The Candidate

by Lis Wiehl

  “Do you have contact information on him?”

  “I can find it. Erica, you’ve taken on another biggie.”

  “They find me.”

  “That’s not true and you know it. Can you handle this?”

  “I think I’m past the point of no return.”

  “You can’t be too careful.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to get over to McCormick Place. Big night tonight.”

  There’s a pause. Greg lowers his voice and says, “I wish I were there with you.”

  “So do I, Greg.”

  CHAPTER 47

  “THERE YOU HAVE IT, SALLY Carpenter’s speech accepting the vice presidential nomination. The mood here at the McCormick Center is joyous and festive, rocking with anticipation.”

  As Erica looks down at the arena, she gets goose bumps. In spite of everything that she’s juggling, she is moved by the sight of so many of her fellow Americans—of all races and faiths, straight and gay, young and old, wealthy and working class—actively engaged in democracy. And to think that it’s been working for 240 years. There’s a lot of cynicism in the news business, understandably to some extent—journalists are witnesses to lies and vanity and greed—but Erica doesn’t share it. In fact, she hates cynicism. It’s a dead end, a surrender, the enemy of unity, inspiration, and progress.

  Watching her fellow Americans exercising their basic rights, she feels a renewed energy for taking on the CIA—or whoever is responsible for the Buchanan bombing and its deadly aftershocks.

  “That’s Senator Bob Frankel of New York who has just walked out on the stage to introduce Mike Ortiz. Let’s listen to his speech.”

  GNN cuts to Frankel, and with each word out of his mouth, more people are standing on chairs and waving banners, yelling and screaming their approval at the senator’s description of Ortiz’s strength and character. His voice rising, Frankel finishes with, “It is with great pride that I ask you to join me in welcoming the next president of the United States of America, Mike Ortiz.”

  Ortiz strides onstage to a roar that feels like it might blow the roof off the arena. He looks like a movie star, fit and handsome, yes, but he also has that intangible quality—“it”—that makes it impossible to take your eyes off him. He stands at the podium letting the adulation wash over him, waving, smiling, looking confident but not arrogant.

  After five minutes of pandemonium, Ortiz quiets the arena and begins his speech. In rising cadences he recounts his life story and talks about his vision for America. The crowd is eating out of his hand, breaking into thunderous applause at every cue. Of course there’s an element of performance, but is Erica the only one who thinks it goes beyond that, that it’s too perfect, that Ortiz looks and acts programmed, as if he were the world’s most amazing trained seal? He nails all the rhetorical tricks, hits all the high notes, but to Erica something is missing—there’s no soul behind it.

  Now Ortiz is talking about his time as a prisoner. “I learned the meaning of real hardship and true grit. Some days I fell into a pit of despair. But I always found a way to climb out. Why? Because I was determined to come back to the country I love and make a difference. I methodically planned my escape. And after exactly nine months and nine days, I took my fate into my own hands and—”

  Those are the last words Erica hears.

  George Yuan’s voice echoes in her head: The mind-control process should take exactly nine months and nine days.

  Erica pushes away from her desk and stands up, sucking air, shivering in the chill that’s sweeping over her body. Her colleagues turn and look at her with concern.

  An associate producer comes over to ask, “Erica, are you all right?”

  Erica takes a step back. The well-meaning woman looks like she’s a million miles away—in another world, a better world.

  CHAPTER 48

  SOMEHOW ERICA GETS THROUGH THE rest of the night, finally signing off at a little after eleven. The first thing she does is call Mort Silver.

  “I need to talk to you, Mort.”

  “You seemed a little off your game tonight, Erica.” From the sound of his voice, it’s been a liquid evening.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Just calling it like I see it.”

  “Well, I need to see you.”

  “I’m in my suite; come on up.”

  Erica heads back to the Four Seasons and right up to Mort’s suite, where he has been hosting a watch party. He opens the door himself and exclaims with a big smile, “The one and only Erica Sparks!” Yes, he’s definitely been tippling.

