Rubicon, page 5
Startled, Henry Glazer looked up. Embarrassed, he jumped to his feet.
“I’m sorry, Senator, I didn’t know you were here. How are you?” he asked as they shook hands. It took only a moment before he caught the mood. “Yeah, well, these numbers – I couldn’t make these up.” He gave Hart a conspiratorial grin. “You could run a convicted felon and win this one. Doesn’t matter who he is, almost doesn’t matter what he believes – the only thing that matters is that he isn’t a Republican.”
Henry Glazer was a pollster always in demand. Inside Washington, he was as famous for his irreverence as for the accuracy of his surveys of public opinion.
“Which means,” he continued with a jaded sparkle in his eyes, “that it’s the kind of race that only a Democrat could lose.” Suddenly, he looked at Hart with a puzzled expression. “They’re making you wait? A year ago this guy couldn’t get in to see the mayor of Cleveland, and now they’re…?” He started to turn toward the door to the private room where Prentice Alworth was huddled with his advisors. Hart stopped him.
“I don’t mind waiting. It gives me a chance to talk to someone who knows something. What’s the latest on the senate races?”
“Barring any major new developments, Democrats should pick up four or five. Might even pick up even more than that, with a little luck.”
“Major new developments,” repeated Hart slowly. “What would happen if something major did happen, something serious?”
“You mean…?”
“Another attack. Maybe not like 911, but something.”
Henry Glazer shuffled his feet and stared down at the floor. All the irreverence was gone. He had had two friends, two close friends, killed in New York.
“It would depend on exactly what happened next,” he said, raising his eyes just far enough to meet Hart’s gaze. “And it would depend on the reaction.”
“The reaction?”
Henry Glazer squared his shoulders. The off the rack suit he wore was a size too large. The coat sagged in the middle and, when he was not smiling, gave him the look of a salesman, tired and depressed by his travels.
“You remember 911 – the look on the president’s face: the deer in the headlights look? Remember Guiliani: the way he took charge? Imagine they were candidates for the same office. It’s not too touch to figure out which of them most people would have wanted to vote for. Character counts. The problem is that you can’t always know who has it until it’s too late.”
Glazer had been around Washington long enough to know that politicians seldom asked a question without a reason.
“You’re on the Intelligence Committee. Is there something I should know?”
“No,” said Hart, shaking his head. “But two years ago there was a lot of talk about how terrorists might try to disrupt the congressional elections. I just wondered what might happen if they really made the attempt.”
Hart checked his watch.
“Fifteen minutes,” said Glazer, who kept track of both time and numbers in his head.
The door opened and one of the governor’s senior assistants greeted Hart with a broad smile and an outstretched hand and took him inside. Prentice Alworth, standing next to a desk, invited Hart to take a chair.
“It’s good to see you, senator,” he began with what seemed to Hart a kind of nervous reluctance.
In his early fifties, Alworth was handsome in the rough sort of way that goes with the kind of self-assurance easily mistaken for leadership, but there was something missing in his eyes. Hart had noticed the same thing in other politicians: a dead look, an absence of expression, as if they had been so focused on their own ambition, it was all they could see anymore.
“Let me come right to the point,” said Alworth. He flashed a smile that, seen from a distance, would have enveloped you with warmth, but seen close up, seemed not just artificial but awkward and strangely mistimed. “I would like you to be my running mate. I’d like you to run for vice-president. I think we would make an unbeatable ticket.”
Hart’s mind ran immediately to Henry Glazer and his polling numbers. Is that what Alworth and his people had been discussing while they made him wait outside? Hart sat quietly, waiting, as Alworth pressed his case.
“Look, I know I wasn’t your first choice for the nomination. I may not have been anyone’s first choice,” he added with a shrewd, calculating glance. “And I know there are a great many people, and not just in our own party, who wish you were the nominee. I understand that. I also understand that you’re in a re-election campaign in California and -”
“I can’t do it, governor.”
Alworth had expected this, or something like it, to be Hart’s first response. It was smart, the opening move in a delicate negotiation. He had been told that Hart was always just a little bit ahead of everyone else.
“I don’t have to remind you, senator, that this is an important election, perhaps the most important you or I will ever see,” he continued with all the worried sincerity he could muster. “We have to take the country back, save it from what has been happening to it for the last eight years. We have to win this election, Bobby, we have to. And no one can help do that as much as you can.”
Hart stared at Alworth, wondering if the governor ever meant anything he said, whether he ever thought about anything except the effect he wanted to achieve, what he wanted others to believe about what he thought and what he felt.
“You don’t need me to carry California, so there really isn’t any reason -”
“I need you to carry places like Missouri and Ohio, even some places in the South. There’s an enormous respect for you out there in the country. All the polling we’ve done -”
“If I were on the ticket, you’d have to spend half your time trying to explain away the differences between us. I have six years in the Senate, four more in the House – thousands of votes, not all of which I remember, and not all of which you could support.”
