The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  The next morning, feeling semi-human, she calls Becky and leaves another message. Then she decides to head down to the hotel’s dining room for breakfast. She craves a little hubbub, a little humanity, a little distraction to quell the loneliness and fear. And she’ll no doubt run into some colleagues and maybe pick up some hot skinny. As well as congrats for her Sally Carpenter scoop.

  The dining room is expansive, bustling and buzzing with politicians, aides, donors, media, political junkies, celebrities—all of them schmoozing, laughing, gossiping, networking. Everyone looks well fed, well dressed, pampered, and buffered in this plush cocoon.

  Erica is led to a table for two. She orders coffee and a vegetable omelet and then surveys the room. People smile and wave at her, and she recognizes most of them. A senator from Oregon comes by to pay his respects, then several colleagues from GNN and the other cable news networks. It’s all pretty convivial until you look closely and notice the whispered confabs, the intense expressions, the shrewd darting eyes. Make no mistake—this is the big time, where deals are cut, alliances formed, plans hatched.

  It all comes down to two words: power and money. Money and power. Put them in either order; they are the drugs of choice for this tribe.

  Then Erica notices an older Latino couple standing tentatively at the entrance to the room. They’re modestly dressed and look like tourists who are splurging on a fancy hotel for their anniversary. They seem a bit uncomfortable, as if they’re calculating how much breakfast in this posh birdcage will cost them. The man picks up a menu off the hostess stand and they quickly peruse it. The hostess appears and greets them profusely. The man shakes his head and they turn and leave arm in arm. There’s something touching about them; they’re so clearly still in love.

  Then Claire Wilcox, an old colleague from Erica’s first days at GNN, walks by her table. Claire is a raven-haired, Stanford-bred beauty and a first-class rhymes-with-rich.

  “Those are Ortiz’s parents. Do you believe they’ll be sleeping upstairs at the White House if he wins? I wonder if they’ll put in a taco stand.”

  “Nice to see you too, Claire.”

  “Kudos on your Carpenter scoop. What’d you have to do to get that one?”

  Erica pulls forty dollars out of her purse and leaves it on the table. Then she follows the older couple across the hotel lobby and out onto East Delaware Place. They reach the corner of Michigan Avenue, turn north, and head into the Oak Tree restaurant, a far more modest affair than the Four Seasons. Erica follows them in.

  The place is large and modern, filled with conventioneers from around the country, most bedecked with hats and ribbons and signs announcing their allegiance to the Ortiz/Carpenter ticket. There’s already a sense of building excitement about tonight’s acceptance speech.

  The older couple go unrecognized and are shown to a table. Erica heads into the bakery section and checks out the carbs while keeping an eye on her quarry. They seem like such soft-spoken, decent people—it’s hard to imagine them having Christmas Day dinner with their daughter-in-law. Erica takes out her phone and Googles to find their names.

  This is the part of her job that she hates, but it is part of her job. She walks over to the couple. “I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast. But aren’t you Alberto and Miranda Ortiz?”

  “We’ve been discovered,” Alberto says good-naturedly to his wife—they both smile.

  “And we know who you are,” Miranda says. She’s a buxom woman with smooth coffee-colored skin who—in her seventies—still radiates an earthy sensuality. “We enjoy watching your show.”

  “It makes me very happy to hear that. Would you consider coming on as guests sometime?”

  Alberto and Miranda exchange glances. “We’re pretty private people,” Alberto says.

  “It may be difficult to stay that way,” Erica says. “May I sit down and join you for five minutes?”

  “No cameras?”

  “No cameras,” Erica says, laughing.

  “Please,” Alberto says, standing and holding out a chair for her. This man has more class in his pinky than Donald Trump will have in five lifetimes.

  “How do you plan to handle the onslaught of attention?” Erica asks.

  “Firmly,” Miranda says.

  “Nobody asked us to run for parents of the president. We have no interest in that world.”

  “We are proud of Mike, but I was happy with him staying in the Senate.”

