Leon Uris (38 page)

At the last moment Greer decided she needed Rae O’Connell with her and Mal in Chicago. Rae, a successful, computer-oriented businesswoman, had run the electronics at her dad’s Denver headquarters. After she gleaned and analyzed the incoming messages, she gave them to Greer, in order of priority.

The last time Greer had been on the road without Rae, her work had backed up unmercifully.

Overnight bags packed and ready to go, Greer had the charter jet switch to Colorado Springs in order to avoid a possible media alert.

Their red-eye express set down in the private-plane section of Midway Airport, where a limo pulled alongside, and they drove off to the Schweitzer Mansion on Lake Shore Drive, a Republican halfway house, and site of secret rendezvous.

The mansion was century-old-mahogany-and tapestry-clad. Each bedroom held a ponderous four poster, and each bathroom had a freestanding sink, pipes to heat towels, and crested linens. It said “robber baron” all over it. The present Schweitzers lived magnificently on the old fortune. They were Chicago denizens of high order.

Alma, a robust former mezzosoprano, greeted them and ushered each to their suites. Kurt Schweitzer was in Washington until after the election.

Darnell Jefferson would be arriving at dawn. A meeting in Mr. Schweitzer’s study was called for ten in the morning.

Greer, Mal, and Rae went into power sleeps, after which they loaded up on orange juice and danish followed by a large transfusion of coffee.

Ten o’clock.

Darnell spilled out of Mr. Schweitzer’s chair.

“Greer!”

Jesus, he looked great, she thought. The wiry, bubbly white hair against his milk chocolate skin. Even in relaxed clothing he appeared like a model.

“Hi, handsome,” she said, running her fingers through his hair and giving him a hug and peck. “This is Professor Maldonado, and this is Rae O’Connell, the governor’s daughter.”

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Darnell said to Mal. “I have a pair of your figurines in my home.”

“Really? Which ones?”

“Russian ladies.”

Mal smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah.”

“I asked Mrs. Schweitzer last night,” Rae said, “to set me up as close to you as possible on a secure phone. I’ll have to run messages to Greer during your meeting.”

The study was pure Teddy Roosevelt, with stuffed heads of boars and lions and buffalo staring down at them and photographs of safaris, killing safaris.

…good trip, fine…

“You know,” Darnell said, “every campaign plays hide-and-seek on the debate, maneuvering for an edge. In the end there is always a debate. I hope we can hash it out.”

“We know you are ready to shotgun the country
with ads saying Quinn was the one refusing to debate,” Greer said.

“Our attitude here, now, is that you really don’t want the debate,” Mal said.

“I refer to one debate,” Darnell said, “because two simply can’t be fit in. Here is our proposal for site and rules.”

“And here is ours,” Greer said.

Darnell’s paper ruled out university campuses. Universities were too volatile and apt to be too liberal. The cities suggested were San Diego, Portland, San Antonio, St. Paul, Baltimore, and Montgomery.

The debate would last ninety minutes, and there would be alternative moderators.

Three minutes on each new subject. Three-minute rebuttal. The last fifteen minutes, questions from the audience.

Rae came in from the adjoining office and laid a half dozen notes before Greer. She scribbled on two of them and set two aside. “This should excite you, Darnell. We have just qualified for federal matching funds for the balance of the campaign.”

“The proposal?”

“Bullshit,” Mal said characteristically. “Montgomery, St. Paul, Portland. Why don’t we hold it in the middle of the Amazon? Besides, your October 11 date could well be during a World Series game. Otherwise, there is absolutely nothing we agree with in the balance of this proposal.”

Darnell held his hand up to be able to read the counterproposal. Rae came in with a half dozen more notes, two for Mal.

Darnell set their proposal down. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Well, your proposal was pretty sanitized.”

“And yours, revolutionary.”

“All we are trying to do,” Mal said, “is bring the
art of debate up to where it was a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Those kind of debates are won by artful dodgers,” Darnell said.

“I’d say both of the candidates qualify,” Greer said.

Darnell glared down at the paper on the desk. They would vie for a single three-hour debate with a twenty-minute break in the middle. Only one venue was proposed, the Celeste Bartos Forum Hall in the New York Public Library.

It would be an open debate. Either candidate could bring up any issue and argue it. Either candidate could rebut. The deadline would be five minutes. If a candidate ran under five minutes, he would be given credit for the time; if he ran over it, it would be deducted from his total speaking time.

