Because Henry Arbogast’s political party was the lifeblood of The Mayflower, he had no trouble securing a private room for the meeting. The East Room was selected, and furnished with a large round table and four chairs that blended with the decor: dark blue carpet, inlaid with rose petals and fleur-de-lis, and walls accented by pillars and gold trim. Portraits of presidents, all with conservative leanings, observed from the surrounding walls. There was a deepness to the room Arbogast had always appreciated, as if its designers had fully anticipated meetings like the one about to convene.
He sat at the table with three others. Carlson Watts was the Senate majority leader, and Elizabeth Carr, his minority counterpart in the House. The third person was Arbogast’s researcher, Kovalsky, who was waiting patiently as everyone digested his three-page executive summary.
The fact that it was a mere three pages was a positive sign. Arbogast had commissioned Kovalsky to undertake many such investigations, and most reports were far longer. This job had been rushed, yet Kovalsky was extremely thorough, and the fact that he’d dug up no hidden darkness on their subject was a good thing.
A very good thing.
Carr was the last to finish reading, and when she looked up Arbogast regarded Washington’s two most important Republicans in turn.
“Do either of you have questions for Mr. Kovalsky?” he asked.
Senator Watts, ever cautious, addressed the researcher. “How far back did you go?”
Kovalsky said, “As far as anyone can, aside from tracking down friends and family and former employers for interviews. When you get back into the nineties, digital records become less reliable. Fortunately, the age of our subject is in our favor—that takes us back to his middle school years, which is generally adequate.”
Watts nodded, asked for a few clarifications, which Kovalsky handled ably. He then said he had nothing more.
Everyone looked at Elizabeth Carr. “No,” she said, “I’m satisfied. I think, given the current climate, this is definitely the right move.”
With that settled, Kovalsky was dismissed, and the three most powerful Republicans in the nation were alone. It was a rare event for them to meet—and a reflection of the party’s grave trajectory. Arbogast hoped this would not be lost on the man about to join them: the junior congressman from Virginia’s Tenth.
He picked up his phone and sent a one-word text.
As they waited, Watts began a telling joke about a certain liberal news anchor. He never reached the punch line. Everyone shifted their attention when the door opened.
Bryce Ridgeway walked in, escorted by a security man. The usher quickly disappeared, closing the door behind him, and Ridgeway paused to take in the scene. He then set out across the royal blue carpet.
Arbogast was not unhappy with what he saw. The congressman had a way about him, a natural aura of youth and vibrancy. He was slightly on the tall side, trim and athletic, and if there were any effects from his injuries—either those of recent days or his service in the Army—Arbogast didn’t see them. He was wearing a well-fitted suit and double-Windsored tie, and the sum image caused the RNC chair to recall a comment from yesterday’s online Washington Post article, which had included a photo of Ridgeway—in the words of the female contributor, he was “a damned good-looking man.”
In that moment, Ridgeway appeared guarded. Arbogast expected nothing less. Everyone at the table stood. In any public setting the legislators would have taken the lead, yet here the RNC chair was out front. “Bryce, good to see you. Henry Arbogast. We met briefly at the freshman swearing-in ceremony.”
Bryce paused behind the lone empty chair. “Yes, I remember.”
“And of course, you know Senator Watts, the majority leader.”
Bryce shook his hand, and said, “Certainly by reputation, although I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure.”
“Actually, we did meet once,” Watts said. “It was only briefly, at a swearing-in bash.”
“Did we? Sorry, but my first few months on the Hill were a blur.”
Watts smiled, his teeth an ivory keyboard. The same smile he likely gave a hundred times a day to lobbyists and contributors. Almost genuine.
Elizabeth Carr stepped forward—as House leader, she was the most familiar of the three. “Bryce, I can’t thank you enough for what you did. You literally saved Senator Morales’s life.”
“I meant what I said on camera afterward. I was only doing my duty.”
The three hosts beamed.
On Arbogast’s cue, everyone sank into their soft leather chairs. He took the lead, asking about the media whirlwind Bryce had been enduring in recent days. Bryce played along for a time, but it didn’t take long for him to air his suspicion.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but I don’t think you’ve brought me here for a pat on the back.”
Arbogast smiled. And truly he was pleased. He liked directness.
“To begin, Bryce, what we’re about to discuss must remain in strictest confidence.” He waited for a nod and got one. “Honestly, what brings us here today is our concern for the party.” Arbogast paused for good measure. “I have been in politics for a very long time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that change is more often the offspring of opportunity than planning. There are singular events, things that unexpectedly shift the playing field. Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, the 9/11 attacks, the economic collapse of 2008, COVID-19. One rarely sees such upheavals coming. My duty, in managing the party, is to respond to them. And, of course, benefit wherever possible.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, Bryce, you’ve become a household name overnight. The closest parallel to the attention you’re getting might be Lindberg crossing the Atlantic—although that was a bit before my time.”
