The Abduction

6

Early Monday morning, David Wilcox entered the White House through the tunnel that connected a subbasement in the East Wing to the basement of the Treasury Building. It was an alternative entrance for recognizable visitors who didn’t want their arrival noted by the press. Wilcox had insisted on using it, fearing that a highly visible, personal visit with the president might be seen as an act of desperation by the Leahy campaign.

Two Secret Service agents led the underground journey. One flanked Wilcox. The other watched Eric Helmers, the popular governor of Georgia whom Allison had selected as her vice presidential running mate. Helmers brought balance to the ticket in more ways than one. Aside from being a handsome and well-spoken southern man, he was a decorated Vietnam War veteran who had lost half of his left foot to a land mine. His lifelong work on behalf of the physically challenged had earned him national acclaim, and his well-publicized participation in the Boston Marathon each year was a genuine inspiration to everyone. Wilcox and the Secret Service agents were struggling to keep pace with him, short of breath and sweating at the brow by the time they emerged from the White House basement.
The meeting was scheduled for seven-thirty in the Oval Office. As usual, President Sires was late. Wilcox and Helmers sat in silence in the first-floor lobby of the West Wing, sipping White House coffee beneath a framed antique map of Colorado, the president’s home state. At eight-fifteen the president’s executive secretary led them to the Oval Office. Barbara Killian, the stoic chief of staff, greeted them at the door.
“Gentlemen,” she said ominously.
The president stood at the center of the room, dressed in a madras shirt and khaki slacks, crouched over a little white ball in a somewhat awkward putting stance. A long, thin strip of synthetic putting green stretched across the presidential seal woven into the oval office carpet. A half-dozen golf balls surrounded the plastic cup at the other end of the greenery, each engraved with the slogan “Fore More Years.”
He took a smooth stroke, sending the ball eighteen feet straight into the cup. “Yesssss!”
“Good shot, Mr. President,” said the chief of staff.
He flashed a boyish grin. “They don’t call me Lucky Chucky for nothing.” He laid his putter aside and greeted his guests, directing them to the armchairs facing his desk. No introductions were necessary.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Mr. President,” said Wilcox.
The president returned to his leather chair, flashing his trademark smile. “Hey, we lame ducks have all the time in the world.”
Then why the hell did you keep us waiting for forty-five minutes? thought Wilcox. “Not to be disrespectful, sir, but with just eight days to the election, time is running out for Allison Leahy. She is going to lose this election if she doesn’t get her head out of the sand and flat out deny that she has ever cheated on her husband. I’ve told her that. Eric has told her that. The polls are telling her that.”
“Shoot, David. You can’t put that much stock in polls. If I actually believed my public approval rating was as high as the pollsters say it is, I’d be out there dating again.”
Wilcox grimaced.
“That was a joke,” said the president.
The chief of staff chuckled dutifully. Wilcox forced a smile, then turned serious. “Someone needs to talk to her, sir. You’re still her boss. It should come from you.”
The president leaned back in his chair, framed by the American flags behind him. “Allison is a woman of strong principles. That’s why I named her attorney general. It’s not my place to tell her what to say on matters relating to her own personal integrity.”
“Sir, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t crunch time.”
President Sires folded his hands atop the desk. The smile was gone. He was suddenly presidential. “Let’s be frank. The whole world knows that Allison Leahy wasn’t my first choice for the Democratic nomination. To this day, I believe there was no stronger successor to the Sires administration than my own vice president.”
Wilcox bristled. “So you’re saying you want Allison to lose?”
“Of course not. Personal feelings aside, I realize that a lot of senators, congressmen, governors, and everyone else on down the line could get hurt bad by a presidential candidate with no coattails. So I support Allison. But I’m not going to micromanage her campaign.”
“This is not micromanagement. This is the difference between winning and losing.”
The chief of staff checked her watch, catching the president’s eye.
He rose from behind his desk, taking the cue. “Just one more thing before we break, gentlemen. Although I didn’t support Allison for the nomination, I respect her position on this issue. I have no doubt in my mind that she could truthfully deny she’s ever cheated on her husband. But if she answers that question, she’s setting a precedent that will haunt every woman who ever runs for president in the future. Now, I won’t stand here and pretend that an unfaithful husband has never been elected president of the United States. But as a matter of political reality, I’m not sure voters would be so forgiving of an unfaithful wife who seeks this office. I’m not saying that’s fair. It’s just a fact. And I can say one thing about Allison Leahy: She knows the facts.”
He shook hands, first with Wilcox, then Helmers. The pumping motion seemed to reengage the friendly smile, as if it were one reflex. “Thanks for stoppin’ by, boys. Y’all come fly fishin’ with me after January twentieth, ya hear?”
“Thank you, sir,” they said in unison. Wilcox wanted to push it, but the good ol’ boy accent and hollow invitations were a sure sign that presidential business was over. The chief of staff saw them to the door. Wilcox gave her a smile that was, at best, polite, then exited the Oval Office with Governor Helmers at his side. They took the longer route back to the lobby, past the president’s study. Wilcox eyed the adjacent office, small but coveted. For White House staff, a windowless closet near the president was preferable to an entire floor in the old Executive Office Building across the street. This one, thought Wilcox, might someday be his.
“What now?” asked Helmers. He had a pained expression, the look of man who’d already lost his bid for vice president.
“Plan B,” said Wilcox.
“What’s Plan B?”
They stopped at the foot of the stairs before reaching the lobby and their Secret Service escorts. Wilcox spoke quietly so no one could overhear. “General Howe may be a whiz at conventional warfare. Let’s see how he fares at nuclear politics.”


By 9:00 A.M., Buck LaBelle was on his sixth cup of coffee. The waitress brought him three fried eggs and five slices of bacon, which he devoured in three-and-a-half minutes. He’d have to do without his usual mound of cheese grits. He was, after all, in Cincinnati.
LaBelle spent the better part of the breakfast hour trying to persuade the president and vice president of the National Fraternal Order of Police that, as the debates had made clear, the nation’s largest law enforcement organization had thrown the weight of its 300,000 members behind the wrong candidate. By 10:30 they’d heard enough. LaBelle returned to his hotel room and phoned General Howe.
“They won’t pull the endorsement,” said LaBelle.
“Son of a bitch!” his voice erupted over the line. “We’ve been hearing the same damn thing all weekend from everyone—teachers, labor, police. This character horseshit you cooked up just isn’t going to carry me through the election. Especially now that Leahy has her loving husband campaigning at her side.”
“Be patient. We’re spinning some new commercials.”
“That’s not enough. Bottom line, Buck, is that we’ve milked this adultery cow for all it’s worth. It eroded Leahy’s soft support, and it pulled us even in the polls. But we need to jab her in the eye with a sharper stick if we want to snare some of her core supporters.”
LaBelle sighed. “If we just stick to the game plan—”
“I need a battle plan. No more games. Now, I’m on stage in ninety seconds, so let’s talk this afternoon. But I’m telling you up front: One thing I learned after forty years in the army is that keeping the wrong man on the job gets other men killed. You understand me, Buck?”
LaBelle bristled. No one had ever threatened to fire him. “Sounds like you’re looking for something drastic.”
“Drastic, yes. Desperate, no. You understand the difference?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. We’ll talk later.” The line clicked.
LaBelle wondered if the general’s cryptic distinction between “drastic” and “desperate” was his subtle way of drawing some ethical line that his staff shouldn’t cross. Not likely. In fact, he was certain they were on the same Machiavellian wavelength—and that whatever plan he devised would be judged only in hindsight.
If it worked, it was drastic; if it failed, it was desperate.