Wild Card

27

Hank Thomas called in Rance Damien and sat him down. “I’ve changed my mind about contributions to Joe Box’s campaign,” he said.

“You’re pulling out? I haven’t sent the twenty mil yet.”

“No, I’m doubling down and tripling. I want you to set up a campaign that parallels his own — not in every state, but in places where he can do well with more money — a shadow campaign, if you like. And I want you to find the senator a first-rate speechwriter, who can blend his work with Box’s style of speaking.”

“People with those skills are already aligning themselves with more important candidates.”

“People like that are always late on their mortgage and car payments. Figure out how much it would take to turn a writer’s head, and tell him or her that no one will ever know what he did, unless he wants to reveal it in his post-campaign book. Get Box some first-rate TelePrompTer instruction, too, and get him trained to not go off the reservation and sound stupid. Tell him that if he sticks to the scripts, he could actually be elected.”

“Right, I’m perfectly willing to lie to the guy.”

“You need to spend an hour in a room with him and scare him shitless. Make yourself out to be his only path upward, and let him know that if he strays from the plan, he’ll be humiliated and destroyed. Tell him you have no policy demands, but his speechwriter may suggest some likely ones. Remember, this is a guy with a net worth of less than half a million dollars. He can be bought, and in a hurry.”

“All right,” Rance said, “I’m on it.”

“And remember not to be seen with him anywhere, especially anywhere near a reporter; your face is too memorable at the moment. Of course, that will change with time.”

“What’s my total budget for this project?”

“Sixty million dollars,” Hank replied. “Now get your ass in gear.”

Holly Barker saw Stone’s message on her cell phone but waited until she had some free time before returning it.

“Hello, there,” she said.

“And to you. How fast do I have to talk?”

“I’ve got a few minutes.”

“I’ve got some interesting gossip, and I’ve got a campaign offer for you. Which do you want to hear first?”

“The gossip, but I warn you, I’ve probably already heard it.”

“Hank Thomas is putting twenty million dollars into Joe Box’s campaign through a PAC.”

Silence.

“You need to apply a squirt of oil to your brain, Holly. I can hear the wheels turning from here.”

“All right, I’ll buy that, and it’s pretty obvious why. Hank wants to wreck the Republican Party so he can have a clean shot as an independent in four years — maybe as the leader of a new party.”

“Consider yourself lubricated,” Stone said.

“What’s the campaign thing?”

“I had a conversation with Peter Rule yesterday, and he asked me to tell you that he’d like very much to be your running mate.”

“That’s surprising this early in the campaign,” she said.

“He also told me to tell you that if politics dictate a different choice, he’ll step aside and help.”

“I’ve always been very impressed with Peter,” Holly said. “Tell me, has Kate weighed in on this?”

“He told me that he has not discussed this with either of his parents and does not intend to, unless they bring it up, in which case he’ll tell them he’ll get back to them.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Peter is a young man who has never had to lie to get what he wants.”

“I think that’s an accurate assessment. I hope it lasts. You can tell Peter I’m interested — no, I’ll tell him myself. I need a few people — surrogates, I guess you’d call them — who can speak on my behalf when I can’t make a venue. I’ll invite him to join that group, then assess him as we move along.”

“That’s a good move,” Stone said. “If you want him, I think you’ll need to get him in front of the electorate often enough and with enough good material that, by convention time, a large pack of them will be clamoring for you to select him.”

“Make him the obvious choice?”

“If you want him. Don’t string him along, if you’re not interested.”

“I’m interested, and I’ll tell him so.”

“Then my work is done,” Stone said. “Try not to get us into any wars before November.” They both hung up.

Rance Damien sat across the table from a middle-aged woman in a diner. “What do you have for me, Florence?”

Florence Heath was a New York — based member of the recruiting committee for Harvard and had seen the résumés of thousands of applicants over the years. She passed Damien a large envelope. “Before you sit down and read this, let me give you the CliffsNotes version.”

“All right.”

“He has just finished his doctorate work in political science, and his dissertation knocked it out of the park. I’ve had my eye on him since he applied as a junior in high school. It was heavy lifting to get him accepted at that age, but I did it.”

“Why is he the right guy for me?”

“There isn’t a better brain in the country for what you want, but he comes up short in the personality area. In fact, he may be somewhere on the spectrum. For example, the board loved his dissertation but not his orals; they thought him excessively blunt with his elders and betters, though they gave him high marks. Where he excels in communication is through his writing, both for publication and for speaking. He gave an address at his graduation ceremony that is still remembered, but he read every word of it from a script. He also wrote some witty columns for the Crimson, under a pseudonym.”

“What are his current circumstances?”

“In spite of his achievements, because of his personality, he has been unable to find a university teaching position. And since he comes from a modest background, he has a quarter of a million in student loans. He’s working as a teaching assistant, but only for the summer program, so he’s about to be homeless and broke.

“His name is Ari Kramer. His contact information is in his file.”

“Florence,” Damien said, pushing an envelope across the table. “You’ve done well. I may call upon you again.”

She took a peek in the envelope. “Please do,” she said. “Anytime.”

Damien went back to his office and read every word of the file. He thought Ari Kramer was just what he was looking for.