  Erica walks into the expansive suite. There are several dozen guests including politicians, network executives, newscasters, and buttoned-down business types. There’s a lavish if picked-over buffet and a bartender who has clearly had a busy night. The guests greet Erica’s arrival as a big deal. Good. It gives her a little leverage.

  “Forgive me, but I’m going to steal Mort away for a couple of minutes,” Erica says, steering him toward what looks like an unoccupied bedroom. She shuts the door behind them.

  “Well, someone’s got something on her mind,” Mort says, a little put out by her initiative.

  “Listen, Mort, I want to go to Iraq to research my in-depth profile on Mike Ortiz.”

  “Erica, I don’t think that’s necessary. There’s lots of stock footage of that country and of Al-Qaeda.”

  “It’s not the same thing as being there.”

  “No, it’s not. Which is a very good thing.” Mort starts to pace, and Erica can see him sobering up, putting on his boss cap. “Do you know what kind of shape Iraq is in right now? It’s a mess. ISIS controls about a third of the country. The Shiites and Sunnis are blowing each other up. It’s a very dangerous place. You think I’m going to let GNN’s most valuable asset put herself at that kind of risk? I’m sorry, Erica, but it’s a no.”

  “We’re talking about creating compelling television. I want the American people to see what Ortiz went through. I want to bring it to life, viscerally.”

  “Good instincts. Bad plan. Do you know what it would cost to provide the kind of security you would need?”

  “I want to slip under the radar, Mort, make the trip unannounced. Which will make it a news story in itself when I come back. I’ll need minimal crew and light security. Anything more would only draw attention to me.”

  “I’m sorry, but the risk and costs outweigh the benefits. McCain was a prisoner of war; it didn’t get him elected.”

  “I’m not trying to get Ortiz elected, I just want the American people to understand the man who may be our next president. I’ll go just as in-depth on Lucy Winters.”

  “You mean about the years she spent in a 4H camp?” He laughs mirthlessly. “I don’t think you’re going to find much of anything juicy on her. In fact, I can hear her campaign squawking about our bias if we make too much of Ortiz’s prison ordeal.”

  “This is going to be the furthest thing from a puff piece, I assure you.”

  “Erica, you’re going to be playing up the most compelling part of Ortiz’s narrative. It could come across like a campaign ad.”

  “I don’t do that kind of journalism and you know it.”

  “You seem very keyed up. Does this have to be settled right now? Tonight? I’ve got guests out there.”

  “It kind of does, Mort.”

  “Why?”

  “Listen, Mort, my ratings have been high lately. I’m number one every night.”

  “True.”

  Erica looks him in the eye. “I want to go over to Iraq,” she says, an iron will in a velvet voice.

  Mort shakes his head, and a little bit of the fight goes out of him. “For goodness’ sake, when do you want to go?”

  “ASAP.”

  “And for how long?”

  “Two or three days should be enough. And I want as few people as possible to know I’m going. We can announce it as a vacation or just say ‘Erica Sparks has the week off.’ Downplay it across t
he board. And absolutely no mention of Iraq.”

  “It may be impossible to keep it a secret once you arrive.”

  “We’ll deal with that when I get there. I want to start things in motion first thing on Monday. I’ll ask Greg Underwood to help me find a local producer who knows the lay of the land. He can set up lodging, escorts, security, a local crew.”

  Mort shakes his head in acceptance and looks at Erica with real concern. “Are you sure you want to put yourself at this kind of risk?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “I suppose it could pay off.”

  More than you know, Mort, more than you know.

  CHAPTER 49

  ERICA GETS UP EARLY THE next morning, picks up her iPad, and starts reading The Call of Freedom by then congressman Mike Ortiz. She skips to the section on his time as an Al-Qaeda prisoner and his escape from the primitive jail in which he was held.

  It was June 2010 and he was on a congressional humanitarian mission in Baghdad. The focus of the trip was education, with the ultimate goal being to convince Congress to fund dozens of elementary schools in the city. Ortiz believed it was not only the right thing to do but that it would be a powerful antiterrorist tool. It was late afternoon, and he and the three other members of the mission were just leaving a school they had toured. They had ample security, but as they walked to their armored vehicles, a car screeched to a halt on the sidewalk. Five masked and heavily armed men leapt out. A gunfight broke out, a congresswoman from Nevada was shot in the leg, and two Iraqi soldiers and one of the gunmen were killed. Ortiz was picked up by two of the gunmen and shoved into the trunk of the car, which then sped away.

