“Hey, I’m not one of these crazy right-wingers or anything, like that Spirit bunch. But some of the changes that President Bennett made — you remember him, right, guy you saved? — are just fine by me.”
“I know. You’re the kind of traditional Republican that my father was. Which makes you a Commie pinko in the eyes of that Spirit crowd.”
She smiled a little. “You’re overstating it, but kind of, yes.”
“They’d feel the same about Ronald Reagan, if they actually studied his presidency. So — you like what Adam Benjamin has to say?”
“Based on what I’ve picked up, yeah. It’s like he says, common sense. Joe, I’d love to be your date. Finally a real date, huh?”
“We’re going to have good seats, I’m told, probably down front, so that leaves out necking. And you can take me to a Wendy’s drive-thru after.”
“No way! I do have some class, Joe Reeder.”
“Do you?”
“Sure. Wendy’s, yes. But we’ll eat inside.”
Chill January wind from the west greeted Reeder and Rogers as they walked from a parking lot to DAR Constitution Hall on D Street NW. Built by the Daughters of the American Revolution one hundred years ago, the auditorium was still a much-used concert venue, and served Benjamin’s political purposes well, practically set as it was on the south White House grounds.
“Nothing like thumbing your nose at the President of the United States,” Rogers said, “from his own front lawn.”
She was in a gray sweater coat over a black ensemble — turtleneck with jacket, slim skirt, tights with boots.
“Benjamin wasn’t the first,” Reeder said, “and certainly won’t be the last.”
Reeder was in his Burberry trench coat over a Brooks Brothers navy suit and (what the hell) red-white-and-blue striped tie.
They paused at the foot of the short series of steps to the front doors. Reeder got out his cell, turning east onto a view of the Capitol and the web of scaffolding that surrounded it. Even during renovation, the building had a classic beauty that stirred the patriotic kid in him. He punched in Benjamin’s number.
“Frank Elmore,” a rough-hewed voice replied.
“Frank, Joe Reeder. We’re here.” He told Elmore where exactly.
“Our security chief will pick you up,” Elmore said curtly.
“Thanks,” Reeder said, but Elmore clicked off halfway.
Rogers picked up on that. “Benjamin’s majordomo?”
“Real sweetheart. Somebody you might consider dating.”
She crinkle-smiled and elbowed him.
Perhaps a minute later, a tall man in a navy suit approached, earbud in, mic attached to his cuff. Short dark hair, brown eyes, angular no-nonsense features, the security man was someone Reeder knew welclass="underline" former Secret Service agent Jay Akers. Akers, usually affable, wore a vaguely troubled look that few but Reeder would have picked up on.
Still, Akers managed a smile. “Peep, how the hell have you been? Been too long.”
They shook hands. Reeder wondered if perhaps Akers sensed he was on his way out as security chief, the Benjamin spot that Reeder had turned down. Too bad for Akers — he was a smart, decent guy and an able agent.
“Jay, meet the FBI’s finest,” Reeder said, gesturing to his companion. “Special Agent Patti Rogers. Patti, Jay Akers — he and I worked presidential detail together, a lifetime or two ago.”
Akers smiled, said, “No need for an introduction, Agent Rogers. You’re almost as famous as Peep here.”
“Almost,” she said with her own little smile.
Akers let out some air. “Better get you two inside.”
As they headed up the steps, Rogers on his left, Akers on the right, Reeder said to the ex-agent, “So you’re head of security, huh?”
“That’s the job description.”
“Do I detect discontent?”
“No, no. Everything’s fine.”
Something in the man’s voice, however, said just the opposite to Reeder. So did the anxious micro-expressions that Akers never would have guessed he revealed.
They were inside now, past the metal detectors, the crowd all around them as they made the shuffle toward the auditorium. He and Rogers had both dressed up somewhat for the evening, but around them was everything from near formal wear to baseball caps and running pants.
Keeping his voice low, but up over the crowd murmur, Reeder asked, “Jay, what’s wrong?”
“Who said something was wrong?” Akers said with a smile that said something was wrong.
“Don’t shit a shitter, my friend.”
The smile disappeared. “Call you tomorrow — we’ll get a drink. Catch up.”
“Don’t blow me off, buddy.”
“No. We should talk. We will talk.”
Akers led them into the auditorium and the three went down the center aisle toward the stage.
Reeder said, “Jay, if there’s something pressing we should...”
“It’ll keep,” Akers said.
The hall was festooned in red-white-and-blue bunting, seats filling up fast with such a cross section of Americans, the attendees might have been selected to represent every segment of American life. Had they been? Those pollsters of Benjamin’s at work, maybe?
On stage, a simple podium was adorned with a seal not unlike the presidential one, but saying “Common Sense.” The backdrop of satin-looking curtains of red, white, and blue were draped elegantly. Between the patriotic curtains and the podium were risers arranged with chairs, which (with the front row on the stage floor) added up to five rows. That was where the rich friends would be seated, Reeder knew, and any true-believer celebrities in attendance.
The hall had the political-extravaganza feel of a major political party convention. Above were nets brimming with balloons, as if Benjamin was about to win the nomination of some party or other. In a sense, maybe he would, since this appeared to be the de facto coronation of Benjamin as the Common Sense Movement candidate for president.
The speech would be broadcast by all the news channels, and the networks, too — the latter had declined to interrupt their programming until Benjamin bought an hour of prime time. Adding in live Internet streaming, the expected audience was in the double-digit millions.
In twenty-four hours — if Benjamin was as convincing a public speaker as he’d been in private at the Holiday Inn Express — everybody in America, and many worldwide, would know he was a serious political player. Those who hadn’t heard the speech live would catch YouTube highlights and hear water-cooler conversations and be caught up in the Big News that the Common Sense Movement had become.
Impressive what a down-to-earth small-town former professor could pull off with a persuasive, folksy gift for gab...
... and billions of dollars.
Hell, at least Benjamin had earned them. And the bill of goods he was selling was, for a change, a damn good one.
Akers led Reeder and Rogers over to a half flight of stairs up onto the stage at left. Looming over them was Frank Elmore, at the edge of the stage apron; he wore a dark-gray suit and a somewhat oversize American flag lapel pin, the scar on his cheek shining pink under the bright TV lights. On left and right, taking up some audience seating, were platforms on which were positioned manned TV cameras on tripods, the space also home to reporters seated at banquet tables.
Reeder touched Akers’s sleeve. “Jay, we’re not seated up there on stage, are we?”
“Why, yes.”
“I’m not comfortable with that. My presence will be taken as an endorsement.”
“Those are the seats reserved for you, Peep. Look, take it up with Frank. I have to go see if these amateurs they gave me to work with are at least correctly positioned... We’ll talk tomorrow at the latest.”