Evil Ways (34 page)

His voice, booming though the state-of-the-art sound system, filled the hall and reached out to the people sitting in the cramped seats, as if he were speaking to each one of them individually.

"And so, my friends, even though our efforts have accomplished much, let us not fall victim to the comforting illusion that no battles remain to be fought. The war for the heart and soul of America will go on. Make no mistake about it, a hard and bloody fight it will be, and the victory of virtue is by no means assured."

He paused, looking out at the crowd, the grave expression on his face a testament to the concern he felt for his nation and its future. Then his face, handsome by almost any standard, broke into a reassuring smile.

"But although there is no unassailable guarantee of success in our endeavors, of this much I
am
certain: that with God's help, you and I, all of us who fight for right, will find within ourselves the strength we seek for the struggle!"

The audience erupted into applause and cheers, as they had done four times already. But this time the approbation was both louder and longer. It seemed like it might go on forever.

In the press gallery,
The Boston Globe
looked up from its laptop and said to
The New York Times,
"Knows how to push their buttons, doesn't he?"

"Sure, but that's not hard to do with
this
crowd,"
The Times
replied with a shrug. "Throw the animals a little red meat, and they'll jump through all kinds of hoops for you."

The Globe
smiled slightly. "Does your editor mind you referring to the devout reactionaries of Believers United as 'animals'?"

"Not as long as I don't do it in print."

The two men resumed typing their stories as the applause from the 5,822 attendees at the Believers United annual convention rolled on like a mighty river. On stage, the man behind the podium was basking in their approval.

A few minutes later, as the speaker launched into his peroration,
The Times
asked, in a bored voice, "Think he'll run?"

"What, for the White House?"

"Uh-huh."

"Shit,"
The Globe
said scornfully. "He's running already."

At the reception following the speech, those members of Believers United willing to make a minimum $10,000 tax-deductible contribution to the cause of righteousness were given the opportunity to consume high-cholesterol hors d'oeuvres, wash them down with domestic champagne, and exchange a handshake and a few words with the guest of honor, Senator Howard Stark, whose oratory had so stirred them earlier.

Since the paying guests numbered 108, the funds raised amounted to a tidy sum. By prior agreement, the money would be split down the middle: half into the coffers of Believers United and the rest to the fledgling "Stark for President" Committee, an organization that the senator had carefully refrained from endorsing
—so far.

Stark stood roughly in the middle of the short receiving line, a man of average height whose broad shoulders made him look bigger than he really was. Below the carefully styled blond hair, now shot through with gray, the green eyes stared out at the world with the apparent innocence of the country boy on his first visit to the big city - an image that was as carefully cultivated as it was utterly untrue.

Half a million dollars, give or take, for two hours of schmoozing sounds like easy money, but the junior senator from Ohio earned it. He did not resort to the repertory of techniques that every politico
learns early on
—the bright but meaningless smile, the quick, firm double-pump handshake, the artfully vague words and phrases that might mean anything and hence mean nothing at all. A typical politician would have used all of these, and others, in a situation like this, but Stark was not a typical politician. The support of the Christian Right was going to be vital if he was ever going to use " 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue" as a return address, and Stark knew he couldn't afford to go on automatic pilot. Despite the bumpkin image that fundamentalist Christians often have in the media, most of these people at the reception were actually very sharp. If Stark let his eyes glaze over, they would notice, and remember. They were touchy about respect, and, as Stark was soon reminded, passionate about their concerns.

"More than a million babies a year, Senator, butchered in those abortion mills!"

"Now they want to give out condoms and birth control pills
—in the
junior
high schools. Can you imagine?"

"Since they've got that Brady law on the books, it's just a matter of time before the storm troopers come knocking on people's doors and confiscating our guns, you just wait and see if they don't!"

"And the man admitted he was a queer, right there in front of the School Board and everything, and they
still
couldn't fire him."

"Have you seen the filth that passes for entertainment on television these days? They ought to drop the name 'cable TV,' and call it what it really is: porno TV!"

"Won't let a kid say the Lord's Prayer in school, but nobody minds if he smokes a marijuana joint outside on the playground. Hell, some of these hippie teachers would probably join him…"

To each guest Stark gave a handshake, a smile, and a few moments of his attention, whether he felt the speaker deserved it or not. Stark was sincere in his opposition to both abortion and increased gun control, but privately unsure about the degree of menace posed to the nation by civil unions for homosexuals, the teaching of evolution in public schools, or the antics of raunchy rock stars.

It went on like that for the full two hours, and not once did Stark let his concentration wander. And so he was understandably relieved when his chief of staff drifted over and said softly in his ear, "We've
put in our time, as agreed, and we
do
have that other appointment later. Do you want to get going, or are you having too much fun?"

Without changing his pleasant expression, Stark replied, in a near-whisper, "By all means, let's get out of here, before all this self-righteousness gives me hives."

His chief of staff gave the barest hint of a bow, and a murmured
"Fiat voluntas tua, Domine,"
before turning to address the room in a clear and commanding voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, it was really great of you to invite us here tonight. I know the senator would stay to talk with you all night, if I let him. But somebody's got to be the bad guy and make sure he gets his rest, so that he can have his wits about him when he goes back to running the country tomorrow."

