The Unfolding, page 22
When the Big Guy gets to the ranch, he and Sonny take the taxidermy collection out of cold storage, also known as the basement, and rehang everything. He’s got an antelope, a bear, a bobcat, a caribou, an elk, a moose, and a mountain lion. Meghan made him take them all down years ago—they gave her nightmares.
The Big Guy goes over the menu with Mary. On arrival, hot coffee and coffee cake. For lunch—make your own sandwich bar, a big salad on the side. And potato chips, preferably ridged. Who doesn’t love chips?
“I don’t know if I ever told you about how as a boy I would go to my father’s golf club, sit by the pool, and order club sandwiches with potato chips and a bottle of pop. I’d sign the paper chit with my father’s name and think I was quite the man—little Mr. Big Shot. Yoo-hoo—that was my drink back then. You ever had a Yoo-hoo?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Mary says.
“You would know,” the Big Guy says. “It’s unforgettable. Put it on the list; we’ll get some for the weekend.”
“I’m not sure they sell that here.”
“Figure it out,” he says, which means spare me the sad song and make it happen.
“To get me out of his hair, my father was always sending me off; ‘Go down to the club,’ he’d say. I thought he owned it. It wasn’t until I was in college that I made the mistake of saying something about it and he bristled, and said, ‘For the amount of money I’ve given them over the years, I damn well should own it.’ ”
There is a pause, a silence. Mary has nothing to say.
“For dinner on Saturday night, we’ll have steak, baked potatoes, green beans, and ice cream,” the Big Guy says, like a kid planning a sleepover. “Full breakfast on Sunday with sausage and bacon.”
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Laramie County, Wyoming
7:33 a.m.
Tony makes it out of Washington late on Friday night and comes in through Denver with one of the new men, Dr. Frode. The Big Guy leaves the side door unlocked. Tony knows his way in and claims the small room off the kitchen, formerly known as the cook’s room. Dr. Frode is also downstairs on the fold-out chesterfield in the den.
In the morning Frode is in the kitchen digging through the vegetable bins of the refrigerator looking for things he can “run through” the juicer he brought with him. “Anything green, anything leafy.”
“Whatever you find. Make yourself at home,” the Big Guy says somewhat facetiously. It seems a little odd that a veritable stranger would feel so comfortable rooting through the kitchen of another.
“Can I make you one?” Frode asks. “I am, after all, a medical professional and I swear by it.”
“No,” the Big Guy says. “I’m constitutionally averse to the consumption of grass cuttings.”
“Que sera sera,” Frode says, flipping the switch. The juicer sounds like an unmuffled garbage disposal as it grinds whatever the doctor shoved into its pipe and excretes a thin dark green stream.
“Did you know that Dr. Frode is a vegetarian?” Mary asks the Big Guy.
“I did not.”
“Mary and I have been adapting recipes,” Frode says.
“Since six thirty this morning,” Mary says.
The judge flies his own plane in and arrives as the above is underway. “Nothing better than being ten thousand feet in the air at sunrise,” he says. “And I brought a couple of guns with me—loving the idea of a hunt. I packed a few bricks of .408 Cheyenne Tactical, which I get retooled, tapped out by my wildcat cartridge. They’re supersonic to fifteen hundred yards. I love the history of it—modeled after the .400 Taylor Magnum, which, of course, is based on the .505 Gibbs—you know it as the English big-game cartridge. When I’m banging them out, it feels like I’m of a piece, keeping it in the family.”
“Is that a fact,” the Big Guy says.
“Wasn’t someone in your family the Royal Gatekeeper?” Tony asks.
“You certainly do your homework,” the judge says.
“It was Kissick who did the homework,” Tony says.
“Kissick is why I’m here,” the doctor says. “The man is an accounting genius.”
“With a soft spot for mad scientists,” Tony whispers to the Big Guy.
