 
sentenced.
"I know," Trevor said. "I'm not sure they can pay five thousand. The kid had a public 
defender for a lawyer."
"Then squeeze whatever you can, but get at least a thousand up front. He's not a bad kid."
"You're getting soft, Joe Roy."
"No. I'm getting meaner."
And in fact he was. Joe Roy was. the managing partner of the Brethren. Yarber and Beech 
had the talent and the training, but they'd been too humiliated by their fall to have any 
ambition. Spicer, with no training and little talent, possessed enough manipulative skills to 
keep his colleagues on track. While they brooded, he dreamed of his comeback.
Joe Roy opened a file and withdrew a check. "Here's a thousand bucks to deposit. Came 
from a pen pal in Texas named Curtis."
"What's his potential?"
"Very good, I think. We're ready to bust Quince in Iowa." Joe Roy withdrew a pretty 
lavender envelope, tightly sealed and addressed to Quince Garbe in Bakers, Iowa.
"How much?" Trevor asked, taking the envelope.
"A hundred thousand." Wow"
"He's got it, and he'll pay it. I've given him the wiring instructions. Alert the bank."
In twenty-three years of practicing law, Trevor had never earned a fee anywhere close to 
$33,000. Suddenly, he could see it, touch it, and, though he tried not to, he began spending it 
$33,000 for doing nothing but shuttling mail.
"You really think this will work?" he asked, mentally paying off the tab at Pete's Bar and 
telling MasterCard to take this check and shove it. He'd keep the same car, his beloved 
Beetle, but he might spring for an air conditioner.
"Of course it will," Spicer said, without a trace of doubt.
He had two more letters, both written by justice Yarber posing as young Percy in rehab. 
Trevor took them with anticipation.
"Arkansas is at Kentucky tonight," Spicer said, returning to his newspaper. "The line is 
fourteen. Whatta you think?"
"Much closer than that. Kentucky is very tough at home."
"Are you in?"
"Are you"
Trevor had a bookie at Pete's Bar, and though he gambled little he had learned to follow the 
lead of justice Spicer.
"I'll put a hundred on Arkansas," Spicer said.
"I think I will too."
They played blackjack for half an hour, with Link occasionally glancing in and frowning his 
disapproval. Cards were prohibited during visitation, but who cared? Joe Roy played the 
game hard because he was training for his next career. Poker and gin rummy were the 
favorites in the rec room, and Spicer often had trouble finding a blackjack opponent.
Trevor wasn't particularly good, but he was always willing to play. It was, in Spicer's opinion, 
his only redeeming quality.

FIVE

The announcement had the festive air of a victory party, with red, white, and blue banners 
and bunting draped from the ceiling and parade music blasting through the hangar. Every D-
L Trilling employee was required to be present, all four thousand of them, and to heighten 
their spirits they had been promised a full day of extra vacation. Eight hours paid, at an 
average wage. of $22.40, but management didn't care because they had found their man. The 
hastily built stage was also covered in banners and packed with every suit in the company, all 
smiling broadly and clapping wildly as the music whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Three 
days earlier no one had heard of Aaron Lake. Now he was their savior.
He certainly looked like a candidate, with a new slightly trimmer haircut suggested by one 
consultant and a dark brown suit suggested by another. Only Reagan had been able to wear 
brown suits, and he'd won two landslides.
When Lake finally appeared, and strode purposefully across the stage, shaking vigorously the 
hands of corporate honchos he'd never see again, the laborers went wild. The music was 
carefully ratcheted up a couple of notches by a sound consultant who was a member of a 
sound team Lake's people had hired for $24,000 for the event. Money was of little concern.
Balloons fell like manna. Some were popped by workers who'd been asked to pop them, so 
for a few seconds the hangar sounded like the first wave of a ground attack. Get ready for it. 
Get ready for war. Lake Before It's Too Late.
The Trilling CEO clutched him as if they were fraternity brothers, when in fact they'd met 
two hours earlier. The CEO then took the podium and waited for the noise to subside. 
Working with notes he'd been faxed the day before, he began a long-winded and quite 
generous introduction of Aaron Lake, future President. On cue, the applause interrupted 
him five times before he finished.
Lake waved like a conquering hero and waited behind the microphone, then with perfect 
timing stepped forward and said, "My name is Aaron Lake, and I am now running for 
President." More .roaring applause. More piped-in parade music. More balloons drifting 
downward.
When he'd had enough, he launched into his speech. The theme, the platform, the only 
reason for running was national security, and Lake hammered out the-appalling statistics 
proving just how thoroughly the current Administration had depleted our military. No other 
issues were really that important, he said bluntly. Lure us into a war we can't win, and we'll 
forget about the tired old quarrels over abortion, race, guns, affirmative action, taxes. 
Concerned about family values? Start losing our sons and daughters in combat and you'd see 
some families with real problems.
Lake was very good. The speech had been written by him, edited by consultants, polished by 
other professionals, and the night before he'd delivered it to Teddy Maynard, alone, deep 
inside Langley. Teddy had approved, with minor changes.

Teddy was tucked under his quilts and watching the show with great pride. York was with 
him, silent as usual. The two often sat alone, staring at screens, watching the world grow 
more dangerous.
"He's good," York said-quietly at one point.
Teddy nodded, even managing a slight smile.
Halfway through his speech, Lake became wonderfully angry at the Chinese. "Over a twenty-
year period, we allowed them to steal forty percent of our nuclear secrets!" he said, and the 
laborers hissed.
"Forty percent!" he shouted.
It was closer to fifty, but Teddy chose to downplay it just a little. The CIA had received its 
share of blame for the Chinese thievery.
For five minutes Aaron Lake blistered the Chinese, and their looting and their 
unprecedented military buildup. The strategy was Teddy's. Use the Chinese to scare the 
American voters, not the Russians. Don't tip them. protect the real threat until later in the 
campaign.
Lake's timing was near-perfect. His punch line brought down the house. When he promised 
to double the ministration, the four thousand D-L Trilling employees who built military 
helicopters exploded in a frenzy.
Teddy watched it quietly, very proud of his creation. They had managed to upstage the 
spectacle in New Hampshire by simply snubbing it. Lake's name had not been on the ballot, 
and he was the first candidate in decades to be proud of that fact. "Who needs New 
Hampshire?" he'd been quoted as saying. "I'll take the rest of the country."
Lake signed off amid thunderous applause, and reshook all the hands on the stage. CNN 
returned to its studio where the talking heads would spend fifteen minutes telling the viewers 
what they had just witnessed.
On his table, Teddy pushed buttons and the screen changed. "Here's the finished product;" 
he said. "The first installment."
It was a television ad for candidate Lake, and it began with a brief glimpse of a row of grim 
Chinese generals standing rigidly at a military parade, watching massive hardware roll by. 
"You think the world's a safer place?" a deep, rich ominous voice asked off camera. Then, 
glimpses of the world's current madmen, all watching their armies parade by-Hussein, 
Qaddafi, Milosevic, Kim in North Korea. Even poor Castro, with the last of his ragtag army 
lumbering through Havana, got a split second of airtime. "Our military could not now do 
what it did in 1991 during the Gulf War;" the voice said as gravely as if another war had 
already been declared. Then a blast, an atomic mushroom, followed by thousands of Indians 
dancing in the streets. Another blast, and the Pakistanis were dancing next door.
"China wants to invade Taiwan," the voice continued as a million Chinese soldiers marched 
in perfect step. "North Korea wants South Korea," the voice said, as tanks rolled through 
the DMZ. "And the United States is always an easy target."
The voice changed quickly into one with a high pitch, and the ad shifted to a congressional 
hearing of some sort, with a heavily bemedaled general lecturing some subcommittee. "You, 
the Congress;" he was saying, "spend less on the military each year. This defense budget is 
smaller than it was fifteen years ago. You expect us to be ready for war in Korea, the Middle 
East, and now Eastern Europe, yet our budget keeps shrinking. The situation is critical." The 
ad went blank, nothing but a dark screen, then the first voice said, "Twelve years ago there 
were two superpowers. Now there are none." The handsome face of Aaron Lake appeared, 
and the ad finished with the voice saying, "Lake, Before It's Too Late."
"I'm not sure I like it," York said after a pause.
"Why not?"
"It's so negative."
"Good. Makes you feel uncomfortable, doesn't it?"
"Very much so."
"Good. We're going to flood television for a week, and I suspect Lake's soft numbers will 
get even softer. The ads will make people squirm, and they won't like them."
York knew what was coming. The people would indeed squirm and dislike the ads, then get 
the hell scared out of them, and Lake would suddenly become a visionary. Teddy was 
working on the terror.

