Wire-Pulling Pt. 01

I debated whether I shouldn't post this story in the "Novels and Novellas" category, as it contains a lot less sex than the usual submissions in I/T, but ultimately decided to put it here. Part two will contain a lot more explicit material fitting this categroy, and I kinda don't want to split it between categories.

So, if you're looking for a stroker, you won't like it. I apologize for that.

Prolog

April 2nd, 2020, Washington DC
"It's unpleasantly cold, even for early April," John Fairfield mumbled more to himself than anyone else as he flipped up the collar of his coat, before directing his attention towards his secretary. "I'm leaving for the Anderson meeting. I'll be back in approximately three hours. Inform Dallas that I expect his proposal for the Cuomo situation, and remind the leader of surveillance team two about the packet's arrival. I.T. just sent me a message that it is expected to be delivered this evening."

Even though Miss Boise was in the middle of a phone call while also composing an email during his speech, he didn't wait for any form of acknowledgment before he turned to leave. He knew she had fully understood everything he said and would carry out his instructions perfectly. After all, he had chosen her as his assistant for that very reason and had started poaching her even before her service term with the Mossad was completed.

Immediately after finishing his speech, he turned to leave the office and entered the elevator for the fifteen-floor ride down into the lobby, where his driver was already waiting for him. It really was cold. Despite it already being midday and the sun standing high without a cloud in sight, the thermometer would barely scratch the forties. Fairfield could already feel the slight effects of an oncoming cold, so he was happy that his client had booked a room in the Jefferson for their meeting. The thought of taking his usual walk through Lincoln Park on Capitol Hill while discussing his client's needs for two hours made him shudder.

When they arrived at the Jefferson roughly twenty minutes later, he made his way directly to room 211 without stopping at the hotel's reception desk to announce his arrival or calling his client to warn him about it. He enjoyed playing with the security personnel of these plush hotels, just as much as he enjoyed toying with his clients' personal security details. He knew his way around the preferred lodgings of the upper ten thousand. So, simply by striking up a conversation with another guest after taking a quick glance at him to take in all the hints about his personal interests, he inconspicuously managed to accompany that guest into the elevator without being questioned or checked by anyone in charge.

As he stepped out of the elevator on the second floor, he bid his short-term friend goodbye and rounded the corner, where he discovered Anderson's bodyguard standing in front of his employer's room.

Fairfield had to shake his head upon taking an appraising look at the guy. He was big, at least 6'5'', with a bulky build. Approximately in his late twenties. And his eyes were fixated on a point at the wall opposing him. He was bored!

That man was meant to deter attackers with his imposing appearance, but Fairfield doubted he would have the needed speed and flexibility to fend off an actual attack. If he even reacted to it in time, since, at that moment, Fairfield wouldn't have been surprised if the man started to drool while he used his shoe to draw patterns into the carpet. How someone like Senator Anderson, whose net worth was estimated at around four hundred million dollars, could employ someone like that to provide security for him, was beyond Fairfield's comprehension.

Fairfield got rid of his coat and stashed it behind a big flower pot, leaving him standing in his quite expensive business suit. Then he inserted his mono-headphone into his ear, grabbed his phone, squared himself out, and started walking at an increased pace while fixing the bodyguard with an angry look. The guard raised his head to look at Fairfield when he was only three more steps away, and Fairfield instantly opened up on him.

"What in the world are you doing here!? You are supposed to guard Senator Anderson, not perform a stress test on our carpets!"

The bodyguard blinked at Fairfield in a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.

"The Senator is in the room right behind me. What are you..." he tried to reply, visibly shaken by this authoritarian stranger ripping him out of his bored daze.

"Son, where did you get your training!? The senator is in room 1-1-2, not 2-1-1! You are currently guarding Mrs. Fisher's suite!"

"But, the senator said..." the bodyguard stuttered.

