Fuck, yeah. Joe opened his mouth to answer when the front door opened and Felicity came in together with a gust of cold air. She was carrying something big wrapped in tinfoil and set it on the kitchen counter.
Felicity started slowly taking off her gloves, picking at each finger, enjoying the attention. One glove, the other...
Joe couldn’t stand it. “Well?”
“Well?” she echoed.
“What did you find out? Did you guys talk?”
“Yes, we did. We chatted. And she said absolutely nothing about herself. But she didn’t have to. One look at her and I knew. I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out yourself.”
Joe followed her out of the kitchen. “Figure what out?”
Felicity sat at her computer. Joe could swear that she didn’t touch the keyboard but it suddenly lit up. He’d often wondered if she had arranged her software to mess with their heads. When she was gone from her computer it automatically shut down. When she sat down in front of it, it automatically turned on.
“Who she is,” Felicity answered. Her fingers flew over the keyboard.
“So.” Joe bent as a number of photos appeared on Felicity’s monitor. “Who is she?”
She pointed at the screen. There was some kind of political event, someone at a podium, surrounded by other people. Joe peered closer and frowned. The person at the podium was Alex Delvaux. Joe had been in-country and then in rehab so he wasn’t too up on politics, but it looked like a rally. He remembered that Alex Delvaux had been contemplating a run for the presidency before being killed, together with his entire family, in the Washington Massacre.
Felicity placed a fingertip over a woman in the background on the podium. The features weren’t clear, all the faces were a blur. She was good-looking but all the Delvauxes were good-looking. Had been good-looking. Now they were all dead.
“So what is it?” he asked, impatiently. He wanted to know what she’d found out about Isabel.
“Here she is. Your next-door neighbor.” Felicity tapped once on the face. “Isabel Delvaux.”
Washington, DC
Phase two was tall and distinguished-looking, with a shock of iron gray hair and craggy features. Phase two was also dumb as a rock, which Blake was counting on.
“Hector!” John London stood up with a fake smile showing fake teeth, manicured hand outstretched. Nice dry handshake. “Sit down, sit down! Can I offer you something? Cup of coffee? They have a nice Colombian roast, hill country beans. Or maybe a cup of tea? Loose leaf Darjeeling, none of this tea bag shit.”
“Tea would be fine,” Blake murmured, knowing better than to ask for a drink, which he would have preferred. London was an aggressive teetotaler, having been a drunk half his life. He was a dry drunk, incredibly vain and a massive hypocrite.
Blake had hated him for thirty years.
“Wife and kids?” Blake asked, sitting across from London in an old cracked Chesterfield. The Voyagers Club, founded in 1895, was proud that it hadn’t updated the decor in over two hundred years. There were no more explorers in the upper reaches of America’s elite, but the old tradition of what happened in the Voyagers Club staying in the Voyagers Club still reigned. As old-fashioned as it was, some pretty high-tech people went over it weekly, checking for spyware. It was as safe a place to talk serious business as existed in Washington.
Elites need safe spaces and this was one. A lot of secret business had been done here and it had never escaped these walls.
“Wife and kids are fine,” London said easily. They all hated his guts, as Blake knew. London had two kids. One was a high-functioning cocaine addict who worked on Wall Street and the other was on her fourth husband. London’s wife was a dedicated fashionista who disliked her husband but who wanted ferociously to be First Lady.
Well, Blake was here for that very reason. A reason that had vast geopolitical repercussions, that would change the course of history, but that would, as a minor consequence, make Lindsey London, clotheshorse extraordinaire and superbitch, First Lady.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Blake said. “But I didn’t ask you to meet me to exchange pleasantries. I’m here to talk business.”
London tried really hard to put on an intelligent face. Blake knew that he would report every word back to his campaign manager, Ed Dabny, so Ed could parse it for him. This would make Ed’s day. Not to mention Ed’s decade. Because when London won, Ed would be chief of staff.
Of the president of the United States.
“Business, eh?” London’s face gleamed. Just a little sweat of anxiety. He knew perfectly well Blake was smarter than he was and he suspected some kind of double cross. “What kind of business?” London made a pathetic stab at keeping the worry out of his voice.
Blake plucked at the knife-sharp pleat in his Ermenegildo Zegna trousers. He hoisted his foot slightly to admire his Gucci loafer.
Lifting his head he met London’s eyes. “Did you read the blog in Area 8?”
Area 8 was quickly becoming the most important political blog in the city, razor-sharp speculation coupled with deep hard news.
London dipped his head, suppressing a smile. “Sure.”
Liar. London didn’t read. Ed read for him. But Ed would have summarized this one. The article had pulled together a lot of other articles and had quoted interviews with some movers and shakers.
According to Area 8, Blake had decided to run. To pick up the mantle of Alex Delvaux and run on his pro-business but green platform. Scuttlebutt had it that Blake was going to ask London to be his veep, though London wasn’t on the Area 8 list.
London had already done the math. After the Massacre, Blake was a shoo-in for the nomination and would undoubtedly win the election. And after his two terms, London would still be under sixty and could run himself.
Eight years at Blair House and another eight at the White House. That was what was dancing through London’s handsome but empty head.
“I read it. And I watched Meet the Press last Sunday, too. Interesting times, eh?” London was watching him avidly.
Blake sipped his tea. “Everyone’s talking about possible VP selections. Fraser, Monti. And Kristen Nash. She’s a woman. That hasn’t been done yet, except on TV. A female veep. What do you think?”
“Nash. She was a firebrand DA when she was young. Some of her prosecutions might come back to bite her in the ass. Though it is a fine one.” London smiled smugly, knowing he could say things like this in the Voyagers Club and no one would object. Blake sure wouldn’t. Kristen Nash did have a world-class ass.
“It is indeed.” Blake tilted his head. “So, that’s Area 8’s list of possible VP candidates. The next president is going to have a hell of a lot on his plate.”
“Or hers.”
Blake bowed his head. “Good point. Or hers. So—after the Washington Massacre things have become more difficult. The military has still not stepped down from DEFCON 3. Costs us a billion a day.”
London put on his policy face, the one he put on several times a week when going on news shows. His handsome head had been seen everywhere in the past couple of months. “Not to mention the market losses and economic downturn. The next report from the OBM will say that unemployment is at a ten-year high. We’re going to need a strong hand on the tiller. And whoever is president is going to need a really good team, starting with the veep.”
This was a little piece of red meat thrown out to Blake, the presumed strongest candidate. London was telling him that he expected Blake to be the candidate and win the election and that he wanted to be in the cabinet. Or even better, to be veep.
Blake gave a deep sigh. Looked down at the carpet in contemplation. “In all confidence, John—”
“Yes?” London leaned forward.
“I’ve been given assurances that the party will swing behind me. Armstrong and Macy want a whack at it, and DeLuca wants another try, but the party feels that if a strong front-runner is established early on, it won’t be torn apart during the primaries. I was told that if I declare now, I can sail through New Hampshire and Iowa. Now that is a lot to take on. A lot depends as well on coming up with a viable and valuable veep candidate.”