The Candidate (20 page)

NO SOONER HAS ERICA WALKED into her suite than she gets a call from Shirley Stamos.

“Hi, Shirley, what's up?”

“I have some terrible news, Erica.”

“What?”

“Becky Sullivan either killed herself or was murdered last night.”

Erica is stunned into silence. Then a terrible foreboding grips her and she feels her body temperature drop. “How?”

“She either jumped or was thrown off a wall on Morningside Drive, down into the park.”

“There were no witnesses?”

“No. It's quiet up there at night.”

“She didn't know that part of town; she hasn't been in New York long enough. She was a small-town girl.”

“I had those same thoughts.”

“I'm stunned. It's so sad. She was a good kid, a little troubled, but I'm sure she would have worked it out.”

“She certainly worshiped you.”

“Jenny adored her. I've got to call and tell her.”

“That's going to be a tough call. Erica, I'm here for you. If there's anything I can do to help,
anything,
please let me know.”

“Can you send flowers to her family back in Ohio? Send two bouquets. One ‘from all her friends and colleagues at GNN' and one ‘from Jenny and Erica.' And get me their phone number.”

“Of course.”

Erica sits down and tries to compose herself. Becky is gone. Becky who spent many evenings at Erica's, who
was
terrific with Jenny. Her poor parents, to lose a child so young—and so violently. And poor sad, insecure Becky. Could it have been a suicide? If Becky had been responsible for the hidden cameras, the fact that they were discovered could have driven her over the edge. Still, why would she have headed uptown to Morningside Heights to do it? She could have leapt out her apartment window.

And if it was murder? Was Becky doing someone's bidding when she hid the cameras? And once she was unmasked, did she represent a security risk that had to be taken out?

Erica takes a deep breath and exhales with a sigh, pushing her speculation aside and turning her focus to Jenny. No point postponing the inevitable. She calls Jenny's camp and reaches the director, Meg Winston, who promises to track down Jenny and bring her to the office.

Shirley texts Becky's home number in Ohio, and Erica calls it.

“Yes?” comes a woman's voice, sounding numb and drained.

“This is Erica Sparks. Is this . . . ?”

“Yeah, I'm Mary Sullivan. Becky's mom.”

“I just wanted to call to say how sorry I am. Becky was a lovely young woman.”

“She was a good kid. She wanted to make something of her life.” The poor woman sounds so beaten down.

“She
did
make something of her life. My daughter adored her. She was very helpful to me.”

“That's nice to hear. She was talking about coming back home.”

“She was?”

“I think New York was too much for her. I think it scared her. Last time she called she told me she felt trapped.”

Erica wants to ask more questions, but the woman's sadness is just too much. So Erica says, “Again, I'm so sorry.”

She hangs up and remembers Becky's overeager face. Then she sees Fred and Judy Buchanan and the innocent bystanders to the bombing, some of whom will never walk or see again. The names and faces tumble out—Markum, Tuttle, Vander.

And Mike Ortiz. The man who changed somehow while in Al-Qaeda custody. Is he now the Trojan candidate, a stalking horse for . . . who? The CIA? They certainly have the resources and the expertise. And the motive. If Ortiz won, America's shadowy intelligence agency could take control. And who controls the CIA? The military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower, in his final speech to the country, warned posed the greatest threat to Americans' liberty. In the face of the global terrorist threat, democracies around the world are taking away freedoms, imposing curfews, curtailing free speech, and banning demonstrations. Could America be next?

Erica's phone rings, and she starts. She pulls herself back to the here and now.

“Jenny?”

“Yes, Mom?”

“I have some very sad news.”

“What is it?”

“Becky died, honey.”

“What?”

“I'm so sorry, honey.”

Jenny starts to cry. “She was my friend.”

“I know she was, sweetheart, and you were a good friend to her.”

“What happened?”

Should she tell her the truth? It will be so disturbing. But she will find out eventually and resent being lied to. Erica decides to split the difference. “She fell off a high wall. It may have been an accident.”

“Becky was afraid of heights, she told me that.”

“I know it's hard to accept, but that's what happened, honey.”

“I don't think she fell; she would never get up on a high wall. What if she was pushed?”

“They're investigating everything.”

“I think she was murdered.”

“It's really too soon to say, honey.”

“It's not too soon to say. You know it and I know it. She was murdered.”

“Let's let the police do their work.”

“No, I don't need to wait. Becky was probably killed because she was connected to you.”

Erica runs her fingers through her hair and slumps down in the chair—she's had the same thought.

“Please don't say that, Jenny. It makes me feel terrible.”

“Good! I think you're selfish. You don't care about me! What if you get killed next? And please don't tell me it's your
stupid job
!”

Erica feels like her emotional toolbox is empty. There's nothing left. What can she say? How can she make this better? There's a long pause filled with Jenny's anger and tears.

Finally Erica says, “I sent flowers to her family, from both of us. And I spoke to her mother.”

