The Ambition

by Lee Strobel

  “It just seems a little suspicious. It’s hard for me to believe a guy like Eric Snow doesn’t have a few skeletons in his closet.”

  “Well, go ahead and put somebody on the story with me if it’ll make you feel better. Just make sure the person isn’t a Christian, because that would be a conflict too, wouldn’t it?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I trust you, Strider. But I wish you had disclosed this relationship at the outset, just for the record.”

  “It never crossed my mind. In retrospect, yeah, okay, I suppose it probably would have been good to get it on the table. But no harm, no foul.”

  “Let’s be totally honest, Garry: it’s the kind of conflict of interest that you’d never hesitate to nail a politician for. You’d wipe a mayor or a congressman or an alderman all over the front page for something like that. If he defended himself by saying, ‘Well, this conflict never really affected my performance,’ you’d scoff at him as cynically as I would.”

  Redmond let his words soak in. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he added. “We’re trying to pin the sin of hypocrisy on Eric Snow, but sometimes we’re the hypocrites, aren’t we?”

  The criticism stung, but Strider didn’t say anything in response.

  Redmond continued. “Nevertheless, I want you to keep going on your investigation. Update me every few days. Follow up on every lead. In the meantime, I’m going to recommend to the editorial board that we steer clear of endorsing either guy for the appointment.”

  “But won’t that be a victory for Snow? If we stay neutral, it’s as if we’re saying it’s fine with us if a pastor gets sent to the Senate.”

  “Maybe. But McKelvie hasn’t been much of a friend to the media over the years. He opposes cameras in the courtroom and he takes a narrow view of the shield law,” he said, referring to the statute that protects journalists from having to disclose their confidential sources in most instances. “He refused to quash a subpoena against the Trib a few years ago and was overturned on appeal. So there’s no particular reason for us to like him.”

  “Well, that’s up to the editorial board. I’ll just keep doing my job.”

  “And you’d better keep looking over your shoulder. Apparently, there’s someone in the newsroom who doesn’t like you.”

  Strider’s mind quickly scrolled through a list of people who coveted his job. It wasn’t short.

  “One more thing,” Redmond said. “Set aside for a minute what you can prove and what you can’t prove: What does your gut tell you about Eric Snow?”

  “That he’s clever. That he’s smart. That he’s a true idealist — which always makes me nervous. That he knows how to run a business — if his church were a publicly traded corporation, I wouldn’t hesitate to buy stock in it. That he’s politically naive. And most of all, that he’s ambitious. But then, that’s not a crime.”

  Redmond turned to leave. “Lucky for you.”

  III

  Nicholas Halberstam was on the phone — and he wasn’t happy.

  “Wait a minute — you’re going to do what?” demanded the governor’s political advisor.

  Eric Snow had given him details of the Caroline Turner incident — her false claims that he sexually assaulted her during a counseling session, her attempt to get Garry Strider to write about it, and the lawsuit that her attorney was threatening to file on the eve of the governor’s decision on the Senate appointment.

  “Our plan is to preempt her,” Snow explained. “The idea is to sue her for slander for lying to Strider about me. We’ve dug up a lot of dirt on her — two arrests for shoplifting, heavy debt, a messy divorce in which she’s accused of infidelity. Plus, I took a lie detector test that completely clears me.”

  Halberstam cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Snow — and, by the way, it’s great to be able to finally call you Mister rather than Reverend — let me guess that Debra Wyatt came up with that strategy.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because it’s a clever legal solution and she’s a very creative attorney. But it’s a poor political strategy.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me apply the quote from Hamlet to you: ‘The candidate doth protest too much.’ You’re going to look vindictive and petty if you publicly attack this woman. You’ve got the big stage, the big microphone, the big media, and it would look like you’re bullying some poor suburban woman. It’s overkill. If you’re innocent, then why should you need to bury her like that?

