by Stuart Woods
Neither did Damien. He excused himself at the first opportunity and went back to his own office.
24
Stone was beginning his workday when his phone rang. Joan was running some errand or other, so he picked it up.
“Stone Barrington.”
“Stoney, how are you?” a booming, vaguely familiar voice said.
“Who is this?” Stone asked.
“An old friend.”
“If you were an old friend, you would know that no one has ever called me ‘Stoney’ and gotten a civil response.” He hung up.
A moment later, the phone rang again.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington, I apologize for the unfamiliar familiarity,” the same voice said. “This is Senator Joseph Box, of Florida.”
“I might have known,” Stone replied, straining to be civil. “What can I do for you, Senator?”
“Well, I’m calling to share some secret news with you.”
“‘Secret news’ is an oxymoron,” Stone replied. “Kindly state your business.”
“My business is running for President of the United States,” Box replied. “And you, my friend, are the first to know.”
Stone refrained from pointing out that they were not friends.
Box anticipated him. “He who is not my enemy is my friend,” he said, “or, at least, potential friend.”
“What’s on your mind, Joe?” He immediately regretted the familiarity.
“Stone, I’m calling to ask for your support,” Box replied.
“Support for what?”
“I’m running in the New Hampshire Republican primary. In fact, I’m in New Hampshire as we speak.”
“Senator, I’m not a Republican, and I don’t vote in New Hampshire, so you should skip to the next name on your list.”
“Fortunately,” Box said, “the denizens of New Hampshire still accept American dollars for TV time and newspaper space, and you can vote with your dollars in any amount up to twelve hundred dollars.”
“Senator,” Stone said wearily, “may I give you some advice?”
“Why, that’s the thing I would value most from you, Stone, right after your dollars.”
“If you’re going to run in New Hampshire, or anywhere else for that matter, you should either take the time to read the rules, or hire a campaign manager who either already knows them or can read them to you. The maximum personal campaign contribution, under law, is sixteen hundred dollars.”
“Well, thank you for that correction, Stone. That’s going to increase my campaign income by twenty-five percent.”
“That would be by one-third, Senator. Let’s hope your campaign manager is proficient in arithmetic, as well as campaign law.”
“Thank you for your opinion,” Box said.
“It is not my opinion but that of Miss Helen Troutman, who taught me in the first grade at PS Six, and no one has yet questioned her contention that four hundred dollars is one-third of twelve hundred dollars.”
“Don’t confuse me with logic,” Box said. “Now, can I put you down for sixteen hundred dollars?”
“You may not.”
“We take checks.”
“You may not have from me a check, cash, or even postage stamps.”
“That’s all right. I’ve already leased a postage meter for our campaign quarters.”
“I won’t give it to you in quarters, either. May I ask, Joe, what on earth made you think that I would contribute to the cause of electing you president?”
“Why not?” Box asked, sounding wounded.
“Let me count the ways,” Stone said. “One, I am not a Republican, as I have already mentioned. Two, I am a good friend of your likely opponent, Holly Barker, who, I believe, introduced us. And three, I regard you as unqualified, by experience, intellect, and moral character, to hold any public office.”
“Now wait a minute, Stone. Let’s not bring morals into this. The media will root out that stuff soon enough.”
“I expect so,” Stone replied, “and I can’t wait. Are we done here, Joe?”
“How about a thousand dollars?”
“Same answer.” Jamie walked into his office. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to report this conversation to the New York Times.”
“Tell ’em to spell my name right. That’s B-O-X.”
Stone hung up.
“What was that about?” Jamie asked.
“The junior senator from Florida would like you to know that his name is spelled B-O-X.”
“I’ll make a note of that,” she replied. “Why were you talking to that buffoon?”
“Because Joan is out and therefore was unable to lie to him about my availability.”
“Why would he call you?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Stone said. “Joe Box is running for the Republican nomination for president.”
Jamie burst out laughing.
“And he wanted a campaign contribution, though he was uncertain about what the maximum legal contribution is.”
“That’s not all he’s uncertain about,” Jamie said, “though he speaks with certainty about everything.”
“Well put!”
“Well, I’m going to phone this in,” Jamie said, reaching for the phone on Stone’s desk and dialing a number. “Andy, this is Jamie Cox. I have a story for you. The junior senator from Florida, the dishonorable Joseph Box, is running for president.” She held the phone away from her ear while he roared with laughter. “I kid you not,” she said, finally. She covered the phone. “Where is Box now?”
“In New Hampshire,” Stone said, “probably in the presidential suite at Motel Six.”
“He’s already in New Hampshire, signing up,” Jamie said into the phone. “He’s a Republican, though they might wish to deny it.” She covered the phone again. “Anything else?” she asked Stone.
“He has trouble with arithmetic,” Stone replied.
“That’s all I’ve got right now, Andy. See ya.” She hung up. “That should make page sixteen of the front section,” she said. “How do you know that clown?”
