Target: Trump (chapter 1)
West Village, Manhattan (present).….
Tarita Lee braced her hands against the steering wheel and her feet against the floor board, then she stepped hard on the accelerator. And rammed into the BMW in front of her.
She had been following the BMW for several minutes, waiting until it stopped for a light. When it did, she’d slowed her approach and held a thick pillow against the steering wheel — a precaution against airbag failure.
The impact was noisy and damaging to bumpers. Tarita leaned back from the inflated airbag she’d slammed into, flipped the pillow into the rear seat and leaned forward into the bag again. Stock-still, she closed her eyes and waited.
Not for long. Her car door was opened and a man’s hands gently leaned her back away from the air bag. He cupped her chin, turned it toward him. The man was Tim Boylan.
Boylan: “Are you okay? Hey, Miss, you okay?”
She slowly opened her eyes, looked sideways at him. She was surprised. He had a nice face with regular features except for a slightly off-center nose. Rather handsome, actually, with soft red hair. Not at all her perception of what a hired killer should look like. Or act like.
Tarita: “I think so. Who are you?”
Boylan:
“I’m the guy whose car you just bashed into. What happened to you?”
Tarita:
“I looked down for a second — looking for my phone — and that’s when you stopped. Stupid of me, just really stupid! I’m sooo sorry! Are you okay?”
Boylan: “Yeah sure, I’m okay. But … “
Tarita: “Thank God! Thank God for that!”
Boylan:
“But my horse is a bit worse for the wear.”
Tarita:
“Oh shit! Whoops, pardon me, I’m a little out of sorts. First car accident I’ve ever had.
“So let’s have a look. By the way, my name’s Tarita.”
Boylan: “Mine’s Tim.”
He helped her climb out of the car. She moved tentatively as they examined the damage to the bumpers and fenders. She noticed a complicated tattoo winding up his right forearm and wondered what it signified.
Tarita:
“I need a favor. Big one, but I’ll make it worth your while.”
Boylan: “Tell me.”
Boylan tried not to gawk at her curvy athletic figure on display in short white shorts and a tank top. She was purposefully attired for this occasion. She looked up into his eyes, smiled.
Tarita:
“I’m an actor, and publicity’s important to me. Good publicity. An auto accident isn’t good publicity. I’d love to keep this out of the news.”
Boylan: “I’ve got no problem with that.”
Tarita:
“Would you consider letting me pay you double whatever your repairs cost and your insurance would cover? Cash up front, no third parties.”
Boylan:
“Interesting. How do we go about that?”
Tarita:
“First we go someplace and have a drink. I need one. And we can work out the details there.”
Boylan: “You’re on.”
They found parking spaces nearby and met in a local bistro. Two hours later, Tarita called Fisk from her parked car. An actress under contract to Pandora Studios, one of Fisk’s companies, she also worked for Fisk on non-film projects. This was one of them.
A decade ago Fisk had discovered Tarita at Le Meridien hotel in Papeete, Tahiti. One of several available women in the bar, she was astonishingly attractive. And clearly uncomfortable. It was her first experience in a trade she had not chosen.
Struck by both her beauty and her discomfort, Fisk spoke to the man with her, her uncle. After a short negotiation, the man sold her to Fisk for 1800 French francs. She was fourteen years old.
Moorea, one of the Society Islands of French Polynesia, was Tarita’s birthplace. Her mother, a Polynesian woman, had died when Tarita was eight. She knew no father.
After her mother died, her ne’er-do-well uncle had provided for her. He made her earn her keep in various unpleasant ways. As she blossomed, he saw her as a salable asset. Even at fourteen, her stunning face and figure drew attention wherever she appeared. Equally exploitable by her uncle
was her precocity in carnal matters.
She became Fisk’s protégé. He retained tutors to expand her quick mind. He fostered her rise to world rank in springboard diving. He arranged for her to have minor roles in low-budget action movies filmed at his Pandora Studios.
Tarita showed a flair for acting and evolved into a bankable star for Pandora. She enjoyed the perks and tolerated the exploitation of her physical attributes. Her acting reflected her essence — athletic, earthy, exotic.
Her coming of age had complicated her relationship with Fisk. Her feelings of obligation and infatuation had meshed indistinguishably as her vivid sexuality beset both of them. Her mere presence was provocative.
Because of his patriarchy and what he deemed an inappropriate age difference, Fisk restricted their sexual interaction to erotic pleasures that could be enjoyed without emotional involvement. He avoided words or actions that might in any way open a door to romantic aspirations.
Tarita sensed the incompleteness of their intimacies but knew nothing better, so took pleasure as it came.
After her cocktail with Boylan, Tarita called Fisk. He’d been anxiously awaiting her call and answered on the first ring.
Fisk: “How’d it go?”
Tarita:
“Without a hitch. He bought my story completely, understands my wanting to avoid negative publicity, and says he’s happy to help. He’s more interested in me than the money.”
Fisk: “And going forward?”
Tarita:
“I have a date with him tonight. Fast enough?”
Fisk:
“You’re good. We need to get inside this guy’s head, know everything he does from now on.”
Tarita:
“Not ‘we,’ Fisk. Me! I’m the one getting inside his head, taking the risk. You should do it sometime — try being the bait. See what fun it’s not.”
