All right. So much for where he was. Now, why was he here? Okay, he was here because nobody would think of looking for him in such an insanely dangerous place, but why was anybody hiding him?
He had a terrible time with that one until he remembered what brought him to the middle of these amber waves of grain in the first place. He’d been tailing Gus Pickett. He’d followed Gus Pickett, and found Senator Henry Van Horn. And his son. The Van Horns had seen him and, despite his fondest hopes, recognized him from the party they’d thrown.
The Van Horns hadn’t wanted it known that they were meeting with Gus Pickett on the eve of what looked to be the decisive primary. Why? Senator Van Horn was known to be a friend of Pickett’s. What did they have to hide?
The very fact that they were meeting on the eve of the primary. This close to the Big Endorsement, a meeting with the famed billionaire might lead to questions. Of course, the Senator had sloughed off bigger questions than “Why were you playing farmhand?” and gotten away with it.
So it could be that the reason behind it all was very big; so big they didn’t want to risk any questions being asked.
What could be that big?
Borzov in the country, right, fool? Man, you in worse shape than I thought.
Right, right, Albright said. God, his head hurt. He wondered who that voice was. He decided it was himself from his blacker-than-thou period as a teenager, the time when he was going to be so tough and smart and cool that the world would just roll over and play dead for him. Joe wished the little snot would go away.
Still, he had a point. Borzov was in the country. Gus Pickett had for years been suspected of fronting for Moscow. And now here was Senator Van Horn sneaking away in a half-assed disguise to meet with Pickett.
Maybe the Senator was selling his endorsement, and therefore, a good shot at the White House.
Joe felt a chill that wasn’t caused by the state of his skull. Trotter had said the KGB man was pulling some kind of stunt with the election.
But the Van Horns? The family of millionaires and war heroes and astronauts? What could the Senator be selling out for? The Van Horns had more money than God, and they had more power than anybody sane could possibly want. Senator Hank had very likely gotten away with murder, for God’s sake, what more could Russians give him?
They could refrain from playing a tape one of the dead audio men had made. Just as Trotter had speculated.
So much for that for a while. Try another question.
Like what? the snot wanted to know.
Like why am I still alive? Joe responded silently.
All right, they didn’t want me talking about their meeting to whomever I might work for, or to the press. Fine. They went upside my head to keep that from happening. They damn near killed me as it was; one more shot would have done it. Why didn’t that blow fall?
Because, fool, they want to find out what you and your friends know already. And they aimin’ to find out.
Joe didn’t like the snot he had once been, but he had to admit the kid was shrewd. It looked as if there was a lot more unpleasantness ahead.
A big shaft of daylight spilled into the haze of the flour dust as a door slid open about ten feet from Joe. The space was filled by two big men who might have been twins. Both were blond. Both squinted against the dust. Neither smiled.
In a surprisingly gentle voice, one of them said, “Stupid sons of bitches.”
The other said, “Come on, now, Ed, what did they know?”
“They might never have known anything, the jerks,” Ed said. “Look at him. They threw him in here with hard shoes on, with his belt with a metal buckle. All it takes is one damn spark.”
Joe wished he could scramble to his feet and dash past the two men to freedom. He wished he could at least show some kind of fight before they got to him. He couldn’t. There was only one thing he could do. He rolled over on his belly and started rubbing his belt buckle against the hard, cold floor.
It might have only taken one spark, but the spark didn’t come. Four strong hands lifted Joe from the floor as though he were a toy.
Chapter Six
THE SENATOR’S PRESS CONFERENCE was set For nine o’clock Central time, early enough for the West Coast feeds of the networks’ news, but more importantly, in plenty of time to be the front page of all of tomorrow’s morning papers. Saturday was usually a slow news day. And the Senator would be available to fly back to Washington in time to do at least one of the Sunday public affairs shows.
Ainley Masters had taken the lead in setting this all up, something Senator Van Horn’s press secretary didn’t appreciate. But while the press secretary, an aging True Believer who’d been a small-town editor back in the home state, wasn’t too bright, he was clever enough to have caught on long ago to the fact that when it came to Van Horn interests, there was no territory forbidden to Ainley Masters.
That, at least, was the way it used to be. Ainley wasn’t so sure it still applied. He had the feeling he was being frozen out, not just by the Senator now, but by Mark. Ainley hadn’t planned on coming on this rustic jaunt at all until Mark announced his determination to follow his father. Since the kidnapping, Ainley had been loath to let the boy out of his sight. So he came.
He might just as well have stayed in Washington. Since their plane had landed, Ainley had not gotten so much as a hello from either his present or future employer. The only reason he had busied himself at all with the arrangements for Hank’s press conference was to have a report to bring them, to have some excuse to lay eyes on them.
A couple of security men lounged casually outside the door of the Van Horn suite. Ainley had arranged for that, too. He wanted to have the Senator and his son (especially his son) attended by full-time bodyguards, but they were having none of it. Reports Ainley had been getting, telling of long, secret trips by the two Van Horns, did nothing to add to his feeling of security.
