The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER his own reception had begun, Christy remained huddled in his suite, strategizing with Dan Hansen. "So you think he's naming Blair," Christy said in a ruminative tone. "Ever see Leave It to Beaver, Dan? Boy sort of reminds me of Eddie Haskell, 'cept he makes being obsequious look like a brand-new suit."

  "If it's true," Hansen answered. "That makes Grace our only hope."

  Christy shook his head. "I can't abide Marotta, and I like Grace. But it's near impossible to imagine a scenario where Corey would turn to me, or I could accept."

  "Then you'll wind up supporting Marotta. No gain in being a dead-ender."

  Christy gave his manager a look of sheer disgust. "The man framed me. Vice president's the only thing he could give me that's big enough to provoke forgiveness.

  "Making Marotta president in exchange for nothing would weigh on my conscience. Worse," Christy added, "he means to steal Christian conservatives out from under me--use them for his own cynical ends, and those of men like Price and Rohr. Politics makes it hard to separate God's purposes from my own, but I'm pretty sure that's not what the Almighty has in mind."

  "So," Hansen proposed, "why not give Him a day or two to reveal His purpose? Maybe He'll help Grace to see the light."

  Christy gave Hansen a skeptical look. "Short of vice president, Corey would have to give me something that cements my position for all the world to see. Not just some vague promise--I mean a public change of heart on an issue we deem essential. Doesn't sound like Grace to me."

  Hansen shrugged. "He hates Marotta. He wants to be president. Seems like Blair's betrayed him. Things like that can work on a man--think he wants to say 'President Marotta'?"

  "No," Christy said softly. "It would feel like a tapeworm in his very soul."

  Hansen stood. "So let's go downstairs, Bob. Senator Grace is coming to pay tribute. Nice if you were there to accept it."

  THE CHRISTY RECEPTION had a distinct flavor. Though its location, a hotel ballroom, was generic, the entertainment was a Christian heavy-metal group shouting dissonant praise to Jesus Christ, and the attendees, whose responses to the music ranged from ecstatic to bewildered, had a common look of determined goodwill that seemed to transcend politics. "Don't know why they all seem so damned transported," Dakin Ford groused to Corey. "Not a drop of liquor in sight."

  "They're high on life," Corey answered, and made his way with Ford through Christy's friends and delegates.

  Seeing him, one person after another smiled or shook hands, often with a murmured blessing or friendly word of greeting. He was not one of them, their manner said, but he had treated their leader with respect, and it was ingrained in them that no man was beyond redemption. So Corey took his time, smiling, exchanging pleasantries, making small connections. To his surprise, a round, middle-aged woman kissed him on the cheek. "Lord," she said, "you really are a cute one."

  Corey laughed. "It's not too late for us," he said, and continued his progress through the delegates.

  When Christy saw him, he opened his arms, causing those around him to clear a space for Corey. Amid the buzz of voices, Christy embraced Corey like a sinner redeemed. Beaming, Christy told him, "Guess you didn't come here for a drink."

  Corey hooked a thumb toward Ford. "Only Dakin did. How are you, Bob?"

  "Glad to see you." He took Corey's arm. "Let's say a few words to my folks."

  The two men climbed up on a stage, the band silenced by a wave of Christy's hand. Claiming the microphone, Christy announced, "I'd like you all to meet a special guest. A man who may be my rival but is surely my friend: Senator Corey Grace."

  Christy's genuine pleasure seemed to permeate the crowd: faces uplifted, they accorded Corey sustained applause. Only as it dwindled did Christy continue, his voice now solemn: "When I was at my lowest point--my honor questioned, our campaign beset--Corey Grace spoke out for me. And I saw that for all our differences, we both believe that God means for politics to ennoble us, not debase us.

  "I have great hopes for Senator Grace. Among them is that God will dedicate Corey to His purposes for the betterment of us all." Grinning at this veiled challenge, Christy thrust the microphone at Corey.

  For an instant, Corey was gripped by the antic impulse to announce that he had rejected cloning, fired his last gay staffer, adopted celibacy, and embraced Jesus as his personal shopper. "Thank you, Reverend," he said with a smile. "Other than the Almighty, you're the toughest act any politician ever had to follow."

