The Run

by Stuart Woods

  “The Secret Service is supplying that. It’s basically a three-sided box made of quarter-inch steel plate. It’s accommodated into the design, so that it won’t show, but anybody standing at the microphone will be protected on three sides from gunfire.”

  “It doesn’t have a floor,” Zeke pointed out.

  “You think it needs one?”

  “Nah, only authorized people would be under the podium, anyway, and I’m sure the Secret Service will check it out for bombs more than once.”

  “You ever had any experience working with the Secret Service?” Hank asked.

  “No, I’m just going by what I read in the papers about how they work. They’ll be all over us like flies.”

  “I guess they will,” Hank said. “They’ve already been around to case the place, and they’ve approved the plans for the platform and the podium. I understand you’ve done a lot of installation of cabinetwork.”

  “That’s right, I have.”

  “Then I’d like you to take whoever you need and assemble and install the podium. It’s due in tomorrow morning from the cabinetmakers. Then, when you’re done, the painters will come in and finish it.”

  “What about the electrical work?” Zeke asked.

  “That’s being done by an outside contractor.”

  “I think it would be a good idea if, after I’ve got the thing installed, I worked with them on running the wiring and siting the junction boxes. I’ve done a lot of that.”

  “It’s okay by me,” Hank replied.

  “Can I take these drawings home with me tonight and do some planning? Then I can go right to work on the installation as soon as the cabinetwork arrives tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure, go ahead, but for God’s sake don’t lose them. That’s my only copy.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Zeke said.

  That night after supper, Zeke spread the plans out on Rosa’s dining-room table, set up a lamp, and began his work.

  “What you doing, baby?” Rosa asked, coming from the kitchen, where she had been washing dishes.

  “I’m planning something very important,” he said, pointing at the plans. “Do you know that the man who might be the next president of the United States is going to be standing right there, making a speech? You can watch it on television in a few days.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be pretty exciting,” Zeke said.

  41

  Freddie Wallace answered the door himself at his Georgetown home. It was late, and his visitor looked both tired and worried. “Come in, my boy,” Freddie said, in his most avuncular manner. “Come in, and have a drink.”

  “Thank you, Senator, I could use one,” the man said. He was in his early forties, well dressed, and possessed of the sort of accent that spoke of generations of Ivy League ancestors.

  Freddie led the man to his study. “Bourbon?” he asked. “I’ve got some awful good bourbon.”

  “Scotch, if you have it,” the man replied.

  “I’ve got some awful good scotch, too,” Freddie said. “At least, that’s what I’m told; I never drink the stuff myself.” He poured a double of a single-malt whiskey, dropped in a couple of ice cubes, and offered it to his visitor.

  The man accepted the glass gratefully and took a very large gulp of the whiskey.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here at this time of night,” Freddie said, waving the man to a chair before the fireplace and taking one himself.

  “Yes,” his guest replied.

  “You and I have been helpful to each other in the past, John,” Freddie said, to remind the man of past indiscretions.

  The man said nothing.

  “I have a feeling you know what I want from you,” Freddie said, and he knew immediately that he had hit the mark.

  “I can’t imagine,” the man said stiffly.

  “Now, John, you and I both know that, sometimes, a man can be in a position to help his country in ways that are not obvious to the casual onlooker.”

  The man gazed forlornly into the fire.

  “Just tell me what you want,” he said.

  “Tell me about Joe Adams.”

  The man winced. “What about him?”

  “You see him as often as anybody, except maybe his wife.”

  “I suppose.”

  “It’s come to my attention that Joe has not been himself of late.”

  “He seems fine to me.”

  “Really? That doesn’t jibe with my information.”

  “What information is that?”

  Freddie leaned forward in his chair, as much as his ample gut would allow. “Now, laddie, let’s not play games. I don’t want to make this any more difficult for you than I have to.”

  “I’m not playing games,” the man said, “I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your tenure in the White House is coming to an end, John,” Freddie said. “When the new man, whoever he may be, takes over, you’ll be out in the cold, unless you have some sort of inside track to George Kiel or Eft Efton.”

  “I don’t,” the man said.

  “Well, if you want to continue to rise in this city, you’re going to need the help of people of influence,” Freddie said, “and, especially, protection from those who would, shall we say, make your life more difficult.”

  “How would anybody do that?” the man asked.

  “Laddie, we’ve all done things in our lives that we’re not proud of. All of us have committed small sins, while others…” He let the sentence trail off.

  “I’m sure you’ve read my FBI file, Senator,” the man said testily. “And if you have, then you know that I’ve led a blameless life.”

  I’m sure that’s true,” Freddie said, without admitting to having read the file, which he had. “But blame can always be apportioned. Sometimes things get past even the FBI. Not everything is in their files.”

  “Senator, do me the courtesy of being direct with me,” the man said. “Tell me what you want, and what you’re threatening me with to get it.”

