A Delicate Touch Page 14

  “Yes, sir,” Bernie said. “I thought it best to, since there was no one else in the office at that hour.”

  “Did he come back downstairs?”

  Bernie took a look at the hooks where the visitors’ passes were stored. “Yes, sir, he did.” He consulted his logbook. “Funny, his pass is there, but he wasn’t logged out.”

  “Where were you at the time?”

  “At lunch, in the employees’ cafeteria.”

  “Describe the man.”

  “About forty to fifty, five-nine or ten, pretty solidly built, glasses, a mustache, and a hat. Suit and tie. Briefcase, too, with a ham sandwich inside, according to the X-ray.”

  “Okay,” Hank said, then strode through security without pausing and took the elevator to the top floor, then walked to the receptionist’s desk. “Sheila,” he said, “did I have a visitor this morning?”

  “No, sir,” she replied. “You were in Washington.”

  “I know where I was. I want to know about a visitor.”

  She checked her logbook. “No, sir, no visitors.”

  “Anybody get off the elevator?”

  “Yes, sir, but he didn’t check in with me; he got right back on a down car. I guess he came to the wrong floor.”

  “Describe him.”

  Her description matched Bernie’s.

  “He didn’t go into my office, did he?”

  “No, sir. He got right back on another elevator and went down.”

  “To what floor?”

  “I don’t have any way of knowing that.”

  “Do the elevators produce an electronic log of their stops?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Find out, and see if it recorded where that man got off the down elevator.”

  “Yes, sir, right away.” She picked up a phone.

  Hank went into his office and had a good look around. Everything seemed in order, and his safe was locked. He walked back into reception, took the spiral staircase to the next floor up and asked if his father was alone. He was, so Hank knocked and walked into the big office. “Good morning, Dad,” he said, giving his father a kiss on the cheek.

  “Morning, Hank. How are you?”

  “Pretty good, actually. How’s Poppa?”

  “As cantankerous as ever.”

  The phone rang, and the elder Thomas picked it up. “Yes?” He handed it to Hank. “For you.”

  “This is Hank.”

  “Sir, the elevator log shows that the man was one of three people who traveled from this floor to the garage floor.”

  “Thank you.” Hank hung up and turned to his father. “Someone may have tried to breach our downstairs office,” he said.

  “Why do you think that?”

  Hank told him about the bogus visitor.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” his father said.

  The phone rang again, and again it was for Hank.

  “Yes?”

  “Sir, I checked with reception downstairs, and the only outsider to enter the downstairs floor today was a copy machine repairman, here to do a routine servicing of their copier.”

  “Did he have an appointment?”

  “No, sir, those people just turn up every few weeks and service the machines. Keeps them running smoothly.”

  “Did she know the man by sight?”

  “No, sir, they don’t often send the same man twice.”

  “Thank you.” Hank hung up.

  “Well?” his father said.

  “Could have been a copying machine repairman.”

  “There you go.”

  “Are we set for tomorrow?” Hank asked.

  “The day after tomorrow. A red district in south Georgia that’s threatening to turn blue, where the Dems have a hot young man who scared the pants off our candidate in their one debate. It’s tailor-made for our operation.”

  “I can’t wait to hear the result,” Hank said.

  “We’ve been running models for weeks, but this is our first real-time, hands-on shot at something real, even though it’s only a special election for a vacant seat.”

  “Do you still think it’s the right move for me to run as an independent?” Hank asked.

  “I do. The Republican Party is dead on its feet, and it’s going to take a real pasting in November. It looks like Secretary of State Holly Barker is going to announce for the Democratic primary, and she has very high approval ratings, in the sixties among all voters. You’ll have a better shot at stealing Republican votes as an independent.”

  “By giving their members a conservative independent to vote for.”

  “Exactly, and it could be the first step toward building a new party.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Even if I’m not, it won’t hurt your chances. You’re the fresh face the center-right needs at this time.”

  “Again, I hope you’re right. Should I go and say hello to Poppa?”

  “Sure, he’s up there.”

  Hank took the staircase up another floor and knocked on his grandfather’s door.

  “Come, godammit!” the old man yelled.

  Hank let himself in. “Hello, Poppa.”

  The old man stood and embraced him. “You’re a fine sight for these rheumy old eyes,” he said, holding his grandson at arm’s length and looking at him. “Have a seat. It’s not too early for a drink, is it?”

  “A small scotch would go down nicely,” Hank replied.

  His grandfather loved tending bar, and he came back with two glasses of amber liquid, each containing one very large ice cube.

  “Now, tell me everything,” Henry said, raising his glass.

  Hank told him about the test run two days hence.

  “If this works,” Henry said, “we can say goodbye to gerrymandering.”