  This somewhat risky joke induced a chuckle of goodwill. Corey gazed out at the audience, his expression serious. "Respect isn't given, it's earned. Bob earned mine one night in South Carolina, when he spoke kindly about someone I love very much--rejecting hatred based on race--and then defended me against charges that, in their own way, were as ugly as those made against him.

  "For that, I will never forget Bob Christy."

  Pausing, Corey thought of the other moment he would never forget--his brother listening to Christy's denunciation of the person Clay surely feared he was. "It's true we have our differences. Perhaps, over time, they will lessen. But we share the belief that brought all of you into politics: that for our children's sake, and faced with such perilous times, we must leave this country better than we found it. And," Corey added in an incisive tone, "that noble end cannot be advanced through sordid means."

  At this--clearly a gibe at Rob Marotta--Christy's delegates burst into applause. "So I'm proud to be with you," Corey concluded. "Let us all hope, and pray, that we can leave this convention with something more to be proud of."

  Amid rising applause, Christy leaned closer to him. "Nicely done," Christy said, one professional to another. To one side, he saw Ford grin, knowing, as Corey intended, that he had made embracing Marotta that much harder for Christy.

  "Let's check out that TV," Christy said, pointing to a television in one corner of the room. "Looks like Marotta's dangerously close to a microphone."

  WATCHING THE ANNOUNCEMENT, Corey judged Marotta's mood as somewhere between triumphant and anxious: he spoke each word of praise carefully, as though gauging their power to persuade. "My selection," he said, "is a man of family and faith, energy and vision, experience and idealism: Governor Charles Blair of Illinois."

  Turning, Marotta embraced Blair as he stepped into the picture. Arms folded, Christy said to Ford and Corey, "They look like a couple of slick bond salesmen."

  To Corey, they looked better than that. But he understood Christy's meaning: Marotta's sincerity seemed overdone, and Blair had a face on which character remained to be written. "I make this choice," Marotta continued, "with total confidence in Governor Blair's fitness, if need be, to assume the office of president."

  "That's pushing it a little," Ford opined. "First Blair's gotta rise to Dan Quayle."

  "And I challenge Senator Grace," Marotta said firmly, "to do what I have done--tell America who he wants to place one heartbeat from the Oval Office." As Christy glanced toward Corey, Marotta's tone grew sterner. "Should Senator Grace refuse, tomorrow night I will ask the convention to require him to name his running mate."

  "Shit," Ford murmured. "Magnus sure knows how to spoil a party."

  It was time for Corey to leave.

  COREY AND FORD entered Hollis Spencer's suite and found Spencer and Dana Harrison watching Rohr News. Glancing up, Spencer reported, "They're calling it a masterstroke. Even CNN sounded kind of impressed."

  Corey shrugged. "What are we calling it, Hollis?"

  "'A transparent maneuver.'" Looking down at his legal pad, he read,

  "'This decision is too important to become another move in Senator Marotta's game of political chess. Senator Grace will make his selection based on the national interest.'"

  "Good to know," Corey said. "In other words, we're not biting."

  "Can't." As Corey and Ford sat, Spencer continued: "Magnus is setting up this roll-call vote as a test of strength. If the convention votes to force us to pick our VP, it means Marotta's got
more delegates than we do--a signal to undecideds to hop on board. Forcing us to commit ourselves is just icing on the cake.

  "We've gone over why you won't pick Costas, and can't pick Larkin or Christy."

  "Why is that?" Ford asked. "They fail Blair's standard of greatness?"

  "And mine," Spencer said crisply. "They don't put us over the top." To Corey he said, "I called your senatorial pal from Illinois, Drew Tully. To quote Drew, 'That little shit didn't say a fucking word to me. Marotta would get his ass kicked in Illinois, and I'll be damned if he's taking me with him.'"

  Corey laughed. "Guess Blair fails Tully's standard of greatness."

  "Yup. He's ready to start a rebellion in the Illinois delegation. That may slow down the stampede Magnus has in mind." Spencer's voice became more intense. "We'll do our damnedest to persuade Costas and Larkin that it's in their interest not to push you. But if we lose that vote, we're going to need a nominee."

