At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) (19 page)

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ChAPTER FIFTY-ThREE

For two hours after Bill Staffman’s impromptu appearance, the press churned and edited. Any reportable audio and video news is broadcast by satellite to the central office. After viewing by junior editors, the information is dissected and quickly forwarded to copywriters, who view each clip and write voice-overs. Any editorially relevant information is funneled through the information pipeline to the appropriate news desk, and the slant begins.

In Max’s case, the lack of reportable information caused the press to use what they had, and the only bites worth reporting on the Masterson campaign had so far come from Bill. They had the promise of more tantalizing news from the candidate himself, and they weren’t going anywhere until they had it in the can. Each news team stood huddled over monitors in their satellite trucks while the camera crews stood like sentries waiting for Max to emerge from the front door of his campaign headquarters. As their eyes tried to discern any movement inside the building, Max quietly took his place on the podium.

The stealth appearance of the subject of their surveillance caused several moments of controlled panic. Max stood at the podium before the microphone, dressed in his running outfit and looking composed as shouts of “There he is!,” “Get the lights on!,” “Where in the hell did he come from?,” and “Did you leave the sound feed on?” ricocheted across the playground. he waited until they were in place, a process that seemed too long, but was really nothing more than an about-face.

“I’m Max Masterson, and I’m going to be your next president of the United States. I’ll be appearing here and in other locations to present regular reports of my thoughts on issues that are important to Americans. Today, my thoughts are about war.”

he paused, and then continued again. “War. There will always be a big push for a president to go to war for the wrong reasons. The defense contractors always want war, and politicians who never went to war will be more likely to push for it. Never take advice on this subject from someone who has never been shot at. A president who goes to war, without being attacked by an enemy who isn’t intent on harming the United States, commits his nation to failure. Either the voters will kick the scoundrel out or public opinion will sink him. Wars of occupation always lose.

“Our Founding Fathers would be considered terrorists in today’s world. George Washington’s army fought the battles, mostly as guerilla fighters. Thomas Jefferson wrote the messages of liberty from foreign control. Nathan hale spoke against the occupation and was executed for the words he spoke against the occupiers. By night, Paul Revere delivered the message to resist, and by day, he was a successful businessman. These were people who were defending their homes against an occupying army. Every time we go into another country, we become the bad guys. Let’s bargain with them instead. We are better bargainers than warriors,”

AT RISK OF WINNING

They waited for more, accustomed to hour-long ramblings, but Max was done. he turned and vaulted off the front of the stage, then ran to the end of the street, turned toward the well-worn running path on the banks of the Potomac, and was gone before anyone had the presence of mind to turn off the cameras.

I fooled them all this time, but I’m going to have to change my exit strategy every time. This place will be crawling with film crews in track suits within the hour, he thought. his speed had steadily increased over the mile from the stage to his car, but he estimated that he was running at a sub six-minute mile pace. The reporters were far behind, and his course through the park prevented pursuit by car. They weren’t beyond pursuing him by helicopter if they had thought of it, but his unorthodox departure had prevented preparation in advance.

Max ran across the park toward a blue Jaguar parked behind a row of trees. As he crested the hill, he felt a sting at the base of his neck. Damn wasps, he reasoned. he slapped his skin but didn’t feel anything other than tingling at the bump caused by the stinger. I’ll have to put something on it as soon as I get on the plane.

Out of his line of sight, a man dressed in black disassembled a small-caliber rifle, designed not to kill but to accurately place an electronic monitor under the skin of its target. The dart was so small that it resembled a black wasp, and when it hit Max’s neck, it embedded an electronic surveillance device so small that after twenty-four hours, no evidence of its presence beneath the skin could be detected.

he slowed when he could make out the early lights of the evening lining the road at the bottom of the hill. One more turn, and his escape was assured. In the distance, the shining waxed finish made the car look like a large sleek beetle. Its aerodynamic shape reminded him of his childhood. Rachel was sitting behind the wheel of the senator’s XKR. As he approached the Jaguar, he smiled. She must like this car, he thought. I’ll have to leave it to her in my will. he leaped into the passenger seat, not bothering to open the door. he had been doing that since he was fourteen, and old habits are hard to break. “To my chariot, Jeeves, I haven’t a moment to waste,” he joked in his best English accent, as Rachel shifted into first gear and squealed away from their prearranged rendezvous point.

From behind a huge walnut tree, the man in black watched their departure through highly amplified night-vision goggles. he was code-named Darkhorse, and his vocation as a mercenary allowed him to continue his passion for killing. If they wanted me to snuff him, and the girl, too, he thought, I’d do her for free, just like his Daddy’s girlfriend.

