by Stuart Woods
“I’ve got a little over three-quarters of a million dollars in my campaign fund.”
“That’ll get you started while you get a fund-raising campaign under way.”
“I can’t spend any of that on a presidential bid right now,” Will said.
“You can spend it on your next Senate race, can’t you?”
“Well, sure, but that’s three years off.”
“Listen, you can turn a Senate race into a presidential race in the blinking of an eye.”
“I suppose so. What do you think I should do right now?”
“Pick people for your key campaign slots and tell them to start putting together a plan right now, something that can be put into immediate effect when the moment comes.”
“I guess I can do that, if I do it carefully.”
“Also, I think you should start accepting speaking engagements in states with large blocks of electoral votes—California, New York, Illinois, and so on. And New Hampshire, of course. I’ve still got a few friends around the country; I’ll see if I can arrange a few speaking invitations.”
“Dad, we can’t let it get out that you’re doing this.”
“Of course not,” Billy snorted. “And you shouldn’t be giving blatant political speeches. What you should do is select topics that are important to your audiences and give good, common-sense speeches on those issues. Your goal is not to win votes right now, but to impress the people you’re talking to. That way, when you announce, you’ll have people out there who’ll remember that they liked what you said or the way you said it. You should include statements in each speech that will be quoted prominently in the press, too.”
“I suppose you have some topics in mind.”
“Oh, I guess so.” Billy laughed. “I think the situation in Russia and our relationship to that regime would be a good one. It’s a dangerous situation, and it’s not getting the attention it should either in the press or in Congress. It’s not too hard to envision circumstances that could lead to a nuclear incident.”
“You’re right about that. What else?”
“Start suggesting solutions to some big problems—saving social security, better health care, that sort of thing. If you show people now that you have some ideas for solving these problems, they’ll remember that when you’re a candidate.”
“Dad, will you write me a long memo on all this?”
“Sure I will; give me something to do. Lately, I’ve been thinking too much about dying. Be nice to have something else to think about.”
“Have you been feeling ill, Dad?”
“No, just more tired than I want to feel.”
“Have you talked to your doctor?”
“He said there’s nothing much wrong with me except the two heart attacks I’ve had. He told me to get a hobby.” Billy smiled. “You’re going to be my hobby, Will. I can’t think of anything more fun than getting you elected president. I’m beginning to understand how Joe Kennedy must have felt when he was out to elect Jack. I only wish I could buy you an election, the way he did.”
Will laughed. “I wish you could, too.”
9
Will and Kate returned to Washington after Christmas, and Kate returned to work at the Central Intelligence Agency the following morning. Kate, as deputy director for Intelligence, or DDI, was in charge of all the Agency’s analysts. She had risen through the ranks on the Soviet Union desk and had distinguished herself throughout her career. She arrived in her large, corner office at 8 A.M., and was surprised to find a note on her desk asking her to report to Elliot Baskin, deputy director, the number-two man at the Agency. She went up to the executive floor and was admitted to his office.
“Good morning, Kate, welcome back,” Baskin said, rising to shake her hand.
“Good morning, Elliot,” she replied.
“Hey, Kate,” said a voice from the other side of the room.
Kate turned to find Hugh English sitting on the sofa before the fireplace, where a cheery blaze was burning. English was deputy director for Operations, DDO, head of the spy department.
“Morning, Hugh,” she said.
Baskin waved her toward the fireplace. “Take a pew; let’s talk.”
Kate walked over and sat in a leather armchair, while Baskin took a seat beside Hugh English. She wondered why he had done that; he could have taken the other chair. The seating arrangement seemed, somehow, adversarial.
“Good holiday?” Baskin asked.
“A quiet one,” she replied. “We spent it with Will’s parents in Georgia.”
“So I hear,” English said.
“Why, Hugh,” Kate said, smiling, “I thought you were barred from conducting domestic intelligence operations.” Something was up.
“Just an ear to the ground,” English said, waving a hand.
Baskin spoke up. “I hear you visited Ed Rawls in Atlanta,” he said.
Kate nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“You should have reported it, Kate.”
“You haven’t been reading your mail, Elliot; I did report it.”
Baskin reddened slightly. “I haven’t caught up after the holiday. Tell us about it.”
“The day after I arrived in Delano, a letter from Ed came for me, asking me to visit him. I enclosed his letter with my report.”
“What did he want?”
Kate shrugged. “I think he was lonely. He seemed apologetic about his crimes, though he didn’t quite apologize.”
“How many times have you seen Rawls since his conviction?”
“This was the first.”
“Heard from him? Written to him?”
“No.”
“Why do you think he really wanted to see you, Kate?”
Kate had already decided to stick strictly to her report. “If he had a real reason, he never got around to it. He talked about his place in Maine, said he’d like to finish out his days there.”
“Is he planning an escape?” Hugh English asked, chuckling.
“I got the impression he hopes for a pardon.”
“From whom?” Baskin asked.
“I suppose from the president, since no one else can pardon him.”
“I’d certainly oppose that,” Baskin said. “The director would, too, I think.”
