by Josie Brown
Andy snorted loudly at that.
Brooks chimed in, “You know, in past presidential races, others have had impressive early leads. Remember Howard Dean in ’04? And Mike Huckabee in ’08? What’s going to matter now is whether or not Senator Mansfield can keep up the momentum. It will help him immensely if he has a good team around him. Unfortunately, I question whether that’s the case. Hiring campaign strategist Ben Brinker, if you ask me, was a somewhat questionable move.”
Williams raised an eyebrow. “Why is that, David?”
Brooks shrugged. “Brinker’s past experience has been exclusively with Democratic candidates. That’s not to say that consultants can’t play both sides of the fence, but it does say something about Mansfield’s inability to attract a campaign adviser who knows the policies, platforms, and players within his own party.”
“Not to mention that Brinker’s last three candidates have been embroiled in some pretty serious scandals,” Orkin chimed in.
Williams nodded sagely. “Most recently, the Governor Calder love child incident.”
“Exactly.” Orkin shook his head sadly. “So you have to ask yourself why Mansfield would even dare associate himself with that kind of—oh, I don’t know, I guess you’d call it ‘bad campaign karma.’ He can’t afford to do anything that reflects poorly on his ability to make the right choices, particularly during this very important ‘exploratory’ time period.”
The other two men nodded in agreement.
“That said, I can’t help but think that the two of them, Talbot and Mansfield, would make a dream ticket for the party—”
Andy clicked the remote so that the screen went black. “Me, on the ticket with Talbot? Hell, I wouldn’t run a three-legged race with that bastard.”
“What Orkin just said proves that they’re running scared,” Ben said.
“They should be,” Andy added. “Because I’m pulling this off. We’re pulling this off.” As he said that, he looked each member of his staff in the eye. When he got to Ben, he gave him a knowing grin and a thumbs-up. Ben appreciated it. He had flinched when Orkin all but called him an albatross around the senator’s neck.
They’re circling the wagons, he thought. It’s time to pull out some heavier ammo. Like Abigail.
Even a timid wife at Andy’s side was better than none.
Chapter 16
The front desk confirmed that yes, Mrs. Mansfield was already checked into the Senator’s suite. But before Andy could join her, a Sun-Times political reporter buttonholed him.
“Hey, Ben, go upstairs and tell Abby I’ll be up as soon as I can, will you? While you’re at it, you can fill her in on Iowa.”
Ben double-checked the senator’s room number with the reservation desk. The reservationist explained that she’d put the Mansfields in the presidential suite. The senator had insisted that Ben have a suite next to his.
“Fine with me,” Ben murmured. Taking the electronic room key she handed him he grabbed his suitcase and headed for the elevator.
The suite opened into an elegant living room. It was much larger than he’d expected, and certainly much grander. The first door he opened was a galley kitchen. Sweet, but overkill. The next opened into a closet. Granted it was large enough to sleep in, but there was no bed, so he knew it wasn’t the bedroom. Then he saw the hallway. He was halfway down it when he heard a murmur of voices.
Intrigued he glanced through the double entry door—
Apparently the desk clerk had coded his key with the wrong room number, because the woman speaking was Abby. She was standing beside the bed: her skirt unzipped and hugging her hips, her blouse opened and bra exposed to some man—tall, thin, regal looking¬–who had his hand on her arm. She was intent on what he was saying. So intent that neither of them realized that Ben was staring at them.
He slipped away before they saw him, backing down the hallway and out of the suite, gently closing the door behind him.
He waited until he got to the elevator before cursing.
At least he refrained from punching a hole in the wall.
Chapter 17
So Abby, the perfect senator’s wife, was having an affair.
Ben Brinker, who was never off balance even when confronted by the Washington press corps, was suddenly numb, his mouth dry as wood, his hands damp and cold with perspiration. He contemplated the damage that could be done to the campaign, should anyone find out.
Andy would be made a laughing stock.
And Ben would be without a candidate, once again.
What was it Chris Matthews had called him? Oh yeah—a political cooler.
Well, this latest bit of bad luck proved it. Once again he’d chosen the wrong candidate.
The elevator announced its presence with muted chimes.
“Hold it, please.”
Ben looked up to see the man—Abby’s lover—trotting down the hall toward him, briefcase at his side. Too stunned to do anything but nod mutely, Ben stood beside the man as the elevator doors opened—
Inside was Andy with one of the Mallory twins, who was hazing the bellhop for dragging the senator’s bags.
“Hey, have you seen her yet?” Andy fairly bounded out of the elevator. For some strange reason press interviews energized him. As he glanced from Ben to the other man, Ben froze in horror. Did he know the guy? And if so, did he know the man’s role in Abby’s life?
Apparently not. They barely exchanged glances as the man hurried into the elevator and disappeared as the door slid shut.
“The state chair is bringing Fleischer Daley with him. Should make a great photo op. Jilly is already on it. Which reminds me: you’d mentioned—” By the time Ben got his bearings, Andy was already halfway down the hall. Ben walked back through the suite’s door just in time to see Andy take Abby’s hand and kiss it ever so sweetly. But she avoided his eyes, choosing to look down at the floor instead.
