by Stuart Woods
Adams’s eyebrows went up. “A better offer than I had expected,” he said. “An excellent offer, in fact, and I think it’s significant that he gave it to you in writing. It gives you a considerable weapon if he should change his mind about a second term after a taste of power. I think you could actually hold him to his promise. I suppose he’ll withdraw the offer if you continue to run.”
That’s right,” Will said. “The consensus among my people, except for my mother, is that I should accept. But I want your opinion, Joe.”
“I think it’s a great offer,” Adams said, “but don’t you think you’ve got a shot at the nomination? Why do you want to quit?”
“I don’t want to, but it looks as though we’re going to lose eight to ten of the California delegation. George has told them he’ll keep the Castle Point base open, even if the commission recommends closing it.”
Adams furrowed his brow. “I thought George was firm on accepting the commission’s recommendation,” he said.
“The California delegation is caucusing at noon.”
“I can see how this might put George over the top,” Sue Adams said.
“When do you have to give George an answer?” Adams asked.
“This morning. I’m about out of time.”
Adams nodded. “Will, would you excuse me for a few minutes? I’d like to make a couple of calls in the bedroom. Sue, will you keep Will entertained?”
“Of course,” Sue replied, pouring Will another cup of coffee.
Adams left the room.
“How is he, really?” Will asked.
“He’s doing all right,” Sue said. “And while he’s making those calls, there’s something he’s asked me to talk to you about.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“The president is dying,” Sue said. “The first lady is making a decision soon about whether to take him off the ventilator. If they do that, his doctors’ best guess is that he can’t last more than a few days, maybe a few hours.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Will said.
“The question then arises, what should Joe do about the vice presidency? I know Joe promised you that, if the president died, he would appoint you vice president, and he’s willing to keep that promise.”
“I see,” Will said.
“The question is, do you still want it? There’s a lot to consider.”
“There certainly is,” Will agreed.
First of all, there’s the question of the nomination. If you go for it and don’t get it, then as VP, you’re just another lame duck, and you’re out of the Senate. That doesn’t make any sense. Then, if you accept George Kiel’s offer, it would be very strange for him to be running for president with the vice president as his running mate. Finally, if you get the nomination and Joe appoints you, he thinks we’re unlikely to get Senate confirmation. The Republicans are not going to want to give you a weapon of status to use against Efton. They might have accepted you six months ago, but not with so little time left before the election.”
“So what you’re saying is that, under any circumstances, Joe’s appointing me would not be a good idea.”
“That’s about it,” she said.
“But if Joe doesn’t appoint somebody, then Efton is in line for the presidency, if anything should happen to Joe.”
“Yes, but Joe has the option of appointing a more benign Democrat, somebody the Republicans wouldn’t see as a threat.”
“Does he have somebody in mind?”
“He’s thinking of Jim Browner.”
Browner was the senior Democratic senator, a man in his early eighties.
“Jim’s not running for reelection, anyway. He’s had five terms, and it would be an opportunity for him to render a final service to his country.”
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” Will said.
Joe Adams returned to the living room and sat down. “Did you and Sue talk about the vice presidency?”
“Yes, Joe,” Will replied, “and I agree it’s best you don’t appoint me. I think Jim Browner is a fine choice.”
“Good,” Adams said. “Now, you’ve asked for my advice; here it is: I think you should turn down George Kiel’s offer and continue your campaign for the nomination.”
Will was taken aback. “May I ask your reasons?”
“I can’t tell you my reasons, Will, but that’s my advice, and I feel strongly about it.” Adams looked at his watch. “Good God, I’ve got another appointment in about one minute, and I have to put on a tie.” He stood up and held out his hand. “It’s good to see you, Will.”
Will shook his hand and kissed Sue; then he left the suite and returned to his car. He looked at his watch: 10:30. “Let’s go back to the Bel Air,” he told the driver.
He sat at his suite’s dining table again, the same group around him, and told them about his meeting with Joe and Sue Adams.
“I have to admit, I’m astonished,” Billy Lee said. “I thought Joe would tell you to accept Kiel’s offer.”
“Frankly, so did I,” Will said. “But he was strong in his recommendation that I continue to go for the nomination.”
“I wonder who he telephoned when he left you,” Tim Coleman said.
“I wonder, too,” Will said.
“So what’s it going to be, Senator?” Kitty asked.
Will got up and retrieved an envelope from his briefcase. He took George Kiel’s letter from his pocket and wrote something on it, then he put it into the envelope, sealed it, wrote “Personal and Confidential” on it, and handed it to Kitty. “Send somebody over to the Beverly Hills Hotel with this,” he said. “Then get me Governor Morrison on the telephone.”
“You’re still in it, then?” his mother asked.
“I’m still in it.”
49
Will waited for the governor of California to come on the line. It was ten minutes before noon, and the California delegation to the convention was about to meet in caucus.
