The president’s heart iced over. “Oh?”
“They were taken from the Columbus Project.”
“Let me explain—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. But I can’t just gloss over this. Your administration has lost hard-earned American money.” Senator Gar cocked his head. “Unless, of course, you took it for yourself.”
The president steeled his backbone. “How dare you.”
Senator Gar shrugged. “Regardless, someone took it.”
“So, is that why you’re here? To give me a heads-up before the press conference?”
“Who said anything about a press conference?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll level with you,” Senator Gar continued. “America doesn’t need another scandal, especially of this magnitude. Polls show the public’s faith in the presidency is already at an all-time low. The last thing I want to do is add fuel to the fire.”
The president frowned.
“Face it. This scandal will destroy you, now and in the history books. You’ll be remembered as the most crooked leader in our nation’s history. But I can give you a way out.”
“Is that so?”
The senator nodded. “All I want is a little favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Your endorsement.” Senator Gar smiled. “I’m running for president in the next election. And you’ll be supporting my candidacy.”
Chapter 29
The cottage house, although tiny, promised big things. Ed Hooper’s eyes shifted across it, taking in the peeling siding, the filthy windows, and the lopsided roof. The paint, once a vibrant red, had dulled to crimson. Modest was too kind a word to describe the dwelling.
It was a dump.
Opening his car door, he stepped outside. The evening air reeked of urine and garbage. Twisting his neck, he took in the other nearby single-family homes. He stood in the middle of Washington Highlands, one of Washington D.C.’s poorest and most dangerous neighborhoods. It was a far cry from Spring Valley. And yet, a small connection existed between the two worlds.
After leaving the Samuels’ residence, he’d taken a few minutes to search the Internet for information on the various people depicted in the old photograph. Since they were all part of the same administration, he’d initially received millions of hits. But when he’d added the search term, Separative, the hits had diminished to just a handful. One of those hits led him to a three-year old article from the Washington Chronicle. It was entitled, “The Separative Takes Over the World.” The article was archived, so he’d been forced to purchase it. But it had been well worth the cost. In fact, it had been so helpful he’d decided to seek out the author herself for a little extra information.
Hooper trudged up a dilapidated staircase and rapped on the door. Footsteps pitter-pattered toward him. A deadbolt shifted. The door inched open. “May I help you?” a woman asked with perfect enunciation.
She was short and middle-aged. Her eyes were laser bright. Her hair was poofed up and pushed backward, drawing attention to her high forehead. She wore a black sweater and black pants. Her quiet, confident demeanor hinted at a high degree of intelligence.
Hooper smiled. “Are you Ms. Zora Zubin?”
“That depends. Who are you?”
“Ed Hooper.” He showed his credentials. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Secret Service?” Her face twisted in suspicion. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We should talk inside.” Hooper tried to walk through the doorway. But Zora stood her ground. With a shrug, he backed up a few inches. He wasn’t particularly surprised. Most reporters knew better than to let authority figures into their homes without a warrant. “Or we can talk here.”
Zora stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “I don’t know what this is about, but you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t care for President Walters, but I’d never try to hurt him.”
“I’m not here about the president. I’m here about an article you wrote three years ago for the Washington Chronicle.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “You’ll have to do better than that. Three years is a lifetime in my business.”
“It was called, ‘The Separative Takes Over the World.’” He brought up the article on his smartphone and passed it to her.
“Oh, yes.” She fished a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.” Hooper tilted his head. “How long have you been a smoker?”
“Ever since I came to this godforsaken city.” She slid a cigarette between her lips and lit it. “So, why do you care about my article?”
“It might have something to do with a case I’m working on.” Hooper gave her a reassuring smile. “So, why’d you write it?”
“Because it was — is — an amazing story. Five members of the cabinet are longtime friends? And they used to meet together, in secret, to discuss intellectual matters? That’s the stuff Pulitzers are made of.”
“Then how come you never published any follow-up pieces?”
“Ask my editor.”
Hooper arched an eyebrow.
“That first story was going to be part of a series,” she said. “But shortly after it appeared, my editor killed the whole thing. He claimed it was due to lack of interest.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“I’ve been in this town long enough to know when pressure is being applied.”
Hooper nodded. “Okay. Well, how’d you first learn about the Separative?”
She blew out a ring of smoke. “Through Simona Wolcott. She was their ringleader. I met her years ago, right here in D.C. We became good friends. Every Sunday night, she hosted informal gatherings in her parlor. They weren’t very large, just ten people in total. But what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in intellectual heft. They’d debate philosophy, literature, mathematics, politics, and pretty much anything else into the wee hours of the night. They called themselves the Separative.”
“Do you know why?” Hooper asked.
“It was an inside joke. You see, they considered themselves collectivists.”
“Ahh, I see. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”
“Something like that.” She paused to blow out another ring of smoke. “Anyway it sounded interesting so I begged her to let me sit in on a meeting. Boy, was that a long night.”
“It was boring?”
“Try humiliating. It was like playing a game of chess with a Grand Master. One moment you think you’re winning, the next moment you realize you’ve been set up for checkmate since the first move.”
“Were they all that smart?”
Exhaling another puff, she stared off into space. “Oh, yeah. But Simona? She was in a league of her own.”
Hooper consulted his notes. “Your article mentioned ten members, but only discussed those with cabinet positions. Who else was in the Separative?”
“I’ll have to get out my old notebooks. Wait here.” She tossed the butt onto her porch and stamped it out with her shoe. Then she walked into her house. Ten minutes later, she reemerged, clutching a couple of spiral notebooks.
Flipping through the books, she recited some basic information. Hooper scribbled down names and titles. Before long, he’d compiled a complete roster of the Separative.
George Kaiser: Secretary of Transportation, U.S. Government
Kate Roost: Secretary of the Interior, U.S. Government
Barney Samuels: Secretary of Energy, U.S. Government
Patricia Samuels: Co-founder, Chairman, and CEO, Fizzter Computers
Janet Baker: Secretary of Agriculture, U.S. Government
Bert Bane: Secretary of Defense, U.S. Government