The Long Game: Chapter 13
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
The Previous Evening in New York City, 9:15 p.m., Sunday, March 18, 2012
Senator William Bracken sits on the left side of the long table on the podium with his wife Elizabeth and a few members of his staff. On the opposite side, a number of local city party officials sit, basking in the glory of a successful fund-raising event for the ambitious senator on the other side of the microphone. The Senator has been at his captivating best this evening, having thrown out three or four new soundbites that everyone realized – as they were leaving the Senator's mouth – would be broadcast coast to coast, forget just New York.
The general election is now less than eight months away. Bracken's bid to become the first elected U.S. President without the official support and endorsement from a political party since George Washington is gaining steam – and supporters – by the week. It's a journey he has long ago perfected, and tonight, he has mused about his satisfaction at not having to sit through another long and boring – and manipulative – party nomination and convention process. As an Independent with no strings – at least visible ones – his message to the populace is resonating well. And no, he didn't need any help – financial or otherwise – from either party to get here. Tonight's fund-raiser, in fact, was more for a philanthropic directive of his than his political aspirations.
"Don't consider this a vote or even one penny spent for me and my upcoming fall political aspirations," he had reminded the ballroom audience, to the expected laughter. "I do not want to be beholden to any of you in that regard. That is our agreement. That is our pledge to each other, and to the American people. That is a fundamental problem with our political landscape and I mean to mine that landscape and destroy it," he had finished, to great applause. "But for the children we speak about this evening – for them that I mean to help – for their families in the inner cities of this great state – that is our focus this evening."
It's all hogwash, of course. Tonight's speech, while the literal words spoke about a small segment of the populace, it's tone and overriding sentiment was aimed at the country at large, and rest assured, that little distinction has been lost on absolutely no one here this evening. What – on the surface – sounded like a plea for the helpless in New York, was, in fact, a call to arms against lawlessness and ambivalence in society in general.
Highly ironic, given who was uttering these words, of course.
Now, his mind back in the present, Bracken's left hand finds his wife's hand under the table. She is holding court with Henry Olivetti, his press secretary, who is obviously pleased with the evening's proceedings. Henry is probably the most important person on Bracken's staff, and Elizabeth knows this, so she is giving the young man his moment, gushing lavish praise upon him as the dinner winds down. She gives her husband's hand a squeeze while never altering or stopping her words or praise, never taking her eyes away from Henry. Bracken marvels again at his great fortune of having a gorgeous wife who he genuinely loves, but who is also the head of the snake, as he likes to think of her.
Sheila Elizabeth Bracken is – indeed - a woman to be reckoned with. Tonight, however, she seems singularly focused. He'll have to ask her about that when they return to the penthouse suite at their hotel.
He feels the buzz in his coat pocket, and suddenly remembers the notification that went off in his pocket roughly an hour ago, as he stood up, walking to the podium to begin his speech for the evening. He certainly wasn't going to allow himself to get out of the moment – out of the zone – seconds before the most important speech of his career, to date, to check a phone message. So the buzzing in his pocket had gone ignored, occasionally resurfacing as a reminder that it had yet to be viewed.
Now, as the night is winding down, he feels the buzz again and smiles, knowing that only a few people have this particular number. He releases his hand from Elizabeth's and stands, drawing her attention momentarily.
"Long evening, folks, and there is a restroom calling me," he states to the accompanying laughter. As he moves away from the podium table and toward the restrooms in the back of the ballroom, Walter and Thomas, his two bodyguards, move in unison with him. He smiles to himself, knowing he is probably one of the most protected people on the planet right now, as very few men on earth would knowingly mess with either of the men who make their way toward the back of the room. Both are longtime friends and associates from his days in the U.S. Navy, and both carry about with them that 'don't mess with me' air that cannot be manufactured. Ex-Seals, they took a different path from Bracken. He left the military after only four years. They both stayed until called into a different service with the Senator years ago when he was leaving his post as assistant D.A., with greater aspirations.
Reaching the back restroom, Walter steps in first, and comes out seconds later.
"Clear, sir," he states, and steps aside to allow the Senator to enter. Bracken smiles at the taller man, who despite their decades of friendship, refuses to call him by his first name.
"Thanks, Walter," he says amiably, walking past the bodyguard and allowing the swinging door to shut behind him. He walks to a urinal. It's funny how that works. His reason for coming to the restroom was simply to read his message, but now inside the room, suddenly his biological need has – in fact – kicked in. He smiles at the familiar irony, and half a minute later, flushes the toilet unit and walks to the sink and washes his hands.
He gazes at himself in the mirror for a few seconds until satisfied that he looks the part. That done, he finally reaches into his coat pocket to extract the small burner phone. He punches the device to life, and his face immediately goes ashen white, and his trembling hands inadvertently drop the device into the sink. The subtle noise – just a phone falling into a sink – brings Walter through the restroom doors with a rush, while Thomas continues to stand watch outside with decidedly more authority.
