O’Brien had Donny wait for him there in Statuary Hall next to the marble likeness of Vice President Tower, watching the pols give their stand-ups. About five minutes after he was supposed to show up, he called Donny from a secure line and gave him an address on New Jersey Ave., S.E. That turned out to be seven blocks away, a townhouse on the House side that belonged to an outfit called the Foundation for American Freedom. A lobbying shop, which was really just a back door for the collection of political contributions, most of which you could smell were bribes like the one Donny came to pay.

In person, O’Brien looked the part: extra-white version of a white guy, mid-thirties, bit of a baby face, kind of a dorky jacket-and-chinos combo, necktie striped with the colors of a regiment he had never been in. A hall runner who had found his way to the most lucrative hall there was to run.

They called him “The Bundler.” The deal was, he only kept 20 percent. The rest went to others in the chain of custody, as it were. People whose names Donny didn’t need to know. He even gave Donny a receipt, for the 10 percent portion that was allocated to the campaign fund. A surprise that annoyed Donny more than anything because he would show up on the public list of contributors. That, and the realization that federal detention had now become little more than a high-dollar kidnapping racket run by well-educated goons with nice suits and maybe even MBAs.

Where do I get my money back if you don’t deliver, asked Donny, as they sat there in O’Brien’s little office with a view of the freeway. There was a picture on the wall behind O’Brien, of the General and the President laughing together on the golf course, like a still from a commercial, or a freeze-frame from the end of a heist movie where they celebrate what they just got away with.

No refunds, said O’Brien. But you don’t need to worry.

Donny considered power-vomiting on the guy there in his office. He definitely had it in him at the moment. The photo was bad enough, before he smelled the cologne. But he didn’t do it. He didn’t even lay any snark.

The worst thing was, he didn’t even find out they had released her five days later until he heard it from friends. She was on a plane to Managua before he even figured out how to reach her. And that’s why she didn’t even know that he was the one who hooked it up.

But he knew that was how it was meant to be.

Even still, when the revolution came, he made sure to tell his insurgent clients about the Foundation for American Freedom.