Ridgeway smiled politely. He was wondering where this was going.
“As you know, our party is strong. We currently control the Senate, and are closing in on the House. Unfortunately, the Democrats have the White House. President Connolly has proven adept at obstructing our agenda, using the veto and executive orders to block conservative policy on every front.”
Arbogast joined his fingertips beneath his chin, almost as if in prayer. “You’ve captured the nation’s imagination, and in a way we haven’t seen in a very long time. On top of that, your record of service, both in the Army and during your brief time in Congress, has been nothing short of exemplary. Bryce, our party is on the verge of great things, but to succeed we must win the White House. At present, there are nineteen contenders for the Republican nomination, and no clear front-runner. Of the seven with a realistic chance, the youngest is sixty-four years old—men and women, I dare say, from an era that’s drifting into the past. Polling tells us enthusiasm among prospective voters is critically low.”
He paused, wanting to emphasize what came next. Ridgeway filled the gap with, “And let me guess … you want me to do my part. An endorsement to put your preferred candidate over the top?”
Arbogast exchanged a look with the others. All of them smiled softly. “No, Bryce, it’s quite more than that. America is polarized as never before. The electorate is disengaged. President Connolly has fumbled the economy and he’s facing scandals in virtually every cabinet agency. His big government ideas are exploding the national debt. It was almost painful to watch his press conference yesterday—the man can no longer hide his incompetency. As one editorial put it this morning, he’s the political equivalent of a bad carpenter—a man who cuts twice before measuring once.”
Carr picked up, “The problem, Bryce, is that our own party’s candidates are … shall we say, less than inspiring. Those leading the pack are exclusively creatures of this city.”
Carr continued for a time, and then Watts took his turn. As they spoke, Arbogast studied Ridgeway, probing the handsome face for a reaction. Curiously, he saw nothing. The RNC chair, who considered himself a decent poker player, vowed to never engage the congressman on that front.
When Watts was finished, Arbogast decided it was time for the sharks to stop circling. “By now I think you see what we have in mind, Bryce. The GOP desperately needs a fresh face, someone who can engage the next generation. We would very much like you to be that person.”
Ridgeway’s gaze stepped between the power brokers. “Me … run for president.”
“How does it sound? President Bryce Ridgeway.”
The words hung in the air like some unseen gravitational force.
“You can’t be completely surprised,” Arbogast prodded. “You’ve led an extraordinary life, Bryce, and worked hard to get where you are. Everyone in this town dreams of a day like this, and while yours has appeared out of nowhere, you’ve earned it. I can also tell you that your father and I have been friends for a long time—he’s always had the highest hopes for you.”
“How is he, by the way?” Carr asked.
“No different,” Ridgeway managed. “His memory isn’t what it used to be, but he’s hanging on.”
“Please give him my best when you see him.”
Ridgeway promised that he would, yet gave no response to the greater question.
Arbogast said, “Understand, our offer comes with certain advantages. You would be getting into the race late, but I’ve had a few exploratory, off-the-record discussions with certain megadonors. If you were to run, I think you could expect strong financial backing. The RNC can facilitate that, and also help you get a staff up to speed, people who know the ground and digital games on a national level.”
Ridgeway’s gaze narrowed. “What about Mandy, my current manager?”
Senator Watts said, “By all accounts she’s done a wonderful job, Bryce. But understand, this elevates things to a whole new level.”
“If you like,” Arbogast said, “I’m sure we can find a spot for her. But we have to put experienced people at the top.”
Ridgeway didn’t reply.
Arbogast said, “Look, I know this is a lot to take in. Unfortunately, time is critical—certain primary filing deadlines are only days away. That said, we can’t expect you to make such a decision without consulting your family. Talk to them tonight, sleep on it. But we must have an answer tomorrow.”
Ridgeway nodded slowly. “All right.”
Arbogast looked at him very directly. “I must also tell you that our support is conditional.”
“Conditional?”
“When a man runs for president, he can expect his background to be investigated thoroughly. I will tell you up front that we’ve done our due diligence. I’ve had a man going over your history in recent days. So far, he’s uncovered nothing … untoward. That said, we’ve supported candidates in the past who have tried to conceal indiscretions. Marital infidelity, financial impropriety, campaign abuses. Make no mistake—others will spare no effort or expense in sifting through your past. We can give you an excellent shot at winning the presidency, Bryce. But if there is anything in your history we should know about—anything at all—now is the time to make it known.”
As three sets of eyes drilled him in the silence, Bryce Ridgeway held an even gaze, and said, “My life is an open book. I’ve got nothing to hide.”