“You sonofabitch,” Skip laughed. “How long have you been planning this?”
“About three years. But this is falling into place more quickly and effectively than I could have ever hoped.” “But what about the foundation?”
“That’s the kicker, man. I take the job as energy secretary or secretary of the interior, and you take over the foundation. It’s perfect.”
A slow grin creased Skip’s face. “Do you think he can win?”
“The planets are aligning, Skip. President Hughes is on the ropes. The economy is slipping. Ecological issues are again important to the American people. Sure, it’ll be close. But with the Hawkins pocketbook behind him and the endorsement of the foundation, he’s got a helluva chance. And that chance bodes well for you and me.”
“You are the man!” Skip said, pumping his fist.
“Well, then, buy the man a beer.”
A
t 7:00 a.m. in Dallas, the sun was just creeping up over the skyline as Jack McCarthy finished his second cup of coffee. The view from Jack’s corner office at WPC was spectacular. He was continually amazed at the success he had achieved at WPC and never failed to savor the well-appointed environment of Dallas’s largest advertising agency. Jack was proud of his success, and as he surveyed his office, he was also proud of how he had brought a personal touch to his office decoration. The pinewood furniture and distressed leather couch and chair were far from standard company issue, but they made him feel closer to his Colorado roots.
Jack smiled, remembering the first time Allen Hamilton had walked into Jack’s newly decorated office.
“Jesus, who helped you decorate? Slim Pickens?”
Jack had replied, “It’s a helluva lot better than your ’80s Andy Warhol motif.”
Jack moved over to his desk and turned his focus toward the GenSquare pitch, by now just days away. His crash course in GenSquare’s business and strategy had forced him to accumulate a load of software knowledge in just a few short weeks.
The GenSquare concept was truly revolutionary. Many analysts believed that GenSquare would supplant Microsoft as the United States’s largest software provider. GenSquare’s relatively inexpensive cost of entry for small businesses and consumers, coupled with its pay-as-you-use billing structure, had caught the attention of everyone—even Jack, a technically challenged advertising executive.
GenSquare was the brass ring; if WPC landed this account, Jack’s status as one of the top agency executives in the country would be secure. The key was to ensure that WPC had the tiebreaker that swayed GenSquare decision makers in WPC’s favor.
Jack contemplated the angles. Texas heritage wouldn’t work, since both agency finalists were Dallas-based. That was too simple, anyway. What was it that the Hawkins family thrived on? Money, power, and politics. If Jack could figure out how to use any or all three of these to his advantage, he felt certain WPC could win the business.
As Jack continued to ponder this dilemma, Allen Hamilton strode into his office.
“What the fuck are you doing, Jack? We’ve all been in the war room for fifteen minutes, waiting on your ass.”
“Shit, Allen, I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I’ve been here since 5:30 trying to identify the differentiator that will tip the scale in our favor. GenSquare has one; so should we.” Jack grabbed his notebook, ready to hustle to WPC’s main conference room.
“Sit down,” Allen said. “That’s an intriguing thought.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Jack and Allen brainstormed about the Hawkins family hot buttons of money and politics. How could WPC exploit what the Hawkins family coveted? The answer was not a simple one, but as their ideas continued to circle around the bull’s-eye, there was a feeling that they were getting somewhere. Finally, Allen suggested that the only way WPC could impact the GenSquare bottom line was by helping them sell more software.
At that moment, the light went on for Jack. “That’s it, Allen!”
“What’s it?”
“We base our compensation on their annual sales. We win when they win. We suffer if—and that’s a big if—they suffer.”
Allen sat up in his chair. “Interesting. That type of compensation structure will give that gambler Bo Hawkins a hard-on.” He looked at Jack. “This is quickly becoming the best pitch we’ve ever assembled at WPC. But something’s missing.”
“I agree,” Jack sighed. “IF we don’t address the strategic opportunities of the campaign, even though they are not asking for it, we are missing a huge opportunity.”
