The Frankenstein Candidate (31 page)

Larry said “They tried to say Quentin had little to do with the current economic debacle, but they also pushed his experience as a plus in the same breath. Logan has been smart since his gaffe on the immigrants; that played out like he wanted the Mexicans to die on the streets, but since then he abhorred specificity and just railed against the status quo. It has worked. He should not be able to go from May to November with radical solutions as a headline message without enumerating solutions to identified problems…we want to make sure of that.”

“The other radical is also gaining ground again. He was at a low of around twelve points in a three-way race, but has got back to a more respectable eighteen.” It was Dennis Ettinger, Larry’s point man on polls, messages, and the national mood. “Obviously, some people actually believe his carbonista speech…Tea Party types mainly.”

“Frank Stein?” Olivia had all but erased him out of her conscious awareness during her three-week, intensive, twenty-four state marathon.

‘Yes, him,” Ettinger said. “He is still around. Very much so, I’m afraid. Despite Kirby’s and Logan’s attempts to buy him off. And that could play right into our hands come November.”

Eleven days away from the national convention, Olivia was given the fifteenth edition of her acceptance speech. This time, she was pleased with it: it had all the right messages—the restoration of Middle America, the curtailment of the budget deficit, street law and order, the protection of the underprivileged, and a vitriolic attack on Washington special interests. Olivia was ready to become the Democratic Party’s nominee for president of the United States of America. She hadn’t had an anxiety attack in weeks. She hadn’t suffered an imposter outbreak for at least two weeks. Ambition was thrilled, and Compassion was happy to get the power to do good. Even Gary was back to being with her all the time. The picture, she had to admit, looked complete.

That’s when her cell phone pierced her equanimity. It was Dennis Ettinger. Bob Zimmerman wanted to organize a meeting with her, he said.

“Can’t he wait till after the convention?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s called Logan into the same meeting as well. Kirby will be there too.”

“What’s the agenda?”

“I’m guessing, but perhaps the financial crisis is worse than we think it is. If the solution Bob wants is radical, it will need Congressional approval.”

“Officially, at this stage, I am a senator, no more than that.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, you are, in my opinion, virtually the president-elect. But cast that aside and you are the nominee, as is Logan. Only the perfunctory remains to be done—if Quentin’s looking for bipartisan support, it must be big…big enough for us to…you know…quid pro quo.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, nine a.m., Zimmerman’s office. I will organize a car.”

“I can tell Jacques.”

“No no…Jacques will be driving…but he is the…shall we say he will take a different route than the car you will be in.”

“You take good care of me. Is there a real threat? I mean I won’t tolerate putting Jacques in harm’s way—”

“Oh no, ma’am, it’s merely precautionary…standard procedure.”

“I missed you. Did you miss me?” she said it as though talking about the weather. Francesca was seated opposite Gary in the bohemian café outside the architectural school where they had their first get-together.

“No,” he said, but his hand rested on hers and his eyes said otherwise. This time, the café had a fair number of people. Olivia’s profile had grown immensely since their first encounter, and Gary knew the risk that someone may recognize him. Still, he was just sitting down in a café talking to someone. He felt much safer in a public place than on roads and in narrow alleyways. It dawned on him that if his hand rested on hers for an uncomfortably long time, a visitor could notice. He drew it away.

“What are you going to do?”

“I had fun during her campaign. I could do more but—”

“But what?”

“I have to stay at home for the girls. My folks took them for three weeks, but this time the campaign could—”

“You are not staying back for me?”

“I haven’t decided about us.”

He straightened up. He had to be careful about his posture, he thought. Nowadays, he always felt like Big Brother was watching. His eyes roved across the room: staring at the street across the window, sizing up their waitress, glancing at the couple at the next table.

“You are still nervous…look, I think it was perhaps an accident. I mean, maybe just a rogue truck driver.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He didn’t dare tell her yet about the detective he had hired.

She tried to put her hands on his again, but he retracted his under the table.

“I’m sure we’re safe.” She had a reassuring tone.

“I’m sure too,” he said, even as the mild shake in his legs belied his words.

They ordered a ham sandwich, a blueberry muffin, and coffee. The waitress came by with the order. She wore a long, pleated gypsy skirt, large earrings, and a big party smile.

