Primary duty, p.3
Primary Duty, page 3
“I never expected this. And I never really wanted it. I was always the outsider, and I was comfortable in that role. When this landed in my lap, and you agreed to come on board, that changed things for me. I became optimistic again, like when I was young. I think you and I have started something great here. But the hijacking knocked the stuffing out of me. And more than just metaphorically. I’ve seen multiple doctors about this. I’ve been having minor intracranial bleeds from the impacts I took.”
Hayes’s heart did something funny. He wasn’t sure what it was. He would almost call it a belly flop. It seemed to stop beating for as long as it would take for a fat man to hit the water. Then it started again with a SPLASH!
“Oh, Clem…”
“It turns out 75-year-old heads aren’t supposed to take beatings. The blood vessels are fragile compared to those of younger men.”
He shook his head.
“There haven’t been any strokes, and no memory loss, but it’s clear I’m not the man I was. My processing speed just isn’t there. I find myself drifting off, wool gathering during meetings.”
“That’s your imagination,” Hayes said. “Everybody does that.”
“This is different,” Dixon said. “I’m tired. And that’s okay. I’ll serve out this remarkable term, and relish this opportunity the Lord, or maybe circumstance, has brought me. But to run for the office, a year of constant battle and stress? On the road, on TV, the crowds, the hotel rooms, the reporters, the polls… I’m just not going to do it. I can’t. I’m out of gas for that sort of thing.”
There was another long pause between them.
“I’m going to keep up appearances, maybe dial my schedule back just a little bit. Nothing noticeable. But I want to begin handing the reins over to you.”
Hayes raised an eyebrow.
“We’re in great shape, Thomas. Our popularity is as high as it’s been since we stepped into office. The economy is good. The hijacking, as much as it hurt me physically, has done wonderful things for my reputation. I’m sure you’ve read the articles and seen the polls. People think of me as a fighter, even now, after nearly a year has passed. You and I, together, have created an aura of stability after a period of turbulence. And when the time comes, if you decide you want the presidency, I will endorse you in the strongest possible terms.”
Hayes nodded. “I want it. I can tell you that right now. I would never run against you, obviously, but if you really aren’t going to…”
Dixon nodded as well. “I’m really not going to run. And I’m glad to hear you say that. There’s no one I’d rather see take it. There is a very good chance you can practically stroll into this office, and for the American people, it will be a seamless transition. They deserve that.”
Hayes was a little bit shocked by the suddenness of this. But he recognized that Dixon was right - he could simply walk in the door.
“I’d like you to keep quiet about the details of what was said here today,” Dixon said. “My health is no one’s business but my own.”
“Agreed,” Hayes said. “Of course.”
“But I do know that you’ll need to start moving. Putting out feelers for a running mate, vetting people, bringing staff together. I would just ask that you keep it as quiet as possible for the time being. I’d like to make the announcement in my own time, and in my own way, without the press running out ahead of me.”
Hayes nodded. “Understood.”
“But there’s a lot you can do under the table…”
“Believe me,” Hayes said. “I’m going to start today.”
Dixon nodded. “And you should.” He paused. For a moment, he seemed as if he might become teary. “You’re a good man, Thomas. You’re going to make a fine President. I wish we had done more together, but what we’ve done…”
He trailed off.
“It’s been incredible, Clem. And it’s been an honor to serve under you. I look forward to finishing this job.”
Dixon reached a hand across the table and Hayes took it. Now that Dixon had described the health problems he’d been dealing with, Hayes imagined he could feel the weakness in his friend’s grip.
This entire time, Hayes had been waiting for Dixon to steer the conversation back to the travel ban. Surely, he wasn’t going to leave the issue lying there, was he? But Clem had made his intentions clear by not saying anything more. He wasn’t interested, or maybe he was just too tired to go the extra mile. It seemed like he really was willing to just leave it to the courts, and not try to shape public opinion at all.
The man was old, yes, and he had gone through the wringer. Who survives such a thing? A hijacking, a plane crash and fire, a shootout with extremists on the streets of Mogadishu? Clement Dixon had. And it had taken a lot out of him.
“Go to it,” Dixon said. “But keep it quiet.”
“I will.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Hayes was in the West Wing, walking briskly toward the exit with David Halstram. Halstram had become his body man in recent months, close to him at all times. David was probably eight inches shorter than Hayes, prematurely balding. Hayes noticed this whenever he looked down at him.
Halstram was young, but with his receding hairline and his glasses, he looked old. Yet he had one of the fastest minds Thomas Hayes had ever encountered. And energetic? The kid seemingly never slept and was never tired.
If he wasn’t so young, Hayes would have already made him his chief-of-staff. He was headed in that direction like a guided missile. Hayes’s current chief-of-staff, Geri Macario, was already feeling the footsteps.
It is what it is.
Politics was a tough arena. Utterly unforgiving. Geri would need to step up her game, or nature would take its course. She could have no illusions about that. She’d been around the block.
Now, David was filling him in on the upcoming schedule.
“David, we need to talk,” Hayes said.