"Are you all right, Senator?" Walter asks him quickly, as he watches the Senator fumble to retrieve his phone from the sink. Not knowing the reason, and just seeing that the Senator has simply dropped his phone, he relaxes again.
"I'm good, Walter," the Senator says quickly, recovering. "Just dropped my phone," he offers with the most sheepish and embarrassed grin he can offer, which is returned by his bodyguard. Seconds later, the ex-Seal is back outside, while the Senator stares back down at the message one more time, wiping away a bead of sweat that has almost miraculously appeared in just seconds.
New Product Order Received. Cancellation Accepted.
The cryptic message would mean nothing to the casual observer, and might simply raise an eyebrow from your standard businessman or woman.
But for Senator William Bracken, the meaning is frighteningly clear. His assassin – his absolute best and most ruthless assassin – has somehow received a kill order. A kill order that somehow has been issued by him. A kill order that, clearly, he has not issued. Right now he doesn't know who the order is for, only that there has been a horrific mistake made. Elena Markov is not released to dispose of inconsequential people. She is his lioness, and she is not called into action for cancellations often. He is very careful in how he uses his most fearsome and formidable weapon. More often than not, he uses her to deliver 'messages.' It is a part of his use of her that she seems to appreciate, for some reason.
So yeah, he is beyond nervous right now, not knowing who has dispatched her using his name, nor who the person is who is about to meet their demise. He stares at the device in his hand, wondering now if someone has hacked his personal device or if someone has virtually hacked his identity. Neither bodes well.
He knows the ground rules for this sort of thing are very clear; once activated, an order is not rescinded. There is far too much at stake for the assassin, the planning that goes into something like this, the risks that these people will take in order to carry out their mission. You don't just arbitrarily send these people into the fray on a whim. You think things through, and make sure – then you make double damn sure – before you issue the order. And once issued, that order isn't revoked. That order stays in effect until the mission is accomplished. And most assassins – his in particular – allow no further communication until said mission is completed.
So he knows, despite the best efforts that he will make, beginning in this very moment as he places a call to his greatest weapon, that she won't answer. She will have already made herself unavailable. Perhaps if he had seen this message earlier, answered it earlier, things would be different. Probably not, but there was still a chance. But not now.
He allows seven rings, before hanging up. With each ring, the pounding in his ears grows louder, stronger. He grabs ahold of the sink with both hands, one hand still holding his phone, staring at the reflection in the mirror.
"Get it together, Will," He tells himself, steeling his eyes against the gaze that looks back at him. Seconds later, he stands upright once again, and dials the number a second time, with the same result. And again, he tries a third time.
No answer. Damn!
He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and says a prayer to a God he long ago discarded from his private Catholic school upbringing. Placing the phone back in his coat pocket, he suddenly smiles at the reflection in the mirror, putting on the mask, and heads to the door.
A minute and a half later, his is back at the podium table, looking confident, looking powerful, looking as if tonight has been the biggest success of his life. That is the air he presents to everyone in the room, and everyone buys the image.
All but one.
Elizabeth Bracken knows her husband. First, she knows that his little escape to the restroom was anything but nature's biological call to him. The man's control over his body – in all ways – has been an endless marvel to the woman. So she knows there was another reason for his abrupt departure minutes ago. And the expression of confidence he wears? Well, she knows his masks, and this one she recognizes immediately.
"Dammit," she thinks to herself, "what have you done now, Will," as she gives him the look that tells him she is not buying his act. And her look – a disarming smile – is one that gives him a quick shudder.
"Later," he whispers to her with a smile, and knowing that nothing can be done at the moment, Elizabeth Bracken slips back into her role, lavishing one more kudo upon Henry Olivetti, before she knows she and her husband will take their leave for the evening.
Still the Previous Evening in a New York City Hotel Penthouse Suite, now 10:22 p.m., March 18, 2012
The Senator slips in the card key and unlocks the door, allowing he and his beautiful wife to enter the expansive, plush surroundings. It's his favorite hotel room in the city, and Peter, downstairs, always makes sure that it is available whenever he requests it. The ride in the limousine had been uneventful, as had the walk through the lobby and the elevator ride up to the 48th floor. Elizabeth knows the routine, knows that surveillance is everywhere. Even as they enter the suite, she remains silent, engaging only in chit-chat, as she allows the Senator to walk to the desk, flipping a switch that even Peter and the hotel staff do not realize has been installed. He retrieves a small device, and begins to walk around the room, scanning for bugs. Minutes later in the large bedroom, satisfied that they are truly alone, he nods his head toward his wife.
"We have a problem," he begins.
"I know that much," she offers amiably, for now. "Talk to me."
