Chapter Six
John Fagen owned four homes; two in Gotham, his residence, and his ancestral home; one in Washington, and one in Palm Springs. At sixty-five, he was fit, not given to fat like most men his age, with steel gray hair, impeccable grooming and perfect self-possession. Every item in his house had been chosen with extreme care, placed just as he wanted it. His staff learned quickly to make sure nothing was moved out of its designated position, or they were no longer staff.
Alone in his office, he stood near a small gaming table, examining a chess board. He loved the game, and generally had a match going on. Between legislative session, he'd taken to playing long distance by email with his good friend, the current chairman of the Congressional Ways & Means Committee. Will was a wonder with making the deals necessary to pass a budget through the American political system, but he still had a bit to learn about chess.
Everyone thought good strategy was about power. But what was power, really? Money, some said, though Fagen knew that was more a product of power than its base. Information, said others. That was close, but not quite it. He had found power to reside primarily in the weakness of others. It was a kind of vacuum that begged to be filled, though most simply couldn't. They couldn't even fill the holes in themselves, which was what made them weak.
The only thing that really bothered him about this situation was that. You had to know someone's weakness in order to exploit it. He had spent his life studying the system of wealth and privilege that he had been born into, puzzling out all the intricacies, learning not only the rules, but also the underlying dynamics that made it all work. And he became extraordinarily skilled at navigating all the complicated rapids, an expert athlete at the heart-pounding sport of power. Governor at thirty-eight, Senator at forty-three. He'd never run for President because he was not a fool. And no one had inhabited the Oval Office in fifteen years that he could not control, or work around.
His world was built on a supreme order, and Gotham was the foundation of that world. His home, his city, he had made certain that it was the greatest city the world had ever known – he and his family before him. The law? They didn't follow the law, they made the law and they knew what the law was – a story told to the people to keep them quiet; a tool, like any other. Would Gotham be what it was today if his great-grandfather had obeyed the Prohibition laws in the 30s? Look what happened to Boston when they closed all the speakeasys; everyone came to Gotham. (Of course his ancestor had a hand in making sure the G-men concentrated on Boston to begin with.) And now, would Gotham's banks be the most powerful in the world if they did not launder the trillions of the drug cartels? Would his city still be the crossroads of the world if it wasn't the place you could have anything or do anything with the right connections? Put a stop to the drugs and guns running through Gotham, and they would just move somewhere else. You had to keep the big picture in mind. Business was business. And business was always good for the city.
People didn't understand. Reality didn't change. There were pros and cons to everything. Even things that, on the surface, seemed evil and wrong. Everyone was evil and wrong, and everyone was good and right. And, ultimately, everyone had an angle, something they wanted, or needed. Something they were trying to get.
So, what do they want? And why go about it this way?
The Bureau teams have Gordon cornered, office bugged, he thought. They already have tapes on him giving information to …god, it's so ridiculous – 'Batman'. What is the world coming to?
He examined the chessboard. His opponent had set up an elegant defense.
I don't want them to move yet. I don't want him going to ground. I need him out and about. Let him expose himself a bit more. Nocturne has him targeted and should be able to produce some information shortly. So I will keep my counterattack back for the moment, and see what he does next.
His eyes moved over the positions of each of his opponent's remaining pieces. Ah, that is where the offensive would come from. He looked to his pieces to decide how to lay his trap.