He noticed the fake Picasso again: “Everything you can imagine is real.” In a quick flash, he imagined a life with Francesca, in a world twenty years later—he had grown old, she hadn’t. They were together in an apartment somewhere in Los Angeles—well furnished, beautifully decorated. There were no children. He had left messages for Georgia and Natasha; his daughters had not returned calls, maybe they never forgave him. He could imagine it all—the photos on the wall were all Francesca—she had done some acting in Hollywood, she was rushing out to a shoot, playing a twenty-something schoolteacher, and then suddenly, in an instant, he knew it was not real. No, he found himself saying to Picasso.

Out of the blue, a single rifle shot rang out. For a moment, Gary felt like an explosion rocked his chest, but the bullet was nowhere near him. A glass window lay shattered. People screamed. Francesca shrieked. The waitress ran off.

Someone shouted, “Get down!”

Everyone threw themselves down. The man at the next table drew a Glock G21. The owner came out with his Smith & Wesson. Francesca, Gary noticed, was terrified and shaking. Children wailed. No one moved. Cars moved on the street like nothing had happened.

At least three different people called 911. Eight agonizing minutes later, two police cars screeched down the front. Two cops came in, two more stood by the door. The area was cordoned off. No one left the café. Everyone was interrogated.

No one who was questioned from the street had seen anyone suspicious, but some described a black Mustang parked just outside. No one had the license plate. Then one person in the café mentioned seeing a black Mustang leave soon after, followed by a navy colored SUV. Gary knew who the SUV belonged to! At least he had a pretty good idea.

Gary and Francesca excused themselves and left by the back entrance before the media arrived. Thank god no one had recognized him, he thought. The last thing he wanted was to be on TV. He offered to drop her home. She was still very shaken.

“I’ll…take a cab,” she said.

“Why? It’s all right.”

“No, Gary, it’s not okay. I can’t…not anymore.”

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t see you anymore, Gary, I am too scared.”

He understood. Frankly, he was relieved. He had seen the future, and it wasn’t real. She got a cab. He wondered whether he would ever see her again. As soon as she was gone, he called Micah Zelman.

“Mr. Zelman? Gary Allen,” he said. “I believe you just came by Roberto’s café.”

“Yes, Mr. Allen, I tracked him down.”

“Who is it? Who does he work for?”

“Mr. Allen, I think you need to come by my office, you are not going to like this.”

“A person who wishes to start a new business in the United States,” Frank Stein said to the crowd of a hundred or so that had assembled in Central Park, “must fill out fifty-six applications with nineteen different regulatory agencies.”

Mike Rodrigo had hired five cameramen, and they were stationed at various angles. It wasn’t for publicity. Only one of them had his camera focused directly on Stein and the rest were filming the crowd. If anyone took a shot at Frank, Rodrigo wanted to make sure he was filmed. It was likely to deter at least some would-be assassins. Mike and three others were patrolling the perimeter; one more of his men mingled with the crowd. The area had been cordoned off. A pat down at the checkpoint had been necessary. After the Net Station incident, Rodrigo was taking no chances.

Frank had applied for Security Service protection. Under the rules, it was only provided to the president, the first lady, the president-elect, and the presidential nominees in the final four months of the campaign. Things in America had become far more vicious, but for the moment, rules were rules, and Olivia Allen and John Logan also needed to rely on privately organized security.

“After the bureaucrats, the theater, Hollywood, and novelists are done with demonizing successful businessmen and women, the regulators hound them with lawsuits should anything go wrong. They are damned if they succeed and damned if they don’t.”

The crowd was silently contemplative. There was no raucous applause. There were no punch lines. It was the kind of crowd he was attracting—a lecture room full of serious graduate students intent on absorbing every word of wisdom, their thirst for understanding accentuated by a collective insight that this was a lecturer with something to give…except that the crowds contained all ages from fourteen to eighty-four, and he was giving away what he knew for free.

There were the usual Central Park sounds: the chirping of birds, distant traffic noise, joggers, mountain bikes, the wind. But the contemplative crowd easily blanked out those distractions.

One man in the crowd reached into his jacket. Rodrigo’s man was onto him in a flash. The man’s hand had barely begun to reach out when the cold barrel of a gun settled on his head.

“Drop it.”

This distraction was real and intense. A student walks into a lecture hall and announces he has a gun and the lecture ceases…as simple as that. Many in the crowd screamed. Some threw themselves down. Startled, the man dropped his cigarette lighter. He raised his hands, shaking with fright. Rodrigo’s man smiled, slightly embarrassed.