ABSOLUTE POWER
By: DAVID BALDACCI
ABSOLUTE POWER
By: DAVID BALDACCI
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jennifer Karas, for being a terrific friend and avid supporter and for
getting the ball rolling way back when. Karen Spiegel, my biggest fan on
the West Coast, may there be many huge movies and small statuettes in
your future. Jim and Everne Spiegel, for all their support and
encouragement.
Aaron Priest, the man who plucked me from obscurity, my friend and agent
for life, and a helluva nice guy on top of it. And his assistant, Lisa
Vance, who diligently answers every one of my questions, no matter how
off-the-wall. And to the Priest Agency’s editor-in residence, Frances
Jalet-Miller, whose insights and thoughtful comments made me dig deeper
into my characters and made the book far better in the process.
My editor, Maureen Egen, for making my freshman publication experience
so painless and rewarding. And to Larry Kirshbaum, who saw something in
the pages very late at night and changed my life forever.
Steven Wilmsen, a fellow writer, who well knows how hard it is, and who
fed me good advice and tons of encouragement all along the way. Thank
you, my friend.
Steve and Mary Jennings, for technical advice, legwork, and being the
best friends anyone could hope for. Richard Marvin and Joe Barry, for
technical advice on security systems.
And to Art, Lynette, Ronni, Scott, and Randy for all their love and
support.
Here, the words really do fail me.
‘Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” -LORD ACTON
ABSOLUTE POWER
CHAPTER ONE
HE GRIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL LOOSELY AS THE CAR, ITS lights out,
drifted slowly to a stop. A few last scraps of gravel kicked out of the
tire treads and then silence enveloped him. He took a moment to adjust
to the surroundings and then pulled out a pair of worn but still
effective nightvision binoculars. The house slowly came into focus. He
shifted easily, confidently in his seat. A duffel bag lay on the front
seat beside him. The car’s interior was faded but clean.
The car was also stolen. And from a very unlikely source.
A pair of miniature palm trees hung from the rearview mirror. He smiled
grimly as he looked at them. Soon he might be going to the land of
palms. Quiet, blue, see-through water, powdery salmon-colored sunsets
and late mornings. He had to get out. It was time. For all the occasions
he had said that to himself, this time he felt sure.
Sixty-six years old, Luther Whitney was eligible to collect Social
Security, and was a card-carrying member of AARP.
At that age most men had settled down into second careers as
grandfathers, part-time raisers of their children’s children, when weary
joints were eased down into familiar recliners and arteries finished
closing up with the clutter of a lifetime.
Luther had had only one career his entire life. It involved breaking and
entering into other people’s homes and places of business, usually in
the nighttime, as now, and taking away as much of their property as he
could feasibly carry.
Though clearly on the wrong side of the law, Luther had never fired a
gun or hurled a knife in anger or fear, except for his part in a largely
confusing war fought where South and North Korea were joined at the hip.
And the only punches he had ever thrown were in bars, and those only in
self-defense as the suds made men braver than they should have been.
Luther only had one criterion in choosing his targets: he took only from
those who could well afford to lose it. He considered himself no
different from the armies of people who routinely coddled the wealthy,
constantly persuading them to buy things they did not need.
A good many of his sixty-odd years had been spent in assorted medium-
and then maximum-security correctional facilities along the East Coast.
Like blocks of granite around his neck, three prior felony convictions
stood to his credit in three different states. Years had been carved out
of his life.
Important years. But he could do nothing to change that now.
He had refined his skills to where he had high hopes that a fourth