Wild Card

by Stuart Woods

  “We are of one mind on that,” Peter said.

  “When I speak to Holly, how shall I put it to her? As a feeler?”

  “You can be as direct as you like,” Peter said. “And I hope she gives you a direct answer.”

  Stone nodded. “I think it’s a little early in the campaign for her to give you an answer right away.”

  “Tell her that if a better political option comes her way, I will stand down. I mean that. And I understand that she would not wish to announce her decision any time soon. She can pick her moment, and I’ll be there.”

  “It may take a day or two to reach her. I don’t know what her schedule is like.”

  “She’s at the State Department for the rest of the week,” Peter said, standing up and offering his hand. “Then she hits the campaign trail. Thank you both for your attention and your good advice.” He walked away.

  “What do you think of that?” Dino said.

  “He’s either a very smart politician or absolutely nuts. I can’t figure out which.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Back at his desk, Stone called Holly’s secret cell number and got only a beep. “Call me when you can,” he said, then hung up.

  Jamie Cox bustled in and threw herself into a chair, looking excited.

  “You look excited,” Stone said. “What’s up?”

  “They’re publishing my book next Tuesday,” she said.

  “Jesus, that’s short notice, isn’t it?”

  “I told you they were rushing it, and they have. They’re sending me on the road for two weeks—a month, if initial sales are good. They’re putting together an appearance schedule as we speak.”

  “I guess that means no sex for a while,” he said.

  “Not unless you’re into phone sex.”

  “I’m more partial to the real thing,” Stone replied.

  “Who isn’t? In this life, we have to take what comes to us.”

  “I have the feeling that if we did, the Thomases would be listening to us panting—and in real time.”

  “Well, I guess we have to make the most of the time we have left until Tuesday.” She stood up, took his hand, and pulled him to his feet. “Not on that grungy sofa,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs. We can start in the elevator.”

  Stone did as he was told.

  27

  Hank Thomas called in Rance Damien and sat him down. “I’ve changed my mind about contributions to Joe Box’s campaign,” he said.

  “You’re pulling out? I haven’t sent the twenty mil yet.”

  “No, I’m doubling down and tripling. I want you to set up a campaign that parallels his own—not in every state, but in places where he can do well with more money—a shadow campaign, if you like. And I want you to find the senator a first-rate speechwriter, who can blend his work with Box’s style of speaking.”

  “People with those skills are already aligning themselves with more important candidates.”

  “People like that are always late on their mortgage and car payments. Figure out how much it would take to turn a writer’s head, and tell him or her that no one will ever know what he did, unless he wants to reveal it in his post-campaign book. Get Box some first-rate TelePrompTer instruction, too, and get him trained to not go off the reservation and sound stupid. Tell him that if he sticks to the scripts, he could actually be elected.”

  “Right, I’m perfectly willing to lie to the guy.”

  “You need to spend an hour in a room with him and scare him shitless. Make yourself out to be his only path upward, and let him know that if he strays from the plan, he’ll be humiliated and destroyed. Tell him you have no policy demands, but his speechwriter may suggest some likely ones. Remember, this is a guy with a net worth of less than half a million dollars. He can be bought, and in a hurry.”

  “All right,” Rance said, “I’m on it.”

  “And remember not to be seen with him anywhere, especially anywhere near a reporter; your face is too memorable at the moment. Of course, that will change with time.”

  “What’s my total budget for this project?”

  “Sixty million dollars,” Hank replied. “Now get your ass in gear.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Holly Barker saw Stone’s message on her cell phone but waited until she had some free time before returning it.

  “Hello, there,” she said.

  “And to you. How fast do I have to talk?”

  “I’ve got a few minutes.”

  “I’ve got some interesting gossip, and I’ve got a campaign offer for you. Which do you want to hear first?”

  “The gossip, but I warn you, I’ve probably already heard it.”

  “Hank Thomas is putting twenty million dollars into Joe Box’s campaign through a PAC.”

  Silence.

  “You need to apply a squirt of oil to your brain, Holly. I can hear the wheels turning from here.”

  “All right, I’ll buy that, and it’s pretty obvious why. Hank wants to wreck the Republican Party so he can have a clean shot as an independent in four years—maybe as the leader of a new party.”

  “Consider yourself lubricated,” Stone said.

  “What’s the campaign thing?”

  “I had a conversation with Peter Rule yesterday, and he asked me to tell you that he’d like very much to be your running mate.”

  “That’s surprising this early in the campaign,” she said.

  “He also told me to tell you that if politics dictate a different choice, he’ll step aside and help.”

  “I’ve always been very impressed with Peter,” Holly said. “Tell me, has Kate weighed in on this?”

