by Stuart Woods
MARTIN STANTON WAS alone in his Scottsdale, Arizona, hotel suite, dressing for a campaign appearance, when his secret cell phone began ringing. He walked to his briefcase, hesitated, then picked it up. “Yes?”
“So Marty,” Barbara Ortega said, “how are things in Scottsdale? Getting hot out there?”
“It’s comfortably warm,” Stanton said warily.
“Well, it’s going to get a lot hotter,” Barbara said.
“What are you talking about?” Stanton asked.
“I thought I’d join you on the campaign trail.”
“Barbara . . .” Then he realized he had used her name and she had used his. “Baby, you’ve got to relax and get a grip.”
“I’ve got a grip, sweetheart, and I’m packing it as we speak.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, baby.”
“Oh, I don’t want to do anything foolish, I just want to do something , like tear her face off.”
“Baby, you’re not thinking clearly.”
“Sweetheart, I’m thinking more clearly than I have in my entire life, and I’m going to go on thinking clearly. Do you realize what I can do to you?”
Stanton began to sweat, and he fought to control his temper. “Baby, I’m going to say something to you, and I want you to think about it very, very carefully after I hang up.”
“Go ahead.”
“We both have a lot to lose.” He took a breath and broke the connection, then he went to his luggage, found a shoe with a shoe tree in it, took it and the phone into the bathroom, placed the phone on a marble countertop and began banging on the instrument with the shoe, smashing it into little pieces. He swept up the pieces in his hand, dropped them into the toilet, and flushed.
Then he went to his toiletry kit, found a Valium, and washed it down. By the time he was dressed he was calm again.
60
WILL LEE WAS WORKING AT HIS DESK ON AIR FORCE ONE WHEN HIS POLITICAL consultant, Tom Black, knocked and entered.
“What’s up, Tom?”
“There’s news,” Tom replied, “good and bad.”
“Sit down and start with the good news,” Will said.
Tom sat down. “The Reverend Henry King Johnson just spoke to a crowd in Amelia Island, Florida, and announced that he was no longer a candidate for the presidency.”
Will stared blankly at Tom. “How come?”
“His stated reason was that he wanted to devote himself full-time to the completion of his new church project in Atlanta.”
“I thought his whole reason for running was fund-raising for that project.”
“That’s our supposition,” Tom replied.
“Then why stop now?”
“Frankly, I don’t know.”
“It bothers me that you don’t know, Tom.”
“It bothers me, too, but I just don’t know.”
“Well, that is certainly good news,” Will said.
“Moss has already started on a poll to see how this will affect the race.”
“I’ll look forward to the results. Now give me the bad news.”
“One of my people, who’s traveling with Marty Stanton, was taken aside this morning by a character, improbably named Jimmy Pix, and told that there’s going to be a major exposé of Marty.”
“Exposé of what?”
“Three things: One, that Marty is having an affair with Barbara Ortega. Two, that Marty is having an affair with Elizabeth Wharton. And three, that Marty’s wife, Betty, who was thought to be on the verge of a settlement in their divorce, has hired both a forensic accountant and a publicist.”
Will frowned. “All three of those at the same time?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And where is this exposé being exposed?”
“I’m not sure, but this Jimmy Pix guy works as a stringer, both reporter and photographer, for anybody who’ll put a buck in his pocket, and that includes the supermarket tabloids.”
“I see,” Will said.
Tom sat silently.
“And do you have a proposal for dealing with any or all of these calamities, Tom?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s unusual for you, Tom.”
“I know. The situation is a little overwhelming, I guess.”
“I’ve never known you to be overwhelmed, Tom.”
“Well, the election is the day after tomorrow, and I’m tired, and I’m thinking about getting out of this business as soon as we’re done.”
“What were you thinking about doing, Tom?”
“I don’t know: chicken farming, llama breeding, something pastoral.”
“Tom, you’re the best there is at this business and one of the few honest men in it. It’s what you were meant to do.”
“That’s what I thought until the past few days, but . . . ”
“Tom, don’t make any decisions. Just get us through Tuesday, then take a long vacation very far away, and leave your BlackBerry at home.”
“That’s good advice, sir,” Tom said. “If I could parachute out of this airplane and start now, I’d be happy.”
“Let me give you something to do, instead,” Will said.
“I’d be grateful for some orders.”
“Find someone who’s very close to Governor Mike Rivera, in Sacramento, ask him to have Mike call somebody who’s very, very close to Betty Stanton and have that person go see Betty and persuade her that it’s time to wrap up her settlement talks and sign the papers. Have that person make Betty aware that her decision will be for the good of the country, and let that person know not to leave her presence until she has done so.”
“Can we offer her the post of ambassador to the Court of St. James’s?” Tom asked.
“I think she might need something quieter and more soothing, like the Bahamas.”
“Yes, sir.” Tom got to his feet and started out.
