Born to Run (43 page)

The Attorney General shook his head in disbelief. Isabel Diaz was some woman.

“Imagine,” the President continued, “Ms Diaz alone in her mountain-top shack, discovering all this, but with no communications with the outside world, hours from the closest
town and with sunset almost upon her, the outside temperature sub-zero and dropping. Ms Diaz knows that if she waits till daybreak, Mitchell Taylor and I will both be dead… that she could
walk casually, seemingly innocently, into the presidency herself.

“But Isabel Diaz doesn’t wait, instead urgently setting off into the dark and the snow to get to a town and a phone. As we know, a wolf attacks her and, desperately, she fights back
not merely to defend herself, but also this nation’s Constitution. It’s a struggle to the death,” he said, and looked back at Isabel. Her eyes dropped to the floor in modesty, but
he continued, “Both she and the wolf lie dying in the snow, losing pints of blood between them and her body temperature dropping fast to dangerous levels.

“Two unsuspecting heroes, park ranger Andy Goodman and his friend Paul Dawkins, are out searching for the female wolf in answer to a distress alarm from her radio-collar. She is part of an
experimental regeneration program run by the Fish and Wildlife Service. They arrive at the blood-soaked scene and stumble on Ms Diaz, who is suffering acute hypothermia and from shocking, terrible
wounds that you can only get a hint of today. They desperately race her to the county hospital for emergency treatment. On arrival at the ER, she is floating in and out of consciousness. Her ears
pick up that Mitchell Taylor is already dead and her mind snaps back, just enough to demand a phone. And that… that was the call that saved this presidency and my life, though unfortunately
it was too late to save Mitch’s.”

Davey ran back to Isabel and buried his head in her stomach as the once familiar chants of “Bel… Bel… Isa-bel” rang through the Hall to tumultuous applause.

INSIDE Daisy’s, Andy and Paul had been hoisted up on their friends’ shoulders and were being circled around the bar, their beers spilling over the floor as well as
onto their friends who didn’t seem to care. Brad declared an open tab and Paul, in between swigs, was chanting his own version of “Isa-bel” but Andy, for the first time this
evening, was quiet, almost dazed. No matter which way his bearers turned or swayed him, his head and his eyes stayed locked on the TV screen as though he needed to check it was still there, as
though this wasn’t for real.

The shouts in the bar fell to a hush when President Foster started up again.

“DURING that same first phone call, Ms Diaz had enough lucidity, amazingly given what she’d gone through, to persuade me that we needed to throw her husband off
guard, in case there was some back-up plan. She had thought long and hard about this during her trek down the mountain before she encountered the wolf. That is why we faked my asthma attack and
created the uncertainty about my whereabouts. Ms Diaz,” he said turning toward her again and placing his hand to his heart, “I thank you… America thanks you.”

“HE’S bowing to her. He’s fuckin’ bowing!” It was Andy, still in a state of shock.

“Christ, Andy!” said Paul. “The woman saves the President by fingering her own husband. Doesn’t that deserve a fuckin’ bow?”

WHEN the congressional applause died down again, Foster explained that in the circumstances, he considered it was in America’s national interest to install a new
Vice-President immediately, that in view of the circumstances the nation could not afford even a moment’s delay for the usual confirmation hearings. “And I can think of no better person
than this fine woman. Right now, in this joint session of Congress, I formally nominate Isabel Rosa Diaz to the position of Vice-President of these United States of America. Ms Diaz, will you
resign as Speaker and consent to my nomination?”

Everyone watching—in Congress, around the nation, even in Daisy’s Bar—could see that Isabel was as stunned as they were. Clearly, this wasn’t part of any script
she’d agreed with Foster. A Democratic President nominating a Republican Vice-President was extraordinary.

Spencer’s pulse went haywire. Foster doing something as gracious as this? Volunteering it, no less? Not having it shoved down his throat?

Isabel gripped Davey’s shoulder and, leaning on him, stepped slowly to the President, everyone hanging for her words. When she was beside him, she gave a weak smile and said, “Mr
President. I can think of no greater honour… no greater tribute to Mitchell Taylor… to this country… than serving under your Presidency. If the Congress wishes it, I will
accept your nomination.”