  “He says that his time as a prisoner in Iraq convinced him to run for the presidency,” Erica says.

  Both Alberto and Miranda grow silent; their faces darken. “If that’s what he says, then we support him,” Miranda says.

  “His wife is a strong woman,” Erica says.

  Miranda takes a sip of her coffee. Alberto looks out the window.

  “Do you think she had a great deal of influence on his decision?”

  The Ortizes remain silent.

  Finally Alberto says drily, “Celeste is very generous. She has helped many charities in our community.”

  “His time in captivity must have been very difficult for you.”

  “I never expected to see my son alive again,” Alberto says.

  “The worse part was imagining his treatment. My boy, being beaten and filthy and no food or water sometimes. I had to go on medication to control my anxiety and fear,” Miranda adds.

  “But he came home,” Erica says.

  There’s another silence, and then Alberto says slowly, “Yes, he came home.”

  “Was he different?”

  Miranda puts down her fork, looks at Erica, and says with finality, “He is my son.”

  “I understand. And I hope I haven’t disturbed your breakfast. Just one last question: Do you know Lily Lau?”

  Both Alberto and Miranda stiffen, almost involuntarily. They try to disguise it, but their distaste for Lau comes through loud and clear. There’s a long pause.

  “When my son was in Congress and then the Senate, he worked to help families who were struggling to make better lives. If he wins, we only hope he will remember those people,” Alberto says.

  Erica is moved by his simple words. After a moment she says, “I’m sure he’s very proud of you.”

  “You see, honey, I told you she was a good woman,” Miranda says.

  Erica stands up. “And if you ever change your mind about appearing on my show, the door is always open.”

  As Erica walks back to the hotel her phone rings. It’s George Yuan from Harvard.

  “Hi, George.”

  “I’m making slow but steady progress on the translation. The text is extraordinary. It’s basically a how-to manual in brainwashing and psychological warfare.”

  “Written in 200 BC.”

  “Yes! It’s books like these that make scholarship so exciting.”

  “What have you learned so far?”

  “There are five core steps to gaining control of someone’s mind: Isolation. Sensory Deprivation. Fear. Indoctrination. Love.”

  “Love?”

  “Yes. They wanted their subjects to love them as well as fear them. The combination led to complete submission.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Numbers were very important to them. Nine was considered the most sacred number. It was dictated that the mind-control process should take exactly nine months and nine days.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Here’s a passage: ‘The subject, upon release, should be able to fit into society with no one suspecting that they are being controlled.’ ”

  “Sort of like a Trojan horse.”

  “Exactly. I took several courses in the history of covert action. The CIA has employed many of these same tactics in its intelligence work.”

  The CIA. Erica knows something of the CIA’s methods, of course, but this is the first she’s heard of overt brainwashing. She ducks into a doorway. “Say more.”

  “In Nicaragua, Chile, Vietnam, and countries in the Middle East, the CIA was and
is known for ‘creating’ infiltrators out of local officials. Sometimes it pays off their families. Then it removes them, voluntarily or not, to secret camps, brainwashes them, and then sends them back out as spies and assassins.”

  “Do you think the CIA could have operatives in Al-Qaeda?”

  “That question is out of my wheelhouse. But I don’t see why not. They are the best in the world. And they are absolutely merciless.”

  Erica’s mind is spinning like a pinwheel in a wind tunnel. Could the CIA be working to put Mike Ortiz in the White House? Peter Tuttle had a life insurance policy, which is much more legit than cash, which is traceable. And it makes perfect sense that the CIA would want Vander out of the picture. In fact, they would want anyone out of the picture who stood in the way of their goal. And Erica knows the CIA is a brilliant killing machine when it wants to be. It never leaves a trace. It’s all-seeing, all-knowing.

  All-seeing, all-knowing. Even in the shower.

  Erica feels herself start to sweat.

  “Erica, are you there?”

  “I’m here, George. I can’t thank you enough. Stay in touch.”

