Aftermath (55 page)

There was no information. Just what Saul had told her, that Tricia had been staying with people who were old friends from the time of her first marriage, when she had been Patsy Leighton.

Yasmin dug into the data bases using the limited query systems and cursed the inadequacies of both. A month ago this exercise would have been easy, everything in the world cross-referenced. Today she was poking and hopping and hoping.

Tricia Goldsmith = Patsy Leighton, wife of software czar Rumford Leighton. Here it came, a spreading family tree of the Leightons by birth and marriage. The display was inadequate to show the full array. The results had to be printed, agonizingly slowly. Yasmin collected a dozen output sheets and scanned them for familiar names.

Nothing.

Try the other end. Saul Steinmetz's political supporters. They were, judging from their printed descriptions, a rich and powerful group. A careful inspection revealed no overlap with the Leighton clan. Leightons were Dexter supporters, not Centrists. Try again. Here were the guests at political rallies and dinners that Saul had attended during the relevant time period. The records were spotty. Again they told Yasmin nothing.

The handlers, then, those specialists who commissioned Saul's opinion polls and interpreted the results. What about them? Another half-dozen sheets, more confusing than ever. Yasmin was tired, and even the names of the polling research companies began to sound unreal. There were scores of them. Almost every one of them seemed to have done something connected with the Steinmetz presidential campaign. She scanned them, intrigued by the company names. Brybottle and Marchpane, Gluff and Aspinall, Quip Research—jokes a specialty? Crossley and Himmelfarb, Lamb and Love. Thomas, Jacko, and Nelly, the retired vaudeville team. Male and Middle.

Yasmin paused. Something was nagging at the edge of her attention, but she couldn't bring it into focus. She went on, printing lists of campaign contributors for the relevant time period, but her mind was no longer on what she was doing. What was it, what had she missed?

The buzzer by her right hand sounded, so loudly that she jumped and knocked half her papers to the ground. She thought that no one knew she was here.

She pressed the access pad.

"Yes?"

"I need to speak with the President. It's urgent."

"He's not here at the moment."

She waited for the question: "So what are you doing in his private office?" But the woman at the other end said only, "This is Moira Suomita, the State Department Acting Director of International Space Activities. To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Yasmin Silvers. I am an aide to President Steinmetz." It still gave her a thrill to say those final words.

"I see." The woman sounded more starchy than impressed. "I was told that this line gave direct access to the President's office. I will call back."

She was gone, and Yasmin was not sorry. There were more important things to do. Instead of retrieving the papers from the floor, she took the rest of them from the desk and sank to her hands and knees. She laid the convoluted Leighton family tree on the floor, with the campaign pollsters next to it. It took a while, but eventually she saw it. George Crossley, married at one time to Rumford Leighton's sister Anita Leighton, now divorced. Crossley and Himmelfarb, pollsters. Location, Palo Alto. When Saul was up in Oregon, Tricia was in San Francisco. Palo Alto was no more than twenty or thirty miles away.

Coincidence? No way to tell. Crossley and Himmelfarb listed no first names.

She queried the corporate and association listings. Crossley and Himmelfarb, the name was there, but the footnote showed that it had ceased operations more than a year ago.

Tax records? George Jarvis Crossley and Michaela Scarlatti Himmelfarb, principals. No outstanding tax obligations. No current address, but IDs for both people. Presumably George Crossley = George Jarvis Crossley.

Yasmin looked at the clock. The morning was speeding away. Less than an hour, and Saul Steinmetz would be here. By then she needed a lot more than this to justify her invasion of the President's office.

Ten-fifteen, so it was seven-fifteen on the West Coast. Early, but not too early. She moved the printer out of the way, tagged George Jarvis Crossley's ID, and made the call.

It buzzed and buzzed. Just when she was ready to give up, a woman's voice came on the line.

"Mm?" She sounded barely awake.

"This is Yasmin Silvers. I'm calling from President Steinmetz's office."

"What?"

"President Steinmetz's office. The White House. Our ID should be on your telcom unit. I would like to speak with George Jarvis Crossley."