There were two TV rooms on each wing at Trumble; two small bare rooms where you could 
smoke and watch whatever the guards wanted you to watch. No remote-they'd tried that at 
first but it had caused too much trouble. By far the nastiest disagreements occurred when the 
boys couldn't agree on what to watch. So the guards made the selections.
Rules prohibited inmates from having their own TV's.
The guard on duty happened to like basketball. There was a college game on ESPN, and the 
room was packed with inmates. Hadee Beech hated sports, and he sat alone in the other TV 
room and watched one banal sitcom after another. When he was on the bench and working 
twelve hours a day, he had never watched television. Who had the time? He'd had an office 
in his home where he dictated opinions until late while everyone else was glued to prime 
time. Now, watching the mindless crap, he realized how lucky he'd been. In so many ways.
He lit a cigarette. He hadn't smoked since college, and for the first two months at Trumble 
he'd resisted the temptation. Now it helped with the boredom, but only a pack a day. His 
blood pressure was up and down. Heart disease ran in the family. At fifty-six with nine years 
to go, he would leave in a box, he was certain.
Three years, one month, one week, and Beech was still counting the days in as opposed to 
the days to go.
Just four years ago he'd been building his reputation as a tough young federal judge who was 
going places. Four rotten years. When he traveled from one courthouse to the next in East 
Texas, he did so with a driver, a secretary, a clerk, and a US. Marshal. When he walked into a 
courtroom people stood out of respect. Lawyers gave him high marks for his fairness and 
hard work. His wife had been an unpleasant woman, but with her family's oil trust he'd 
managed to live peacefully with her. The marriage was stable, not exactly warm, but with 
three fine kids in college they had reason to be proud. They had weathered some rough 
times and were determined to grow old together. She had the money He had the status. 
Together they'd raised a family Where was there to go?
Certainly not to prison.
Four miserable years.
The drinking came from nowhere. Maybe it was pressure from work, maybe it was to escape 
his wife's bickering. For years, after law school, he'd been a light social drinker, nothing 
serious. Certainly not a habit. Once when the kids were small, his wife took them to Italy for 
two weeks. Beech was left alone, which suited him fine. For some reason he could never 
determine, or remember, he turned to bourbon. Lots of it, and he never stopped. The 
bourbon became important. He kept it in his study and sneaked it late at night. They had 
separate beds so he seldom got caught.
The trip to Yellowstone had been a three-day judicial conference. He'd met the young lady 
in a bar in Jackson Hole. After hours of drinking they made the sad decision to take a ride. 
While Hatlee drove she took off her clothes, but for no other reason than to just do it. Sex 
had not been discussed, and at that point he was completely harmless.
The two hikers were from D.C., just college kids returning from the trails. Both died at the 
scene, slaughtered on the shoulder of a narrow road by a drunken driver who never saw 
them. The young lady's car was found in a ditch with Beech hugging the steering wheel, 
unable to remove himself. She was naked and knocked out.
He remembered nothing. When he awoke hours later he saw for the first time the inside of a 
cell. "Better get used to it," the sheriff had said with a sneer.
Beech called in every favor and pulled every string imaginable, all to no avail. Two young 
people were dead. He'd been caught with a naked woman. His wife had the oil money so his 
friends ran like scared dogs. In the end, no one stood up for the Honorable Hadee Beech.
He was lucky to get twelve years. MADD mothers and SADD students protested outside the 
courthouse when he made his first official appearance. They wanted a life sentence. Life!
He himself, the Honorable Hatlee Beech, was charged with two counts of manslaughter, and 
there was no defense. There was enough alcohol in his blood to kill the next guy. A witness 
said he'd been speeding on the wrong side of the road.
Looking back, he'd been lucky his crime was on federal lands. Otherwise he would have 
been shipped away to some state pen where things were much tougher. Say what you want, 
but the feds knew how to run a prison.
He smoked alone in the semidarkness, watching prime-time comedy written by twelve-year-
olds, and there was a political ad, one of many those days. It was one Beech had never seen, 
a menacing little segment with a somber voice predicting doom if we didn't hurry and build 
more bombs. It was very well done, ran for a minute and a half, cost a bundle, and delivered 
a message no one wanted to hear. Lake Before It's Too Late.
Who the hell's Aaron Lake?
Beech knew his politics. It had been his passion in another life, and at Trumble he was 
known as a fellow who watched Washington. He was one of the few who cared what 
happened there.
Aaron Lake? Beech had missed the guy. What an odd strategy, to enter the race as an 
unknown after New Hampshire. Never a shortage of clowns who want to be President. ,
Beech's wife kicked him out before he pled guilty to two counts of manslaughter. Quite 
naturally, she was angrier over the naked woman than the dead hikers. The kids sided with 
her because she had the money and because he'd screwed up so badly. It was an easy 
decision on their part. The divorce was final a week after he arrived at Trumble.
His youngest had been to see him twice in three years, one month, and one week. Both visits 
were on the sly, lest the mother find out about them. She had prohibited the kids from going 
to Trumble.
Then he got sued, two wrongful death cases brought by the families. With no friends willing 
to step forward, he'd tried to defend himself from prison. But there wasn't much to defend. 
A judgment of $5 million had been entered against him by the trial court. He appealed from 
Trumble, lost from Trumble, and appealed again.
In the chair beside him, next to his cigarettes, was an envelope brought earlier by Trevor, the 
lawyer. The court had rejected his final appeal. The judgment was now written in stone.
Didn't really matter, because he'd also filed for bankruptcy. He'd typed the papers himself in 
the law library and filed them with a pauper's oath, sent them to the same courthouse in 
Texas where he was once a god.
Convicted, divorced, disbarred, imprisoned, sued, bankrupt.
Most of the losers at Trumble handled their time because their falls had been so short. Most 
were repeat offenders who'd blown third and fourth chances. Most liked the damned place 
because it was better than any other prison they'd visited.
But Beech had lost so much, had fallen so far. Just four years ago he'd had a wife with 
millions and three kids who loved him and a big home in a small town. He was a federal 
judge, appointed by the President for life, making $140,000 a year, which was a lot less than 
her oil royalties but still not a bad salary. He got himself called to Washington twice a year 
for meetings at justice. Beech had been important.
An old lawyer friend had been to see him twice, on his way to Miami where he had kids, and 
he stayed long enough to deliver the gossip. Most of it was worthless, but there was a strong 
rumor that the ex -Mrs. Beech was now seeing someone else. With a few million bucks and 
slender hips it was only a matter of time.
Another ad. Lake Before It's Too Late again. This one began with a grainy video of men 
with guns slithering through the desert, dodging and shooting and undergoing some type of 
training. Then the sinister face of a terrorist--dark eyes and hair and features, obviously some 
manner of Islamic radical--and he said in Arabic with English subtitles, "We will kill 
Americans wherever we find them. We will die in our holy war against the great Satan." 
After that, quick videos of burning buildings. Embassy bombings. A busload of tourists. The 
remains of a jetliner scattered through a pasture.
A handsome face appeared, Mr. Aaron Lake himself. He looked directly at Hadee Beech and 
said, "I'm Aaron Lake, and you probably don't know me. I'm running for President because 
I'm scared. Scared of China and Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Scared of a dangerous 
world. Scared of what's happened to our military. Last year the federal government had a 
huge surplus, yet spent less on defense than we did fifteen years ago. We're complacent 
because our economy is strong, but the world. today is far more dangerous than we realize. 
Our enemies are legion, and we cannot protect ourselves. If elected, I will double defense 
spending during my term of office."
No smiles, no warmth. Just plain talk firm a man who meant what he said. A voice-over said, 
"Lake, Before It's Too Late."
Not bad, thought Beech.
He lit another cigarette, his last of the night, and stared at the envelope on the empty chair-
$5 million lodged against him by the two families. He'd pay the money if he could. Never 
saw the kids, not before he killed them. The paper the next day had their happy photos, a 
boy and a girl. Just college kids, enjoying the summer.
He missed the bourbon.
He could bankrupt half the judgment. The other half was for punitive damages, 
nonbankruptable. So it would follow wherever he went, which he assumed was nowhere. 
He'd be sixty-five when his sentence was over, but he'd be dead before then. They'd carry 
him out of Trumble in a box, send him home to Texas, where they'd bury him behind the 
little country church where he'd been baptized. Maybe one of the kids would spring for a 
headstone.
Beech left the room without turning off the TV It was almost ten, time for lights-out. He 
bunked with Robbie, a kid from Kentucky who'd broken into 240 houses before they caught 
him. He sold the guns and microwaves and stereos for cocaine. Robbie was a four-year 
veteran of Trumble, and because of his seniority he had chosen the bottom bunk. Beech 
crawled into the top one, said, "Good night, Robbie," and turned off the light.
"Night, Hadee," came the soft. response.
Sometimes they chatted in the dark. The walls were cinderblock, the door was metal, their 
words were confined to their little room. Robbie was twenty-five and would be forty-five 
before he left Trumble. Twenty-four years-one for every ten houses.
The time between bed and sleep was the worst of the day. The past came back with a 
vengeance-the mistakes, the misery, the could-haves and should-haves. Try as he might, 
Hatlee could not simply close his eyes and go to sleep. He had to punish himself first. There 
was a grandchild he'd never seen, and he always started with her. Then his three kids. Forget 
the wife. But he always thought about her money. And the friends. Ah, the friends. Where 
were they now?
Three years in, and with no future there was only the past. Even poor Robbie below 
dreamed of a new beginning at the age of forty-five. Not Beech. At times he almost longed 
for the warm Texas soil, layered upon his body, behind the little church.
Surely someone would buy him a headstone.

SIX

For Quince Garbe, February 3 would be the worst day of his life. It was almost the last, and 
it would've been had his doctor been in town. He couldn't get a prescription for sleeping 
pills, and he didn't have the courage to use a gun on himself.
It began pleasantly enough with a late breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal by the fire in the den, 
alone. His wife of twenty-six years had already left for town, for another day of charity teas 
and- fund-raising and frantic small-town volunteerism that kept her busy and away from 
him.
It was snowing when he left their large and pretentious banker's home on the edge of 
Bakers, Iowa, and drove ten minutes to work in his long black Mercedes, eleven years old. 
He was an important man about town, a Garbe, a member of a family that had owned the 
bank for generations. He parked in his reserved spot behind the bank, which faced Main 
Street, and made a quick detour to the post office, something he did twice a week. For years 
he'd had a private box there, away from his wife and especially away from his secretary.
Because he was rich and few others were in Bakers, Iowa, he seldom spoke to people on the 
street. He didn't care what they thought. They worshiped his father and that was enough to 
keep their business.
But when the old man died, would he have to change his personality? Would he be forced to 
smile on the sidewalks of Bakers and join the Rotary Club, the one founded by his 
grandfather?
Quince was tired of being dependent on the whims of the public for his security. He was 
tired of relying on his father to keep their customers happy. He was tired of banking and 
tired of Iowa and tired of snow and tired of his wife, and what Quince wanted more than 
anything that morning in February was a letter from his beloved Ricky. A nice, brief little 
note confirming their rendezvous.
What Quince really wanted was three warm days on a love boat with Ricky. He might never 
come back.
Bakers had eighteen thousand people, so the central post office on Main was usually busy. 
And there was always a different clerk behind the counter. That's how he'd rented the box-
he'd waited until a new postal worker was on duty. CMT Investments was the official lessee. 
He went straight to the box, around a corner to a wall with a hundred others.
There were three letters, and as he snatched them and stuffed them in his coat pocket his 
heart froze as he saw that one was from Ricky. He hurried onto Main, and minutes later 
entered his bank, at exactly 10 A.m. His father had been there for four hours, but they had 
long since stopped bickering over Quince's work schedule. As always, he stopped at his 
secretary's desk to hurriedly remove his gloves as if important matters were waiting. She 
handed him his mail, his two phone messages, and reminded him that he had lunch in two 
hours with a local real estate agent.
He locked his door behind him, flung his gloves one way and his coat the other, and ripped 
open the letter from Ricky. He sat on his sofa and put on his reading glasses, breathing 
heavily not from the walk but from anticipation. He was on the verge of arousal when he 
started reading.
The words hit like bullets. After the second paragraph, he emitted a strange, painful 
"Awwww" Then a couple of "Oh my gods." Then a low, hissing "Sonofabitch."
Quiet, he told himself, the secretary is always listening. The first reading brought shock, the 
second disbelief. Reality began settling in with the third reading, and Quince's lip started to 
quiver. Don't cry, dammit, he told himself.
He threw the letter on the floor and paced around his desk, ignoring as best he could the 
cheerful faces of his wife and children. Twenty years' worth of class photos and family 
portraits were lined along his credenza, just under the window. He looked out and watched 
the snow, now heavier and accumulating on the sidewalks. God how he hated Bakers, Iowa. 
He'd thought he might leave and escape to the beach, where he could frolic with a 
handsome young pal and maybe never come home.
Now he would leave under different circumstances. It was a joke, a hoax, he told himself, 
but he instantly knew better. The scam was too tight. The punch line was too perfect. He'd 
been set up by a professional.
All his life he'd fought his desires. Somehow he'd finally found the nerve to crack the closet 
door, and now he got shot between the eyes by a con man. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How 
could this be so difficult?
Random thoughts hit from every direction as he watched the snow. Suicide was the easy 
answer, but his doctor was gone and he really didn't want to die. At least not at the moment. 
He wasn't sure where he'd find a hundred thousand bucks he could send off without raising 
suspicions. The old bastard next door paid him a pittance and kept his thumb on every 
dime. His wife insisted on balancing their checkbook. There was some money in mutuals, 
but he couldn't move it without her knowing. The life of a rich banker in Bakers, Iowa, 
meant a title and a Mercedes and a large mortgaged house and a wife with social activities. 
Oh how he wanted to escape!
He'd go to Florida anyway, and track the letter somehow, and confront this con man, expose 
his extortion attempt, find some justice. He, Quince Garbe, had done nothing wrong. Surely 
a crime was being perpetrated here. Perhaps he could hire an investigator, and maybe a 
lawyer, and they'd protect him. They'd get to the bottom of this scam.
Even if he found the money, and wired it as instructed, the gate would be opened and Ricky, 
whoever in hell Ricky was, might want more. What would stop Ricky from extorting again, 
and again?
If he had guts he'd run off anyway, run to Key West or some hot spot where it never 
snowed and live any damn way he wanted to live, and let the pitiful little people of Bakers, 
Iowa, gossip about him for the next half-century. But he didn't have the guts, and that's what 
made Quince so sad.
His children were staring at him, freckled smiles with teeth wrapped in silver braces. His 
heart sank, and he knew he'd find the money and wire it precisely as directed. He had to 
protect them. They had done nothing wrong.
The bank's stock was worth about $10 million, all of it still tightly controlled by the old man, 
who at the moment was barking in the hallway. The old man was eighty-one, very much 
alive but still eighty-one. When he was gone, Quince would have to contend with a sister in 
Chicago, but the bank would be his. He'd sell the damned thing as fast as he could and leave 
Bakers with a few million in his pocket. Until then, though, he'd be forced to do what he'd 
always done, keep the old man content.
Quince's getting yanked out of the closet by some con man would devastate his father, and 
pretty much take care of the stock. Sister in Chicago would get all of it.
When the barking stopped outside, he eased through the door and passed his secretary for a 
cup of coffee. He ignored her as he returned to his room, locked his door, read the letter for 
the fourth time, and collected his thoughts. He'd find the money, and he'd wire it just as 
instructed, and he'd hope and pray with a fury that Ricky would go away. If not, if he came 
back for more, Quince would call his doctor and get some pills.
The real estate agent he was meeting for lunch was a high-roller who took chances and cut 
corners, probably a crook. Quince began to make plans. The two of them would arrange a 
few shady loans; overappraise some land, lend the money, sell to a strawman, etc. He would 
know how to do it.
Quince would find the money.

