The Run (29 page)
“Good. The second thing is, I want to run foreign policy.”
“Exactly what do you mean by running it?” Will asked. He had anticipated this, but he wanted to hear from Kiel.
“Will, I’m a lot more up on this than you are, just as you’re a lot more up on domestic policy. I can help you a lot.”
“I’m counting on it,” Will replied. “How do you want to help?”
“I want to run foreign policy from top to bottom,” Kiel said. “I want to choose the major appointees and give them their instructions.”
“George, let’s be perfectly clear on this,” Will said. “The president runs foreign policy, and that’s it. Of course, I’ll want your advice on every move and on every appointment, but final judgment will have to rest
with me. You know I can’t delegate a major responsibility like foreign policy.”
“Then I don’t see how I can do it.”
“You can do it, George. Tell you what, and this is just between you and me; I don’t want to read about it in the papers: I’ll give you a veto on the secretary of state appointment.”
“Secretary of state and national security advisor,” Kiel said.
“The national security advisor is more a member of the president’s personal staff; I can’t give you that. But I’ll certainly want your opinion on my options for that post.”
Kiel stared into his coffee.
“Come on, George; you’re going to have to trust me.”
“I suppose so,” Kiel said.
“Listen, if you’d rather be secretary of state, I’ll give you that.”
Kiel shook his head. “No, I’d rather be over the secretary of state.”
“And you will be.”
“What if we disagree?”
“I’ll bend over backward to see your point of view, but if there’s a disagreement on a serious matter, I’ll have to rely on my own judgment. It can’t be any other way.”
Kiel nodded. “All right; I don’t guess I can get a better deal than that.”
“Then let’s announce it together,” Will said, standing up. “One thing: I don’t want you to say anything to anybody, except your wife, about serving only four years. First of all, you may change your mind. Second, I don’t want a parade of other people lining up to go after the job in the second term.”
“Okay,” Kiel said. “Let’s go.”
The two men left the suite and walked down the path toward the waiting throng of press.
Zeke locked the cake in his locker and spun the cylinder on the combination lock. He was scheduled to work a double shift that day, most of it around the podium. He had arranged this so that the Secret Service, who already knew him, would be accustomed to his presence under the platform.
Will stepped up to the cluster of microphones that Kitty had set up. “Good morning,” he said to the crowd of reporters. “A beautiful California morning.” He waved a hand at the bright blue sky and the lush hotel gardens surrounding them. “You may have noticed that Senator George Kiel is standing by my side.” Much laughter. “I’m delighted to tell you and the country that Senator Kiel has agreed to become my running mate in this election. His name will be placed in nomination at the convention tonight, and I trust he will be nominated.
“You all know of George’s strengths in foreign policy. Before he became the Democratic leader in the Senate he was, for many years, chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, and he has had a hand in every important foreign-policy decision by every president, going back to Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan. His knowledge of people in government, the State Department, and academia who have credentials for foreign-policy work is unmatched, and I am going to rely heavily on him in choosing appointees—after we’re elected. I promise you that George Kiel is going to be the most important vice president in this century. George, say a few words.”
Kiel stepped up to the microphone. “Thank you, Will; I’m grateful for your confidence. I think you all
know what an effort we’re making to win back the Senate in this election, and I was certainly very interested in being the majority leader for a long time to come. But Will has offered me an opportunity that is even more important than being majority leader, and I am very happy to accept it. I have nothing but admiration for Will Lee and the way he has conducted himself in the Senate and as a candidate for the Democratic nomination. I look forward to running with him.”
Zeke closed the closet door behind him, took the cover off the voice-mail system, and began soldering. It took him less than ten minutes to run and conceal the wires. He replaced the plywood ceiling of the closet. Later in the day, it would take him even less time to place the explosives.