One moderator.

“This is a prelude to a shouting match,” Darnell said strongly. “It’s a street brawl.”

“No,” Mal said, “we’re talking about getting truth to the people.”

“Truth is what we all seek,” Darnell thought, but declined to say it. They weren’t budging. Perhaps, he thought, they believed they had an edge. But wait! They have more to gain than we have. We’re out to neutralize this debate by cluttering.

Rae returned with an urgent message. Greer studied it, contemplated, then arose. “I have to take care of something,” she said. “It will take a few minutes, maybe more. You guys keep going and I’ll catch up.”

Mal faced Darnell, Darnell faced Mal. Darnell wondered if they were setting him up.

Knowing the Republicans were about to inundate the airways with nasty advertisements, Mal had formed a “Truth Squad” which had obtained copies of about half of the ads. Quinn would be ready to react
instantly. Yet President Tomtree was still the power and owned the machinery to maul and grind under his opponent by sheer weight of numbers of dollars and had little appetite to be bound to the truth.

“I don’t think you get it,” Mal said.

“I think you’ve made preposterous demands. I won’t even show these to the President.”

“You intend to go through the motions of a debate reduced to no consequence and unleash your media barrage and turn the rest of the campaign into a fuck fest. Just skip the gutter and go straight down to the sewer. Okay, let’s play some sewer games.”

“I’d rather wait until Greer returns.”

“Sit still, Mr. Jefferson. Pucky Tomtree has been having an illicit affair with another man for over two years.”

Darnell’s mind ran a Pucky-check. If she had, she was extremely clever and careful. Would she? Little gossip bits had her with artists and writers, but that had been long ago, probably before Thornton. What seemed certain was that Maldonado would not try this if it wasn’t true.

“What are your intentions?” Darnel asked grimly.

“This campaign is not going into mud slinging. We demand a full, honest, open debate, without stunts. We demand decency in your advertising.”

Darnell had been scissored. He knew it. Yet Maldonado was not trying to shade his demands. Darnell had gotten to know Quinn with a lot of secondhand study. This was pure Quinn Patrick O’Connell, a sense of humility and honor that conveyed itself to the public.

“Who knows about this?”

“Greer learned about this first. She told the governor, myself and my daughter, who is Quinn’s wife. We are it.”

“The press?”

“
Nada
, nothing.”

“You are certain to be able to keep a lid on this till after the election, provided we remain in certain bounds?”

“I’m as sure as I can be about anything,” Mal said. “We’re dealing with three fine people. Greer doesn’t even know I’m confronting you. Quinn ordered us not to leak this at any cost. I’m taking it upon myself to offer it to you as a warning.”

“If I agree to carefully inspect our advertising and I agree to your debate conditions, will you give me the name of the gentleman?”

“Do you agree?” Mal asked.

“I agree, but how can O’Connell afford this gesture, a gesture that could deny him the presidency?”

“You just don’t get it, Mr. Jefferson.”

When Greer returned, Darnell watched the two very closely. Were they in cahoots, in a good-cop, bad-cop play, deliberately giving Mal time alone with Darnell so he could squash him while leaving her out? There was absolutely nothing in her demeanor to indicate she knew of Professor Maldonado’s revelation.

Through the next two hours of “negotiations,” Darnell began to “see” more and more merit to their proposal. He wondered out loud that it might even help Thornton. Two politicians facing each other honestly. Now, that’s a picture…or an extended oxymoron.

Darnell won a few points in quibbling over this and that, and by early afternoon they broke camp to return to Midway Airport.

The final seal would be a simultaneous announcement with both candidates praising the honesty and openness of the debate.

*  *  *

Rae sat in the cockpit at the navigator’s desk, still directing the streams of information coming in.

The cockpit door was closed.

“You all right?” Greer asked.

“I feel very tired,” Mal answered.

“You told him while I was out of the room.”

“Yeah,” Mal sighed, “I nailed him.”

“That puts Quinn in a rotten position vis-à-vis the two of you.”

“I’ll save him the pain of having to fire me. I’m resigning.”

Greer patted his hand. “Maybe we see Quinn in too bright a light, Mal. Maybe he knew, in his heart of hearts, one of us intended to confront Jefferson about the Pucky affair. He’s that smart, you know.”

