Chapter 12
Chapter 12
W aylon Maynard was a six-term senior senator from Oregon. During his tenure in DC, he’d been on every committee possible and was known affectionately as “the power behind the throne.” Common knowledge was if you wanted to get elected, you should make sure Waylon was on your side. His nickname in the swamp was Oz, as he was thought to pull all the right levers. But to his credit, in over four decades of government service, he had not used those levers to enrich himself. Only others. It was why he was so endeared. Waylon didn’t seek power for power’s sake. He sought it on behalf of others to accomplish good. He’d been asked multiple times to run for president. To rescue both his party and the country. But he’d refused. Never accepted the nomination, choosing instead to put the full weight of his political currency behind candidates he believed in. Like Aaron. Which was good because Waylon had never lost. Widowed at a young age, he never remarried and had never been tainted by scandal.
Harvard undergrad, Yale law, Stanford MBA, he was one of those rare individuals who slept two to three hours a night. As senior member of the Senate, he currently served as president pro tempore but, after two terms, turned down his party’s nomination to continue as majority leader, citing the need for younger blood with more energy. During his political career, Waylon had advocated for orphans in Kenya and, following civil war, built orphanages with his personal money in war-torn Sierra Leone. But it was his work to combat HIV/AIDS across Africa that crossed the aisle and earned him a Congressional Medal of Honor. During the ceremony, when the president asked why he spent so much of his personal time and money helping on the African continent, he responded, “Because they can’t.”
That three-word response became a mantra for the downtrodden, landed on the front page of every paper in the civilized world, and fast-tracked Waylon for a Nobel Peace Prize, which he won. Waylon had done more to bring nations together to combat poverty and disease than any other living member of the government. The only thing he had not done was ascend to the presidency, a role he said he did not want and would not accept. “I’m not right for the job. This country needs a leader who can make tough decisions in difficult moments, and I’m not him. I cry too easily.” His response only endeared him more, and threatening to resign from the Senate was the only way he escaped the nomination.
Waylon Maynard was a rare bird. A man of his word. At seventy, he said he was aging out of politics but wanted to put his muscle behind one more horse. That horse being Ashley. He told the networks Ashley’s candidacy would be his swan song, and he could think of no better candidate. Waylon had sat on or chaired every important committee and currently swayed influence in Armed Services, Banking, Finance, Foreign Relations, and Homeland Security.
In an attempt to summarize the giant who was Waylon Maynard, the Post said this prior to his last reelection, in which he ran unopposed: “Senator Maynard may not have his finger on the button, but he controls the power source that fuels it. Without Maynard, the United States government has no button.” Two years ago, Waylon capped a seminal career with a number one New York Times bestselling memoir called For God and Country . The book sat atop the charts for twenty-two weeks, producing millions in royalties—all of which he donated.
I had little experience with Maynard. What I knew of him I drew primarily from news reports or interviews. He was rounded, a little portly, and reminded me of Edmund Gwenn, who played Kris Kringle in the 1947 production of Miracle on 34th Street . You couldn’t not like him. There was nothing to dislike.
Aaron nodded, Stackhouse stepped aside, and Maynard entered the room. In a day sliced into three-minute segments, Waylon was not one to suffer fools or waste time. He was cordial but he didn’t beat around the bush. Didn’t waste either your time or his. And if Waylon Maynard had a gift, it was reading a room, which he did, causing him to swallow whatever he was about to say. Having been in enough top-secret conversations where difficult and painful decisions were being made, he clued into this one quickly. Waylon stopped in his tracks, studied our faces, then sat at the table and unwrapped a peppermint. Placing it in his mouth, he loosened his tie, motioned to his assistant to bring him a coffee, folded his hands, and said, “What can I do?”
Aaron turned to me. “Murph, you don’t get to choose your promotions. Just whether you’re in or out.”
“I’m in, sir. You know that.”
“And it is that singular fact that brings me any comfort right now.”
I patted Aaron on the shoulder and Camp and I exited his office with far more questions than answers. Truth was, I had no answers at all. All our hope was predicated on Aaron’s girls obtaining access to a phone. I agreed that chances were good they’d get photographed at some point, or have access to a phone where they could open the camera and “read” their own RFID. But what if that didn’t happen? What if they were dead already? One phone was already pinging, but we’d seen the girls leave on three different planes. At least that was what they’d wanted us to see. Did the owner of that phone fly with one of the girls? Did the girls actually fly out, or was the video manipulated to make us think they did? Were they on one plane or three? Or two? Had the owner of the phone already passed the girls to someone else?
I worked to silence the hopelessness that simmered beneath the surface. I had to assume they were alive. And that they’d fight to stay that way. Until then, we were looking for a needle in a hayfield the size of planet earth. One thing I knew for certain was that whoever made this video was playing for keeps. Whoever did this wanted to wreck and destroy Aaron Ashley. I also knew one other thing. This would be the first time in my life I’d attempted to find someone without Bones looking over my shoulder. No sounding board. No quarterback. No voice in my ear. And yet somehow Bones had known I’d be here, and he was here too, speaking. Or pinging. From the grave. Bones was dead and gone, literally washed out to sea, yet somehow his voice echoed from the deep. Giving us hope. Without him, where would we be in this moment? Camp saluted and extended his hand. “Congratulations, sir.”
Lost in my thoughts, I stared at the eagle. “Thank you.”
“Permission, sir?”
“To?”
“Speak freely.”
“Please.”
“You don’t seem too excited.” He pointed at the silver eagle. “Congressional approval and the president’s signature. There are guys who work a lifetime and never get there.”
“It’s not why I do what I do.”
Moments later, Camp asked me why I was shaking my head. I spoke the only answer I knew to give. “Then Bones.”