The Lake campaign's doomsday ads landed with a thud, at least in public opinion. Massive 
polling through the first week showed a dramatic increase in name recognition, from 2 to 20 
percent, but the ads were universally disliked. They were frightening and people just didn't 
want to think about wars and terrorism and old nukes getting hauled across mountains in the 
dark. People saw the ads (they were impossible to miss), and they heard the message, but 
most voters simply didn't want to be bothered. They were too busy making money and 
spending it. When issues were confronted in the midst of a roaring economy, they were 
limited to the old standbys of family values and tax cuts.
Candidate Lake's early interviewers treated him as just another flake until he announced, live 
on the air, that his campaign had received in excess of $11 million in less than a week.
"We expect to have twenty million in two weeks," he said without boasting, and real news 
started to happen. Teddy Maynard had assured him the money would be there.
Twenty million in two weeks had never been done before, and by the end of that day 
Washington was consumed with the story. The frenzy reached its peak when Lake was 
interviewed, live yet again, by two of the three networks on the evening news. He looked 
great; big smile, smooth words, nice suit and hair. The man was electable.
Final confirmation that Aaron Lake was a serious candidate came late in the day, when one 
of his opponents took a shot at him. Senator Britt of Maryland had been running for a year 
and had finished a strong second in New Hampshire. He'd raised $9 million, spent a lot 
more than that, and was forced to waste half of his time soliciting money rather than 
campaigning. He was tired of begging, tired of cutting staff, tired of worrying about TV ads, 
and when a reporter asked him about Lake and his $20 million Britt shot back, "It's dirty 
money. No honest candidate can raise that much that fast." Britt was shaking hands in the 
rain at the entrance to a chemical plant in Michigan.
The dirty money comment was seized with great gusto by the press and soon splattered all 
over the place.
Aaron Lake had arrived.

Senator Britt of Maryland had other problems, though he'd tried to forget them.
Nine years earlier he'd toured Southeast Asia to find some facts. As always, he and his 
colleagues from the Congress flew first class, stayed in nice hotels; and ate lobster, all in an 
effort to study poverty in the region and to get to the bottom of the raging controversy 
brought about by Nike and its use of cheap foreign labor. Early in the journey, Britt met a 
girl in Bangkok, and, feigning illness, decided to stay behind while his buddies continued 
their fact-finding into Laos and Vietnam.
Her name was Payka, and she was not a prostitute. She was a twenty-year-old secretary in the 
US. embassy in Bangkok, and because she was on his country's payroll Britt felt a slight 
proprietary interest. He was far away from Maryland, from his wife and five kids and his 
constituents. Payka was stunning and shapely, and anxious to study in the United States.
What began as a fling quickly turned into a romance, and Senator Britt had to force himself 
to return to Washington. Two months later he was back in Bangkok on, as he told his wife, 
pressing but secret business.
In nine months he made four trips to Thailand, all first class; all at taxpayer expense, and 
even the globetrotters in the Senate were beginning to whisper. Britt pulled strings with the 
State Department and Payka appeared to be headed for the United States.
She never made it. During the fourth and final rendezvous, Payka confessed that she was 
pregnant. She was Catholic and abortion was not an option. Britt stiff armed her, said he 
needed time to think, then fled Bangkok in the middle of the night. The fact-finding was 
over.
Early in his Senate career, Britt, a fiscal hard-liner, had grabbed a headline or two by 
criticizing CIA wastefulness. Teddy Maynard said not a word, but certainly didn't appreciate 
the grandstanding. The rather thin file on Senator Britt was dusted off and given priority, 
and when he went to Bangkok for the second time the CIA went with him. Of course he 
didn't know it, but they sat near him on the flight, first class also, and they had people on the 
ground in Bangkok. They watched the hotel where the two lovebirds spent three days. They 
took pictures of them eating in fine restaurants. They saw everything. Britt was oblivious and 
stupid.
Later, when the child was born, the CIA obtained the hospital records, then the medical 
records to link the blood and DNA. Payka kept her job at the embassy, so she was easy to 
find.
When the child was a year old, he was photographed sitting on Payka's knee in a downtown 
park. More photos followed, and by the time he was four he was beginning to remotely 
favor Senator Dan Britt of Maryland.
His daddy was long gone. Britt's zeal for finding facts in Southeast Asia had faded 
dramatically, and he'd turned his attention to other critical areas of the world. In due course 
he was seized with presidential ambitions, the old senatorial affliction that sooner or later 
gets them all. He'd never heard from Payka, and that nightmare had been easy to forget.
Britt had five legitimate children, and a wife with a big mouth. They were a team, Senator 
and Mrs. Britt, both leading the juggernaut of family values and "We've Got to Save Our 
Kids!" Together they wrote a book on how to raise children in a sick American culture, 
though their oldest was only thirteen: When the President was embarrassed by sexual 
misadventures, Senator Britt became the biggest virgin in Washington.
He and his wife struck a nerve, and the money rolled in from conservatives. He did well in 
the Iowa caucuses, ran a close second in New Hampshire, but was running out of money 
and sinking in the polls.
He would sink even more. After a brutal day of campaigning, his entourage settled into a 
motel in Dearborn, Michigan, for a short night. It was there that the senator finally came 
face to face with child number six, though not in person.
The agent's name was McCord, and he'd been following Britt with phony press credentials 
for a week. He said he worked for a newspaper in Tallahassee, but in fact he'd been a CIA 
agent for eleven years. There were so many reporters swarming around Britt that no one 
thought to check.
McCord befriended a senior aide, and over a late drink in the Holiday Inn bar he confessed 
that he had something in his possession that would destroy candidate Britt. He said it was 
given to him by a rival camp, Governor Tarry's. It was a notebook, with a bomb on every 
page: an affidavit from Payka setting forth the broad details of their affair; two photos of the 
child, the last, of which had been taken a month earlier and the child, now seven, looking 
more and more like his dad; blood and DNA summaries indelibly linking father and son; 
and travel records which showed in black and white that Senator Britt had burned $38,600 in 
taxpayers' money to carry on his affair on the other side of the world.
The deal was simple and straightforward: Withdraw from the race immediately, and the story 
would never be told. McCord, the journalist, was ethical and didn't have the stomach for 
such trash. Governor Tarry would keep it quiet if Britt disappeared. Quit, and not even Mrs. 
Britt would know.
Shortly after 1 a.m., in Washington, Teddy Maynard took the call from McCord. The 
package had been delivered. Britt was planning a press conference for noon the next day.
Teddy had dirt files on hundreds of politicians, past and present. As a group they were an 
easy bunch to trap. Place a beautiful young woman in their path, and you generally gathered 
something for the file. If women didn't work, money always did. Watch them travel, watch 
them crawl in bed with the lobbyists, watch them pander to any foreign government smart 
enough to send lots of cash to Washington, watch them set up their campaigns and 
committees to raise funds. Just watch them, and the files always grew thicker. He wished the 
Russians were so easy.
Though he despised politicians as a group, he did respect a handful of them. Aaron Lake 
was one. He'd never chased women, never drank much or picked up habits, never seemed 
preoccupied with cash, never had been inclined to grandstand. The more he watched Lake, 
the more he liked him.
He took his last pill of the night and rolled himself to bed. So Britt was gone. Good 
riddance. Too bad he couldn't leak the story anyway. The pious hypocrite deserved a good 
thrashing. Save it, he told himself. And use it again. President Lake might need Britt one day, 
and that little boy over in Thailand might come in handy.