“And Tom, on your way out, will you please tell Cora to get me Barbara Ortega at Justice?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And get back to me soonest on the Betty Stanton situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Will sat and worked for the half a minute it took the phone to buzz. He picked it up.
“Barbara Ortega on the line, Mr. President,” Cora said.
Will took a deep breath. “Hello, Barbara.”
“Mr. President,” she said guardedly.
“Barbara, I’m sorry to have taken so long to call you, but I heard about your appointment at Justice, and I just wanted to congratulate you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I know you’ll do a wonderful job there, and I look forward to hearing about your successes—and I’m sure there will be many—during the next four years.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. President.”
“You know, Barbara, in spite of our best efforts, we aren’t always able to attract the very best people to government work, even in jobs as important as the one you now hold, jobs that make it possible for someone to actually make a difference in this country. That’s why I’m so pleased that we were able to appoint you. Everything I know about your background, your work experience, and your work ethic tells me that we can expect great things from you.
“After this next term you’re going to be able to write your own ticket: a partnership in a major law firm or, even better, I think you’d make a fine choice for attorney general for the next Democratic president.”
“Well, I’m overwhelmed, Mr. President, and I’m very grateful for your confidence.”
“I hear you’ve bought a beautiful house in Georgetown.”
“Yes, that’s true. I think I’ll be very happy there.”
“I’m sure you will. And I want you to know that we’re very happy to have you aboard.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And now, I’d better get back to work and make sure you’ll still have a Democratic president to work for after Tuesday’s election. Good-bye, now.”
“Good
-bye, Mr. President.”
Will hung up, then buzzed Cora again.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Tell Kitty Conroy to come and see me,” he said.
Kitty appeared in seconds, and Will told her to sit down.
“Kitty, I’m sure you’ve already heard about the situation with Marty Stanton, his two girlfriends, and his soon-to-be-former wife.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“I want you to pick a columnist, preferably somebody from The Washington Post or The New York Times, and tell him the whole story, off the record, of course.”
Kitty blinked. “What?”
“I’d like to read that column in tomorrow morning’s paper or, better yet, tonight on the paper’s website.”
“Mr. President . . . ”
“That’ll be all, Kitty.” He turned his attention to his paperwork until she had left the office.
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, as Air Force One was approaching Los Angeles for landing, Tom Black knocked on Will’s door.
“Come in, Tom.”
“Just an update, Mr. President,” Tom said. “Judge Alvin Friedman, in Sacramento, has received the signed settlement agreement from Betty Stanton, and, as a favor to . . . somebody or other, he immediately signed the divorce decree.”
“That’s good news, Tom, and good work,” Will replied. “Where is Marty Stanton at the moment?”
“In New York, sir. He has an important speech tonight at the Cooper Union.”
“Thank you, Tom.”
“Also, I’m told that Dick Thompson, of the Post has filed a column for tomorrow’s paper revealing the vice president’s, ah, difficulties. It’ll be on their website by nine tonight, when the vice president will be speaking. When he leaves the hall, the press will be all over him.”
“Thank you, Tom,” Will said. “See you on the ground.”
Tom left, and Will picked up the phone.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Cora, please get me the vice president.”
Thirty seconds later, the phone buzzed, and Will picked it up.
“The vice president for you, sir.”
“Marty?”
“Yes, Will.”
“How are you?”
“Ready to wrap this thing up.”
“Have you heard from Betty’s lawyers yet?”
“No, and I’m afraid she’s going to be difficult.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Marty. In fact, I’m glad to be the first to tell you, you are officially a divorced man. The judge signed the decree a few minutes ago.”
“Are you sure, Will?”
“Absolutely sure, Marty. Also, I wanted to let you know that I have reason to believe that Barbara Ortega is not going to be a problem for you anymore.”
“Well . . . I’m certainly glad to hear that, but how . . .”
“Don’t ask, Marty. Now, may I give you some personal advice?”
“Of course, Will.”
“I think you’ve been single for too long. I think you should get married.”
“What?”
“Or at the very least, engaged. I’m told that the jewelry stores in New York are very good and that they will actually deliver a selection of rings at the request of an important customer.”
“Oh?”
“Certainly. Now make an honest woman of that lovely girl. And, by the way, I think it would be a very good idea if you made the public announcement at the earliest possible moment, no later than six o’clock, say. I’m a romantic, Marty. I’d like to see this on the evening network news shows.”
“That soon?”
“I have it on good authority that Dick Thompson, at The Washington Post, is going to run a column about you, Barbara, Elizabeth, and Betty tomorrow morning. I think it would be nice if everything it says has already been negated.”
“I think that’s a very good idea, Mr. President, and although I’m a bit befuddled, I thank you for it.”
“Let me be the first to congratulate you, Marty, and please extend my wishes for her every happiness to Elizabeth.” Will hung up, got into his jacket, and walked forward in the big airplane, ready to greet the crowds in Los Angeles.
