The Run (28 page)

Zeke laughed aloud at his own joke. He pressed three and watched as the flashlight bulb lit up. Bingo!
Then he rerecorded the third option. Now it said, “If you wish to be placed on hold for the rest of your life, press three.” That should keep anyone who was accidentally connected to the number from pressing three.

Chuckling to himself, he packed the equipment into a bag and left for the Coliseum.

“Senator,” Kitty said, “can I ask the obvious question? I mean, I know the answer, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

“Go ahead,” Will said.

“If George Kiel can play this game, why can’t you? Why can’t you just call Thad Morrison back and tell him you’ll keep the base open, then, after you’re elected, close the fucking thing. Would you really rather be right than president? Because, to tell you the truth, I’d rather be wrong and be the president’s press secretary.”

“Come on, Kitty, you know better than that.”

“All right, you wouldn’t make the next edition of
Profiles in Courage
, but you’d have a shot at running the country, you know?”

“Kitty, if somebody had told me six months ago that I’d find myself in this position, then maybe I wouldn’t have taken so firm a stand on the commission’s report; maybe I’d have found a way to weasel out of it or rationalize it, or something. But that’s not the way it happened. As it turned out, I took that position, then I repeated it ad nauseam to get other senators to support it, then I told everybody who’d listen that I wouldn’t change it. So I’m stuck with it, and that’s that. So, if we’re going to win this thing, we’re going to have to find another way to do it. Let’s get started.”

Zeke waited for a lull in the afternoon’s proceedings. Then, when the maintenance workers were on a coffee break, he went into the closet under the podium and installed his system, connecting it to the last of the six telephone lines coming into the podium. Only one of the numbers was given out; a caller dialed the first number, and if it was busy, the call rolled over to the second number, and so on, until all six lines were busy. When they were, a caller would get a busy signal. Only if the caller directly dialed the number for the sixth line would he reach Zeke’s voice-mail system, and only the telephone company and Zeke had that number. Zeke had copied it from the installer’s records.

He attached a Lucent label to the black box; he doubted if anyone would notice it, but if somebody took the lid off the box, the insides would look like nothing more than part of the phone system. He would attach the explosives later, after everyone was used to seeing the box there in the closet, and after the closet had been inspected numerous times.

Tim Coleman put down the phone in Will’s suite. It was a little after five.

“What?” Will asked.

“That was an acquaintance of mine who was at the California delegation’s caucus.”

“You didn’t tell me you knew anyone like that,” Will said.

“I didn’t want to mention it, in case the call never came.”

“And what was the result of the caucus?”

“Fifteen delegates switched their votes to Kiel.”

Will sagged. “Kiel was only fourteen votes short of the nomination.”

Patricia Lee spoke up. “It’s not over,” she said.
“We’ve still got a chance to gain votes from other delegations.”

Tim shook his head. “I don’t see how we can make up that many votes before tonight.”

“Let’s get to work,” Will said.

50

Will and his inner circle of around two dozen people had a buffet supper in his suite as the convention opened and the balloting began. His campaign had put every possible person on the convention floor to canvass delegations, looking to change as many votes as possible.

“California!” the chairman called out.

The television screen was filled with the face of Governor Thad Morrison, who was deep in conversation on a cell phone.

“California!” the chairman called again.

Morrison held the phone against his chest and grabbed a microphone. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, his voice booming around the Coliseum, “California wishes to delay its vote until the end of balloting.”

Will grabbed Tim Coleman. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Tim replied, shaking his head. “I’ve
heard nothing from my source; as far as I know, we’re still losing fifteen votes.”

“Something is going on here,” Will said. “I wish to God I knew what it was.”

Tim had a chart and was marking the votes of the various delegations, while Kitty used a calculator to do a running total.

The balloting finished.

“We’ve got 222 votes, and Kiel has 256,” Kitty said.

“Then we’re done,” Tim replied, his shoulders sagging.

“We haven’t heard from California,” Patricia Lee said.

“California!” the chairman called out.