SEVEN

Picasso was suing Sherlock and other unnamed defendants for injunctive relief in an effort 
to stop them from urinating on his roses. A little misdirected urine was not going to upset 
the balance of life at Trumble, but Picasso also wanted damages in the amount of five 
hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars was a serious matter.
The dispute had been festering since the past summer, when Picasso caught Sherlock in the 
act, and the assistant warden had finally intervened. He asked the Brethren to settle the 
matter. Suit was filed, then Sherlock hired an ex-lawyer named Ratliff, yet another tax evader, 
to stall, delay, postpone, and file frivolous pleadings, the usual routine for those practicing 
the art of law on the outside. But Ratliff's tactics didn't sit well with the Brethren, and neither 
Sherlock nor his lawyer was held in high esteem by the panel.
Picasso's rose garden was a carefully tended patch of dirt next to the gym. It had taken him 
three years of bureaucratic wars to convince some mid-level paperpusher in Washington that 
such a hobby was and always had been therapeutic, since Picasso suffered from several 
disorders. Once the garden was approved, the warden quickly signed off, and Picasso dug in 
with both hands. He got his roses from a supplier in Jacksonville, which in itself took 
another box of paperwork.
His real job was that of a dishwasher in the cafeteria, for which he earned thirty cents an 
hour. The warden refused his request to be classified as a gardener, so the roses were 
deemed a hobby. During the season, Picasso could be seen early and late in his little patch, 
on all fours, tilling and digging and watering. He even talked to his flowers.
The roses in question were Belinda's Dream, a pale pink rose, not particularly beautiful, but 
loved by Picasso nonetheless. When they arrived from the supplier everybody at Trumble 
knew that the Belindas were there. He lovingly planted them in the front and center of his 
garden.
Sherlock began urinating on them just for the sheer hell of it. He wasn't fond of Picasso 
anyway because he was a notorious liar, and peeing on the man's roses just seemed 
appropriate for some reason. Others caught on. Sherlock encouraged them by assuring that 
they were in fact helping the roses by adding fertilizer.
The Belindas lost their pinkness and began to fade, and Picasso was horrified. An informant 
left a note under his door, and the secret was out. His beloved garden had become a favorite 
watering hole. Two days later, he ambushed Sherlock, caught him in the act, and the two 
chubby middle-aged white men had an ugly wrestling match on the sidewalk.
The plants turned a dull yellow, and Picasso filed suit.
When it finally reached trial, after months of delays by Kadiff, the Brethren were already 
tired of it. They had quietly preassigned the case to justice Finn Yarber, whose mother had 
once raised roses, and after a few hours of research he had informed the other two that urine 
would, in fact, not change the color of the plants. So two days before the hearing they 
reached their decision: They would grant the injunction to keep Sherlock and the other pigs 
from spraying Picasso's roses, but they would not award damages.
For three hours they listened to grown men bicker about who peed where and when, and 
how often. At times, Picasso, acting as his own attorney, was near tears as he begged his 
witnesses to squeal on their friends. Radiff, counsel for the defense, was cruel and abrasive 
and redundant, and after an hour it was obvious he deserved his disbarment, whatever his 
crimes may have been..
Justice Spicer passed the time by studying the point spreads on college basketball games. 
When he couldn't contact Trevor he placed make-believe bets, every game. He was up 
$3,600 in two months, on paper. He was on a roll, winning at cards, winning at sports, and 
he had trouble sleeping at night dreaming about his next life, in Vegas or in the Bahamas, 
doing it as a pro. With or without his wife.
Justice Beech frowned with deep judicial deliberation and appeared to be taking exhaustive 
notes, when in fact he was drafting another letter to Curtis in Dallas. The Brethren had 
decided to bait him again.
Writing as Ricky, Beech explained that a cruel guard at the rehab unit was threatening all 
sorts of vile physical attacks unless Ricky could produce some "protection money." Ricky 
needed $5,000 to secure his safety from the beast, and could Curtis lend it to him?
"Could we move this along?" Beech said loudly, interrupting ex-lawyer Ratliff once again. 
When he was a real judge, Beech had mastered the practice of reading magazines while half-
listening to lawyers drone on before juries. A blaring and well-timed admonition from the 
bench kept everyone sharp.
He wrote: "It is such a vicious game they play here. We arrive broken into tiny pieces. 
Slowly, they clean us up, dry us out, put us back together, piece by piece. They clear our 
heads, teach us discipline and confidence, and prepare us for our return to society. They do a 
good job of this, yet they allow these ignorant thugs who guard the grounds to threaten us, 
fragile as we still are, and in doing so break down what we've worked so hard to produce. I 
am so scared of this man. I hide in my room when I'm supposed to be tanning and lifting 
weights. I cannot sleep. I long for booze and drugs as a means of escape. Please, Curtis, loan 
me the $5,000 so I can buy this guy off, so I can complete my rehab and leave here in one 
piece. When we meet, I want to be healthy and in great shape."
What would his friends think? The Honorable Hadee Beech, federal judge, writing prose like 
a faggot, extorting money out of innocent people.
He had no friends. He had no rules. The law he once worshiped had placed him where he 
was, which, at the moment, was in a prison cafeteria wearing a faded green choir robe from a 
black church, listening to a bunch of angry convicts argue over urine.
"You've already asked that question eight times;" he barked at Ratliff, who'd obviously been 
watching too many bad lawyer shows on television.
Since the case was justice Yarber's, he was expected to at least appear as if he were paying 
attention. He was not, nor was he concerned about appearances. As usual, he was naked 
under his robe, and he sat with his legs crossed wide, cleaning his long toenails with a plastic 
fork.
"You think they'd turn brown if I crapped on them?" Sherlock yelled at Picasso, and the 
cafeteria erupted with laughter.
"Language, please; "Justice Beech admonished.
"Order in the court," said T Karl, the court jester, under his bright gray wig. It was not his 
role in the courtroom to demand order, but it was something he did well and the Brethren 
let it slide. He rapped his gavel, said, "Order, gentlemen."
Beech wrote: "Please help me, Curtis. I have no one else to turn to. I'm breaking again. I fear 
another collapse. I fear I will never leave this place. Hurry."
Spicer put a hundred dollars on Indiana over Purdue, Duke over Clemson, Alabama over 
Vandy, Wisconsin over Illinois. What did he know about Wisconsin basketball? he asked 
himself. Didn't matter. He was a professional gambler, and a damned good one. If the 
;90,000 was still buried behind the toolshed he'd parlay it into a million within a year.
"That's enough;' Beech said, holding up his hands.
"I've heard enough too;" Yarber said, forgetting his toenails and leaning on the table.
The Brethren huddled and deliberated as if the outcome might set a serious precedent, or at 
least have some profound impact on the future of American jurisprudence. They frowned 
and scratched their heads and appeared to even argue over the merits of the case. 
Meanwhile, poor Picasso sat by himself, ready to cry, thoroughly exhausted by Ratliff's 
tactics.
Justice Yarber cleared his throat and said, "By a vote of two to one, we have reached a 
decision. We are issuing an injunction against all inmates urinating on the damned roses. 
Anyone caught doing so will be fined fifty dollars. No damages will be assessed at this time."
With perfect timing T Karl slammed his gavel and yelled, "Court's adjourned until further 
notice. All rise."
Of course, no one moved.
"I want to appeal;" Picasso yelled.
"So do I," said Sherlock.
"Must be a good decision," Yarber said, collecting his robe and standing. "Both sides are 
unhappy"
Beech and Spicer stood too, and the Brethren paraded out of the cafeteria. A guard walked 
into the middle of the litigants and witnesses and said, "Court's over, boys. Get back to 
work."

The CEO of Hummand, a company in Seattle which made missiles and radar-jamming 
machinery, had once been a congressman who'd been quite close to the CIA. Teddy 
Maynard knew him well. When the CEO announced at a press conference that his company 
had raised $5 million for the Lake campaign, CNN interrupted a liposuction segment to 
carry the story Live! Five thousand Hummand workers had written checks for $1,000 each, 
the maximum allowed under federal law. The CEO had the checks in a box that he showed 
to the cameras, then he flew with them on a Hummand jet to Washington, where he took 
them to the Lake headquarters.
Follow the money, and you'll find your winner. Since Lake's announcement, over eleven 
thousand defense and aerospace workers from thirty states had contributed just over $8 
million. The Postal Service was delivering their checks in boxes. Their unions had sent 
almost that much, with another $2 million promised. Lake's people hired a D.C. accounting 
firm just to process and count the money.
The Hummand CEO arrived in Washington amid as much fanfare as could be generated. 
Candidate Lake was on another private jet, a Challenger freshly leased at 400,000 a month. 
When he landed in Detroit he was met by two black Suburbans, both brand new, both just 
leased at $1,000 a month each. Lake now had an escort, a group of people moving in sync 
with him wherever he went, and though he was certain he'd soon get used to it, it was 
unnerving at first. Strangers around him all the time. Grave young men in dark suits with 
little microphones in their ears, guns strapped to their bodies. Two Secret Service agents 
were on the flight with him, and three more waited with the Suburbans.
And he had Floyd from his congressional office. Floyd was a dull-witted young man from a 
prominent family back in Arizona who was good for nothing but running errands. Now 
Floyd was a driver. Floyd took the wheel of one Suburban, Lake in the front seat, two agents 
and a secretary sitting behind. Two aides and three agents piled into the other, and away they 
went, headed for downtown Detroit where serious local TV journalists were waiting.
Lake had no time for stumping or walking neighborhoods or eating catfish or standing in 
the rain outside busy factories. He couldn't hike for the cameras or stage town meetings or 
stand amid rubble in ghettos and decry failed policies. There wasn't enough time to do all 
the things candidates were expected to do. He was entering late, with no groundwork in 
place, no grass roots, no local support of any kind. Lake had a handsome face, a pleasant 
voice, nice suits, an urgent message, and lots of cash.
If buying TV could buy an election, Aaron Lake was about to get himself a new job.
He called Washington, talked to his moneyman, and was given the news about the $5 million 
announcement. He'd never heard of Hummand. "Is it a public company?" he asked. No, 
came the answer. Very private. Just under a billion in annual sales. An innovator in radar 
jamming. Could make billions if the right man took charge of the military and started 
spending again.
Nineteen million dollars was now in hand, a record, of course. And they were revising their 
projections. The Lake campaign would collect thirty million in its first two weeks.
There was no way to spend money that fast.
He folded the cell phone, handed it back to Floyd, who appeared to be lost in traffic. "From 
now on we use helicopters;" Lake announced over his shoulder to the secretary, who actually 
wrote down the directive: Find helicopters.
Lake hid behind his sunglasses and tried to analyze thirty million bucks. The transition from 
a fiscal conservative to a free-wheeling candidate was awkward, but the money had to be 
spent. It wasn't squeezed from the taxpayers; rather, it was freely given. He could rationalize. 
Once elected, he'd continue his fight for the workingman.
He thought again about Teddy Maynard, sitting in some dark room deep inside Langley, legs 
wrapped in a quilt, face squinting from pain, pulling strings only he could pull, making 
money fall from trees. Lake would never know the things Teddy was doing on his behalf, 
nor did he want to.

The Director of Middle East Operations was named Lufkin, a twenty-year man Teddy 
trusted implicitly. Fourteen hours earlier he'd been in Tel Aviv. Now he was in Teddy's war 
room, somehow looking fresh and alert. His message had to be delivered in person, mouth 
to mouth, no wires or signals or satellites. And what was said between them would never be 
repeated. It had been that way for many years.
"An attack on our embassy in Cairo is now imminent;" Lufkin said. No reaction from 
Teddy; no frown, no surprise, no cutting of the eyes, nothing. He'd gotten such news many 
times before.
"Yidal?"
"Yes. His top lieutenant was seen in Cairo last week."
"Seen by whom?"
"The Israelis. They've also followed two truckloads of explosives from Tripoli. Everything 
seems to be in place."
"When?"
"Imminent."
"How imminent?"
"Within a week, I'd guess."
Teddy pulled an earlobe and closed his eyes. Lufkin tried not to stare, and he knew better 
than to ask questions. He would leave soon, and return to the Middle East. And he would 
wait. The attack on the embassy might proceed with no warning. Dozens would be killed 
and maimed. A crater in the city would smolder for days, and in Washington fingers would 
point and accusations would fly. The CIA would be blamed again.
None of it would faze Teddy Maynard. As Lufkin had learned, sometimes Teddy needed the 
terror to accomplish what he wanted.
Or maybe the embassy would be spared, the attack thwarted by Egyptian commandos 
working with the United States. The CIA would be praised for its excellent intelligence. That 
wouldn't faze Teddy either.
"And you're certain?" he asked.
"Yes, as certain as one can be in these situations."
Lufkin, of course, had no clue that the Director was now plotting to elect a President. Lufkin 
had barely heard of Aaron Lake. Frankly, he didn't care who won the election. He'd been in 
the Middle East long enough to know it didn't really matter who set American policy there.
He'd leave in three hours, on the Concorde to Paris, where he'd . spend a day before going 
to Jerusalem.
"Go to Cairo" Teddy said without opening his eyes.
"Sure. And do what?"
"Wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Wait for the ground to shake. Stay away from the embassy"

York's initial reaction was one of horror. "You can't run this damned ad, Teddy;" he said. 
"It's R-rated. I've never seen so much blood."
"I like that," Teddy said, pushing a button on the remote. "An R-rated campaign ad. It's 
never been done before."
They watched it again. It began with the sound of a bomb, then footage of the Marine 
barracks in Beirut; smoke, rubble, chaos, Marines being pulled from debris, mangled bodies, 
Marines lying dead in a neat row. President Reagan addressing the press and vowing 
revenge. But the threat sounded hollow. Then the photo of an American soldier standing 
between two masked gunmen. A heavy, ominous voiceover said, "Since 1980, hundreds of 
Americans have been murdered by terrorists around the world." Another bomb scene, more 
bloody and dazed survivors, more smoke and chaos. "We always vow revenge. We always 
threaten to find and punish those responsible." Quick clips of President Bush on two 
separate occasions angrily promising retaliation-another attack, more bodies. Then footage 
of a terrorist standing in the door of a jetliner, dragging off the body of an American soldier. 
President Clinton, near tears, his voice ready to crack, saying, "We will not rest until we find 
those responsible:" Next the handsome but serious face of Aaron Lake, looking sincerely at 
the camera, coming into our homes, saying, "The fact is, we don't retaliate. We react with 
words, we swagger and threaten, but in reality we bury our dead, then forget about them. 
The terrorists are winning the war because we have lacked the guts to fight back. When I'm 
your President, we will use our new military to fight terrorism wherever we find it. No 
American death will go unanswered. I promise. We will not be humiliated by ragtag little 
armies hiding in mountains. We will destroy them."
The ad ran for exactly sixty seconds, cost very little to make because Teddy already had the 
footage, and would start running during prime time in forty-eight hours.
"I don't know Teddy;" York said. "It's gruesome."
"It's a gruesome world."
Teddy liked the ad and that's all that mattered. Lake had objected to the blood, but came 
around quickly. His name recognition was up to 30 percent, but his ads were still disliked.
Just wait, Teddy kept telling himself. Wait until there are more bodies.