“Hello, Will?” Governor Morrison said.
“Thad, how are you?”
“Rushed. We’re about to meet.”
“I wanted to talk to you personally before you caucus,” Will said. “It’s about the Castle Point naval base.”
“I hope you’ve found a way to change your position, Will,” Morrison said. “George Kiel has.”
“I know; he told me.”
“So, what’s it going to be? I’ve got to go into that meeting and tell my delegates where you stand.”
“I can’t change my position, Thad. I’ve taken a public position on accepting the commission’s findings, and I’ve done it for the right reasons. I want you to tell your people for me that it’s my belief that we’ll never get the defense budget under control if we’re going to allow political interference of this kind, and I won’t be a party to it.”
“George doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.”
“Thad, let me put a couple of questions to you.”
“Shoot, but be quick.”
“First of all, are your delegates going to support a candidate who makes a political promise to accept the commission’s findings, then reverses his position for self-serving reasons?”
“That’s a legitimate question; I’ll put it to the delegates.”
“One more: If George is willing to reverse himself now to get your delegates’ votes, what’s to prevent him from reversing himself again after the election?”
Morrison was briefly silent. “I’ll put that question to them, too,” he said finally.
“That’s all I’ve got to say, Thad. Do your delegates understand that the nomination may be riding on how they vote on this?”
“If they don’t, I’ll explain it to them.”
“Will you call me back and let me know how they vote?”
“I can’t do that, Will; this is a closed caucus, and the results are not to be revealed until the vote tonight.”
“Thanks for listening, Thad.”
“Good luck, Wi
ll.” He hung up.
Will replaced the receiver and turned to the group in the living room of his suite. “Well, that’s it; it’s all I can do.”
“What did Morrison say?” Kitty asked.
“Just that he’d put my views to the delegates.”
Tim Coleman spoke up. “I’ve been doing the math,” he said. “If we lose eight or ten votes from California, it doesn’t have to cause a snowball, not if we do our work in the other delegations. If we can change a few votes our way, we can hold for at least another ballot.”
“We can’t go on coming in second,” Will said. “I think that, after this ballot, we’ll have trouble holding delegates from all over the country. If we lose this one, even by a few votes, we’re done.”
Patricia Lee spoke up. “Will, why don’t we talk about who your choice for vice president is going to be when you win?”
Everybody burst out laughing.
“That’s my ma,” Will said.
Across town, Zeke went into an electronics shop and began buying. He bought a telephone voice-mail system that was compatible with the Lucent equipment being used for the convention podium, a number of other parts, and some Lucent labels.
Back in his room, he unscrewed the top of the voice-mail box and, using the wiring diagram that had come with the unit, traced the printed circuits for various functions. When he had all the functions traced, he soldered a thin wire to a circuit, then attached the other end to a flashlight bulb. Using the system’s built-in recorder, he recorded a list of voice-mail options. Finally, he connected the voice-mail system to Rosa’s phone line and, using his cell phone, called the number.
“Welcome to the podium of the Democratic convention,” his own voice said. “Please choose from one of the following three options: If you wish to be connected to the podium, press one; if you wish to hang up, press two; and if you wish to set off an explosive charge that will blow the podium and anyone near it to eternity, press three.”
Zeke laughed aloud at his own joke. He pressed three and watched as the flashlight bulb lit up. Bingo! Then he rerecorded the third option. Now it said, “If you wish to be placed on hold for the rest of your life, press three.” That should keep anyone who was accidentally connected to the number from pressing three.
Chuckling to himself, he packed the equipment into a bag and left for the Coliseum.
“Senator,” Kitty said, “can I ask the obvious question? I mean, I know the answer, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Go ahead,” Will said.
“If George Kiel can play this game, why can’t you? Why can’t you just call Thad Morrison back and tell him you’ll keep the base open, then, after you’re elected, close the fucking thing. Would you really rather be right than president? Because, to tell you the truth, I’d rather be wrong and be the president’s press secretary.”
“Come on, Kitty, you know better than that.”
“All right, you wouldn’t make the next edition of Profiles in Courage, but you’d have a shot at running the country, you know?”
“Kitty, if somebody had told me six months ago that I’d find myself in this position, then maybe I wouldn’t have taken so firm a stand on the commission’s report; maybe I’d have found a way to weasel out of it or rationalize it, or something. But that’s not the way it happened. As it turned out, I took that position, then I repeated it ad nauseam to get other senators to support it, then I told everybody who’d listen that I wouldn’t change it. So I’m stuck with it, and that’s that. So, if we’re going to win this thing, we’re going to have to find another way to do it. Let’s get started.”