“My relative was the Royal Gatekeeper in the 1500s,” the judge says. “He married a relative of the queen without her blessing and was sent to prison. I’m surprised you even know about it.”
“I’m the knower,” Tony says. “That’s what they call me at the office, He Who Knows Too Much.”
By the time they have sorted the judge’s guns and lineage, Kissick, Metzger, and Bo have arrived and are partaking of Mary’s coffee cake. “Special ingredient—yogurt,” the Big Guy says. “She uses yogurt and protein powder because it’s healthier and that way you can call it breakfast cake.”
Eisner arrives at the kitchen door looking the worse for wear. He’s got the remains of an external-frame backpack strapped onto his shoulders, a bag of gear bungeed to his chest, and a broken shovel.
“What’s the matter, Little Prince?” Bo asks. “Did your jet pack fail?”
“Mission accomplished,” Eisner announces. “With a mild case of frostbite.”
“Please don’t tell me you hiked the whole way here.”
“I was boondocking,” Eisner says, shedding his gear on the kitchen floor much to Mary’s chagrin.
“Burying a dead dog?” Bo asks.
“Kind of.”
“He was on a sensitive compartment mission,” the Big Guy says proudly.
“Really?” Bo asks, now interested.
“You’ll hear more about it later, I promise.”
Now that everyone has arrived, the Big Guy herds them into the living room surrounded by taxidermy.
“Did you shoot all this yourself?” the judge asks.
“Absolutely not,” the Big Guy says. “I bought it at an estate sale. Listen, I know you are all busy men and how hard it was to get here, so I want to thank you for making the effort. I wanted us to have a chance to talk unencumbered. Looking back on November fourth with the benefit of hindsight, it seems too obvious, like rewatching a movie and noticing how inevitable the ‘surprise’ ending was.”
Bo jumps in. “First things first. Just to be clear, whatever is said here stays here. And more to the point, this meeting never happened. When you leave here this weekend, there will be no swag, no nice sweater or golf hat for you to bring home. If you leave anything behind, it will not be mailed. You’ll notice that your cell phones don’t work here. If you need to call home, I can give you a connection and it will appear to whomever you’re communicating with that you are in Minneapolis–Saint Paul at a 3M factory. And yes, Kissick, you can call the baby ladies to say good night. We’ll be having cocktails and you’ll be reading Little Red Riding Hood. You can thank me for that.”
“Thank you, Bo,” the Big Guy says, taking the cue. “Now some of you have heard me talk about this before; I’ve been thinking a lot about fathers. Whether we were in love with our fathers or not, they had a profound impact on who we are as men. When I contemplate where we go from here, I am aware that I have no son to carry it forward, to indoctrinate; there is no succession plan, no answer to the question, Who will run the world when I am gone? Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I suspect the anxiety caused by that void and the lifelong desire for paternal approval is something that bonds us—the need to create and ensure a future that is externally manifest. Is all this for naught? This is what I ponder when I can’t sleep.”
“Naught,” Eisner says to Tony. “Did he ponder naught in college as well?”
Tony shrugs.
“On the one hand, the lack of a successor buys us freedom to operate without concern for our legacy, and at the same time, each of us has worked too hard to leave this earth without having made a lasting impression.”
“Hear, hear,” the judge says.
“I second the motion,” Eisner says.
“We are not doing this for ourselves,” the Big Guy reminds them. “We’re doing it for our history, to protect and preserve.” The Big Guy is practically singing off his index cards.
“All right already. We’ve heard this before, but how are we doing it?” Bo asks.
“Vision,” the Big Guy says. “I’ve been thinking about Tony’s comments on vision when we were in Palm Springs. V.I.S.I.O.N.: Vital, Invisible, Succession, Insurance. Our (or octogenarian). Nation. Judge, I hope it’s not tales out of school to tell the boys that you’re not only a member of the club up north but also the International Order of St. Hubertus.”
“That explains the love of the hunt,” Kissick says.
