The Candidate (25 page)

IT'S LATE MORNING ON THE Monday after the Republican convention, and Erica has just arrived at the Huntington Hotel in San Francisco. Since coming back from Iraq she's been keyed up, anxious, sensitive to any sudden sound or movement. Sleep is elusive and the early-morning hours are filled with demons. She worries about Jenny and is confused by her feelings about Greg, but forces herself to concentrate on the task at hand. She's going to interview Lily Lau at the offices of Pierce Holding this afternoon; Eileen has hired a local crew to go with her. She wants to try and break through Lily Lau's cool, rattle her a little, get her to tip her hand—without tipping her own.

After unpacking, Erica takes out her cards, sits at the suite's desk, and deals a couple of hands of solitaire. The game usually helps to center her, calm her runaway mind. These days it's not enough. Only the truth will really bring her any peace. There's a window in front of her, and she looks out at the view—Grace Cathedral, the Union Club, the charming park. San Francisco is just
too
beautiful, she decides. No wonder it has one of the country's highest suicide rates. If you can't be happy here in Shangri-La, why not just pack it in? At the end of the rainbow lies the abyss.

Erica stands up and starts to pace, trying to tamp down her anxiety. She feels lonely and afraid, as if she's going into battle alone, unarmed, and outmanned.

She gets a call from Mort Silver. “I've got some great news.”

“I could use it.”

“The debate commission is going to name you moderator for the third and final debate. It's being held in Seattle one week before the election. This is
huge,
Erica
.
”

It is huge. Her surge of triumph, however, is quickly followed by one of duty. More weight on her shoulders. Still, she wanted this. Badly. And now she has it. “Do you know how it happened?”

“Well, this is where things get a little delicate. And this is strictly off the record. I got a phone call from someone I'm not at liberty to name. The Winters camp wanted you all along. The Ortiz people resisted, but then apparently Celeste Ortiz stepped in and okayed you.”

“That's a little bit strange.”

“However, the Ortiz camp wants to convey its expectation that your piece on him will not contain any ‘surprises.' ”

“In other words, they want a puff piece in return for okaying me.”

“That's awfully strong wording, Erica. Remember, these are power players operating at the highest levels. I include both of us in that assessment. You know there's a lot of quid pro quo. Moderating this debate is going to take your career to a whole new level.”

“I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear any of that and move forward with my piece.”

“Erica, both sides reserve the right to change the moderator up until two days before the debate. We have to tread lightly here. This debate will be a coup for you, but also for GNN and its bottom line. We're less than three years old, and this would put us right up there with the more established networks. I told them that we didn't anticipate your piece containing any surprises.”

“In other words, you spoke for me.”

There is a pause, and then Mort says with finality, “You work for me.”

“Last time I checked, I was the only number one show on GNN. If you think I'm going to compromise my integrity in service of your bottom line, well, you better start looking for my replacement.”

“Now, now . . .”

“Don't ‘now, now' me, Mort. Every other network on television would leap to hire me and you know it. Why? Because I
deliver.
And I don't deliver puff pieces.”

When Mort speaks, his tone is conciliatory. “Are you anticipating any surprises in your story?”

“I'm anticipating an honest, in-depth look at Mike Ortiz's life and career.” She takes a deep breath. “Listen, Mort, I want the moderator gig. I want it
a lot
. So let's you and I work together on this. When you get that follow-up call from your unnamed source, just tell them that Erica has assured you the report will be fair and honest and will showcase Ortiz's many strengths.”

“Good. Good, Erica. That's exactly what I'll do.”

Erica hangs up. She has no time to savor her win. In fact, she feels like she's racing against the clock. She concentrates on Lily Lau. Her father, Chen Lau, is the head of the MSS. The men who tortured Mike Ortiz were Chinese. Were they MSS agents?

Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Fear. Indoctrination. Love
.

Erica sees that baby, gurgling with happiness, as Judy Buchanan holds it up and makes a funny face. A second later both of them were shredded into pieces by the bomb Tim Markum planted. And then that horrific day in Detroit when she was splattered by bits of Markum's brains and blood and bone when Peter Tuttle shot him in the face before killing himself. Martin Vander plowed down in broad daylight. Becky Sullivan thrown onto the rocks of Morningside Park. Anwar Hamade's car exploding when he turned the ignition. All of these crimes were seamlessly planned and executed. No doubt the MSS, with its resources and smarts, was as adept as the CIA in the art of killing.

