As Arbogast sat waiting for Bryce Ridgeway in the Mayflower’s Edgar Dining Room, he did so with a deep sense of satisfaction. He never doubted what Ridgeway’s answer would be to his proposition, and, aside from the professional gratification of another deal made, that guaranteed his incentive fee.
In his years heading the RNC he’d made a great many pitches to prospective candidates, although most of them involved senatorial or congressional seats. On only one occasion had anyone turned him down. That individual, an Alabaman with a strong evangelical base, had confessed to Arbogast a decades-old scandal involving a very young boy, an indiscretion that had unfortunately been videoed in an attempted blackmail scheme. Sordid as it was, Arbogast had thanked the man for confessing his “crisis of conscience,” knowing full well the pervert would have buried the transgression had there been any prayer of doing so successfully. Inwardly, he’d cursed his own carelessness for not performing due diligence. The next day he’d hired Kovalsky.
The Israeli hadn’t disappointed him yet.
Sitting alone at a table for two, if one didn’t count the martini, Arbogast waited patiently at the height of the lunch rush. The table was one of the few in the cloistered Edgar with an all-around view—there were times when one wanted to be seen. He spotted his man at the maîtred’s stand.
Henri gave directions, and Bryce began slaloming between tables and high-backed chairs. Again, Arbogast weighed him visually. Handsome and magnetic, he exuded a cowboy masculinity without seeming to try. Arbogast himself had never been so endowed, which was why, when it came to seeking female companionship, he’d long ago reverted to the usual fallback allures—money and power.
He diverted from his candidate to watch the reaction of the room. Virtually overnight, Bryce’s face had become one of the most well-known in the nation. Most people simply smiled as he passed; a few called out, “Hello” or, “Way to go, Bryce!” Arbogast’s favorite reaction came three tables away, a defense lobbyist he recognized who went for a fist-bump. With ceaseless good grace, the congressman accommodated them all. Arbogast knew perfectly well what his polls were telling him, but none of that was as persuasive as the ten seconds it took for Bryce Ridgeway to cross the Mayflower’s cloistered dining room.
He stood and they shook hands.
“So, we meet in public today,” Bryce remarked.
“And why not?”
A waiter appeared instantly to take their drink order. Bryce asked for iced tea, Arbogast a provisional second martini.
Arbogast asked, “How did your family take the news?”
“My daughter is delighted. My wife is … on board.”
“Some hesitation is natural, especially given your brief tenure in Washington. It must have come as a surprise.”
“Like it did to me.”
Arbogast smiled inwardly. There wasn’t a legislator on Capitol Hill who hadn’t at some point fantasized about the White House. Stay in congress, and you might someday get a bill passed into law. The executive branch—that was the stage of legends. “Suffice to say, my decision to back you wasn’t taken lightly. Your path is irregular, but it hasn’t been easy. You’ve taken risks, gotten a few good breaks.”
“I’m not sure if getting dragged off a rooftop by a suicide bomber qualifies as a good break.”
A wry smile. “All a matter of perspective. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in politics, Bryce, it’s that the route to high office is never predictable. Would Kennedy have risen had he not written a memoir of his trials in World War Two? What if Reagan hadn’t gotten the right film roles in Hollywood? There’s a talent for being in the right place at the right time, for striking notes that resonate with voters, with the mood of the country. Three days ago, you weren’t on anyone’s radar, at least not outside your district. You can call what happened fate, an accident, an act of God—but here you are.” Arbogast gestured across the dining area. “Walking across a room to adulation.”
Bryce scooped a handful of trial mix from a bowl, flicked a few nuggets into his mouth.
“So? Are you in?”
A nicely theatrical pause. “I think you know the answer. I think you knew it yesterday.”
Arbogast smiled. “Your father would be proud. It’s too bad he can’t grasp it.”
“You’re right—I wish he could be here.”
“Where exactly is he?”
“A facility over in Winchester. They specialize in memory care, although at this point it seems moot. He hasn’t recognized any family in months.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Arbogast. Of course, he already knew more about Walter Ridgeway’s condition than any one of his doctors. The man had descended into a fog years ago and there was no going back. It was all in Kovalsky’s report. “Have you discussed your decision with Mandy?”
“Not yet.”
“As I said, we’ll find a spot for her on the team. You and I have a meeting this afternoon with Jack Mahoney.”
Bryce’s gaze narrowed. “The Jack Mahoney?”
“Best in the business. He’s run two successful presidential campaigns. So far, he’s kept his powder dry this cycle, but when I told him you were considering a run, he jumped at the chance. He knows a winner every bit as much as I do. He’ll have good ideas—listen to him. You’ve got a lot of work ahead, but the next few weeks are critical. We’ll file where deadlines are tight to start a buzz, but hold off on the official announcement. Maybe put out word of an exploratory committee.”
Bryce pushed back in his chair and laced his hands behind his neck, a baseball fan in the seventh-inning stretch. “You really were sure I’d say yes.”
“They all do, Bryce. They all do.” Arbogast sipped his martini before saying, “There is something I’d like to clear up now.”
“What’s that?”
“Your wife—will she want to get involved in the campaign?”
“Honestly? I don’t see it. Sarah is solid, and she’ll play the game … at least as far as I ask her to. But her heart is at home with our daughter.”
Arbogast thought about that at length, then nodded understandingly. “All right. Then that’s exactly how we’ll present it. It’ll play well with the evangelicals.”
Bryce pulled his buzzing phone from a jacket pocket. He glanced at the screen, and said, “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s my daughter.”
Arbogast motioned for him to go ahead, then listened to half of a father-daughter conversation.
Bryce ended the call in less than a minute. “Alyssa plays soccer on a club team. She wants me to pick her up after practice today.”
“Of course she does. Your newfound fame will do wonders for her popularity. This is going to have an effect on your family. You should spend as much time with them as possible in the next few days.”
“Yeah, I know. I won’t be watching soccer games on Super Tuesday.”
“Precisely. Mahoney will meet us at two o’clock—I reserved a conference room in the Old Post Office.”
“Is that wise? Won’t word get out if people see the two of us meeting with a campaign manager of his stature?”
“Let’s hope. Rumors are good at this point. By the time we schedule the official announcement, you’ll be getting more coverage on FOX than all the other candidates combined.”
“Okay,” Bryce said. “I guess you know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, I do,” Arbogast said assuredly. “I most certainly do.”