The Successor Read online

  Grant Bixby was chief of staff for Senator Lloyd Dorsey. Short, pudgy, and out of shape, Bixby was already perspiring profusely from his crawl across the dirty floor—and the fact that it was eighty-five humid degrees in this first-floor room of the barn.

  “I’ve seen this a million times on the Discovery Channel with my kids,” Bixby complained. He was forty-four with a twelve-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter. “We need to talk, Ms. Graham. I don’t have time for this. We’ve got a lot to go over, and I’ve got to be back down in Washington by six thirty.” He checked his watch. “I’m on the five-o’clock shuttle.”

  Bixby seemed harmless, but Graham knew better. Lloyd Dorsey didn’t hire patsies. Dorsey was an ex–navy pilot who’d been shot down over Vietnam in 1966 and spent two years in the Hanoi Hilton, enduring insidious Asian torture methods. He still walked with a limp and a rattan cane as a result, but, unlike his fellow Republican senator from Arizona who’d also spent time in the North Vietnamese prison camp, Dorsey hadn’t forgiven anyone. His experiences had only cemented his resolve that the United States needed to have the greatest war machine on earth.

  Bixby seemed benign enough with his unkempt curly blond hair, his paunch, and his poorly fitting suits, but his reputation was decidedly otherwise. He was the heavy hand in Senator Dorsey’s camp—the bad cop—so the senator could maintain his reputation as tough but smooth, the iron fist beneath the velvet glove. Never getting directly involved in a Capitol Hill dispute until Bixby had basically presettled the matter.

  An ex Dallas lawyer, Bixby was one of the most hated men in Washington. He threw Dorsey’s weight around with impunity, sometimes with obvious aggression that bordered on enjoyment, making enemies left and right. Bixby made no bones about the fact that as Senate Minority Leader, Dorsey could make things difficult for party senators who didn’t toe the line. Bixby was hated—but no one dared tell him that to his face. Especially since it looked as if Dorsey would be taking on Jesse Wood in the next presidential election and Bixby would become the most important and influential chief of staff in the country—assuming Senator Dorsey could pull off the upset.

  “This is nothing like seeing it on the Discovery Channel,” Graham assured Bixby. “I promise you.”

  “Ah, I don’t buy that,” Bixby snapped. “The stuff on TV these days is pretty close to virtual. It’s just like you’re there in the jungle—Jesus Christ!” he shouted.

  The snake had struck with lightning speed—impossible to see with the naked eye. Nothing but a dark blur against the green background of the enclosure. One moment the serpent was stone-still, the next it was balled around the rat so completely that the only visible part of the rodent’s body was its limp tail sagging down one of the snake’s coils. Every few seconds the tail would spasm as though it had been hit by an electric shock, extending straight out and shaking spastically.

  “You all right?” Graham asked, laughing as she rose quickly to her feet. She was still spry for fifty-seven and damn proud of it. She did yoga first thing every day to stay limber. “Come on, Grant, get up.” She reached down and helped Bixby to his feet. He’d fallen backward on the floor, the snake’s strike had scared him so badly. “Just like on TV, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Bixby growled, clearly embarrassed. “Why’s the rat’s tail doing that?” he asked, bending over and dusting himself off. “Looks like it’s being shocked.”

  “The snake senses when the rat inhales,” she explained, “and that’s when it tightens its coils for maximum effect, so the rat can’t exhale. Causes the muscles inside the rat to go haywire with the pressure, too. The tail going nuts like that shows you when it’s happening. Ultimately, the rat suffocates.”

  Bixby winced, then took a deep, exaggerated breath, as if to reassure himself that he still could. “Now that I’ve seen the noon feeding, can we get started?”

  “We’ll chat while we walk,” she said, heading off toward the far end of the barn. “I want to check on my new alligator pen. It’s in the next barn over. Come on.”

  Bixby jogged after her. “You want to talk now? Here?”

  “You’re the one who’s got to make a flight back to Washington. So, what do you need?”

  “You know what we need, Ms. Graham—what Senator Dorsey needs.”

  Bixby was right. She did know what Dorsey needed—more than she wanted to know about what he needed, actually. But she was in it up to her neck at this point, so she might as well see if she could get more out of Bixby since she had him to herself. Usually, he and Dorsey were joined at the hip. “Specifically.” Graham slammed the pointed toe of her cowboy boot down on a large beetle scurrying across the floor in front of them.

  Bixby gasped and pulled back, startled by Graham’s sudden attack. “It’s not just Senator Dorsey and me,” he explained. “It’s the Republican Party as a whole that needs you.”

  Bixby was a city boy, Graham knew. Born and raised on the streets of Manhattan, so he wasn’t comfortable in the country. Which was good. She always liked having an advantage. The only reason Bixby had left the sophistication of New York for what he undoubtedly considered a cow town after law school was that Dorsey—who was a senior partner at a prominent Dallas firm at the time—had promised Bixby that they would work closely together. And, more important, that he’d take Bixby to Washington if he won the congressional race he was planning to run in. Dorsey had entered the race two years later and won—then made good on his promise to bring Bixby along. Now they were fixtures in Washington.

  “Sounds important,” she said.