Rae came back with messages and gave them to Greer.

“Are you okay, Grandpa?” Rae asked.

“Just tired, honey.”

Quinn read the short note of resignation from Mal.

“This is terrible,” Quinn said.

“I got you the debate I think you need. So, don’t let’s rehash it.”

“I’m going to have to accept your resignation,” Quinn said, feeling a trembling wash over him.

“Yes, I know.”

“Mal. We are still family. We’re only humans. I wasn’t really all that surprised when you told me. Maybe I silently hung the bad deed on you. And you only did it to make the playing field level. I want to keep Rita and my personal rooms at your home. We are family, man!”

“Thanks, Quinn.”

NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY—
FIFTH AVENUE
OCTOBER 15, 2008

On this day the grand repository of human existence and thought was the focus of the nation. On this day illicit lovers could no longer rendezvous at the statues of the lions, for the building was isolated by police barricades.

Forty-second and Fortieth streets and Fifth Avenue held bumper-to-bumper privileged parking.

In the rear of the great edifice, running to the Avenue of the Americas, stood Bryant Park, a pocket park. Twice a year the fashion establishment raised a tent and models slunk down the runway. Cheers for Karan and Klein.

Beneath Bryant Park the greatest of treasures—an eight-story bunker held a trove indicating human existence on the planet, from cuneiform to Stone Age arrowheads, from the Gobi Desert to Newfoundland. All of it was here, awaiting visitors from space.

The tattered elegance of the
kodakCELESTE BARTOS
Forum had received a face-lift for the affair, her imposing glass dome shined to a glitter and four hundred temporary stadium seats installed.

The overflow of media had to cover the event piped back to the
fujifilmJOHN JACOB ASTOR
Ballroom.

Carter Carpenter, a hallowed father figure of the American media, had been resurrected to moderate the affair.

It was to be a wide-open debate, with the moderator stepping in only to preserve civility.

A buzz of anticipation hummed upward as the clock moved for nine. Outside, last-minute tickets, drawn by lottery, were hustled for over five hundred dollars each.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” Carter Carpenter said authoritatively. Controlled applause greeted the governor and the president as they took to their rostrums.

For that instant Thornton Tomtree was glad he had let Darnell talk him into the venue. His lead over O’Connell had slipped from double digits to a single digit of nine percent.

Thornton, the stoic master of a great corporation, a gigantic figure, organized and in control, now showed an addition of tragedy—Lincolnesque. He had humanized himself, somewhat, since Four Corners, after slipping the mantle of blame and gaining sympathy for “taking responsibility, because it happened on my watch.”

On this night he’d be facing the gun issue as never before. He was ready.

Carter Carpenter explained the very liberal rules. “Mr. Tomtree will go first, as he won the flip of the coin.”

Tomtree’s opening statement said, in effect, “We are in midstream in several ways, leaving an old century behind and healing from a catastrophic event. We don’t change horses in midstream. Having ascertained that Four Corners was a national tragedy which demanded of every politician and every American, to accept his share of the blame…

“…what are we being offered in my place? A
popular rodeo-style candidate who, in fact, is probably more at ease branding cattle.”

Quinn’s smile burped up to a short laugh. Tomtree pretended not to hear. Quinn knew what kind of brawl was coming up. Keep the powder dry for the last half hour, he told himself.

“The American people must not roll dice,” Thornton went on. “We must not mistake my opponent as a Western hero, the sheriff in
High Noon
. This is a reckless man whose claim to fame has come about through violence.

“In the AMERIGUN fiasco Quinn O’Connell put lives in danger a dozen times with tactics illegal in our system of justice.

“Do we want a shoot-’em-up-first president? Do we want to trust the future of our nation to a man whose finger is always on the trigger?”

Strong, strong stuff and only two minutes and thirty-two seconds had passed. “Mr. Tomtree, you have credit for twenty-eight seconds.”

Quinn slipped a high stool under him, found a comfortable position, and rested his arms on his podium, speaking without notes, as Carter Carpenter nodded that his time had begun.

“Thornton Tomtree has done an admirable job in the past year of helping us heal our wounds, but he has done an even more admirable job of salvaging his own reputation.

“The day on which Mr. Tomtree assumed office four years ago, the United States proliferated with a third of a billion guns, one for every man, woman, and child in America.

