by Stuart Woods
“Not at all. Come in.”
They went into the library, where the senior senator from Georgia was having a cup of coffee. “Good morning, Stone,” he said.
Stone took a seat. “Sam, what’s the latest on the delegate count?”
“As best we can tell, Kate has a hundred and eleven, Willingham eighty-nine, and Otero fifty-one,” the senator said.
“Not good,” Stone said.
“Well, I think that’s pretty good,” Meriwether said. “We won’t win on the first ballot, but we probably will on the second. And if it goes to a runoff, we’re a sure thing.”
“And is Otero still Kate’s favorite for the second spot?”
“I believe so. She dislikes and distrusts Willingham.”
“Is there anyone else in the running?”
“Not that I’ve heard discussed in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Sam, I don’t have any hard information to back this up, but I have reason to think there’s a deal for Willingham to throw his delegates to Otero on the first ballot, then take the number two spot on the ticket with Otero.”
Meriwether shook his head. “I don’t think Willingham would join the ticket of someone who’s younger and, in Willingham’s eyes, less qualified than he. He’s got too much ego for that.”
“Then let me ask you this,” Stone said. “If Willingham has a choice between the second spot on the ticket and nothing, which way do you think he would jump?”
Meriwether stared at him but said nothing.
“Oh,” Stone said, “one more thing: Otero told someone I trust a couple of hours ago that he would not accept the second spot on any ticket.”
“Oh, shit,” Meriwether said, half to himself. He picked up a phone. “I’ve got to call Kate. And, Ann, would you see if you can get Dick Collins over here right now?”
“Sure, Sam.” She went to another phone.
—
KATE WAS ALREADY in the room when Governor Collins arrived.
“Kate, Dick,” Meriwether said, “Stone has some information that you should hear.”
Stone told them what he had just told Meriwether.
Kate looked shocked. “I really thought that Otero wanted to run on the ticket with me,” she said.
“Did he ever tell you that?” Collins asked.
“No, but he asked me outright if I was going to choose a running mate before the balloting was done. I told him no, that I wouldn’t trade the slot for delegates.”
“Did he tell you that if you asked him, he wouldn’t accept the slot on the ticket?”
“No, he didn’t. It appears that Pete Otero is more ambitious than I thought.”
“Do you think that Willingham would jump to Otero for the second spot on the ticket?” Collins asked.
“Stone,” Meriwether said, “ask them the question you asked me.”
Stone took a deep breath: “If Willingham were placed in a situation where he had to choose between the vice presidency or nothing, which way do you think he would jump?”
“Oh, shit,” Collins replied.
Meriwether laughed. “Funny, that’s exactly what I said.”
“All right, then,” Dick Collins said. “There are two things you can do, Kate.”
“What are they?”
“The first is to call Willingham now and offer him the second spot on the ticket in return for his ballots.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“Well, if you don’t want to offer it to him, you have to get enough of the undecided California delegates to go with you on the first ballot.”
“How many do we have now?” Kate asked.
“Fifteen.”
“And how many more undecided California delegates are there?”
“Twenty-six.”
“So we need twenty-four of them, is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“All right,” Kate said, “I want to tell you all something: I decided who I want for a running mate a few days ago. It’s not Pete Otero. And it’s certainly not Mark Willingham.”
“Then who is it?” Meriwether asked, looking baffled.
“It’s the governor of the great state of California,” she replied.
Meriwether broke into a big smile. “I can live with that,” he said.
“Dick,” Kate said, “can you live with that?”
Collins looked at each of them separately, Kate last. “It would be my great pleasure and a great honor,” he replied.
“Then you have my permission to tell any or all of your recalcitrant delegates that if they do the right thing, the next vice president of the United States will be their governor. But tell them in the strictest confidence. We don’t want Otero or Willingham getting wind of this before the voting starts.”
“Right,” Sam Meriwether said. “They’ll wait and see how the voting goes before they make their move. Willingham will want to know how many delegates he has to pass on to Otero.”
Harry Gregg sat outdoors at a sidewalk café on Santa Monica Beach, drinking a cup of espresso. Harry worked as a gunsmith at the Centurion Studios armory, which housed all the weapons used in Centurion productions and also rented to independents. He looked around for the person he was meeting but didn’t see anyone likely. He checked his watch: five minutes before noon.
Then somebody slid into the seat opposite him. A woman. It had been a man on the phone. What was this?
“Hello, Mr. Gregg,” the woman said. She was dressed in a large floppy straw hat and dark glasses, and the lower part of her face was covered by a veil as if she were afraid of getting too much sun. He couldn’t even tell how old she was.
“Look over my shoulder or out to sea,” she said, “not directly at me. You shouldn’t want to know who I am or what I look like.”
“Okay by me,” Harry said, shifting in his seat to turn toward the Pacific Ocean. “I believe you’re supposed to have some work for me.”
“Wet work,” the woman replied. “Do you know what that is?”