Prentice Alworth gave him the look of encouragement with which he had persuaded countless others that they could do anything they dreamed of doing, once he had the power to give them the help they needed.
“We’ve been through your record. There isn’t anything that would cause problems.”
“There is some pending legislation that might,” said Hart, intrigued by the way Alworth could look right at him as if he were looking at someone filling up an empty space. “One bill in particular.”
Alworth gave him a different look, that of growing confidence, the certainty that there were no major difficulties, nothing that could not be handled. It reminded Hart that he was dealing with a man whose mind worked in narrow channels.
“That bill isn’t going anywhere, and the session is almost over. It was just a gesture, a symbolic act,” said Alworth, starting to talk the way he would when he had to explain it to the press. “A way to show the neither the administration nor the Republicans in Congress were really willing to do everything necessary to win the war.”
“I’m afraid it’s more than a gesture, governor. I happen to believe we ought to have the draft.” He could not resist using the line with which he had talked to the press about the bill that nearly everyone had opposed. “It’s never been clear to me why only the children of the poor should have the chance to serve their country.”
Alworth nodded in agreement, the way he always did when he was forced to listen to what someone else had to say.
“It won’t be a problem,” he insisted. “It’s legislation you introduced to make a point, and, the point having been made, you see no reason, at the present time, to continue with it.”
“That legislation is a matter of principle with me. I happen to believe in the importance of shared sacrifice.”
“We all do, Bobby; but you have to look at the broader perspective. Your principles won’t mean anything – and neither will mine – if we don’t win this election, if another Republican is allowed to keep control of the executive branch of government. Surely you can see that.”
Hart felt like Hamlet, listening to Polonius recite the rules of success followed by fools; a lesson in practical wisdom from a man who could not see anything beyond the end of his nose.
“There are a number of reasons I can’t agree to do what you ask. I’m in the middle of a senate campaign. With so little time left, if the party had to name another candidate it might mean -”
Alworth shrugged aside the objection. “This isn’t a year for conservatives, especially in California. Don’t worry. A Democrat will hold that seat.”
“Yes, and it’s going to be me. I appreciate the offer. I’m quite honored, but I’m not ready to run for national office.”
Prentice Alworth lowered his eyes. His manner became stiff, awkward and hesitant.
“I know about the difficulties you have with your wife. I can certainly understand why you might want to protect her from all the attention that comes with this kind of campaign.”
Hart’s eyes turned cold and full of warning.
“And what exactly is it that you think you know about my wife?”
“It’s none of my business, but it isn’t any secret that your wife, Helen, has certain…problems, that she….”
“Is mentally ill – Is that what you’re trying to say? Why not just say it, then?”
“I didn’t mean….I’m not trying to…” Alworth stammered.
Suddenly, Hart felt sorry for him. Alworth was in an impossible situation and it was not his fault. With a slight, sympathetic smile Hart let him know that he did not blame him for anything. And then he lied.
“She sometimes struggles with depression. It’s better when she doesn’t have to deal with a lot of other people. No one bothers her now, while I’m in the senate, but what you’re asking….The press, the media, would never leave her alone.”
“Tell everyone what the problem is,” Alworth advised. “Explain why she won’t be out campaigning. That will be the end of it.”
The way he said it, suggesting that this was just another political problem that the governor’s people had worked out, that illness and the tragedy of other people’s lives were all manageable parts of the process, removed any doubt Hart might still have had about his decision.
“It doesn’t matter what some focus group said about this, I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to run for vice-president. I can’t.”
Prentice Alworth seemed genuinely disappointed. He understood that it was over, that Bobby Hart was not going to change his mind. He shook his hand, told him how much he looked forward to working with him after the election, and then started thinking about who he was going to ask next.
When he got back to his senate office, he told David Allen what had happened. Allen ran his hand over his balding head.
“He obviously isn’t afraid to have someone on the ticket that might have a following of his own. That makes him better than I thought.”
“Not better, just more ambitious. He’ll say anything to get elected. He would have promised me anything, if I’d been willing to run.”
“He wasn’t willing to support a draft.”
“He thinks it would cost him votes, but anything having to do with power, with the authority the vice-president would have in his administration….Of course, after the election, after I had served my purpose, he’d forget what he’s promised me even faster than all the things he promised the voters. But now that I’ve turned him down, who do you think he’ll pick?”
“Someone else from the senate,” said Allen with quiet certainty. “Someone who can bring some knowledge of foreign policy to the ticket. It’ll be someone from the Committee on Foreign Relations.”
“You’re probably right,” said Hart with indifference. “I’ve got a plane to catch and I haven’t even packed. Is everything set in California?” he asked as he started to gather up the papers he wanted to take with him.
“Stone will pick you up at the airport,” he said, referring to Jeffrey Stone, the campaign manager. “He wants to talk to you before tomorrow’s events.”
