Spicer was confident he could blend in adequately but he remained on the outskirts, near the door. His heart skipped a beat when Esther took his hand into hers and he smiled to her. Nothing needed to be said.
All the while, Spicer kept his eyes on the stage. Curtains had been put up and in the corner Michaels was arguing with party officials. A woman burst into tears. Another one shook her head. After several minutes of back and forth, Michaels walked past the curtains and went to the podium.
The crowd went wild. They were cheering as much for him as for the reporter on TV who announced that they’d just won New York.
“Excuse me, excuse me!”
It took all of a minute for people to quiet down.
“There’s been a terrible tragedy.” This time everybody shut up and a technician turned down the volume of the news broadcast. “A few minutes ago, Regis Ford was taken to the hospital, they think it was a heart attack.”
Incredulous, people started chattering. Michaels himself looked despondent. He was a good actor, Spicer had to give him that.
“It’s bad, really bad. I’ll keep you folks posted as we get news of his condition.”
He disappeared back where he’d come from and Spicer smirked, relief washing over him. They had seen reason. What was the alternative? Kill them? Have them ship away to Guantanamo Bay or some black site in the Middle East? And then what?
The Federal Election Commission had indeed been contacted, and Ned and Weller had each given instructions to friends to release information they had gathered in the event of their vanishing. Spicer had survived for so long because he’d worked alone. This time having friends is what had saved him.
He chuckled while imagining Houseman and Clara sneaking a very healthy Regis Ford out of the hotel. Abandoning the presidency — he would probably fake his death — had to be worse than death itself for him. The poetic justice was sublime.
They walked out of the hotel and across the street to the parking garage. For the first time in a long time they weren’t in a hurry.
“You think that’ll be enough, Spicer?” Weller asked.
“Right after we get back to my place, we’ll mail copies of our notes. We’ll send them to the New York Times, USA Today, some newspapers in Europe, Wikileaks, and to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Then we’ll really be safe, they won’t be able to touch us.”
Ned started laughing. “Good thing they fired me first, uh?”
They joined in the laughter. It was over at last.
Chapter 32
Dr. Michaels had bought his Georgetown brownstone because it was elegant. It was more of a status symbol than a house to him. It was great to entertain, to hold parties, and to show off his wife, but other than that it was just a place where he slept at night.
After the elections, he had figured he would spend even less time here. He surely would have spent most of his time at the White House working with the new President to harmonize national policy with Sigma’s real objective. It had been in the works for so long that it was a blow to the head that it hadn’t worked out this way.
It was the first time in years that he had crashed on the basement couch in his pajamas and bathrobe. His feet were on the table, ankles crossed, and his coffee was heavily spiked with bourbon. He surfed through the stations until he hit CNN. The pretty reporter on the screen was only one of a thousand covering the story.
“Having been elected an hour after having suffered a massive heart attack, the family confirmed that Regis Ford died today after spending more than a week in a coma. We spoke to…”
He changed the channel again. He didn’t need any more information about Regis Ford’s death. He had taken care of the whole damn thing himself, for Christ sakes.
After driving out of Miami, they had brought Ford to Georgia where a Learjet registered to a dummy corporation, a CIA front usually reserved for extraordinary renditions, flew him out of the country. The plane took him to Rabat, Morocco where he laid low for two days, and then another covert flight brought him to Indonesia.
Houseman promised him that he would prepare for his triumphant return, somehow, but Michaels knew that it was bullshit. They had wagered big on this, came close, but they’d eventually fallen short. They had to write off Ford. If he ever came out of hiding he would have to be eliminated.
In the meantime, they would have to work with the new President and pray that they could steer his views so they aligned with Sigma. At his age, Houseman would surely retire so it was up to Michaels to take over. He decided he would take another week’s vacation and then get back to work.
And speaking of the new President, everything was hazy. It was generally assumed that the Vice President-elect would take over but the media was putting more and more credibility in the outrageous revelations concerning Sigma Division and claims of election fraud. People were demanding an investigation and some pundits believed there would be a do-over election. The Supreme Court was currently juggling with these issues.
With a sigh, he landed on a show about some bearded guys trying to haul an alligator into their boat. He gave it a few scenes, realized he couldn’t understand half of what they were saying, and changed stations again.
His wife came down the stairs, her shoes resounding loudly on the hardwood.
“Honey, there are people from the FBI and FEC here to see you.”
As he turned around to face her, three dour men wearing dark suits followed her down. He didn’t have time to put his drink down that one of the guys, definitely FBI, went past his wife over to him.
“Dr. Michaels, can you explain why your signature was on money transfers to non- research related accounts?”
He looked at his perplexed wife. He suddenly realized he was staring at a long prison sentence.
In his candy striper uniform, Houseman pushed 95-year-old Mr. Lyman in his wheelchair along the corridors of the hospital.
“Mr. Lyman, can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, Viagra does work.” The old man laughed which led to a coughing fit. Once he’d recovered, he continued. “And at my age, it’s a pickup line that works too. You show them your prescription and you wake up in a strange lady’s bed.”
He laughed again and Houseman smiled. Volunteering at the hospital never failed to lift his spirits. And he definitely needed to be cheered up these days. His life’s work had dissolved right before his eyes. He had dreamed about this project for 50 years, had engineered the research for 30.
In a matter of weeks, some nosy bastard had destroyed everything.
Now he had to accept reality. He was too old to start again. There was public scrutiny. Michaels had called him to say that the FBI had paid him a visit. Half an hour’s worth of phone calls to his contacts was sufficient to verify that he would be arrested in a matter of days. The Select Committee on Intelligence was set to investigate. The blowback was simply awful. A clusterfuck.
“I was wondering about regret,” Houseman said. “Is there anything you regret not having done?”
Mr. Lyman half closed his eyes while he considered the question.
“I don’t think so. I’ve worked hard all my life, I married a nice woman, we had good children. I can’t complain. But I suppose that if I’d had only one goal in my entire life and I’d never reached it, I’d probably have trouble living with myself. Regret’s never a good thing.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re correct.”