The Run

by Stuart Woods

  “And more to come, I hope,” Adams said. “I think the delegates from the Castle Point area wanted to make a point; they’ve voted as they promised their districts they would. Now, with this new information, they feel they can vote as they wish. Let’s hope they wish you were the nominee.”

  “We’ve got twelve back!” Tim shouted. “We need two more to win.”

  A moment later it was over. The chairman spoke up. “The chair records fifty-four votes for Lee, none for Kiel! Senator Will Lee is nominated!” His last words were drowned out by the roar from the convention floor.

  People were dancing around Will’s suite, hugging and kissing. Hands clapped him on the back; women smeared him with lipstick; Kate, Peter, and Patricia Lee all embraced him.

  So, Will,” his mother said, “who’s going to be your vice-presidential nominee?”

  Someone came to Will with a phone. “It’s George Kiel.”

  Will got everyone quiet, then picked up the phone.

  “Congratulations, Will,” Kiel said.

  “Thank you, George. It was a tough fight; you ran a hell of a campaign.”

  “Will, I want to put everything I’ve got at your disposal. I’ve got about four million dollars in the kitty and a lease on an airplane that’s a lot nicer than yours.”

  “Thank you, George, I’m very grateful to you.”

  There was a silence. Will decided to break it. “George, I’d be honored and very pleased if you would be my running mate.”

  “I’ll give that very serious thought, Will. When can we talk more about it?”

  “Let’s have breakfast tomorrow morning at eight,” Will said. “My place, this time?”

  “Your place at eight,” Kiel said, then hung up.

  Will put the phone down.

  Patricia Lee spoke up. “Did I just hear you offer George Kiel the job?”

  “You did.”

  “But we didn’t talk about this,” Tim Coleman complained. “We should have discussed it.”

  “There was nothing to discuss,” Will said. “George came within a hair of winning the nomination. It would be an insult to nearly half the delegates not to ask him. He’s got as good an organization as we have; he’s better plugged in with party officials all over the country than I am; he’s an expert on foreign policy, and I’m not. And,” he said, smiling, “he’s got four million dollars and a very nice airplane to offer us.”

  “Well chosen!” Kitty shouted.

  Somebody discovered a case of champagne, and corks began to pop.

  Will’s father sidled over. “You didn’t say whether Kiel accepted,” Billy Lee said to his son.

  “We’re having breakfast tomorrow morning,” Will said.

  “Be careful what you give him; he could be hard to handle.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Will said.

  Across town, Zeke and Rosa watched the insanity on the floor of the convention.

  “Oh, I’m glad he won,” Rosa said. “I like this Will Lee.”

  “I’m glad he won, too,” Zeke replied, staring at the screen. “I can’t wait to hear him give his acceptance speech on the podium tomorrow night.”

  51

  Zeke waited in line with the other workers while the Secret Service ran each of them through the metal detectors. He wasn’t worried until he saw the dogs. Two Labrador retrievers were coming down the line with their handlers, sniffing at everyone. Zeke shifted the box to his other hand to keep it as far away from them as possible. He’d never dealt with sniffer dogs, and he began looking around for the quickest way out of the building.

  A dog passed him, sniffed at his clothes and his lunch box.

  “Hold out the cardboard box,” his handler said.

  Zeke held out the box. His plan was to hit the man with his metal lunch box and run like hell. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had. He had packaged the explosive into two zippered plastic bags, then scrubbed any explosives residue from his hands. After changing clothes he had sliced open a large chocolate cake he had bought, hollowed out the bottom, inserted the explosive, and replaced the top. Now the dog was showing a great interest in his cardboard box.

  “Set the box on the table and open it,” the man said, and his hand was on his gun.

  I have one more shot at this before running, Zeke thought. He set down the box and untied the string.

  The agent opened the box and turned to his dog. “Rocky, we’re not looking for chocolate cake here.” He turned to Zeke. “This dog would do anything for chocolate. What’s the cake for?”

  “For the guys on my crew. It’s their last day, and my girlfriend baked it for them.”

  “Okay,” the man said, and turned to his next customer.

  Sweating, but breathing easier, Zeke walked into the Coliseum with a pound of gelignite.

  Will opened the door himself. George Kiel was standing there, dressed for golf. At the bottom of the path a passel of reporters stood, shouting questions at both of them.

  “Come on in, George, and let’s get away from the noise. You playing golf today?”

  “At the Bel Air Country Club,” Kiel said. “My clubs are in the car; you want to join us?”

  “Wish I could, but it’s a big day, and I’ve got a speech to write.”

  “You didn’t already have it written, Will?” Kiel asked. “That shows a lack of confidence.”

  Will passed Kiel a tray of pastries. “It shows a superstition about not anticipating too much. Have a seat.”

  The two men sat down at the table with their breakfast.

  “Have you thought about running with me?” Will asked.

  “I haven’t thought about anything else,” Kiel said. “I wasn’t kidding about my health and about wanting to serve only four years.”

  “I’d rather have four years of your help than eight of a lot of other people.”