  “Besides, the chances are the whole thing is a bluff, in which case you’ve unnecessarily publicized her allegations — and no matter how phony they are, some people are going to believe her. Once allegations like these get in the public’s mind, they’re very hard to erase.”

  “I see your point.”

  “So what’s her lawyer’s name?”

  Snow searched through his notes. “A guy named Brent W. Vandervoort.”

  Halberstam grunted as he wrote it down. “Okay,” he declared. “It’s handled.”

  “What do you mean it’s handled?”

  “I’m telling you it’s over, it’s done, don’t worry about it.”

  Snow was confused. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Halberstam, but I’d like to know exactly how you are going to accomplish that.” “That, Senator, doesn’t concern you.” “Of course it does.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of ‘plausible deniability’? Not only do you not need any details, but you shouldn’t even want any details. I’m going to take care of it; that’s my job and that’s all you need to know. If you’re ever asked about it, you can honestly say you have no idea what I did on your behalf. In fact, I’d suggest you forget that this phone call ever took place. Sort of like that meeting we had in your office.”

  “What meeting?”

  Halberstam chortled. “Exactly.”

  “Still, Mr. Halberstam — “

  “Look, after I get done with this, the lawsuit will not be filed. I can guarantee that to you with a 95 percent certainty. Once I deal with Mr. Vandervoort, this entire matter will quietly go away. Now, in the highly unlikely event that the suit were to be filed, your best response from a political perspective would be to downplay it. Pooh–pooh it, slough it off, treat it as insignificant. We can leak those lie detector results to the media if we need to. But we won’t. I’m telling you — forget about this. It’s done.”

  Snow chuckled. “I wish I could get that kind of action in other areas of my life.”

  “Just remember two things. First, when you’re in Washington, you’re going to need someone who can fix things for you in a way that they never hit the public’s radar — someone you can trust, someone with experience, someone who knows how the game is played and can outplay everybody else.”

  “Someone like you. And second?”

  “Remember that you owe me a favor. A big one. And believe me, there will come a time when I’ll collect on it.”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  I

  Lasagna finally brought Gina and Strider back together.

  Not just any lasagna. When Gina’s parents, Nicolo and Isabella, were on their honeymoon in New York City in the 1970s, they ate dinner at Clementine’s in the theater district in Manhattan, a haven for authentic Neapolitan cuisine since World War II.

  They were on a tight budget, and so Isabella ordered the lasagna, even though she was skeptical. After all, whose lasagna could match her mother’s memorized recipe, which had originated somewhere in the hazy past in the Old Country and had been passed down through the generations? But Clementine’s rendition surprised her. Maybe it was the sweet Italian sausage, or the freshly grated pecorino Romano cheese, or the — well, it doesn’t really matter. She was smitten by the simple but richly flavorful dish.

  Nicolo surreptitiously returned the next day to obtain the recipe for her, handwritten on the back of a white envelope by the chef, and ceremoniousl
y presented it to his bride. That’s how Clementine’s lasagna became a staple in their home and in the diet of their daughter Gina as she was growing up.

  Gina, in turn, mastered the art of baking the dish, dutifully following the now–photocopied recipe in all its detail — but also adding her own flourish: a pinch of cinnamon. When she and Garry Strider were living together, it was their special meal, reserved for relaxed evenings with a bottle of fragrant Valpolicella and a DVD of an old movie that they would watch while cuddling on the couch.

  “What would you say to coming over and making your lasagna some night?” Strider asked at the end of their rendezvous at Hello Joe.

  Gina’s face lit up. “Great idea. How about Thursday?”

  And so it was a date, the first time Gina would be back at Strider’s townhouse since she had moved in with her friends Kelli and Jen.

  Because Gina’s car was giving her problems again — a recurring gremlin in the electrical system — Kelli agreed to drop her off at Strider’s place. She arrived before he was off work and used the key she still kept in her purse. She quickly felt at home again in the kitchen, humming and softly singing to a CD of Andrea Bocelli as she prepared the meal.