He began humming to himself, “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
While the convention was nominating George Kiel for vice president, Zeke went to the employees’ lounge and, after making sure that he was alone, opened his locker and removed the cake. Quickly, he dismembered it, put the gelignite and two detonators into his toolbox, and disposed of the remains of the cake in a nearby garbage can. Then he took the long walk to the front of the Coliseum, carrying his toolbox, and walked through the rear door under the platform. A Secret Service agent was on duty.
“What’s up, Harry?” asked the agent, who knew him by sight.
“I’ve just got to run a final check on the sound system,” Zeke replied. “We don’t want any glitches during Lee’s speech.”
“Right,” the agent said. “Go ahead.”
Zeke walked toward the area under the podium, waving at another agent, who was guarding the front entrance to the area. He let himself into the electrical
closet and went to work. He removed the screws from the ceiling he had built into the closet, set the gelignite on top of the plywood, and secured it in place with duct tape. Then he had only to connect the previously placed wires to the two detonators and stick them into the explosive, which had the consistency of modeling clay. He used two detonators, in case one might be defective. He screwed the plywood ceiling back into place and spent a moment checking the appearance of everything, then looked at his watch. Lee was scheduled to speak at nine o’clock, and it was 7:35. He closed his toolbox and left the closet.
“Everything okay?” the agent asked as Zeke departed the platform.
“Everything’s just perfect,” Zeke replied.
George Kiel, having been introduced to the convention, took the podium and made a rousing acceptance speech; then he introduced the vice president and stepped away from the podium.
Joe Adams stepped to the microphone amid thunderous applause. When he had finally quieted them, he began to speak. “Let me begin by telling you that if I had handpicked our candidates myself, the same two fellows would be on this platform tonight.” More applause.
Zeke was already at Los Angeles International Airport. He parked his car in a dim corner of the long-term garage, removed his suitcase from the trunk, changed into a business suit, then found a bottle of Windex and a cloth and methodically sprayed and wiped every square inch of the Lexus, inside and out. Windex had been his friend at the Las Vegas apartment and at Rosa’s house, and he had removed every trace of himself from both places. Now the car would
be just as clean. He wiped the spray bottle clean, dropped it into the trunk with the cloth, and closed it with his elbow; then he picked up his suitcase and headed for the check-in counter.
On the way, he stopped in the shadows for a moment, removed an electric shaver from his bag, popped up the trimmer, and quickly shaved off his moustache. Then he put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. At the counter he presented his ticket, which he had bought at a travel agent’s office the day before, then headed for the gate. He had plenty of time, so he checked in again, then took a seat at the bar across from his gate and ordered a scotch. Joe Adams was on the TV, and he had just begun his speech. He was running a little late and long, Zeke thought. His flight left at nine-thirty, and it was already ten minutes past. He had to make the call before he boarded, and it was going to be tight.
Joe Adams was winding up. “Now I present to you, and I say this with absolute certainty, the next president of the United States, Will Lee!”
Adams stepped back, and Will came forward. The crowd went wild. Will stood with Joe Adams as the cameras flashed and the crowd roared, then he waved George Kiel forward to join them. The three men stood together on the podium and waved to the crowd.
Zeke stared at the television image. They had issued a last call for his flight, and he wanted Lee alone on the podium when he made the call, but why not take out the three of them all at once?
Under the platform, Hank Greenbaum, the crew foreman, stepped through the door and showed the agent in charge his ID badge. “Have you seen Harry
Grant?” he asked. “He’s one of my men, the one with the handlebar moustache.”
“Yeah, he was in here, I don’t know, maybe an hour ago, but I haven’t seen him since.”
“Funny,” Greenbaum said, “I haven’t been able to find him anywhere.” He walked forward to the electrical closet and went inside. He picked up the wall-phone receiver, punched the button for the last line, and called the maintenance office. “This is Greenbaum,” he said. “You seen anything of Harry Grant?”
“Last I heard of him, he was doing a final check on the sound system. I wanted to speak to him, too.”