“Here we go,” Kate said.

“Mr. Chairman,” Thad Morrison called out, “California votes thirty-nine for Will Lee…” Cheering broke out.

“That gives us 261,” Kitty said, “and we need 270 to win the nomination. Kiel only needs fourteen votes.”

“And,” Morrison continued, “fifteen votes for George Kiel.”

The Kiel supporters erupted. Pandemonium reigned in the hall. The chairman banged his gavel to no avail.

Will put his head back and closed his eyes. Why hadn’t he taken George Kiel’s offer? He could have been president in four years.

“Something’s happening,” Tim said, pointing at the big-screen TV. Thad Morrison was back at the microphone, shouting something.

“What’s he doing?” Will asked.

“He’s trying to get recognized,” Tim said.

Gradually the chairman regained order. “The chair
recognizes Governor Thad Morrison of the great state of California.”

“Mr. Chairman,” Morrison said, “I request a poll of the delegation.”

“What’s the point?” Kitty asked. “We’ve lost.”

As the polling began, a phone rang and somebody answered it. “It’s for you,” a worker said, handing Will the phone.

“Not now,” Will said, riveted to the TV.

“It’s the vice president.”

Will took the phone. “Hello?”

“Will,” Joe Adams said, “I want to apologize to you.”

“Joe, it’s all right; it was my decision, not yours.”

“You don’t understand,” Adams said.

“What do you mean?”

“I assume you’re watching TV.”

“Yes.”

“They’re polling the California delegation.”

“Yes, I’m watching.”

“I’ve been on the phone with Thad Morrison three times this evening; that’s why California didn’t vote at first.”

“And what were the two of you talking about?”

“I’ve been trying to nail down some information all afternoon, and I finally confirmed what I had suspected.”

“And what was that, Joe?”

“I found it suspicious that George Kiel would reverse himself as he did about the Castle Point base. It would have been unlike him to do that.”

“But he did.”

“And for a reason.”

Tim was tugging at Will’s sleeve. “We’ve got two of our lost California delegates back,” he was saying.

Will waved him away. “What’s going on, Joe?”

“There was a leak from a staffer on the commission on base closings.”

“What kind of a leak?”

“The commission is going to recommend that Castle Point remain open.”

Will’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it. George Kiel found out about it; that’s why he promised Thad Morrison he’d keep the base open.”

“And when did Thad Morrison find out about this?”

“I was telling him when California was called on to vote.”

Tim was yelling. “We’ve got three more delegates back!”

“Tim tells me we’ve got five California delegates back, so far,” Will said. “That means George can’t win on this ballot.”

“And more to come, I hope,” Adams said. “I think the delegates from the Castle Point area wanted to make a point; they’ve voted as they promised their districts they would. Now, with this new information, they feel they can vote as they wish. Let’s hope they wish you were the nominee.”

“We’ve got twelve back!” Tim shouted. “We need two more to win.”

A moment later it was over. The chairman spoke up. “The chair records fifty-four votes for Lee, none for Kiel! Senator Will Lee is nominated!” His last words were drowned out by the roar from the convention floor.

People were dancing around Will’s suite, hugging and kissing. Hands clapped him on the back; women smeared him with lipstick; Kate, Peter, and Patricia Lee all embraced him.

So, Will,” his mother said, “who’s going to be your vice-presidential nominee?”

Someone came to Will with a phone. “It’s George Kiel.”

Will got everyone quiet, then picked up the phone.

“Congratulations, Will,” Kiel said.

“Thank you, George. It was a tough fight; you ran a hell of a campaign.”

“Will, I want to put everything I’ve got at your disposal. I’ve got about four million dollars in the kitty and a lease on an airplane that’s a lot nicer than yours.”

“Thank you, George, I’m very grateful to you.”

There was a silence. Will decided to break it. “George, I’d be honored and very pleased if you would be my running mate.”

“I’ll give that very serious thought, Will. When can we talk more about it?”

“Let’s have breakfast tomorrow morning at eight,” Will said. “My place, this time?”