  As Erica rides back up to her suite to change into her work outfit, she can barely contain her excitement. Or her fear.

  CHAPTER 45

  NO SOONER HAS ERICA WALKED into her suite than she gets a call from Shirley Stamos.

  “Hi, Shirley, what’s up?”

  “I have some terrible news, Erica.”

  “What?”

  “Becky Sullivan either killed herself or was murdered last night.”

  Erica is stunned into silence. Then a terrible foreboding grips her and she feels her body temperature drop. “How?”

  “She either jumped or was thrown off a wall on Morningside Drive, down into the park.”

  “There were no witnesses?”

  “No. It’s quiet up there at night.”

  “She didn’t know that part of town; she hasn’t been in New York long enough. She was a small-town girl.”

  “I had those same thoughts.”

  “I’m stunned. It’s so sad. She was a good kid, a little troubled, but I’m sure she would have worked it out.”

  “She certainly worshiped you.”

  “Jenny adored her. I’ve got to call and tell her.”

  “That’s going to be a tough call. Erica, I’m here for you. If there’s anything I can do to help, anything, please let me know.”

  “Can you send flowers to her family back in Ohio? Send two bouquets. One ‘from all her friends and colleagues at GNN’ and one ‘from Jenny and Erica.’ And get me their phone number.”

  “Of course.”

  Erica sits down and tries to compose herself. Becky is gone. Becky who spent many evenings at Erica’s, who was terrific with Jenny. Her poor parents, to lose a child so young—and so violently. And poor sad, insecure Becky. Could it have been a suicide? If Becky had been responsible for the hidden cameras, the fact that they were discovered could have driven her over the edge. Still, why would she have headed uptown to Morningside Heights to do it? She could have leapt out her apartment window.

  And if it was murder? Was Becky doing someone’s bidding when she hid the cameras? And once she was unmasked, did she represent a security risk that had to be taken out?

  Erica takes a deep breath and exhales with a sigh, pushing her speculation aside and turning her focus to Jenny. No point postponing the inevitable. She calls Jenny’s camp and reaches the director, Meg Winston, who promises to track down Jenny and bring her to the office.

  Shirley texts Becky’s home number in Ohio, and Erica calls it.

  “Yes?” comes a woman’s voice, sounding numb and drained.

  “This is Erica Sparks. Is this . . . ?”

  “Yeah, I’m Mary Sullivan. Becky’s mom.”

  “I just wanted to call to say how sorry I am. Becky was a lovely young woman.”

  “She was a good kid. She wanted to make something of her life.” The poor woman sounds so beaten down.

  “She did make something of her life. My daughter adored her. She was very helpful to me.”

  “That’s nice to hear. She was talking about coming back home.”

  “She was?”

  “I think New York was too much for her. I think it scared her. Last time she called she told me she felt trapped.”

  Erica wants to ask more questions, but the woman’s sadness is just too much. So Erica says, “Again, I’m so sorry.”

  She hangs up and remembers Becky’s overeager face. Then she sees Fred and Judy Buchanan and the innocent bystanders to the bombing, some of whom will never walk or see again. The names and faces tumble out—Markum, Tuttle, Vander.

  And Mike Ortiz. The man who changed somehow while in Al-Qaeda custody. Is he now the Trojan candidate, a stalking horse for . . . who? The CIA? They certainly have the resources and the expertise. And the motive. If Ortiz won, America’s shadowy intelligence agency could take control. And who controls the CIA? The military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower, in his final speech to the country, warned posed the greatest threat to Americans’ liberty. In the face of the global terrorist threat, democracies around the world are taking away freedoms, imposing curfews, curtailing free speech, and banning demonstrations. Could America be next?

  Erica’s phone rings, and she starts. She pulls herself back to the here and now.

  “Jenny?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “I have some very sad news.”

  “What is it?”

  “Becky died, honey.”

  “What?”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Jenny starts to cry. “She was my friend.”

  “I know she was, sweetheart, and you were a good friend to her.”