  “Thanks, Will, I appreciate that.”

  “Tell me what your concerns are about running with me.”

  “I don’t have any concerns at all about running; I look forward to it, in fact. My concern is that I don’t want to be a wooden-Indian vice president.”

  “I don’t want that, either,” Will replied. “How do you see yourself operating in the vice presidency?”

  “Two things,” Kiel said. “I want to be a deputy president, as well as a vice president; I want to get the same briefings that you do, and I want unfettered access to you.”

  “All that goes without saying,” Will said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Good. The second thing is, I want to run foreign policy.”

  “Exactly what do you mean by running it?” Will asked. He had anticipated this, but he wanted to hear from Kiel.

  “Will, I’m a lot more up on this than you are, just as you’re a lot more up on domestic policy. I can help you a lot.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Will replied. “How do you want to help?”

  “I want to run foreign policy from top to bottom,” Kiel said. “I want to choose the major appointees and give them their instructions.”

  “George, let’s be perfectly clear on this,” Will said. “The president runs foreign policy, and that’s it. Of course, I’ll want your advice on every move and on every appointment, but final judgment will have to rest with me. You know I can’t delegate a major responsibility like foreign policy.”

  “Then I don’t see how I can do it.”

  “You can do it, George. Tell you what, and this is just between you and me; I don’t want to read about it in the papers: I’ll give you a veto on the secretary of state appointment.”

  “Secretary of state and national security advisor,” Kiel said.

  “The national security advisor is more a member of the president’s personal staff; I can’t give you that. But I’ll certainly want your opinion on my options for that post.”

  Kiel stared into his coffee.

  “Come on, George; you’re going to have to trust me.”

  �
��I suppose so,” Kiel said.

  “Listen, if you’d rather be secretary of state, I’ll give you that.”

  Kiel shook his head. “No, I’d rather be over the secretary of state.”

  “And you will be.”

  “What if we disagree?”

  “I’ll bend over backward to see your point of view, but if there’s a disagreement on a serious matter, I’ll have to rely on my own judgment. It can’t be any other way.”

  Kiel nodded. “All right; I don’t guess I can get a better deal than that.”

  “Then let’s announce it together,” Will said, standing up. “One thing: I don’t want you to say anything to anybody, except your wife, about serving only four years. First of all, you may change your mind. Second, I don’t want a parade of other people lining up to go after the job in the second term.”

  “Okay,” Kiel said. “Let’s go.”

  The two men left the suite and walked down the path toward the waiting throng of press.

  Zeke locked the cake in his locker and spun the cylinder on the combination lock. He was scheduled to work a double shift that day, most of it around the podium. He had arranged this so that the Secret Service, who already knew him, would be accustomed to his presence under the platform.

  Will stepped up to the cluster of microphones that Kitty had set up. “Good morning,” he said to the crowd of reporters. “A beautiful California morning.” He waved a hand at the bright blue sky and the lush hotel gardens surrounding them. “You may have noticed that Senator George Kiel is standing by my side.” Much laughter. “I’m delighted to tell you and the country that Senator Kiel has agreed to become my running mate in this election. His name will be placed in nomination at the convention tonight, and I trust he will be nominated.

  “You all know of George’s strengths in foreign policy. Before he became the Democratic leader in the Senate he was, for many years, chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, and he has had a hand in every important foreign-policy decision by every president, going back to Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan. His knowledge of people in government, the State Department, and academia who have credentials for foreign-policy work is unmatched, and I am going to rely heavily on him in choosing appointees—after we’re elected. I promise you that George Kiel is going to be the most important vice president in this century. George, say a few words.”

  Kiel stepped up to the microphone. “Thank you, Will; I’m grateful for your confidence. I think you all know what an effort we’re making to win back the Senate in this election, and I was certainly very interested in being the majority leader for a long time to come. But Will has offered me an opportunity that is even more important than being majority leader, and I am very happy to accept it. I have nothing but admiration for Will Lee and the way he has conducted himself in the Senate and as a candidate for the Democratic nomination. I look forward to running with him.”

  Zeke closed the closet door behind him, took the cover off the voice-mail system, and began soldering. It took him less than ten minutes to run and conceal the wires. He replaced the plywood ceiling of the closet. Later in the day, it would take him even less time to place the explosives.

  He began humming to himself, “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

  52

  While the convention was nominating George Kiel for vice president, Zeke went to the employees’ lounge and, after making sure that he was alone, opened his locker and removed the cake. Quickly, he dismembered it, put the gelignite and two detonators into his toolbox, and disposed of the remains of the cake in a nearby garbage can. Then he took the long walk to the front of the Coliseum, carrying his toolbox, and walked through the rear door under the platform. A Secret Service agent was on duty.

  “What’s up, Harry?” asked the agent, who knew him by sight.

  “I’ve just got to run a final check on the sound system,” Zeke replied. “We don’t want any glitches during Lee’s speech.”

  “Right,” the agent said. “Go ahead.”