Davey’s head was twisted up to watch for her decision, and once she’d given it, he squirmed out from under her arm to jump up and down. She edged down to give him a light hug. During
the embrace, the boy cast a long look over her shoulder at his father, uncertain how to feel.

“Under Section Two of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment,” said the President, whose lawyering skills had come in handy, “I ask that both Houses of Congress here jointly assembled
confirm that nomination immediately.”

Congress once again broke into applause and those who’d already sat down were rising back to their feet and cheering.

“Thank you, Mr President,” said Senator Mallord, with the gavel in hand. “Unusual though this may be, unique I suppose, I will take it that the two Houses have just voted; that
Ms Isabel Rosa Diaz’s nomination has been confirmed by acclamation. Do I have any dissent from my ruling?” He looked around, allowing for the dissent he knew would not dare show its
face. “Chief Justice? Please step forward to administer the oath of office.”

Once the formalities were over—they took only a few minutes—the President asked his new Vice-President to join him at the Clerk’s desk. They smiled and stood side by side
during the applause and, on impulse, Foster grabbed her unsplinted arm, thrusting it high above their heads in victory. “The Vice-President!” he roared.

Isabel winced with the excruciating pain.

“The Vice-President!” Congress responded.

THE First Lady, Marilyn Foster, was alone watching her husband on TV from the Residence in the White House, their young children already snug in bed. She lifted the fine
porcelain cup and sipped her tea calmly as Bobby waved his own and Isabel’s arm in the air. It was what she’d insisted on… what Bobby had no choice over, assuming he still wanted
a wife and family to come home to. But it was only the first part of it.

“At the start of the campaign you promised me you wouldn’t fool around any more,” she’d reminded him while they were still on board Air Force One, but after the operation
to remove the implanted
Clip’n’Drip
. “I warned you… Bobby, I told you… I’m not Hillary. And I
won’t
be, either. This is one lady who
won’t hang around with the whole country snickering about who you’ve been fucking on the side. So, if you want me and the kids standing by you, the only way is if…”

AS President Foster lowered his arm and released Isabel’s, the smile fell from his face, revealing once again the gravity that had dominated the session. The First Lady
knew what was going through his mind that second: “Is Marilyn bluffing? Do I really have to go through with this?”

As Bobby tightened the knot of his tie, Marilyn leant forward expectantly, closer to her TV.

“I have one final duty,” he said, “before I conclude my visit to this Chamber. Secretary of State Robinson,” he called. “Would you please join me and the
Vice-President up here?”

Foster imagined his wife’s eyes boring into him, but in fact they were closed while she prayed.

As the Secretary rose from his front row seat, he quizzed his colleagues either side of him for an idea of what the President had in mind but no one had a clue. He stepped up onto the somewhat
crowded podium to stand next to the President, on his side opposite Isabel and Davey.

Foster slid his hand into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a buff-coloured envelope. He handed it to the Secretary and began speaking before Robinson could slit it open.

“Madam Vice-President, Mr Senate President pro tempore, Senators, Representatives, Chief Justice, other dignitaries and my fellow citizens. I have made some critical errors of judgment,
errors that do not reflect well on this great office. What I am about to do…,” he looked up at the ceiling, “what I’m about to do, however, is no error… no mistake.
It is my solemn duty…” He threw back a mouthful of water.

Spencer Prentice’s mouth was open, something his mother, a stickler for good manners had noticed on her own TV, but this time she forgave him.

MARILYN Foster opened her eyes. No, she decided, Bobby wouldn’t do it. Even without her and the kids, the lust for power—his lust for fucking lust—would be too
great for the philandering bastard. She stood, ready to pack her bags immediately if he faltered.

“TONIGHT,” said Foster, “it is my solemn duty to… to resign as your President. Here and now. According to the Constitution, Vice-President Isabel Diaz
will automatically succeed me. She is a woman whose courage and selflessness have demonstrated she is who this nation needs, and deserves, and as I said earlier, wanted in the first place. In the
presence of Congress, I have just delivered my written resignation to the Secretary of State and thus, following Section Twenty of Title Three of the US Code, I stand here no longer as your
President. Instead, I present to you… the President of the United States. May God bless her, and may God continue to bless America.”