“This is the White House operator. Will you speak to the vice president?”
“Of course.”
There was a click. “Hello, Will?”
“Good morning, Joe.”
“I hope I’m not calling too early.”
“No; I was about to call you.”
“I wanted to have your views on our conversation of yesterday, after you’d slept on it.”
“Joe, I understand what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. In your place, I might very well do the same thing.”
“Is there a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence?”
“There is.”
“Give me your best advice, Will.”
“I’ll try, Joe, but you have to consider that my advice may be colored by my own interests.”
“I doubt it, but I’ll take that into account.”
“Joe, I think you should wait until after the holidays, then resign.” There was a long silence before Adams spoke, and when he did, Will caught a hint of hurt in his voice.
“Give me your reasons,” he said.
“Whatever the state of your illness and its progression, the public perception of it is one of decline and delusion. You couldn’t continue in office if the country knew, and I don’t think you should keep this from the country.”
“Are you worried about how I might behave if I continue in office?”
“No, I think you and Sue together could figure out if you got to the point where you couldn’t make good decisions. But you can’t predict accurately if or when that might happen. There’s also the danger of this getting out.”
“I believe I have it contained,” Adams said.
“Still, there are a number of people who know, and if there were a leak, you wouldn’t be able to control the situation.”
“That’s possible but not likely.”
“Joe, I tell you this as your friend and admirer: The only way you can control this situation is to announce it and resign. If you don’t, control will eventually pass to someone else, perhaps not someone of your choosing. If you leave office, you can still have influence. People will judge you by the quality of your reasoning and your statements. If you keep this quiet, and it becomes known, then doubt will be cast on your every action and utterance during the time it was a secret. You must see that.”
“I certainly see that as a possibility. It’s a question of how much risk I’m willing to assume.”
“I suppose it is,” Will replied. “But I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t tell you exactly how I felt.”
“I thank you for your advice, Will, and for your honesty and candor,” the vice president said. “I’ll be in touch. Merry Christmas to you and your family.”
“And Merry Christmas to you and yours, Joe.”
The line went dead. Will turned to Kate. “I’m not going to announce while he’s still a candidate; people would think I’m crazy if I did. And when Joe finally did pull out, they’d think that he and I had somehow colluded to get me the nomination, and they’d be right. They’d think I was using Joe’s illness to my own advantage.”
“That’s not true; you’d never do that.”
“The appearance would be there.” Will sighed. “I wish I didn’t know about this; I wish Joe hadn’t called us up there and told us. I’d rather have found out at the same time as everybody else.”
“In my business,” Kate said, “there’s no such thing as too much information. At the very least, Joe has given you time to think and plan. That’s a great gift.”
“It’s one I’d rather not have.”
“Nevertheless, you’re stuck with it.”
6
By midmorning they were up and dressed and had stopped talking about Joe Adams. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Will was trying to read a novel, a pleasure denied him except when he was at home in Georgia, and Kate was rummaging through the Atlanta Constitution, looking for international news. There was a knock on the door, and Henry entered.
“Morning, Senator, Mrs. Lee,” he said, handing them each packages. Will’s office was already sending him papers to read, and Kate got a daily pouch from the Agency that was, somehow, hand-delivered each morning, even when they were in Delano.
Will noticed that Kate also got an ordinary letter through the U.S. mail, which surprised him, since she never got any mail there, except from Peter. The letter was not on the stationery that they had given the boy. She went through the pouch first, then made a call to her office on the secure line that the CIA had provided, leaving Will wondering about the letter. Finally, she opened it, read it more than once, returned it to its envelope, and put the envelope in her purse.
Kate looked at her watch. “I need to take the car,” she said. “I’ll be gone for several hours.”
“What?” Will asked, surprised. Kate never went off on her own when they were in Georgia.
“It’s business,” she said.
That ended the discussion. They had long ago agreed that Kate would not discuss her work. “Sure,” he said. “What time will you be back?”
In plenty of time for dinner,” she said. “Probably in time for a long walk, if you’re up to it.” She was always at him about his lack of exercise.
“I’ll borrow Dad’s cane,” Will said.
She pecked him on the cheek, took the car keys, and left the house.
Will tried not to be curious about Kate’s work, but she had never had business in rural Georgia before, and he couldn’t help wondering about it.
After Kate had gotten onto the interstate and headed north toward Atlanta, she took out the letter and read it again. It was written in a hand she had not seen for many years.
Dear Kate,
I know about J.A.’s problem. It is most important that you and I meet without delay. You can come anonymously anytime between eleven and two, weekdays. Any other time, you’ll have to show some official ID. This is important to Will’s future.
Kate felt sick to her stomach.
Atlanta Federal Penitentiary was on the map and easy to find. She found a visitor’s parking space, went to the main gate, and made her request. After half an hour’s wait she was taken into the main building, down a series of corridors and to a small room, divided by a heavy wire mesh, with a door at each end. After another ten minutes a man in a suit arrived.
“My name is Hill,” he said. “I’m an assistant warden. May I see some identification?”
Kate showed him her D.C. driver’s license.
He handed it back to her. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
She gave him her Agency ID. “I don’t want an official record of this visit,” she said.
“It will have to be entered in his record,” Hill replied, “but I doubt if anyone will ever look at it.”
She nodded. “Is the room wired?”
The man shrugged. “Would you rather see him outside? It’s pretty cold.”
“Yes, I don’t mind.”
“Do you have any problem with not being physically separated from him?”
“No.”
“Please wait.” The man left, then returned five minutes later. “Follow me.” He led her to a door that opened into a small courtyard that had been planted as a garden, now dormant in winter. Ed Rawls stood up from a teak bench; he was wearing civilian clothes and a warm jacket.
“Hello, Kate,” he said, opening his arms wide.
Kate ignored the gesture. “Hello, Ed,” she said. “You’re looking well. Prison must agree with you.”
“I’ve lost a few pounds, I guess. Please, come sit down.” He beckoned her to the bench.
It was the only place in the courtyard to sit, so she joined him.