  The room fell silent. "Hate to say this," Dana Harrison ventured. "Maybe you need a southern conservative. But who?"

  "Ben Carter," Ford proposed. "He's for Marotta, true. But a governor of Florida could help you in November. Plus, he's an evangelical without being absolutely rabid."

  "He's another Blair," Corey objected. "Not enough gravitas to keep his loafers on the ground. We're talking about a potential president, remember?"

  "So who?"

  Corey pulled out his cell phone. "Got just the man, right here on speed-dial."

  Hollis Spencer smiled a little, as though guessing where Corey was headed. "Billy Graham?" Ford asked.

  "Nope. See if this profile sounds a little more presidential. Deeply religious. First one in his family to graduate from college. Two combat medals in Vietnam. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Secretary of State." Corey paused. "Oh, and he's black."

  For once, Ford's look of astonishment was genuine. "Cortland Lane?"

  Corey smiled. "Sort of puts Blair in perspective, doesn't he?"

  4

  AT SIX A.M. MONDAY MORNING, COREY MET WITH CORTLAND LANE IN his suite.

  "Sorry for the hour," Corey said. "The name of the game is 'Beat the Press.'"

  With a philosophical smile, Lane shrugged his broad shoulders. Even this gesture carried a sense of power; at sixty-five, Lane remained a fit, commanding presence, and though his face was placid and imperturbable his eyes retained the keenness of a military man on alert. "I understand completely," Lane answered. "Any public disclosure of an offer--or potential offer--has consequences."

  "What about 'provisional offer,'" Corey said baldly. "I'm doing my best to avoid getting cornered. But the convention may force me to decide tonight. I need to know if you're among my options."

  Lane's eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Until Sally died, I wasn't. She was certain I'd be shot."

  The weight of this made Corey briefly quiet. "I know," he answered. "I'm sorry I missed the service for her, Cortland."

  Lane shook his head in demurral. "You were running for president. The challenges we face are far too serious for us to get that wrong."

  "And so?"

  Lane looked curious. "Don't you have enough obstacles to overcome without adding the one I'd bring you? The reason Sally feared my running for president is the same reason you wanted Secret Service protection for Lexie. Race."

  Corey poured himself more coffee, considering his answer. "I can't ask you to put your life at risk. But the political risk is my concern.

  "I want to choose someone fit to be president. You know your own qualities. So does the country. Can you tell me Charles Blair's your equal?"

  Lane smiled a little. "If I could, I wouldn't have considered running for president myself. Deciding not to hurt some." His tone became somber. "Sally knew that. Just before she died, she told me, 'Now you can run.' As though by dying she was doing me a favor."

  Corey could feel his mentor's quiet anguish. But there was nothing he could do to ease it. "Well," Lane said softly. "It's done."

  "And so here we are," Corey responded. "There's a lot for you to weigh, I know. But if you had the chance to transform this country, would you?"

  Standing, Lane nodded. "When I considered running, I thought perhaps I could. But I don't know that the vice presidency presents that opportunity."

  "Even Vice President Lane?" Corey smiled. "I grant you that, as president, I might lack your transformative powers. But Marotta and I are the only game in town. Suppose that you're the difference in determining who wins."

  To Corey's surprise, Lane chuckled. "That's a tough one, Captain. Had it been up to me, you wouldn't have made it to general in a million years. Too much of a hotshot." As though seeing the shadow of Joe Fitts cross Corey's face, Lane added quietly, "A lot's happened since then--to you, and to the country. I've known the last four presidents, and I know the qualities of heart and mind a president requires. That's why I'm here."

  Even now, Corey realized, Lane's respect mattered more to him than any other man's. "And I'm grateful."

  "Then let's talk about what you require. Seems like all the pundits think you need a southern Christian conservative."

  Corey shrugged. "I'm a whole lot more concerned with picking someone who could deal with problems like Al Qaeda and the Middle East--the things you and I agree about. So in my mind, I just need a Christian. I guess we should talk about what--in terms of politics--being Christian means to you."

  "The first rule is simple enough," Lane answered promptly. "Never confuse the two. Religion is a quest for spiritual betterment, not a ticket to political certainty." Lane's tone became wry. "Remember when Christy wanted to put the Ten Commandments in every public building in America? Wonder how he'd feel if somebody tried that with the Five Pillars of Islam.

