“George doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.”
“Thad, let me put a couple of questions to you.”
“Shoot, but be quick.”
“First of all, are your delegates going to support a candidate who makes a political promise to accept the commission’s findings, then reverses his position for self-serving reasons?”
“That’s a legitimate question; I’ll put it to the delegates.”
“One more: If George is willing to reverse himself now to get your delegates’ votes, what’s to prevent him from reversing himself again after the election?”
Morrison was briefly silent. “I’ll put that question to them, too,” he said finally.
“That’s all I’ve got to say, Thad. Do your delegates understand that the nomination may be riding on how they vote on this?”
“If they don’t, I’ll explain it to them.”
“Will you call me back and let me know how they vote?”
“I can’t do that, Will; this is a closed caucus, and the results are not to be revealed until the vote tonight.”
“Thanks for listening, Thad.”
“Good luck, Will.” He hung up.
Will replaced the receiver and turned to the group in the living room of his suite. “Well, that’s it; it’s all I can do.”
“What did Morrison say?” Kitty asked.
“Just that he’d put my views to the delegates.”
Tim Coleman spoke up. “I’ve been doing the math,” he said. “If we lose eight or ten votes from California, it doesn’t have to cause a snowball, not if we do our work in the other delegations. If we can change a few votes our way, we can hold for at least another ballot.”
“We can’t go on coming in second,” Will said. “I think that, after this ballot, we’ll have trouble holding delegates from all over the country. If we lose this one, even by a few votes, we’re done.”
Patricia Lee spoke up. “Will, why don’t we talk about who your choice for vice president is going to be when you win?”
Everybody burst out laughing.
“That’s my ma,” Will said.
Across town, Zeke went into an electronics shop and began buying. He bought a telephone voice-mail system that was compatible with the Lucent equipment being used for the convention podium, a number of other parts, and some Lucent labels.
Back in his room, he unscrewed the top of the voice-mail box and, using the wiring diagram that had come with the unit, traced the printed circuits for various functions. When he had all the functions traced, he soldered a thin wire to a circuit, then attached the other end to a flashlight bulb. Using the system’s built-in recorder, he recorded a list of voice-mail options. Finally, he connected the voice-mail system to Rosa’s phone line and, using his cell phone, called the number.
“Welcome to the podium of the Democratic convention,” his own voice said. “Please choose from one of the following three options: If you wish to be connected to the podium, press one; if you wish to hang up, press two; and if you wish to set off an explosive charge that will blow the podium and anyone near it to eternity, press three.”
Zeke laughed aloud at his own joke. He pressed three and watched as the flashlight bulb lit up. Bingo! Then he rerecorded the third option. Now it said, “If you wish to be placed on hold for the rest of your life, press three.” That should keep anyone who was accidentally connected to the number from pressing three.
Chuckling to himself, he packed the equipment into a bag and left for the Coliseum.
“Senator,” Kitty said, “can I ask the obvious question? I mean, I know the answer, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Go ahead,” Will said.
“If George Kiel can play this game, why can’t you? Why can’t you just call Thad Morrison back and tell him you’ll keep the base open, then, after you’re elected, close the fucking thing. Would you really rather be right than president? Because, to tell you the truth, I’d rather be wrong and be the president’s press secretary.”
“Come on, Kitty, you know better than that.”
“All right, you wouldn’t make the next edition of Profiles in Courage, but you’d have a shot at running the country, you know?”
“Kitty, if somebody had told me six months ago that I’d find myself in this position, then maybe I wouldn’t have taken so firm a stand on the commission’s report; maybe I’d have found a way to weasel out of it or rationalize it, or something. But that’s not the way it happened. As it turned out, I took that position, then I repeated it ad nauseam to get other senators to support it, then I told everybody who’d listen that I wouldn’t change it. So I’m stuck with it, and that’s that. So, if we’re going to win this thing, we’re going to have to find another way to do it. Let’s get started.”
Zeke waited for a lull in the afternoon’s proceedings. Then, when the maintenance workers were on a coffee break, he went into the closet under the podium and installed his system, connecting it to the last of the six telephone lines coming into the podium. Only one of the numbers was given out; a caller dialed the first number, and if it was busy, the call rolled over to the second number, and so on, until all six lines were busy. When they were, a caller would get a busy signal. Only if the caller directly dialed the number for the sixth line would he reach Zeke’s voice-mail system, and only the telephone company and Zeke had that number. Zeke had copied it from the installer’s records.
He attached a Lucent label to the black box; he doubted if anyone would notice it, but if somebody took the lid off the box, the insides would look like nothing more than part of the phone system. He would attach the explosives later, after everyone was used to seeing the box there in the closet, and after the closet had been inspected numerous times.
Tim Coleman put down the phone in Will’s suite. It was a little after five.
“What?” Will asked.
“That was an acquaintance of mine who was at the California delegation’s caucus.”
“You didn’t tell me you knew anyone like that,” Will said.
“I didn’t want to mention it, in case the call never came.”
“And what was the result of the caucus?”
“Fifteen delegates switched their votes to Kiel.”
Will sagged. “Kiel was only fourteen votes short of the nomination.”
Patricia Lee spoke up. “It’s not over,” she said. “We’ve still got a chance to gain votes from other delegations.”
Tim shook his head. “I don’t see how we can make up that many votes before tonight.”
“Let’s get to work,” Will said.
50
Will and his inner circle of around two dozen people had a buffet supper in his suite as the convention opened and the balloting began. His campaign had put every possible person on the convention floor to canvass delegations, looking to change as many votes as possible.
“California!” the chairman called out.
The television screen was filled with the face of Governor Thad Morrison, who was deep in conversation on a cell phone.
“California!” the chairman called again.
Morrison held the phone against his chest and grabbed a microphone. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, his voice booming around the Coliseum, “California wishes to delay its vote until the end of balloting.”
Will grabbed Tim Coleman. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Tim replied, shaking his head. “I’ve heard nothing from my source; as far as I know, we’re still losing fifteen votes.”
“Something is going on here,” Will said. “I wish to God I knew what it was.”