Immediately, David shifted gears. He was ready for anything. Thomas could tell him he was fired, and David would probably be ready with seven reasons why it was the wrong move at this time.
“Okay, Thomas. Tell me.”
Hayes shook his head. “Not here. Outside.”
They moved through the crowds coming and going at the main entrance to the West Wing. Hayes’s Secret Service detail had fallen in step with them. A phalanx of big men surrounded them now as they stepped out into the morning light.
The motorcade was in front of them, the vice-presidential limo bookended by two big black armored SUVs.
Hayes stopped.
The whole procession stopped as well, but the Secret Service men gave them some distance. They knew the deal. When Thomas Hayes spoke outside, it was only for the ears of the person he was talking to.
David Halstram looked up at him.
This was a moment. Thomas Hayes knew it.
From his earliest days, he had always been the top performer, everywhere he found himself. High school valedictorian, captain of the rowing team, president of the student body. Summa cum laude at Yale, summa cum laude at Stanford. Fulbright Scholar. President of the Pennsylvania State Senate. Governor of Pennsylvania.
He had always believed that he could find the right solution to any problem. He had always believed in the power of his leadership. What’s more, he had always believed in the inherent goodness of people. He still did.
He could handle the long hours. He could handle the various departments and the vast bureaucracy. He could handle the Pentagon. He could live with the Secret Service around him twenty-four hours a day, intruding on every aspect of his life.
He could navigate the world of DC politics. Politics was his life breath. True, they hit harder here in Washington than in Harrisburg, but that was to be expected. This was the big leagues. And don’t forget that Pennsylvania politics also included Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, probably two of the hardest hitting cities in the country.
He could handle DC. He could handle the giant, magic sprawl of America, all of it, New York City to Los Angeles, to Hawaii to Alaska. The cities, the small towns, the various factions and infighting. He was in love with the USA.
He could handle the world stage. The friends, the enemies, the hungry masses. All those peoples, all those faces. Looking to him for leadership.
He was ready for this.
And right now, he was about to step into the role. It was becoming real, right in front of his eyes. He was going to run for President of the United States, and in all likelihood, he was going to win. Who could stop him?
David Halstram was still looking up at him. Expectantly, like a puppy dog. Hayes could see it. David was going to grow, and mature, and he was going to turn into a pit bull, a war dog that Thomas Hayes could unleash on his adversaries.
Hayes’s heart skipped a beat. This was it. It was about to become real.
“I want you to discreetly put together a very short list of possible running mates,” Hayes said, his voice barely above a whisper, his lips barely moving. “It’s this simple. I want the most popular liberal politicians in America. I want people who have broad appeal on both sides of the issues. But relatively young, people who are unlikely to undermine me, or run against me. And people who are known to keep their mouths shut. I want exactly three of them, no more, no less.”
David’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “Thomas, what are you saying?”
Hayes raised a hand. “This is not for public consumption. It has to happen in secret. The people on the list can’t really know they’re being vetted. They can suspect, maybe they can even know it deep inside, but they can’t be sure. And they can’t say a word about it to anyone. That much is certain.”
David watched him.
“Can you do that?” Hayes said.
David smiled. “You bet I can.”
Now Hayes smiled. “We’re going places, kid.”
CHAPTER FIVE
4:50 pm Central European Summer Time (10:50 am Eastern Daylight Time)
Hotel Arts
Barcelona, Spain
“As you know, Spain is my ancestral home.”
Richard Sebastian-Vilar sat at a table on the roof deck of the hotel in the waning afternoon sunlight. From where he was, he could look directly across the shimmering infinity pool at the towering artwork known as El Peix d’Or, or the Fish of Gold, by the American sculptor and architect Frank Gehry. To his left, the Mediterranean Sea also shimmered, just not as brightly as the pool.
A young man in a blue dress shirt and slacks sat with him, a small SONY digital recording device on the table between them. The device had replaced the tape recorders journalists had carried around with them up until the recent past. Its red light was on. The young man worked for one of the regional newspapers here in Barcelona.
He smiled. He spoke in impeccable English. “From what I saw on TV two days ago, France is your ancestral home.”
Vilar smiled in turn. “Well, both. My paternal grandparents came from Sete, near Montpelier. But my maternal grandparents came from the village of Bossost, in the Valley of Aran.”
“So you are Aranese?” the young man said. He was being playful, but his questions were pointed.
“Aranese, yes. But Spanish as well, and Catalan, of course.”
It was a complicated history that would be nearly baffling to an outsider. Catalonia, with Barcelona as its capital, was an autonomous region within Spain. And Aran was a tiny autonomous region within Catalonia. All of this stemmed from covenants made between the small kingdoms that existed here in the Middle Ages, when the southern half of the peninsula was controlled by the Moors, and before Spain became one political entity. And to make things even more complicated, each region had its own language, though Aranese was closer to a dialect of Catalan than a distinct language of its own.
“You sound like a politician, more than a judge. You are a member of every group.”
Vilar laughed. “The heritage is complex, and I embrace all of it. Spain is a melting pot of ethnicities, in its way, just like America.”