“Hang on a minute, and I’ll look around for him,” Greenbaum replied. He pressed the hold button and left the closet.
Zeke punched the number into his cell phone, staring at the TV screen and the three men. Busy signal. “What the hell?” he said aloud.
“Huh?” the man next to him said.
“Sorry,” Zeke replied.
“Mr. Warren, Mr. Warren,” a woman’s voice said over a loudspeaker, “your flight has boarded and is about to depart. Please come to the boarding gate immediately.”
Warren was the name on his ticket. Redialing the number, Zeke trotted toward the gate. Still busy. He walked down the ramp and into the airplane, redialing. Still busy.
“I’m sorry, sir,” a flight attendant said, “you’ll have to turn off your cell phone; FCC regulations.”
Zeke punched off the phone and took his seat. “How soon can I use that?” he asked, pointing at the airphone on the bulkhead a few seats away.
“Not until we’re at our cruising altitude and the seat-belt sign goes off,” she replied.
“How long will that be?”
“We’re pushing back now; shouldn’t be too long.”
Zeke buckled himself in, staring at the airphone.
Will stood alone on the podium. “My fellow Democrats,” he said, “I am honored to accept your nomination.”
The crowd roared.
Will quieted them and began his speech.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen; this is the first officer speaking; the captain is pretty busy. We’re climbing through twenty-five thousand feet now, and we should be at our cruising altitude of thirty-three thousand feet shortly.”
Relief swept over Zeke. He looked at his watch: 9:45. Lee should be right in the middle of his speech.
The first officer continued his spiel as Zeke stared at the airphone. He felt the airplane level off, and he looked up at the seat-belt sign, which was still on. The airplane began to buck and lurch.
“We’re encountering some weather this evening,” the first officer said, “so we’ll be leaving the seat-belt sign on for a little longer, until things quiet down. We could be encountering some severe turbulence, so I must caution you to keep your seat belts tightly fastened until we’re able to turn off the seat-belt light.”
Zeke flagged down a flight attendant who was struggling up the aisle. “Miss, would you please hand me that telephone?” he asked, pointing at the airphone.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, “but you’d need to place your credit card in the phone before the receiver will
release, and I have to get to my own seat now; the turbulence is getting pretty bad.”
Zeke fished a credit card out of his pocket. “Could you do it for me?”
“All right,” she said, reaching for the card.
Zeke suddenly snatched it back. “Never mind,” he said.
The woman went to her seat and buckled herself in.
He couldn’t use a credit card. The name on it was Harry Grant, and the records would tell the cops which flight he had taken. “God damn it!” he spat.
“Sir,” the woman next to him said sternly, “I know it’s rough up here, but please watch your language!”
Zeke continued to swear, but only in his head.
Will wound up his speech and, once again, called Joe Adams and George Kiel to the podium to share in the ovation.
A little before two o’clock the following morning, a man named Walter Edmonds stood up in a bar on Melrose Avenue and, staggering a little, made his way to a nearby pay phone. He’d had too much to drink, and he already had one DUI on his driving record. He’d have to call his wife to come and get him, and she was not going to be happy about that.
He dropped a quarter into the phone and, bleary-eyed, began punching in numbers, hardly able to see the keypad. The phone began to ring. Suddenly a male voice said, “Welcome to the podium of the Democratic convention.”
“What?” Edmonds said, outraged that he had gotten a wrong number. He reached into his pocket for another quarter, and as he did so, lost his balance, falling against the phone. His shoulder struck the keypad.
The Los Angeles Coliseum was lit only by emergency lighting at this time of night. The night watchman stopped in the high seats and inserted his key into the time clock. Before he could turn the key, a fireball rose from the platform at the other end of the building, and the shock wave in the enclosed space knocked him off his feet. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, and tried to clear his head. His ears ached from the noise and the shock wave. Before he could get up, the sprinkler system came on, immediately soaking him. A moment later, from somewhere outside, he heard sirens, and they were coming his way.