Erica remembers the look that Celeste and Lily—huddled in a
corner—gave her as she waited for the elevator at the New York fundraiser. It was chilling. If Ortiz wins the White House, they'll be the most powerful women in the world. Is Lily Lau a stalking horse for Beijing putting its pawn in the White House? But she couldn't be doing it alone. The MSS must have operatives in this country, just as surely as the CIA has them in China.

Erica sits down at her laptop and brings up the
San Francisco
magazine piece on Lau. She takes another look at her country compound with its three guesthouses. She searches real estate records and finds the address. Then she goes to Google Earth and zooms in on it. Much of the estate is obscured by trees. Then there is its isolation, up a two-mile driveway. There would be no one to hear you scream. One of those guesthouses could be the perfect location for—

Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Fear. Indoctrination. Love
.

ERICA AND HER POD—SOUNDMAN AND cameraman—arrive at the stately old office building on Market near the Embarcadero where Pierce Holdings is headquartered. As they ride up in the elevator, Erica says, “I'd like you two to wait outside while I have a brief pre-interview talk with Lau. I'll come and get you when I'm ready to start taping.”

The elevator doors open to a reception area that looks like it hasn't been renovated since the 1950s. The lettering of the Pierce Holdings sign, the furniture, the dull prints on the walls, all give the impression of an old-money company that has nothing to prove.

The receptionist smiles and informs Lily that Erica has arrived. Within moments she strides out, even more striking and glamorous than Erica remembered. She smiles in an approximation of warmth.

“Erica, how lovely to see you again. Come in. Bring your crew.” She's going through the motions, but she seems distracted, preoccupied, anxious, as if she has something far more pressing on her plate.

“I thought we could talk for a couple of minutes alone, in preparation.”

Lily looks thrown, for just a nanosecond. “Whatever you prefer.”

They walk down a hallway lined with more generic art and into Lily's relatively modest office. The art in here is in a whole different league—three striking black-and-white abstract paintings. Lily sits behind her desk and Erica sits facing her. Lily's mouth is drawn tight. Erica takes a deep silent breath. Lily glances down at her phone.

“I'm hoping this won't take too long,” Lily says. “As you know, Pierce Holdings is a private company. We don't divulge much. It's not good business.”

“Do you worry about people looking into your inner working?”

“I don't
worry
about. I simply make sure they can't.” She glances down at her phone again.

“Isn't that difficult in this day and age? Hackers are very sophisticated.”

“I thought you were here to talk about where Pierce Holdings was invested. And perhaps we could discuss the work of the Pierce Foundation. We gave away thirty-five million dollars last year.” She drums the desktop with her fingertips.

This chick is wound tight. Good. Push your advantage.

“We can certainly touch on the Foundation. But as the campaign heats up there is a great deal of interest in exactly where Celeste Pierce Ortiz's money is invested. Do you have holdings in fossil fuels? Companies that employ child labor? It could become an issue.”

“It's no and no to both those questions.”

“Do you have a lot of overseas holdings?”

“Erica, Pierce Holdings is not a nonprofit. I'm in the business of making money. I go where that's likely to happen. Last time I checked that wasn't a crime. Politics is so ugly.”

“It is, isn't it? People will do
anything
to get elected.”

“It's been going on for millennia.” Another glance at her phone. “In fact, things are tame today compared to what our ancestors engaged in.”

“You mean like murder?”

“Listen, I'm pressed for time.”

Erica doesn't move. “Interesting art.”

“Pierce Holdings has one of the world's best collections of contemporary Chinese art.”

“How prescient. That might be a good opening for us. We could sit in front of one of the paintings.”

“I'm not sure middle America is interested in Chinese art.”

“I'm interested in
everything
Chinese.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Your country's history is so rich.”

“It is, isn't it?” Another glance at her phone.

“They were early masters in so many fields. Including warfare.”

Lily stands up. “Are you ready to shoot your piece?”

Erica remains seated. She's hit a nerve. Time to hit another one. “I've been researching Mike Ortiz's time as a hostage. His body was subjected to some brutal abuse. So was his mind.”