  “What happened?”

  Should she tell her the truth? It will be so disturbing. But she will find out eventually and resent being lied to. Erica decides to split the difference. “She fell off a high wall. It may have been an accident.”

  “Becky was afraid of heights, she told me that.”

  “I know it’s hard to accept, but that’s what happened, honey.”

  “I don’t think she fell; she would never get up on a high wall. What if she was pushed?”

  “They’re investigating everything.”

  “I think she was murdered.”

  “It’s really too soon to say, honey.”

  “It’s not too soon to say. You know it and I know it. She was murdered.”

  “Let’s let the police do their work.”

  “No, I don’t need to wait. Becky was probably killed because she was connected to you.”

  Erica runs her fingers through her hair and slumps down in the chair—she’s had the same thought.

  “Please don’t say that, Jenny. It makes me feel terrible.”

  “Good! I think you’re selfish. You don’t care about me! What if you get killed next? And please don’t tell me it’s your stupid job!”

  Erica feels like her emotional toolbox is empty. There’s nothing left. What can she say? How can she make this better? There’s a long pause filled with Jenny’s anger and tears.

  Finally Erica says, “I sent flowers to her family, from both of us. And I spoke to her mother.”

  Jenny says nothing; there’s just faint phone static between them.

  “I’m sorry about Becky, honey.”

  “I’m sorry about everything. I wish I was still living with Dad and Linda.”

  These are the words Erica most dreads. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I don’t want you to leave me, Jenny. It would break my heart. But if you honestly feel that way, we can discuss it.”

  “By the way, don’t come for parents’ weekend.”

  “Honey, I’m planning on it. I took that Friday off work.”

  “Dad and Linda are coming.”

  “I wish you had told me sooner.”

  “I guess we both wish things.”

  “
Jenny, I can’t let you go when things are like this between us. I just can’t. It would tear me up. I’m your mother and I love you more than anything in the world. You can talk to me about anything, anytime. I will stand with you and stand behind you, now and always . . . We’ll keep talking?”

  There’s a pause and then Jenny says a halfhearted, “Okay.”

  Erica grabs that Okay like a life preserver.

  CHAPTER 46

  ERICA IS DUE OVER AT McCormick Place in an hour. But she picks up the hotel’s landline and calls Greg in Sydney, where it’s ten at night.

  “Erica, don’t you have a busy day ahead of you?”

  “I do, but I need to talk.”

  “All ears here.”

  She quickly gives him an update on her investigation, the murders so far, Becky’s death, the cameras discovered in her apartment, her suspicions about mind control, and then George Yuan’s pointing out how the ancient text seems to perfectly describe some of the tactics the CIA uses. The words tumble out of her in an urgent rush, and when she’s finished there’s a pause.

  “Erica, you’re in deep on this.”

  “Do you think I’m off on a wild goose chase?”

  “No! I wish you were. Your instincts are sharp, and at this point we’re way beyond instinct. Someone is committing systematic killings. And it’s certainly within the realm of possibility that the CIA would want to control the presidency. It would give it the ability to dictate American foreign policy. Not to mention domestic.”

  “Listen, we’ve all seen what the CIA is capable of. It has engineered the overthrow of more than one legitimate government,” Erica says.

  “The time Ortiz spent as a hostage is basically unaccounted for,” Greg says. “The CIA could have come in with suitcases of cash and bought control of him from Al-Qaeda. And then brainwashed him. Sounds farfetched at first blush, but look at Nylan Hastings. That seemed beyond the realm of possibility.”

  “Exactly. Do you have contacts I could absolutely trust who might be helpful?” Erica asks. “A former CIA agent would probably be best. Or maybe someone who dealt with them over in Iraq?”

  “You know, when I was a photographer in the Middle East, I did meet a guy, Anwar Hamade. He’s an Iraqi journalist. Upstanding guy and incredibly knowledgeable. His specialty was covert action, by his own and other governments. He spent a lot of time studying the CIA.”