“Is that Julian Mellow?” He felt a tap on his shoulder. “It’s Gordon Lewis, from the Times? I interviewed you a few years ago.”
He had granted a rare interview to the Times during the heated competition for Finnegan. It had been a stupid and desperate reversal of his usual policy, the first of several such moves during the imbroglio, but he had felt Finnegan slipping away from him and thought some publicity might help. Gordon Lewis, he now recalled, had been young and ambitious and had used the interview to probe the entire career of Julian Mellow. Julian had thrown him out after five minutes. Nevertheless, the damage had been done: Gordon was one of the few members of the media who could immediately recognize him in a crowd.
“Don’t you cover business stories?” he asked quietly.
“I’ve been temporarily transferred to the campaign. Covering Marcella isn’t exactly going to win me a Pulitzer. But the paper is sending me down to Florida for Election Day, which is a step in the right direction. I’m really more interested in politics, particularly the intersection of politics and business.”
“Then I’m sure you’re fascinated by what I heard on the radio on my way uptown this evening, about the vice president’s blind trust.”
“Amazing. The Times already has three reporters on it. Unfortunately, I’m not one of them. Of course, we won’t run the story. Emails are too easy to fake, and no one involved, or allegedly involved, has admitted anything.”
“But you’ve assigned three reporters.”
“To cover the story about the story. That’s what counts nowadays, not the story itself, which in this case is pretty flimsy, but the tangle of stories that gets woven around it. Who’s denying the story—the vice president himself, his campaign manager, a spokesman? We’ll run an entire story analyzing the implications of each of these, and soon that becomes the story. Nobody remembers or even cares if the underlying story is true or not.”
“Do you think this will harm the Nessin campaign?”
“Inevitably. I don’t think it’s the proverbial October Surprise that going to turn the election on its head, but it’s going to tighten things up.”
Marcella Lightstone’s voice was replaced by a man’s, who thanked her for giving so generously of her time and showing support for the after-school programs sponsored by the center.
“Can you believe they held the kids here for an extra two hours without food just to make this appearance happen?” Lewis said. “Someone should call the city’s child-abuse hotline. Anyway, I need a statement from Marcella. She’s been doing a lot of these kiddie readings lately, trying to soften her image. Her approvals are still half of the First Lady’s. Any chance you’ll want to sit down for an interview once the election’s over?”
“You can call my assistant.”
“In other words, no.” He shrugged and made his way through the crowd to Marcella. Julian followed her through the throng of reporters and cameramen. He stopped when he had Marcella in his sights and listened to her tell a reporter that the administration’s policies had resulted in fewer after-school programs, cutbacks in Head Start, and a drastic reduction in funds for school lunches. She didn’t seem particularly passionate about the issue—no doubt Saint Andrew’s was unaffected by the budget cutbacks—but she was admirably in control, salting her statement with statistics and the names of congressional bills. Someone had even managed to get her to tone down the East Side ladies-who-lunch look. Her hair, usually swept up into an imperious chignon, hung loosely, more democratically, to her shoulders, and the suit she had on, while it probably cost as much as most Democratic voters made in a month, was less resolutely tailored than her usual getup.
She spotted him and momentarily lost her train of thought, fumbling her words. He watched her recover with impressive speed and then graciously excuse herself to a small group of print reporters, including Gordon Lewis. A nervous-looking man in a gray suit took her arm and escorted her to the door.
“If I have to read that fucking caterpillar book one more time I’ll blow my brains out,” he heard her whisper to the man.
“The kids love it.”
“If a miracle occurs and Harry wins I’m going to insist he have it banned from every library in the country. I’ll have him bring back book burnings.”
“I hope you don’t seriously think that—”
“Shut up, Stuart. I need to have a word with this man.” She shook off his hand and walked over to Julian. “Stuart Pearson, my campaign manager. I’m counting the seconds until he’s out of my life. Why are you here?” she asked, as if addressing an overly attentive department store salesperson.
“I’ll walk you outside,” Julian said. After a moment’s hesitation she turned and headed for an exit at the back of the room. A small, painted-over mezuzah on the doorjamb harkened back to a time before Harlem’s Jews had decamped for the suburbs. A phalanx of dark-suited men materialized and blocked the reporters from following Marcella.
“Why this place?” he asked as they walked. “I wouldn’t have thought New York was in play for the Lightstone campaign.”
“It doesn’t matter where the hell I read that infernal book, as long as the cameras are rolling. I prefer Manhattan to Des Moines.”
“You’ll make a very poor First Lady with that attitude, Marcella.”
“I have about as much chance of becoming First Lady as Lady Gaga.”
“People love her. Your favorability numbers are in the toilet.”
She stopped just short of the door and looked at him. “I wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for you. What is it you want?”
He took a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket. “Some talking points for Harry’s final week of campaigning. You’ll see that he gets them right away.”
She did not take the paper.
“Take it, Marcella,” he said, then added with mock sweetness, “For the boys’ sake.”
