“I don’t recall fifty-four taxes,” Lake said. “But a lot of them were on tobacco and alcohol and gambling. I also voted against increases in personal income taxes, corporate income taxes, federal withholding taxes, and Social Security taxes. I’m not ashamed of that record. And speaking of taxes, Governor, during your four years in Indiana, how do you explain the fact that individual tax rates increased by an average of six percent?”
No quick response was forthcoming, so Lake plowed ahead. “You want to cut federal spending, yet in your four years in Indiana state spending increased eighteen percent. You want to cut corporate income taxes, yet during your four years in Indiana, corporate income taxes went up three percent. You want to end welfare, yet when you were governor forty thousand people were added to the welfare rolls in Indiana. How do you explain this?”
Each blow from Indiana drew blood, and Tarry was on the ropes. “I disagree with your figures, sir,” he managed to say. “We created jobs in Indiana.”
“Is that so?” Lake said sardonically. He pulled up a sheet of paper from his podium as if it were a federal indictment against Governor Tarry. “Maybe you did, but during your four years almost sixty thousand ex-workers signed up for unemployment,” he announced without looking at the paper.
Sure Tarry had had a bad four years as governor, but the economy had gone south on him. He had explained all this before and he’d love to do it again, but, gosh, he had only a few short minutes on national television. Surely he shouldn’t waste it splitting hairs about the past. “This race is not about Indiana,” he said, managing a smile. “It’s about all fifty states. It’s about working people everywhere who’ll be expected to pay more taxes to finance your gold-plated defense projects, Mr. Lake. You can’t be serious about doubling the Pentagon’s budget.”
Lake looked hard at his opponent. “I’m very serious about it. And if you wanted a strong military, you’d be serious too.” He then rattled off a string of statistics that went on and on, each building on the other. It was conclusive proof of our military unreadiness, and when he finally finished our armed forces would’ve been hard-pressed to invade Bermuda.
But Tarry had a study to the contrary, a thick glossy manuscript produced by a think tank run by ex-admirals. He waved it for the cameras and argued such a buildup was unnecessary. The world was at peace, with the exception of a few civil and regional wars, disputes in which we had no national interest, and the United States was by far the only superpower left standing. The cold war was history. The Chinese were decades away from achieving anything remotely resembling parity. Why burden the taxpayers with tens of billions in new hardware?
They argued for a while about how to pay for it, and Tarry scored minor points. But they were on Lake’s turf, and as the issue dragged on it became evident that Lake knew far more than the governor.
Lake saved his best for last. During his ten-minute recap, he returned to Indiana and continued the miserable list of Tarry’s failures there during his sole term. The theme was simple, and very effective: If he can’t run Indiana, how can he run the entire nation?
“I’m not knocking the people of Indiana,” Lake said at one point. “In fact, they had the wisdom to return Mr. Tarry to private life after only one term. They knew he was doing a terrible job. That’s why only thirty-eight percent of them voted for him when he asked for four more years. Thirty-eight percent! We should trust the people of Indiana. They know this man. They’ve seen him govern. They made a mistake, and they got rid of him. It would be sad if the rest of the country now made the same mistake.”
The instant polls gave a solid win to Lake. D-PAC called a thousand voters immediately after the debate. Almost 70 percent thought Lake was the better of the two.
ON A LATE FLIGHT from Pittsburgh to Wichita, several bottles of champagne were opened on Air Lake and a small party began. The debate poll results were flowing in, each better than the last, and the mood was victorious.
Lake hadn’t banned alcohol on his Boeing, but he had discouraged it. If and when a member of his staff took a drink, it was always a quick one, and always on the sly. But some moments called for a little celebration. He enjoyed two glasses of champagne himself. Only his closest people were present. He thanked them and congratulated them, and just for fun they watched the highlights of the debate while another bottle was opened. They paused the video each time Governor Tarry looked particularly puzzled, and the laughs grew louder.
