NO matter what Hank could say to distance himself from the club—he only had a one-third share, he kept repeating, and even that was behind a trust so he had no involvement in management—the Republican ticket was again in diabolical trouble. The early reports of faulty wiring were accurate, and investigators had pinned it down to the Cocktail Wall, the wall which Isabel knew Hank took credit for.
The networks and cable channels were running newsclips of the blaze with tawdry newsbars like “Republican campaign in flames” and worse.
By the following Monday, the weekend polls were out and Bill Edwards’ stomach was churning. Twenty… twenty percent! He phoned up Isabel and, with classic insensitivity, said, “We’re dead.”
THREE days later the CBS “eye” logo was overlooking a deserted Beverly Boulevard near West Hollywood in Los Angeles. This was the famous Television City.
The perpetrators had picked the hushed shadows of 2 AM to magnify the explosion’s noise and minimise casualties. The stolen blue Mazda sedan lumbered slowly down Beverly and drew close. Telltale, it hung low on its wheels. It humped over the kerb and bounced up onto the sidewalk, pulling up sharp outside the newly remodelled front entrance. The car driver wore a red full-face helmet, curious only until he jumped out of the vehicle, sprinted to the rear and sprung himself onto the back saddle of the black BMW motorbike that had been trailing him. If anyone had later been able to view the security video shooting the street scene, they would have observed that the bike’s plates were taped over with “Diaz for President” bumper stickers.
The bike rider, also helmeted, high-revved the throttle of the 1750cc engine for all it was worth, reared the machine up on its back wheel and squealed off leaving a black trail of rubber on the road behind them.
Ten seconds after the pair hurtled off, the pillion passenger pressed “redial” on his cell phone and swivelled around to rip the bumper sticker off the back plate. He tapped the driver’s shoulder and she leant forward to do likewise to the front plate.
Five blocks back, the 300 pounds of explosives that were packing down the Mazda detonated with a fury. Even over the roar of the engine the rider heard it, shooting up her right hand in victory, and her passenger slapped the back of her glove for a plan well-executed.
The ground floor fa?ade of the building sheared off. The blast ripped a wide gash, first across the pavement, then into the street, carving across five thankfully empty lanes. Four parked cars blew into the air. Car parts and leaflets showered over a two-block radius. Glass from the building’s front doors flew inwards, spraying shards through the lobby, the force shattering even the bulletproof screen intended to shelter the new security desk. Fortunately, the night guard was up on the second floor and miraculously, no one was injured. Spouts of water from burst pipes gushed over the debris and, capped with heavy black smoke, the entrance flooded.
Thousands of charred pamphlets fluttered back down through the choking fumes… “The Truth has Consequences.”
Within thirty-five seconds, a coordinated hack attacked CBS stations across the country. “We have our eye on you, CBS,” were the chilling words that unfurled out of the pupil of CBS’s famous eye logo. “And you, too, Mike Mandrake…The Truth has Consequences.”
For Mandrake, it was after 5 AM. He had his back slumped against the pillows in a small room in Washington DC’s infamous Watergate Hotel where he’d been holed up for days. His gut ached.
The truth has consequences… He didn’t need these jerk-offs to tell him that. It was drummed into all journalists. But this morning, the words pressed in on him, the beads of sweat stinging his recently shaved upper lip.
Only an hour earlier the porter had slipped a copy of the paper he previously wrote for, The Washington Post, under his door. It was splayed open on his lap, at the editorial, “Truth at all costs?”
What did these people want from him? He’d done his job… and fucking brilliantly, he added for no one to hear but himself. Sanctimonious bastards! No one wrote this pious crap when Woodward and Bernstein busted Nixon over the Watergate scandal… here, in this same fucking building.
That Nixon was a crook and Isabel a saint didn’t seem to gel with him in the state he was in.
He clamped his eyes, shutting out the TV and the room, but he couldn’t shut out everything. His wife had kicked him out. CBS was publicly supporting him but privately wiping its hands of him, wishing he’d never existed. For security reasons, he’d shaved his beard and wore dark glasses and a cap when he ventured out.
What should have been the story of the decade had become a debacle.
Was no one interested in the truth any more if it had… fucking consequences? That was the truth’s job, for chrissakes!
At that moment, his hotel room TV broadcast a newsflash about the blast in Los Angeles. His eyes blinked open but he could hardly watch. He recognised the building. It was meant for him.
Who were these fucking people?