It was as if being kidnapped, and seeing a young woman murdered in front of his eyes, had had no effect on Mark whatever. Perhaps, God forbid, Mark was more his father’s son than Ainley had imagined.
Ainley had taken to carrying a gun himself, a .25 caliber automatic. A little popgun, really, all but worthless for anything other than fighting off a face-to-face attack, but at least it was something. He was no hero, but he wasn’t a fool, either. He’d taken lessons. If he needed to use the gun, he could. And would, if it meant protecting his own life or that of a Van Horn.
Ainley nodded to one of the security men, who nodded back and told him the Senator and his son had been in their rooms for the last hour and a half or so. Ainley decided to be grateful for small favors. He knocked on the door.
Mark Van Horn said, “Ainley! Come on in.”
Ainley looked at him and rolled his eyes. Mark was wrapped in a towel.
Mark grinned. “Caught me again. Dad’s in the shower now. Wait a minute while I get dressed.”
It wasn’t much more than a minute. Mark came back wearing blue jeans and a rugby shirt open at the neck. He looked much younger than his years; he really was a handsome young man.
“I’m glad,” Ainley said with some asperity, “that you weren’t both showering, or I might not have gotten in at all.”
Mark grinned. “We have been kind of busy,” he said.
“There was a time when I was trusted to know the Van Horns’ business,” Ainley said.
Mark was suddenly serious. He came to Ainley, clapped a hand to the older man’s shoulder, and left it there. Ainley could feel the weight of it. He could almost imagine he felt its warmth through suit and vest and shirt and underwear. He did not speak.
Mark looked deeply into Alley’s eyes. “Ainley, please, don’t worry about this. I know what’s bothering you, and I don’t blame you. It’s just that some things are going on—”
“Going on?”
“Well, being discussed. Things that will change the organization of the family. Things that concern me.”
The hand w
as still on his shoulder. Ainley tried to ignore it. “Things that concern me?”
“If they concern me, Ainley, they concern you. I’d no more think of taking on a responsibility without you to shepherd me through it than I would try to shave with a lawn mower.”
Ainley usually had complete control over his emotions, but that was slipping. Right now, he would have been hard-pressed to name what he was feeling.
“It’s very gratifying to hear that,” he said. “But I’d still like to know why I haven’t been a party to any of these ‘discussions’ of ‘things.’”
“Ainley, I swear, I’ll explain later. It’s no reflection on you, I promise. You’ve got to trust me; stand by me.” Mark put his other hand on Amiens other shoulder and squeezed. “I need you, Ainley,” he said.
Ainley felt as if he should make some response, but for the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words.
Just then, the Senator walked in, wearing a royal-blue robe. Mark’s hands fell from Ainley like dead birds. Ainley himself jumped back, as though he’d been caught doing something shameful.
The Senator, as usual, was oblivious. “Ainley,” Hank Van Horn said heartily. “Where the devil have you been keeping yourself?”
Ainley decided to let it pass.
Mark said, “Ainley was just coming to tell you the details of the press conference, Dad.”
“Oh. Good work, Ainley.”
Just then, Mark winked at him. Ainley found it hard to suppress a grin. “Thank you, Senator,” he said. “The conference is set for 9:00 P.M. in the Grand Ballroom on the eleventh floor of this hotel. There will be a brief statement by you, I assume giving your endorsement ...”
The Senator ignored the hint. Ainley went on. “... followed by questions from the press. There will be a buffet and reception afterward, which should put the press in a good mood after the questions.”
“It doesn’t always work,” the Senator said.
Ainley ignored him. “Ordinarily, I would arrange for the endorsee to arrive sometime during the proceedings for photo opportunities—”
“That’s a good idea, Ainley. You should do that.”
“You have not told me, Senator,” Ainley said in a tight voice, “whom you are endorsing.”
The Senator was shocked. “I haven’t?”
Ainley’s voice was very quiet. “No, Senator.”
At which point, the Senator called himself a fool (a pronouncement on the Senator’s part equally remarkable for its rarity and its accuracy) and told Ainley whom he was endorsing. This was followed by an apology so offhanded Ainley suspected it was actually sincere.
“Will you get in touch with his people and ask them to be there?” Mark said.
“I’ll handle it,” Ainley said. He stood up, shook hands all around, and left feeling much better than he had when he arrived.
Chapter Seven
THE SENATOR SAT DOWN and beamed at his son. He had a feeling of happiness he supposed was parental pride. Hank had to admit to himself that that was a feeling he never expected to experience—he hadn’t had that much to do with raising Mark, after all. Still, whatever he’d done, it must have been the right thing. Hank chuckled.
Mark was sitting on the sofa, his legs stretched way out in front of him. He’d been staring at his toenails in apparent fascination, as though they were tiny television screens. Now he lifted his head and looked at his father. “What are you laughing at, Dad?”
“Oh, just a thought I had. This family has had everything but the White House and a motto; I expect you’ll take care of the White House.”
Now Mark smiled. “One way or another, Dad,” he said, “I promise I’ll take care of the White House.”