But the party was brief; fatigue hit hard. These were people who’d been sleeping five hours a night for weeks. Most had slept even less the night before the debate. Lake himself was exhausted. He finished a third glass, the first time in many years he’d drunk that much, and settled into his massive leather recliner with a heavy quilt. Bodies sprawled everywhere in the darkness of the cabin.
He couldn’t sleep; he seldom did on airplanes. There were too many things to think and worry about. It was impossible not to savor the victory in the debate, and as he kicked around under the quilt Lake repeated his best lines of the night. He had been brilliant, something he’d never admit to anyone else.
The nomination was his. He would be showcased at the convention, then for four months he and the Vice President would slug it out in the grandest of American traditions.
He turned on the small overhead reading light. Someone else was reading down the aisle, near the flight deck. Another insomniac, with the only other light on in the cabin. People were actually snoring under their blankets, the sleep of hurried young people running on fumes.
Lake opened his briefcase and pulled out a small leather folder filled with his personal correspondence cards. They were four by six, heavy stock, off-white in color, and in light black Old English print had the name of “Aaron Lake” printed at the top. With a thick, antique Mont Blanc pen, Lake scribbled a brief word to his college roommate, now a professor of Latin at a small college in Texas. He wrote a thank-you to the moderator of the debate, and one to his Oregon coordinator. Lake loved Clancy novels. He’d just finished the latest one, the thickest yet, and he wrote the author a complimentary note.
Sometimes his notes ran long, and for this reason he had plain cards, same size and color but without his name. He looked around to make sure everyone was sound asleep, and he quickly wrote:
Dear Ricky:
I think it’s best if we end our correspondence. I wish you well with your rehab.
Sincerely, Al
He addressed an unmarked envelope. The address of Aladdin North came from memory. Then he returned to his personalized cards and wrote a series of thank-you notes to serious contributors. He wrote twenty of them before fatigue finally settled in. With the cards still in front of him, and his reading light still on, he yielded to exhaustion and within minutes was napping.
He’d slept less than an hour when panicked voices awakened him. Lights were on, people were moving, and there was smoke in the cabin. A buzzer of some sort was ringing loudly from the cockpit, and once he got his bearings Lake realized the nose of the Boeing was pointed downward. Total panic set in quickly as the air masks dropped from above. After years of half-watching flight attendants give their routine demonstrations before takeoff, the damned masks were actually going to be used. Lake snapped his into place and inhaled mightily.
The pilot announced they were making an emergency landing in St. Louis. The lights flickered, and someone actually screamed. Lake wanted to move about the cabin and reassure everyone, but the mask wouldn’t move with him. In the section behind him were two dozen reporters and about that many Secret Service people.
Maybe the air masks didn’t drop back there, he thought, then felt guilty.
The smoke got thicker, and the lights faded. After the onset of panic, Lake managed a rational thought or two, if only for a brief second. He quickly gathered the correspondence cards and envelopes. The one to Ricky got his attention just long enough to place it in the envelope to Aladdin North. He sealed it, and stuffed the folder back into his b
riefcase. The lights flickered again, then went out for good.
The smoke burned their eyes and warmed their faces. The plane was descending at a rapid pace. Warning bells and sirens shrieked from the flight deck.
This can’t be happening, Lake told himself as he gripped his armrests. I’m about to be elected President of the United States. He thought of Rocky Marciano, Buddy Holly, Otis Redding, Thurman Munson, Senator Tower of Texas, Mickey Leland from Houston, a friend of his. And JFK, Jr., and Ron Brown.
The air suddenly turned cold and the smoke dissipated rapidly. They were below ten thousand feet, and the pilot had somehow managed to vent the cabin. The plane leveled and from the windows they could see lights on the ground.
“Please continue to use the oxygen masks,” the pilot said in the darkness. “We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes. The landing should be uneventful.”
Uneventful? He must be kidding, thought Lake. He needed to find the nearest toilet.
