NOTE: This story is fiction. It's dedicated to my Grandma Jeanne O'Neill for Mother's Day. The country of Azerbistan does not exist, but the threat is real.
A wise man once said, “An attorney’s specialty chooses him or her, not the other way around.” Or, maybe it wasn’t a wise man. It’s hard to tell with sayings like that. But, the saying does apply to Gelden Gibson. Gelden’s father Horace Gibson was a corporate structure and estate planning specialist of the highest degree, at least for Montana. There was a time in the early eighties when every agricultural tax write-off over a million dollars from Cut Bank to Ekalaka had been birthed by Horace Gibson’s typewriter. That was quite the statement, because many of those ranches were hundreds of miles closer to attorneys in Billings or Great Falls than Helena.
Gelden started his professional life as a dreamer. The dreams weren’t excessive. Gelden didn’t want to be a baseball player or a nuclear engineer. He couldn’t hit a ball outside the infield and didn’t have a knack for constructing things in the physical world. Gelden just didn’t want to be a corporate transaction attorney. However, he couldn’t deny the fact that he had a preternatural understanding of the specific understanding of complex corporate legal structures. The interface between clauses and documents sang to Gelden the same way that workings of the Universe sang to Einstein. The talents that are born in you are also really hard to avoid.
Gelden’s role as an associate attorney in his father’s law firm was an inevitable as a spring thaw on Canyon Ferry Lake. It may be delayed for a while, but there was never any real doubt it would happen. Gelden’s development of his client list had more to do with luck or some other random force that wasn’t necessarily positive.
Six years ago, Horace Gibson received a phone call from Azerbistan. The man on the other end of the phone said he’d met with Congressman Peters during his trip to the region. Congressman Peters said that Montana had the world’s “best” beef and the man from Azerbistan was interested in setting up a trading company to sell Montana beef throughout Azerbistan and neighboring countries. Horace Gibson had no interest in setting up international trading companies, so he sent the phone call down the hall to Gelden.
At the moment that phone rang, Gelden had never heard of the country of Azerbistan. He also didn’t know that Azerbistan was smack dab in the middle of the Caspian Sea and an oil boom of epic proportions. The Azerbistanis were developing a voracious appetite for thick t-bone steaks. Kemal, the industrious Azerbistani man on other end of the phone was ready to take advantage of that new market. Gelden would come to realize that there weren’t many markets that Kemal wasn’t ready to take advantage of.
Kemal’s industriousness and Azerbistan’s tenuous international security situation were the reasons Gelden was sitting in Chet’s Bar and Grill again at Big Sky Resort. Gelden always met potential donees at Big Sky. It fit in quite well with political travel schedules and it was easy to schedule a smokescreen fundraiser at one mansions encircling the resort to throw the scent off of anyone trying to follow the Azerbistani money.
Gelden sipped his coffee and looked out the window towards tram that was taking tourists up to the summit of Lone Mountain. In mid-summer, the snow was gone; but Gelden imagined it was a beautiful view. His wife Brenda had been up there several times, but Gelden didn’t do well with heights.
Gelden’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Brenda, “What time do you think you’ll be back?
“Pretty late,” Gelden responded.
Gelden looked up a picture on the wall of Chet Huntley, the news anchor that founded Big Sky. Huntley was on horseback with the mountains surrounding the resort behind him. Gelden had seen the picture dozens of times, but this time looked past the news anchor. The pine trees in the background were a combination of green and red. The green ones were living. The red ones had been killed by pine beetles.
“Beetle kill,” Gelden murmured to himself.
The picture had been taken four decades ago during the last major beetle kill outbreak. The Rocky Mountain West was going through another beetle kill with over a million acres of dead trees in Montana alone. The beetles weren’t invasive or otherwise out of place. They were native to the Rockies and usually lived in relative peace, but every couple of decades something would change slightly in the environment - the rules that governed the ecological system of the forest - and they would go on a rampage. An army of small insects turning vibrant forests into lifeless tinderboxes waiting for a spark or a lightning strike.
A tall man with perfect hair walked into the restaurant. Gelden waived him over.
“Congressman Shifferd, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Gelden.”
“Call me Jack,” the congressman responded.
“Of course, I trust that your flight went well.”
Shifferd nodded. The men mumbled through a small talk about Shifferd’s trip from Oklahoma and the beauty of Montana as the waiter poured a coffee.
Gelden moved towards business. “As you’re aware, I am the founder of the America First Political Action Committee. In the past three years, America First has quietly become the largest donor to American politicians of both parties.”
Congressman Shifferd nodded. “I received a sizable donation from you in my last campaign and I’m truly thankful for it.”
“That was not a sizable donation, at least not by our metrics. We start everyone off with a small payment, but you’ve proven yourself well in your first term. If properly positioned, you could have a long and favorable career on the Hill.”
“I’m glad that you were pleased. Hopefully my constituents feel the same way.”
Gelden’s phone vibrated again. He ignored it and continued.
“I think that we can help that process,” Gelden said. "I am willing to commit America First to be your largest donor with an investment that will effectively double your campaign resources.”
“Double?”
“Yes, but I’m not against tripling if you need it. America First will transfer them to a public relations firm that your campaign is already working with to ensure that the messaging is consistent.”
Congressman Shifferd glanced over his shoulder. “Is it, uhh…”
“Yes, it’s entirely legal. The funds originate in Azerbistan and are transferred into a holding company based in the British Virgin Islands. The holding company is the sole owner of several corporations based in Montana. Those corporations have full legal rights as citizens to influence American elections through distributing funds.”
Shiffered looked nervous. “What do your friends in Azerbistan want from me?”
“They expect your support in Congress for Azerbistan’s territorial integrity. Azerbistan is a relatively small island with a lot of oil and powerful neighbors. Russia, Iran, Azerbijan, Turkmenistan and Kazakhastan each claim to have some historical interests to Azerbistan and the surrounding water.”
“And if I don’t offer this support.”
“Then, we will dramatically increase funding for your opponent.
“Increase?”
“Yes, we’re funding her too. Azerbistan’s interests are bipartisan. We are willing to work with whoever will work with us. Basically, that means everybody.”
“That’s a big statement. How much money are you honestly willing to spend?”
“Azerbistan earns roughly six billion dollars a year on its oil reserves. It is willing to spend approximately one third of that on defense. The Azerbistanis did the math and realized that they could either purchase a small fleet of America’s F-35 fighter planes for that price or invest heavily in winning American allies.”
Congressman Shifferd’s eyes widened. “Two billion dollars is enough to buy the American presidency and both houses of Congress. No one other political donors even in that ballpark.”
Gelden nodded. “Not yet. But, no one else has stakes that are quite this obvious. Azerbistan needs support against its potentially hostile neighbors. With the recent changes in American campaign finance laws, the Azerbistanis would be foolish to do anything else with their defense dollars.”
“Are any countries other than Azerbistan in this game?”
Gelden shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to tell. I’m sure the Russian and Chinese are dabbling in American campaign finance, but I don’t think anyone else has realized the opportunity quite to the level that Azerbistan does.“
Gelden’s phone buzzed again. “Excuse me. It’s beginning to sound important.”
Shifferd nodded in bewilderment. Not used to someone else stopping interrupting his conversations.
Gelden picked it up and glanced at the phone. It was a message from the office. A dark-house Presidential candidate from Florida wanted to meet at Big Sky tomorrow morning. She was beginning to make national waves with and needed to go back to the Azerbistani well for more cash.
“I guess I’d better get a room,” Gelden muttered.
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