As the two wandered back to the war room, they agreed that they would exhaust their strategic war chest to identify the consumer insight that would catapult Will Hawkins into the most powerful office in the world. When they entered the war room, it was empty except for Carrie, who stared at them with a beady-eyed look that displayed her frustration. She knew that Allen and Jack had just hatched a key to the GenSquare pitch, and she had been left out of the discussion.
S
gt. Maj. Ian McKay moved silently through the cold, misty forest in western Wales. He and his trainees navigated the terrain, executing an exercise with the objective of identifying and eliminating an assassin targeting the prime minister. Ian, playing the part of the assassin, stealthily avoided detection by the elite guard trainees.
McKay was a pro. He had overseen so many of these exercises that, with his mind only half in the game, he could easily outmaneuver the heavily recruited trainees who were currently running around the forest like a bunch of school children.
As Sergeant McKay silently moved through the dense forest, he heard the faint crack of a twig underfoot. He stopped and listened. There he was, no more than ten feet away: the northern perimeter sentry patrolling his assigned area. Ian calculated that the facsimile of the prime minister’s hunting lodge was about 350 yards west of his current position. He calmly waited in the underbrush as the sentry passed within three feet of his heavily camouflaged head and face. As the sentry turned on his heel at the east end of his patrol area, Ian waited for the perfect moment to eliminate another trainee from the exercise.
In an instant, it was over. In one move, Ian pounced on the trainee, quickly disarming the strapping young recruit and covering his mouth
to avoid any inadvertent screams. The trainee slumped in the powerful arms of the stocky sergeant major, knowing he had failed his objective. The rules of the exercise stated that the trainee must acknowledge any communication transmissions for the next five minutes as if he were still in action, allowing the “assassin” time to re-establish his cover. This rule was devised to simulate the amount of time it would take a scout to investigate the break in the elite force’s communication link. Ian immediately bolted back into the dense forest, moving stealthily toward the simulated hunting lodge.
The exercise continued for ninety more minutes, with trainee after unsuspecting trainee passing within feet of the sergeant major, only to be eliminated. Finally, the mock hunting lodge was less than twenty yards away, with only one more guard between Ian and his objective. He waited patiently, identifying the guard’s patrol path, and then he quietly positioned himself, waiting for the opportunity to strike. It came as planned, and the final deterrent to entering the hunting lodge was eliminated.
There were two guards left, both inside the lodge. As Ian entered through the side door, it was apparent to him that the trainees inside were not expecting him to make it in. The warmth and serenity of the house had lulled them into believing that even if the sergeant major did get in the house, they would easily hear him and get to him before he got to their twenty-two-year-old classmate who was posing as the prime minister.
They were wrong. In workmanlike fashion, Ian moved from room to room of the large, rustic lodge, waiting for his opportunities. The first floor guard on his routine patrol rounded the corner to the dining room into the waiting arms of the sergeant major. It was over immediately. As the disconcerted trainee sat down on the floor, Ian gave him the patented “evil eye” that all trainees over the past twenty-one years had tried to avoid at all costs.
The last guard proved to be even simpler. He obviously didn’t think it would ever come down to him versus the mock assassin. But it did, and he never knew what hit him. As Sgt. Maj. Ian McKay plucked the red flag from the hat of the “prime minister” and transmitted to the entire team
that the exercise had culminated in his “assassination,” each trainee was well aware that they had just been had by one of the best field operatives in the Western world. Maybe the best.
Ian’s debrief of the group was scathing. Adjectives like lazy, stupid, and worthless, coupled with a significant variety of expletives, made the highly skilled trainees feel like children.
“Your collective inability to sense danger is uncanny,” Ian growled. “You’ve got to be aware of your surroundings. You have to anticipate when danger is most likely. Every one of you treated today’s exercise like a walk through Hyde Park. I am disgusted by your lack of progress.”
Then Ian broke into a smile and said, “But you’re the best goddamned group of young recruits I’ve had in years. Your mistakes today were common. Six weeks from now, you won’t make the same mistakes. You’ll be a finely tuned unit that will make your country proud. Now get cleaned up. Tonight we go to town before we begin our final training push. Let’s meet outside the barracks at 18:30.”
