The vice president began his speech in the middle of the luncheon’s main course, preaching his stock spiel on foreign policy until everyone’s genetically unmodified ducks were down to the bone. With the tiramisu and coffee delivered, it was time to come in for a landing.
“I say to you today that education and compassion will be the hallmarks of my administration. I have traveled this country and seen great need. I have traveled this country and seen even greater kindness. It comes by way of churches and non-profit organizations. It comes from well-structured government programs. Most of all, it comes from people like you. People who give time and money, and a helping hand to those facing hardships.”
A polite round of applause broke the vice president’s rhythm, and of course he allowed it. Happily, he saw the teleprompter pause as well. He’d stumbled there earlier, during the party convention. Rapturous applause had intervened once too often that night and the text ran ahead, mismatching his speech. He’d covered reasonably well, although on leaving the stage he had fired the media tech on sight. Today there were no such troubles.
He picked up again on a cadence that was almost musical. “My campaign for president is nearing the finish line. For almost four years now I have served as vice president of this great country, and I have fought the fights worth fighting. That record will serve as the foundation for the worthy programs I’ve outlined.” A thoughtful pause to build anticipation. “In the course of my campaign, I’ve met a great many Americans, men and women, even children, who ask that most noble of questions—How can I help? By attending this fundraiser, each of you has already begun to do so. But I’d like to tell you about one man in particular whom I recently had the pleasure of meeting. It was in the Midwest, and his name was Thomas — not Tom, he was very insistent about that — and he was down on his luck. Thomas had lost his job in a company that manufactured American flags. That’s right… American flags. His job had been outsourced overseas. We met in a soup kitchen, yet Thomas took no shame in that. He stood tall and proud, and he asked what he could do to help my campaign.”
Another heavy pause.
“That’s right — what he could do to help me. Thomas said he was homeless, and he jested that I was too — as you may know, the United States Naval Observatory, the traditional home of the vice president, has been undergoing extensive renovations. We had a good laugh about that before Thomas turned serious. He reached into his tattered jacket and pulled out one of his few possessions in the world, something he thought might help get my message across. He said he hoped it would raise money for my campaign, because if I was elected he knew I’d keep my promise to help others who found themselves in his situation.”
The vice president reached under his lapel and extracted a large piece of folded cardboard. “So, for one night, ladies and gentlemen, I have a new fundraising director, and his name is Thomas.”
He unfolded the cardboard sheet, and showed the audience a message drawn in bold block letters.
HOMELESS
NEED MONEY
GOD BLESS
Cameras flashed and the crowd went wild, normally sedate lawyers and bankers and businessmen cheering as if they were at a high school football game. It was a moment. It was the moment. Martin Stuyvesant, Democratic Party nominee for president, clasped his hands over his head and smiled like a candidate with a ten-point lead in the polls.
Which was exactly what he was.
He milked the moment for all it was worth, shaking hands with the mayor of Cleveland, two congressman who were sweating reelection, and a man in uniform who was a something-or-other in the Ohio National Guard. Stuyvesant kept smiling all the way off stage, waving and slapping shoulders, pointing his finger occasionally as if recognizing someone special in the sea of strangers. As soon as he was backstage and clear of the cameras, his smile transformed — less broad and fewer teeth on display, but still in place. A more inward pleasure.
Roger Gordon, his campaign manager, sidled up and the two began walking. “We need to talk,” Gordon said through the side of his mouth.
Stuyvesant said, “Did you hear that? They loved it!”
“You need to tell me before you do something like that. It could easily have backfired if—”
“If I hadn’t set it up so well? Give me a little credit, Rog.”
“Is there really a guy named Thomas?”
“Of course. Only he made me promise not to send any attention his way.”
Gordon took his candidate by the elbow. He leaned in close as they steered through the exit and back to the campaign bus. “Marty, we are ten weeks away from the goddamn White House. A nine-point lead is good, but you can still screw this up.”
“Ten points — CNN and Gallup both.”
Gordon’s voice broke to a whisper, “What’s happening down in Colombia could flip that overnight.”
Stuyvesant stopped short of the bus’s stairs. “Is there something new?”
Gordon’s gaze drifted to a group of reporters behind a barricade fifty feet away. They were shouting questions across the divide. “Wave and smile, then get on the damned bus. There’s someone inside you need to meet.”
Stuyvesant did exactly that, and soon the door shut behind them. The interior of the bus was plush, configured as an executive suite with meeting tables and couches arrayed in the forward salon, a small bed and study in the back. Stuyvesant saw three others at the main conference table: his chief of staff, Bill Evers, his top strategist, Maggie Donovan, and a coarse-looking, wiry man he’d never met.
Everyone rose as Stuyvesant approached, and Evers said, “Martin, I’d like you to meet Vincent Kehoe.”
It did not escape Stuyvesant that Evers had ignored his title of vice president — it meant that whatever Kehoe was, he wasn’t a wealthy donor. The man had snapped to his feet and stood practically at attention, the way the Marine guards did around the White House when the one-term outgoing commander-in-chief, Truett Townsend, ambled up the corridors. Yes, he thought, Kehoe was unquestionably ex-military — Stuyvesant himself had never served, but he’d seen plenty of the sort. The man looked like he was built from a series of coiled springs. Sinew and muscle, not an ounce of fat anywhere. Stuyvesant guessed him to be on the near side of thirty. He was clean-shaven with a receding hairline, what was left on top he cropped in a way that said he really didn’t give a damn. The two shook hands, and Stuyvesant felt a firm grip, although one he suspected was being kept in check.
When everyone sat, Evers said, “We were able to arrange funding for the ransom to be paid—”
Stuyvesant cranked his eyes sharply to his chief of staff, who caught his look.
“Sorry. Mr. Kehoe is directly involved. He’ll be the one going to Colombia to retrieve the girl. He works for a very discreet private company and has been thoroughly vetted. I won’t bore you with his resume — suffice to say, he’s done this kind of thing before.”
“Does he know…” Stuyvesant searched for the words, “why we are so concerned about this abduction?”
Kehoe answered. “No, sir. I know we are dealing with the kidnapping of a young girl, and that I am to make a ransom payment and extract the victim with the greatest possible discretion. Those are my orders and it’s all I need to know.”
Stuyvesant grinned. “Good answer. What are the arrangements?”
Evers said, “Mr. Kehoe will be flying south later today, a private jet arranged by his employer.”