“Mike Ortiz is an extraordinary man who is going to be a great president.”

“If he wins, will you be joining his administration?”

“I never count my chickens.”

“We're not talking about chickens.”

“Then let's talk about geese. I spoke to Celeste this morning. About the debates.” She gives Erica a thin smile. “Only a fool would kill a goose that lays golden eggs.”

“Geese are nasty animals. And some things are more valuable than gold.”

“Such as?”

“The truth.” Erica looks Lily in the eye and holds her gaze. “I saw some amazing pictures of your weekend house. It's quite a spread.”

For a second Lily's eyes turn into burning ice cubes. Then she turns away with a look of vague dismissal.

Too late, Lily, I saw that look.

Lily gets a call. Still feigning nonchalance, she says, “Would you excuse me for just a moment?”

“Of course.”

Lily walks out into the hall. Erica immediately decides it's the perfect time to go get her crew. She silently walks to the open office door—she can hear Lily's urgent whisper, “Well,
were
we breached?”

Erica steps out into the hallway and Lily whirls on her. Erica says, “Just going to get my crew,” and walks down to the reception area.

In their taped interview, Erica and Lily continue their taut tango. Lily is guarded and stingy with information about Celeste's wealth. Erica presses her, but not hard. After all, facts about Celeste's fortune aren't what she came for.

When Erica gets back to the hotel she calls Mark on her prepaid.

“Listen, Mark, I think they may have detected you. Pull back
now
.”

“Just when things are getting interesting?”

“I'm serious. I want you to shut down your work. You're at risk. Do you understand me?”

“All right, Erica, I will. But I have learned something that might interest you. While I haven't been able to get into their second system, I have been able to discern a location for a lot of its activity.”

“Is it in China?”

“No, it's in northern Marin County.”

Erica hangs up with Mark, opens her laptop, and pulls up the Ortiz campaign schedule provided to the press. The candidate and his wife are flying out of town first thing in the morning, and they'll be crisscrossing the country all week. Lily Lau is listed as accompanying them.

Next Erica finds a helicopter rental agency and gives them a call.

“Hi, this is Erica Sparks. I'm interested in real estate in northern Marin. I'd like to do a flyover to get a good look at several properties.”

“We can certainly accommodate you.”

“Do you have a copter available tomorrow morning?”

“We do, yes. We leave from the Signature Flight Support Terminal at SFO.”

“I'll be there at nine.”

THIRTY THOUSAND FEET IN THE sky above Florida, the Ortiz campaign jet is slicing through the ether on its way to a fundraiser and rally in Miami. Celeste is in the plane's salon room having her hair done by Sylvie, who is the only woman she lets touch it and who travels with her everywhere. Celeste looks at herself in the mirror as Sylvie works. She's never looked better and it goes beyond Botox and La Prairie; she is just radiant and glowing—and she knows why. Because she has never felt so alive, so full of energy and drive and excitement. She smiles to herself. How brilliant it all is. If only the world knew. That beneath each guesthouse at Eagle's Nest is a secret bunker in which a select few are toiling. In the first house, information is mined 24/7 from the Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI, the whole dark beating heart of American intelligence. Codes are broken, movements are tracked, the unseen is made visible. In the second house, preparations for the transition are being made—demonstrations and even civil unrest might ensue, but Lily will always be two steps ahead. To those who say America has never used its military on its own people, she answers—
“And?”
In the third building is the propaganda machine, ready to twist the tiny minds of the masses until
they think black is white, up is down, and that the new administration cares about their pathetic little lives.

On the surface the Ortiz administration will be as Go-Go-USA as every other presidency. Everything will be methodical. Ordered. Patient. First the warming of Chinese-American relations, the cultural exchanges, academic alliances, business partnerships, leadership visits, the ever-growing reach of China's tentacles into every aspect of American life. Then the trade agreement between the two countries. And then, perhaps two years into President Ortiz's first term, the historic military pact between the two great nations, the pact that will make NATO look like the wimp on the beach, that will usher in the most powerful alliance the world has ever seen. One controlled, of course, by Beijing—and Lily Lau from her perch by the president's side in the Oval Office. She and Celeste will ascend to the fiery Parthenon.

“All done,” Sylvie says.

“Thank you, dear,” Celeste says.