  “Gina? I’m home,” Strider called out as he entered the front door. He liked the sound of that greeting; it reminded him of less complicated days.

  Gina emerged from the kitchen, a multicolored apron over her white blouse and beige skirt, and gave him a casual kiss. “Guess what I brought?” she asked.

  “What?”

  Gina reached down to the coffee table and pulled a DVD out of her over–stuffed purse, holding it up proudly. “Rear Window.” It was the film they had watched on their first date.

  Strider arched an eyebrow, pondering whether there was some underlying significance to her choice of the movie. Was she intentionally harkening back to a time when their relationship was fresh with possibilities? Was she trying to say she wanted their lives to go back to those easygoing days? Or does she just like the movie? How much should he read into this?

  They ate in the small dining room. They talked about the poor prospects for the Cubs this year; they discussed the previous week’s tornado that terrorized a small Wisconsin town where Strider’s family used to vacation when he was a kid; they laughed as Gina recalled the antics of some of her students; and they broached the idea of visiting Brookfield Zoo after Gina described how much fun her class had on a field trip there recently.

  But more significant were the topics they didn’t touch on: the Examiner’s financial situation (still tenuous), Strider’s investigation of Diamond Point Fellowship (still stalled), or Eric Snow’s quest for the Senate (still pending).

  Neither of them felt like they were intentionally avoiding these touchier subjects. The conversation just seemed to naturally gravitate toward safer areas. Maybe they both needed a rest from the drama that their once–smooth relationship had become.

  The only time a potentially contentious topic arose was at the beginning of their meal, when Strider lifted the first forkful of lasagna to his mouth but then paused.

  “Do you want to say grace first?” he asked. He posed the question without sarcasm or challenge; in fact, he sounded sincere.

  Gina was startled. “Why? Would you mind?”

  “Actually, I suppose not.”

  She laughed it off and raised her glass. “Cheers,” she said instead.

  Afterward, the two of them carted their dishes into the kitchen. “Just leave everything in the sink,” Strider told her. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  “Let me get the dishes soaking or they’ll never come clean,” she said. “Then I’ll make the popcorn; you put on the movie.”

  She reached into a lower cabinet and withdrew a hot–air popper, which emitted a loud whir as she added the kernels and caught the cloud of extruding popcorn in a stainless steel bowl. They both liked their popcorn sans butter or salt, even though their friends would tease them by saying this was like eating fluffy pieces of flavorless cardboard.

  They sat side–by–side on the living room couch, Gina occasionally offering a line a beat or two before it could be uttered by a character. It wasn’t long before Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart were sparring onscreen, as mismatched and perfect for each other as any movie couple could be. Strider slipped his arm around Gina just before Jimmy Stewart’s Greenwich Village neighbor discovered her little dog dead in the courtyard. By the time Grace Kelly broke into the murderer’s apartment in search of evidence, Gina had eased her head onto Garry’s shoulder.

  “I love that movie,” Gina said as the film ended. “It’s so … satisfying.”

  “Yeah. Brings back good memories.”

  Gina gazed up into Strider’s eyes; he leaned over to kiss her deeply. “Well,” he said softly, “I guess I’d better drive you home.”

  Gina kissed him back — a long, lingering, eager kiss.

  “Maybe,” she whispered, “you shouldn’t bother.”

  II

  When Garry Strider woke up to daylight, his back was stiff and his neck was aching, but that always happened to him when he slept on the lumpy living–room couch. He yawned as he stretched, and then he massaged his neck and rolled over onto his back, blinking and rubbing his face as he came to full consciousness.

  Gina — always an earlier riser — came bounding into the room, bent over, and kissed him on the forehead. “G’morning,” she said cheerily.

  She sat down on the edge of the couch, Strider inching over to accommodate her. She was clad in Strider’s white terry robe, her wet hair fragrant with his shampoo; Strider was still wearing the blue jeans and pullover knit shirt he had on the previous night. He was entangled in the thin woolen blanket that had covered him.