Jenny says nothing; there's just faint phone static between them.

“I'm sorry about Becky, honey.”

“I'm sorry about
everything
. I wish I was still living with Dad and Linda.”

These are the words Erica most dreads. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I don't want you to leave me, Jenny. It would break my heart. But if you honestly feel that way, we can discuss it.”

“By the way, don't come for parents' weekend.”

“Honey, I'm planning on it. I took that Friday off work.”

“Dad and Linda are coming.”

“I wish you had told me sooner.”

“I guess we both wish things.”

“Jenny, I can't let you go when things are like this between us. I just can't. It would tear me up. I'm your mother and I love you more than anything in the world. You can talk to me about anything, anytime. I will stand with you and stand behind you, now and always . . . We'll keep talking?”

There's a pause and then Jenny says a halfhearted, “Okay.”

Erica grabs that
Okay
like a life preserver.

ERICA IS DUE OVER AT McCormick Place in an hour. But she picks up the hotel's landline and calls Greg in Sydney, where it's ten at night.

“Erica, don't you have a busy day ahead of you?”

“I do, but I need to talk.”

“All ears here.”

She quickly gives him an update on her investigation, the murders so far, Becky's death, the cameras discovered in her apartment, her suspicions about mind control, and then George Yuan's pointing out how the ancient text seems to perfectly describe some of the tactics the CIA uses. The words tumble out of her in an urgent rush, and when she's finished there's a pause.

“Erica, you're in deep on this.”

“Do you think I'm off on a wild goose chase?”

“No! I wish you were. Your instincts are sharp, and at this point we're way beyond instinct. Someone is committing systematic killings. And it's certainly within the realm of possibility that the CIA would want to control the presidency. It would give it the ability to dictate American foreign policy. Not to mention domestic.”

“Listen, we've all seen what the CIA is capable of. It has engineered the overthrow of more than one legitimate government,” Erica says.

“The time Ortiz spent as a hostage is basically unaccounted for,” Greg says. “The CIA could have come in with suitcases of cash and bought control of him from Al-Qaeda. And then brainwashed him. Sounds farfetched at first blush, but look at Nylan Hastings. That seemed beyond the realm of possibility.”

“Exactly. Do you have contacts I could
absolutely
trust who might be helpful?” Erica asks. “A former CIA agent would probably be best. Or maybe someone who dealt with them over in Iraq?”

“You know, when I was a photographer in the Middle East, I did meet a guy, Anwar Hamade. He's an Iraqi journalist. Upstanding guy and incredibly knowledgeable. His specialty was covert action, by his own and other governments. He spent a lot of time studying the CIA.”

“Do you have contact information on him?”

“I can find it. Erica, you've taken on another biggie.”

“They find me.”

“That's not true and you know it. Can you handle this?”

“I think I'm past the point of no return.”

“You can't be too careful.”

“Listen, I've got to get over to McCormick Place. Big night tonight.”

There's a pause. Greg lowers his voice and says, “I wish I were there with you.”

“So do I, Greg.”

“THERE YOU HAVE IT, SALLY Carpenter's speech accepting the vice presidential nomination. The mood here at the McCormick Center is joyous and festive, rocking with anticipation.”

As Erica looks down at the arena, she gets goose bumps. In spite of everything that she's juggling, she is moved by the sight of so many of her fellow Americans—of all races and faiths, straight and gay, young and old, wealthy and working class—actively engaged in
democracy.
And to think that it's been working for 240 years. There's a lot of cynicism in the news business, understandably to some extent—journalists are witnesses to lies and vanity and greed—but Erica doesn't share it. In fact, she
hates
cynicism. It's a dead end, a surrender, the enemy of unity, inspiration, and progress.

Watching her fellow Americans exercising their basic rights, she feels a renewed energy for taking on the CIA—or
whoever
is responsible for the Buchanan bombing and its deadly aftershocks.

“That's Senator Bob Frankel of New York who has just walked out on the stage to introduce Mike Ortiz. Let's listen to his speech.”

GNN cuts to Frankel, and with each word out of his mouth, more people are standing on chairs and waving banners, yelling and
screaming their approval at the senator's description of Ortiz's strength and character. His voice rising, Frankel finishes with, “It is with great pride that I ask you to join me in welcoming the next president of the United States of America, Mike Ortiz.”

Ortiz strides onstage to a roar that feels like it might blow the roof off the arena. He looks like a movie star, fit and handsome, yes, but he also has that intangible quality—“it”—that makes it impossible to take your eyes off him. He stands at the podium letting the adulation wash over him, waving, smiling, looking confident but not arrogant.

After five minutes of pandemonium, Ortiz quiets the arena and begins his speech. In rising cadences he recounts his life story and talks about his vision for America. The crowd is eating out of his hand, breaking into thunderous applause at every cue. Of course there's an element of performance, but is Erica the only one who thinks it goes beyond that, that it's too perfect, that Ortiz looks and acts programmed, as if he were the world's most amazing trained seal? He nails all the rhetorical tricks, hits all the high notes, but to Erica something is missing—there's no
soul
behind it.