“Bogus militias had spread like pack rats in our forests and canyons and cities. Today, the White Aryan Christian Arrival claims nearly two hundred thousand followers, followers of Adolf Hitler and purveyors of hate.

“From the time of his first inauguration until this day, Thornton Tomtree has never once raised the issue of gun control.

“He, like many Republicans, and Democrats, went stone deaf, dumb, and blind during the intimidation waltz played by AMERIGUN.

“Thirty thousand Americans are killed each year by guns. Match that against sixty thousand killed in Vietnam over a ten-year period.

“Each year more Americans die by gunfire than are killed in traffic accidents! More people die by gunfire than die from Alzheimer’s…or by leukemia…more than are killed by cirrhosis.”

Thornton tapped the bell on his podium.

“Those are pretty heavy numbers,” Carter Carpenter said. “Would you like to answer them?”

“Yes, I would,” Thornton said. “It is easy to bandy about superficial numbers.”

“I hope so,” Quinn said, “we drew them off the Bulldog Information Net, which guarantees their accuracy.”

“Raw data,” Thornton said, “can be manipulated to suit any argument. Private ownership of weapons has been an American tradition from the inception of the nation. They cleared the way as we moved west. Those so-called statistics all have ipso facto’s connected to them. The numbers are in the eyes of the beholder. We may have come to that point where there has to be new thinking on the subject. But we must wait until the investigations are done and all the information is in. We must not rush to judgment and in so doing endanger a basic American right.”

“Hold on, sir,” Quinn interrupted. “What about the monumental investigation you promised? It has been a year, forty-four million dollars has been spent, and there is no report.

“It is a matter of American justice that we get all
the information in. When I received the Four Corners commission’s preliminary report last February, I had to go before the American people and tell them that Six Shooter Canyon had to become a permanent mass grave. I sensed, as president, that our people needed more time to heal. If we had released the thousands of pages of documents, it would have only served to intensify national pain and make the American people relive the incident over and over.

“No matter our history and traditions, the tragedy in the canyon was a three and a half billion to one shot. It cannot and will not ever happen again, no matter what resolution we come to on gun ownership.”

“Both of you gentlemen have stated your basic positions. Should we hold this data in mind and move on to another subject?”

“No, sir,” Quinn said quickly. “This is the issue that brought me here. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow, fourteen children daily will be killed by guns. In addition to the thirty thousand slain, another hundred thousand are wounded, filling our emergency rooms with blood. Each gun death costs us $395,000. We are the shame of the civilized world. One of the richest forty nations in the world, the United States alone is responsible for half of all gun deaths.”

Thornton Tomtree felt his first blip of fear. He knew that Quinn had gotten a foot in the door of his Christian Right. He had known exactly what statistics Quinn would throw out. It was the pulsating manner in which Quinn delivered his message, without bullying. Thornton knew he could say the exact same words and never achieve the same effect. Thornton glanced at Darnell. He was a statue. The overall debate strategy now evolved in Thornton’s mind. To spring the trap? Yes? When to spring the trap?

Thornton smoothly shifted gears into his achievements, as immortalized on the Bulldog Information Network. Trade deficit down, budget surplus; Social Security funded for the century; great medical achievements; full employment;
and
world commerce, commerce in which the United States was the power that was!

Quinn’s list of achievements was paler stuff, but the kind of stuff which had held Colorado up as a light of the nation.

Thornton jumped on Quinn’s opening fusillade of helter-skelter statistics as another example of his recklessness.

Now to hit Quinn with the “doom and gloom” speech Quinn had made during the primaries in Jackson, Mississippi. The two major elements of it were world population control and the finite resources of the planet.

Tomtree was almost overwhelmingly tempted to bring up the birth-control issue. But birth control and pro choice was a chancy subject. Most Americans, by a wide margin, favored and practiced both.

If somehow Thornton could drive a wedge between the issue and the fact that O’Connell was a Catholic. He caught a glimpse of Darnell, whose eyes told Thornton he might be setting a trap for himself.

Okay, then, the second part of the Mississippi address.

“Mr. O’Connell paints a brooding and grim assessment of the future of the earth’s resources. During my administration the United States has stood at the head of a consortium for the exploration of the seas. Using the great gift of computer science, we are in the process of mapping the bottom of every ocean, sea, bay, polar cap, and lake.