  “John, I have uttered no threat of any kind,” Freddie said soothingly.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Certainly not. Let me pose a question to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If you believed that a threat to the stability of the country existed in the behavior of a high, elected official, would you want to protect your country?”

  “Of course I would, but I’m not aware of any such threat.”

  “Suppose this high, elected official were ill, and his illness posed a threat?”

  “Senator, what are you talking about?”

  Freddie was becoming exasperated with the man’s intransigence. “I’m talking about Joe Adams,” he said.

  “Do you seriously think that the vice president is some sort of threat to the country?” the man asked.

  “I think he could be, under the right circumstances.”

  “What circumstances, exactly?”

  “Use your imagination, laddie. Think about the pressure cooker the man is living in.”

  “Joe Adams handles pressure as well or better than any man I’ve ever met,” the man said.

  “He wasn’t under much pressure at that White House dinner,” Freddie said, “and he stumbled badly there.”

  “He just became emotional,” the man said. “He believed passionately in what he was saying to his audience.”

  Freddie was becoming annoyed now. “Son, do you take me for a fool?”

  The man looked him squarely in the eye. “Frankly, Senator, I don’t know what to take you for.”

  Freddie was growing red in the face, and he knew it. Why the hell was he having so much trouble confirming these rumors? This Jonah character had prevented him from getting them into the press, which might have caused them to be confirmed, and now, this supposedly weak man sitting before him was being stubborn. “Laddie, you’re about to find out whether there’s life in this town af
ter being a White House staffer, and you’re about to find out what I can do about it.”

  The man stood up. “Senator, it’s late. Thanks for the drink; I’ll be going now.”

  Freddie was on his feet. “You’re playing with fire, boy.”

  “No, Senator, you’re the one who’s playing with fire. I’ll tell you something: If I have to have enemies in this town, I’d just as soon you were among them. Good night.” The man turned and walked straight out of the house.

  Freddie stood there, shaking. He would not be spoken to that way. Who did this little twerp think he was? He threw his crystal glass into the fireplace.

  Outside on the street, the man removed a slender dictating recorder from the breast pocket of his jacket, rewound it, and listened for a moment. Every word was plain.

  42

  Will stood before the California delegation, the largest and, from his point of view, most important of all. They had given him a standing ovation upon his introduction. “I’ve already talked myself blue in the face all over California,” he said, “but I’d like to answer any questions you may have.”

  “Tell us where you stand on the Castle Point naval base,” a man in the front row said.

  Will took a deep breath. “That’s a tough one, but I’ll be frank: It’s very likely that the base will be closed.”

  “You know how important that base is to California, don’t you?” the man asked.

  “I certainly do. Military bases are important to every state; they’re big employers, and they pump a lot of money into the local economies.”

  “Then why do you support closing it?”

  “I’m still waiting for the final report from the commission before I make that decision, but I have to tell you, it doesn’t look good, and I’d like to tell you why.”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “As important as military bases are to the states, they’re even more important to the country as a whole. We don’t have any weapons system that costs as much to build or maintain as a large military base costs us. Year after year, we try to close a few, so that we can make big savings on the defense budget, but year after year, congressmen and senators fight to keep them open, because it means votes to them.

  “So the president set up a special commission to make recommendations on which facilities should be closed, and barring any really huge errors in their recommendations, I’m committed to accepting them. My home state of Georgia is likely to lose a big base, too, but if it makes sense for the country, I’ll accept that.

  “The good news is that there’s never been a better time to reduce the number of bases. We’re in the middle of a booming economy, and that means that the people who lose their jobs will find it easier to find new ones. California has the lowest unemployment rate it’s had for thirty years, and those people will quickly be absorbed into new jobs. Remember, too, that if Castle Point is closed, it will very likely be put to private, commercial use, and that will create a lot of new jobs.” He pointed to a woman in the third row.

  “Tell us exactly where you stand on abortion.”

  “All right; like the country as a whole, I’m torn on this question. On a personal level, I’m opposed to abortion; I would not suggest to any woman I know that she have one. But in the end, it has to be the woman’s choice, and I won’t allow my personal feelings to intrude on that. I don’t think that I or any other politician has the right to tell a woman what to do in those circumstances, and I won’t support any law that infringes on her personal choice.”

  “Where do you stand on national health insurance?” a man shouted from the back of the room.

  “I think that, eventually, we’ll come up with some sort of workable program that will gain bipartisan support. The Clinton plan was shot down by a television campaign that told a lot of lies about how the plan would work—lies like you wouldn’t get to choose your own doctor. Now, as a result of the failure to pass that plan in the Congress, the insurance companies have a death grip on how our doctors treat our illnesses, and I think that’s wrong. I doubt that there’s a person in this room who doesn’t know someone who’s been denied an operation or other treatment because of the intransigence of an insurance company. You hear a lot from the Republicans about not wanting to create another bureaucracy, but in fact, what we have now is an enormous insurance bureaucracy that is making decisions about our individual medical care. Every time they deny treatment, they make more money, and that’s wrong.”

