Gideon (55 page)

One look at the extraordinary results in today’s Apex News Network—
Washington Journal
polls will tell you that she is able to reach out and touch voters of all ages and persuasions.

So I ask you once again:

Why not Lizzie?

No reason at all. That is why I am endorsing Elizabeth Cartwright Adamson to be the Democratic Party’s candidate for president. And the person to lead us into the next century.

Let us all join hands and ask her to take us there
.

* * *

Lindsay Augmon and Elizabeth Adamson.

The entire pattern was suddenly laid out for all to see: the positive news stories in all the Apex papers over the past few months focusing on the First Lady’s accomplishments, the reverential television news coverage on ANN after Adamson’s suicide, the adoring documentary that was ready moments after Adamson’s death, the national polls—run by Augmon’s own polling services—showing her strength with the voters.

He was pushing her to be president—and no one could push with as much force and effect as he could. The question was what would he receive in return. What could the president give him? The answer seemed frighteningly obvious: anything he wanted.

It was Lindsay Augmon whom Carl had spoken to on the phone. Lindsay Augmon who had wanted to know:
Are they dead yet?

Okay, Carl thought, now they knew. Which made the next act simple. All they had to do was bring down the most powerful media baron of the twentieth century and the most beloved First Lady in history, who was now a near shoo-in to become the next president of the United States.

So they got busy. That meant phone calls. Lots of phone calls. It meant reaching out to Shaneesa one more time, grouped around the speakerphone in Father Thaddeus’s office.

“Can I actually hear Mr. Right’s voice?” she said after Amanda had filled her in.

“You’re hearing it,” Carl told her.

“I can’t wait for a face-to-face,” she said.

“Believe me,” he said, “that makes two of us.”

“Make that three of us,” Father Pat said.

“Sounds like I got the whole crew,” Shaneesa said. “Which is good, ’cause I got some fresh meat for you. The five million dollars that was deposited into Harry Wagner’s account … I know the name of the company that transferred it in.”

“Quadrangle,” Carl said. “The same company that paid me to write
Gideon
.”

Amanda looked up, surprised, and Shaneesa said, “Damn, what else do you already know?”

Carl said, “I’m only guessing. But it all adds up now. The same person who owns Quadrangle owns Astor Realty. He paid Harry off to lull him into thinking he was safe, then had him killed. He paid me to write the book, then made sure the woman who was supposed to kill me had prime access.”

“Lindsay Augmon.” Amanda nodded.

“Who also pays my salary,” Shaneesa said. “It’ll be so righteous to bring that mother fucker down. Oops—sorry, Father.”

“Quite all right,” Father Pat said. “And I just hope I’m there to see it.”

“View you at the airport,” Shaneesa said. “And put those seat belts on.”

Their plan in place, they sped north on the highway toward the capital—Carl in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel; Father Patrick sitting next to him, his face white and drawn; Amanda in the backseat, hunched forward nervously. They barely spoke. There was no need. And now they were waiting for a plane to arrive.

The evil they were facing chilled Carl to the very bone; the power they were confronting filled him with a deep, all-consuming dread. And the idea that it was up to them to bring the whole thing tumbling down was both numbing and nearly incomprehensible. Yet that’s what they were going to try to do. It’s what they
had
to do. Their plan was precarious and ever-changing, risky as hell. Carl was beginning to think it would never work. And that he would never make it. His muscles ached. His entire being was screaming with exhaustion. But there was no time to rest or even slow down. He had to make it. They
all
had to make it.

Is the job finished?
It’s what Lindsay Augmon had first asked on the telephone.

The answer was no, the job
wasn’t
finished. The job was just beginning.