“I was introduced to him in the bar of the Key West Yacht Club last fall, then he turned up a couple of evenings later at my front door, as a hurricane was rising, and begged to be let in. He was in a state of near-drowning and required half a bottle of distilled spirits to revive him. A few weeks later, he turned up in London at a dinner arranged by the CIA for the purpose of . . . Well, I shouldn’t talk about the purpose. Suffice it to say that when shots were fired, he dove under the table and was not seen again by me.”
He picked up the phone. “Excuse me, I should tell Holly Barker about this.”
25
Stone dialed Holly Barker’s secret cell number, and to his surprise, she picked up immediately. “Hey!”
“Hey, yourself. Got a minute?”
“I have the luxury of two minutes before I have to receive the ambassador from France.”
“I just got a call from the redoubtable United States Senator Joseph Box, informing me—before anyone else, he claimed—that he is now a candidate for the Republican nomination for president. He’s in New Hampshire, filling out papers, no doubt with serious help, and he wanted a campaign contribution.”
“I hope you gave it to him,” Holly replied.
“What did you say?”
“I would like nothing better than to have Joe Box muddying the Republican waters for the next few months. He’ll drive them crazy and entertain the members of the media. I may contribute to his campaign myself.”
“I admit I had not thought far enough ahead to consider that. It’s difficult to plan when you’re laughing so hard.”
“I have the feeling that, at some point, he’s going to get a lot less funny,” she said. “We’re going to have a
n opportunity to find out how large a slice of the Republican electorate shares his incomprehensible views.”
“You have a better political mind than I,” Stone said.
“I certainly hope so,” she said. “Tell me: Are you the ambassador from France?”
“Not since I last checked.”
“Then I can’t talk to you anymore because that gentleman is about to replace you in my affections.”
“Come to New York, and we’ll re-replace me in your affections.”
“I’m not going anywhere near you, until well after I’ve taken the oath of office. Love ya, though!” She hung up.
* * *
• • •
Nearer the southern tip of Manhattan, Hank Thomas was taking his regular, early-morning meeting with his grandfather, who now exhibited only a small cough. Rance Damien joined them.
“Gentlemen, I have news,” Hank said. “I’ve just had a phone call informing me that Senator Joe Box of Florida is announcing his candidacy for the Republican nomination for president, starting in New Hampshire. This is very good news.”
The two men stared at him. “You’re pleased about this?” his grandfather asked.
“I am positively delighted,” Hank said.
“Please tell us why,” Henry said.
“Certainly, Poppa. One of my objectives in running was to do what I could to destroy the Republican Party, so I could start a new one. I no longer have that opportunity, but Joe Box, whether he realizes it or not, does. He’s going to drive them nuts, and he’s going to win some primaries, too, in the South and in the Rust Belt.”
“Surely not enough to win the nomination,” Henry said.
“Of course not, but he’s going to get a lot of votes and thereby weaken the party’s chosen candidate. They’re much more certain to lose the presidency now, and after eight years of Holly Barker, the party will crumble to dust. When and if I get back into it, it will be as the head of a new conservative party, one that shuns the yahoos, one that can draw support from independents, women, and educated whites. I’m going to have a better shot at it then than I would have had now.”
“Actually, that makes a lot of sense,” Henry said, bestowing a warm smile on his grandson.
“I think so, too,” Damien said.
“Rance, we have a PAC kicking around somewhere, don’t we?”
“We do.”
“A fairly anonymous one?”
“Yes.”
“How much is in it?”
“Something like sixty million,” Damien replied.
“Then let’s get twenty million into Senator Box’s campaign war chest, anonymously. The new campaign law we got past the Democrats will allow us to do that.”
“I’ll get it done today,” Damien replied.
“That will cheer Joe Box no end, and he won’t care that he doesn’t know where the money is coming from. Before the week is out he’ll be driving his party crazy.”
Henry Thomas rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be fun,” he said, with a little giggle.
Hank had never heard his grandfather giggle before.
* * *
• • •
Stone tuned in to the evening news to find Holly Barker and the French ambassador answering questions from the press about tariffs on French cheeses. At the end of it a bold reporter stood up and said, “Madam Secretary, you’ve always been very guarded about your privacy. When are you going to loosen up and tell us something about your social life?”
“Eh?” Holly asked, cupping a hand behind her ear. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that term.” A good laugh.
“You know, going out to dinner with friends, perhaps even a man?”
“Well,” Holly said, “I hope one day to have such a life, and when I do, I promise that you in this room will be the very last to hear about it.” More laughter.
“What about this fellow from New York, Stone Barrington? We used to hear about him, from time to time.”
“That name is vaguely familiar to me,” Holly said, eliciting more laughter. “Unfortunately, he and I reside in different municipalities and are only infrequently colocated. Nice fellow, though.”