Harry nodded. “I’ve been there. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“His name is Ed Eagle,” she said. “Ring any bells?”
Harry had heard the name. “Lawyer?”
“Right.”
“In the papers a few weeks ago, won a big murder case?”
“Right.”
“Sounds like the kind of guy I’d want to hire if this went wrong.”
“If you do your work well, he won’t be a candidate. And you won’t need a lawyer anyway.”
“He’s real tall, right?”
“Six feet seven. Wears good suits with cowboy boots and a Stetson.”
“Right, I’ve seen pictures. Where do I find him?”
“He’s staying at The Arrington.”
Harry shook his head. “Not good—too much security. I mean, the president is staying there, you know?”
“I understand you know something about explosives.”
“I know everything about explosives,” Harry said.
“You were a navy SEAL, weren’t you?”
“No, army, Special Forces. Pretty much the same thing. My specialty was booby traps.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “He flies an airplane called a Citation Mustang.”
“I know the one—small jet.”
“What would it take to blow it out of the sky?”
“You want it in tiny pieces?”
“No, it would be better if you could make it unflyable so that it would crash not long after takeoff.”
“I can do that,” he said. “Where is the airplane?”
“It’s parked at Atlantic Aviation, on the ramp. Eagle always stops there.”
“I know the place. The ramp is accessible, if you know what you’re doing. How about this:
they use runway 21 for takeoff and landing. Where would he be flying to?”
“Santa Fe.”
“East, good. On takeoff on 21, they fly straight out over the beach and the water, then after a minute or two they turn right. How about if the airplane is disabled right at that point? It would crash into the water, breaking into a thousand pieces.”
“So they could never be sure of recovering all the bits, could they?” she asked.
“Nope, that’s the beauty of it.”
“Do you have access to the explosives?”
“I do. And I wouldn’t need more than half a pound of plastic to do the job.”
“How would you set it off?”
“There are two good ways. The best is with an altimeter rigged to a detonator. How soon do I need to do this?”
“He’s here for the convention and he flies back to Santa Fe tomorrow. And he always takes off around nine A.M. He’s a creature of habit.”
“I can’t get everything I need for the altimeter detonator by tomorrow, but I can use a cell phone.”
“How do you mean?”
“I plug a cell phone into a detonator and the detonator into the plastic. Then I sit on the beach with a phone and wait for the airplane to take off. All I have to do is make a call and, poof! your problem, whatever it is, is solved.”
“Ideal,” she said.
“This one is going to cost you five-zero grand.”
“That’s very steep,” she said.
“I’m sure you can find somebody cheaper,” Harry said and made to get up.
“Sit down.”
He sat.
She pushed a thick envelope into his hand. “There’s twenty-five thousand in there,” she said, “and you’ll get the other twenty-five right here, tomorrow at noon, if you’ve been successful.”
“And if I’m not?”
“Then you will still be here at noon and bring me twenty back. The five is for your trouble.”
Harry took the envelope and put it into his coat pocket. “I’ll count it later,” he said. “What’s the tail number of the airplane?”
She told him. “They always park it on the ramp, west of the hangars. There’ll be a line of airplanes parked there.”
“I know the place.”
“Stay here and have some lunch,” she said. “Then get to work.” She got up and left.
Harry watched her back as she walked away from the café. “Nice ass,” he said aloud to himself.
Stone and Ann rode in the presidential limousine with the president and first lady. The gate guard at Centurion Studios was ready for them and waved the three-car motorcade through the big front gates. A few yards behind them were more cars, carrying Secret Service agents, the president’s secretary, and a physician—and a young naval officer carrying a valise called “the Football,” which contained the codes for initiating a nuclear attack. The limousine glided to a halt in front of the production company’s bungalow, the passengers got out, then all the vehicles pulled into the parking lot across the street and waited.
Peter and Ben greeted them at the door as Hattie and Tessa waited inside. The two partners took the group through the various rooms—Hattie’s studio, with its Steinway concert grand piano, the editing suite, and the offices, where they shook hands with Billy and Betsy Burnett. Finally, they emerged onto a recently constructed rear deck that offered a sweeping view of the sprawling studio lot. A large round table was set for lunch, and waiters hovered nearby.
Leo Goldman Jr. showed up, greeted everyone, and joined them for lunch.
Before Stone could begin to eat, his cell phone went off. He checked the caller ID: Dick Collins. Stone excused himself, went inside, and answered the phone.
“Stone, it’s Dick Collins.”
“Good morning, Governor—or, rather, good afternoon.”
“I didn’t want to call Kate directly, but you can tell her that, after many phone calls this morning, Sam Meriwether and I now put her delegate count at a hundred and thirty-five.”
“Exactly what’s needed to nominate?”
“Exactly.”
“No margin for error, then.”
“We’ll be working the rest of the day to move undecideds in other delegations to Kate’s side and we hope to come up with as many as half a dozen more.”
