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  “I’m learning from you.” The twenty-six-year-old, who had been an honors student in political science at the University of Virginia, attempted a smile.

  “Well, Bill, if you’re training as a politician, answer me this one: am I wise to just leave it that with Edmund Muskie on the panel, I’m satisfied that our views will be adequately represented? Or should I make a scene and say that our position is underrepresented, since Muskie is only one of five members of the proposed panel?”

  I’ll be goddamned, Rode said to himself. Rode was not backward as a political analyst. Our boy is thinking 1992! “Well, I’d say—I’d suggest—that you just say at your next press conference that you have great respect for Mr. Muskie, and you know he will represent well the views of those who oppose unconstitutional arrogations of power by the chief executive.” He paused with his single quite captivating expression, in which he managed to combine official skepticism and scarcely concealed derision.

  Reuben smiled in return. “I’ll have to go to the party tonight. But after lunch, let’s go to my room and review the material you brought.”

  “Sure. Yes, sir.”

  Late in the afternoon Susan reached him. “Are you alone, Senator?”

  “Yes, Susan. Bill went up to his own room, so he could watch the rest of the match on television. You got news?”

  “Yes, I do. You passed the first test with Harold Kaltenbach. With him, as maybe I told you, the meetings and interrogations go through stages. In the first, he passes judgment on whether your appearance and style can go big-time.”

  “So, I made it through stage one?”

  “Yes. He’s ready now for stage two. That entails, I know from a couple of survivors, pretty intimate interrogation, the kind of thing you’d expect if you were applying to the FBI or the CIA. What it comes down to, really, is a search for anything the opposition could go to town with. He wants to set up that kind of meeting with you.”

  “You said yes, I’d agree to that. Obviously.”

  “Obviously. But he’s not quite ready. He wants to do more of his own reading over the weekend. He asked for a date on Monday. Your calendar is clean, but you can’t be spotted in his company. You know that; we’ve discussed it. He has a friend—hell, he has a friend everywhere—he has a friend who keeps a boat on the Potomac. He said, ‘What about ten A.M. aboard the Circe?’”

  “Are you sure the Circe isn’t a Soviet spy ship?”

  “No, Senator.” Susan laughed. “But I’ll investigate before you meet him there. Are you saying yes?”

  “Yes, Susan. I mean, I want to be president, and this seems to be what I have to go through to get there. Susan, do you agree with me?”

  “That you should want to be president?”

  He laughed, “Okay, go with it,” and hung up the phone.

  It rang seconds later. It was Bill Rode. “Senator, get this! Hank Wright is tied for the lead with Larry Mize! There’ll be a lot of excitement going into the final round tomorrow. Want me to leave your congratulations at his HQ?”

  “Yeah, do that.”

  “You need anything in the meantime?”

  “Nothing much. Maybe some pussy.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Augusta, April 1987

  It was indeed a boisterous party. Under the white plastic tent, drinks flowed freely. The dusk was kept at bay with electric chandeliers overhead, and hurricane lamps on white-clad tables. Tired golfers mingled, their thoughts elsewhere, as VIPs bumped shoulders with young southern talent in skintight dresses. Hank Wright made an appearance. Unsurprisingly, he had nothing to drink, except the glass of dark brown liquid in his hand, and no one expected to learn from him whether that was Coca-Cola or Pepsi Cola. He would not risk affronting either of the giants on the eve of the critical round. If he won it, his managers could turn either to Coke or to Pepsi for future sponsorship.

  That didn’t discourage anybody else. There were a hundred people crowded into the tent—family, sponsors, friends, celebrities. There was a special exultancy among the friends of Hank Wright and Larry Mize. Which of them would be festive twenty-four hours later depended on how those two players, and the two or three others within striking distance, performed the next day. But one of the two was likely to emerge as champion. That called for another drink.

  The bartender had his own quickie version of a mint julep. Never mind. It was nearly as good as the real thing, Lucille said. Lucille was the principal hostess, in charge of welcoming the guests and directing them to the bar, and going back and forth to the console to increase the volume of the canned music or to decrease it. By seven o’clock it needed to be loud because everybody was speaking at the top of his lungs, just to be heard.