  "Faith is supposed to be redemptive, not coercive. That's what Christy misses. The Jesus I venerate taught humility and compassion." Lane sat back, coffee cup cradled in his hands. "As far as I'm concerned, all Americans should have equal rights and liabilities."

  Corey covered his face in not-entirely-mock dismay. "You're for gay marriage?"

  A smile touched the corners of Lane's mouth. "Given all we face, I don't much care about it. Here's the best solution I can give you: civil unions for any couple who wants one, gay or straight. Then let each religion define 'marriage' as it will.

  "Separation of church and state means exactly that. If the Catholic Church wants to confine its marriage ceremonies to men and women, the state has no business interfering. Same with Christy's megachurch." Lane gave a fatalistic shrug. "Problem is, Christy wants to enshrine his distaste for gays in the Constitution. It's as misconceived as Prohibition and, in the end, as pointless. But I expect Christy's about to ratchet up the pressure. I don't see any way he can support you unless you cave."

  The shrewd remark revealed that Lane was assessing the political dynamics more closely than Corey knew. "So," Corey asked, "what would you do?"

  His expression grave, Lane put down his coffee cup. "That's a hard one. The stakes you and I worry most about--a new wave of terrorism, nuclear proliferation, oil dependence, military preparedness, and all the fissures of wealth, health, education, and religion--may well determine our future. You have the courage to deal with them; Marotta doesn't. And here we are talking about gay marriage."

  "Because," Corey interjected bitterly, "that's what Marotta and Christy want to talk about. The difference is that Christy believes it."

  Lane shrugged. "Given enough time, Christy will fade away. Remember what I said when Christy blamed 9/11 on gays, abortionists, and the ACLU?"

  "Sure. That you blamed radical Islamists who fly airplanes into buildings."

  "A lot of conservative Christians agreed, including younger evangelicals whose agenda--in matters like poverty, global warming, and AIDS in Africa--is much broader than Bob Christy's. For many of them, and for me, Christian values include respect for life, regard for diversity, and freedom to worship God as one sees fit. Bin Laden values none of
these things. We need a president who knows the difference.

  "You do. So what should you do about gay marriage?" Lane leaned forward, speaking intently. "Centuries ago, when Prince Henry of France converted to Catholicism in order to become king, he said, 'Paris is worth a mass.' Perhaps the principle still applies. It all depends on how you weigh kissing off the nomination--should it come to that--against your distaste for becoming a temporary homophobe."

  Corey felt a stab of guilt. "I know what the answer should be. But sometimes giving it feels like a small death."

  "Not such a small one," Lane said quietly. "Christy still doesn't know about your brother, does he?"

  "No. Let alone about Clay's reaction to hearing, from Christy's own lips, that his gay English teacher deserved to die."

  Lane watched his face. "Clay's not here to forgive you, or condemn you. It's for you to weigh how far your obligation to a dead brother goes. This much I know: were Clay alive, he'd fare no better under President Marotta."

  Gazing at Lane, Corey saw the cool expression of a recording angel, free of malice or mercy--the look of a man whose decisions had required the death of others and knew that some choices must be made without sentiment. "You have a decision, too," Corey answered. "And yours won't keep."

  Lane laughed sharply. "Spoken like a president." His face turned serious. "If you pass me by, I'll feel no rancor. But there's too much at stake for me to shrink from this. If you ask me to run with you, I'll accept."

  Corey exhaled, relief and gratitude coursing through him. "Thank you, Cortland. If it comes to that, I'd be a better president with you beside me."

  Lane shook his head in wonder. "That day at the White House, who'd have imagined this day?"

  "That's easy. Neither of us."

  Lane's eyelids lowered, as though he were pondering the improbabilities of life. "I do have another question, if you'd care to answer. What's happening with you and Lexie Hart?"

  "This." Corey found that their conversation had, with respect to Lexie, only deepened his regrets. "An hour ago, I said I couldn't ask you to risk your life. Running for president means that there's pain, even danger I can't ask her to live with. If you love someone, I've learned, you care about more than what you need from them."