“Well, I just came up with the motto—Whatever we do, it must be right.”
“I like that,” Mark told him. “Nice double meaning and everything.”
The Senator frowned. He thought hard for a few seconds, then he got it and grinned. “My God, we might actually be able to use it.”
“Well, let’s save it for a while, okay, Dad?”
“Whatever you say, son.” Hank Van Horn had probably said those words a hundred times over the years, but they were empty things, a way to get the kid off his back. “Whatever you say, son,” had really meant “Go bother the housekeeper about it, or your mother, or Ainley, or the driver, or whomever. Don’t bother me.”
This time, for the first time, he meant the words literally. Hank had thought he was smart and tough. Van Horns were raised to be smart and tough. But Mark had them all beat—the dead war hero, the dead astronaut, all of them all the way back to the patriarch. What Mark had done was simply—staggering.
And he had done it all for his father.
Hank had found out about what Mark had been up to shortly after the Russians had returned him. They’d gone back to the Van Horn town house for the first of these little father-son chats.
And Mark had told him. Twelve of them. His son had killed twelve of the bastards without a second thought. Just to get him out from under, which, as Mark had pointed out, the kidnapping and Helen’s murder by the Russians proved it was essential to do.
“They said they’d look out for you, didn’t they?” Mark had demanded. “This proves they won’t care.”
At first, Hank had refused to believe it. But when Mark told him the whole story, beginning with his having cracked the wall safe the Senator had been so careful to have installed, and ending with the death of the last possible wiretapping bastard in Minneapolis, the Senator could do nothing but sit there shaking his head in awe.
He had begun to see why Ainley had always been so gaga over Mark. Hank would ask his son questions, and Mark would deflect him with, “Don’t worry, Dad, it’s all part of a plan I have,” and the Senator wouldn’t even mind. For now, Mark said, all they had to do was to follow whatever instructions Gus Pickett passed along from General Dudakov. The General himself had stayed back in Washington. Apparently he wasn’t feeling too well, and anyway, it might look a little fishy for a Russian general to follow the band to a key primary.
Since all Hank had been doing was following instructions in any case, Mark’s plan was easy to keep to. They had run into a bit of trouble when they’d run into that Albright character, on the way out of the meeting where Gus Pickett had finally told Hank who the hell he was supposed to endorse.
The black man bothered Hank. “I think we ought to finish him, you know,” he said to his son.
“Of course, Dad,” Mark said. “But we’ve got to find out who he’s working for, and what he might have told them.”
“You told me Ed and Jeff don’t think he knows anything.” Ed and Jeff were muscle that worked for Gus Pickett. Mark hadn’t been too impressed with them. He said they got their ideas of how to be smart and tough from reading private-eye novels.
“I’ll find out for sure tonight. After your speech, and the interview with Regina Hudson.”
“Oh, son, I want you with me during the reception.” Hank tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice; he didn’t entirely succeed.
Mark shook his head. “As much as I’d like to, Dad, no. This is your night, yours and the candidate’s.”
“If it’s my night, then I should be able to have my son with me if I want to.”
Mark shook his head again. “No, Dad, the press would see it as my political ‘coming-out’ party, and I’m not ready for that, yet. Plus, we don’t want to upset the General. He’s planned for years and years for you to make just this statement at just this time in such a way that it will make the greatest possible impact. If anything happens to dilute the attention your endorsement is supposed to get, he may be angry. And we’re not ready to defy him, yet.”
Hank scratched his head. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. Should have seen it myself.”
That’s okay, Dad,” Mark said.
“There’s still one thing I don’t understand, though.”
“Yes?” Was that a t
race of impatience in his son’s voice? No, couldn’t be. No man had ever had more convincing proof that his son loved him.
“I still don’t understand how taking care of those twelve ... people is going to help. There’s still a tape, and you-know-who still has it. What’s to stop him from playing it once we do defy him?”
“I told you, Dad, it’s all part of the plan. Nobody who hears that tape will believe it, I promise.”
“Well, okay, but—”
“Dad, if I work this right, the General won’t dare even play the tape.”
And his son smiled so warmly that the Senator could do nothing but believe him.
Chapter Eight
THE WORK HAD LEAKED, as the word always does. An aide brought the news to the candidate at his suite. The aide was controlling his face. The candidate was, too. He put a slight smile on his face, and asked the aide to leave him alone with the news for a while. He’d speak to the whole staff when the news was absolutely official.
The candidate (in lighter moods he liked to think of himself as “The Siberian Candidate,” or “The Muscovian Candidate”) went into his private bedroom and locked the door behind him. He felt more excited than he had since he was a boy, and had first started on this road. He had to cork his mouth with both hands to prevent unseemly squeals of joy from leaping out.
He could see the headlines now—VAN HORN ENDORSES BABINGTON. The press interviews. The photos—the endorser with his arm around the endorsee. Van Horn perhaps kissing Mrs. Babington. Speculation that the Governor might name Senator Van Horn to the second spot on the ticket, or to a senior Cabinet post when, as seemed likely, he was elected in November.
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