His arm hooked protectively around his wife. The two sat on the sofa and Ed glanced sideways to see Isabel staring blankly though the French doors, out to the patio where George and Ed’s little boy were playing catch.
GREGORY was calling from campaign headquarters. “Close-up say they’ve got some new angle on your past,” he told Isabel, the inflexion in his voice not able to hide his concern. “They’re running it whether we cooperate or not.” As Isabel gripped the handset, Gregory didn’t even remotely understand her anxiety, but her tight mouth revealed to Ed that whatever Gregory was saying, it was not good.
She attempted to compose herself. Twisting back around to Ed, she said, “Close-up’s got something.” Her voice, already weakened, broke as she said it. “Gregory says it’s about my past. Ed, they want me there, in the studio, but they won’t say what it is.”
“It’s an ambush, that’s what.”
“God, if they found the rapist! Ed, I’ve only just told you. I couldn’t face…”
Ed grabbed for the phone to speak to Gregory but pressed hands-free. “Samson,” he said, “Isabel’s in Detroit tomorrow with a zillion…”
“They know that,” answered Gregory, “though they don’t know about the debate preparation, which is secret… not listed on the published press calendar. The prep’s only part way through when Close-up goes to air. The itinerary shows her with a night off, flying out to Des Moines, to be fresh for the next morning.”
Gregory had a full production crew already at work dressing up an old church fellowship hall out in Detroit’s suburbs to duplicate the actual set for the first presidential TV debate. Isabel’s secret debate dress rehearsal was scheduled to be held there tomorrow night.
Ed wasn’t in the mood for Gregory’s blabbering. He stood, “Tell those fucks she’ll do their show… from Detroit.”
A surge of alarm shot up Isabel’s spine, but Ed continued, his head nodding “it’s okay” to her and his hand patting the air in calm. “Samson, but it’s on one condition: they tell us what this thing is… Right now. Not later today. Not tomorrow. In the next five minutes, or no dice.” He terminated the call before Isabel could intervene.
“It’s not what you think,” he reassured Isabel, praying he was right.
“But what then?”
Ed didn’t answer her.
A contorted image suddenly loomed up in Isabel’s imagination: she was seated on the studio set and from behind the curtains a muffled voice started humming Bésame Mucho.
“My mother?” Her heart hammered. “I won’t see that… woman,” she whispered. “Ever.”
“You’re as good as president. What’s it matter?”
“How could you agree to me appearing without asking me?”
“Know your enemy,” he said, only part-quoting the ancient Chinese warrior philosopher, Sun Tzu. He didn’t think she needed to know the whole quote: “To know your enemy, you must become your enemy.”
But Isabel knew it already.
20
“I JUST GOT off the phone from those slimeballs at Close-up,” Bill Edwards wheezed down the phone. Isabel and Ed were listening on speaker and could almost hear Bill shift his trademark cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “They had the hide to demand I get my butt over to their studios tomorrow night. Mine! On a Sunday!”
Bill Edwards and political muscle were Siamese twins; locked together, a freak of nature. Even at seventy-two, he was still a beefy six-foot-six and born to command. He’d been quietly pulling the Republican strings of power from on high for years, emphasis on quietly. Though a big man, he maintained a small public presence, speaking rarely and when he chose to, so softly that people had to strain to hear him, adding to the impression that whatever he said was worth listening to. In private, though, he never held back. And when Bill eventually let it be known he would, if asked, step out of the shadows to chair the peak Republican National Committee, all other contenders stepped back to make way for him.
“What did they tell you?” Isabel asked.
“It’s about your past… big implications… national interest. Isabel, it’s not like one of your long lost relatives died and bequeathed you a fortune; you’re already richer than Croesus. Whatever this is, it ain’t good.”
She heard Bill take a long deep draw and imagined him tilting his head back, eyes closed, and contemplating the mess they seemed to be in. “Have they called Hank?” she ventured, knowing Bill would understand the implication.