EIGHT

Trevor was sipping a carry-out double latte from Beach Java and debating whether to add a 
generous shot or two of Amaretto to help soothe away the morning's cobwebs when the call 
came. His cramped suite had no intercom system; one was not needed. Jan could simply yell 
any message down the hall, and he could yell back if he wanted. For eight years he and this 
particular secretary had been barking at each other.
"It's some bank in the Bahamas!" she announced. He almost spilled the coffee as he lunged 
for the phone.
It was a Brit whose accent had been softened by the islands. A substantial wire had been 
received, from a bank in Iowa.
How substantial, he wanted to know, covering his mouth so Jan couldn't hear.
A hundred thousand dollars.
Trevor hung up and added the Amaretto, three shots of it, and sipped the delightful brew 
while smiling goofily at the wall. In his career he'd never come close to a fee of $33,000. 
He'd settled a car wreck once for $25,000, taken a fee of $7,500, and within two months had 
spent all of it.
Jan knew nothing about the offshore account and the scam that diverted money to it, so he 
was forced to wait an hour, make a bunch of useless phone calls, and try to look busy before 
announcing he had to take care of some crucial business in downtown Jacksonville, then he 
was needed at Trumble. She didn't care. He disappeared all the time and she had some 
reading to keep her occupied.
He raced to the airport, almost missed his shuttle, and drank two beers during the thirty-
minute flight to Fort Lauderdale, then two more on the way to Nassau. On the ground, he 
fell into the back of a cab, a 1974 Cadillac painted gold, without air-conditioning and with a 
driver who'd also been drinking. The air was hot and wet, the traffic slow, and Trevor's shirt 
was sticking to his back by the time they stopped downtown near the Geneva Trust Bank 
Building.
Inside, Mr. Brayshears came forward eventually and led Trevor to his small office. He 
presented a sheet of paper which gave the bare details: a $100,000 wire originating from the 
First Iowa Bank in Des Moines, remitter being a faceless entity named CMT Investments. 
The payee was another generic entity named Boomer Realty, Ltd. Boomer was the name of 
Joe Roy Spicer's favorite bird dog.
Trevor signed the forms to transfer $25,000 to his own, separate account with Geneva Trust, 
money he kept hidden from his secretary and from the IRS. The remaining $8,000 was 
handed to him in a thick envelope, cash. He stuffed it deep into his khaki pants pocket, 
shook Brayshears' soft little hand, and raced out of the building. He was tempted to stay a 
couple of days, find a room on the beach, get a chair by the pool, and drink rum until they 
stopped bringing it to him. The temptation grew to the point that he almost bolted from the 
gate at the airport and raced to get another cab. But he reached deep, determined not to 
squander his money this time.
Two hours later he was in the Jacksonville airport, drinking strong coffee, without liquor, 
and making his plans. He drove to Trumble, arriving at four-thirty, and he waited for Spicer 
for almost half an hour.
"A pleasant surprise," Spicer said dryly as he stepped into the attorney-conference room. 
Trevor had no briefcase to inspect, so the guard patted his pockets and stepped outside. His 
cash was hidden under the floor mat of his Beetle.
"We received a hundred thousand dollars from Iowa," Trevor said, glancing at the door.
Spicer was suddenly happy to see his lawyer. He resented the "we" in Trevor's 
announcement, and he resented the healthy cut he raked off the top. But the scam wouldn't 
work without help from the outside, and, as usual, the lawyer was a necessary evil. So far, 
Trevor could be trusted.
"It's in the Bahamas?"
"Yes. I just left there. The money's tucked away, all sixty-seven thousand of it."
Spicer breathed deeply and savored the victory. A third of the loot gave him $22,000 and 
change. It was time to write some more letters!
He reached into the pocket of his olive prison shirt and removed a folded newspaper 
clipping. He stretched his arms, studied it for a second, then said, "Duke's at Tech tonight. 
The line is eleven. Put five thousand bucks on Tech."
"Five thousand?"
"Yep:.
"I've never put five thousand on a game before."
"What kinda bookie you got?"
"Small time."
"Look, if he's a bookie, he can handle the numbers. Call him as soon as you can. He may 
have to make a few calls, but he can do it."
" all right, all right."
"Can you come back tomorrow?"
"Probably"
"How many other clients have ever paid you thirtythree thousand bucks?"
"None."
"Right, so be here at four tomorrow. I'll have some mail for you."
Spicer left him and walked quickly from the administration building with only a nod at a 
guard in a window. He walked with a purpose across the finely manicured lawn, the Florida 
sun heating the sidewalk even in February. His colleagues were deep in their unhurried 
labors in their little library, alone as always, so Spicer did not hesitate to announce: "We got 
the hundred thousand firm old Quince in Iowa!"
Beech's hands froze on his keyboard. He peered over his reading glasses, his jaw dropping, 
and managed to say, "You're kidding."
"Nope. Just talked to Trevor. The money was wired in exactly as instructed, arrived in the 
Bahamas this morning. Quincy baby came through."
"Let's hit him again," Yarber said, before the others could think of it.
"Quince?"
"Sure. The first hundred was easy, let's squeeze him one more time. What could we lose?"
"Not a damned thing," Spicer said with a smile. He wished he'd said it first.
"How much?" asked Beech.
"Let's try fifty," Yarber said, pulling numbers from the air as if anything was possible.
The other two nodded and pondered the next fifty thousand, then Spicer took charge and 
said, "Look, let's evaluate where we are now. I think Curtis in Dallas is ripe. We'll hit Quince 
again. This thing is working, and I think we should shift gears, get more aggressive, know 
what I mean? Let's take each pen pal, analyze them one by one, and step up the pressure."
Beech turned off his computer and reached for a file. Yarber cleared his small desk. Their 
little Angola scam had just received a fresh infusion of capital, and the smell of ill-gotten 
cash was intoxicating.
They began reading all the old letters, and drafting new ones. More victims were needed, 
they quickly decided. More ads would be placed in the back pages of those magazines.

Trevor made it as far as Pete's Bar and Grill, arriving there just in time for happy hour, 
which at Pete's began at 5 P .M. and ran until the first fistfight.
He found Prep, a thirty-two-year-old sophomore at North Florida, shooting nine-ball for 
twenty bucks a game. Prep's dwindling trust fund required the family lawyer to pay him 
$2,000 a month as long as he was enrolled as a full-time student. He'd been a sophomore for 
eleven years.
Prep was also the busiest bookie at Pete's, and when Trevor whispered that he had serious 
money to place on the Duke Tech game, Prep asked, "How much?"
"Fifteen thousand;" Trevor said, then gulped his longneck beer.
"You serious?" Prep asked, chalking his cue stick and glancing around the smoky table. 
Trevor had never bet more than a hundred bucks on any game.
"Yep." Another long pull on the bottle. He was feeling lucky. If Spicer had the guts to lay 
$5,000 on the game; Trevor would double it. He'd just earned 33,000 tax-free dollars. So 
what if he lost ten? That much belonged to the IRS anyway.
"I'll have to make a call," Prep said, pulling out a cell phone.
"Hurry. The game starts in thirty minutes."
The bartender was a local who'd never left the state of Florida but had somehow developed 
an intense passion for Australian Rules Football. A game was on from - Down Under, and it 
took a $20 bribe from Trevor to get the channel changed to ACC basketball.
With $15,000 riding on Georgia Tech, there was no way Duke could miss a shot, at least not 
in the first half. Trevor ate french fries, drank one bottle after another, and tried to ignore 
Prep, who was standing near a pool table in a dark corner, watching.
In the second half, Trevor almost bribed the bartender to switch back to the Aussie game. 
He was getting drunker, and with ten minutes to go was openly cursing Joe Roy Spicer to 
anyone who would listen. What did that redneck know about ACC basketball? Duke led by 
twenty with nine minutes to go, when Tech's point guard got hot and nailed four straight 
three's. Trevor had Tech and eleven.
The game was tied with a minute to go. Trevor didn't care who won. He'd beat the spread. 
He paid his tab, tipped the bartender another $100, then flashed a smart-ass salute to Prep as 
he walked out the door. Prep flipped him the bird.
In the cool darkness, Trevor skipped along Atlantic Boulevard, away from the lights, past 
the cheap summer rentals packed tightly together, past the neat little retirement homes with 
their fresh paint and perfect lawns, down the old wooden steps to the sand, where he took 
off his shoes and strolled along the edge of the water. The temperature was in the forties, 
not unusual for Jacksonville in February, and before long his feet were cold and wet.
Not that he felt much-$43,000 in one day, taxfree, all hidden from the government. Last year 
after expenses he'd cleared $28,000, and that was working practically full time-haggling with 
clients too poor or too cheap to pay, avoiding courtrooms, dealing with penny-ante real 
estate agents and bankers, bickering with his secretary, cutting corners on taxes.
Ali, the joy of quick cash. He'd been suspicious of the Brethren's little scam, but now it 
seemed so brilliant. Extort from those who can't complain. How thoroughly clever.
And since it was working so well, he knew Spicer would turn up the heat. The mail would 
get heavier, the visits to Trumble more frequent. Hell, he'd be there every day if necessary, 
hauling letters in and out, bribing guards.
He splashed his feet in the water as the wind picked up and the waves roared in.
Even more clever would be to steal from the extortionists, court-certified crooks who 
certainly couldn't complain. It was a nasty thought, one he was almost ashamed of, but a 
valid one nonetheless. All options would be kept open. Since when were thieves known for 
their loyalty?
He needed a million dollars, nothing more or less. He'd done the math many times, driving 
to Trumble, drinking at Pete's, sitting at his desk with the door locked. A lousy million 
bucks, and he could close his sad little office, surrender his law license, buy a sailboat, arid 
spend eternity drifting with the winds around the Caribbean.
He was closer than he would ever be.

