20
Cold Calculation
TEN HOURS AFTER they committed Camilla’s body to the deep, Pierce and Lisa approached the Sunset Suite at the Montage Laguna Beach. Her heels echoed purposefully off the marble floor as he checked to ensure that his tie was still knotted tight. He rarely wore one any more and had lost the knack of tying them. Time to get used to it again.
They stopped before the hardwood double doors and turned to meet each other’s eyes. This was a big moment. The second that day, as things had turned out. Pierce suddenly felt compelled to comment on that fact. “We’ve had our ups and downs, but ultimately, you and I have proved to be quite effective together.”
“Different, but complementary,” she agreed.
“Like an aged filet and a Caesar salad.” Pierce knocked three times then added with a wink. “Shouldn’t this be the Presidential Suite?”
The door opened as he spoke, revealing the bright blue eyes and thick salt-and-pepper hair of Carl Casteel. “The Montage doesn’t have a Presidential Suite. But as you’ll see, this one will do. Thank you for arriving precisely on time.”
They entered a luxurious room that was poised to capture the oranges and blues of the sun disappearing into the surf. Casteel gave them a moment to soak it in before speaking.
“The color combination reminds me of Monet’s ‘Twilight, Venice,’” Pierce said. “Albeit with tall palms providing the shadowy contrast rather than the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore.”
Lisa gave him the bewildered look of a person who’d just seen a monkey type.
“I own one of the unfinished versions,” he said in explanation. “Have it hanging in my bedroom.”
“I must say, I’m surprised to see the two of you together,” Casteel said. “What with bipartisans being on the endangered species list these days.”
“We’re closet bipartisans,” Pierce said.
Casteel turned from the window, exposing the approval in his eyes. “That’s the savvy kind. I look forward to hearing the specifics.”
He popped the cork on a bottle of Taittinger Champagne as they took seats around a glass dining table set for six. “The bottle came with the room and a suggestion to enjoy it at sunset.”
He poured three flutes, then raised his own. “I thought that was a wonderful idea, especially given the timing of our meeting. But I suggest we toast to rising stars instead.”
“To rising stars,” Pierce and Lisa repeated.
They all clinked and enjoyed a sip. The Champagne was crisp and dry and instantly reminded Pierce of success. The movie version of James Bond drank vodka, famously shaken, not stirred, but in the books, the British spy drank Taittinger Champagne. Pierce had once been a big Ian Fleming fan.
As an homage during his angel investor days, Pierce had always opened a bottle of Taittinger with management when inking a deal. Both the initial investment and the ultimate exit. Staring at the tiny bubbles, he wondered if this brand of bottle was a coincidence or the result of the good research that made Casteel a legend in his field.
“Now, why don’t you tell me precisely what you bipartisans are pursuing, and I’ll let you know if it’s possible.”
Lisa took the lead. She set her flute aside, clasped her hands, and met Casteel’s eyes. “We’re pursuing sixteen years at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
Pierce noted that Casteel’s face revealed nothing of the thoughts within his perfectly coiffed head. Their demand was literally the limit of political possibility, but he didn’t even blink. He just moved his head back and forth between his two clients. “Eight plus eight. The math is easy. The rest is incredibly ambitious.” His eyes came to rest on Lisa’s. “Ambitious plans are my favorite kind. I’m all ears.”
“As you know from our earlier individual meetings, we each have the financial resources to bankroll extensive back-office campaigns. Not just opposition research, but also aggressive offensive tactics.”
“Like fabricating sexual assault allegations,” Casteel clarified, referencing the specific tactic the two had used to make their senate seats available. He hadn’t been involved at that stage, but he knew there were no convenient coincidences in America’s Capital. In Washington, brass rings weren’t plucked off ribbons, they were ripped from flesh. “I like that you’re beginning your quest with a clear understanding of what it takes to play in the major leagues. What I’m not seeing is the bipartisan angle. Cooperation plays well with crowds, but not with donors or special interests. They’re motivated by pole positions, not the equator.”
Lisa retained her aggressive posture, mirroring Casteel’s own. “We’re preparing massive propaganda wars. We’ll stake out the high ground while financing trench warfare. Since we don’t need financing, we can hit our opponents hard on corruption and do so with impunity.”
Pierce loved watching Lisa in action. Back in the day, she’d always owned the stage. He was relieved to see that immortality hadn’t rusted her mettle. They were going to make this happen!
“While that would certainly be easy, it might not necessarily be wise,” Casteel cautioned. “You’re going to need the support of your respective national committees—and those committees are composed of people who do rely on special interests. If you pee in their pool, don’t expect the committee members to want you at the party.”
Pierce stepped in for an assist before passing the ball back to Lisa. “Recent history has made it clear that political parties will embrace anybody who can win. Victory is the trump card.”
Lisa spread her hands. “We’re offering you your dream job, Carl. Unlimited funds—without the need to waste your time or ours passing the hat. That means there’s no risk of getting caught lying while pandering this way for one group and that way for another. It means we’ll have no need to abandon popular positions to please rich donors.” She reached across the table and took Pierce’s hand. “We’ll speak moderately and respectfully while slipping stilettos into our opponents’ sides.”
Casteel’s face remained impassive, but he leaned back as if momentarily satisfied. “All the while helping each other in subtle ways, with compliments and digs.”
“Exactly.”
The Washington wise man chewed on that for a minute.
They sipped Champagne.
“If we do it right, the opposition will go hard right and hard left while you each stake claim to your side of the middle ground—perhaps showing off a bit of overlap. But then what? If you both win your primaries, you’re stuck facing each other.”
Pierce watched with anticipation as Lisa delivered the kicker. “Right before the first convention, we turn to the numbers. By then, there will be plenty of polls pitting us against each other. Whichever of us is losing in those head-to-head battles—joins the bottom of the other’s ticket.”
Casteel raised his groomed eyebrows. “Creating a unity platform.”
Lisa acknowledged his sage insight with a tilt of her head. “And weakening the opposing party, which will be forced to put forward a team the primary voters have already dismissed.”
Casteel nodded along. “I like Act One. Tell me about Act Two.”
Lisa tented her hands again. “When we’re elected, we actually run a bipartisan White House. At that point, the party out of power will know that it’s set to win in eight years, so it will be inclined to go along—if the proposals are moderate. And they will be. Lord knows we’re overdue for a few of those.”
“The special interests will still be funding the fringes,” Casteel cautioned.
“We have no delusions about avoiding a state of war. But we’ll have the big microphone, and we’ll have the vast majority of the American people on our side. The country is fed up with partisan politics. The middle is a solid sixty percent—which is nine more than we need.”