I’ve done this because I heard about what you did to that poor Rawls fellow, apparently thinking he was me. It’s no skin off my nose, of course, but it did give me a hint of how vindictive you can be, so I thought a little shot across your bow was in order. If the columnists call you for a comment, or if you can figure out who they are, then you have a chance of stopping the story.
I’m aware of some other things about you that would make good reading, in addition to the one mentioned in my earlier letter. If you make any other attempt to locate me, or if the information about the previously mentioned person’s health leaks, or even if you mess with Rawls again, I’m going to become the Johnny Appleseed of yellow journalism.
Don’t mess with me, Freddie. You’re out of your league.
Love and kisses,
Quickly, Freddie examined the envelope. It was postmarked New York City. The letter seemed to have been set in type, so it had probably come from a computer printer, impossible to trace. Freddie held the paper up to the light and found a watermark; it read: State of New York, and the seal was there, too.
“Jesus God,” Freddie said aloud to himself. “Who is this son of a bitch?”
35
Will stood and looked at his campaign airplane. It was an elderly Boeing 737, leased from a creditor of a failed regional airline, and adapted, slightly, for his purposes. It contained a desk and a sofa where he could sometimes catch an hour’s sleep, plus a lot of first-class-sized seats for staff and press. It was seedy, smelly, and, at the moment, broken. “How long?” he asked the pilot.
“At least four hours,” the pilot said. “They’re driving a part up from Albuquerque. Could be six hours.”
Will turned to Kitty. “Make the necessary adjustments in the schedule, but before you do, rent me a car.”
“A car?”
“And don’t mention it to the Secret Service.”
“Senator...”
“Just do it, Kitty, please.”
Will drove north, with no particular destination in mind. He just wanted to get away from the business of campaigning for a while, and this was the first real opportunity he had had in months. He enjoyed driving himself again and not having to talk or listen. He was not a happy candidate.
He came to a fork in the road and took the one toward Los Alamos, because he had never been there. All he knew about the place was that the first atom bomb had been built there, and that there was a huge laboratory where weapons were still designed.
Will had known that running for president was going to be hard, but he had never realized how hard. On the plus side, he had a good organization, great volunteers, a knowledge of the issues, and well-thought-out positions on everything. On the minus side, fund-raising was lagging, and even with federal matching funds, he was coming up short on television money.
Then there was George Kiel. Will had underestimated the planning that Kiel had been doing for this campaign, apparently for years. The man had an unmatchable network of people in what seemed like every party organization in the country, and he was taking a lot of campaign money that Will wouldn’t touch. The result was an avalanche of very good, if conventional, television advertising that was hurting Will in many states, and the fact that Will was behind in delegate votes for the coming convention.
But what bothered Will more than anything was his belief that Kiel could not beat Eft Efton in the general election. He could see this scenario playing out: Kiel is nominated, and party bigwigs, terrified that he might lose to Efton, bring unbearable pressure on Will to accept the vice-presidential slot on the ticket.
Will did not want to be vice president, not even with the promise that, after two terms, he could be the party’s nominee for president. Still, he didn’t know if he could stand up to the pressure when the demand came.
The road was rising, winding through spectacular mountain and canyon scenery. Will rolled down his window, and cooler air than he had expected rushed into the car. Finally, he pulled over to a roadside parking place and got out of the car. He was high above the Rio Grande, and the landscape stretched to the south toward Santa Fe. He could make out adobe buildings in the town, even see where the airport should be. Western scenery always amazed him, and the clarity of the air made this spectacular.
He wanted to talk to Kate right now, but she was in her office at the CIA, and when he talked to her there, he could never know if their conversation was being recorded. He wanted her to tell him not to take the VP nomination, that she would leave him if he did, that she would hate him for backing down to the party. He wanted her to scream at him, to put some iron back into his backbone.
He breathed deeply of the thin mountain air, but he didn’t seem to be able to get enough oxygen. He tried to imagine being vice president, and he couldn’t. There was one man who could help him. He took his cell phone from a pocket, dialed the White House number, and asked for Vice President Adams.
A secretary answered the call, recognized his voice, and put him on hold. A moment later Susan Adams came on the line.
“Will? How are you?”
“I’m all right, Sue, if a little tired. Can Joe find a moment to speak to me?”
“He’s in an important national security meeting right now, Will, and his schedule is really tough today. Is there anything I can help with?”
Adams wasn’t going to talk to him. “I just wanted to talk to him about the vice presidency.”
“The vice presidency? Are you considering that spot on the ticket?”
“Not really, but I know a moment might come when I might have to consider it, and I wanted Joe’s take on whether I should do it.”
“Will, I can tell you what Joe will say.”
“Then please do.”
“Joe has always hated being vice president, you know that.”
“I knew he wasn’t entirely happy with the job.”
“He was unhappy right up until the moment he became acting president. From that moment on, he was glad he took the job.”
“So if I take the vice presidential nomination, all I have to look forward to is the hope that George Kiel might clutch his chest and turn blue?”
“I don’t think Joe would put it as strongly as that, but that’s what it boils down to.”
“That’s pretty depressing,” Will said.
“Will, you know that Joe wants you to have the top job. That hasn’t changed.”
“To tell you the truth, I was beginning to wonder.”
“Joe just feels that he has to be seen remaining neutral in all his actions until the nomination is decided, no matter what his personal feelings.”
“What about at the convention? Is he going to take a position before the voting?”
“He hasn’t decided what to do about that,” Sue said. “He’s thought about it a lot, believe me.”
“How is Joe feeling, Sue? I mean, really?”
“He’s just fine about ninety-five percent of the time,” she replied. “I’m not sure that any of us can expect more than that.”
“I wish I were fine ninety-five percent of the time,” Will said.
“I’ve never heard you like this, Will. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Sue; maybe I’m flagging.”
“Don’t do that, Will; it’s too important. You don’t want to leave the country to George Kiel or Eft Efton, do you?”
“It’s not what I want, Sue; it’s what the party and the electorate want.”
“I think you can make them want you.”