  With the rich curves of a twenty-year-old and the confidence of twice that age, Lucille made her way through the crowd, her auburn curls bobbing slightly, her scarlet gown parting the gray, beige, blue. To be greeted by Lucille was to be assured a pleasant welcome.

  Lucille had intended to welcome Senator Castle as simply one more VIP, pausing, as she did with other prominent guests, to chat for a minute or two before going back to the entrance to look after latecomers.

  But she found she didn’t want to leave this alluring young senator. There were, to begin with, his striking looks, and the appealing cock to his head as he leaned forward struggling to make out what you were saying. “You have to try one of Ernie’s mint juleps, Senator.” She spoke in Deep South. “He’s famous for them. Can I bring you one?”

  “Why not? But”—he extended his hand to the sleeve of her dress—“not if it means I’m going to lose you.”

  “That won’ happen, Senator. I promise you that.”

  And it didn’t happen. She was back in moments with a mint julep for him and, for herself, a cola.

  “You didn’t tell me what to call you.”

  “I’m Lucille. Lucille DeLoach.”

  “Lucille, can I ask you for a favor?”

  “You can as’ me for anything you want, Senator.”

  “An aide of mine is in town to help me out. Would it be okay if he came down to the party?”

  “Of course! Tell me what hotel he’s stayin’ in an’ I’ll call him myself.”

  Fifteen minutes later Bill Rode was at Reuben’s side, mint julep in hand. It was past seven-thirty and Reuben was finding the juleps powerful. “Powerful like a powerful bull,” he told Bill. “But powerful matadors like powerful bulls—they like the challenge.”

  “You’re liking the challenge of this julep, boss?”

  “I’m likin’—see how I can adjust to local idiom, Bill?—I’m likin’ all kinds of challenges tonight.”

  But he did not like the very immediate challenge he suddenly faced. A heavyset man, julep in hand, tie loosened, jaw thrust menacingly forward, stood squarely in front of Reuben. The sweat beaded on his flushed forehead as he unclenched his jaw to shout. “Heah me, y’all. Heah me. Heah me!”

  Reuben turned his head to Lucille. “Who’s this?”

  “Tha’s Bartle. Bartle O’Dwyer. Noisy genelman.”

  The tent had now gone relatively quiet, and Bartle O’Dwyer pointed a finger at Reuben. “Ladies and genelmen, this is the guy—the creepy guy—I went to in Saigon during a Vietcong raid. The gooks had got raht into the embassy grounds and we needed defensive fire. I ast for volunteers. There were six men in the office there. Five of them volunteered. Not this guy. He wanted to stay where he was, the colonel’s toy lieutenant.” O’Dwyer dropped his glass on the floor and brought his right fist up in a roundhouse punch aimed at Reuben’s stomach. Reuben easily swerved out of the way. He thought quickly. He’d have to fight back unless—

  Two guests, one of them a bulldog with huge shoulders and powerful arms, seized O’Dwyer and dragged him away, toward the bar.

  The silence was momentary. In ten seconds everyone was talking again. Reuben’s face was white. “Get me another—” but Lucille was already there with the fresh julep. Reuben took it, but found he had
no appetite for it, or even for Lucille.

  He turned to Bill Rode. “Let’s go. Maybe get something to eat.”

  Rode accompanied him out. Several of the partygoers looked at him inquisitively—then past him.

  Rode extended the iced-tea pitcher but Castle didn’t extend his glass, as he had twice done after they had got back to the suite. “No more. Might interfere with my performance later on.”

  Rode winked an eye. “You going out on the links to practice your stroke, Senator?”

  “I’m thinking of exactly that, Rode—going somewhere to practice my stroke. Rode?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What time did—what’s her name? Gladys?—”

  “Gladys, yes.”

  “—tell you she’d get here?”

  “Couldn’t make it before eight-thirty, she said.”