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ChAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

You really had them going, yesterday, Max. I can’t stop thinking about the look on old Donald Richmond’s face when you jumped off the stage in front of him. he’s got to be around a hundred years old by now, and I thought he was going to wet his pants.” Andrew had watched from the second-floor window of the old building housing the campaign. he knew in advance that Max had carefully exited the building by an underground tunnel built in the mid-1800s that had helped runaway slaves escape to boxcars at a railroad yard that had long since been dismantled to give way to progress. The area was now occupied by upscale condos, but the tunnel still led to a nondescript building that was once adjacent to the railroad tracks. The trains that had secretly transported slaves to sympathetic northern states were now gone, but the secret escape route was still a good one.

Max left by the tunnel for weeks before the press arrived, and his lack of discovery gave him a misplaced sense of security. It wasn’t that he was being careless, it was more like a feeling that all was well enough to keep him from fearing capture by the press. As he emerged from the old door housing the tunnel, he walked right into the bright lights of a film crew, fronted by none other than Greg huffington himself.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Masterson!”
his startled face was sure to appear on every network every fifteen minutes for the next day, at least. “Before you run off, I’d like
to ask you a few questions, if I may.” huffington was going to get his
time in the limelight, and he would not be deterred by Max’s quick
escape. Besides, his way was effectively blocked by the satellite truck
and equipment. Max resigned himself to the idea that he was trapped,
but his eyes continued to look for an escape route.
“You are a very elusive man for a politician. Is this how you intend
to deal with the press when you are president?” his tone was more a
scolding than an inquiry, and Max took an immediate dislike to him. “I am not a politician. I am a man who is running for president.
When I come to live in the White house, I assure you, Mr. huffington, that you will not be invited to stay in the Lincoln bedroom. I
think you’re an asshole. Now excuse me.” Max did a quick left fake,
dodged right, and vaulted over the front hood of the sound truck,
sliding across the hood and nimbly landing on both feet. Before the
cameras could turn and refocus, he made a quick right so that the
truck was between him and the camera crew, and he was gone.

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ChAPTER FIFTY-SIX

That evening, the news reports featured the short “interview,” and the regulars at the tavern began playing a constant loop of the encounter as soon as they arrived.

“I can’t believe it! I never thought I would live to see the day that a politician gave what for to huffington. Did you see the look on his face? I can’t believe it!” Phil was known for repeating himself, and every time he watched the video and sound bite, he came full circle.

“You know, I admire a guy who says what he thinks. I’m leaning toward voting for him. I voted for Blythe last time and look what he did to us! You know . . .” Phil stopped talking long enough for the loop to finish its latest cycle, and they all laughed, which continued through the first half of the next loop.

“I still can’t believe that he called him an asshole. I always thought he was an asshole, but I never thought I’d hear anyone call him that to his face. Ya know?” Jerry reached for his third beer with his left hand and a chicken wing with his right and watched a remote camera view of Masterson and an attractive young woman boarding an ancient seaplane on the split screen. Surveillance cameras had tracked Max from his escape at the underground railroad tunnel to a marina, where a Beech 18 seaplane was apparently docked. A voiceover by huffington droned on as the seaplane skidded across the bay and took flight.

“In his latest display of un-presidential behavior, Independent candidate Max Masterson is seen fleeing our nation’s capitol with an unidentified young woman . . .”

“I hate that asshole reporter,” said Jerry, as he clicked off the reporter’s tirade and transferred the split screen to a MaxTracker map. The map showed a magnified satellite image of the seaplane flying low above the treetops “how did they know he’s leaving D.C. and not know who he’s with? I suppose we’ll see her in a bikini on the evening report,” he said as he directed his attention to Max’s latest sound bite.

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ChAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The meeting went for hours before anyone lost focus enough to declare that they were hungry. Food was ordered, and the hours stretched into the night. Outside, the media was huddled around TV monitors watching the major news channels. It was a constant loop of Max’s sound bites linked together by commentary, and the home office was getting itchy for new material.

“how long can we keep repeating a two-minute spot on illegal immigration?” bellowed howard Ransom from the New York office of News Tonight. The object of his scorn was Greg huffington, who was glued to his cell phone, reporting nothing and getting more exasperated by the minute.

“I know he’s in there, howard. They assembled for a meeting at ten a.m., and they have been going steady since then . . . I know that makes it seven hours straight. I don’t know what to tell you. They ordered out for Chinese about three hours ago, and my people guarding his exit tunnel say that the door is locked and nobody has entered or left . . . I know he hasn’t been seen in public . . . howard, I don’t have any more information than anyone else . . . howard, dammit! I know how to do my job!” he hung up and auto-dialed his last hope for news.

