Born to Run (19 page)

Isabel sat quietly. Where was Karim? Who was he with?

Ed ruffled her hair.

Isabel knew what had to be done.

B
Y THE TIME Davey had scampered off to his bed, Isabel was dog-tired. They’d had a rare weekend at home, and just farewelled George
who’d flown back to California. The stress of the last few months, especially the last couple of weeks, was catching up.

Even so, out of habit, Isabel flicked on the TV:

Isabel’s eyes were drawn to the building on the screen. The shot was from across railway tracks. It was… she was sure… Hank’s nightclub. Railcar.

Her hand flew to her lips.

NO matter what Hank could say to distance himself from the club—he only had a one-third share, he kept repeating, and even that was behind a trust so he had no involvement
in management—the Republican ticket was again in diabolical trouble. The early reports of faulty wiring were accurate, and investigators had pinned it down to the Cocktail Wall, the wall
which Isabel knew Hank took credit for.

The networks and cable channels were running newsclips of the blaze with tawdry newsbars like “
Republican campaign in flames
” and worse.

By the following Monday, the weekend polls were out and Bill Edwards’ stomach was churning. Twenty… twenty percent! He phoned up Isabel and, with classic insensitivity, said,
“We’re dead.”

THREE days later the CBS “eye” logo was overlooking a deserted Beverly Boulevard near West Hollywood in Los Angeles. This was the famous Television City.

The perpetrators had picked the hushed shadows of 2 AM to magnify the explosion’s noise and minimise casualties. The stolen blue Mazda sedan lumbered slowly down Beverly and drew close.
Telltale, it hung low on its wheels. It humped over the kerb and bounced up onto the sidewalk, pulling up sharp outside the newly remodelled front entrance. The car driver wore a red full-face
helmet, curious only until he jumped out of the vehicle, sprinted to the rear and sprung himself onto the back saddle of the black BMW motorbike that had been trailing him. If anyone had later been
able to view the security video shooting the street scene, they would have observed that the bike’s plates were taped over with “Diaz for President” bumper stickers.

The bike rider, also helmeted, high-revved the throttle of the 1750cc engine for all it was worth, reared the machine up on its back wheel and squealed off leaving a black trail of rubber on the
road behind them.

Ten seconds after the pair hurtled off, the pillion passenger pressed “redial” on his cell phone and swivelled around to rip the bumper sticker off the back plate. He tapped the
driver’s shoulder and she leant forward to do likewise to the front plate.

Five blocks back, the 300 pounds of explosives that were packing down the Mazda detonated with a fury. Even over the roar of the engine the rider heard it, shooting up her right hand in victory,
and her passenger slapped the back of her glove for a plan well-executed.

The ground floor façade of the building sheared off. The blast ripped a wide gash, first across the pavement, then into the street, carving across five thankfully empty lanes. Four parked
cars blew into the air. Car parts and leaflets showered over a two-block radius. Glass from the building’s front doors flew inwards, spraying shards through the lobby, the force shattering
even the bulletproof screen intended to shelter the new security desk. Fortunately, the night guard was up on the second floor and miraculously, no one was injured. Spouts of water from burst pipes
gushed over the debris and, capped with heavy black smoke, the entrance flooded.

Thousands of charred pamphlets fluttered back down through the choking fumes… “
The Truth has Consequences
.”

Within thirty-five seconds, a coordinated hack attacked CBS stations across the country. “
We have
our
eye on
you
, CBS
,” were the chilling words that unfurled out
of the pupil of CBS’s famous eye logo. “
And you, too, Mike Mandrake
…
The Truth has Consequences
.”

For Mandrake, it was after 5 AM. He had his back slumped against the pillows in a small room in Washington DC’s infamous Watergate Hotel where he’d been holed up for days. His gut
ached.

The truth has consequences… He didn’t need these jerk-offs to tell him that. It was drummed into all journalists. But this morning, the words pressed in on him, the beads of sweat
stinging his recently shaved upper lip.

Only an hour earlier the porter had slipped a copy of the paper he previously wrote for,
The Washington Post
, under his door. It was splayed open on his lap, at the editorial,
“
Truth at
all costs?
”

What did these people want from him? He’d done his job… and fucking brilliantly, he added for no one to hear but himself. Sanctimonious bastards! No one wrote this pious crap when
Woodward and Bernstein busted Nixon over the Watergate scandal… here, in this same fucking building.