61
NELSON PICKETT WAS SNUGGLED UP TO HIS NEWEST BOYFRIEND IN BED, WATCHING an interesting video that featured two other boyfriends, when his bedside phone rang. Busy as he was, he ignored it, until he heard the voice on the answering machine.
“Goddammit, Nelson, pick up the phone!” Willie Gaynes shouted.
Pickett immediately stopped what he was doing and grabbed for the phone. “Yes, Willie?” he panted.
“Have you seen the website of The Washington Post?”
“No, Willie, it’s not part of my regular reading.”
“Well, if you’ll get off your ass and get onto your computer, you can read tomorrow’s big fucking front-page story. Your story!”
“I don’t understand,” Pickett said.
“The Post has scooped you! Do you know how much I hate being scooped by a straight newspaper?”
“That doesn’t seem possible, Willie.”
“Not only is it possible, it’s a fucking fact! I’m at the office, ripping out our front page and trying to find something to replace your story!”
Pickett’s heart sank. “Do you want me to come down there, Willie?”
“No, don’t you come down here, not ever again. You’re fired!”
The noise of the phone slamming down caused Pickett’s ear to ring.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” his friend asked.
“I’ve just been fired,” Pickett said in a hollow voice.
“Really?”
“Really.”
His friend looked at the bedside clock. “Oh my God, I’ve got to get out of here!” he said, leaping out of bed and grabbing his clothes.
“I could use a little consoling,” Pickett said.
“Sorry, baby, I forgot about another appointment.”
Then he was gone, and Nelson Pickett was left alone to contemplate his job prospects.
62
WILL STOOD ON THE PODIUM, LETTING WAVES OF APPLAUSE AND WHISTLES WASH over him. It had been his best speech of the campaign, he knew, and those who did not see it on live television would be bombarded with half a dozen carefully constructed sound bites the following day, the last before the election.
He shook hands on the podium and in the green room for half an hour, then was whisked back to the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Bel-Air. As he walked into the suite he saw Kitty Conroy standing, holding a telephone. Half his campaign staff was assembled in the room.
“It’s Kate,” Kitty said. “I mean, the director of Central Intelligence.”
Will took the phone from her. “Yes?”
“Mr. President,” Kate said, “one of our Navy SEAL teams now in Pakistan has apparently located the warhead.”
“Is it secure?”
“No. A team of eight is on the ground in a village hardly big enough for that name. Apparently, there are more goats than people, but we know it’s a hotbed of Taliban and Al Qaeda activity. They estimate fifty men in the village. We have a live feed from the team right now. A Lieutenant Parsons is the leader, code name Striker.”
Will pressed the speaker button on the phone and hung up the receiver, motioning everybody to sit down and listen. The voices were low, but intense.
“This is Striker. I’m twelve yards from the house, and my readings have doubled. This is definitely ground zero. There’s a window, and we’re going to approach.” There was the sound of feet on gravel, running.
“Striker, this is Hitman. Do you require support?”
“Negative, Hitman. We’re planting the charge now. Start for base camp, we’ll catch up. Hang on, a vehicle is approaching the house.”
“I see it, Striker. It appears to be a large flatbed truck, covered with a tarp.”
“They’re going to move it,” Striker replied.
“The tarp is off. T
here is what appears to be a missile on the bed, but there is no warhead.”
“Hitman, start your stopwatch on my mark—detonation in three minutes. Fire a Hellfire at the vehicle five seconds early.”
“Roger, Striker.”
“Three, two, one, mark.” Again, the sound of running feet.
“Kate,” Will said.
“I’m here.”
“What kind of charge is he planting?”
“C-four.”
“And a Hellfire missile to be fired at the truck?”
“Correct. It’s shoulder-mounted.”
“Is the combination of the two explosions going to endanger the team?”
“They have three minutes to put ground between them and the village, and there is available rocky cover. They’ll be all right if the warhead doesn’t detonate.”
“Are you telling me that one or both of those explosions might detonate the warhead?”
“We don’t know for sure. I’m told that the people holding the warhead may have modified it. The standard warhead is set for airburst. If they’ve altered it for a contact burst, then the force of the explosion could set it off.”
“And we have no information on whether they’ve done so?”
“None.”
“I would have liked to have had the opportunity to consider that possibility,” Will said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but we’ve been listening to this mission for less than four minutes, and, in any case, we have no direct contact with the team leader. We’re listening on a one-way relay, and in order to contact them, we would have to call the base in Afghanistan, they would call a chopper, and the chopper would contact the team.”
Will heard somebody at Kate’s end say, “Ninety seconds.” He stood and listened, straining for any sound. All he could hear was heavy breathing and running footsteps.
“Keep going, Striker,” a voice said into the radio. “I’ll be right behind you after I fire the missile.”
“Roger, Hitman,” the panting Striker responded, and the footsteps continued.
Will looked around the room. Everybody was staring at the telephone, rapt.