Now Ortiz is talking about his time as a prisoner. “I learned the meaning of real hardship and true grit. Some days I fell into a pit of despair. But I always found a way to climb out. Why? Because I was determined to come back to the country I love and make a difference. I methodically planned my escape. And after exactly nine months and nine days, I took my fate into my own hands and—”

Those are the last words Erica hears.

George Yuan's voice echoes in her head
: The mind-control process should take exactly nine months and nine days.

Erica pushes away from her desk and stands up, sucking air, shivering in the chill that's sweeping over her body. Her colleagues turn and look at her with concern.

An associate producer comes over to ask, “Erica, are you all right?”

Erica takes a step back. The well-meaning woman looks like she's a million miles away—in another world, a better world.

SOMEHOW ERICA GETS THROUGH THE rest of the night, finally signing off at a little after eleven. The first thing she does is call Mort Silver.

“I need to talk to you, Mort.”

“You seemed a little off your game tonight, Erica.” From the sound of his voice, it's been a liquid evening.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just calling it like I see it.”

“Well, I need to see you.”

“I'm in my suite; come on up.”

Erica heads back to the Four Seasons and right up to Mort's suite, where he has been hosting a watch party. He opens the door himself and exclaims with a big smile, “The one and only Erica Sparks!” Yes, he's definitely been tippling.

Erica walks into the expansive suite. There are several dozen guests including politicians, network executives, newscasters, and buttoned-down business types. There's a lavish if picked-over buffet and a bartender who has clearly had a busy night. The guests greet Erica's arrival as a big deal. Good. It gives her a little leverage.

“Forgive me, but I'm going to steal Mort away for a couple of
minutes,” Erica says, steering him toward what looks like an unoccupied bedroom. She shuts the door behind them.

“Well, someone's got something on her mind,” Mort says, a little put out by her initiative.

“Listen, Mort, I want to go to Iraq to research my in-depth profile on Mike Ortiz.”

“Erica, I don't think that's necessary. There's lots of stock footage of that country and of Al-Qaeda.”

“It's not the same thing as being there.”

“No, it's not. Which is a very good thing.” Mort starts to pace, and Erica can see him sobering up, putting on his boss cap. “Do you know what kind of shape Iraq is in right now? It's a mess. ISIS controls about a third of the country. The Shiites and Sunnis are blowing each other up. It's a
very
dangerous place. You think I'm going to let GNN's most valuable asset put herself at that kind of risk? I'm sorry, Erica, but it's a no.”

“We're talking about creating compelling television. I want the American people to see what Ortiz went through. I want to bring it to life, viscerally.”

“Good instincts. Bad plan. Do you know what it would
cost
to provide the kind of security you would need?”

“I want to slip under the radar, Mort, make the trip unannounced. Which will make it a news story in itself when I come back. I'll need minimal crew and light security. Anything more would only draw attention to me.”

“I'm sorry, but the risk and costs outweigh the benefits. McCain was a prisoner of war; it didn't get him elected.”

“I'm not trying to get Ortiz elected, I just want the American people to understand the man who may be our next president. I'll go just as in-depth on Lucy Winters.”

“You mean about the years she spent in a 4H camp?” He laughs mirthlessly. “I don't think you're going to find much of anything juicy on
her
. In fact, I can hear her campaign squawking about our bias if we make too much of Ortiz's prison ordeal.”

“This is going to be the furthest thing from a puff piece, I assure you.”

“Erica, you're going to be playing up the most compelling part of Ortiz's narrative. It could come across like a campaign ad.”

“I don't do that kind of journalism and you know it.”

“You seem very keyed up. Does this have to be settled right now? Tonight? I've got guests out there.”

“It kind of does, Mort.”

“Why?”

“Listen, Mort, my ratings have been high lately. I'm number one every night.”

“True.”

Erica looks him in the eye. “I want to go over to Iraq,” she says, an iron will in a velvet voice.

Mort shakes his head, and a little bit of the fight goes out of him. “For goodness' sake, when do you want to go?”

“ASAP.”

“And for how long?”

“Two or three days should be enough. And I want as few people as possible to know I'm going. We can announce it as a vacation or just say ‘Erica Sparks has the week off.' Downplay it across the board. And absolutely no mention of Iraq.”

“It may be impossible to keep it a secret once you arrive.”

“We'll deal with that when I get there. I want to start things in motion first thing on Monday. I'll ask Greg Underwood to help me find a local producer who knows the lay of the land. He can set up lodging, escorts, security, a local crew.”

Mort shakes his head in acceptance and looks at Erica with real concern. “Are you
sure
you want to put yourself at this kind of risk?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I suppose it could pay off.”

More than you know, Mort, more than you know.