That Nixon was a crook and Isabel a saint didn’t seem to gel with him in the state he was in.

He clamped his eyes, shutting out the TV and the room, but he couldn’t shut out everything. His wife had kicked him out. CBS was publicly supporting him but privately wiping its hands of
him, wishing he’d never existed. For security reasons, he’d shaved his beard and wore dark glasses and a cap when he ventured out.

What should have been the story of the decade had become a debacle.

Was no one interested in the truth any more if it had… fucking consequences? That was the truth’s job, for chrissakes!

At that moment, his hotel room TV broadcast a newsflash about the blast in Los Angeles. His eyes blinked open but he could hardly watch. He recognised the building. It was meant for him.

Who were these fucking people?

He swiped his hand across the bed sheet in front of him sending the newspaper onto the floor and he jabbed at the “off” button on the remote.

His hand shook as he stretched across for the vial that was perched on the edge of his bedside table. It had been lingering there since ten o’clock last night when he had slipped it out of
his toiletry bag.

Damn these childproof caps. Mike sat up straight and wiped his hands dry on the bed sheets and tried again. Third time, he succeeded. As he drank it, he remembered something his dad used to tell
him as a kid when he was feeling down: if at first you don’t succeed, forget the skydiving.

But this time it wasn’t funny.

Hot sweat dripped down his back and the clear liquid streamed cold down his throat.

Truth.

Consequences.

IN London’s St Bartholomew’s Hospital, Registered Nurse Jeni Crompton was completing her morning rounds and came to Room 603. An insensitive creep had taped a
hand-written sign below the room number: “Burns Unit”. Jeni ripped it down. To her, the allusion to Jax Mason’s shocking encounter with the famous Scots poet was not at all
amusing. Inside Room 603 it was quiet… only the beep, beep, beep of Jax’s heart monitor sounded. Here, no one answered back to her, unlike the man two rooms up.

She always spoke to Jax, babbled really, but had never got a single response in the month he’d been under her charge. Probably a good thing, given what she’d told him, otherwise
he’d know everything about her sex life (lack of, really), her parents’ divorce, the bank loan she was hoping for, and the fact she was sick of nursing and wanted to try out working in
her sister’s café (where she might meet someone “nice”).

Jax’s doctor had told her—probably the only time the old fart had deigned to speak to someone like her for more than three seconds—that he’d be surprised if Jax would
ever come out of the coma; that the paramedics should have let the “poor young bugger” die.

Jeni rolled Jax over onto his stomach, untied his gown at the neck and laid it out on either side of him. She had brought in a basin of warm soapy water with her and bathed him top to toe,
hesitating over the tattoo at the base of his spine, a disk with a “Y” stamped out of it. It was in fact a representation of an old New York subway token, but she guessed it was a peace
symbol, though the words “Good for one fare” didn’t really match with that. She dried him and rolled him over onto his back.

“You’re a bit of a hunk,” she said aloud for the umpteenth time as she sponged him down. He was her age, she’d noted from his chart the first time.

Just as she was about to shave him, her pager vibrated against her leg. Damn. Room 605. That bastard again. Why doesn’t he just lie there like everyone else? Jeni towelled Jax down,
dressed him in a fresh gown, tucked him in and left his room. She could shave him later. Or tomorrow. He wouldn’t know.

As the door closed behind her, she didn’t see the flicker in Jax’s left eyelid nor hear the stutter in the heart monitor beeps.

I
SABEL FIRST HEARD about Mike Mandrake’s suicide from Gregory. A friend of his had been breakfasting at the Watergate. Habits are hard to
break, and Isabel’s former staffer called her even before he phoned Hank.

Hank’s campaign was flailing. “I’m quitting,” Gregory said, the real reason for phoning. They’d argued about this many times recently, but this was it. After the
nightclub fire, he felt he couldn’t keep working with Hank and retain any vestige of dignity. “I love a political joke as much as the next guy, but I can’t work for
one.”

He was right about Hank, she knew it, but with backup Hank was still a better option than the alternative.

“Unless we pull a rabbit out of a hat, the campaign is D-E-A-D. It’s…”

“You’ve got to hang in there, Gregory. He needs you… I need you.” Her appeal to loyalty was a low blow, but she knew Gregory was nothing if not devoted to her.