Research on Floyd Wayne Vishniak's brain waves was more like it. They were watching him. Waiting for him to figure out the conspiracy and make his move. And he had played into their hands. He had worn the watch. He had even sent them letters, explaining his opinions in detail, and in these letters, he had made the incredibly stupid mistake of tipping them off to the fact that he was suspicious.
He could have just taken the watch off his wrist and been free of it, but he was a little smarter than that. To take the watch off his wrist at this point would probably mean certain death. They would send out a hit man to get him.
To hell with a hit man. The watch probably was booby-trapped. It probably had a little needle coated with shellfish toxin, and if he tried to take it off now, that needle, activated by a satellite transmission from ODR headquarters, would jab into the underside of his wrist and shoot the poison straight into his vein. But as long as he kept wearing the watch, they'd think he had still been duped. He could continue his careful reconnaissance of the Cozzano campaign.
This was the first step: to get close to Cozzano, to get a good look at his security apparatus, and so memorize the faces of the people who were close to him. Not the obvious ones like Eleanor Richmond and Mary Catherine - they were just pawns too - but the men in suits who hovered around the edges, just out of reach of the arc light's rainbow-tinged border.
The platform was huge, as big as the stage for a major rock concert, and it was hollow, and all of the mysterious men in suits had special access to the cleverly concealed doors and stairways that led beneath. All the doors were guarded by uniformed cops who Would only let certain people through; you had to have a special backstage pass around your neck. But from time to time when some bigshot went in or out, a door would swing open for a few seconds, giving Vishniak a glimpse into the hidden world under Cozzano's feet. What he saw confirmed everything he'd been thinking: thick black cables snaking everywhere, and banks of television monitors, men wearing radio headsets, talking on phones and typing on computers. And in the center of it all, hard to glimpse through the tangle of technicians and cables and structural supports, sitting right in the middle of the web, was a semitrailer rig, a nice new one. He couldn't see enough of it to read the words on its side, but he didn't have to; you could recognize it from its color scheme; it was a GODS truck.
He took a good look at the people under the platform whenever those doors opened up. These were the ones who were controlling Cozzano's mind. The ones who, sometime between now and Election Day, were going to be taking nine-millimeter bullets between the eyes, fired from Floyd Wayne Vishniak's plastic gun.
Vishniak jumped up and down and screamed along with the crowd. "I'll save you, Governor Cozzano! I'll get you out of this conspiracy or die trying!" But his words of encouragement were lost in the tumult.
47
Eleanor didn't get a real chance to talk to William A. Cozzano until several hours after the announcement. She had met him once, briefly, prior to the debate, and spoken with him in formal circumstances, in a conference room full of flacks and advisers, before the announcement. After the announcement they had spent most of their time partying in the ballroom of Cozzano's hotel. This had not been a real party, of course, any more than a talk show appearance was a real conversation; it had been a staged event, and she had had to stay on her toes the entire time. She knew, without being told, that she was going to have to get in the habit of holding her tongue more than she was used to, and try to avoid making gaffes.
Finally, shortly before midnight, she and Cozzano and Mary Catherine got together in Cozzano's hotel suite, on the top floor of the hotel, naturally. The women changed out of their party dresses and into comfortable, casual clothes, and they had a nightcap up on the balcony.
She had known about William A. Cozzano for many years and she had always been a bit put off by the hypermacho foundations of his image: war and football. He had always seemed like the type who'd be great for smoking cigars and shooting wild game with corporate CEOs, but who wouldn't be able to handle the subtle nuances of national politics, who wouldn't really grasp women's issues.
After about five minutes on the balcony with him, she decided she was wrong. He wasn't a macho shithead at all. He was courtly in an almost European way and he had a fine, self-deprecating sense of humour. He had an easy rapport with his daughter that told Eleanor everything about what kind of man he was.
They ended up conversing for more than an hour. Cozzano had a penchant for anecdotes and he told several of them. Toward the end of the evening, Eleanor could tell that this was beginning to make Mary Catherine slightly uneasy. She would shift in her chair and say, "Oh, Dad!" when he was beginning to launch into a story. And as he was telling these stories, she would watch his face intently and occasionally frown or bite her lip.
Eleanor wasn't quite sure why. Cozzano liked to talk, but this was not senile rambling by any means. It didn't make Eleanor uncomfortable. He told his stories concisely and they always had a point that was germane to the conversation. But all they did was make Mary Catherine agitated.
It looked to Eleanor as though father and daughter had some talking to do, and so finally, a little after one in the morning, she excused herself, insisting that she could find her own way down to the lobby and back to her own hotel. She wanted to enjoy her last evening of freedom before her fulltime Secret Service contingent kicked in the following morning.
The elevator came quickly - demand was low at this time of the morning - and she climbed on and punched the button for the lobby. When the doors closed, she found herself alone in a room for the first time since Mary Catherine had come to see her earlier that day. She was exhausted. She dropped her tote bag on the floor, sagged against the wall of the elevator, closed her eyes, and heaved an enormous sigh.
This was the type of pressure she'd never known before. Since her first meeting with Cozzano earlier today, not a second had gone by without her photograph being taken. It boggled the mind to think about a lifestyle in which you could never pick your nose, never allow your hair or your face to get messy.
The elevator slowed. Eleanor opened one eye a crack and saw that they were passing the tenth floor. She closed her eyes again, content to spend another few minutes relaxing before she exited back into public life again - no doubt, photographers would be waiting on the sidewalk.
The doors opened and Eleanor sensed someone climbing on board. Remembering that she was now a role model, she forced herself to open her eyes and stand up straight. It was a thin man in a suit. He had very short hair and burning, hyperactive eyes. He was staring at her. His eyes dropped to her tote bag.
"Whatcha got there?" he said, brusquely.
"My stuff," she said, unable to come up with anything more eloquent at this time of the morning.
"What's this?" he said, bending over and reaching for it.
The tote bag was just a cheap freebie given to by her travel agent in Alexandria. Eleanor had brought it along precisely because it was so flimsy that it could be wadded up and stuffed into other luggage. Tonight it had come in handy for carrying a change of clothes. Right now she was wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt with TOWSON STATE printed across the front. Her party dress, jewelry, and purse were all in the tote bag. The purse was on top. As the man in the suit bent down, she followed his gaze, and saw that the strap of the purse - a heavy gold-plated chain, a la Chanel - was dangling out. His hand reached out, quick as a snake, grabbed the chain, and yanked, taking the purse out with it.