“You shit.” She grabbed the paper and shoved it into her bag.
“I’ll want to see evidence that Harry’s read this in his campaign addresses tomorrow. If not, the headlines will be about a handsome but troubled young man at an elite boarding school with a bit of a drug problem.”
He held the door open and she hesitated a moment before walking through, as if accepting even that small favor would compromise her.
“What’s the point, Julian? You’ve bet on a losing horse,” she said on the sidewalk, where two beefy men stood guard in front of two waiting SUVs.
“Haven’t you seen the news tonight?” He smiled enigmatically. “The vice president’s in some hot water.”
Chapter 53
At a restaurant in the Lambert–Saint Louis Airport, Zach ordered a Coke and a cheeseburger and watched the vice president’s financial scandal unfold on television. The reporters covering the story made no mention of who controlled Searchlight Investments, the firm that handled Evan Smith’s blind trust; nor did they mention who controlled Masters Broadcasting, the network credited with breaking the story. Early predictions by a team of hastily assembled pundits were that the scandal, assuming it had legs, would not bring down the administration but would probably tighten the race to within a few points. No one connected to the nascent scandal had a comment, although the Lightstone campaign had already released a statement to the effect that, if true, the issue was a sad commentary on the ethics of the Nessin administration, blah, blah blah. The news report was followed by a fluff piece about the role of the candidates’ wives, and ended with a note that, in an effort to soften her image, Marcella Lightstone had taken to reading books to children at carefully selected sites around the country. That very evening she would be reading at a youth center in Harlem.
By the time his plane touched down at LaGuardia it was already too late to intercept Marcella Lightstone in Harlem. Instead he took a taxi to her townhouse on East 68th Street. He asked the cab driver to let him off on the corner of Madison Avenue and walked slowly west, toward Fifth. The street was one of the pre
ttiest in the city, lined with limestone mansions, several still occupied by a single family or, in a few cases, a consulate. He stood across from the Lightstone residence, which was dark. He knew from the news report that the senator was in the Midwest; it looked as if Marcella wasn’t yet home. As he waited for her he contemplated his situation: homeless, close to broke, a thousand miles away from the woman he loved, possessed of information that no one in the world believed—other than the people who wanted him dead. Somehow, being back in New York only made his sense of isolation more painful. If he had no friends in New York, what did he have?
Two dark SUVs turned onto the street and stopped in front of the Lightstone home. He started to cross the street just as the back door of the first car was opened by a burly, dark-suited man whose head seemed in constant motion, swiveling back and forth, eyes alert. When he saw Zach approach he ordered Marcella back in the car, but she hesitated.
“That’s close enough,” he shouted. In what felt like a mere second, two other men emerged from the other car. The driver of the first car took Marcella’s elbow and began to hustle her toward the front door of her townhouse while the two men formed a human shield between her and the street—between her and Zach.
“Marcella, I need to talk to you!” he shouted.
She started to turn but the three men closed ranks, preventing her from seeing him.
“I know about Julian Mellow! I worked for him! I know what’s going on.”
Before he was finished she was inside the house. Standing in the center of 68th Street, he saw lights go on inside, first on the ground floor, then on the second. He felt someone clutch his upper arm.
“We’d like a few words with you,” said one of the men who’d escorted Marcella.
“Let go of me.”
“Get in the car, quietly, and there won’t be trouble.”
“I’m not getting in any car. Let go.”
One of the other men walked over and took out a small wallet, which he flipped open to reveal a badge.
“Secret Service, assigned to protect Mrs. Lightstone.”
He felt himself being pulled toward the second SUV. A part of him thought that being in the custody of the Secret Service wasn’t such a bad idea—he’d be beyond the grasp of Julian Mellow. Another part of him sensed that once in custody, he’d be treated as a deranged and dangerous mental case and shipped off to wherever they sent such people for a long, long time. As he considered these possibilities he was stumbling closer and closer to the SUV, the back door of which was being held open by one of the men. Should he fight or go along with them? Was there any point to fighting? Perhaps he was deranged, stalking the wife of a presidential candidate and shouting conspiracy stories at her.
He was trying to shake off the man’s hand, just for good measure, when a woman’s voice caused them both to freeze.
“It’s okay, he’s not dangerous.”
Marcella Lightstone stood in the doorway of her home.
“Ma’am, protocol requires us to take him in for questioning.”
“I know him,” she said imperiously. “He worked for a friend of mine. I’d like to invite him in.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that.”
“You can make sure he’s not armed, if you’d like. And I have my own security, private security, inside.”
There were a tense few moments while the agents talked this over, one of them still clutching his arm. Finally, they patted Zach down and, finding no weapon, released him.
He walked unsteadily over to the townhouse, where Marcella greeted him with open arms, pulling him into an embrace.
“It’s so wonderful to see you again,” she said. “I’m so terribly sorry I didn’t recognize you just now. Please, come in and we’ll have a drink.”
