“No, sir. Everybody got out of the church safely, and the church was undamaged.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“One man, a black gentleman, who helped me a little.”
“You were never there, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour.”
“Call me when you’re back in Panama City, and it had better be soon.” Lance hung up and thought for a moment. He turned to his computer and pulled up a classified list of every cell-phone number in the United States. He did a search and found one for Henry King Johnson, then dialed it, using an untraceable line.
The phone rang half a dozen times before it was answered. “Hello?” a deep, rich voice said.
“Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“It’s very important that you not know,” Lance said. “In fact, this call never happened.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m aware that, a few minutes ago, you had a very close call.”
“How could you know that?”
“Have you called the local police yet?”
“No, but I’m certainly going to the moment I’m back in a place where there are police.”
“That would be very unwise,” Lance said.
“Are you insane?”
“Certainly not, but I must tell you that you are in no immediate danger. I must also tell you that, if you bring the police into this or if you continue to be a candidate, it will no longer be possible to protect you.”
“Protect me? Did you send the man who saved us from the bomb?”
“Suffice it to say that you were saved.”
Johnson was quiet for a moment. “Well, whoever you are, I thank you for that. What is it you want me to do?”
“Continue with the wedding, swear everyone present to secrecy, and forget this ever happened.”
“You want me to drop out of the race, don’t you?”
“I cannot tell you to do that. I can only tell you that you will be in very great danger if you continue. Now, I must say good-bye.” Lance hung up.
Martin Stanton was alone in his Scottsdale, Arizona, hotel suite, dressing for a campaign appearance, when his secret cell phone began ringing. He walked to his briefcase, hesitated, then picked it up. “Yes?”
“So Marty,” Barbara Ortega said, “how are things in Scottsdale? Getting hot out there?”
“It’s comfortably warm,” Stanton said warily.
“Well, it’s going to get a lot hotter,” Barbara said.
“What are you talking about?” Stanton asked.
“I thought I’d join you on the campaign trail.”
“Barbara…” Then he realized he had used her name and she had used his. “Baby, you’ve got to relax and get a grip.”
“I’ve got a grip, sweetheart, and I’m packing it as we speak.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, baby.”
“Oh, I don’t want to do anything foolish, I just want to do something, like tear her face off.”
“Baby, you’re not thinking clearly.”
“Sweetheart, I’m thinking more clearly than I have in my entire life, and I’m going to go on thinking clearly. Do you realize what I can do to you?”
Stanton began to sweat, and he fought to control his temper. “Baby, I’m going to say something to you, and I want you to think about it very, very carefully after I hang up.”
“Go ahead.”
“We both have a lot to lose.” He took a breath and broke the connection, then he went to his luggage, found a shoe with a shoe tree in it, took it and the phone into the bathroom, placed the phone on a marble countertop and began banging on the instrument with the shoe, smashing it into little pieces. He swept up the pieces in his hand, dropped them into the toilet, and flushed.
Then he went to his toiletry kit, found a Valium, and washed it down. By the time he was dressed he was calm again.
60
Will Lee was working at his desk on Air Force Onewhen his political consultant, Tom Black, knocked and entered.
“What’s up, Tom?”
“There’s news,” Tom replied, “good and bad.”
“Sit down and start with the good news,” Will said.
Tom sat down. “The Reverend Henry King Johnson just spoke to a crowd in Amelia Island, Florida, and announced that he was no longer a candidate for the presidency.”
Will stared blankly at Tom. “How come?”
“His stated reason was that he wanted to devote himself full-time to the completion of his new church project in Atlanta.”
“I thought his whole reason for running was fund-raising for that project.”
“That’s our supposition,” Tom replied.
“Then why stop now?”
“Frankly, I don’t know.”
“It bothers me that you don’t know, Tom.”
“It bothers me, too, but I just don’t know.”
“Well, that is certainly good news,” Will said.
“Moss has already started on a poll to see how this will affect the race.”
“I’ll look forward to the results. Now give me the bad news.”
“One of my people, who’s traveling with Marty Stanton, was taken aside this morning by a character, improbably named Jimmy Pix, and told that there’s going to be a major exposй of Marty.”
“Exposй of what?”
“Three things: One, that Marty is having an affair with Barbara Ortega. Two, that Marty is having an affair with Elizabeth Wharton. And three, that Marty’s wife, Betty, who was thought to be on the verge of a settlement in their divorce, has hired both a forensic accountant and a publicist.”
Will frowned. “All three of those at the same time?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And where is this exposй being exposed?”
“I’m not sure, but this Jimmy Pix guy works as a stringer, both reporter and photographer, for anybody who’ll put a buck in his pocket, and that includes the supermarket tabloids.”
“I see,” Will said.
Tom sat silently.
“And do you have a proposal for dealing with any or all of these calamities, Tom?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s unusual for you, Tom.”
“I know. The situation is a little overwhelming, I guess.”