“Tell him I’ll meet him for breakfast in the morning. I’m going home. I have to see Helen tonight.”
Hart made his way through traffic, angry with himself that he had not thought to pack the night before and bring his bag with him to the office. He could have left from there, gone directly to the airport, instead of going to Georgetown first. Everything was jumbled up, one thing piled on top of the other, no time to think about what he should do next. The word Rubicon kept echoing in his head and he still had no idea what it meant. He wanted to tell someone what had happened, how he had been shot and Gunther Kramer had been killed, but unless Raymond Caulfield found something at the CIA who would believe him?
Charlie Ryan was sitting on the front steps, waiting for him to arrive.
“Shouldn’t you be in Michigan, campaigning?” asked Hart as he opened the door.
“Allen told me you were on your way here,” Ryan explained as he dusted himself off. “And as for campaigning, I’m not sure it would do any good.”
“Sit down,” said Hart, glad to see him. “What can I get you?”
Ryan dropped, spread-eagle, into a wingback chair, next to the shelves that held the art books Helen had collected.
“Nothing, thanks anyway. I know you have to get to the airport. Go ahead and pack.” He opened the louvered shutters just a crack and peered outside. “You ever think you’re being followed?”
Hart sat on the edge of the sofa.
“Why? Do you think someone…?”
Ryan frowned, let the shutter snap shut and shook his head.
“It’s probably all the things we hear in committee; makes you think half the people you see on the street are about to blow you up. But, still, lately – it’s just a feeling….That isn’t the reason I wanted to catch you before you left. Have you heard anything? I need to know if I’m in trouble. There must be some polling on your side.”
Hart knew Ryan too well to believe that he was only worried about the polling results of the other party. Ryan had polls of his own, to say nothing of all the other, public, surveys that were done by the newspapers and the networks.
“So far as I know, no different than what you told me the last time we talked about it. You’re running ahead of a popular attorney general who has a fair amount of money, but she’s still three points behind and -”
“Which means it’s within the margin of error, which means it’s competitive,” Ryan interjected. He seemed puzzled. “Our polls aren’t much different, which means none of it makes sense.”
“What doesn’t make sense?”
“I thought there was a chance that our polls were just flat-out wrong, that someone else had something showing that I was getting beat and getting beat badly.”
“Why would you think that?”
Ryan’s eyes were moving everywhere at once, searching for a reason that would explain the inexplicable.
“The money has dried up. I’m in maybe the most competitive race in the country and suddenly the money stops coming.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s what I told the White House three days ago. I’ve spent a lot – I’ve had to – but the national committee always comes through with more. But this time, with everything on the line, with my seat maybe the difference, they tell me that they’ve already given me what they budgeted, but that maybe, in October….So I went to the White House and all they did was say they would see what they could do.”
“What makes you think they won’t do something?”
Ryan looked right at him, his gaze narrow and intense.
“It was the attitude. It was like they didn’t care what happened, that it didn’t really matter whether I held the seat or not.”
There was an easy explanation, but as Hart understood, Ryan had too much at stake to see it.
“They probably don’t care, Charlie. They’re on their way out. A few more months and another president will be elected and another administration takes office.”
“No, something else is going on,” said Ryan, shaking his head emphatically. “Retribution, their chance to get even for all the times I refused to go along, all the trouble I gave them on things they thought important. I started checking, following the money, where it was going and where it was not. They money is there, they’re just not giving it to anyone like me.”
It did not make any sense. Ryan was reading too much into it.
“Even if the President and his people felt like that, the rest of the party couldn’t possibly want to lose a senate seat to a Democrat.”
“Trust me, Bobby - whatever you think you know - the White House still has control. That line about ‘you’re either with us or against us’ did not just apply to people overseas. I was the first Republican member of the Senate to raise serious questions about the war. The vice-president hates me for that. He thinks that if I hadn’t said anything, everyone else would have stayed in line. He sits in those meetings with all the other principal advisers and never says a word; then he meets privately with the president and decides everything.”
“Even if he hates you, it’s hard to believe that he would think a Democrat would be an improvement?
Ryan bent forward. His eyes were cold and immediate.
“As long as he holds power, as long as the president is in office, he doesn’t care what Congress does. When it comes to the war, no one can stop him.”
Chapter Six
When she was younger, when she and Bobby first started going out, women would stop her on the street and tell her that she looked just like a movie star. Bobby used to tease her about it, gently, as a way of letting her know why it happened, why everyone thought that she was much too good looking to be anything but famous. What he had not understood was that she hated having strangers stare at her, and that the reason she gripped his hand so hard when they walked into a restaurant or some other public well-lit place was a trembling self-consciousness and a mortal fear that she might do something wrong. She clung to Bobby, not just because she had fallen in love with him, but because he made her feel safe. What she did not understand, what she was then too young to realize, was that Bobby took his own confidence so much for granted that he assumed that all she suffered from was a little youthful shyness.