  “You know,” Reuben’s mind was wandering as, thinking better of it, he extended his glass, “I was thinking of Lucille. But not after that scene at the party.”

  “I’m sure Gladys will like your company, Senator.”

  “Why not? Most women do. All women do.” He stopped and chuckled. “I say all women. Is there any woman I haven’t pleased?”

  “No one who has complained to me.”

  “I’m not sure they’d complain to you, and they certainly would not—the nice ladies you come up with—complain to Miss America. Who else would they complain to? The secretary of commerce?”

  “You don’t hand out…weights and measures.”

  “No. But I give them a hell of a measure of what I’ve got to offer. If they get all I’ve got, they don’t want anything more—they can’t take anything more.”

  The phone rang. Rode picked it up. “Yes, this is Bill Rode, Gladys. I was just leaving; I’ve been up here with the senator having some iced tea. Hang on.” He cupped the receiver. “Should I ask her to come up?”

  “No—bring her up yourself. Meet her in the lobby.”

  Rode spoke into the phone. “He’s real anxious to say hello, Gladys. I’ll be right down. Should he order dinner?” Rode smiled. “I’ll tell him, Gladys. Just a little something. Bye-bye, Gladys.” He leaned over to put down the phone.

  CHAPTER 17

  Washington, D.C., April 1987

  Susan Oakeshott went early to the office on Monday to meet with her boss. She had heard about the fracas in Augusta. “It’s as I hoped,” she told him. “There was only a single notice about the brawler, O’Dwyer. And nothing was reported about what he said before he lunged at you.”

  “I take it Bill gave you the whole story?”

  “Yes. And I told him not to say anything about it to anybody. Just a…a drunken guy going wild. You got out of his way and he was restrained. The only thing the people who were at that bar will be thinking about is that Hank Wright lost. Nobody’s likely to hold you responsible for that.”

  Reuben nodded. He was in fact deeply relieved. What he had done that day in Saigon was not his favorite memory. “So then let’s talk about Harold Kaltenbach.”

  “Yes. I’ve called a few people who are very reliable. Briefly, each time around, Kaltenbach bets everything he’s got on one candidate for president. What he’s got that counts is a network of amateurs who turn to him every four years to signal a winner. They trust his leadership, and they like the feel of a coordinated effort.”

  “What does Kaltenbach do—I mean, specifically?”

  “He puts his candidate in touch with key players, beginning in New Hampshire—always beginning in New Hampshire, never mind what they say: Iowa comes second. He sets up meetings like three, four years ahead. He gets the pols in New Hampshire, and in Iowa and South Carolina, to organize events centered on the candidate. He pays their travel expenses, so they can come to Washington and see their candidate in action. He gets two retired congressmen—I know them both—to begin, like maybe in May, June the year before the election—in this case, it would be May or June 1991—to nourish the apparatus.”

  “Does he pay money?”

  “Kaltenbach is the most careful, discreet man on the public scene, and he succeeds in hardly ever getting mentioned. He works through other people. But on money he’s super-careful. The money that’s spent comes in from volunteer organizations of the candidate’s fans.”

  An aide brought them coffee. “How did he pass the word to you that I had…survived our first meeting?”

  “He called me himself, the way he’s been doing.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Susan, I had a nice meeting with your boss. He may have a political future. I’d like to see him again, make sure there isn’t anything that would, well, get in the way.’”

  “That’s when he suggested meeting on the boat?”

  “Yes. He said that he doesn’t like ‘furtive encounters’—his words. But that nothing is served by provoking people’s curiosity. He said, ‘I just need a couple of hours, and no one’s going to interrupt us on the Circe.’”

  “Susan, is there anything I need to think about? I mean, that I haven’t already thought about?”

  “He’s sure to ask you, and I mean blow by blow, what you did in Vietnam.”

  “And what I didn’t do?”

  “And what you didn’t do.”

  “Is he likely to ask about Priscilla?”

  “He will certainly ask about Priscilla. And if I was him, I’d ask about Priscilla.”