Justice Spicer, rolled over again on the bottom bunk. Sleep was a rare gift in his tiny room, 
on his tiny bed with a small, smelly roommate named Alvin snoring above him. Alvin had 
roamed North America as a hobo for decades, but late in life had grown weary and hungry. 
His crime had been the robbery of a rural mail carrier in Oklahoma. His apprehension had 
been aided mightily when Alvin walked into the FBI office in Tulsa and declared, "I did it." 
The FBI scrambled for six hours to find the crime. Even the judge knew Alvin planned it all. 
He wanted a federal bed, certainly not one provided by the state.
Sleep was even more difficult than usual because Spicer was worried about the lawyer. Now 
that the scam had hit its stride, there was serious cash lying around. And more on the way. 
The more Boomer Realty collected in the Bahamas, the more tempting it would become for 
Trevor. He and he alone could steal their ill-gotten loot and get away with it.
But the scam worked only with an outside conspirator. Someone had to sneak the mail back 
and forth. Someone had to collect the money.
There had to be a way to bypass the lawyer, and Joe Roy was determined to find it. If he 
didn't sleep for a month, he didn't care. No slimy lawyer would take a third of his money, 
then steal the rest.

NINE

DEFENSEPAC, or D-PAC as it would quickly and widely become known, made a roaring 
entry onto the loose and murky field of political finance. No political-action committee in 
recent history had appeared with as much muscle behind it.
Its seed money came from a Chicago financier named Mitzger, an American with dual Israeli 
citizenship. He put up the first $1 million, which lasted about a week. Other Jewish high-
rollers were quickly brought into the fold, though their identities were shielded by 
corporations and offshore accounts. Teddy Maynard knew the dangers of having a bunch of 
rich Jews contribute openly and in an organized fashion to Lake's campaign. He relied on 
old friends in Tel Aviv to organize the money in New York.
Mitzger was a liberal when it came to politics, but no issue was as dear as the security of 
Israel. Aaron Lake was much too moderate on social matters, but he was also dead serious 
about a new military. Middle East stability depended on a strong America, at least in 
Mitzger's opinion.
He rented a suite at the Willard in D.C. one day, and by noon the next he had leased an 
entire floor of an office building near Dulles. His staff from Chicago worked around the 
clock plowing through the myriad details required to instantly outfit forty thousand square 
feet with the latest technology. He had a 6 A.M. breakfast with Elaine Tyner, a 
lawyer/lobbyist from a gigantic Washington firm, one she'd built with her own iron will and 
lots of oil clients. Tyner was sixty years old and currently regarded as the most powerful 
lobbyist in town. Over bagels and juice she agreed to represent D-PAC for an initial retainer 
of $500,000. Her firm would immediately dispatch twenty associates and that many clerks to 
the new D-PAC offices where one of her partners would take charge. One section would do 
nothing but raise money. One would analyze congressional support for Lake and begin, 
gently at first, the delicate process of lining up endorsements from senators and 
representatives and even governors. It would not be easy; most were already committed to 
other candidates. Yet another section would do nothing but research-military hardware, its 
costs, new gadgets, futuristic weapons, Russian and Chinese innovations--anything that 
candidate Lake might need to know.
Tyner herself would work on raising money from foreign governments, one of her 
specialties. She was very dose to the South Koreans, having been their presence in 
Washington for the past decade. She knew the diplomats, the businessmen, the big shots. 
Few countries would sleep easier with a beefed-up United States military than South Korea.
"I feel sure they'll be good for at least five million;" she said confidently. "Initially, anyway"
From memory, she made a list of twenty French and British companies that derived at least a 
fourth of their annual sales from the Pentagon. She'd start working on them immediately.
Tyner was very much the Washington lawyer these days. She hadn't seen a courtroom in 
fifteen years, and every meaningful world event originated within the Beltway and somehow 
affected her.
The challenge at hand was unprecedented-electing an unknown, last-minute candidate who, 
at the moment, enjoyed 30 percent name recognition and 12 percent positives. What their 
candidate had, though, unlike the other flakes who dropped in and out of the presidential 
derby, was seemingly unlimited cash. Tyner had been well paid to elect and defeat scores of 
politicians, and she held the unwavering belief that money would always win. Give her the 
money, and she could elect or beat anybody.

During the first week of its existence, D-PAC buzzed with unbridled energy. The offices 
were open twenty-four hours a day as Tyner's people set up shop and charged forward. 
Those raising money produced an exhaustive computerized list of 310,000 hourly workers in 
defense and related industries, then hit them hard with a slick mail-out pleading for money. 
Another list had the names of twenty-eight thousand white-collar defense workers who 
earned in excess of $50,000 a year. They were mailed a different type of solicitation.
The D-PAC consultants looking for endorsements found the fifty members of Congress 
with the most defense jobs in their districts. Thirty-seven were up for reelection, which 
would make the arm-twisting that much easier. D-PAC would go to the grassroots, to the 
defense workers and their bosses, and orchestrate a massive phone campaign in support of 
Aaron Lake and more military spending. Six senators from defenseheavy states had tough 
opponents in November, and Elaine Tyner planned a lunch with each of them.
Unlimited cash cannot go unnoticed for long in Washington. A rookie congressman from 
Kentucky, one of the lowest of the 435, desperately needed money to fight what appeared to 
be a losing campaign back home. No one had heard of the poor boy. He hadn't said a word 
during his first two years, and now his rivals back home had found an attractive opponent. 
No one would give him money. He heard rumors, tracked down Elaine Tyner, and their 
conversation went something like this:
"How much money do you need?" she asked.
"A hundred thousand dollars." He flinched, she did not.
"Can you endorse Aaron Lake for President?"
"I'll endorse anybody if the price is right."
"Good. We'll give you two hundred thousand and run your campaign."
"It's all yours."
Most were not that easy, but D-PAC managed to buy eight endorsements in the first ten 
days of its existence. All were insignificant congressmen who'd served with Lake and liked 
him well enough. The strategy was to line them up before the cameras a week or two before 
big Super Tuesday, March 7. The more the merrier.
Most, however, had already committed to other candidates.
Tyner hurriedly made the rounds, sometimes eating three power meals a day, all happily 
covered by D-PAC. Her goal was to let the town know that her brand-new client had 
arrived, had plenty of money, and was backing a dark horse soon to break from the pack. In 
a city where talk was an industry in itself, she had no trouble spreading her message.

Finn Yarber's wife arrived unannounced at Trumble, her first visit in ten months. She wore 
fraying leather sandals, a soiled denim skirt, a baggy blouse adorned with beads and feathers, 
and all sorts of old hippie crap around her neck and wrists and head. She had a gray butch 
cut and hair under her arms, and looked very much like the tired, worn-out refugee from the 
sixties that she really was. Finn was less than thrilled when word got to him that his wife was 
waiting up front.
Her name was Carmen Topolski-Yocoby, a mouthful that she had used as a weapon all of 
her adult life. She was a radical feminist lawyer in Oakland whose specialty was representing 
lesbians suing for sexual harassment at work. So every single client was an angry woman 
battling an angry employer. Work was a bitch.
She had been married to Finn for thirty years -married, but not always living together. He'd 
lived with other women; she'd lived with other men. Once when they were newlyweds, they 
lived with an entire houseful of others, different combinations each week. Both came and 
went. For one six-year stretch they lived together in chaotic monogamy, and produced two 
children, neither of whom had amounted to much.
They'd met on the battlefields of Berkeley in 1965, both protesting the war and all other 
evils, both law students, both committed to the high moral ground of social change. They 
worked diligently to register voters. They fought for the dignity of migrant workers. They 
got arrested during the Tet Offensive. They chained themselves to redwoods. They fought 
the Christians in the schools. They sued on behalf of the whales. They marched the streets 
of San Francisco in every parade, for any and every cause.
And they drank heavily, partied with great enthusiasm, and relished the drug culture; they 
moved in and out and slept around, and this was okay because they defined their own 
morality They were fighting for the Mexicans and the redwoods, dammit They had to be 
good people!
Now they were just tired.
She was embarrassed that her husband, a brilliant man who'd somehow stumbled his way 
onto the California Supreme Court, was now locked away in a federal prison. He was quite 
relieved that the prison was in Florida and not California; otherwise she might visit more 
often. His first digs had been near Bakersfield, but he managed to get himself transferred 
away.
They never wrote each other, never called. She was passing through because she had a sister 
in Miami.
"Nice tan," she said. "You're looking good."
And you're shriveling like an old prune, he thought. Damn, she looked ancient and tired.
"How's life?" he asked, not really caring.
"Busy. I'm working too hard."
"That's good." Good that she was working and making a living, something she'd done off 
and on for many years. Finn had five years to go before he could shake Trumble's dust from 
his gnarled and bare feet. He had no intention of returning to her, or to California. If he 
survived, something he doubted every day, he'd leave at the age of sixty-five, and his dream 
was to find a land where the IRS and the FBI and all the rest of those alphabetized 
government thugs had no jurisdiction. Finn hated his own government so much he planned 
to renounce his citizenship and find another nationality.
"Are you still drinking?" he asked. He, of course, was not, though he did manage a little pot 
occasionally from one of the guards.
"I'm still sober, thanks for asking."
Every question was a barb, every reply a retort. He honestly wondered why she had stopped 
by Then he found out.
"I've decided to get a divorce," she said.
He shrugged as if to say, "Why bother?" Instead he said, "Probably not a bad idea."
"I've found someone else," she said.
"Male or female?" he asked, more curious than anything else. Nothing would surprise him.
"A younger man."
He shrugged again and almost said, "Go for it, old girl. ,.
"He's not the first," Finn said.
"Let's not go there;" she said.
Fine with Finn. He had always admired her exuberant sexuality, her stamina, but it was 
difficult to imagine this old woman doing it with any regularity. "Show me the papers," he 
said. "I'll sign them."
"They'll be here in a week. It's a clean break, since we own so little these days."
At the height of his rise to power, Justice Yarber and Ms. Topolski-Yocoby had jointly 
applied for a mortgage on a home in the marina district of San Francisco. The application, 
properly sanitized to remove any hint of chauvinism or sexism or racism or ageism, blandly 
worded by spooked California lawyers terrified of being sued by some offended soul, 
showed a gap between assets and liabilities of almost a million dollars.
Not that a million dollars had mattered to either one of them. They were too busy fighting 
timber interests and ruthless farmers, etc. In fact, they'd taken pride in the scantness of their 
assets.
California was a community property state, which roughly meant an equal split. The divorce 
papers would be easy to sign, for many reasons.
And there was one reason Finn would never mention. The Angola scam was producing 
money, hidden and dirty, and off-limits to any and every greedy agency. Ms. Carmen would 
damned sure never know about it.
Finn wasn't certain how the tentacles of community property might reach a secret bank 
account in the Bahamas, but he had no plans to find out. Show him the papers, he'd be 
happy to sign.
They managed to chat a few minutes about old friends, a brief conversation indeed because 
most friends were gone. When they said good-bye, there was no sadness, no remorse. The 
marriage had been dead for a long time. They were relieved at its passing.
He wished her well; without so much as a hug, then went to the track, where he stripped to 
his boxers and walked an hour in the sun.