  “He told me that he has not discussed this with either of his parents and does not intend to, unless they bring it up, in which case he’ll tell them he’ll get back to them.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Peter is a young man who has never had to lie to get what he wants.”

  “I think that’s an accurate assessment. I hope it lasts. You can tell Peter I’m interested—no, I’ll tell him myself. I need a few people—surrogates, I guess you’d call them—who can speak on my behalf when I can’t make a venue. I’ll invite him to join that group, then assess him as we move along.”

  “That’s a good move,” Stone said. “If you want him, I think you’ll need to get him in front of the electorate often enough and with enough good material that, by convention time, a large pack of them will be clamoring for you to select him.”

  “Make him the obvious choice?”

  “If you want him. Don’t string him along, if you’re not interested.”

  “I’m interested, and I’ll tell him so.”

  “Then my work is done,” Stone said. “Try not to get us into any wars before November.” They both hung up.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rance Damien sat across the table from a middle-aged woman in a diner. “What do you have for me, Florence?”

  Florence Heath was a New York–based member of the recruiting committee for Harvard and had seen the résumés of thousands of applicants over the years. She passed Damien a large envelope. “Before you sit down and read this, let me give you the CliffsNotes version.”

  “All right.”

  “He has just finished his doctorate work in political science, and his dissertation knocked it out of the park. I’ve had my eye on him since he applied as a junior in high school. It was heavy lifting to get him accepted at that age, but I did it.”

  “Why is he the right guy for me?”

  “There isn’t a better brain in the country for what you want, but he comes up short in the personality area. In fact, he may be somewhere on the spectrum. For example, the board loved his dissertation but not his orals; the
y thought him excessively blunt with his elders and betters, though they gave him high marks. Where he excels in communication is through his writing, both for publication and for speaking. He gave an address at his graduation ceremony that is still remembered, but he read every word of it from a script. He also wrote some witty columns for the Crimson, under a pseudonym.”

  “What are his current circumstances?”

  “In spite of his achievements, because of his personality, he has been unable to find a university teaching position. And since he comes from a modest background, he has a quarter of a million in student loans. He’s working as a teaching assistant, but only for the summer program, so he’s about to be homeless and broke.

  “His name is Ari Kramer. His contact information is in his file.”

  “Florence,” Damien said, pushing an envelope across the table. “You’ve done well. I may call upon you again.”

  She took a peek in the envelope. “Please do,” she said. “Anytime.”

  Damien went back to his office and read every word of the file. He thought Ari Kramer was just what he was looking for.

  28

  Holly Barker was at home in Georgetown, in the beautiful house that once belonged to Will Lee, but for which Stone had traded his Santa Fe property, and then made available to the State Department for her residence. She buzzed her secretary who worked with some others, including campaign workers, in storerooms adjacent to the commodious downstairs garage.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Please call Senator Peter Rule’s Washington office, and tell him or his secretary that there is a package being delivered to him as we speak. Ask her when he has a free moment, and to ask him to unwrap it and wait for a call.”

  “Right away, ma’am.” She called back. “The senator is waiting.”

  Holly took her throwaway phone and pressed a button.

  “This is Peter, Holly,” he answered.

  “Good. Stone Barrington has relayed to me your expression of interest in running for higher office. I was very interested to hear it.”

  “Thank you, I’m pleased to hear of your interest.”

  “Stone has also told me that, should a political necessity arise, you’re willing to step aside.”

  “That is correct. I’m not running for reelection to the Senate for another two years.”

  “Peter, I’ve asked a small number of prominent Democrats to act as surrogates and give speeches and talks on my behalf at times when I have a scheduling conflict, or the event doesn’t quite rise to the level of a major campaign appearance. I’d like you to join that group.”

  “I’d be delighted for the opportunity,” Peter said, realizing immediately that, even if he wasn’t selected as her running mate, he would be speaking to the same people whose support he would need at a later date.

  “Do you have personal transportation available?”

  “I have an enormous SUV and a smaller airplane that will hold nearly as many on fairly short flights.”

  “Very good. You can bill the campaign for your fuel costs, but we can’t cover damage, maintenance, insurance, garaging, or hangaring.”

  “Understood. I’ll set up a bank account separate from my own to handle campaign expenditures and receipts and keep accurate records.”

  “Fine. I’m messengering over to you a packet of position papers, which you should commit to memory, if possible. Before each appearance you’ll get a briefing paper that includes specific talking points and a list of important people you’ll be meeting at the speaking locations. The campaign will handle hotel arrangements and, if necessary, airline tickets for you and an aide or two. A campaign advance man or woman will be assigned to each venue to select auditoria and other speaking places, such as the rear of a flatbed truck, and to see that an audio and video system are up and running. We’ll keep recordings of each event for the DNC and posterity, which will help keep us from being misquoted. We’ll have four Dixieland bands on the road, and one of them will usually play what we might call preludes and recessionals for each event. Do you have any questions?”