"Now you listen to me, Son," Fairfield interrupted the confused man again, speaking in a quiet but demanding voice. "I am the Jefferson's head of security. I am fairly confident that I know which rooms our guests reside in! And I have been watching you through our security system, loitering in front of Mrs. Fisher's suite, for the past twenty minutes. That ends now! I strongly suggest you make your way to the senator's room promptly, or I will kick you out of our house myself before assigning my own security team to guard his room for the duration of his stay!"

"Holy Shit, this worked a lot quicker than I expected!" Fairfield thought to himself as he watched the inexperienced bodyguard start towards the elevators. Obviously, his client had, once again, misappropriated his security personnel by letting them take care of his check-in procedure, while he himself immediately went to his room. This also meant that the 'Bodyguard' had failed to search the senator's room for IEDs and other unpleasant surprises before allowing his charge to enter it, or to at least talk with the real head of security before even arriving in the hotel.

"What a bungler," Fairfield said under his breath as the man entered the elevator under Fairfield's stern watch. Then he recovered his coat and returned to Senator Anderson's room. He produced a six-inch long spring steel wire out of his coat pocket, inserted it next to the door latch into the gap of the frame, and silently entered the senator's room after roughly five seconds of fiddling.

Senator Richard Anderson was forty-one years old and liked to present himself as living proof of the viability of the American dream. Born into an admittedly poor family, he worked hard to make his way through the ranks of 'Schrader Bank & Trust', a privately owned bank, with an upper-class clientele. Thanks to Schrader's careful investment politics, which were mainly attributed to Anderson's foresighted assessments of economic developments, they made an absolutely obscene fortune during the 2008 real estate crisis. That was followed by yet another genius play during the Euro-crisis in 2010, which, again, earned Anderson's bank numerous new wealthy clients and billions of dollars in profit. Now, ten years later, he exclusively surrounded himself with wealthy and influential 'friends' who helped him make the move into politics a few years ago.

He was generally seen as a man of integrity and family values, as he was happily married, though never blessed with children of his own. His idyllic life, however, was shaken twelve years ago, when his wife was tragically killed by a drunken driver. After an adequate grieving period, he married his new wife, Yvette, who had lost her own spouse to a workplace accident. Seeing a chance to finally fulfill his long-term dream of having a family, he adopted Paul, the ten-year-old Yvette brought into the relationship, to provide that boy with a stable home, love, and guidance.

Of course, half of that story was an utter fabrication, and Fairfield knew that the senator was anything but a loving husband and father. Behind closed doors, he was a manipulative, narcissistic, and abusive dictator to his family, who used his adopted son mainly to present himself in a certain light whenever the press was around. In fact, Fairfield had obtained copies of quite a few reports from local emergency rooms that painted a pretty clear picture of why the boy named Paul had fled his stepfather's house the minute the clock struck midnight and announced his eighteenth birthday.

That, however, was none of Fairfield's concerns. He only retained that kind of information in case one of his clients tried to turn on him after a job was completed. It didn't happen often, but it did happen nonetheless, and Fairfield did not survive in this business by being unprepared.

When he finally stepped into the suite's main room, he found his client staring at him in a mixture of shock and wonder.

"Good day, Senator. I'm afraid you're dead," Fairfield greeted the stunned man with a friendly smile. "Didn't we discuss your tendency to hire cheap security during our last meeting?"

As a matter of fact, during the five years he had been working with the senator, he had wasted a good dozen different security companies the senator had hired for his protection. Each time he had offered to connect the senator with proper personnel, but he got the feeling that this was turning into a kind of game for his client.

"Seems like I'll have to consider your people after all," the senator sighed heavily while shaking his head. Fairfield had no doubt that it wouldn't happen.

Anderson offered his guest a seat in his spacious suite, prepared drinks for the two of them despite knowing full well that Fairfield would politely decline, and took a seat opposing him. After taking a slow and savoring sip of his cognac, the two men sat in silence for a few seconds before Anderson finally spoke up.

"Fairfield, I need your help with a rather... delicate subject," the senator said without taking his eyes off the dark liquid.