TEN

Lufkin was fishing his second day in Cairo with dinner at a sidewalk cafe on Shari' el 
Corniche, in the Garden City section of the city. He sipped strong black coffee and watched 
the merchants close their shops-sellers of rugs and brass pots and leather bags and linens 
from Pakistan, all for the tourists. Less than twenty feet away, an ancient vendor 
meticulously folded his tent, then left his spot without a trace.
Lufkin looked very much the part of a modern Arab-white slacks, light khaki jacket, a white 
vented fedora with the bill down close to his eyes. He watched the world from behind a hat 
and a pair of sunshades. He kept his face and arms tanned and his dark hair cut very short. 
He spoke perfect Arabic and moved with ease from Beirut to Damascus to Cairo.
His room was at the Hotel El-Nil on the edge of the Nile River, six crowded blocks away, 
and as he drifted through the city he was suddenly joined by a tall thin foreigner of some 
breed with only passable English. They knew each other well enough to trust each other, 
and continued their walk.
"We think tonight is the night," the contact said, his eyes also hidden.
"Go on."
"There's a party at the embassy"
"I know"
"Yes, a nice setting. Lots of traffic. The bomb will be in a van."
"What kind of van?"
"We don't know"
"Anything else?"
"No;" he said, then vanished in a swarming crowd.
Lufkin drank a Pepsi in a hotel bar, alone, and thought about calling Teddy. But it had been 
four days since he'd seen him at Langley, and Teddy had made no contact. They'd been 
through this before. Teddy was not going to intervene. Cairo was a dangerous place for 
Westerners these days, and no one could effectively blame the CIA for not stopping an 
attack. There would be the usual grandstanding and finger pointing, but the terror would 
quickly be shoved into the recesses of the national memory, then forgotten. There was a 
campaign at hand, and the world moved fast anyway. With so many attacks, and assaults, and 
mindless violence both at home and abroad, the American people had become hardened. 
Twenty-fourhour news, nonstop flash points, the world always with a crisis somewhere. 
Late-breaking stories, a shock here and a shock there, and before long you couldn't keep up 
with events.
Lufkin left the bar and went to his room. From his window on the fourth floor the city 
rambled forever, built helter-skelter over the centuries. The roof of the American embassy 
was directly in front of him, a mile away.
He opened a paperback Louis L'Amour, and waited for the fireworks. .

The truck was a two-ton Volvo panel van, loaded from floor to ceiling with three thousand 
pounds of plastic explosives made in Romania. Its door happily advertised the services of a 
well-known caterer in the city, a company which made frequent visits to most of the 
Western embassies. It was parked near the service entrance, in the basement.
The driver of the truck had been a large, friendly Egyptian called Shake by the Marines who 
guarded the embassy. Shake passed through often, hauling food and supplies to and from 
social events. Shake was now dead on the floor of his truck, a bullet in his brain.
At twenty minutes after ten, the bomb was detonated by a remote device, operated by a 
terrorist hiding across the street. As soon as he pushed the right buttons, he ducked behind a 
car, afraid to look.
The explosion ripped out supporting columns deep in the basement, so the embassy fell to 
one side. Debris rained for blocks. Most of the nearby buildings suffered structural damage. 
Windows within a quarter of a mile were cracked.
Lufkin was napping in his chair when the quake came. He jumped to his feet, walked onto 
his narrow balcony, and watched the cloud of dust. The roof of the embassy was no longer 
visible. Within minutes flames were seen and the interminable sirens began. He propped his 
chair against the railing of the balcony, and settled in for the duration. There would be no 
sleep. Six minutes after the explosion, the electricity in Garden City went out, and Cairo was 
dark except for the orange glow of the American embassy.
He called Teddy.
When the technician, Teddy's sanitizer, assured Lufkin the line was secure, the old man's 
voice came through as clearly as if they were chatting from New York to Boston. "Yes, 
Maynard here."
"I'm in Cairo, Teddy. Watching our embassy go up in smoke."
"When did it happen?"
"Less than ten minutes ago."
"How big-"
"Hard to tell. I'm in a hotel a mile away. Massive, I'd say"
"Call me in an hour. I'll stay here at the office tonight.
"Done."

Teddy rolled himself to a computer, punched a few buttons, and within seconds found 
Aaron Lake. The candidate was en route from Philadelphia to Atlanta, aboard his shiny new 
airplane. There was a phone in Lake's pocket, a secure digital unit as slim as a cigarette 
lighter.
Teddy punched more numbers, the phone was summoned, and Teddy spoke to his monitor. 
"Mr. Lake, it's Teddy Maynard."
Who else could it be? Lake thought. No one else could use the phone.
"Are you alone?" Teddy asked.
"Just a minute."
Teddy waited, then the voice returned. "I'm in the kitchen now," Lake said.
"Your plane has a kitchen?"
"A small one, yes. It's a very nice plane, Mr. Maynard.
"Good. Listen, sorry to bother you, but I have some news. They bombed the American 
embassy in Cairo fifteen minutes ago."
Who.
"Don't ask that"
"Sorry."
"The press will be all over you. Take a moment, prepare some remarks. It will be a good 
time to express concern for the victims and their families. Keep the politics to a minimum, 
but also keep the hard line. Your ads are prophetic now, so your words will be repeated 
many times."
"I'll do it right now"
"Call me when you get to Atlanta."
"Yes, I will."

Forty minutes later, Lake and his group landed in Atlanta. The press had been duly notified 
of his arrival, and with the dust just settling in Cairo, there was a crowd waiting. No live 
pictures had yet emerged of the embassy, yet several agencies were already reporting that, 
"hundreds" had been killed.
In the small terminal for private aircraft, Lake stood before an eager group of reporters, 
some with cameras and mikes, others with slim recorders, others still with just plain old 
notepads. He spoke solemnly, without notes: "At this moment, we should be in prayer for 
those who've been injured and killed by this act of war. Our thoughts and prayers are with 
them and their families, and also with the rescue people. I am not going to politicize this 
event, but I will say that it is absurd for this country to once again suffer at the hands of 
terrorists. When I am President, no American life will go unaccounted for. I will use our new 
military to track down and annihilate any terrorist group that preys upon innocent 
Americans. That's all I have to say"
He walked off, ignoring the shouts and questions from the pack of shaggy dogs.
Brilliant, thought Teddy, watching live from his bunker. Quick, compassionate, yet tough as 
hell. Superb! He once again patted himself on the back for choosing such a wonderful 
candidate.
When Lufkin called again it was past midnight in Cairo. The fires had been extinguished and 
they were hauling out bodies as fast as they could. Many were buried in the rubble. He was a 
block away, behind an army barricade, watching with thousands of others. The scene was 
chaos, smoke and dust thick in the air. Lufkin had been to several bomb sites in his career, 
and this was a bad one, he reported.
Teddy rolled around his room and poured another decaf coffee. The Lake terror ads would 
begin at prime time. On this very night the campaign would spend $3 million in a coast-to-
coast deluge of fear and doom.
They'd pull the ads tomorrow, and announce it beforehand. Out of respect for the dead and 
their families, the Lake campaign would temporarily suspend its little prophecies. And they'd 
start polling at noon tomorrow, massive polling.
High time candidate Lake's positives shot upward. The Arizona and Michigan primaries 
were less than a week away.
The first pictures from Cairo were of a harried reporter with his back to an army barricade, 
soldiers watching him fiercely, as he might get shot if he tried once more to charge forward. 
Sirens wailed all around; lights flashed. But the reporter knew little. A massive bomb had 
exploded deep in the embassy at tentwenty when a party was breaking up; no idea of the 
casualties, but there'd be plenty, he promised. The area was cordoned off by the army, and 
for good measure they'd sealed the airspace so, dammit, there'd be no helicopter shots. As of 
yet, no one had claimed responsibility, but for good measure he gave the names of three 
radical groups as the usual suspects.
"Could be one of these, could be someone else," he said helpfully. With no carnage to film, 
the camera was forced to stay with the reporter, and since he had nothing to say he prattled 
on about how dangerous the Middle East had become, as if this were breaking news and he 
was there to report it!
Lufkin called around 8 p.m. D.C. time to tell Teddy that the American ambassador to Egypt 
could not be located, and they were beginning to fear he might be in the rubble. At least that 
was the word on the street.
While talking to Lufkin on the phone, Teddy watched the muted reporter; a Lake terror ad 
appeared on another screen. It showed the rubble, the carnage, the bodies, the radicals from 
some other attack, then the smooth but earnest voice of Aaron Lake promising revenge.
How perfect the timing, Teddy thought.

An aide woke Teddy at midnight with lemon tea and a vegetable sandwich. As he so often 
did, he'd napped in his wheelchair, the wall of TV screens alive with images but no sound. 
When the aide left, he pushed a button and listened.
The sun was well up in Cairo. The ambassador had not been found, and it was now being 
assumed he was somewhere in the rubble.
Teddy had never met the ambassador to Egypt, an absolute unknown anyway, who was now 
being idolized by the chattering reporters as a great American. His death didn't particularly 
bother Teddy, though it would increase the criticism of the CIA.. It would also add gravity 
to the attack, which, in the scheme of things, would benefit Aaron Lake.
Sixty-one bodies had been recovered so far. The Egyptian authorities were blaming Yidal, 
the likeliest of suspects because his little army had bombed three Western embassies in the 
past sixteen months, and because he was openly calling for war against the United States. 
The current CIA dossier on Yidal gave him thirty soldiers and an annual budget of around 
$5 million, almost all originating from Libya and Saudi Arabia. But to the press, the leaks 
suggested an army of a thousand with unlimited funds with which to terrorize innocent 
Americans.
The Israelis knew what Yidal had for breakfast and where he ate it. They could've taken him 
out a dozen times, but so far he'd kept his little war away from them. As long as he killed 
Americans and Westerners, the Israelis really didn't care. It was to their benefit for the West 
to loathe the Islamic radicals.
Teddy ate slowly, then napped some more. Lufkin called before noon Cairo time with the 
news that the bodies of the ambassador and his wife had been found. The count was now at 
eighty-four; all but eleven were Americans.
The cameras caught up with Aaron Lake outside a plant in Marietta, Georgia, shaking hands 
in the dark as the shift changed, and when asked about events in Cairo, he said: "Sixteen 
months ago these same criminals bombed two of our embassies, killing thirty Americans, 
and we've done nothing to stop them. They're operating with impunity because we lack the 
commitment to fight. When I'm President, we'll declare war on these terrorists and stop the 
killing."
The tough talk was contagious, and as America woke up to the terrible news in Cairo, the 
country was also treated to a brash chorus of threats and ultimatums from the other seven 
candidates. Even the more passive among them now sounded like gunslingers.
ELEVEN

It was snowing again in Iowa, a steady swirl of snow and wind that turned to slush on the 
streets and sidewalks and made Quince Garbe once again long for a beach. He covered his 
face on Main Street as if to protect himself, but the truth was he didn't want to speak to 
anyone. Didn't want anyone to see him darting yet again into the post office.
There was a letter in the box. One of those letters. His jaw fell and his hands froze when he 
saw it, just lying there with some junk mail, innocent, like a note from an old friend. He 
glanced over both shoulders - a thief racked with guilt - then yanked it out and thrust it into 
his coat.
His wife was at the hospital planning a ball for crippled children, so the house was empty 
except for a maid who spent her day napping down in the laundry room. He hadn't given 
her a raise in eight years. He took his time driving there, fighting the snow and the drifts, 
cursing the con man who'd entered his life under the ruse of love, anticipating the letter, 
which grew heavier near his heart with each passing minute:
No sign of the maid as he entered the front door, making as much noise as possible. He 
went upstairs to his bedroom, where he locked the door. There was a pistol under the 
mattress. He flung his overcoat and his gloves onto an armchair, then his jacket, and he sat 
on the edge of his bed and examined the envelope. Same lavender paper, same handwriting, 
same everything with a Jacksonville postmark, two days old. He ripped it open and removed 
a single page.