The Secret Servicemen looked put out. One of them spoke up.
“We’ll be waiting here if you need us, Mrs. Lightstone.”
“Thank you,” she said, and led Zach inside, closing the door behind her. He had the sense, as he entered, that he was not only stepping into a building, he was entering new territory—a place where theory became reality, where the dots connected, where he was believed.
She preceded him up a grand staircase and took him into a paneled library, where she opened a cabinet door to reveal an impressive bar.
“I’m having vodka. You?” she said, her first words inside the house.
He knew he should answer “water” but, giddy with relief and anticipation, said “Vodka for me too.”
He sat on a sofa, where she brought him a crystal glass with vodka on ice. She sat catty-corner on a leather chair.
“Why did you invite me in?”
“You mentioned Julian Mellow. Why?”
He’d seen her image on television and in newspapers and magazines, the heiress married to the rising Republican star. She emitted a pampered vibe, as if everything could be hers simply because she wanted it. It unnerved him, the feeling of being, in some way, at her mercy.
“I think that Julian Mellow is calling the shots in your campaign. I think it began in San Francisco and…” He fortified himself with a gulp of vodka. “And the murder of a prostitute. I think Julian has some sort of information on your husband, damaging information, and that he’s using it to direct your husband’s campaign.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To control the president of the United States.”
“To what end?” she asked.
The very question that had puzzled him from the beginning. What could Julian Mellow possibly want that was worth risking everything he had?
“It’s about Kamalia.”
He detected a very faint coloring of her porcelain skin.
“Where?”
“The election is a week away, Mrs. Lightstone. There’s no time for bullshit. You know where Kamalia is. It’s been mentioned in every speech of your husband’s since the convention. Why?”
“He’s concerned about the safety of the Kamalian people, if that’s what they’re called. And of the Americans living there.”
“Bullshit!” He stood up and she flinched. “No one cares about Kamalia except Julian Mellow. His son died there. He’s forcing your husband to make intervention in Kamalia a part of his standard campaign speech.”
“Why?” she said, and he thought he detected genuine puzzlement.
“You tell me, Mrs. Lightstone.” She shook her head. He decided to shift course. “Do you know what Julian Mellow has on your husband?”
“You’re spinning some sort of sick fantasy in your head. No one has anything on Harry.”
“Was it the prostitute in San Francisco?”
“I don’t think something like using a prostitute would be enough to get my husband to change his views on foreign policy. The country has grown up in that respect. Perhaps you should do the same.” She looked directly up at him and smiled superciliously.
“The prostitute was actually a man. And I don’t think we’ve grown up to the extent that murder is no big deal.”
After several long moments of silence she said, “I wish you’d sit. You’re making me nervous.” At least he was having an impact. He sat.
“Your husband didn’t want to run for president. He said over and over that he wasn’t interested. No ‘fire in the belly,’ he said. The standard excuse. Then, less than a week after a prostitute is murdered in San Francisco, he announces he’s in the race.”
“Do you have proof that Harry and this prostitute ever met?”
“She was captured on video following him out of a hotel.”
“Hardly arm in arm.” Her taut face relaxed a bit. “And let me ask you another thing. You say you worked for Julian Mellow? Have you ever known him to back a loser?”
“No.”
“Did he ever make an investment knowing that it wouldn’t pan out?”
“No.”
“Did you ever know him to take an enormous risk, something on the order of blackmailing a United States senator
, when the chances of a payoff were slim to nothing?”
“No, but—”
“Then why the hell is Julian, why the hell would Julian Mellow risk everything to force my husband into a race that he quite clearly can’t win?” Her voice was louder, and her lower lip was quivering. Zach had the confirmation he’d come looking for—she knew what was going on, but not why. Still, he had no proof of anything.
“Julian’s son was murdered in Kamalia. I think he wants to raise awareness of the political situation in that country.”
“Raise awareness? Is that what this is about?” She threw her head back and laughed. “He owns half the TV stations in this country. He could produce and broadcast a dozen documentaries to raise awareness of Kamalia.”
“Look, I don’t really care why he’s doing this,” Zach said. “One of Julian’s…associates tried to kill me and my girlfriend. Twice. I just want to save us, that’s all. I don’t care who wins the election.”
“Don’t you? Here I thought I had invited a rabid Democrat into my home, someone intent on bringing down my husband.”
“It’s not about politics, Mrs. Lightstone. This is about me and Sarah.”
“You sound like Julian. He has the rich person’s disdain for politics. Either they buy their way into the game at the senatorial level or they lavish their money on both parties, which is really the ultimate fuck-you, when you think about it, as if they’re above mere ideology, impervious to it.”
“So you admit you know Julian.”
“Of course I do. At a certain level of wealth everyone knows everyone. Great wealth is the smallest of worlds.”
“Other than insisting that your husband focus on Kamalia, is there—”
“I haven’t said that he insisted on anything.”
Presidents' Day Page 26