“Will you keep me posted on that?” Stone asked.
“Certainly.”
“It’s going to be an exciting evening,” Stone said.
“I hope not too exciting,” Collins said, then hung up.
Stone went back to the table and leaned between the president and first lady. “Dick Collins says you have a hundred and thirty-five delegates, and he and Sam will be working all day on rounding up, maybe, another half dozen.”
“Thank you, Stone,” Kate said. “Now, let’s try to enjoy our lunch.”
Stone took his seat next to Leo Goldman, who was sitting next to Kate.
“How’s the vote count going?” Leo asked him quietly.
“Close,” Stone said.
“Close good or close bad?”
“Ask me late tonight.”
Leo nodded and went back to talking movies with Kate and Will.
After lunch, a tram waited, led and followed by Secret Service vehicles. Everyone boarded, and they set off on the tour. Leo Goldman gave a running account of the history of Centurion and showed them the famous New York City street standing set, which had been featured in dozens of movies, then they visited the costume department and were admitted to the studio’s largest sound stage, where three different sets had been constructed and dressed, among them a Fifth Avenue apartment.
“I could move right into this place,” Kate said. “It’s bigger than our apartment at the Carlyle.” Leo opened the doors to the master suite dressing room, which was stuffed with expensive women’s clothing, with shelves of handbags and shoes. “I don’t know who this woman is,” Kate said, “but she has a much better wardrobe than I.”
They visited the Centurion armory, where Kate and Will got to fire a few rounds from a Winchester Model 73, assisted by the armory gunsmith, Harry Gregg. They posed for a picture with him, and Kate shook his hand warmly. “I’m told you served with Special Forces in Afghanistan and I want to thank you for your service,” she said. Harry blushed. Then they went on to the big garage where the studio’s collection of vintage vehicles was kept, along with a stock of contemporary cars and trucks.
They finished up at the studio commissary, where dessert and coffee were waiting for the party. As they entered, they got a standing ovation from the assorted producers, directors, writers, technicians, and actors who were lunching there, many of them familiar faces to any moviegoer.
After dessert and coffee and much handshaking, they got back onto the tram and toured the back lot, with its lake and its western town and small-town-square sets.
Stone’s cell phone rang again. It was Ed Eagle.
“We’ve just come out of a caucus, Stone, and something’s going on. Pete Otero wasn’t there, and it’s the first caucus he’s missed.”
“Do you know where he is?” Stone asked.
“No, and he’s always been very visible to his delegates.”
“Ed, do you think any of your delegates might break for Kate on the first ballot?”
“I doubt it. Pete won our primary, and it might be politically dangerous for anyone to cross him at the convention. He’s still got two more years in his second term, and he knows how to reward his friends and punish his enemies.”
“Does that include you?”
“He and I are pretty good friends. As much as I like Kate and Will, I won’t break from Pete on the first ballot.”
“What do you think Otero might do if he learned, before his delegation is called on to vote, that Kate was looking the likely winner
?”
“I’m not sure,” Ed said.
“Is he politically astute enough to get behind her if it looks like he’s losing?”
“He’s certainly politically astute,” Ed said, “but I’m not sure what it would take to convince him that he can’t win. I mean, Kate’s not likely to have all the votes she needs when the voting gets down to the Ns, is she?”
“We think she’s likely to have enough without New Mexico and Virginia,” Stone said.
“I’m going to have to do some arithmetic,” Ed said, “then see how the voting is going before New Mexico is called on. Are you going to be on the floor?”
“No, I’ll be in the skybox, but my cell works there.”
“I’ll call you if I have news.”
“Thanks, Ed, I’d appreciate that.” Stone hung up and got back onto the tram with the others.
“What’s going on?” Ann asked.
“Looks like Kate is right on the edge,” he said.
“Oh, God, I don’t know if I can take the balloting,” Ann said.
“Will you be in the skybox with me?”
“Sure. I can’t do anything back at the hotel.”
“You’ll be only a phone call away from Kate.”
“I think that she and the president may want to be alone anyway. If she wins the nomination, they won’t have much time together again until after the election.”
“Just tell her you’ll be with me. She can always reach you if she needs to.”
“All right, I’ll do that.”
Late in the day, Billy Burnett was returning from the set to the offices in his golf cart when he passed a construction site for a new sound stage. The construction crew worked from seven A.M. to three P.M., so the site was deserted. Except it wasn’t.
Billy stopped his cart and watched as a familiar figure strode across the site. The young man stopped, looked around, and didn’t see Billy. It was Harry Gregg, the gunsmith at the Centurion armory whom Billy had hired and trained the year before, and there was something furtive about his actions.
Sure that he was alone, Harry began doing something to the door lock on the construction shed in which hand tools and explosives were stored. Billy glanced at his watch, then waited patiently until Harry emerged from the shed. He had been there for a little less than two minutes and he was carrying something in a brown paper bag. He watched as Harry got into a golf cart and drove back to the armory.