She was irked, as usual, by his apparent lack of concern about the compromising situations he put her in . She would have been surprised to know how much her apparent ease with such compromise disturbed him — buffeted his psyche with crosscurrents of guilt and prurience.
Fisk: “Sorry.”
Tarita:
“Forget it. Nothing new. How’d you find out about Boylan?”
Fisk:
“FBI did. A San Francisco hooker saw Boylan with one of her johns, guy named Radecki — a hired gun like Boylan. He was in the running for the contract Boylan got.
“Radecki got killed, but left a letter telling what he knew about the assassination plot. Letter got to the FBI who worked with the San Francisco police to find the hooker, Ginger. She identified Boylan from a rogues’ gallery.”
Tarita glanced at the big black Cadillac Escalade double-parked across the street. It had been there when she’d exited the bistro. She’d noticed the man in the driver’s seat then. He was still there.
Tarita: “How’d you get involved in this?”
Fisk:
“The Radecki letter said the shooter was hired by someone who spends tens of millions to buy political influence. I assume he’s been a heavy campaign donor. Very few people throw really big money into politics. I’m one, and I know a lot about the others. Also, the FBI knows and trusts me.”
Tarita:
“Then Boylan’s important only as a lead to his boss.”
Fisk:
“More than that. He might also be our last chance to stop the assassination if we don’t get to his boss in time. That’s why you need to stay close to him even though our primary objective is to identify the nutcase behind him.
“Our suspects are people so rich and powerful that some of them think they’re above the law, or that they can buy the law. And some can, thanks to rulings like Citizens United that let them pour unlimited amounts of money into election campaigns.
“One of our suspects is undoubtedly a megalomaniac.”
Tarita:
“We’d be able to track him down through his history of campaign donations if it weren’t for the damn super PACs that conceal donors. What do they call money from undisclosed sources?”
Fisk:
“Dark money. There was three times more of it in the 2016 election than in 2012, and it’s really hard to find out where dark money comes from.”
Tarita: “So the FBI needs us. What’s the plan.”
Fisk:
“We’ve got a list of people to investigate. I’ll call them suspects for lack of a better word. They’re not really suspects. They’re eminent, law-abiding citizens. All but one.
“The list identifies those few billionaires who, like me, are politically involved. They’ve all been mega-donors to election campaigns. We need to investigate each one conclusively, and fast. I want the list reduced to one suspect. That’s urgent!”
Tarita:
“You told me before that the list includes well-known people like George Soros and the Koch brothers. That’s ridiculous. They’re highly successful, patriotic Americans. They’d never be involved in an assassination plot no matter how much they stood to gain from it.”
Fisk:
“Someone is. All the people on our list are extraordinary achievers, mostly self-made. Some are idealists, others pretend to be. Some build, others just manipulate. We thought they all worked within our system, within the law. We thought wrong.
“One of them’s gone completely off the rails. We’ve got to find out who it is and shut him or her down before all hell breaks loose. And we don’t want anyone to know they’re being investigated.
“In addition to those you mentioned, our list includes Sheldon Adelson, Liz Baldorini, Tom Steyer, Ray Halle, Michael Bloomberg, Claude Leek, Paul Singer and a couple others.”
Tarita:
“All big business moguls. Hard to believe that one of them hates or is bothered by Trump enough to sic a killer on him. It’d be really interesting to know the reason. Maybe we’ll find out.”
Fisk:
“The FBI suggested that the Clintons might belong on our list because of the animosity between them and Trump. I nixed it. I know both Clintons too well. Both sometimes act like they’re above the law, but they’d never even think of going that far above. Or below.”
“As of now we have no idea of who or what’s behind the plot, but we’ll figure it out. We’re going to find out everything relevant about each suspect.
“Carlos’ll head up the investigations. Work with him and keep me informed about everything you two learn, as you learn it.”
Carlos Madrid was Fisk’s young troubleshooter. Some thought him Fisk’s heir apparent. Some thought him just an athletic hooligan.
He and Tarita had worked together effectively on other assignments. They had also joined occasionally in vigorous extracurriculars.
Fisk:
“You’re the safety net, Tar. If we can’t find our villain in time, I want you close enough to Boylan to know when and where he intends to strike.”
Tarita looked at the Escalade again. The person in the driver’s seat was looking at her. She could see his features — Asian, shaved pate, squinty eyes. He looked away when he saw her looking at him.
Tarita:
“Little problem here, Fisk. Talk later.”
She clicked off the phone, pulled out of her parking space, drove two blocks and stopped for a red light. She looked back to where the Cadillac Escalade had been parked. It was still there. Relieved, she turned at the corner when the light changed and headed uptown.
About ten minutes later she left her car with the valet at the Four Seasons on 57th Street. At the lobby entrance, she turned to get her overnight bag from the doorman behind her. Glancing over his shoulder, she noticed a black car approaching the hotel.
A black Cadillac Escalade.
____________________
Email
To: Tarita and Carlos
From: Fisk
Subj: Dialing for dollars
Total money spent on 2016 U.S. election campaigns extended well into the billions of dollars — over 100 times more overall and 30 times more per capita, than in the UK.
Little wonder that U.S. politicans spend 50% of their working time raising money to get and stay elected.