  “Maybe some,” Hank said. “And we’re still not going to know if we can upscale from a special election in one district to the general election’s popular vote.”

  “Do you realize what it will mean for us if this thing works?” Henry asked.

  “I certainly do,” Hank said.

  The two of them sat and watched the tugs and liners come and go in New York Harbor, then they had a second drink.

  “How big a swing are you going for?” Henry asked.

  “It’s pretty close already, so we think a three percent swing will put things right. And we’ll leave some Russian fingerprints on the hack, just in case.”

  Henry raised his glass. “Here’s to three percent,” he said.

  34

  Stone went upstairs to change for dinner; he and Jamie were going to Daniel, the marvelous French restaurant uptown. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

  “It’s Holly,” she said.

  He warmed to the call immediately and sat down on the bed. “It’s so good to hear from you.”

  “I warned you it would be a while. I have to keep my distance from you until after the election.”

  “So I’m political poison, am I?”

  “In a manner of speaking, but anybody but the dullest man would be poison, and you’re not dull. We want the press focused on experience and policy, not my love life.”

  “Such as it is.”

  “Well, yes. Hang on to your hat.”

  “You’re announcing.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Wow. I can’t get my head around this.”

  “You’ve had plenty of time to get your head around it, Stone,” she said. “And I want to thank you for being so understanding about the distance I’ve kept. God knows, I’d rather be in bed with you every time I go to bed alone.”

  “That’s flattering.”

  “No, it’s just the truth. You should be happy about being kept in the backgr
ound. The press would make your life hell between now and the election.”

  “Who’s the opposition going to be?”

  “In the primary, nobody of consequence, but in the general, who knows? I’m getting vibes that Hank Thomas is going to leave the party and run as an independent.”

  “He’d have a better shot without you to run against in the primary.”

  “And as an independent, he’ll have no opponent, so he can cuss the candidates for both parties.”

  “Do you have any polling on you versus Hank?”

  “Yes, and I have a solid eighteen-point lead with him as an independent. Bigger, if he were in the Dem primary.”

  “That’s a good start,” Stone said.

  “Yeah, but I’m going to run as if it is a close race. He’ll get a big bump if the Republicans pick a weak candidate.”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “Noon on the Capitol steps, then I fly to Warm Springs for a live shot at Roosevelt’s Little White House on the evening news shows. I’m going to let my opponents run against me with FDR as my running mate.”

  “Good choice!”

  “Also, I’ll do all the Sunday shows this weekend from my office at State.”

  “Are you going to resign from State right away?”

  “No, I want to be seen as handling both my job and the campaign at the same time.”

  “Who do you want for a running mate?”

  “You, but I suspect you’re not available.”

  “Correct. Who do you want that is?”

  “I’ll probably wait until the convention to name somebody. I’ll see how they all behave until then.”

  “How about Peter Rule?” Peter was President Kate Lee’s son from her first marriage. He was also the junior senator from New York.

  “That’s an interesting idea, but it might look like too much sucking up to Kate.”

  “A good point. Have you talked with her about it?”

  “Only obliquely. She knows Peter’s a serious candidate, but she’s not sure whether it’s the best move for him. He’s young enough to wait his turn, and that would give him time to do some good work in the Senate before running.”

  “Will Lee would make a great running mate.”

  “He would overshadow me. You know what I’m thinking?”

  “What.”

  “If I’m elected, getting Will to run for Speaker of the House.”

  “But he’s not a House member.”

  “Most folks don’t know that you don’t have to be. Anybody at all can serve as speaker.”

  “I’m one of those who didn’t know that.”

  “Stone, what are you doing with yourself? Anything exciting?”

  “Yes, but I can’t talk about it on the phone. I’ll tell you when—or rather, if—I see you before the election. You’ll find it entertaining, I think.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. Well, I have a speech to memorize.”

  “Use the teleprompter, like everybody else.”

  “I’ve gotten by so far without that. I have an excellent memory.”

  “It will be an impressive sight to see a politician speaking extemporaneously, while not making a fool of herself.”

  “That’s the idea,” she said. “Now, you go and make love to somebody, and pretend it’s me.”

  Stone laughed, but she had already hung up. He decided to take her advice.

  * * *

  • • •

  THEY ARRIVED at the beautiful restaurant on East 65th Street and settled into a good table. They were still looking at the menu when the wine waiter brought over an ice bucket with a bottle of Dom Pérignon resting in it.

  “What’s this for?” Stone asked.

  The waiter placed a business card on the table, and Stone read it.

  “Who’s it from?” Jamie asked.

  “Rance Damien, but pretend you don’t know who that is.”

  She shrugged, and Stone looked around. “Which table?” he asked the waiter.

  “Three o’clock. The handsome young couple.”