The trainees let out a collective cry of joy. They were getting out, albeit for only one night, of their self-imposed prison.
Later that night, as Sgt. Maj. Ian McKay and his group of highly skilled trainees sat in the Angry Dog Pub slugging back pint after pint of ales and lagers, a very different event was transpiring in Dallas, Texas. Sen. Will Hawkins stood at a podium in the family compound’s library announcing his intention to seek the Democratic nomination for president of the United States. As hundreds of television cameras transmitted this news around the world, a small TV in the Angry Dog Pub in western Wales was showing the announcement.
Ian McKay was staring at the telly in a slightly dazed state of drunken bliss when he momentarily felt a hint of familiarity. What was it about the man on the screen? He felt as if he knew him.
Then all at once it came back to him. He stood, silently pointing at the screen, knocking over his bar stool. While that got everyone’s attention, no one knew what he knew.
That was the man who had killed his little brother so long ago.
T
he Dallas Free Press
was one of the premier newspapers in the country. With the early ’90s demise of its mortal enemy,
The Dallas Times Herald
, the
Free Press
had established a newspaper monopoly in a market with roughly five million captive readers. Robert Chambers was the editor-in-chief and publisher of the
Free Press
. Though small in stature at only 5′5″, he made up for that lack of first impression with his fiery personality and determination.
Chambers was used to getting his way. On this beautiful September morning, in his weekly staff meeting, what Chambers wanted was for Greg Larson, his extremely independent Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, to cover from start to finish the presidential run of Dallas’s own William S. Hawkins.
As the staff discussed the merits of an ongoing feature story of this type, Tom Johnson, managing editor and Greg Larson’s boss, was quick to point out that Larson wasn’t going to like this idea one bit. “He hates the idea of people telling him what to write about. And he hates even more the idea of being assigned to a story that doesn’t have the intrinsic potential to shock John Q. Public.”
“But this is the story of a lifetime, Tom,” Chambers responded. “Anatomy of a presidential campaign. Big-time money. Big-time politics. The friggin’ Hawkins family, for God’s sake! What else could he want?” Johnson remained silent.
The phone on the conference table nearest Chambers rang. Chambers answered. “Yes, all right, send him in.” He looked intently at Johnson and said, “Your boy Larson is on his way up. Do me a favor; make this happen.”
Johnson sighed. He knew that Chambers wasn’t actually viewing it as a favor; it was a mandate.
As Greg Larson entered the conference room, Stacy, Chambers’s newest assistant, let out an audible sigh. Larson was quite handsome. A thirty-seven-year-old bachelor, Larson was in better shape today than he had been on his University of Missouri graduation day. A three-time All–Big 12 point guard, Larson’s tenacious reputation on the basketball court had been adequately exceeded by his pit-bull reputation as an investigative journalist.
Larson confidently strode to the nearest empty chair at the conference table, seated himself, calmly leaned back, and asked, “What’s up, Tom?”
Johnson leaned toward Larson and stated, “We’ve got the story of the year for you, Greg.”
“Yeah, like I’ve never heard that before. What is it?”
Johnson glanced briefly at his editor-in-chief, then launched in. “It’s covering Will Hawkins’s run for president. It’s got all the right elements: local interest, national interest, money, and big-time politics. We need your name to legitimize the series, Greg.”
Larson surveyed the
Free Press
elite. “You all know this isn’t my kind of story. Where’s the intrigue? Where’s the injustice?”
As Johnson began to respond, Greg raised his hand for silence.
“But I’ll do it, on one condition. I want editorial oversight of the series. Everything I write gets printed.”
“No problem!” Chambers exclaimed. “We’ve never edited your work before. Why would we start now?”
“I’ve never done a story on the most powerful family in Texas before,” Greg said. “And there’s a possibility that, as a Jack Nicholson character once said, ‘You can’t handle the truth.’”
“Try me,” Chambers barked.
“I will, Robert. I think there are plenty of skeletons in the Hawkins closet, and I plan on uncovering a few.”
With that, Chambers’s staff meeting adjourned.