“Treaties have been concluded with most maritime nations in which America will do the searching and the mapping. Treaty nations will receive a share of the eventual profits.

“What have we found under our oceans? We have discovered hundreds of thousands of chimneys, maybe millions of them, spewing up a variety of basic metals and ores, from inner layers of the earth. If we keep exploration focused on our seas, I believe we will discover what we will need to sustain future life. So, let us drop our doom and our gloom. Our computer science is becoming so advanced, we know it will show us that the planet will continue to prosper.”

Carter Carpenter cleared his throat, sincerely. “Would you care to respond, Mr. O’Connell?”

“Yes, sir. I think that the intense underseas exploration may have some merit, but we cannot bank the future of the planet on it.”

Thornton’s bell rang as he sensed Quinn hesitating. “Do you have a position on this, Mr. O’Connell?”

“I sure do,” Quinn answered. “I’ve been briefed on this by Scripps Institute, Woods Hole, and Long Island University School of Oceanography. While we have gained enormous knowledge of the universe, we really don’t understand the lay of the land a few miles down. Space exploration feeds the human drive to explore, to learn, to have a romantic contact. Perhaps, in this century, we will make contact with intelligent life out there. But under any equation, we will never be able to replenish the earth’s shrinking resources. God does not run a trucking company from outer space. As for inner space, the chimneys on the ocean floors are truly God’s handiwork created over tens of millions of years. Heat from lower layers beneath the earth’s crust spouts from under
the bottom of the sea, spewing minerals through the chimneys. Will we find infinite new sources of materials? If we tamper with these chimneys, which indicate fire below, then we are setting the table for underwater volcanos and the tidal waves they will create. We could be setting the table for a heating of our waters that would risk worldwide coastal flooding and a century-long El Niño.

“Does not this underwater exploration indicate a sense of desperation to replace what has been lost? Have we not done enough damage to our waters?”

Quinn went deeper into the perils of underwater mining. “Exploration is primitive. To take something from the bottom of the sea would cost a hundredfold more than surface mining.”

Thornton felt a surge of raw fear. O’Connell was explaining something in Thornton’s realm with utter clarity. Thornton could fire back with esoteric computer data, but it could well fail.

Thornton had believed himself incredible, close to godlike, the way he had fought his way back from the Four Corners. But more, the people believed their president had added a dimension to his character.

Thornton had toyed around to come up with a probe for the debate, one that would catch O’Connell cold. In actual fact, Thornton had grown a little sour on much of the underseas probing. Yet it was a good, tricky subject to show up his opponent’s ignorance.

Thornton glanced at the time-keeping apparatus. Quinn had built up a reserve of ten minutes while he, Thornton, was on borrowed time.

T3 had not come into the Great Debate without a hidden ace. He could wait till the clock wound down to five minutes. Meanwhile, Quinn had skillfully maneuvered him into an unwanted question-and-answer game.

“Mr. Carpenter,” Thornton said, turning to the moderator. “My position is that we need a study.”

“Mr. Tomtree, there is no restriction or limitation on any subject. Mr. O’Connell can revisit anything he cares to.”

Thornton grimaced inwardly. That son of a bitch, Carter Carpenter, was at this moment the most powerful man in the world.

“What about child locks?” Quinn went on.

“That’s reasonable,” Thornton answered.

“How about a national gun registry, of which our police and other law enforcement agencies unanimously approve?”

“We are floating into the potential of a massive bureaucracy.”

“We have registration in Colorado. The bureau has forty people in it who also double as instructors for certification of a weapon. What about the limitation on the number of personal arms a citizen can buy?”

“You can buy as many gallons of gas and chocolate bars as you want and need.”

“Well, it’s all right if each citizen purchased fifty guns, as have many citizens?”

“If we spell out numbers of guns, we may be endangering freedom of choice. Yes, there can be a ceiling, I suppose.”

“I have two pairs of skis, two tennis rackets, and between myself and my ranch manager we have three weapons. Sir, are you aware there are a hundred thousand licensed gun dealers in the U.S.?”

To let this run its course or not to let it run? Show dignity, Thornton told himself. The damned point of all this was that as president, he was protecting both Democrats and Republicans who received huge contributions from AMERIGUN and its allies. Dammit, they’d never support any national gun law with teeth.