  Zeke walked toward the area under the podium, waving at another agent, who was guarding the front entrance to the area. He let himself into the electrical closet and went to work. He removed the screws from the ceiling he had built into the closet, set the gelignite on top of the plywood, and secured it in place with duct tape. Then he had only to connect the previously placed wires to the two detonators and stick them into the explosive, which had the consistency of modeling clay. He used two detonators, in case one might be defective. He screwed the plywood ceiling back into place and spent a moment checking the appearance of everything, then looked at his watch. Lee was scheduled to speak at nine o’clock, and it was 7:35. He closed his toolbox and left the closet.

  “Everything okay?” the agent asked as Zeke departed the platform.

  “Everything’s just perfect,” Zeke replied.

  George Kiel, having been introduced to the convention, took the podium and made a rousing acceptance speech; then he introduced the vice president and stepped away from the podium.

  Joe Adams stepped to the microphone amid thunderous applause. When he had finally quieted them, he began to speak. “Let me begin by telling you that if I had handpicked our candidates myself, the same two fellows would be on this platform tonight.” More applause.

  Zeke was already at Los Angeles International Airport. He parked his car in a dim corner of the long-term garage, removed his suitcase from the trunk, changed into a business suit, then found a bottle of Windex and a cloth and methodically sprayed and wiped every square inch of the Lexus, inside and out. Windex had been his friend at the Las Vegas apartment and at Rosa’s house, and he had removed every trace of himself from both places. Now the car would be just as clean. He wiped the spray bottle clean, dropped it into the trunk with the cloth, and closed it with his elbow; then he picked up his suitcase and headed for the check-in counter.

  On the way, he stopped in the shadows for a moment, removed an electric shaver from his bag, popped up the trimmer, and quickly shaved off his moustache. Then he put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. At the counter he presented his ticket, which he had bought at a travel agent’s office the day before, then headed for the gate. He had plenty of time, so he checked in again, then took a seat at the bar across from his gate and ordered a scotch. Joe Adams was on the TV, and he had just begun his speech. He was running a little late and long, Zeke thought. His flight left at nine-thirty, and it was already ten minutes past. He had to make the call before he boarded, and it was going to be tight.

  Joe Adams was winding up. “Now I present to you, and I say this with absolute certainty, the next president of the United States, Will Lee!”

  Adams stepped back, and Will came forward. The crowd went wild. Will stood with Joe Adams as the cameras flashed and the crowd roared, then he waved George Kiel forward to join them. The three men stood together on the podium and waved to the crowd.

  Zeke stared at the television image. They had issued a last call for his flight, and he wanted Lee alone on the podium when he made the call, but why not take out the three of them all at once?

  Under the platform, Hank Greenbaum, the crew foreman, stepped through the door and showed the agent in charge his ID badge. “Have you seen Harry Grant?” he asked. “He’s one of my men, the one with the handlebar moustache.”

  “Yeah, he was in here, I don’t know, maybe an hour ago, but I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Funny,” Greenbaum said, “I haven’t been able to find him anywhere.” He walked forward to the electrical closet and went inside. He picked up the wall-phone receiver, punched the button for the last line, and called the maintenance office. “This is Greenbaum,” he said. “You seen anything of Harry Grant?”

  “Last I heard of him, he was doing a final check on the sound system. I wanted to speak to him, too.”

  “Hang on a minute, and I’ll look around for him,” Greenbaum replied. He pressed the hold button and left the closet.

  Zeke
punched the number into his cell phone, staring at the TV screen and the three men. Busy signal. “What the hell?” he said aloud.

  “Huh?” the man next to him said.

  “Sorry,” Zeke replied.

  “Mr. Warren, Mr. Warren,” a woman’s voice said over a loudspeaker, “your flight has boarded and is about to depart. Please come to the boarding gate immediately.”

  Warren was the name on his ticket. Redialing the number, Zeke trotted toward the gate. Still busy. He walked down the ramp and into the airplane, redialing. Still busy.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” a flight attendant said, “you’ll have to turn off your cell phone; FCC regulations.”

  Zeke punched off the phone and took his seat. “How soon can I use that?” he asked, pointing at the airphone on the bulkhead a few seats away.

  “Not until we’re at our cruising altitude and the seat-belt sign goes off,” she replied.

  “How long will that be?”

  “We’re pushing back now; shouldn’t be too long.”

  Zeke buckled himself in, staring at the airphone.

  Will stood alone on the podium. “My fellow Democrats,” he said, “I am honored to accept your nomination.”

  The crowd roared.

  Will quieted them and began his speech.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen; this is the first officer speaking; the captain is pretty busy. We’re climbing through twenty-five thousand feet now, and we should be at our cruising altitude of thirty-three thousand feet shortly.”

  Relief swept over Zeke. He looked at his watch: 9:45. Lee should be right in the middle of his speech.

  The first officer continued his spiel as Zeke stared at the airphone. He felt the airplane level off, and he looked up at the seat-belt sign, which was still on. The airplane began to buck and lurch.