Lord Lindsay Augmon was feeling quite pleased with himself. According to that morning’s weigh-in, he had lost three pounds from the previous week. Weight had never been a particular problem but he’d been feeling a bit puffy and had decided that some sort of disciplined regimen would not be the worst thing in his life. So he’d set a modest goal of shedding twelve pounds over the course of a month. The three this week left him a mere pound from his desired number, and he had to admit he felt particularly trim and vigorous. And that was just the beginning of his good fortune. His art broker had called; they’d stonewalled a Soho dealer and managed to buy a Picasso that Augmon particularly coveted. It was one of three in a sequence that the grand old man had painted called
Woman Before a Mirror
. They had managed to buy it for a million and a half dollars. What the dealer hadn’t known was that the other two paintings in the sequence were going up for auction at Sotheby’s. So, after scrupulous research into the potential buyers, Augmon knew that within twenty-four hours of buying he could turn around and sell his new acquisition for nearly six million. For a fleeting moment on the phone with the broker, Augmon thought of keeping the beautiful canvas. He really did adore it. But the idea of quadrupling his money quickly pushed any such thoughts out of his head. Life was business, he knew. He would receive far more pleasure from selling the painting at such a profit than he would gazing at its splendor every morning.

Of course, the phone calls he’d been receiving all day did nothing to lessen his glow.

He thought of two with particular glee. The first had been from Walter Chalmers’s campaign manager.

“I’m at a loss for words,” the political hack told Augmon, picking his phrases carefully so as not to offend. The manager came from the press and would surely go back to the press. Which meant that one day he’d come to Augmon, hat in hand, looking for a job. “What I’m hoping is that this was meant to be an endorsement for the Democratic convention only and that once the real race begins, you’ll still endorse our candidate, as we’ve been led to believe all along.”

“I certainly don’t want to dash your hopes,” Augmon had responded, “but if that’s what you’re really thinking, then I’m afraid you’ve got shit for brains.”

The second call was even more satisfying. It was from they Wyoming senator himself.

“Lindsay,” Chalmers began, “may I speak with my usual candor?”

“Please do,” Augmon said.

“Well, then, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m backing a winner, Walter. As usual.”

“You’re backing a goddamn left-wing feminist whose tits are bigger than her brains!”

“If I were you, I should be careful what I say, Walter. I’m a journalist, after all, and I haven’t agreed to speak off the record.”

“Journalist, my ass. You’re a rat-fucking, two-timing son of a bitch. What I don’t understand is why.”

“I admire you, Walter. Honestly. But you’re a dinosaur, with all that implies. Your tiny brain can’t comprehend that you’re on the verge of extinction. You can’t win. Not now, not ever. And Mrs. Adamson can. More than can. I’m going to make sure she will.”

“You can’t do that, goddamn it!”

“I’m sure we’ll be speaking again, Walter. I wish you well. I really do.”

It was soon after that that his secretary buzzed him, excitedly announcing that Mrs. Adamson was on the phone. He agreed to take the call and pushed down on a button connecting him to one of the four lines his desk phone was linked to.

“Good morning, my dear,” he greeted her. “I hope you’re pleased with what you read this morning.”

“More than pleased, Lindsay,” she told him. “Overwhelmed.”

“Well, let me say your courage is an inspiration to us all.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Have you received much feedback?”

“I would say the general reaction has been one of shock and, from one or two obvious sources, even hostility. What about on your end?”

“Thrilled, for the most part. And, of course, surprised. I’ve just issued a statement—I’m sure it will be your lead story on the news tonight—that while my grief makes it almost impossible for me to consider running at this time, your editorial was not just flattering, it was inspiring. And that if the American people want me to carry on my husband’s work, then it’s something I will have to force myself to consider.”

“So you’ve heard nothing negative?”

“Not really. Most extraordinary support. I got a strange call from Bickford, though.”

“Ah. Saying what?”

“Nothing, really. It was his demeanor more than his words. Just a sense I got that he felt … manipulated.”

“As well he should.”

“He’s quite smart, you know.”

“And quite harmless now, as well.”

“Yes, I suppose.” And then she hesitated.

He sensed her discomfort and finally said, “Something? Please, you know there are no restrictions on what you can say to me.”

“I would just like to be reassured that everything else is now under control. That there are no more loose ends.”

“I’m expecting a phone call momentarily from one of my employees, giving me just such reassurance.”

“Will you let me know when that call comes?”

“Most certainly.”

She settled into another silence. This time he didn’t rush her. And when she spoke again, her voice was wistful and distant. “I never believed he would do this. I thought he’d be logical. Resign.”

“Yes, of course,” Augmon said. “It was never our intention.”

“We could have gone on. Quite successfully. In time he would have realized that all of this … our proposal … would have been for the best.”

“It’s still for the best, Elizabeth. You must never doubt that.”