  Stone looked at the card again, then at the indicated table. “I don’t know the gentleman,” he said. “Please take the bottle to him with our thanks, but tell him I’ve already chosen a wine.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Barrington.”

  “Why are we pretending not to know who he is?” Jamie asked.

  “Because he has seen me in the company of someone from the Times, and I don’t want him to think that our dinner has anything to do with him. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve never heard of him.”

  “Okay, I get that.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t look at him again,” he said. “Just look at me.”

  “That will be easy,” she said, and they went on with their dinner. By the time they were ready to leave, Damien had already left the restaurant.

  35

  The following day, Stone and Joan watched the noon news together and were given an abbreviated version of Holly’s announcement speech on the Capitol steps.

  “I’d call that short shrift,” Joan said.

  They liked better what they saw on MSNBC just after six o’clock. Holly stood on a small platform set before the main entrance to Roosevelt’s Little White House, in Warm Springs, Georgia.

  “We’ve had some good presidents, some great presidents, and a very few bad ones,” she said, “but to my mind, we’ve had only three very great ones. They are: George Washington, who saved the Revolution; Abraham Lincoln, who saved the Union; and Franklin Roosevelt”—she paused—“who saved the world.” She got a standing O from the crowd for that. When they had calmed down, she went on, “I think a Democratic president could do a lot worse than to model her administration on Roosevelt’s twelve years in office. Thank God we don’t have a world war in our laps, but many of our problems are very similar to those Franklin D. faced. Among them are the state of public education in our land, the lack of fully comprehensive health insurance for all Americans, and a national infrastructure that is very near being worn out. Barak Obama made a valiant effort to fix the infrastructure, but the Republicans in Congress cut his request for funds in half. That meant we could fix the potholes and save a few bridges from collapse under the weight of our cars, but while we were doing that, too many other problems arose and went unsolved.

  “Roosevelt created the Works Progress Administration, which built roads, bridges, and airports that we are still using today: the Golden Gate Bridge and LaGuardia Airport come to mind. I want to see a new, up-to-date version of the WPA hard at work again, curing our infrastructure sins of the past and building for the future, at the same time. I expect to pay for it all with a reasonable increase in the gasoline tax, something Congress hasn’t had the guts to deal with, but something that will see that the costs are defrayed most by those who use our infrastructure most. A permanent, nonpartisan national infrastructure commission will decide which projects to take on and which ones come first. But, for the time being, my running mate is going to be Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”

  Holly talked on for another five minutes, then thanked everyone, and the TV switched to a panel of pundits, who seemed mostly in favor of what she had said.

  “Much better,” Stone said. Stone sent a short e-mail to Holly’s private mailbox, which read:

  You done good.

  “Are we sending a campaign donation?” Joan asked.

  “I think that group of us who gave Kate’s political action committee a million dollars each can expect to hear from Holly’s campaign soon. When that happens, send them a check.”

  “What if she asks for more than a million?”

  “Good point,” Stone said. “We’d better start freeing up some cash in anticipation of being asked. Call Charley Fox at Triangle Investments and tell him to put together five million, w
ith due attention to capital gains taxes and offsetting them with any losses we may have.”

  “Surely she’s not going to ask those people for five million each?”

  “If she doesn’t, she’ll need more as we approach the convention and the election, and we’ll contribute then.”

  “As you wish, boss.” Joan went back to her desk and made the call.

  * * *

  • • •

  DOWNTOWN, THE THOMASES—grandfather, son, and grandson—watched Holly’s performance.

  “Shit!” Hank said when she was done.

  “I take it you’re not going to vote for her,” his father said.

  “That speech made me want to,” Hank said, “but I fought off the urge. I think we’ll wait until next week to announce, after her appearance has had time to cool off in the public mind.”

  “Good idea,” his grandfather said. “What do you hear from the special election in Georgia?”

  “It’s too early,” Hank replied. “We’ll know something before bedtime, though, I think.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Stone turned on Morning Joe at breakfast and got a report on the Georgia special election. Chandler Dodd, who had been leading the polls by a point or two going into the election, had lost by two points.

  * * *

  • • •

  STONE WAS at his desk at eleven o’clock, thinking about lunch, when Joan buzzed.

  “Somebody named Dodd is calling from Georgia, something about an election.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” Stone said, pressing a button. “Mr. Dodd?”

  “Yes, Mr. Barrington. I’m calling to thank you for the generous campaign contribution you sent us a few weeks ago. It helped us almost bring it off, but as I expect you’ve heard, not quite.”

  “You’re very welcome for the donation, Mr. Dodd, and you have my condolences on your race.”

  “Call me Chan, please. The other thing I called about is: I think we’re going to bring a lawsuit to set aside the vote and demand a recount.”

  “Well, that’s a daunting prospect,” Stone said. “What grounds do you have?”