Relief settled uneasily through the plane. Just before it touched down, Lake saw the flashing lights of a hundred emergency vehicles. They bounced a little, a typical landing, and when they stopped at the end of the runway the emergency doors flew open.
A controlled stampede occurred, and within minutes they were grabbed by rescue personnel and rushed to ambulances. The fire, in the luggage area of the Boeing, was still spreading when they landed. As Lake jogged away from the plane, firemen rushed toward it. Smoke boiled from under the wings.
Just a few more minutes, Lake said to himself, and we would be dead.
“That was a close one, sir,” a paramedic said as they raced away. Lake clutched his briefcase, with his little letters inside, and for the first time went rigid with horror.
THE NEAR MISS, and the obligatory nonstop media barrage after it, probably did little to boost Lake’s popularity. But the publicity certainly didn’t hurt. He was everywhere on the morning news, one moment talking about his decisive victory over Governor Tarry in the debate, and the next giving details of what could’ve been his last flight.
“I think I’ll take the bus for a while,” he said with a laugh. He used as much humor as he could muster, and took the high road of aw-shucks-it-was-nothing. His staff members had different stories, of breathing oxygen in the dark while the smoke grew thicker and hotter. And the reporters on board were eager sources of information, providing detailed narratives of the terror.
Teddy Maynard watched it all from his bunker. Three of his men were on the plane, and one had called him from the hospital in St. Louis.
It was a perplexing event. On the one hand, he still believed in the importance of a Lake presidency. The security of the nation depended on it.
On the other hand, a crash wouldn’t have been a catastrophe. Lake and his double life would be gone. A huge headache wiped out. Governor Tarry had learned firsthand the power of unlimited cash. Teddy could cut a deal with him in time to win in November.
But Lake was still standing, taller than ever now. His tanned face was on the front of every newspaper and close to every camera. His campaign had progressed far faster than Teddy had dreamed.
So why was there so much angst in the bunker? Why was Teddy not celebrating?
Because he had yet to solve the puzzle of the Brethren. And he couldn’t simply start killing people.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE TEAM in Documents used the same laptop they’d used to write the last letter to Ricky. This letter was composed by Deville himself, and approved by Mr. Maynard. It read:
Dear Ricky:
Good news about your release to the halfway house in Baltimore. Give me a few days and I think I’ll have a full-time job lined up for you there. It’s a clerical position, not a lot of money, but a pretty good place to start.
I suggest we go a bit slower than you want. Maybe a nice lunch at first, then we’ll see where things go. I’m not the type to rush in.
Hope you’re doing well. I’ll write you next week with the details of the job. Hang in there.
Best Wishes, Al
Only the “Al” was handwritten. A D.C. postmark was applied, and the letter was flown and hand-delivered to Klockner in Neptune Beach.
Trevor happened to be in Fort Lauderdale, oddly enough tending to legitimate legal business, and so the letter sat in the Aladdin North box for two days. When he returned, exhausted, he stopped by his office just long enough to commence a nasty argument with Jan, then stormed out, got back in his car, and went straight to the post office. To his delight, the box was full. He sorted out the junk mail, then drove a half mile to the Atlantic Beach post office and checked the box for Laurel Ridge, Percy’s fancy rehab spa.
Once all the mail was collected, and much to the dismay of Klockner, Trevor left for Trumble. He made one call en route, to his bookie. He’d lost $2,500 in three days on hockey, a sport Spicer knew nothing about and refused to bet on. Trevor was picking his own favorites, with predictable results.
Spicer didn’t answer the page at the courtyard at Trumble, so Beech met with Trevor in the attorney-conference room. They did their mail swap—eight letters going out, fourteen coming in.
“What about Brant in Upper Darby?” Beech asked, flipping through the envelopes.
“What about him?”
“Who is he? We’re ready to bust him.”
“I’m still searching. I’ve been out of town for a few days.”