“Your place at eight,” Kiel said, then hung up.

Will put the phone down.

Patricia Lee spoke up. “Did I just hear you offer George Kiel the job?”

“You did.”

“But we didn’t talk about this,” Tim Coleman complained. “We should have discussed it.”

“There was nothing to discuss,” Will said. “George came within a hair of winning the nomination. It would be an insult to nearly half the delegates not to ask him. He’s got as good an organization as we have; he’s better plugged in with party officials all over the country than I am; he’s an expert on foreign policy, and I’m not. And,” he said, smiling, “he’s got four million dollars and a very nice airplane to offer us.”

“Well chosen!” Kitty shouted.

Somebody discovered a case of champagne, and corks began to pop.

Will’s father sidled over. “You didn’t say whether Kiel accepted,” Billy Lee said to his son.

“We’re having breakfast tomorrow morning,” Will said.

“Be careful what you give him; he could be hard to handle.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Will said.

Across town, Zeke and Rosa watched the insanity on the floor of the convention.

“Oh, I’m glad he won,” Rosa said. “I like this Will Lee.”

“I’m glad he won, too,” Zeke replied, staring at the screen. “I can’t wait to hear him give his acceptance speech on the podium tomorrow night.”

51

Zeke waited in line with the other workers while the Secret Service ran each of them through the metal detectors. He wasn’t worried until he saw the dogs. Two Labrador retrievers were coming down the line with their handlers, sniffing at everyone. Zeke shifted the box to his other hand to keep it as far away from them as possible. He’d never dealt with sniffer dogs, and he began looking around for the quickest way out of the building.

A dog passed him, sniffed at his clothes and his lunch box.

“Hold out the cardboard box,” his handler said.

Zeke held out the box. His plan was to hit the man with his metal lunch box and run like hell. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. He had packaged the explosive into two zippered plastic bags, then scrubbed any explosives residue from his hands. After changing clothes he had sliced open a large chocolate cake he had bought, hollowed out the bottom, inserted the ex
plosive, and replaced the top. Now the dog was showing a great interest in his cardboard box.

“Set the box on the table and open it,” the man said, and his hand was on his gun.

I have one more shot at this before running,
Zeke thought. He set down the box and untied the string.

The agent opened the box and turned to his dog. “Rocky, we’re not looking for chocolate cake here.” He turned to Zeke. “This dog would do
anything
for chocolate. What’s the cake for?”

“For the guys on my crew. It’s their last day, and my girlfriend baked it for them.”

“Okay,” the man said, and turned to his next customer.

Sweating, but breathing easier, Zeke walked into the Coliseum with a pound of gelignite.

Will opened the door himself. George Kiel was standing there, dressed for golf. At the bottom of the path a passel of reporters stood, shouting questions at both of them.

“Come on in, George, and let’s get away from the noise. You playing golf today?”

“At the Bel Air Country Club,” Kiel said. “My clubs are in the car; you want to join us?”

“Wish I could, but it’s a big day, and I’ve got a speech to write.”

“You didn’t already have it written, Will?” Kiel asked. “That shows a lack of confidence.”

Will passed Kiel a tray of pastries. “It shows a superstition about not anticipating too much. Have a seat.”

The two men sat down at the table with their breakfast.

“Have you thought about running with me?” Will asked.

“I haven’t thought about anything else,” Kiel said. “I wasn’t kidding about my health and about wanting to serve only four years.”

“I’d rather have four years of your help than eight of a lot of other people.”

“Thanks, Will, I appreciate that.”

“Tell me what your concerns are about running with me.”

“I don’t have any concerns at all about running; I look forward to it, in fact. My concern is that I don’t want to be a wooden-Indian vice president.”

“I don’t want that, either,” Will replied. “How do you see yourself operating in the vice presidency?”

“Two things,” Kiel said. “I want to be a
deputy
president, as well as a vice president; I want to get the same briefings that you do, and I want unfettered access to you.”

“All that goes without saying,” Will said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”