“In Spain, our melting pot status has long been a source of trouble. And it has taken darker tones than ever in recent years. Between the Madrid bombings carried out by Moroccans and Algerians, and the presence of the international mafias in Marbella…”
Vilar nodded. “It has been difficult. I understand.”
“Very difficult.”
There was a long pause and the young man stared at Vilar earnestly.
“How will you vote?” he said, swinging for a home run. He must know that a judge, no less a Supreme Court judge, would never reveal his vote before the case had even begun. It was impossible.
Vilar shrugged and smiled. “I will hear the arguments as presented, and cast my vote based on precedents set in case law over generations. That is the way I always decide a case. I do not come in with preconceived notions.”
The young man wasn’t swayed. “But surely this trip is more than a homecoming, and the timing is no… how do you say it, coincidence. You have traveled to France and Spain, two countries that have had terrible troubles with terror attacks by immigrants from North Africa, just a week before hearing a court case in America about a ban on immigrants from North Africa.”
Vilar nodded. “You’re a very wise young man. Call this more than a homecoming. It is also a fact-finding tour.”
The court had a case in front of it, the temporary banning of North Africans from entering the United States. A group of US states and their attorneys general had banned entry by North Africans across the board - Moroccans, Algerians, Tunisians, Libyans, and Egyptians. The states were the usual suspects - places like Georgia, Oklahoma, Missouri, North Carolina, and Louisiana, but also the powerhouses of Texas and Florida. North Africans were banned from landing in, or even traveling through, their territories.
This was causing travel bottlenecks all over the country because Texas, Florida, and Louisiana all had major international airports, and Georgia and North Carolina had major domestic hubs. North Africans could not get on flights landing in or taking off from Dallas/Fort Worth, Houston, Miami, Fort Lauderdale, Orlando, Tampa, New Orleans, Atlanta, and Charlotte.
Thousands of people had been denied travel. There were massive logjams as security attempted to identify people based on their heritage. Some American citizens of North African descent had been detained for days. Meanwhile, JFK, LaGuardia, Minneapolis, Detroit, O’Hare, Newark, Logan, Philadelphia, LAX, San Francisco, SeaTac, Dulles, Reagan National, BWI, and Portland had all refused to honor the ban.
Many North Africans were no longer attempting to fly. But volunteers were getting on planes in cities that did not enforce the policy and were being detained and taken away in airports that did enforce the ban, while news cameras filmed like crazy. News teams had also been detained. They were traveling incognito with the volunteers, then whipping the cameras out and broadcasting live when security moved in.
The situation was a mess.
The travel ban states were trying to force this down everyone’s throat and make it public policy. The federal government and the non-complying states were challenging it. And the Supreme Court would hear the case on an emergency basis next week.
The court had morphed into a very political body in recent years. It had become ideological, no longer above the fray as it was intended. Vilar considered himself old school, a throwback to the days when the court was supposed to be non-partisan. He joined the court 12 years ago.
The young man persisted. “But surely, you must have some idea which way you are leaning.”
Which way would he vote? That’s what everyone always wanted to know. Vilar was the only real centrist left on the court. Once again, he was likely to cast the deciding vote. But as always, he would judge the case on its merits. He insisted, as he always did, on not revealing which way he would vote beforehand. He also insisted on hearing the case first before deciding. Even internally, within his own mind, he hadn’t yet considered which way he would vote, such was the force of the principle with him. People seemed to have trouble believing that, but it was true.
Vilar glanced down at his watch.
It was a beautiful, blue-toned Breitling Chronomat, many years old. It was rare, and probably quite expensive. Vilar had no idea how much it cost because it was a gift to him from a friend. More important than the watch itself was the time.
“I’m sorry,” Vilar said. “I promised my wife and daughter I would be ready to go to dinner with them by 5:30. My daughter is very young.” He added the last part to explain the earliness of the hour. The Spanish were notorious for eating dinner at 10 o’clock or even later. Restaurants were often packed at midnight.
“Of course,” the reporter said, instantly respectful and gracious again. He stood and held out his hand. Vilar did the same, and the two men shook.
“Your honor, it has been my great privilege to meet you.”
“I feel likewise,” Vilar said.
The young man turned off his recorder, gathered his things, and headed for the elevator. As soon as he did, Karl Adams, an operative from the Supreme Court Police, made his way across the roof deck toward Vilar.
The Supreme Court Police coordinated security for justices when they traveled abroad. Karl and two other men from the tiny agency were with him on this trip, and Karl kept corralling large contingents of police and military units to travel with them.
It was annoying. Richard Sebastian-Vilar was a judge, in a sense, a private citizen. He would just as soon travel alone with his family. He was not the president, he was not a member of Congress, he was not a Third World despot. Why did he need so much security?
He watched Karl approach. Karl was the overburdened, anxious, eyes in the back of his head type. Vilar did not enjoy that about him. But he could respect that Karl was a marathoner and a triathlete and kept his body in a high state of physical readiness. Vilar had been a marathoner himself and was proud that he had remained fit and trim well into middle age. The two men had bonded over races they had both run in various parts of the United States.