"That is usually the case when people hire me," Fairfield joked lightheartedly, to which Anderson silently nodded.

"As you know, I made the bulk of my fortune during the last decade, after I married Yvette. Now, a few months ago, I got to know a delightful young woman that I can not show myself with in public, as long as I'm still married to Yvette. Long story short: I want a divorce. According to my lawyers, however, that divorce could cost me not only millions of dollars but also cause significant damage to my reputation. Therefore, my lawyers have suggested a solution. If I were able to prove my wife's infidelity, maybe even for a long-term affair with another man, those problems would no longer exist. I need you to get me that evidence."

Fairfield patiently listened to the senator's explanation that, for his taste, lasted entirely too long. Though, as the senator finally reached the end of his tale, Fairfield's brows knitted in confusion.

"Senator, I have to admit... I'm a little surprised you'd call for me in this matter. Surely you could retain the services of any private investigator in the area, and they would be able to gather that evidence for a lot less than what I would charge. I'd be happy to suggest some of the more reputable candidates."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," the senator confirmed with a grin. "There's only the small problem that my wife would never risk having an affair. I even got that woman to chase away that useless boy she calls a son! There is no way Yvette would ever go behind my back, much less cheat on me! Nonetheless, I need to be one hundred percent sure that the evidence implicating her would stand up in any court."

Just at that moment, the door flew open and the Bodyguard rushed into the room. As he took in the scene of the two men peacefully sitting with drinks in front of them, he regarded Fairfield with a hateful glare. Anderson raised a single eyebrow upon noticing this and addressed his guard with mirth in his voice.

"I don't think your presence in this room is needed at the moment. Be so kind and wait for me in the lobby. We won't stay much longer."

As the guard tried to suppress his urge to respond to Fairfield's sardonic grin, he reluctantly nodded toward his employer and left the room.

"I understand, Senator," Fairfield addressed his client, trying to hide his disdain for the man. Not because of the nature of his request, but because the man would feel the need to utilize Fairfield's organization for such a mundane task. However, gathering evidence for a non-existent affair could prove to be a welcome change of pace from his usual assignments.

"This assignment," Fairfield started after thinking it over for a few minutes. "could prove costly. I would calculate the expected expenses at around 500,000 dollars. In addition to that, I will need four million dollars as play money, most of which you could get back prior to the trial. And, finally, my fee of 250,000 dollars. All in all, you're looking at 4.75 million. As usual, I will need you to pay the entire sum in advance."

"That much?" the senator asked, surprised but in no way shocked.

"Yes. We have to assume that an affair alone will not be sufficient. This is a no-fault state, Senator, so it would still leave you open for maintenance payments. We will need to employ measures that will cause your wife more severe problems, leaving her powerless to contest the divorce in any way, but without causing her any physical harm, of course."

As his client nodded in confirmation, Fairfield handed the senator a card with account details for a bank in Luxembourg. As usual, Anderson had to write that information down, since Fairfield would never allow someone to keep it. He was a professional. He wouldn't allow any client to retain a specimen of his handwriting, his fingerprints, or even a scurf of his skin.

In his organization, it was also proper etiquette to use a clean bank account for each new assignment. Should the Feds ever manage to follow the money to Fairfield's organization, he only had to clean up that one job, and didn't have to worry about additional transactions on the account causing complications.

"Please keep in mind that this assignment will take a few months to complete," Fairfield continued. "Setting everything up is going to take us three months, at the very least. Knowing your wife, however, you should double that timeframe. It will take some time to coerce her into starting an affair. It is also imperative that you transfer the play money from a bank account that is not associated with you personally."

"I will arrange for the money immediately. You'll have it by tonight," Senator Anderson nodded.

Chapter 1

September 19th, Houston, Texas
Even though it was a Saturday, and I had another day of relaxing inactivity to look forward to, I was already moody after the thought of having to go back to work on Monday popped into my mind. With the school year starting up again, all the rich pricks we catered to were back from their ski trips in the Swiss Alps, their yacht trips to Monaco, or wherever else they go these days.