She gets up and walks down the hall and into the plane's private office. Lily, Mike, a speechwriter, and a speech coach sit around the large table. Celeste knows they've been prepping for an interview with Anderson Cooper, with the writer standing in for Cooper. Mike does well with large crowds and at fundraisers, and he's surprisingly good at debates, where he can slot in his prepared answers as called for. But he tends to falter at town halls and in one-on-ones, where he has to think on his feet and make direct human contact. He's not great at human contact. But, honestly, Celeste thinks, human contact is so overrated.

Celeste sits down just as he stumbles on an answer to a question about pre-K education, and he looks at her sheepishly. She loves the look of supplication, although right now she wishes he'd just rise to the occasion. Tending to her candidate is becoming a bit of a bore. She reminds herself that it will all be over in a matter of weeks. Mike just has to keep his mojo going. He's really doing awfully well. She's proud of him. Poor thing.

Celeste is more worried about Lily, who is definitely distracted. She
has her face buried in her phone and her shoulders are hunched. She barely acknowledged Celeste when she came into the room. Celeste isn't sure she has ever seen her this out of sorts. There's something black and icy in Lily's eyes. She seems coiled and ready to strike. They haven't had a chance to talk privately, but they will as soon as this tutorial is over. Still, it's disconcerting. Celeste lives and dies by Lily's moods—and this one is ominous.

“Remember to maintain eye contact,” the coach says.

“Yes, darling,
eye contact
,” Celeste seconds.

“When you get an education question, talk about
children
, mention that they're the
future
. Bring up
Tajari
, the six-year-old homeless girl you met in Detroit. Or
Michael
, the ten-year-old foster child in Denver,” the speechwriter says.

“Children. The future. Tajari. Michael,” Mike repeats.

“Remember how they touched you, darling? How you want them to have the same chance every other child in America has?” Celeste says.

Mike nods.

The writer repeats the education question, and Mike looks at Celeste before leaning forward and making eye contact with his questioner. “You know, Anderson, children are more than statistics; they're our future. I'll never forget the look in the eyes of Tajari, a six-year-old homeless girl I had the privilege of meeting in Detroit. She was living in a shelter. I asked her what she needed most of all, and she answered, ‘A desk to do my homework on.' I was deeply moved by her plea. If I'm elected president, I
will not rest
until Tajari and every child like her has a desk.”

In spite of everything she knows, Celeste is moved by Mike's words. She's really done an amazing job, hasn't she, molding him into this presidential figure. She knows how Michelangelo must have felt, taking a lump of marble and turning it into a brilliant work of art. It's immodest of her to think that, but modesty is for losers. She looks to Lily for her reward, but all she sees is a set jaw and those burning eyes. Something is terribly wrong. In spite of Mike's progress, Celeste feels her anxiety level skyrocket.

She stands and crosses to Mike, leans down, and kisses the top of his head. “That was marvelous, darling.” Mike beams. “Do you feel like a nice workout?” Mike nods. “Wonderful. I'll join you in a few minutes. We can have a private spinning class.”

Mike
needs
his daily workouts. It's the only way he can work off all that excessive energy.
Well, there is one other way,
Celeste thinks with a little smile. But she's been withholding that—just once a week, when the man wants it three times a day—with the promise that they'll make up for lost time after he wins the election. It's the proverbial sex on a stick.

As soon as they're alone, Celeste asks Lily, “What's the matter?”

Lily stands and starts to pace. “Erica Sparks is wrong, for one thing.” Even as she says the name, Celeste can hear grudging respect in her voice.

“And after we agreed to let her moderate the final debate! We may have to pull that plug. What has she done now?” Celeste asks.

“I think she knows too much.”

“Knows or suspects?”

“Either way is bad news. She was very aggressive in questioning me
before
the filmed interview. She told me that she's looking into Mike's days as a hostage. She brought up China. And she brought up hacking. Our people have detected suspicious activity.”

“You didn't tell me that.”

Lily turns on her. “I'm telling you now!”

Celeste feels a terrible pang of hurt. She can't handle it when Lily gets short with her. All she said was one simple sentence and Lily bit her head off. “Were we hacked?”

“Didn't I just say they have
detected suspicious activity
? If we were hacked, wouldn't I have just come out and said
we've been hacked
? Honestly, Celeste, sometimes I think you're as slow as your husband.”