"Wait a minute."

Yasmin had to wait a good deal longer than that. She could hear muttered argument in the background, and finally a new and uneasy voice.

"This is George Crossley."

"Of Crossley and Himmelfarb, the poll research group?"

"That organization no longer exists. It was dissolved more than a year ago."

Was Yasmin imagining the guarded tone in Crossley's voice? And why didn't he ask what she wanted? Calls didn't come from the White House every day.

"I realize that the company is no longer in business. I wanted to ask about a survey conducted a couple of years ago. Do you remember a poll in connection with the election campaign of President Steinmetz?"

"We performed several such polls."

"This would have been on or about"—Yasmin consulted the calendar of events that she had constructed—"August 10, 2023."

"That's a long time ago. I don't recall any specific poll."

Maybe he had a bad memory. Maybe he was always so reserved and noncommittal. It was time to risk a long shot. "I fully understand, Mr. Crossley. It's hard to think in terms of dates rather than events. But this poll was completed just a few days before you had dinner in San Francisco with some of the Leighton family members."

There was silence. Yasmin could almost see the thinking going on at the other end. Why this call? What is the White House after? What do they already know?

"I do recall it. Vaguely."

"That's good. This particular poll concerned the election chances of then-candidate Steinmetz under certain operating assumptions regarding his marital status. Do you recall discussing the results of that poll with anyone in the Leighton group?"

"Professional ethics would never allow me to discuss the results of any poll we conducted with anyone other than the sponsor." The reply came with the speed and flat intonation of a standard response.

"This particular poll showed that candidate Steinmetz's chances of being elected were negligible. It preceded another poll making different assumptions and showing a quite different result. Was Tricia Chartrain/Leighton at the dinner party in question? And did you speak with her?"

"I don't remember. You say there was another poll?"

"Not performed by your group. This was done by Quip Research, of Denver."

"I didn't hear about that." Some surprise in the voice. Then, again, "Professional ethics would never allow me to discuss the results of any poll we conducted with anyone other than the sponsor. I must go." Yasmin was listening to a dead line.

He
had
spoken to Tricia, no doubt about it. He had told her that Saul was going to lose. Tricia wanted to keep going up the social ladder, she had no time for losers.

But how could you prove that? Crossley had hung up once, try again and he wouldn't even talk.

Ten thirty-five. Time for desperate measures.

While the call went through to Michaela Himmelfarb's ID, Yasmin wondered what she was going to say to her.

"Hello." A light, lively voice. "This is Michaela. Is that caller ID a joke?"

"No. This is the White House. I'm Yasmin Silvers, and I'm an aide to President Steinmetz. I have a question for you that may sound odd. Before I ask it, I want to assure you that your answer won't get you into trouble, no matter what you say."

"You're saying, trust me? Now where have I heard that line before? But go on."

"When you and George Crossley ran Crossley and Himmelfarb, do you remember that you did a poll asking about the chances of Saul Steinmetz being elected? One that concluded he didn't have a chance."

"Of course I remember. Look, if you're saying we screwed up in our analysis because he
was
elected, that's not true. The poll we did made certain assumptions that didn't apply in the actual campaign."

"Like the assumption that candidate Saul Steinmetz was married to Tricia Chartrain, who was once Patsy Leighton?"

"Patsy Leighton, and Patsy Stennis, and Patsy Beacon, and I don't recall how many others. Even before the poll, I could have told you her effect on the results. She was political poison."

"And George Crossley knew it, too, before the poll?"

"I doubt it. George has the political savvy of a wombat. He's a statistician, and a damned good one. Now, me, I wouldn't know a t-test from a tea bag, but I do understand political realities. So the two of us made a pretty fair team."

"He was related to the Leightons. He had dinner with a group of them soon after your poll, and the chances are good that Tricia—Patsy Leighton—was there. Do you think he might have talked to her about your poll?"

"I see where you're going. Give me a minute."

"Do you need to talk to him? I don't think he'd talk to me."