There was good-natured laughter in response, partly at the corny humor, but mostly at the idea that the label "bad guy" could possibly refer to Mary Margaret Doyle, the tall, charming, and beautiful woman who had just paved the way for her boss's departure. And so, after a few final words with Believers United Director Miles Miller, Senator Howard Stark made his exit. As he did so, his chief of staff was at his elbow
—a position she had occupied, figuratively, and often literally, since Stark's days as a freshman member of the Ohio legislature.

Mary Margaret Doyle drove with the same quiet competence that she brought to everything she did. It had been quiet in the car for a while but as the headlights picked out a sign reading "Welcome to Rhode Island," Senator Stark said, "Let's hope the media doesn't get wind of this little errand of ours. Laughingstocks don't get elected president in this country. Well, give or take Jimmy Carter."

"The media won't know anything about it," she replied with calm assurance. "Right now you're in your suite at the Copley Plaza, alone, suffering from a bad headache, probably brought on by all the MSG in those awful hors d'oeuvres at the reception. You have given orders that you are not to be disturbed, under any circumstances, before breakfast time tomorrow."

"Great, terrific," he said sarcastically. "So if something major hits the fan overnight, something that we should deal with right away, we won't even find out about it until seven in the morning?"

Mary Margaret sighed. "Woe unto ye, oh ye of little faith," she said. "In the unlikely event that something hits the fan, as you so elegantly put it, one of our staff people, either back at the hotel or in Washington, will hear about it. They have orders to call my cell phone, which is right here." She tapped the black leather bag on the seat next to her, an immense Italian-made thing large enough to serve her as both purse and briefcase. "I have no doubt that our people, properly instructed by phone, would be able to cope with your hypothetical emergency for the ninety minutes or so it would take us to return to Boston. Then we're back in the Copley Plaza through a rear door, up to the eighteenth floor in a service elevator to which I have obtained a key, and back in our respective rooms, in plenty of time for you to save the world."

"You think of everything," Stark said grumpily. "Too bad, while you were at it, you couldn't manage to think up a more convenient time for us to go on this wild goose chase."

"The man said that Halloween night was an excellent time for it. The balance of forces is favorable, or something like that. Besides," she said blandly, "if you really think it's a wild goose chase, then why are you here? Why aren't you back in your room, on the bed with your shoes off, watching boxing on HBO?"

There was silence from the passenger's seat. Finally, Stark said, "If what we've heard is true, if el-Ghaffar can really do what he says he can do, then the implications could be just… staggering."

"The national security implications, you mean." There was a touch of mockery in her voice now.

"Yes, damn it, that's exactly what I mean," Stark said. "What did you think, that I want to use this guy to get rich? Last I looked, the value of assets in the blind trust was something like six and a half mil, not counting the house in Chagrin Falls and a couple of other properties. "

"It's just over seven point two million now," she said. "The annual statement arrived last week and has been sitting in your 'In' box. You really should read your mail more often."

"You know, sometimes you can be a real fucking pain, MM."

"So can you, Senator, especially when you use that kind of language, knowing full well that
I don't like it."

There was stony silence for the next three-tenths of a mile. Then Stark took in a deep breath, let it out, and said, "I'm sorry, MM. I just can't shake the feeling that this whole thing is going to be a colossal waste of time, and it's got me kind of cranky. But I'm sorry for the way I spoke."

"I'm sorry, too," she said. "I expect I
was
being something of a pain, at that. But let's not fight over this. I mean, you might be right: it could turn out to be a fool's errand. But everything I've been able to find out says there's something to it."

"Conjuring demons," Stark said, shaking his head. "Just like in the fu
—uh, frigging movies."

She nodded. "Yes, I know. It sounds like very bad late-night TV
— except that it might just possibly be for real. I spent half an hour last month talking with a man who claimed that he had actually seen it done."

"How did he manage that? By peeking in Dr. Faust's window?"

"No, he commissioned it, apparently. He told me that, a couple of years ago, he'd paid a woman in Denver, someone named Victoria Steele, to conjure a demon for him."

"Conjure it to do what?"

"He was a little vague about that part," she said. "Which actually adds to his credibility, when you think about it
—very few people want a demon conjured in order to do something benevolent. But he was perfectly willing to talk about the rest, including the fact that the procedure, if that's the word, cost him ten thousand dollars."

Stark whistled briefly. "Witchcraft seems to pay well these days. And no danger of being burned at the stake if you're caught, either."

They continued south on Route 95, which soon brought them to the outskirts of Providence, although they did not take any of the exits leading into Rhode Island's capital city.

"Lovecraft country," Stark said, as if to himself.

Mary Margaret Doyle's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"H.P. Lovecraft. He used to live in Providence."

"Is that someone I should know? He's doesn't work on the Hill, does he?"

Stark gave a bark of laughter. "No, he's been dead a long time. Lovecraft was a writer. Quite well known, in some circles."