“Greg here. Anything? You mean to tell me that nobody has left his estate? how can that be? his staff says he’s here in a meeting . . . Are you sure? OK, OK, I don’t doubt you . . . Keep me posted, will you?”

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In the meeting room, Max had changed from running clothes to a dark three-piece suit in a rare display of conformity. he listened to his advisors while munching loudly on a Braeburn apple. Bill Staffman began his assessment of the situation.

“Max, you are beginning to act like you are going to win this thing, and the polls give the Democrats and the Republicans one-third of the popular vote. You managed to get all of the third-party votes and crossovers from both parties, but if it turns into a three-way race, you won’t get enough votes to make it a win. We can only hope to get enough crossovers to throw it over to Blythe.” he grabbed a jelly donut and downed it in four bites. If we’re going to survive this campaign without getting a heart attack, I’ll have to ban junk food from the room. Bill’s getting lumpier every day, if that’s possible, Max assessed.

Andrew was the next to weigh in. “ If you’re going to really go for a win, we need to form an alliance with a running mate who has name recognition and broad appeal. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little experience, either.”

Fox was still stinging from the recent news stories about the experience factor. Whenever a candidate runs for reelection, one asset they can pull out of their bag of tricks is the one that their opponent can’t.. Max not only had no experience at being president . . . he had no experience at holding any kind of public office. Inexperience could be perceived as change, but Max needed to project his candidacy as a fresh change and a separation from past policies that had failed. Not only policies, a separation from a president who had failed the American people.

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Andrew continued.
“Max, we have done everything you asked us to do. We went to boring speeches and timed how long it took for the boredom to set in. I was as surprised as anyone to hear that nobody can keep an audience interested for longer than it takes to play a song on my I-Pod, but it makes sense,” he paced as he talked. “After all of our hard work you have our total support. We believe in you, and we believe you can win. But you can’t do it unless we gang up on Blythe. his people play dirty, and they’re good at it. I have heard that his people are out there interviewing your old girlfriends, trying to dig up something nasty and kinky. I’m afraid that—”
Max took his turn interrupting his protege. he laughed, then his face turned suddenly serious. “You mean, the ladies didn’t turn on me? They didn’t find any illegitimate love child that I have been supporting, or a medical report showing that I got the Clap on a trip to Paris, or how about that I like to be spanked?” he smirked. In the back of his mind, he knew that they would find nothing that would hurt his public persona. his father had protected his personal life since he was an infant, and the more they dug, the better he looked in the eyes of his detractors.
Luke Postlewaite was the next to express his thoughts. he had served as the observer and the link to the hearts and minds of the people that politicians pandered to while seeking public office, but ignored when they had attained it—regular folks. “Max, I have been watching the reaction of people when you walk into a room.” he paused to get their attention, and realized that he had it.
“The one thing you have that sets you apart is the feeling of hope that things will be better if you are in charge. It doesn’t matter that you have no voting record. I don’t think people care one lick that you have never been elected to anything or run for this job before. They look at you as the guy who will save them from the other politicians. But here’s the thing. You need experience on your shoulder if it isn’t under your belt.”
“Andrew, Bill, Luke,…” Max paused and stared out the window at the tangle of cables and people in suits that spread outside the window. “I don’t pay you enough. I also don’t talk to you enough. I have been getting the same phone calls from most of the women they spoke to. I’m not worried. They called to tell me that they only said good things about our time together.” he stared out the window toward the street, watching the incessant jumble of press below. They looked purposeful and productive, but so does an anthill.
he stopped reflecting and resumed planning. “Let’s focus on the important issue here. I know my lack of experience is going to be problematic. I have been thinking like you do, that we need to bring in someone who can complement my assets, and we need to look like a team that people can have confidence in. I have that someone in mind, but I’m sure you and Bill have been secretly making me a list of suitables, am I right?” he returned to the chair at the head of the table and waited while his two trusted advisors scrambled for their lists.
“Let’s streamline this a little bit, just to save time. Do you agree on one person who is alive today and is the most qualified, whether they want it or not, who would be your first choice? Don’t waste my time with anyone else.” Both of them stopped their search and resumed their seats, leaning forward on their elbows with expectant looks. Bill had seniority, and he spoke first.
“Scarlett Conroy.”
“Andrew?”
“Scarlett.”
“Good,” Max immediately replied. “That’s who I picked, too. I met Scarlett when I was a kid, and she had that politician look back then. She needs to loosen up a little, but she’s a perfect fit. Now we need to figure out how to convince her that she can’t win without us. Oh, and her running mate may have a problem with us stealing her away.”