Why, you two-faced bitch. I guess you and Maddy have more in common than people realize.
But at least Maddy’s honest about wanting to play the field.
Suddenly there was a long silence and Ben realized they were staring at him, waiting for him to respond. He knew that he should say something, anything, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he nodded. Finally he was able to stutter out some sort of acknowledgment, all the while inching back toward the door.
But then, hesitantly, Abby extended her hand to him. Stunned at her audacity, incredulous that Andy could suspect nothing, Ben glanced down at it, wondering how he could take it.
“I—I...Yeah, nice to see you again. I’m really happy you could join us on this trip. Look, I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. Jilly is—there was something I need to tell her—”
Ignoring the puzzled looks on their faces, Ben backed out the door—
And bumped right into Tess/Bess, coming out of the suite’s kitchen with a tray of coffee mugs, one of which spilled onto Ben.
If he needed an excuse to leave, a wet spot on the crotch of his pants was as good as any.
Chapter 18
Discretion.
If that didn’t work, spin.
And as a last attempt at triage, there was damage control.
Ben could have kept his mouth shut until they got back to D.C. In fact, he should have let it go, right then and there, take some time to collect his thoughts on how to position Abby’s affair to Andy—
Well, to Abby first, since he was going to insist that she break the news to her husband.
He wasn’t going to be a victim of “shoot the messenger.” No way in hell.
Particularly since Andy’s military experience ensured he was a crack shot.
But Abby’s lover was right there at the fundraising dinner, too—front and center. Worse yet, she’d had him seated at the Mansfields’ table, to her left, in fact. Lover boy wasn’t overly attentive to her, just polite and reserved.
Too damn blatant. The sheer gall of it all.
And yet, Ben was willing t
o ignore it—
Until they both slipped away nonchalantly, first one then the other, at the beginning of Andy’s speech.
Ben had to follow.
He gave them a five-minute head start, then took the elevator up to their floor. The desk clerk had never taken back the wrong electronic key. He put it in the lock and opened the door silently, and slipped down the hall to Abby and Andy’s bedroom.
They had their backs to him, but were standing close together. Abby had changed into a kimono, flimsy and silky.
They hadn’t heard him enter.
In time, though, she sensed his presence and turned toward him. She was startled to see someone standing there, but upon recognizing him, she smiled quizzically and held out her hand again.
That shocked him. How could she be so brazen, so outrageously heartless?
“Abby, what—what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ben growled.
The man turned now. His eyes searched Ben’s face for some recognition. “Excuse me, but...Abby do you know this man?”
Ben scowled. “Bud, if I were you, I’d get lost, and fast.”
The man stiffened. He glanced at Abby for some signal. Slowly she nodded. He picked up his briefcase and left the room.
Her eyes narrowed with confusion.” I’m sorry, I don’t know what you—“
The quick strides that brought him to her side were driven by the anger surging inside of him. He watched her face lose its innocence, grow wary. “I’m asking you why you felt the need to do this to Andy.”
Shock crossed her face. “Do what? What exactly do you think happened here?”
Seeing the shock and fear in her eyes made Ben sad—and angrier. “You tell me. What were you doing with that guy in your room just now—and earlier this afternoon?”
Abby turned white. “How did you know that?”
“Because I saw you together. And you were undressed! Just like you are, now—”
Abigail fell back against the bed. She held one hand over her mouth. “Are you some kind of lunatic? What were you doing in my room earlier? What are you doing here now? How dare you accuse me of...Just what are you accusing me of, anyway?”
“Screwing around on Andy, for starters. Just admit it! Jesus, Abby, why talk him into running if you’re just going to ruin it for him, anyway?”
“Me—ruin him?” She was laughing—no crying.
Was she having a nervous breakdown?
Enraged, she wrenched her wrist from his hand and stumbled across the room. Then rummaging through her purse, she pulled out a card and tossed it at his feet.
Ben picked it up:
Carl Torrance, M.D. - OB/GYN
Infertility Specialist, George Washington University
Jesus, I’m such an ass.
She opened her kimono and pointed down to her belly. “See this—these holes? They’re from my infertility injections. That man is my doctor, Mr. Brinker. He did me the favor of meeting me here in Chicago, so that we could continue my treatments. Otherwise, I’d be back at square one by the time we got back to Washington. You see, I have to be poked like some masochistic human pincushion, every four hours in fact. That’s what I do—for Andy. Because for ten years now, we’ve been trying to get pregnant. He wants a child so badly.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “And so do I.”
Ben opened his mouth to apologize but her furious stare stopped him dead in his tracks.
“The way I see it, Mr. Brinker, we can handle this one of two ways: First, I can tell my husband and, depending what I say, you may or may not have a job tomorrow.” Seeing the color drain out of his face, she paused. “Or, I can take into account the fact that everything you said and did tonight was based on your fierce loyalty to the senator, and say nothing to him.” She smiled, but there was no joy in her eyes. “Rest assured, Ben: no one loves Andy more than me. He knows it, and I know it. In the scheme of things, that’s all that counts. And now that you know it, too, I hope you never forget it.”