"No. I'm just trying to decide if what I'm going to say might get me or George into trouble. I don't see how. That poll and the whole election are ancient history. Here's what I think. I think George may well have told them that we had done this important piece of work. I mean, a poll for a candidate who was dating Patsy Leighton, and she's there at the time—that was a juicy bit of news. And old George gets a bit pompous when he's fizzed. I can imagine him, sitting there all smug and pointing out how such confidential matters could of course not be revealed to anyone."

" 'Professional ethics would never allow me to discuss the results of any poll we conducted with anyone other than the sponsor.' "

"I see you already talked to him. Now, I wouldn't know Patsy Leighton if I passed her in the street. But I have read her background, before we did that poll and after. As I recall, she broke up with Saul Steinmetz soon after the poll, and pretty soon she married some guy back east."

"Joseph Goldsmith."

"Loaded?"

"Lots of it. Old money, tons of prestige."

"Which makes my point for me. Patsy is a real operator when it comes to men. If she got George on his own at that party, and if she wanted information from him . . ."

"She would have got it."

"She'd have sucked him in, chewed him up, spit him out in pieces, and left him smiling. But she screwed up, didn't she? If she'd ignored the poll, bided her time, and hung on to Saul Steinmetz, she could have been First Lady."

"Don't use that past tense. She's taking another shot at him."

"That makes sense. He's the President now. Marrying her wouldn't have the same impact. But I finally have the picture at your end. Steinmetz wants to know exactly what happened the last time around."

"The President doesn't know about any of this. I don't think he suspects Tricia of anything. He doesn't even know I'm making this call."

"Well, why are you?" There was a pause. "Now I
really
get it. What did you say your name was?"

"Yasmin. Yasmin Silvers."

"Good luck, Yasmin. I don't know you, and I never met Patsy Leighton. But I'll tell you this, she's tough competition. I hope you can keep her away from him."

"I'm going to try. You've helped me a lot." The buzzer at Yasmin's side began again with its irritating tone.

"I hope I have. But remember, it was all hearsay."

"In Washington, hearsay's the same as gospel truth. Thank you, Michaela."

"Glad to help."

"Mind if I call you again?" The buzzer was still going; whoever was on the other end was determined.

"Do it. Keep me posted, Yasmin. I'll be rooting for you."

"Good-bye now. I've got to pick up this other call, it won't go away." Yasmin jabbed at the access pad. "Yes?"

"I need to speak with the President. Urgently." It was the starchy woman again. Moira what's-her-name.

"He's still not here." Yasmin glanced at the clock. "Maybe in half an hour—"

"Too late. This is Moira Suomita. I was forced to make a decision. Are you able to take a message for the President?"

"Yes." Yasmin made her private evaluation.
State Department Acting Director of International Space Activities.
The right title for a jumped-up bureaucrat with an exaggerated idea of her own worth. After Supernova Alpha there were no international space activities.

Yasmin said mildly, "I will make sure that the President gets your message as soon as he returns."

"This is a matter of great importance. Can you record what I am saying?"

"No. The recording systems are not yet back online."

"Then I will dictate. Make sure you get it exactly right. Have pencil and paper ready."

"I will." Yasmin waited, prepared for some piece of bureaucratic trivia. How did such people get the direct line to the President's office? The main thing was, Yasmin now knew exactly why Tricia had walked out on Saul. Six months before the election, George Crossley had shown Tricia what looked like conclusive evidence that Saul would lose the presidential race. Crossley had not had access to, and had not seen, the
other
poll, the one that showed Saul would win if he didn't marry Tricia before the election—and could marry her after it. Tricia had no time for losers. Her interest in Saul was zero if he were not President. But she had jumped ship too soon. Now, of course, he
was
President, so he was back in her sights.

But Michaela's other words.
Good luck, Yasmin . . . she's tough competition.
Michaela thought that she, Yasmin, wanted Saul—and was she right?

"Are you ready?" Moira Suomita, impatient and showing it. "What's taking you so long?"

"Sorry. I'm ready, I was waiting for you."

"Very well. Early this morning, my office received a most amazing call." Moira Suomita spoke with a pause after every word. "Are you writing this down?"