  “How do you feel about the Clinton impeachment business?”

  “I think it was a sustained, right-wing-Republican, political tantrum from the Starr investigation, to the Judiciary Committee hearings, to the House impeachment vote, to the presentation of the house managers. President Clinton’s sins were just that, and not impeachable offenses. The whole process was an outrage against the Constitution, and the Republican Party is going to have to bear the political consequences for what they did. It’s my hope that a great many of the instigators of impeachment will be voted out of office in November.”

  That got a rousing round of applause. Will spent another half hour answering their questions, then moved on to other state delegations, where he answered, mostly, the same questions.

  In the late afternoon Will returned to the Bel Air to find Kate and Peter waiting for him, Peter before the big-screen television in the suite’s living room.

  “You look a little tired,” Kate said, kissing him.

  “I’ve been tired since January,” Will replied. “I hope that being president is a lot less work than running for the office.”

  “Don’t count on it. Listen, there’s something I have to talk to you about.”

  “Let’s go into the bedroom. Peter, you okay here?”

  “Sure, Will. Can I have a Coke?”

  “There’s a refrigerator in the bar; help yourself, and stay out of the booze.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The boy laughed and went into the kitchen.

  Will went with Kate into the bedroom and closed the door. “Is something wrong?”

  Kate took a pocket dictator from her purse. “Could be; listen to this; Sue Adams messengered it to me this morning. One of the voices is John Campbell, from Joe Adams’s staff; I think you’ll recognize the other one.” They sat down on the bed, and Kate switched on the machine.

  Will listened intently, and when the tape was finished, his mouth was open. “My God,” he said. “How did Freddie find out about this?”

  “It sounds to me as though he doesn’t know for sure,” Kate said. “But the old bastard is clearly willing to do whatever it takes to find out.”

  Kate did not mention the letter that she had received from Ed Rawls:

  Kate,

  Freddie W. knows about J.A., but I have him neutralized, for the moment. I’m not sure how long I can keep my foot on his neck, though. He figured out that it was me and had me thrown into the hole for a week, but I may have made him think it’s somebody else. He could probably have me killed, if he wanted to.

  Jonah

  43

  Zeke crept out of Rosa’s bed and, leaving his clothes on a chair, tiptoed into his own room. He took a zippered canvas bag from under his bed and checked its contents: a pair of dark coveralls, a ski mask, a pair of driving gloves, a dozen feet of clothesline, a set of bolt cutters, and a fifteen-inch length of lead pipe, wrapped with two rolls of friction tape at one end.

  He slipped into some jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of canvas boat shoes that wouldn’t leave a tread mark, then crept down the stairs and out of the house. It was a ten-minute drive to the construction site he had picked out, and when he arrived he drove around the block twice, looking for LAPD patrol cars and the night watchman. He saw no cars, but the watchman was walking the perimeter of the site. Zeke parked and watched until the man returned to his shack. Zeke got into his coveralls, rolled the ski mask so that it looked like a watch cap, slipped on the thin gloves, then grabbed the bag and headed for the fence. He cut his w
ay through the chain links with the bolt cutters and slipped through. The watchman was still in his shack, probably dozing.

  Zeke ran lightly over the rough ground to the shack. From inside he could hear the sounds of an old movie coming from a small TV set. He pulled down the ski mask, removed the lead pipe from his bag, stood behind the door, took a deep breath, and coughed loudly. A moment later, the TV went off and the door opened. Zeke waited for the man to take a step or two, then swung the pipe in a short arc toward the back of his neck. There was a faint thump, and the man fell in an uncoordinated heap. Zeke dragged him back into the shack and, with the length of clothesline, lightly hog-tied him, then stuffed the man’s own handkerchief into his mouth. He turned the TV back on and turned up the volume.

  Zeke left the shack and, standing in its shadow, waited three minutes, watching for traffic. There was little to be seen, and no patrol cars. He ran toward the explosives shed. He cut through the padlock with the bolt cutters and let himself inside. There were no windows, so he switched on the light; everything he wanted was there. He had to resist the temptation to take it all, but he settled for two pounds of plastic explosive, which was about the size of a brick, and some detonators.

  He stuffed everything into the bag, checked for traffic again, and ran back to the opening he had cut in the fence, then to his car. He tossed the bag into the trunk, got in, and drove away. A few blocks down the street he stopped, shucked off the coveralls, and threw them, along with the shoes, the gloves, and the ski mask, into a Dumpster; then he drove home and crept up the stairs again.

  He stowed the bag under his bed, then tiptoed back across the hall, used the toilet, flushed it, and got back into bed with Rosa. She rolled over and threw an arm over him. The woman slept like a stone; his alibi was tight.

  The following morning, Zeke stood with Hank Greenbaum as the unassembled podium was brought to the platform on a forklift and lowered gently to the plywood floor.