Her hands shook as she stooped to pick up her glasses where they’d fallen on the floor by the bed. “Oh, and by the way, please be kind enough to honor my secret. If Andy knew what I was going through, he’d insist I stop, and I have no intention of doing so. We both need this child. More than you’ll ever know.”
Her head high, she tied the kimono tightly around her waist and smoothed her mussed hair back into its chignon as she slammed the bathroom door behind her.
Chapter 19
Dirty tricks.
Ben had been a toddler during Watergate, so he hadn’t lived through it, per se. Still, he had written his graduate thesis on the watershed event, so he had a thorough if academic understanding of its importance, politically, culturally, and legally.
But studying it was one thing. Running up against it from Talbot’s organization was a master class.
Forget stretching the truth. All day, every day, both Talbot and his renowned political endorsers peppered the on-air pundits with innuendos, misstatements, distortions and outright lies about Andy Mansfield’s voting record and policy positions. And to reinforce them, fake blogs were set up, ostensibly manned by a battery of anonymous Joe-the-Bloggers. But when the wife of one of the bloggers discovered his iChats to four online girlfriends, she spilled the beans to the Associated Press in a tell-all email, forwarding the TalbotForPresident.com how-to handbook, along with a few of the campaign’s top secret emails espousing that day’s talking points.
That antic was certainly nothing compared to the sinister dread of discovering that hackers—make that Talbot’s hackers—had cracked the Mansfield campaign’s computer server.
The first inkling Ben had of this was when he logged onto MansfieldForPresident.com on a dreary February morning, and was instantaneously rerouted to a porn site called LollypopLove.com (along with two-hundred-thousand other viewers, he was to learn later).
Immediately he called over to the campaign’s website management firm, the Conover Group, to ask what the fuck was happening. They assured him that their IT security people were already on it. Unfortunately, that naughty prank wasn’t the worst of it. Moments later Sukie burst into his office, frantic with the news, confirmed by Conover, that the hackers had also previewed some of Mansfield’s upcoming video ads, and had stolen the master email address list of Mansfield supporters.
They’d even hacked into Andy’s Twitter account and texted lewd comments to his female constituents, suggesting they hook up with him “the next time I roll into town.”
Sukie was thunderstruck. “Oh my God! Now some 80,000 women think he’s a Weiner-esque man-ho!”
A cold chill ran through Ben’s veins as he dialed Fred’s secure cell number. It was immediately obvious to him that Fred wasn’t at CIA Headquarters when he heard some chirpy voice in the background call out, “Can I take your order?”
Of course Fred was already clued into both situations. His first comment was that the vile sex act being performed on the new Mansfield welcome page was something he’d never experienced, but had been privy to once while on a surveillance mission in Bangkok.
“That’s city’s name is no malapropism, all things considered,” he said, between bites of something much too greasy for seven o’clock in the morning.
Ben was in no mood for any jokes. “Is that all you have to say on the matter?”
After a gulp and a sigh, Fred responded with just one word: “Digits.”
Then he hung up.
A half-hour later there was a single, loud knock on the door. Standing in front of Ben was a skinny olive-skinned kid with a large curly afro. He could not have been more than sixteen years old. The kid handed him a card. On it was written one word: DIGITS.
Before Ben could say a word, the kid put his finger to his lips, indicating that Ben should keep his mouth shut. Then he opened the computer bag he was holding and pulled out a laptop.
Whatever software program he clicked onto created what looked like a 3-D architect’s rendering of the office. Several ho
t spots lit up on the computer-generated image. Pulling out a cell phone, Digits walked over to where the spots were indicated, then pointed the phone at the location while tapping out a series of numbers. When he was done, he sat back down at the computer and started hacking away. “Okay, we’re clear. Got any java in this joint?”
Ben nodded, and moved toward the coffeemaker. “Don’t tell me you work with Fred.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” The kid didn’t even look up when he answered, but tapped the keyboard while scanning the sequence of numbers that filled his screen. Ben noticed he had just a bit of a Spanish accent, more Caribbean than, say, Mexican. Perhaps Puerto Rican? It was too slight to place.
“By that I mean, you look too young to be at Langley.”
Digits stopped typing and smirked. “Shit, dude, you gotta be kidding! Langley is the very last place I’d work.”
“Why is that?”
“Because those bastards killed my pop.” The kid shrugged. “At one of their black sites. They call it Hotel Transylvania. Outside of Bucharest. He had the unfortunate luck of being one of their ‘guests’.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Because I hacked into their computers and saw his file.”
Ben blinked hard. If this kid was smart enough to do that, well then hell yeah, he wanted Digits on their side. “Do you mind telling me—what was his crime?”
Digits’s fingers roamed the keyboard, but he didn’t look up. “He tried to assassinate Manolo Padilla.”
“No shit!” Ben sat down hard. “The Venezuelan president?”
“Yeah, their little puppet.” The kid nodded, and started typing again. “Want to hear something funny? If he tried to do it today, well hell, he’d get some kind of damn Medal of Honor from those bastards!...Wait—”