“I expressed that opinion to Ed,” she said.
“The son of a bitch,” English said heatedly. “He cost me half a dozen good agents.”
Kate turned to him. “My recollection, Hugh, is that you were working in the Bangkok station when Ed was caught.”
“I meant Ops. He cost Ops some good men.”
“And women.”
“Yeah. All because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
“So gracefully expressed, Hugh,” Kate said.
“All right, you two,” Baskin interjected, “let’s not get off the subject.”
“What exactly is the subject, Elliot?” Kate asked.
“Your visit to Rawls.”
“I don’t see how you could even sit in the same room with the bastard,” English said.
“We were once good friends,” Kate said. “You may have heard that he was one of the best people the Agency ever produced, and that, at the time he was arrested, he was the leading candidate for your job.”
English squirmed a little. “You might remember what he did.”
“And you might remember that I put him out of business,” she said. “I don’t like him for what he did, but I don’t hate him for it, either.” She turned to Baskin. “If you don’t want me to see him again, all you have to do is say so.” She saw Baskin and English exchange a quick glance, and she wondered what it meant.
“Oh, no,” Baskin said. “See him anytime you like, just report the content of your conversation.”
“I don’t have any plans to visit him again.” She looked at both men. “I don’t get this. Ed is no longer a threat to anybody. Why are you two so exercised by my visit?”
“Kate,” Baskin said, “I want to as
k you a very serious question.”
“Shoot.”
“Your marriage has always been something of a concern to me, and to the director.”
“And why is that?”
“Do you ever discuss Agency business with your husband?”
“No,” she said immediately. “When Will and I got married, we agreed that we would not talk about my work.”
“You talked about it before you were married?”
“Elliot, you might remember that, before we were married, and before Will was elected to the Senate, he was the counsel to the Senate Intelligence Committee. We had occasion to discuss business—always, I think, to the benefit of the Agency.”
Baskin nodded. “Does he know about your visit to Rawls?”
“No. When he asked me where I was going, I told him it was business, and he dropped it, just as he always does.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I am. I’d be pleased to take a polygraph, if you like.”
“Oh, no, no,” Baskin said. “That won’t be necessary.”
English spoke up. “I’d like her to take a polygraph.”
“I said it wouldn’t be necessary,” Baskin said sharply.
“I’d be happy to take a polygraph and have you administer it personally, Hugh,” she said. “Now, either do it or never question my word again.”
“I’ll question your word whenever I feel like it,” English said.
“Now, people,” Baskin interjected. “This is unnecessary.”
“Apparently it is necessary,” Kate said. “I insist on a polygraph, and I want it done before lunch.” She stood up. “I’ll be in my office; call me when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready right now,” English said, getting to his feet.
“Both of you, shut up!” Baskin barked. “I’m not going to have this sort of childish display at the upper levels of the Agency.”
Kate wheeled on him. “Childish? You haul me in here and accuse me of an unreported visit to a jailed officer, when my report is already on your desk; then Hugh as much as accuses me of some sort of treasonous behavior. Then you imply that I’m discussing Agency business with my husband. If you think I’m going to put up with it for a minute, you’re very, very wrong.”
“Kate, I apologize if it seemed that way, and I’m sorry I didn’t look for your report before calling you in.” He turned to English. “Hugh, I think you owe Kate an apology, too.”
“Sorry,” English said, not looking at her.
“Will that be all?” Kate asked.
“Yes, of course. Again, I’m sorry about the tone of this meeting, and I fully accept your representations both about your meeting with Rawls and about your conversations with your husband.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, then walked out of the office. All the way back to her floor and her own office she fumed inside, while greeting people pleasantly in the hallways. Back at her desk she took deep breaths and tried to cool down. She wished she’d never gone to see Ed Rawls.
10
On New Year’s Eve Will and Kate threw a dinner party, a nearly annual event, with a guest list of fifty. At the time of their marriage they had each owned a small town house in Georgetown; they had sold them both and bought a bigger house with a wider facade and three stories and a garage in the basement. It was perfect for entertaining, which they did fairly often, ranging from intimate dinners of eight or twelve to the New Year’s bash. They had it down to a science, and, except for work on the guest list, it had become an almost effortless exercise. A perfectly trained caterer took over the house; all Will and Kate had to do was get dressed.
Guests were due at seven, and at six-thirty, the doorbell rang. Joe and Susan Adams had been invited to come early. To Will’s surprise, they were accompanied by Senator Frederick Wallace of South Carolina and his wife, Betty Jane. Will tried not to seem annoyed; he had wanted a few minutes alone with Joe and Sue.
“Come in, come in,” Will said, kissing the women and shaking the men’s hands. “How are you, Freddie?” he asked the elderly senator.
“Better than can be expected,” Wallace rumbled. An ancient tuxedo covered his bulk, and his wife was dressed in a lace gown. They looked like something out of the forties, Will thought. “Kate will be down momentarily,” he said. “Everybody have a seat, and we’ll get you a drink. Anybody want champagne?”