"I received a text from Elena," he says, and the frown that paints Elizabeth's face is immediate, and almost . . . almost mocking. Elizabeth tolerates Elena Markov. She respects the woman – hell, probably more than anyone on the planet, her husband included. She admits to herself that she admires the woman, greatly. But she also knows that Elena Markov is – in the end - an unrevoked guided missile. Which simply means – in the end – she cannot be fully controlled. She can be unleashed, yeah, but anyone who thinks they really control someone like Elena Markov is fatally fooling their self.
"And?" is all she offers her husband, who has dropped his mask of confidence, and is now simply Will Bracken, the man with great aspirations, great potential, and great flaws that she met in college.
"She is on assignment," he tells her.
"And?" she says again, with a bit more exasperation. Elena on assignment, although not a frequent occurrence, is nothing to be concerned about . . . unless –
"And," he repeats, disgustedly, "I didn't release her." He can see the concern that wells up in her eyes, instantly, as she immediately realizes the potential disaster this can become.
"Who did?" she asks, softly.
"I don't know."
"Who's the target?" she asks with a bit more force.
"I don't know."
"Well, shit, Will, what do you know?" she asks, now clearly agitated. Yeah, unleashed and uncontrolled. It is her constant – and only – concern regarding Elena Markov. The sense of dread and foreboding engulfing her now is almost overpowering. This can't end well.
She walks to her the nightstand on the bed, where she has laid her purse, and reaches inside to grab her phone – her other phone. Dialing quickly, she glances at her husband.
"She won't answer, you know," he tells her. "She has turned it off, and won't turn it back on until it's done . . . whatever 'it' happens to be."
"Or who," Elizabeth corrects him, as she listens to the ringing in her ear. She allows five rings before handing up and disgustedly throwing the phone on the bed.
"I assume you don't know where she is," Elizabeth asks, her tone softer now.
"I wish I did," he responds, and she simply nods her head. Seconds later, she stands, slipping the gorgeous light green dress off her shoulders, leaving her in a white lace bra and panties. She makes her way around to his side of the bed, where he now sits, still fully dressed except for his jacket and tie. She sits next to him, placing her right hand on his left thigh.
"No matter, Will," she tells him. "There is nothing we can do about it now, then. We just have to see how this plays out."
He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, but finally simply nods his head, and she smiles as she can see the familiar fire reigniting behind his eyes.
"There's my Will," she says softly, reaching across his chest to the lamp on the nightstand, and turning the light out.
The Next Morning, Still in the NYC Hotel Penthouse Suite, now 10:44 a.m., Monday, March 19, 2012
Senator William Bracken and his wife sit upright in the large bed, still reveling in both the nervousness of last night's development as well as their long-standing way of dealing with unexpected stress. He had – now wisely – kept his calendar clear of any meetings for the entire morning, as is his habit for mornings after a fund-raising event. Those events have been known to take on a life of their own, and he has learned – the hard way – not to schedule important meetings on the next morning.
Forty-five minutes ago, he called downstairs for room service, and twenty minutes later, the rolling tray of fruits, eggs and bacon with toast – for him – and a couple of English muffins – for her – had arrived. Now, both of them sit comfortably in the bed, drinking orange juice and cranberry juice. Initially, they were watching a news rehash of his speech last night, and civic leaders have been praising his words and latest initiative. Their smiles at the broadcast, however, had been short-lived, as fifteen minutes ago the local station broke into the coverage with new news.
Richard Castle was being arraigned inside the Federal Courthouse and was expected to be exiting the courthouse any minute now. People are anxious to hear the plea, or hear if any plea bargain has been offered or accepted. Right now, the court of public opinion is – while sympathetic – decidedly against the novelist.
"This is not news," Elizabeth frowns, wanting to see and hear more about the previous evening.
"It is to the people of this city," Bracken admits out loud, and once again considers how badly he has underestimated the writer.
When the first shot rings out, and Richard Castle explodes backwards, a large and widening splotch of red engulfing his upper chest, Elizabeth Bracken cannot hold in the small gasping scream that escapes. Senator William Bracken, however, has one of those life moments that flash before you, as the worst case scenario immediately hits him.
"Dear God, no, no, no!" he whispers, almost too low for his wife to catch it. But catch it she does, and now just as quickly, her mind is melded with his.
In fear.
He thinks about the Stone, and then he turns to look at his wife. He thinks about what he will do to her, to his parents. He thinks about everyone Stone will kill – mercilessly – for such a personal attack on who Bracken now believes to be his son, after a truce had been offered and accepted.
"My God, Will," Elizabeth half shrieks, the implications of the past few seconds fully comprehended.
He reaches across to the nightstand, grabbing the burner phone that he left there last night, and immediately punches in the number.
"Pick up, Dammit, Elena, pick up!" he almost yells into the device. He lets it ring a full ten times this time, before slamming the device across the room.