“Get it done, okay. This guy could be the biggest fish yet.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Beech had no Vegas lines to ponder and he didn’t want to play cards. Trevor left after twenty minutes.
LONG AFTER they should’ve eaten dinner, and long after the library should’ve been closed, the Brethren remained locked in their little room, saying little, avoiding eye contact with one another, each staring at the walls, deep in thought.
On the table were three letters. One was from Al’s laptop, postmarked two days earlier in D.C. One was Al’s handwritten note ending his correspondence with Ricky, postmarked from St. Louis, three days earlier. These two conflicted sharply, and were obviously written by different people. Someone was tampering with their mail.
The third letter had stopped them cold. They’d read it over and over, one by one, collectively, in silence, in unison. They’d picked at its corners, held it up to the light, even smelled it. There was a very faint smoky odor, same as the envelope and the note from Al to Ricky.
Handwritten in ink, it was dated April 18, at 1:20 a.m., and addressed to a woman named Carol.
Dear Carol:
What a great night! The debate couldn’t have gone better, thanks in part to you and the Pennsylvania volunteers. Many thanks! Let’s push harder and win this thing. We’re ahead in Pennsylvania, let’s stay there. See you next week.
It was signed by Aaron Lake. The card had his name personalized across the top. The handwriting was identical to that on the terse note Al had sent Ricky.
The envelope was addressed to Ricky at Aladdin North, and when Beech opened it he did not notice the second card stuck behind the first. Then it fell on the table, and when he picked it up he saw the name “Aaron Lake” engraved in black.
That had happened sometime around 4 p.m., not long after Trevor had left. For almost five hours they’d studied the mail, and they were now almost certain that (a) the laptop letter was a fake, with the name “Al” signed by someone who was quite good at forging; (b) the forged “Al” signature was virtually identical to the original “Al,” so the forger at some point had gained access to Ricky’s correspondence with Al; (c) the notes to Ricky and Carol were handwritten by Aaron Lake; and (d) the one to Carol had obviously been sent to them by mistake.
Above all, Al Konyers was really Aaron Lake.
Their little scam had snared the most famous politician in the country.
Other, less important pieces of evidence also pointed toward Lake. His front was a mailbox service in the D.C. area, a place where Congressman Lak
e spent almost all of his time. Being a high-profile elected official, subject to the whims of voters every so often, he would certainly hide behind an alias. And he’d use a machine with a printer to hide his handwriting. Al had not sent a photograph, another sign that he had a lot to conceal.
They’d checked recent newspapers in the library to get the dates straight. The handwritten notes had been mailed from St. Louis the day after the debate, when Lake was there because his airplane had caught fire.
The timing seemed perfect for Lake to call off the letters. He’d started the correspondence before he entered the race. In three months he’d taken the country by storm and become very famous. Now, he had so much to lose.
Slowly, with no concern for time, they built their case against Aaron Lake. And when it looked airtight, they tried to break it down. The most compelling counterpoint came from Finn Yarber.
Suppose, he said, someone on Lake’s staff had access to his stationery? Not a bad question, and one they’d kicked around for an hour. Wouldn’t Al Konyers do such a thing in order to hide himself? What if he lived in the D.C. area and worked for Lake? Suppose Lake, a very busy man, trusted this assistant to write personal notes for him. Yarber couldn’t remember allowing an assistant such authority back when he was Chief Justice. Beech had never let anyone write his personal notes. Spicer had never fooled with such nonsense. That’s what phones were for.
But Yarber and Beech had never known the stress and fury of anything remotely similar to a presidential campaign. They’d been busy men in their times, they reflected with sadness, but nothing like Lake.
Say it was an assistant to Lake. So far he had a perfect cover because he’d told them almost nothing. No photo. Only the vaguest details about career and family. He liked old movies and Chinese food, and that was about all they’d extracted. Konyers was on their list of pen pals to soon dispose of because he was too timid. Why, then, would he call off the relationship at this moment?
John Grisham Page 21