“He killed himself because he knew. I saw the way he looked at me that morning. He knew.”

“He was a weak man. And he proved his ultimate weakness. Just as you are about to prove your ultimate strength.”

“Thank you, Lindsay.” She hesitated again. “For everything.”

“No, my dear,” he said, with absolutely no hesitation. “Or may I be the first to say, Madam President. Thank
you
.”

From ANN’s all-day coverage of the state funeral of President Thomas Adamson:

John Burroughs, network anchor:
It’s a sight both magisterial and sobering. It is an outpouring of love, and it is a collective cry of despair. It is an opportunity to say farewell and to try to deal with an almost unbearable loss, yet it is also an affirmation that not only people but institutions and governments and life itself will continue and thrive. Standing outside St. Stephen’s Cathedral here in Washington, D.C., almost all emotions are mixed; what few smiles appear are stained with tears. Perhaps only two things are certain on this somber day. One is that over three-quarters of a million people are already here—some estimates go as high as one million—and they will be lining the streets from the steps of this church to Arlington National Cemetery to show their respect for and say a last goodbye to one of the most popular presidents of the century. The other is that there is an extraordinary political story emerging, a populist roar that harkens back more to a film by Frank Capra than to any real-life political scenario of the past.

Elizabeth Adamson, the courageous—one must even say heroic—widow of the late president, is the object of an unprecedented outpouring of public affection. Because of the timing of the president’s death, just days before the Democratic national convention, it looks as if that affection is going to translate into votes. Although resistant to the call at first, and, according to insiders, resistant still, nonetheless Mrs. Adamson is expected not only to announce her candidacy for president with twenty-four hours, but also to be the overwhelming choice of Democratic delegates when the convention begins two days from now.

According to the latest ANN polls— Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, cars are beginning to arrive at the church for the president’s final service. In case you’re just tuning in, let me go over one more time the plans for the memorial. The church service, which will begin in approximately two hours, is private. Television cameras will be allowed in, but the doors are closed to the public. These were Mrs. Adamson’s wishes, and they are being respected. When the funeral service is over, the president’s closed coffin will be driven through he streets of Washington, allowing the public to pay their final respects. When that procession is over, President Adamson’s final burial place will, of course, be Arlington National Cemetery. That burial will again, be private, and the cemetery will be closed to anyone not in attendance at the church service.

Leaders from around the world began arriving in Washington last night. They have already been meeting with and expressing their condolences to President Bickford as well as the former First Lady. We have confirmed that President Boris Yeltsin of Russia will be attending the service today, and speaking, as will Chinese president Jiang Zemin, Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu, and PLO leader Yassir Arafat. President Bickford will also be speaking. It is not known yet if Mrs. Adamson will be addressing the crowd. The one thing we have had confirmed is that Nora Adamson, the late president’s mother, has arrived at the church early, for a meeting with Bishop Moloney, who will be presiding at the service. Elizabeth Adamson is expected to arrive shortly. She will be accompanied by President Bickford and his wife, the new First Lady, Melissa Durant Bickford.

Heads of state from nearly every European nation will be here, of course. From Africa, the countries expected to send representatives are …

* * *

As Wilhelmina Nora Adamson was ushered into the bishop’s comfortable office, she reached out to steady herself, placing her hand on the rock-hard arm of the Secret Service man who was escorting her. She couldn’t help herself: The old lady’s thin, wrinkled lips curled ever so slightly over her yellowish teeth as she smiled coyly at the young man and let her fingers rest on his muscular bicep. Even at her advanced age, even in her painfully arthritic state, even in the midst of the most overpowering grief of her long life, Nora had to flirt. It was in her blood; it had been since she’d been such a luscious young thing as a teenager. She felt that familiar thrill, the warmth and rush of pleasure, when the handsome young agent smiled back at her politely and patted her in return, his thick hand nearly covering her entire bony forearm. But as he helped her into the bishop’s cracked leather chair, she couldn’t help but once again burst into tears. This time she was crying not just for her dead and beloved son—she had been sobbing over his death for nearly two days straight—but for her own lost youth. For the errors she’d made and her lack of regret over them. She cried because she knew she would never have another muscular young man or another pain-free moment, and she could no longer think of a reason to keep on living.