She was more dangerous and more destructive than any foreign terrorist. She was a pair of scissors cutting through the fabric of trust that held a civil community together, allowing democracy to exist. She epitomized the essential threat of terrorism–that a terrorist could be anyone–a grandmother or a white American eco-terrorist from West Virginia–that a single person could attack, destroy, and move about freely in a free society. The terrible truth of modern terrorism is that anyone and everyone could be the enemy. And when everyone is the enemy, there can be no trust, and without trust, there can be no freedom, and without freedom, there can be no democracy.
Deirdre Owens exuded an air of professional elegance as she surveyed the setup at the Stein fundraiser. A classic pin-striped skirt suit evidenced a polished demeanor and athletic physique. A white blouse with a wing collar added a touch of sophistication to an outfit that allowed her to adapt her style to different situations as the campaign manager of a statewide California Senate campaign.
Having trained in martial arts and maintained a disciplined diet, Deirdre had sculpted her body into a lean and muscular figure. At forty-one years old, a long, slender face pulled forward at the bottom by a strong jaw gave her a distinctive look. Her lips were wide and full, subtly hinting at a smirk rather than a smile conveying a sense of shrewdness and cunning that hinted at her taste for consensual bondage.
Deirdre stood behind the senator and the movie star, a majordomo near and ready to serve, as Hansen greeted guests who’d paid either because they supported him or because they wanted to meet and visit the home of Barbara Stein. It didn’t matter which to Deirdre. The campaign had to raise $250,000 a day to pay for a statewide race in California. The fifty-five-year-old senator exuded an air of maturity and experience. He was dressed in casual attire in a light blue button-down shirt to present himself as approachable and relatable. Light hazel eyes, framed by thin, graying eyebrows, maintained eye contact during interactions, projecting genuine interest.
A woman in an Apolline cropped jacket appeared overcome with emotion and hugged Hansen, patting his back. “God bless you, Senator,” she said and moved into the party.
Suddenly, Hansen’s engaged expression lost its focus.
Deirdre followed his stricken gaze to the doorway, where a stooped middle-aged man stared at him.The man, dressed in an open-collar shirt and tweed sports jacket, with salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a small ponytail behind his balding pate, joined the receiving line and stood behind three people while Hansen concentrated on the guests before him.
Did he recognize this man? “Get closer,” she whispered to Bobby Sutton, her security chief–too late to alert Stein’s plainclothes security force.
The ponytailed man squeezed Hansen’s hand.
The senator’s face blanched, and lines furrowed his everyman’s face.
The man beamed and laughed. “Allan, it’s about time you invited me to one of your parties.”
“Hello, Jake,” Hansen said with a feeble smile and pulled his hand free. “Glad you could make it. You a fan of Barbara?” He tried to pass him on to the movie star.
The hostess glanced at the man, who ignored her.
“Sure not your fan,” Gillium said with a tight grin.
Hansen shut his eyes as if against a throb of sudden pain and sighed. “Well, it was good…nice…too long not seeing you, Jake.”
“You want to talk to me, Allan?” Gillium seemed not to care about the others waiting behind him.
“Ah, I need to do my political thing. Talk to Deirdre, she’ll take real good care of you.”
Hansen’s professional politician mask seemed to be shattered by the encounter. He looked at her with a pleading concentration in his fatigue-framed eyes.
The man ignored Deirdre, keeping his attention on Hansen. “I think it’s better we talk alone. We have a lot to catch up about, don’t you think, Allan?”
“Not here. Deirdre,” he said as a command.
“When’s a good time?” The man’s voice was nasal, insistent.
Hansen recovered his strength. “Good to see you, Jake. We’ll talk real soon.” He focused on the next person in line. “Nice to see you,” he said to an elderly woman.
“Perhaps I can help you.” Deirdre put her hand on Gillium’s elbow. Something about the power of her touch or the sight of Bobby Sutton, a stoical man with short hair, a flattened nose, and cauliflower wrestler’s ears, ready to inflict more pain, allowed her to guide the threat away from the receiving line as if pulling a dog from a fight.
When she had him by the front exit, she turned. “Hi, I’m Senator Hansen’s assistant.”
Gillium reflexively squeezed her hand, keeping his gaze on Hansen.
“Jake Gillium,” he introduced himself with a smirk.
She now understood Hansen’s reaction. Deirdre spent as much effort conducting negative research on her candidate as on his opponent. Here was a man that could cause Hansen a lot of trouble.
“What may we do for you, Mr. Gillium?”
“We?” he asked. He had a jolly air, a clown face hiding a tortured soul. “Do you have a mouse in your pocket?” He giggled.
“I mean the senator and his staff.”
He looked her up and down. “And a very capable-looking staff at that.”
“May I do anything to help you?”