Dear Quince:
Thanks so much for the money. So that you won't think I'm a total thug, I think you 
should know the money went to my wife and children. They are suffering so. My 
incarceration has left them destitute. My wife is clinically depressed and cannot work. My 
four children are fed by welfare and food stamps.

(A hundred thousand bucks should certainly fatten them up, Quince thought.)

They live in government housing and have no dependable transportation. So, thanks 
again for your help. Another $50,000 should get them out of debt and start a nice college 
fund.
Same rules as before; same wiring instructions; same promises to expose your secret life if 
the money is not received quickly. Do it now, Quince, and I swear this is my last letter.
          Thanks again, Quince.
                                           Love, Ricky        
    He went to the bathroom, to the medicine cabinet, where he found his wife's Valium. He 
took two, but thought about eating all of them. He needed to lie down but he couldn't use 
the bed because it would be wrinkled and someone would ask questions. So he stretched 
himself out on the floor, on the worn but clean carpet, and waited for the pills to work.
He'd begged and scraped and even lied a little to borrow the first installment for Ricky. 
There was no way he could squeeze another $50,000 from a personal balance sheet already 
heavily padded and still teetering on the edge of insolvency. His nice large house was choked 
with a fat mortgage held by his father. His father signed his paychecks. His cars were large 
and imported, but they had a million miles on them and little value. Who in Bakers, Iowa, 
would want to buy an eleven-year-old Mercedes?
And what if he managed to somehow steal the money? The criminal otherwise known as 
Ricky would simply thank him again, then demand more.
It was over.
Time for the pills. Time for the gun.
The phone startled him. Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the receiver. 
"Hello," he grunted.
"Where the hell are you?" It was his father, with a tone he knew so well.
"I'm, uh, not feeling well," he managed to say, staring at his watch and now remembering the 
ten-thirty meeting with a very important inspector from the FDIC.
"I don't give a damn how you feel. Mr. Colthurst from the FDIC has been waiting in my 
office for fifteen minutes."
"I'm vomiting, Dad," he said, and cringed again with the word Dad. Fifty-one years old, still 
using the word Dad.
"You're lying. Why didn't you call if you're sick? Gladys told me she saw you just before ten 
walking toward the post office. What the hell's going on here?"
"Excuse me. I gotta go to the toilet. I'll call you later." He hung up.
The Valium rolled in like a pleasant fog, and he sat on the edge of his bed staring at the 
lavender squares scattered on the floor. Ideas were slow in coming, hampered by the pills.
He could hide the letters, then kill himself. His suicide note would place the bulk of the 
blame on his father. Death was not an altogether unpleasant prospect; no $lore marriage, no 
more bank, no more Dad, no more Bakers, Iowa, no more hiding in the closet.
But he would miss his children and grandchildren.
And what if this Ricky monster didn't learn of the suicide, and sent another letter, and they 
found it, and somehow Quince got himself outed anyway, long after his funeral?
The next lousy idea involved a conspiracy with his secretary, a woman he trusted marginally 
to begin with. He would tell her the truth, then ask her to write a letter to Ricky and break 
the news of Quince Garbe's suicide. Together, Quince and his secretary could scheme and 
fake their way through a suicide, and in the process take some measure of revenge against 
Ricky.
But he'd rather be dead than tell his secretary.
The third idea occurred after the Valium had settled in at full throttle, and it made him smile. 
Why not try a little honesty? Write a letter to Ricky and plead poverty. Offer another $10,000 
and tell him that's all. If Ricky was determined to destroy him, then he, Quince, would have 
no choice but to come after Ricky. He'd inform the FBI, let them track the letters and the 
wire transfers, and both men would go down in flames.
He slept on the floor for thirty minutes, then gathered his jacket, gloves, and overcoat. He 
left the house without seeing the maid. As he drove to town, flush with the desire to 
confront the truth, he admitted aloud that only the money mattered. His father was eighty-
one. The bank's stock was worth about $10 million. Someday it would be his. Stay in the 
closet until the cash was in hand, then live any way he damned well pleased.
Don't screw up the money.

Coleman Lee owned a taco but in a strip mall on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana, in a section 
of town now ruled by the Mexicans. Coleman was forty-eight, with two bad divorces 
decades earlier, no children, thank God. Because of all the tacos, he was thick and slow, with 
a drooping stomach and large fleshy cheeks. Coleman was not pretty, but he was certainly 
lonely.
His employees were mainly young Mexican boys, illegal immigrants, all of whom he, sooner 
or later, tried to molest, or seduce, or whatever you'd call his clumsy efforts. Rarely was he 
successful, and his turnover was high. Business was slow too because people talked and 
Coleman was not well regarded. Who wanted to buy tacos from a pervert?
He rented two small boxes at the post office at the other end of the strip mall-one for his 
business, the other for his pleasure. He collected porno and gathered it almost daily from the 
post office. The mail carrier at his apartment was a curious type, and it was best to keep 
some things as quiet as possible.
He strolled along the dirty sidewalk at the edge of the parking lot, past the discount stores 
for shoes and cosmetics, past a XXX video dive he'd been banned from, past a welfare 
office, one brought to the suburbs by a desperate politician looking for votes. The post 
office was crowded with Mexicans taking their time because it was cold out.
His daily haul was two hard-core magazines sent to him in plain brown wrappers, and a 
letter which looked vaguely familiar. It was a square yellow envelope, no return address, 
postmarked in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Ah, yes, he remembered as he held it. Young Percy in 
rehab.
Back in his cramped little office between the kitchen and the utility room, he quickly flipped 
through the magazines, saw nothing new, then stacked them in a pile with a hundred others. 
He opened the letter from Percy. Like the two before, it was handprinted, and addressed to 
Walt, a name he used to collect all his porn, Walt Lee.

Dear Walt:
I really enjoyed your last letter. I've read it many times. You have a nice way with 
words. As I told you, I've been here for almost eighteen months, and it gets very 
lonely. I keep your letters under my mattress, and when I feel really isolated I read 
them over and over. Where did you learn to write like that? Please send another one as 
soon as possible.
With a little luck, I'll be released in April. I'm not sure where I'll go or what I'll do. It's 
frightening, really, to think that I'll just walk out of here after almost two years, and 
have no one to be with. I hope we're still pen pals by then.
I was wondering, and I really hate to ask this, but since I have no one else I'll do it 
anyway, and please feel free to say no, it won't hurt our friendship, but could you loan 
me a thousand bucks? They have this little book and music shop here at the clinic, and 
they let us buy paperbacks and CD's on credit, and, well, I've been here so long that 
I've run up quite a tab.
If you can make the loan, I'd really appreciate it. If not, I completely understand.
Thanks for being there, Walt. Please write me soon. I treasure your letters.
Love, Percy

A thousand bucks? What kinda little creep was this? Coleman smelled a con. He ripped the 
letter into pieces and threw them in the trash. "A thousand bucks;" he mumbled to himself, 
reaching for the magazines again.
Curtis was not the real name of the jeweler in Dallas. Curtis worked fine when 
corresponding with Ricky in rehab, but the real name was Vann Gates.
Mr. Gates was fifty-eight years old, on the surface happily married, the father of three and 
the grandfather of two, and he and his wife owned six jewelry stores in the Dallas area, all 
located in malls. On paper they had $2 million, and they'd made it themselves. They had a 
very nice new home in Highland Park, with separate bedrooms at opposite ends. They met 
in the kitchen for coffee and in the den for TV and grandkids.
Mr. Gates ventured from the closet now and then, always with excruciating caution. No one 
had a clue. His correspondence with Ricky was his first attempt at finding love through the 
want ads, and so far he'd been thrilled with the results. He rented a small box in a post office 
near one of the malls, and used the name Curtis V Cates.
The lavender envelope was addressed to Curtis Cates, and as he sat in his car and carefully 
opened it, he at first had no clue anything was wrong. Just another sweet letter from his 
beloved Ricky. Lightning hit, though, with the first words:

Dear Vann Gates:
The party's over, pal. My name ain't Ricky, and you're not Curtis. I'm not a gay boy 
looking for
love. You, however, have an awful secret, which I'm sure you want to keep. I want to 
help.
Here's the deal: Wire $100,000 to Geneva Trust Bank, Nassau, Bahamas, account 
number
144-DxN-9593, for Boomer Realty, Ltd., routingnumber 392844-22.
Do so immediately! This is not a joke. It's a scam, and you've been hooked. If the 
money is not
received within ten days, I will send to your wife ,Ms. Glenda Gates, a little packet 
filled with copies
of all letters, photos, etc.
Wire the money, and I'll simply go away.
                                                       Love, Ricky

With time, Vann found the Dallas I-635 loop, and before long he was on the I-820 loop 
around Fort Worth, then back to Dallas, driving at exactly fiftyfive, in the right-hand lane, 
oblivious to the traffic stacked up behind him. If crying would help, then he would've 
certainly had a good one. He had no qualms about weeping, especially in the privacy of his 
Jaguar.
But he was too angry to cry, too bitter to be wounded. And he was too frightened to waste 
time yearning for someone who did not exist. Action was needed-quick, decisive, secretive.
Heartache, though, overcame him, and he finally pulled onto the shoulder and parked with 
the engine running. All those wonderful dreams of Ricky, those countless hours staring at 
his handsome face with his crooked little smile, and reading his letters-sad, funny, desperate, 
hopefill-how could so many emotions be conveyed with the written word? He'd practically 
memorized the letters.
And he was just a boy, so young and virile, yet lonely and in need of mature companionship. 
The Ricky he'd come to love needed the loving embrace of an older man, and Curtis/Vann 
had been making plans for months. The ploy of a diamond show in Orlando while his wife 
was in El Paso at her sister's. He'd sweated the details and left no tracks.
He did, finally, cry. Poor Vann shed tears without shame or embarrassment. No one could 
see him; the other cars were flying past at eighty miles per hour.
He vowed revenge, like any jilted lover. He'd track down this beast, this monster who'd 
posed as Ricky and broken his heart.
When the sobbing began to subside, he thought of his wife and family and that helped 
greatly in drying up the tears. She'd get all six stores and the $2 million and the new house 
with separate bedrooms, and he would get nothing but ridicule and scorn and gossip in a 
town that loved it so. His children would follow the money, and for the rest of their lives his 
grandchildren would hear the whispers about their grandfather.
Back in the right lane at fifty-five, back through Mesquite for the second time, reading the 
letter again as eighteen-wheelers roared past.
There was no one to call, no banker he could trust to check out the account in the Bahamas, 
no lawyer to run to for advice, no friend to hear his sorry tale.
For a man who'd carefully lived a double life, the money would not be insurmountable. His 
wife watched every dime, both at home and at the stores, and for that reason Vann had long 
since mastered the scheme of hiding money. He did it with gems, rubies and pearls and 
sometimes small diamonds he placed aside and later sold to other dealers for cash. It was 
common in the business. He had boxes of cash--shoe boxes neatly stacked in a fireproof 
safe in a ministorage out in Plano. P