  “It’s very important. You know that. Why are you—”

  “And ominous.” As they reached the other end of the barn, Graham grabbed two metal handles protruding from the wooden wall and slung them to the left. Instantly they were hit with warm May sunshine as the ten-foot-high planked door slid to the side on its rails. She hid a grin as she stepped down to the ground and moved off. She’d seen Bixby’s impressed look. “I’ve known your boss for a long time, Grant,” she called over her shoulder, marching across the field at a steady pace. She took a long sniff. One of her workers was cutting an adjoining field for the first time this spring. The freshly mown grass smelled wonderful. “Lloyd Dorsey is a good man, and a hell of a patriot.”

  “He thinks the same of you, Ms. Graham,” Bixby said, huffing as he tried to keep up. “He needs you to—”

  “You, on the other hand, well, I know you only by reputation.” She wagged a finger at him as she walked. She and Bixby had met only a few times, but she knew Lloyd was intensely loyal to his COS. Still, she wanted to keep Bixby at a distance, wanted his respect. “Which isn’t good.”

  “Yeah, but I—”

  “I understand the game, Grant. Believe me.” She tore off a milkweed flower as she moved along. “What does Senator Dorsey need me to do? Exactly.”

  “But I thought you and he had already—”

  “In general terms, we did, but I need specifics. I need the whole story. Everything.”

  “I can’t tell you everything,” Bixby said quickly. “I doubt I know everything. Hell, Senator Dorsey may not know everything.”

  “Then everything you can tell me,” she said, getting exasperated. “Everything you know.”

  “Okay, okay.” Bixby looked around nervously as they walked. “Are you sure we should talk out here?”

  Graham turned around sharply, expecting Bixby to run into her—but he didn’t. He’d already stopped. She grimaced. Never underestimate anyone, she reminded herself. He’d anticipated that she would turn around suddenly. Maybe he didn’t understand a real python stalking a real white rat—but he understood how people stalked each other politically. He’d known his question would elicit her response. “Is all this really that sensitive?” She knew it was, but she was trying to get every crumb of data she could. She wanted him to start from the beginning.

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  She spread her arms and looked around the sprawling lands
cape. The only other human in sight was the guy on the tractor in the next field. “Can you think of a better place than this to talk about something sensitive, Grant? Are you really worried about microphones in the weeds?”

  Bixby loosened his tie, then held his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright sun. “I’m paid to worry.”

  At least she had the sun behind her, at least she had that advantage. Always have every advantage you can. She’d lived by the mantra—it had served her well. “Talk to me, Grant.”

  But he still took his time, looking around again before finally starting. “Okay, here’s the deal. The conservative brass is worried that President Wood is doing too well. They’re worried that he’s becoming untouchable, that everything he proposes is turning to gold. They’re worried that—”

  “They’re worried that they’ve lost control,” Graham interrupted. “They’re worried that they’re heading toward that twilight zone of becoming a permanent minority, a party that doesn’t matter anymore, a party with no clout. Your boss is worried that he’ll actually get the Republican nomination for president next time around and make a fool of himself by running. That he’ll become a John Kerry or a Bob Dole. A footnote in someone else’s biography.”

  Bixby looked out over the fields. “You know how much Senator Dorsey values your friendship,” he said in a low voice. “Well, it’s more than just friendship. We both know that.”

  Graham swallowed hard and looked down. Damn, Bixby was good. He’d taken her completely off guard with that little machine-gun burst and now he had the pleasure of seeing her reaction.

  “He’s very fond of you,” Bixby pressed. “We talk about you a lot.”

  Graham had been nagged incessantly by Allison Wallace’s question. Is Senator Dorsey the real reason you never got married? Graham had cursed herself for leaving that picture of Lloyd and her out on the credenza the other day for Allison to see, for being so weak, but she loved it. It had been snapped during that White House state dinner a few months ago. It had been a night she’d been waiting a lifetime for and she’d convinced Lloyd to give her the film as a keepsake. They should have had so many nights like that.

  Graham and Dorsey had met more than thirty-five years ago when she was a student at the University of Florida. She’d been auditing a class in the law school on oceanographic regulation—to prep herself for her plans to save all the whales—and Lloyd Dorsey had been a guest speaker one day because he was a friend of the professor’s. She and Lloyd had locked eyes at the beginning of class, and it had been as if they were the only two people in the room for the next ninety minutes. She hadn’t agreed with his conservative view on eminent domain, especially his opinion that the president ought to be able to unilaterally sell drilling rights to the big oil companies if he wanted to. Texas oil companies, he’d emphasized with a sly chuckle, eliciting a loud laugh from the students, who understood his loyalties thanks to the professor’s long introduction. But for the first time in Graham’s life, a contrary environmental view hadn’t mattered much. Not nearly as much as having the attention of this handsome young Texan.

  When class was over, he’d subtly motioned for her to come up to the lectern and, while everyone else was filing out, asked her to lunch. Told her directly in his smooth drawl that he’d never seen a woman so beautiful on the outside and wanted to find out if she was the same on the inside. She’d hesitated, not exactly certain what he meant, aware that she might be naïve and not realize he was referring to sex and not matters of the heart. Then he’d smiled warmly and touched his chest, reassuring her. She’d melted.