“Didn’t you see quite a lot of him once?”
“I saw quite a lot of quite a lot of people once, until I got this job. I don’t knit or play solitaire, and a girl’s got to get somebody to buy her a steak now and then, but not now or for the foreseeable future. Now, I’m getting out of here before you try to marry me off to somebody or other.” She picked up her papers and left the room.
The reporter handed off to the anchorperson in New York. “Thank you, Gracie,” she said. “It’s worth remembering that although she has never married, Holly Barker is known to enjoy the company of men. In fact, she was very nearly married quite some time ago, when she was serving as chief of police in the small Florida town of Orchid Beach. But on the day before the wedding, her fiancé, a local attorney, went to his bank to buy traveler’s checks for their honeymoon and, while he was waiting in line for a teller, four men wearing masks and carrying shotguns came into the bank to rob it.
“When her fiancé objected to the way they were treating a teller, one of the men turned and fired his shotgun into his chest. He died on the way to the hospital.
“Oddly enough, the man Ms. Barker used to see now and then, Stone Barrington of New York, was in the bank on other business and witnessed the killing. He and Ms. Barker first met when she was investigating her fiancé’s murder, and reportedly, they remain friends. Although they see each other infrequently, he is a major contributor to her campaign.”
Stone switched off the TV, feeling crowded somehow. Holly was right. They shouldn’t meet again until after the election.
26
Stone and Dino were having lunch at their club with no name when the junior senator from New York entered the dining room. He was Peter Rule, the son of the president, Katharine Lee, by her first marriage to one Simon Rule, deceased, who had once been a major figure at the CIA. The senator waved at them, then went to his table.
“That kid has turned out well, hasn’t he?” Dino asked over his lobster bisque.
“He has indeed,” Stone agreed. “He got good committee assignments as a freshman senator, and he dug in, did the hard work, and got commended for it on both sides of the aisle.”
“He’s good-looking, has an even better-looking wife, and a couple of cute kids, right?”
“When you’re right, you’re right, Dino.” Stone had never been able to entirely cure Dino of his habit of ending sentences with an interrogatory.
“Then what’s standing in his way of running for president?”
“Youth, I think, and the fact that both his mother and father have already committed themselves to Holly Barker’s candidacy. He’ll be a major factor when Holly leaves the post.”
Dino nodded and went back to his bisque.
* * *
• • •
They had just finished their dessert, when Senator Rule wandered over to their table. “Stone, Dino,” he said.
“Peter,” Stone and Dino said simultaneously.
“Pull up a chair,” Stone said.
Peter borrowed a chair from a nearby table and sat down.
“I hope you’re as well as you look,” Stone said.
“At least that well,” Peter replied. “I have a couple of questions for both of you.”
“We’re just full of answers,” Stone said.
“In complete confidence, of course,” Peter said. “I’m interested in becoming the next vice president of the United States. What are your opinions of that notion?”
“Peter,” Stone said, “I’d say you’d make an excellent vice president, but that would be insulting, given how little a vice president has to do in order to be excellent at his job
.”
“That’s almost a very nice compliment, Stone,” Peter said, displaying a mouth full of teeth, all of them his own and each one perfect.
“Stone,” Dino said, “I think what Peter wants to know is if we think he should run now or wait four or eight years for a better opportunity.”
“Dino,” Peter said, “now I know why you have such a great reputation for interrogating suspects.”
“Go for it,” Stone said. “Anything could happen while you were waiting. Joe Box could get elected, for God’s sake.” Everybody laughed. “Nail down the job, make it your own, and be unwaveringly loyal to your president, except when you think she’s wrong.”
“What should I do in that case?”
“Tell her so. If she doesn’t see the light, tell everybody, as diplomatically as possible. That will earn you a quick reputation for being an independent mind. However, avoid being a pain in the ass.”
“I think that’s good advice,” Peter said, “and I think I’ll take it.”
“Hear! Hear!” Dino interjected.
“What was your second question?” Stone asked.
“Will you tell Holly I’m interested?”
“Wouldn’t you rather tell her yourself?”
“No, I don’t want to embarrass her, if she has to say no.”
“All right, I’ll mention it to her.”
“When you do, tell her I haven’t talked with either of my parents about this—and I don’t intend to, unless they bring it up. In which case, I’ll ask their advice, then tell them I’ll think about it and get back to them.”
“I’ll mention that to Holly, too.”
“Good. Now I’ll reward you two with a little gossip,” Peter said.
“I love gossip,” Dino replied. He jerked a thumb in Stone’s direction. “So does he. Lay it on us.”
“Ready? Hank Thomas has donated twenty million dollars to Joe Box’s campaign, through a PAC that keeps it anonymous.”
Stone and Dino sat silently, contemplating this information. Finally, Stone spoke. “Of course he has. He’s sticking a thumb in the eye of the Republican Party.”