  “To whom do I report?”

  “To Senator Sam Meriwether, the campaign chairman, and anyone else he may designate. If something really important comes up that I need to know about immediately, you may call me, but only on the phone I sent you. My private number is on the contacts list. There is also a custom-made holster for the phone, which you will wear on your belt, and you must never lose the phone or loan it to anyone else, even for a single call. If, God forbid, you should lose the phone, call Sam or his designee, and it will be wiped clean remotely and made unusable by anyone who should steal it or find it.”

  “What about scheduling conflicts for myself?”

  “Have an assistant keep your schedule on our website, and we’ll endeavor not to interfere with important committee meetings or votes. We will accept your judgment on what you can’t miss. Anything else?”

  “Nothing, Holly. I’ll await your instructions. One comment, though: I expect there will be venues where a country band might be more attractive to the audience than Dixieland. I’ll leave it to the campaign to decide which bands and which venues.”

  “I’ll pass that along. Welcome aboard, Peter. I hope we’ll be together for a long time.”

  “So do I.” They both hung up. Peter took a deep breath to calm himself. This was his second step; the first had been his conversation with Stone Barrington. He would note this in his diary, which he kept secret from everyone but his wife.

  * * *

  • • •

  Moments later Peter’s secretary, Anna Lopez, came into his office, followed by a man pushing a hand truck containing two large cardboard boxes. “This came from Holly Barker,” she said.

  “Have a seat, Anna,” he said, then waved goodbye to the porter. “We need to talk.” He noticed a look of concern flicker over her face, and he held up a hand. “Nothing like that, poorly chosen words. It’s just that you have a decision to make, and I stress that whatever you decide will be gratefully accepted by me. There is no wrong answer.”

  “What is the question, Senator?”

  “You have to choose between two jobs: one is what you’re doing now, but with increased authority over the staff. Your title will be administrative officer, and you will move up one civil service grade. The other may be less attractive to you.”

  “And what is that?” she asked.

  “You will take a leave of absence from my Senate office and work directly for me, paid by me, with an increase in salary, at an office in my home.”

  She looked concerned again. She was an attractive woman with a lot of experience working in the Capitol, and she was adept at fending off passes gracefully. “Yes?”

  “Secretary of State Holly Barker has asked me to join her campaign as one of a few surrogates who will speak for her when she is unavailable, or when an event may not be important enough to her election to require her attendance. I would like for you to manage my time, keep my speaking schedule, with attention to conflicts with Senate votes and committee hearings, and essentially hold it all together. The hours may be odd and long.”

  “May I assume that your participation has a long-range purpose, beyond getting the secretary elected?”

  “You may assume anything you like,” Peter replied with a small, conspiratorial smile. “Let’s say that I hope you won’t be working in my basement for too very long.”

  “What will you do, if Ms. Barker is not elected?”

  “You and I will both return to this work and wait for another day.”

  “Then my decision is to accept your second offer,” she said.

  “Good. You may choose your successor in this office, and you may hire another person to assist you, at a salary you designate. I hardly need tell you what a high level of intelligence, hard work, and integrity I will expect fro
m such a person, because you have, yourself, long maintained that standard.”

  “Thank you, Senator. Now, what should I do with these boxes?”

  “Have them delivered to my house, along with yourself. There is parking in my basement, and you will find a couple of usable rooms there. Start outfitting them for your use and that of your assistant.

  “Thank you for your service to the United States Senate. You are now relieved from your duties for an undetermined length of absence.”

  Anna Lopez turned to her new work.

  29

  Ari Kramer sat in his obsessively neat dormitory room—his residence for the summer term in Cambridge—selecting, shredding, and discarding any materials that he would not be needing or archiving at his faculty storage unit, which he was being allowed to keep until he had a more permanent address. It was early on his last day at the TA job.

  His laptop computer made a noise that indicated he was receiving a Skype call, a program he favored as he preferred it to actual face-to-face meetings with strangers. He swung around in his chair and faced the machine, then answered the call. A man wearing a business suit and facial bandages appeared before him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kramer,” the man said. “My name is William Smith. We have not met. I apologize for my appearance, but I am recovering from an accident, pending further surgeries.”

  “What is the purpose of this call?” Ari asked in his typically blunt manner.

  “It is in the nature of a job interview,” Smith replied.

  “What sort of a job?”

  “A political job, one as chief speechwriter and advisor to a candidate for office. There may be other duties attached as well.”

  “Who is the candidate?”

  “If we can agree to terms I will tell you that at the end of this conversation.”

  “When does the job start?”

  “Today. I believe this is your last week as a TA.”