Don't get me wrong, I actually love my job. As a young man, I never imagined myself working in security someday, and I never even considered specializing in the investigative part of the job, but it turned out to be surprisingly rewarding. I get to actually help people, and the people I work with are all awesome. It's the people we're working for that make the job so taxing. If we're providing general security in their homes, they feel spied upon despite being in danger, and, especially their younger offspring, make no effort to hide their discontent with our presence. If we're in personal security details, it lasts maybe a week before they seemingly forget that we're human beings working a job. A job that should not include being their packing mules on shopping trips, or errand boys for social gatherings. But, every now and then, I get to catch stalkers and reunite families, which kinda makes me happy.

I had just looked through my Netflix library for the third time, while waiting for my pizza to arrive, when the doorbell rang. When I opened the door expecting the delivery boy, however, I was confronted with the sight of a man whose face looked like he was in his mid-thirties, but with already graying hair, wearing a suit that looked half a size too big for him. He was holding a leather pilot's case in his left hand and a picture with my face on it in his right. He studied my face, checked the picture, and then looked back at me before his expression curiously relaxed as he released a sigh.

"Paul Anderson?" he asked in a tone that communicated hope and relief.

"Name's 'White'. As you can see on the little plate next to my doorbell," I answered gruffly. Somehow, while I was ready to close the door in his face, his face morphed into an expression of eagerness upon hearing my name.

"Son of Yvette Anderson, formerly White?" he continued with a nod, his eyes widened in excitement before I had a chance to follow through with my plan of shutting him out.

"...Yes. Who are you and what do you want?" I felt my wariness grow and slyly checked the hallway for waiting surprises.

"James Breston, Attorney at Law," he beamed while handing me one of his business cards. "I'm representing your mother and would like to ask for a few minutes of your time."

While I was moody before, that stranger mentioning my mother had my weekend ruined completely.

"What does she want?" I asked gruffly, causing his happy expression to waver as I took a quick look at his card.

"What does she..." he repeated with a questioning tone, clearly confused about my blatant disregard for the woman. "Don't you know what happened to her?"

"Oh, I do know what happened. I just don't care," I shrugged. "I try to not involve myself with her and her chosen asshole, but her case was all over the news for the past six weeks and hard to avoid."

"That is an awfully cold way to speak about your own mother, Mr. Anderson," he said in an insecure tone. He obviously didn't expect me to be so reluctant to help her. "I still need to speak with you."

"We're speaking right now, aren't we? And I already told you, my name is White, not Anderson. Now get to the point, please. I got more fun things to do."

"Are you sure you want to discuss this in the hallway? Maybe we should step inside first?" he offered with a fake smile. "I can't imagine you would want your neighbors to overhear your family business."

"Ah, you're one of those," I sighed, recognizing the usual tactics used by police officers and ambulance chasers alike to get a foot in the door, causing his brows to knit up in disapproval. "Fine, come in."

I waved him into the apartment as I turned and walked into my living room, leaving him to close the door after stepping inside. Once he entered the room himself, I gestured for him to sit down on the couch from where he looked at me in anticipation as if waiting for me to offer him something. It merely took a few seconds of me staring at him with an expressionless face before he sighed again and opened his pilot's case to place some papers on my coffee table.

"First, I'd like to point out that you were surprisingly hard to find, Mr. Ander... White," he corrected himself as he began to arrange paperwork on my coffee table. "No forwarding address. No social media accounts. No contact with any relatives or old friends..."

"Obviously not hard enough," was all I cared to comment, causing him to shake his head.

"Your mother warned me about the possibility of you being... less than eager to help."

That piqued my interest.

"Really? Did she care to comment on why that would be?" I asked with a single eyebrow raised. My second eyebrow quickly joined the first one on its journey toward my hairline when I could see a look of genuine empathy on his face.