“It adds to our reach and geographic diversity,” the Big Guy says. “We have representation from Texas, Chicago, Florida, San Francisco, Princeton, and Madison for our scribbler, Texas and Georgia for the judge, Palm Springs and Wyoming for me, and the doctor is DC born and bred. Kissick and the scribbler have done us the favor of meeting with each of you privately and we’ll get a report on that shortly.”
“Is he saying ‘scribbler’ as an insult?” Metzger whispers to Kissick.
“Doubtful,” Kissick says. “Sounds like he believes he’s hitting the right note, could be a pronunciation problem.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, the group of you who have been tapped for this project echo the Eisenhower Ten, the group of citizens secretly appointed to keep things going in the event of a national emergency. The men Eisenhower selected were from a variety of areas he felt would be essential in the case of an emergency. Our plan will echo the original structure, which has managed to stay mostly secret all these years. Among us, we have representatives of the business community with expertise in energy and minerals”—the Big Guy takes a little bow—“and the areas of finance and law, medicine, agriculture and intelligence, media and communication.”
“Is the hunt going to happen?” the judge wants to know. “I’d like to get something in the bag before supper.”
The Big Guy is aware that usually a whole lot of nothing happens when a bunch of blowhards get together. It’s bonding time, man time, a chance for them to feel good about themselves. And when the time is right, if so moved, someone might mention a little something important, something game-changing. That’s the plan. Fun and games, and then the “plan.”
“It’s happening,” the Big Guy says. “But we have a lot of ground to cover, so before we get going, Kissick is going to give us an update. Since we last saw one another, he has been on a coast-to-coast tour, meeting with each of you individually, gathering information, and creating the organizational blueprint, which will be shared with the group for the first time today. Pretty exciting stuff.”
“Sweet, how you toot his horn,” Bo says.
Kissick steps to the center of the room. “It was a pleasure meeting with each of you in your geographic or native state and having a chance to dig deeper into the details. As you know, I took my oldest with me, and we looked at colleges along the way; I can report that she felt the Texas schools were too large, San Francisco too artificially intellectual. In terms of a major, my Cherise is torn between poetry and political science, and I fear that she at heart is more Oberlin than College of Wooster.”
“At least your kid is going to college,” Bo grumbles. “Mine abandoned ship and makes six fifty an hour pulling shots of espresso and thinks she’s ‘going places.’ ”
“His Cherise is the same age as my Meghan,” the Big Guy says. “I took my girl to a couple of places, including my alma mater, and then she very politely said she’d seen enough. I still don’t know what she meant.”
“Enough chitter-chatter,” the judge says.
“Thank you for keeping the train on track,” Kissick says. “Our plan will be organized around the concept of rings of power and authority with an inner circle.”
“That’s us, we’re the inner circle?” Bo asks.
“That’s us, with the highest level of authority, call it the rhodium ring. A first outer circle, platinum, has less power but is still significant for planning. Then a golden ring is made up of people putting our programs into service. After gold, I went with palladium rather than silver because I want to make clear we’re still discussing an organization operating at a very high level—rare and precious. Palladium is a white-gray metal valuable because it is both stabile and malleable, and does well under extremely hot conditions. ‘Hot’ being a euphemism for active or dangerous conditions.”
The men nod.
“Once the plan is developed and active, most of the visible activity will be in this outermost palladium ring. We will see the effects but will be personally removed from the events.”
“We will not have exposure,” the judge says.
“Correct.”
“That’s the way to do it,” the judge says. “Limit the exposure to anything questionable.”
“This is new territory. It requires strategic thinking, coalition building, and passion,” Kissick says.
“Passion is a lady word,” Bo says. “I’m suspicious of men who use the word passion.”
“Determination,” Kissick says. “And trust.”
“Better,” Bo says.
“I’m going to talk a bit about how we’ll organize and regulate ourselves,” Kissick says.
