Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

“I think what we have to do,” Tom said, “is to start a sort of Charlene Watch. If we know where she is at every moment, we can sound the alarm if she gets within a mile of you.”

“Within a hundred miles of me,” Will said. “But don’t go hiring any private detectives. That would not look good on the campaign fund’s reporting forms.”

“We’ll do it with volunteers,” Tom said.

“That might work,” Kitty said, “if they’re male volunteers.”

“Please, please,” Will said, “don’t let the press track this back to the campaign. Tell the volunteers that if they get caught, they’ll have to plead to stalking her.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Tom said. “If she gets close, we’ll head her off at whatever pass she’s riding in from.”

“Thank you,” Will said, “I feel better now.”

Kitty held up a sheet of paper. “Here’s the veep’s statement.” She read it aloud. “Vice President Martin Stanton and his wife, Elizabeth, announced today that they are divorcing after twenty-nine years of marriage because of irreconcilable differences. The parting is mutual and amicable, and Mr. and Mrs. Stanton request that the media respect their privacy in this matter.”

“First question they’ll ask,” Tom interjected, “is, Why was the announcement not made during the hearings or before the swearing-in?”

“The delay was at the request of Elizabeth Stanton,” Kitty said. “She didn’t want their personal differences to overshadow an important time for the country.”

“Is that true?” Will asked.

“I spoke with her myself,” Kitty said. “She was very reasonable about requesting that, after I suggested she request it.”

Moss spoke up. “I give the story one news cycle,” he said. “Unless there’s another woman.”

“What about another man?” Kitty asked.

“Is Stanton gay?”

“You know what I mean: What if Betty Stanton has something on the side.”

“That would be the very least of our problems,” Moss said. “The question is still on the table: Does Stanton have something on the side?”

There was silence in the room.

Will broke it. “Surely, someone asked him.”

“I asked him the more general question,” Tom Black said. “You know: ‘Is there anything in your life we should know about?’ ”

“Well,” Moss said, “if it happens, it happens, and we’ll just have to deal with it.”

“I hope not,” Will replied.

At ten o’clock, a cast of media, congressional leaders, White House staff, and invited guests assembled in the East Room and watched as a Supreme Court justice swore in Martin Stanton as vice president of the United States. Hands were shaken all around, and, after the president and his new vice president and the justice had left the room and the president had walked the vice president to a waiting helicopter, the press secretary distributed the release concerning the divorce of the vice president.

There was, of course, a clamor of questions from the press, but the press secretary reminded them that the vice president and his wife had requested privacy, and that, anyway, the vice president was already in the air and unavailable for comment.

Vice President Martin Stanton had hoped for Air Force Two to wing him west, and he got that, but not in the form he had expected. Air Force Two turned out to be not the Boeing 747 he had anticipated but a Gulfstream III. His disappointment must have been apparent when he alit from his limousine, because the Air Force pilot had rushed over, introduced himself, and apologized.

“Mr. Vice President,” the man said, “I’m very sorry about the equipment today, but one of our 747s is down for an unscheduled engine change and the other, of course, has to be held for the president, should he require it.”

“Of course, Colonel,” Stanton replied. “I understand perfectly, and I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable.” Stanton walked up the stairs to the airplane, turned, and waved to the crowd, which consisted of two mechanics in coveralls and a pool television cameraman, there in case he should die on the way to the airplane.

Stanton briefly inspected the tiny private cabin at the rear of the airplane, which contained a single bunk and an uncomfortable-looking chair, then took a seat at a desk just outside the cabin. At least, he thought, this was an improvement over his California State aircraft, a short-legged Citation that had to stop and refuel on its way across the country.

Stanton took a look at the papers. Then, as the jet climbed to cruising altitude, he learned that he was not, even in the smaller airplane, incommunicado. The phone on the desk in front of him rang. He hesitated, then picked it up. The pilot must be calling him.

“Vice President Stanton, this is the White House operator,” a woman’s voice said.

“Good morning,” Stanton replied, surprised to be in touch with Earth.

“I have a gentleman on the line named Jacob Friedman, who claims to be your attorney and who insists on speaking with you.”

“I know him, I’ll take the call,” Stanton replied.

There was a click, then a male voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Jake,” Stanton said.

“Oh, Governor?”

“Not anymore.”

“Sorry, Mr. Vice President.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you when you’re… Where are you, anyway?”

Stanton looked out the window. “I guess that’s Virginia down there.”

“Then you’re on Air Force Two?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Wow, that must be impressive.”

“What’s going on, Jake?”

“Henry Wilcox-that’s Mrs. Stanton’s attorney-has just written to me, saying that they’re appointing a forensic accountant to go over your finances.”

“Yes, Betty told me that last night.”

“This is not a good thing, Gov… Mr. Vice President.”

“You can call me Marty, Jake.”

“It’s not a good thing, Marty. This could hold up a decree for months while this guy runs up as many billable hours as he can, all to no avail, of course, since you reported all your assets and liabilities on your financial statement.” He paused. “You did report all your assets, didn’t you?”

“I did. If I think about it hard, though, I might be able to come up with a few more liabilities. Tell Wilcox that Betty can have half of those.”

“Heh-heh, very good. I’ll put that in my petition.”

“What petition?”

“My petition to the court to suppress the appointment of a forensic accountant.”

“On what grounds?”

“Ah, too late in the process, no evidence of hidden assets, harassment, unreasonable delay, that business about new liabilities, and, of course, malice. A woman scorned and all that.”

“Don’t mention malice and a woman scorned. Let’s not make her angrier than she already is.”

“Frankly, Marty, I think what’s behind this is Wilcox is trying to get more for her than they had agreed to in the draft settlement. Maybe if we give them something else they’ll go ahead and sign, and we can get this thing over with.”

“Did you have something in mind?”

“Well, Wilcox obliquely referred to that old Cadillac, the one you were born in.”

“Betty said something about that last night. She seems to think it might be worth a lot of money.”

“I did some checking around. A mint Cadillac of that vintage might bring as much as fifty grand at the right auction.”

“I was going to donate it to a car museum in L.A. and get a tax deduction of twenty-five grand,” Stanton said.

“So all it would cost you would be whatever the tax savings would have been. That would be a good deal to get us out of this.”