Nobody spoke. A moment later, each guest had been served with his usual—bourbon for the men, white wine for the women.
“Freddie and Betty Jane were on the way, so we gave them a lift,” Joe Adams said.
“I don’t get to ride in many limousines,” Wallace said. “Couldn’t turn it down.”
“Come on, Freddie,” Adams said, “half the lobbyists in Washington have limousines. You could have one at your door on command.”
“Wouldn’t seem seemly to South Carolina’s voters,” Wallace said, looking cherubic, with his shock of white hair and his pink face. “I might get my picture taken in one, and we couldn’t have that, could we?”
“I’m surprised you aren’t riding around town in a BMW,” Will said, “since they opened that factory in South Carolina.”
“We’re happy to have them there,” Wallace said, “but they make German cars.”
“My limo is a Cadillac,” Adams said.
“And you’re looking for an even bigger one next election, aren’t you?” Wallace asked, chuckling.
“I’ll ride in whatever comes with the territory, Freddie,” Adams replied.
“The territory ain’t yours yet.” Wallace grinned.
“Tell me, Freddie,” Will said, “if you could choose the next president, who would it be?”
Wallace lowered his chin and peered at Will over the gold half glasses that seemed permanently attached to his nose. “Jefferson Davis,” he rumbled.
Everybody laughed.
“Old Jeff would know how to handle you liberals,” Wallace said, grinning.
“I’ll accept the characterization as a comparative one,” Will replied. “Next to you, Freddie, Jesse Helms was a liberal.”
“He was a goddamned socialist!” Wallace laughed.
Joe Adams spoke up. “I was hoping to get Freddie to cross party lines and support me.”
Wallace snorted.
“I don’t think you could afford to lose that many votes, Joe,” Will said, getting a laugh. He looked up to see Kate coming down the stairs, stunning in a black Ralph Lauren dress. The men got to their feet, and she greeted everyone. A waiter brought her a glass of champagne on a silver tray.
“I hope that ain’t French,” Wallace said.
“It’s Schramsberg,” Kate replied.
“German?”
“Californian.”
“Damn near as foreign,” Wallace replied.
“Californians are your countrymen, Freddie,” Kate said.
“Not my countrymen,” Wallace said blandly. “You know, there’s something you two fellows have never figured out.” He nodded at Will and Joe. “A senator can have nearly about as much power as a president, if he’s smart, and he don’t have to please anybody from California or New York or anywhere but his home state, and he only has to please fifty-one percent of the actual voters there!”
“You’ve got a point there, Freddie,” Adams agreed.
“You fellows don’t know when you’re well-off,” Wallace said. “Look what you got up on the Hill: You got a nice big office with a loyal staff who does your bidding; you got a nice place to have lunch every day; you got somebody to cut your hair when you need it and a girl to massage you, whether you need it or not; you got free medical care, free parking, and free trips to nice places overseas; and on top of all that, you get paid pretty good money!”
“Yeah, Freddie,” Adams said, “but if you’re president, you get all that, plus a very nice house with a swimming pool, a putting green, and a movie theater; a bulletproof limousine to ride around in, a helicopter and a 747 to take you wherever you wa
nt to go—and no waiting for your luggage. Plus you get Camp David for weekends and you can play golf anywhere in the world you want to.”
Wallace snorted. “I can play at Burning Tree anytime, and in my underwear, if I’ve a mind to, and that’s good enough for me.”
“I’m trying to summon up that image,” Kate said, “but the mind boggles.”
“And,” Joe Adams said, “when you’ve served your eight years—or even if you’re kicked out after four—you get a great big presidential library to hold all the documents that make you look good in the eyes of the world. And when you finally pack it in, you get a free plot in Robert E. Lee’s front yard and a very nice funeral.”
Wallace raised his hands in mock surrender. “Well, I guess we know what’s important to you, Joe.”
“What’s really important,” Will said, “and what separates the big guy from all the pretty big guys in the Senate is the veto.”
“Yeah,” Wallace agreed, “and if the Supreme Court had just let it get by, the line-item veto. Somebody once said that if Lyndon Johnson had had that, he’d have been a Nero. Shit, if I had it, I’d be God!”
Will got up to answer the doorbell. Now, the deluge.
They began arriving in clumps, now—three or four senators from each party, plus a few congressmen; columnists, TV reporters, cabinet members, a couple of sports figures, and a movie star. Will’s press secretary made up the guest list, and few people were invited in successive years, except the president and the vice president, and the president had never shown.
Champagne was poured, scotch was dispensed, canapés were distributed, and rumors were exchanged, but no news was made. Will extracted a moratorium from all the journalists invited.
Dinner was served—racks of lamb, haricots verts, pureed carrots, and a huge spinach soufflé for the vegetarians. The wine was a California Cabernet, not for patriotic reasons, but because Will preferred California wines to French. People sat everywhere—on sofas and chairs, on the stairs, on the floor. The talk was high-spirited without being raucous.
Will was waiting for someone in the powder room under the stairs to finish when he was joined by Paul Epstein, the Washington bureau chief for the New York Times.