Celeste can feel hot tears welling up behind her eyes. Lily knows how hurtful she's being; she knows.

“I'm only trying to be helpful.”

“By asking me a lot of third-grader questions?”

“How am I supposed to know what's happening if I don't ask questions? You're being horrid to me, and it's not fair!” Celeste is quivering and she can't stop herself.

Lily laughs in derision. “
Horrid?
I'm being
horrid
to you? ‘Oh, Mummy, Mummy, Lily is being horrid to me. Make her stop it, Mummy. Make her stop!' ”

Since the day they met, Lily has teased Celeste about her upbringing, needling her mercilessly at times, imitating her country club manners and speech. But before it's always been in fun. This
isn't
in fun. Something has shifted.

And then it hits Celeste like a thunderbolt:
Lily is afraid
. She's never seen her afraid before. Erica Sparks is getting too close for comfort. And Lily can't handle it. She needs help. She needs
Celeste
, more than she's ever needed her before.

Celeste feels a combination of succulent warmth and gushing empathy. Poor Lily. Poor dear, vulnerable Lily. Celeste calmly takes a breath. “We'll get through this,” she says in a smooth soft voice. Then she goes to Lily and squeezes her hand. “The same way we get through everything.
Together
.” She smiles in reassurance.

Lily pulls her hand away. “Of course we'll get through it. You don't think I'm
worried,
do you? Please. I could crush that Erica Sparks like a bug if I wanted to. Just like I crushed all the others. Like little bugs underfoot. I love that sound they make as their shells shatter and you grind them into oblivion.”

Oh, how touching!
—Lily can't
admit
that she's afraid. It's her fierce pride, of course. The Chinese are so proud. Celeste is so sensitive, so attuned to Lily's every mood and inflection. What Lily needs most is a concrete plan—she's always best when she feels in control.

“Has there been any more suspicious activity on the system?” Celeste asks.

Lily shakes her head.

“It sounds as if the suspected breach may have simply been a false alarm.”

“Perhaps,” Lily says, somewhat begrudgingly.

Oh, she's coming around, poor thing. “As for Erica Sparks mentioning China, and even Mike's time as a prisoner, she was just on a fishing expedition. There's nothing there. We made sure of that. And China
is
on everyone's minds these days. Sparks is just a clever reporter looking for a way to make news in a campaign that—thanks to your brilliance and that insipid Lucy Winters—doesn't seem to be holding any surprises.”

“The latest polls are good,” Lily says.

“Better than good when you look at the electoral college. We worked hard with Mike today. That's the best path forward. Heads down, do the work, keep our eyes on the prize.”

Lily nods, her jaw relaxes.

Then Celeste says, almost casually, “There is one other thing we should do.”

“What's that?” Lily asks, a little too quickly. She just revealed that she's hanging on Celeste's every word.

Celeste takes a long pause to savor the dynamic. She's taking care of Lily, protecting her, mothering her. What a beautiful thing.

“I'm angry at Erica Sparks too,” Celeste says. “She was disrespectful to you. Who does she think she is? She grew up in a trailer. She's a common drunk. Arrested for reckless endangerment. Sometimes this country gives opportunities to people who shouldn't have them.”

“She really has overstepped the bounds, hasn't she?” Lily says.

“She has.”

“I think it's time to deal with her once and for all,” Celeste says.

“But we have to be very careful. She's a public figure. There will be
a lot
of interest if something unfortunate should happen to her. And we don't have much time.”

“Can't we just turn it over to the team? They've been so effective so far.”

“They're extraordinary. But we're mere weeks from bringing this whole thing home. We want to be very smart,” Lily says.

“You're right, of course. The final solution could cause unwanted attention, be a distraction. And we don't know who she's been talking to. They could come out of the woodwork.”

Lily stands up and starts to pace again, but she's no longer anxious or distracted. She's thinking, focused, that razor-sharp brain of hers is at work—clicking-clicking—it's thrilling to see. Then she stops cold. A little smile plays at the corners of Lily's mouth, her beautiful, perfect mouth, and she says, almost casually, “I've got it.”

Their eyes meet and ignite and they sit down next to each other at the table and lean in, shoulders touching, their voices bare whispers—fevered whispers charged with malice and electricity.