  Ortiz sweltered in the dark cramped space for hours, in shock and afraid, with no idea where he was being taken or who his captors were. Finally the car stopped, the trunk was opened, he was lifted out, roughly walked into a small, one-story adobe building, and shoved into a dark cell. This was where he stayed until his escape.

  The conditions were horrific—food was erratic and basically inedible, his toilet was a bucket that was emptied once a week, and he had one thin blanket to get through the frigid desert nights. He lost forty pounds, suffered through extreme intestinal illness, insect bites that became infected, bleeding gums, fevers, and delirium. He was subjected to torture in an effort to get him to reveal military secrets and to renounce the United States, and was repeatedly threatened with beheading.

  Back home in the States, his capture was front-page news. Al-Qaeda demanded that the US stop its bombing campaign in return for Ortiz’s release. The president refused to negotiate with the jihadists. As the days turned into weeks, the story lost its urgency and the country’s attention turned elsewhere.

  Over the ensuing days, weeks, and months, Ortiz was able to make some sense of his surroundings. He was being held in a makeshift prison somewhere north of Baghdad. His fellow prisoners were a mix of thieves, adulterers, and other infidels. The prison held fewer than a dozen inmates and was guarded by three Al-Qaeda soldiers who spent a lot of time smoking, praying, and tormenting their captives.

  During it all, Ortiz’s love for his wife, family, and country sustained him. Sitting in his cell at night, he planned his escape. Al-Qaeda interrogators and officers would come every week, take him from his cell into a small room, and see if he had changed his mind about spilling secrets or denouncing the US. Ortiz saw these sessions as his best opportunity for escape. An armed soldier stood guard. If Ortiz could neutralize the guard, get his AK47, and shoot his interrogators and the prison guards, he could then flee, commandeer their vehicle, and drive south to Baghdad. It was a risky plan, brave and brazen. But Ortiz was determined.

  Finally, after those fateful nine months and nine days, he put it into action. He was led from his cell into the interrogation room and, as usual, sat across a table from his interrogators. No sooner had he sat down than he shoved the table over onto them, momentarily stunning them. He kicked the armed guard in the stomach, grabbed his AK47, and took out the guard and the two interrogators. The three regular guards rushed into the room, but he was ready. He killed two of them and wounded the third before fleeing to Baghdad in an Al-Qaeda truck.

  Once again, Congressman Mike Ortiz was front-page news, a hero whose courage and bravery propelled him right to the Senate. And beyond?

  Erica turns off her iPad. The story is well told and undeniably stirring. But she is struck by the fact that there were no witnesses to any of the events and no corroborating evidence. The prison was emptied and abandoned soon after Ortiz’s escape.

  Erica is going to have her work cut out for her in Iraq.

  It’s time to start packing for her return flight to New York, but first there’s a call she has to make. She dials Meg Winston, the director of Woodlands Camp.

  “I’d like to fly up and see Jenny on Tuesday, just for a couple of hours, maybe take her out to lunch.”

  “I’m sorry, but that violates camp rules,” Winston answers firmly.

  Erica loves the camp’s discipline—the fact that all electronic devices are forbidden, that no candy-laden “care packages” are allowed. But this is a different matter entirely.

  “Can you possibly stretch the rules a little, just this once?”

  “We’re a camp, not a piece of salt water taffy. If we stretched for one we’d have to stretch for all, and that would leave us very stringy.”

  Erica has a feeling Winston has used that line before.

  She wonders how deeply she should get into specifics. The fact is she has to see Jenny before she leaves for Iraq. “I’m going away on assignment, and I can’t make parents’ weekend. This will be my only chance to see my daughter.”

  “Ms. Sparks—”

  “Please . . . Erica.”

  “Erica, we have a lot of prominent parents with busy schedules. CEOs, movie stars, et cetera. The rules apply evenly and fairly to all.”

