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“We, uh, set him up. Get him to say why he’s so against military contractors.”
Bash pushes out of his seat, dislodging Birdie’s hand from his thigh. Something’s wrong with him as well. He’s not generally like this. Could he and Chelsea have fought about something?
Bash glares at Chelsea, but his eyes show concern instead of ire. “I don’t understand why you think he’ll tell you shit.”
Chelsea isn’t bothered by his resistance. Maybe this is the norm when passing ideas back and forth with my former teammate. Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Of course, he won’t if I introduce myself as Chelsea, the PMC.”
My friend begins pacing the floor in front of the fireplace. “Harding wouldn’t tell you anything anyway. Besides, how the hell would you even get close to him? You’re nobody to a US congressman. Even if you were a person of influence in his world, he’s only talking to people who can advance his agenda.”
I know Bash is being careful, but I’ve now seen how this woman’s mind works. Given half a chance, I’m convinced she’ll figure this out. And I’m going to help her. “So, we find someone who can advance his agenda. Or we become them.”
Bash’s expression is incredulous, but I ignore him, directing my question to the others. “What would draw this man in? Chelsea?”
The woman is even more surprised than Bash when I ask for her input. She rubs her arms and closes her eyes. “We need to get him away from Washington, so the draw would have to be big, a fundraiser or campaign event. Since his biggest talking point is PMCs… No, it’s how PMCs affect the armed forces…defense…”
Her eyes fly open. “Shit. A defense convention. With anti-private military speakers. Harding could be invited as some sort of dignitary. Maybe set up some bullshit after-party for deeper discussion.”
Fish’s nose wrinkles, and he raps his knuckles against his knee. “I get it that your boss is rich, but you’re talking about a multi-million-dollar setup when there’s no guarantee Harding will even show.”
“No,” Birdie spouts suddenly, yet softly and full of curiosity. “I’ll bet…”
The intel specialist doesn’t finish, instead opening a laptop on the coffee table and pounding the keyboard. “I’ll bet there’s already a convention scheduled with the private military as a keynote topic.”
At Birdie’s insistence, the rest of the room warms to the possibility. “God, there’s several on the calendar with panels about the efficacy of private military and militia in modern warfare. We could just about take our pick.”
Fish now leans forward, fully engaged. “Find one in Europe if there’s one to be had. That way, we can be involved legally.”
Birdie’s furious typing continues for a second or two before, “Bingo. Southern Spain. End of this month.”
Aaron speaks for the first time since arriving. “We still can’t guarantee Harding will show.”
“That’s the easy part,” I say. “Pompous and self-righteous as he is, I bet all it’ll take to get him is a private jet and an invitation touting him as an expert. Maybe make the after party a big fancy reception in his honor.”
Sadie pipes in with, “The jet is easy. We could rent some big-ass house to host a ball-style reception.”
“Your logistics are sound,” Devil says. “You still have one problem, though. You have to get this bastard to talk. Who are you getting to play host? Many of us would be out. Too recognizable because of recent press.”
“Chelsea and I volunteer,” I offer without hesitation.
“What?” she gasps.
“What do you mean, what? This was your idea,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but…” She stammers. “Do you know how many hoops a plan like this would have to jump through? First, we’ll have to buy our way into this convention. Second, we’ll have to scout mansions and convince some wrinkly old fart to let us use one. Not to mention, schedule a fake ball with fake guests. Oh, and provide adequate security so we’ll have a slim chance at an asshole congressman accepting our flowery invitation.”
“Thirty seconds ago, you were trying to sell us on the idea. Now you want to back out?” Bash asks.
Chelsea fails to come up with an intelligible answer. “I…um.”
I’m suddenly all about this plan. Clapping my hands, I stand to indicate we’re through brainstorming. “Everyone else good with the basic plan? Oh, and since some of you are well-known in political circles, I’d suggest making the party a masked affair.”
Sadie pushes off the sofa. “I’ll get O’Reilly and Knot on a call or in a room together to sell the idea. Be ready to jump on this ASAP. The convention Birdie found is in four weeks.”
The rest of the room follows suit, and Sadie leaves with Aaron, followed by Fish and Devil. Chelsea, moving woodenly, carries empty bottles to the kitchen. I follow because I can’t help it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
Chelsea places the bottles in the trash and turns. Blowing her cheeks out, she waits a second before answering, “I’m fine.”