  It had been the most intense four months of her life. Lloyd had flown her to Dallas almost every Friday from the University of Florida. Wining and dining her all weekend until that long kiss at the airport on Sunday afternoons, tears streaming down both cheeks as she turned and ran for the plane back to Gainesville. But they’d never made love. He’d asked once—at the airport, as they were saying good-bye one Sunday—and she’d said no, said she wasn’t ready. She’d figured he would never call again after that, but she’d figured wrong. Five minutes after she’d gotten back to her dorm room from the airport, the phone was ringing and it was just as it had always been. He’d never asked her to have sex with him again—until just before a delicious chocolate torte dessert was served at that state dinner a few months ago. That time, she’d said yes.

  Four months into her relationship with Dorsey, her father had died of a heart attack. She’d dropped out of the University of Florida immediately to run the family insurance brokerage business, and she and Lloyd had fallen out of touch. Not that Lloyd hadn’t tried to keep the fire burning. He had, even flying to Philadelphia one weekend, but she’d been too distracted to be any fun. The next thing she knew she was thirty and Lloyd had been married to Betty for seven years and had two children. It was still the biggest regret of her life. Maybe Allison was right, maybe Lloyd Dorsey was the reason she’d never gotten married. Maybe she’d always wanted to be married to Lloyd. Maybe she still wanted to be married to him. But that was impossible now. Lloyd had promised her in Washington that night he was going to get divorced, but he hadn’t said anything more about it since.

  “Why does Lloyd want me to help him?” she asked, still awash in her memories. “Why has he asked me to arrange this whole thing? Every time I’ve come down I’ve been expecting the whole story, but I haven’t gotten it. Even in bed.” There was no reason to dance around the fact that she spent nights at Lloyd’s house in Georgetown. Bixby had given her a ride from the White House to Dorsey’s house after the state dinner that night a few months ago. He knew everything Dorsey did. Almost. “What’s this all about?”

  “Senator Dorsey wants you to help him expose something President Wood is involved with.” Bixby’s voice was low.

  She glanced up. Finally. “What?”

  “Cuba,” Bixby replied, his voice strengthening. “Basically, helping the Cuban military lead a coup against the old regime. Armed aggression using U.S. forces.”

  Graham gazed at Bixby for a few moments, her eyes transfixed. “Are you serious?” She already knew all this, but she’d always been a good actress. You had to be at board meetings.

  Bixby nodded. “Yeah. Amazing, huh?”

  “How did Lloyd come up with this one?”

  “A deep throat in the Pentagon. It’s one of the most sensitive projects ever parked over there, but it’s parked in a cave in the basement of D-ring so it’s all but invisible. Most of the people working on it don’t even know they are. The senator’s contact couldn’t tell him much, but what he did say was incredible. Apparently—”

  Graham held up her hand, cutting Bixby off. “Is Lloyd trying to use this thing to get President Wood caught up in some kind of scandal?”

  Bixby hesitated. “Yes. As you might imagine, there are others involved as well.”

  She furrowed her brows. “I don’t understand how that’s going to work. I think Lloyd’s barking up the wrong tree.”

  Bixby seemed perplexed, as if his entire understanding of the world had suddenly been called into question. “Why?”

  It seemed obvious to her and she couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t be to him. He wasn’t likable, but he was savvy. Maybe he was just too close to the situation to see it. “The American public knows we’ve been trying to take down the Communist government in Cuba for fifty years. They just assume every president since Kennedy’s been trying to do it, whether it’s been advertised or not.”

  Bixby bit his lip.

  Obviously because he wasn’t sure how much to say, Graham could tell. That in itself told her how secretive this thing was. Usually Bixby knew exactly what to say—and what not to say.

  “Sometime early this year or late last,” Bixby began, “President Wood signed a top secret directive giving a small cell inside the United States military permission to covertly assist and support a senior Cuban army leader with taking down the regime, with leading a revolt against the Commun
ist Party. A very senior general, code-name Zapata. In turn, this general is working with a small group of senior Cuban officials in the important government ministries who will take over high-profile roles in the new government if the coup succeeds. President Wood gave this U.S. military cell the authority to covertly support the general and the secret group of officials with the coup. That coordination and support includes the possibility of a U.S. invasion of the island immediately after the coup is initiated to make certain Zapata’s people are successful. At the very least there will be U.S. Special Forces people on the ground in Cuba when the revolt starts. Rangers, Seals, etc.”

  “I still don’t see how that puts President Wood in hot water,” Graham argued. “At least until something happens.” She thought about it for a few moments. “Probably not even then. Heck, he might even be a bigger hero afterward.”

  Bixby looked around, then reached down and picked a blade of grass. “There’s an assassination list, approved by President Wood himself.”

  “But—”

  “That list includes civilian targets,” Bixby went on. “The top people at the important ministries and at the Central Bank of Cuba, most of whom are hard-core Party members. The plan is to kill them in the first few days of the coup so the next level down—the people Zapata is working with within the ministries—can take over and not have to worry at all about the regime regrouping or about reprisals.”