“Happy New Millennium!” Will cried, eliciting flinches from both people.
“Senator, I hope this isn’t your idea of a joke,” Tim groaned. “I was out until four.”
“I haven’t even been to bed,” Kitty said.
“Sorry about that; my last guests didn’t leave until after two, so I’m a little fuzzy around the edges myself.”
“So what’s up?” Kitty asked. She was the less patient of the two.
“I wanted to talk to you today, because the building is pretty much empty, and I didn’t want anybody around.”
“You firing us?” Tim asked.
“No, I’m doubling your workload.”
“Swell,” Tim replied.
“This stays among the three of us, until I say differently, agreed?”
“Agreed,” the two said in chorus.
“No spouses or lovers to know.”
“Agreed,” they said again.
“I want you two to start — today, right now — to put together a plan for a run for the presidency.”
“The presidency of what?” Tim asked, looking blank.
“The United States of America.”
Tim’s expression didn’t change, and Kitty looked just as blank.
Will sat there and let it sink in.
“Okay,” Kitty said finally, “I’ll bite. What’s the punch line?”
“I started with the punch line,” Will said.
“Senator,” Tim said slowly, “don’t you think it’s a little early to start planning a campaign for eight years hence?”
“I’m running this year,” Will said.
Kitty piped up. “I didn’t see the Post this morning; did Joe Adams drop dead last night?”
“I saw him at midnight, and he looked fairly alive to me.”
“Let me get this straight,” Tim said. “You, of all people, are going to run against Joe Adams?”
Will took a deep breath. “I can’t answer many questions,” he said. “Just take my word for it.”
Tim and Kitty exchanged a long look.
“Well,” Tim said, “can we assume that you know something we don’t?”
“Tim, Kitty, it’s not inconceivable that someday someone may ask you for an account of this conversation. I’d like you to be able to answer, truthfully, that I didn’t tell you anything, except that I intended to make the run, and that you took my word for it.”
“All right,” Tim said, “you’re running, and I’m going to do everything I can to help.”
“Me too,” Kitty echoed.
“But we can’t tell anybody we’re helping?”
“Not for the moment.”
“Then how can we organize a campaign?”
“I want you to put together a structure that will serve us from the day I announce until the second Tuesday in November — everything from issues to fund-raising. Make a chart. Next to every box I want you to write a name — more than one — we won’t get everybody we want. There should be a campaign manager at the top, and I don’t want a figurehead; I want a working manager. You know what the other boxes will be; they won’t be all that different from the senatorial campaigns.”
“Are we going to get Tom Black in on this?” Kitty asked.
“Not yet. Tom’s on hold; he won’t commit to anybody else. I want to keep this as close as the three of us and Kate — and Kate, although she knows, will be at arm’s length throughout, for obvious reasons. She’s not going to quit her job.
“Back to your chart: On the day we’re ready, I want to be able to call everybody we need very quickly. When this happens, it’s going to happen fast; I doubt if we’ll have a week between the moment of the final decision to go and the announcement, and I want to have everybody who’s really important to us aboard during that week. I want to hit the ground running so fast that nobody will ever be able to catch us. Right now, our only advantage is that my eventual opponents don’t know they’re running.”
“How much time do we have before you make the absolutely final decision? I mean, when is go day?” Tim asked.
“I can only guess, but I should think it will happen this month.”
“How much can we spend?”
“Nothing. We’ve got about three-quarters of a million in my campaign fund, but we can’t touch it yet. One of the first things we’ll have to do on go day is round up enough people in enough states to get enough signatures on petitions to qualify for federal campaign funding. Pay particular attention to that.”
“Of course,” Tim said.
“Forgive me for stating the obvious, but I want every base covered. Kitty, of course you’ll pay particular attention to the press operation, but I want you also to concentrate on finding us the right person to assemble and train a staff of advance people. We’ll want someone who can pick up the phone and recruit at least a dozen experienced people on day one.”
“We’re going to need a campaign headquarters in Washington,” Tim said.
“Put that at the top of your list.”
“Can I feel out some people on real estate?”
“Absolutely not. Your effort has got to be completely secret until we go, and I’ll tell you how secret: I gave you both briefcases for Christmas?”
“Yes, thanks very much,” Kitty said.
“Me too,” Tim echoed.
“They have locks on them. I don’t want you to create a piece of paper that won’t fit into those briefcases, and I want you to be practically handcuffed to them. In the unlikely event that you have time to go out to dinner or to the movies, I want those briefcases securely locked in a safe. You are to talk to no one, not even each other, about this on the telephone. You are to create no computer files, not so much as a memo on this subject. You are not to talk to each other about this anywhere except in this room, in your offices or homes, or in my office, and then only behind a locked door.
“You’re going to have to keep regular office hours and do your regular work. I don’t want anyone on the staff to know or even suspect what you’re doing. Don’t say anything to anybody that might make them think you’re working on anything special.”
“Whew!” Kitty said. “This is going to be tough.”
“It won’t have to be secret for all that long; just in this initial organizing phase. We ought to be able to get a lot done today, since nobody is going to come looking for us until dinnertime.”
They both nodded.
“And I want you to find me a Holy Man.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I don’t mean a guru or a television evangelist; I mean a man or a woman — a lawyer — who is so clean, so upright, that no one would ever believe him capable of doing a wrong thing. I want this person to be in charge of two things: one, to see that we strictly conform to both the letter and the spirit of the campaign-finance laws; and two, to serve as a sounding board on ethics, so that if anyone on the campaign has the slightest doubt that what he is about to do comes close to the line, he can call the Holy Man and get advice. The Holy Man’s opinion will be final.”
“Someone from academia,” Tim said.
“Or a retired federal appeals court judge,” Kitty chimed in.
“You’re getting the picture. If Oliver Wendell Holmes could be resurrected, he’d be ideal.”
“How are Kitty and I going to divide our time between the office and the campaign, once we’re under way?” Tim asked.
“You’re not. It has to be one job or the other; I don’t want anyone to be able to say that I’m using Senate staff to run my campaign. Frankly, I’d like you both on the campaign, but I’ll leave the final decision to you.”
“I want the campaign,” Kitty said.