Zeke waited for a lull in the afternoon’s proceedings. Then, when the maintenance workers were on a coffee break, he went into the closet under the podium and installed his system, connecting it to the last of the six telephone lines coming into the podium. Only one of the numbers was given out; a caller dialed the first number, and if it was busy, the call rolled over to the second number, and so on, until all six lines were busy. When they were, a caller would get a busy signal. Only if the caller directly dialed the number for the sixth line would he reach Zeke’s voice-mail system, and only the telephone company and Zeke had that number. Zeke had copied it from the installer’s records.
He attached a Lucent label to the black box; he doubted if anyone would notice it, but if somebody took the lid off the box, the insides would look like nothing more than part of the phone system. He would attach the explosives later, after everyone was used to seeing the box there in the closet, and after the closet had been inspected numerous times.
Tim Coleman put down the phone in Will’s suite. It was a little after five.
“What?” Will asked.
“That was an acquaintance of mine who was at the California delegation’s caucus.”
“You didn’t tell me you knew anyone like that,” Will said.
“I didn’t want to mention it, in case the call never came.”
“And what was the result of the caucus?”
“Fifteen delegates switched their votes to Kiel.”
Will sagged. “Kiel was only fourteen votes short of the nomination.”
Patricia Lee spoke up. “It’s not over,” she said. “We’ve still got a chance to gain votes from other delegations.”
Tim shook his head. “I don’t see how we can make up that many votes before tonight.”
“Let’s get to work,” Will said.
50
Will and his inner circle of around two dozen people had a buffet supper in his suite as the convention opened and the balloting began. His campaign had put every possible person on the convention floor to canvass delegations, looking to change as many votes as possible.
“California!” the chairman called out.
The television screen was filled with the face of Governor Thad Morrison, who was deep in conversation on a cell phone.
“California!” the chairman called again.
Morrison held the phone against his chest and grabbed a microphone. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, his voice booming around the Coliseum, “California wishes to delay its vote until the end of balloting.”
Will grabbed Tim Coleman. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Tim replied, shaking his head. “I’ve heard nothing from my source; as far as I know, we’re still losing fifteen votes.”
“Something is going on here,” Will said. “I wish to God I knew what it was.”
Tim had a chart and was marking the votes of the various delegations, while Kitty used a calculator to do a running total.
The balloting finished.
“We’ve got 222 votes, and Kiel has 256,” Kitty said.
“Then we’re done,” Tim replied, his shoulders sagging.
“We haven’t heard from California,” Patricia Lee said.
“California!” the chairman called out.
“Here we go,” Kate said.
“Mr. Chairman,” Thad Morrison called out, “California votes thirty-nine for Will Lee…” Cheering broke out.
“That gives us 261,” Kitty said, “and we need 270 to win the nomination. Kiel only needs fourteen votes.”
“And,” Morrison continued, “fifteen votes for George Kiel.”
The Kiel supporters erupted. Pandemonium reigned in the hall. The chairman banged his gavel to no avail.
Will put his head back and closed his eyes. Why hadn’t he taken George Kiel’s offer? He could have been president in four years.
“Something’s happening,” Tim said, pointing at the big-screen TV. Thad Morrison was back at the microphone, shouting something.
“What’s he doing?” Will asked.
“He’s trying to get recognized,” Tim said.
Gradually the chairman regained order. “The chair recognizes Governor Thad Morrison of the great state of California.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Morrison said, “I request a poll of the delegation.”
“What�
�s the point?” Kitty asked. “We’ve lost.”
As the polling began, a phone rang and somebody answered it. “It’s for you,” a worker said, handing Will the phone.
“Not now,” Will said, riveted to the TV.
“It’s the vice president.”
Will took the phone. “Hello?”
“Will,” Joe Adams said, “I want to apologize to you.”
“Joe, it’s all right; it was my decision, not yours.”
“You don’t understand,” Adams said.
“What do you mean?”
“I assume you’re watching TV.”
“Yes.”
“They’re polling the California delegation.”
“Yes, I’m watching.”
“I’ve been on the phone with Thad Morrison three times this evening; that’s why California didn’t vote at first.”
“And what were the two of you talking about?”
“I’ve been trying to nail down some information all afternoon, and I finally confirmed what I had suspected.”
“And what was that, Joe?”
“I found it suspicious that George Kiel would reverse himself as he did about the Castle Point base. It would have been unlike him to do that.”
“But he did.”
“And for a reason.”
Tim was tugging at Will’s sleeve. “We’ve got two of our lost California delegates back,” he was saying.
Will waved him away. “What’s going on, Joe?”
“There was a leak from a staffer on the commission on base closings.”
“What kind of a leak?”
“The commission is going to recommend that Castle Point remain open.”
Will’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. George Kiel found out about it; that’s why he promised Thad Morrison he’d keep the base open.”
“And when did Thad Morrison find out about this?”
“I was telling him when California was called on to vote.”
Tim was yelling. “We’ve got three more delegates back!”
“Tim tells me we’ve got five California delegates back, so far,” Will said. “That means George can’t win on this ballot.”
