The Karim Ahmed affair fizzled as an election truncheon since it was Isabel-specific and the Democrats couldn’t beat Hank over the head with it; though Ahmed’s disappearance did linger as mainstream news, peaking if someone reported a sighting. Between Elvis and Ahmed, shopping malls were getting crowded.
The Foster-Taylor campaign finally catapulted over the important 45-percent approval rating poll barrier, and was now tickling 50. With Hank cast against him, voting for Foster became enticing, like sliding into the driver’s seat of a blood-red V-8 Mustang convertible with the top down. With Hank, it would be sitting astride a well-mannered thoroughbred, or rather a sculpture of one: graceful and born to lead, but going nowhere. Even if Isabel was in his Cabinet.
The Independents were thriving, too.
The only good news for the Republicans was that with Isabel their effort was resuscitating, and the Clemens-Patein team were pushing back up, to 35 percent and higher.
Inspired by Isabel’s apparently selfless example, her supporters wiped away their tears and resumed campaigning for Hank. If Isabel could do it, they’d do it with her.
The Democrats fired off new sharpened barbs to keep their rising opponents down, especially on the theme that if Clemens-Patein won, they’d be Isabel’s—or worse, Ed’s—puppets in the White House. But they miscalculated the strength of the public’s “she was wronged” sentiment, and the tactic backfired, boosting the Republicans up a few notches. Most Americans still hankered for Isabel in the Oval Office, so if Clemens-Patein was the only way to do it, well, that might be worth considering.
MIKE Mandrake’s hate mail had started even before Close-up ran its credits that Sunday night. Within three days, he’d tallied six death threats and CBS was forced to give him a 24/7 bodyguard. Security in CBS studios around the country was bumped up: targeted protests were breaking out everywhere. It might have been synchronicity, but within four days, after several separate and nasty incidents of “mistaken beard”, there was not a single hair left on any CBS chin apart from Mike’s, and his was fast turning grey.
The network became a hackers’ haven. For three days running, the nightly news bulletins were interrupted and each time it was with the same vision: Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd and the old Looney Tunes gang with the signature finale, Th-th-that’s all, f-folks played on a loop for fifteen very long seconds, with Mike’s face fading in and out before it burst into flames.
If Mike dared emerge in public, he was hissed and jeered. His car, a new Mercedes, was key-scratched along both sides and sprayed with ugly graffiti. Even his wife turned against him, courtesy of an anonymous phone call about his fidelity. What should’ve been Mike’s finest hour was a fiasco.
The following week, CBS announced that Mike was on assignment outside the country. It was a lie. He’d gone into hiding.
27
“THREE WEEKS LEFT… this campaign needs something big... something to really stoke the votes… to start a stampede…” The six joined on this conference call were no bunch of hand-wringers or nail-biters; these were women and men who knew their duty.
“Obviously, I have to tread carefully about how far I go publicly,” Isis added. This time the voice-masking software turned the words into those of a robotic Arnold Schwarzenegger, adding a creepy tone to the call, though any chance eavesdropper would have shuddered at the conversation even without that.
“Doing it in private is more fun,” laughed Diana, her voice-mask mimicking the actress Meg Ryan.
Isis ran through the latest research. Even though the Clemens-Patein ticket was picking up steam, the experts predicted it would top out at 40 percent. The numbers were running marginally better in some of the all-important swing states, and even some traditional blue states, but whichever way the data was stretched, the magic 270 electoral college votes stayed just out of reach.
“We’ve upped the effort,” said Isis. “I’m out there every day now, but we’ll still have to activate…”
“The shockwave?” guessed Diana.
“Yes,” said Isis.
Diana’s face cracked into a smile; her work with Jax Mason wouldn’t be wasted.
THE “One Hundred Club” dinner was at Harvard’s Museum of Natural History. Hank’s idea was to shift the campaign focus to his intellect, away from his wealth. Gregory sniped it would backfire: “So now they’ll say Hank went to Harvard… for dinner.” Isabel opposed the event for a different reason: the campaign couldn’t afford to waste precious time preaching to the converted, especially this pile of withered old bones who shared more with the museum’s skeletal exhibits than with the swing voters they needed to win over.
“Why’d they call it the One Hundred Club?” Isabel had asked Gregory before either of them knew it was the capacity seating.
Gregory scanned the crowd, “Minimum age of membership?”