Gillium looked at her as if trying to decide whether to attempt another lame joke, but settled for a drawn-out, “Nooo, I’d better talk to Allan.”
“You and the senator are old friends. I recognize your name.”
He twisted thin lips. “Wouldn’t exactly say friends.”
“You were at Cal together, weren’t you?”
Gillium harrumphed. “Well, if you know so much, you should know he sent me to jail for seven years with perjured evidence.”
Now that she knew the problem, Deirdre could work on the solution. With a nod, she dismissed Bobby Sutton. “Why don’t we go outside? I’ve studied your case. The FBI set you up.”
Her apparent agreement caused Gillium to look at her with a turn of his head and narrowed eyes. He walked beside her, apart from the main grouping of guests, around the pool to the seagull sculpture.
“Mr. Gillium, what did you mean when you said you thought the senator wanted to see you?”
“He sent me a note with the invitation.”
“Do you have the note with you?”
“I gave it to your people out front. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do want to see what Allan wanted. These surroundings aren’t to my taste.”
She followed him back into the party.
Gillium stopped. Hansen was no longer in the receiving line. Deirdre mimicked Gillium’s scan of the room. Where was he?
They walked past a home theater with plush reclining chairs facing a projection screen. A security guard barred a closed door at the end of the hallway leading to the private area of the house. Gillium turned to Deirdre. “Where did he go?” he demanded.
Trouble came from the front door, where the famous hostess growled at a young blond campaign staffer at the name tag table. The voice Deirdre had heard so many times in songs and movies was furious. Her expressive lips were downturned from her prominent cheekbone. “It better be a fucking national emergency. You get him on the line! I want to talk to him!”
Deirdre hurried to the actress.
Stein’s narrowed eyes flashed with anger and a hint of amusement at the odd behavior as if she was delivering a laugh line.
“Where’s our boy? He took off like he’d forgotten his wife at the airport. What’s going on?”
Deirdre didn’t hide her concern. “I believe there was some kind of emergency, a personal emergency.” Lying came quickly and easily to Deirdre these days.
“You can tell him that I’m doing this for the party, not him!” Stein spun and left for the guarded door at the end of the hallway.
Gillium chuckled and stayed by Deirdre’s side. “Allan’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
“Why, no. He’s very popular, running a fabulous reelection race.” Never say a negative thing about your candidate.
“Do you often have to dissemble for Allan?”
Deirdre blinked and tilted her head. “Dissemble? Why, no. I don’t know what you mean.”
With a tone of an adult lecturing a child, eyes rolled up toward her, bald head bobbing into thick shoulders, he said, “You know what’s obvious about you? Lying when you know it’s a lie.”
Deirdre stiffened. “Will you excuse me?” Lips pressed together; she went out to the driveway. The SUV that had brought them was gone.
She knew when her candidate was losing his/her mind–a bad feeling like seeing your stock drop 50 percent overnight.
Her suitcase and computer were in the SUV Hansen had driven off in. Was she supposed to make her own way to the next event? She hit his name on her cell, and the line went straight to a message. He’d freaked. Her candidate was on the run.
Gillium came up beside her. “Allan was never very courageous, a bit spine deprived, I’m afraid. If you ever track him down, tell him a group doing negative research on him has approached me. They’re quite good, really. They’ve uncovered more than I thought existed in public about Allan’s and my relationship with the Oakland Four.”
“What did you tell them?”
He handed her a business card. “Tell Allan to call me.” He started to walk up the driveway, turned, and said, “You might also want to know that I recognized an FBI agent at your party.”
Deirdre squinted in consternation and looked at the card marked with an elaborate depiction of a dam blowing up.
Jake Gillium
Bobby Sutton came up to her. “What the fuck?” he asked. He was smart as well as tough, SEAL team tough. One of the advantages of running an $80 million campaign was that you could hire good talent.
“This is a setup,” Deirdre said. “I want the room swept and facial recognition on every guest. One is FBI.”
“On it,” Sutton said.
“How long you need on the guests?” Deirdre demanded.
“Ten, no, seven minutes.”
“Here.” She handed him the card. “I want the address.”
Five minutes later, Deirdre stepped up to the microphone set up by the pool where Hansen was to have delivered short remarks. Her voice carried across the property through the PA. “I want to thank you for your support of freedom and the work Senator Allan Hansen is doing in the US Senate.” Her voice rose as if announcing an emergency. “We believe this party has been compromised by the senator’s political opponents, very likely the White House. I’m going to have to ask everyone to leave so that proper security measures may be taken.”
To blame the White House for evicting fifty people who’d paid $1,000 after they’d barely had time to get a drink and a crab canapé was probably not her best move. Still, she had a bad feeling about someone from the FBI inviting Jake Gillium, who most probably was recording their interaction for a hit piece. Whomever it was, she didn’t want to give them any more time.
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