“We’re all big boys and I don’t think we want to police one another and I doubt we want to elect a top dog,” the judge says.
“I’ll do it,” Bo says. “You can’t have a company without a CEO.”
“Well, actually, you can,” Kissick says.
“Ambiguity of authority can slow decision-making,” Bo says. “We want to be able to move quickly, deploy assets, cut our losses when we need to. Chain of command. Who reports to whom?”
“For organizational reasons, we should hire an executive director,” Kissick says. “Someone who is minding the store day-to-day. Among ourselves, we’ll have a division of labor, skill sets, and personalities leveraged to add value.”
“You definitely need someone in charge, someone who has run big things—like cities, airports, even wars, because that’s what this is—big,” Tony says.
“A former military man,” Bo says.
“What do you think of Dick Cheney?” the Big Guy asks.
“You friends with him?” the judge asks.
“No one is friends with him,” Bo says.
“I find him very interesting, inscrutable,” the Big Guy says.
“It sounds like you have a crush on him,” Metzger says.
“He doesn’t play well with others,” Bo says.
“I saw Dick and Lynne at a party recently,” the judge says. “Tight-lipped as ever.”
“Do you think he even smiles when he cums?” Bo asks.
“I’m sure the man hasn’t ejaculated in years,” the judge says. “He can’t afford to fuck since the heart attacks. That’s part of why he’s such an asshole.”
“Back to our assignment,” Kissick says. “Who are we to ourselves and the larger world?”
“In Doug Coe’s ‘family,’ they keep an eye on one another; someone once told me they have veto rights over one another’s lives,” the judge says.
“What does that look like? Veto power over my life?” Metzger asks.
“I don’t give a crap who the boss is, I want to get something done,” Bo says.
“Back to the money,” the judge says. “How much will we need and what will we be spending it on? Are we buying lunches for politicians or are we buying guns? How big are we going to get?”
“Millions,” Kissick says. “Hundreds of millions.”
“Used to be you gave a man ten thousand dollars and you had his ear forever,” Bo says.
“Inflation,” Kissick says. “As more people have more money to throw around, it costs more to get things done. Our organization will be bigger than you can see with the naked eye. That’s intentional. We don’t want to be seen. We’ll build alliances with existing enterprises and activate their constituencies in a way that will seem entirely organic. We will need contingency plans for everything from replacing ourselves in case of incapacitation to establishing financial backups, so the ball will keep rolling once we are in motion.”
“What is the one thing that will not change an object’s motion?” Bo asks. “Inertia. That’s one thing we cannot have.”
“Exactly,” Kissick says.
“Do we go offshore?” the judge asks.
“Or stay in cash? Consider gold? We also need a bank,” Bo says.
“I thought I was the finance guy?” Kissick asks.
“You are, but we need an actual bank,” the Big Guy says.
“In the United States or offshore?” the judge asks.
“If we’re concerned about intrusions or tracking, I’d stay out of the United States and go with Switzerland,” Bo says.
“A lot of people use the Cayman Islands these days,” Kissick says.
“That’s nouveau riche,” Bo says. “I like a bank that’s a bank, not a Club Med laundry service. Also, a real bank has history, a credibility that might encourage others to engage with us. Does anyone have a special relationship in Switzerland? I’d like to know that our assets will be cared for by a friend. Kissick, no offense, but how much do you bank offshore?”
The Big Guy jumps in. “I’ll tell you something about Kissick that he won’t say himself—Kissick has clients whose clients have clients who have clients. He’s a schlub, a family man, doesn’t golf or play tennis, has no hobbies beyond fixing old adding machines.”
“Typewriters,” Kissick says. “I like to fix typewriters. You know what my favorite key is?”
Kissick waits for someone to ask what his favorite key is. There is silence.
“Shame on all of you,” Kissick says. “My favorite key is zero. Whenever you can hit that zero again, it’s a big moment. More than a keystroke, it’s a measure of success.”