  “Anything more, Susan?”

  “The Supreme Court’s ruling is due in United States v. Paradise, the civil-rights case about the one-for-one promotion requirement in the Alabama Department of Public Safety—you promote one white, you gotta promote one black, otherwise you’re discriminating. We have to keep an eye on that.

  “And you should expect a call or two from candidates aiming at the 1988 primaries. I say that because I know that Governor Dukakis has already called a couple of senators.”

  “What did they say? I mean, the senators he called?”

  “You know, Reuben. It’s pretty easy this early on. The line is that you will work hard for the election of…the Democratic nominee. Whoever he is.”

  “And Harold Kaltenbach is certain that the winner this time around is going to lose to George Bush?”

  “Absolutely certain. He didn’t give any details.” Susan Oakeshott stood up. “You’d better be on your way. Tell the taxi driver to take you to the Gangplank Marina on the river, just east of the Fourteenth Street Bridge. When you get there, if anybody asks, say you’re going to meet somebody on the yacht Circe, which is on Pier 5. Leave your coat and tie here and take the jacket you wear to baseball games.”

  Reuben Castle, at mid-morning, gave every appearance of being a carefree, boat-bound thirty-eight-year-old. He was informally dressed, with a copy of Time magazine in his hand and a paperback book sticking an inch or so out of a jacket pocket. If on the pier he had bumped into the senior senator from North Dakota, no less, he’d have said, “Hello, Mark. I’m taking a few hours off today. How you doing?”…Reuben could handle just about anything, anybody.

  There was no one on duty in the marina office, so he made his way to Pier 5 and from there to Circe.

  Kaltenbach greeted him from the stern, beckoning him up the gangway.

  “Nice to see you, Senator. Let’s go below. The cabin is air-conditioned and it’s already getting hot out.”

  Reuben sat down comfortably on a sofa across from Kaltenbach. The light below was dim, and Reuben’s eyes took a moment to adjust. Circe was an eighty-foot ketch with an unusual design belowdecks. The dining table, where Reuben now faced his inquisitor, was pierced through the center by a large painted column—the mast. Reuben shifted so that his view across the table was unimpeded. To his right, he noticed four bottles of dark rum, one of light rum, and a single glass. The channel water lapped against the hull. All around, wood creaked slowly against metal.

  Kaltenbach wanted to talk about Vietnam. Had Reuben done anything to avoid
serving, or to postpone serving?

  Where had he trained for the army?

  Had he taken any specialized courses at Fort Gordon?

  Was he attached to an infantry unit?

  At what point in basic training had he applied for Officer Candidate School?

  On receiving his commission, had he been sent immediately to Vietnam?

  Did he rejoin his unit, after being commissioned?

  When he arrived in Saigon, was he still part of an army combat unit?

  Who was responsible for detaching him from that unit?

  When he was attached to headquarters, who was his boss?

  How long did he work in headquarters?

  Was it routine to stay on for a period in headquarters, once you were attached there?

  The colonel’s clerical staff consisted of six men. How many of them went on to combat duty?

  How do you explain that you were the only lieutenant at headquarters who didn’t go on to combat?

  “Ask the colonel,” you say? No way to do that. Okay. We move on.

  Why didn’t you complete law school?

  What were your grades in law school?

  Do you have a record of your grades?

  You’ll try to find those for me? Okay.

  Do you have copies of faculty reports on your work?…You mislaid them?

  Did you fail any course in law school?

  So—you were drawn to public service, and then you just wanted to get on with life, make a living, start a family. Beginning in college, did you have any romances?

  No. I mean anything anybody would be interested, in 1992, to hear about.

  That’s a nice answer, Senator. You wouldn’t want the ten girlfriends you had in college to think nobody would be interested in hearing about them. Okay.

  Now Mrs. Castle—Priscilla. One child, a boy, Reuben Jr. Is Mrs. Castle alone a lot?

  Does she go out with other men?

  Has she had any affairs?

  You assume not? If somebody set out to prove that she did have…outside interests, would they find evidence?