  “Meg, I really can’t get into the details, but it’s important.”

  “Erica, Jenny was traumatized by your last call. By the death of that young woman, Rebecca Sullivan. She’s been moody and withdrawn. She has expressed her anger toward you to several of her counselors. This kind of attitude can infect other campers. And if we pulled her out of activities for lunch with you, it would only escalate the situation. I’m not sure a visit from you is in the camp’s best interest right now.”

  Erica wants to scream at this woman: She’s my daughter, for goodness’ sake, and I’m going to come and see her! Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed and takes a deep breath. “I completely understand your concerns. But I hope you can understand mine. Things are somewhat unsettled between us at the moment. Before I leave on assignment, I simply must talk to my daughter in person.”

  What Erica doesn’t say—and doesn’t really want to admit to herself—is that she will be heading over to the most dangerous region of the world. And she may not come back.

  Winston exhales with an exasperated sigh, and then her tone warms up. “I’m reading between the lines a little here, but I think I get it. Why don’t you arrive at noon, and that way you can take Jenny out to lunch and have her back for her first afternoon activity. That seems the least disruptive plan.”

  Erica hangs up and realizes that in some ways, visiting Jenny feels like as much of a minefield as visiting Iraq.

  CHAPTER 50

  IT’S MONDAY MORNING AND ERICA is in her office organizing her trip. She’s awaiting a call from a freelance producer, Bob Ruggio, who is based in Tel Aviv and whom Greg has worked with before. Greg has also gotten in touch with Anwar Hamade, the Iraqi journalist, and he’s agreed to meet with Erica when she’s in Baghdad. She flies out on Thursday.

  As she goes over her checklist, she calls Nancy Huffman. Nancy was the head of wardrobe at GNN when Erica first arrived, and she became an immediate ally and then a friend. Nancy designed clothes in her off hours, and after Erica wore one of her dresses to the White House Correspondents Dinner, the designer was d
eluged with so many orders that she left GNN and now has a shop and atelier in the East Village. Erica often buys from her and consults with her, and the two friends meet for lunch or dinner every couple of months.

  “Erica, how goes it?”

  “Ah, mixed bag. Things are a little rough with Jenny.”

  “When have they not been a little rough with Jenny? It’s the nature of the beast. That kid adores you and don’t you ever forget it.”

  “Thanks. Listen, off the record I’m heading over to Iraq.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m researching an in-depth piece I’m doing on Mike Ortiz.”

  “Okay. Can’t say I feel warm and fuzzy about the guy. And please be careful over there. How can I help?”

  “I’m not sure what to wear.”

  “Are you going to be reporting from Iraq?”

  “Not live. And not from a studio. It’s a stealth trip.”

  “Okay. Why don’t I throw a few things together? I’ll be up there in an hour or so.”

  Erica hangs up and says a silent blessing for Nancy, and for all her friends. Including Greg. Who, no matter where their relationship stands, has proved himself again and again.

  The call comes in from Bob Ruggio.

  “What a pleasure to meet you, Erica.”

  “Greg speaks very highly of you.”

  “Every gig is a new challenge. But I’ve been busy. You’ll be staying at the Al Rasheed Hotel. Which is in the Green Zone, which is heavily fortified, no doubt the safest part of town. I’ve lined up a cameraman who also does sound. It’s going to be bare-bones, and the footage won’t be pristine.”

  “That might make it more compelling.”

  “My feeling exactly. The prison where Mike Ortiz was held is near the city of Baiji, about 120 miles north of Baghdad, on the main route between the capital and ISIS-controlled Mosul. This is one of the most volatile and dangerous parts of Iraq, although it has a lot of competition. ISIS and the Iraqi government have been engaged in a fierce battle over Baiji for years, and control has seesawed back and forth at least a half dozen times. Right now the Iraqi government has the upper hand. The good news for us is that the prison—which is abandoned—is twenty miles south of the city, in an area that’s definitely under government control. Still, ISIS has made forays that far south. Any way you look at it, Erica, this is a dangerous mission.”