  “I called in and took a personal day,” Gina announced.

  “Can you do that?” he asked, slipping on his wire–rims and propping himself up on his elbows.

  “We get three days a year and this is my first one, so, yeah. How ‘bout you?”

  “I don’t have anything until an interview early this afternoon.” He glanced at a clock on the wall: 6:30 a.m.

  Gina grinned and reached out to give him a hug. “Strider,” she said, searching for the right words. “Well, I just want to say thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For not taking advantage of the situation last night. For putting on the brakes when you knew I couldn’t — or wouldn’t. It was very gallant of you. So, thanks. It means a lot to me.”

  Strider returned the smile, though with a bit less enthusiasm. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” Again, he kneaded the sore muscles in his neck. “Now I’m starting to have second thoughts.”

  Gina let out a laugh — and Strider couldn’t help but think how much he missed her, the joy she used to bring into his mornings. From there, his mind darted to the leisurely breakfasts they used to spend together at the kitchen table on Saturdays. And from there, the words that tumbled from his mouth were inevitable: “Cinnamon rolls.”

  Gina’s eyes danced. “Ohhh, yeah!”

  Early each morning, Joseph Andersson’s wife, Annika, bakes fresh Swedish cinnamon buns, known by their traditional name of kanelbulle — warm, soft, and slathered with cream cheese — to sell at their coffee shop Hello Joe.

  For Garry and Gina, this was a delicacy that their diets would allow them only on Saturday mornings as they would read through the Examiner’s Bulldog edition — the Sunday paper that comes out early on Saturday in order to maximize weekend exposure for advertisers. Gina would savor Chicago Now, the Examiner’s Sunday magazine, while Strider would consume the op–ed pieces.

  “Listen to this,” Gina would say from time to time, and then she would read a few paragraphs that had delighted her. “Check this out — I can’t believe he wrote this,” Strider would say, sharing a snippet from a commentary that he disagreed with.

  Typically, they would spend the entire morning lingering over the paper, casuall
y discussing the highlights with each other and slowly devouring as many cinnamon buns as they dared. Or in Strider’s case, always one more than he should.

  “Let me finish getting dressed and I’ll go over and get the rolls and coffee,” Gina said. “Where’re your car keys?”

  “This almost makes up for the couch.” He stretched to reach the keys on the coffee table and tossed them to her. “Almost.”

  Actually, he was glad that when Gina had been so vulnerable the previous evening, he had backed off instead of charging ahead. He knew that with her new faith, she would have eventually come to regret the transgressing of the lines of intimacy. Strider wanted their relationship to last for the long haul, and he wanted her to feel the same way.

  As Gina disappeared into the bedroom, Strider went over to the computer on his desk, which was part of an informal work space in the corner of his living room. He logged onto his Examiner account and was greeted by a string of dozens of boldfaced emails.

  He scrolled through them, mentally dismissing the vast majority as low priority, but one in particular triggered his curiosity: it was from Art Bullock, sent at 2:15 a.m. The subject line read: URGENT FOR FRIDAY MORNING. He opened the message:

  Mr. Strider: It is extremely important that you meet me

  at 8:30 a.m. Friday at Kaffee für Sie. Bring the unopened

  package that I entrusted you with. Please don’t call. See

  you then. Thank you,

  Art Bullock

  Strider furrowed his brow. “This is odd,” he called over his shoulder to Gina as she approached him, putting on her cap while she walked.

  “What?”

  “This email from Art Bullock.”

  “Oh, Pastor Bullock. What does he want? Does it have to do with your story on the church?”

  “I’m not sure what it’s about,” Strider said, swiveling in his chair to face her. “He sent it from a personal account instead of the church’s. And he said not to call him but to meet him over at that German coffee shop just west of here.”

  Gina shrugged, disappointed. “Oh, does that mean we can’t have the kanelbulles together?”