As Good as Dead

by O. J. Anderson

Chapter 3:

The Watergate Complex
Washington D.C.
Two days before the conference

E. Chadwick Fishburn stands by the window, looking out over the Potomac. It used to be they could keep things like this a secret, at least until after they had met. Thirty-five VIP’s in town, scattered throughout the city in different hotels, and not one of them willing to risk being identified going to this conference.

The protestors, those shaggy-haired deviants, have all the entrances covered, digital cameras at the ready. Waiting for the VIP’s to arrive. How they found out about the conference, Fishburn doesn’t know. The attendees and their bios, all business affiliations, donations, and any and all other pertinent information would be posted on the Internet within an hour. Not the kind of attention the attendees were looking for.

Without turning his gaze away from the window, he tells his assistant, “I think it’s time to kill one of the chickens to show the monkeys.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” Mark Hepman. Only a couple of years out of Georgetown. Trying hard to brown-nose his way into the elite circles. Almost completely useless except for a total absence of scruples.

After a few seconds pass, Fishburn notices the silence in the room; no doors closing, no papers rustling, no calls being made, nothing. He turns, sees mark standing there like an idiot. “Well? What is it?”

“Uh... Sir, I’m not sure what that is... the part about the chickens and monkeys.” He shakes his head and flips one of his hands upward. “I don’t know what that means.”

Fishburn sighs heavily, his disdain for the boy clear. He hates Mark; actually told him a few times. Said, “I hate you.” But he is the son of a member, a member that had called in a favor. Nevertheless, Fishburn only plans to keep him around until he needs a fall guy to set up — a need that arises every few months in this town.

Fishburn tells the kid, “It means we make an example out of one them. The chicken, got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Mark nods energetically while whipping out his note pad, trying to make up for incompetence with enthusiasm.

“Mark. Mark!”

The assistant looks up. “Sir?”

“Stop writing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The rest of the protestors are the monkeys. They will see what happens to the chicken and become frightened, get back in line.” Fishburn walks slowly across the office, staring down at the carpet. It’s obvious that he’ll have to explain every step of this to Mark. “We’ll need to plant some moles in the crowd for this. Three should do nicely, I think. They’ll be responsible for bringing down morale after the arrest is made.”

“Arrest, sir?”

“That’s right. I’ve just received word that a dangerous psychopath is posing as one of the protestors. It seems that he intends to carry out a personal vendetta against one of the hotel’s guests. I will notify security shortly. Of course, his comrades will be outraged, for they will know better. It will be clear that this is an intimidation tactic. And that’s where our moles come in. You see? As the voice of reason, they will talk some sense into the others. This little prank for photos isn’t worth getting arrested. This is something they never counted on. They’ll lose heart and go away.”

Mark, in wide-eyed fascination: “If I may say so, sir... it’s an excellent plan.”

“Of course it is, you idiot. It works every time. Now, I would like you personally to see to this matter, so go get changed.”

* * *

To be continued...