THE NOTE WAS WRITTEN in crude block letters on hotel stationery with a hotel pen. Mark had written it with his left hand using a pebble-grained fake leather phone-book cover as backing. There was no way the handwriting could ever be traced. The Senator would believe it only because Mark was going to deliver it in person.
He was waiting outside the stage entrance of the Grand Ballroom as his father walked next to Governor Babington, laughing and smiling and ignoring the inner shell of Secret Service men and the outer shell of journalists that surrounded them.
Mark managed to filter through. The Secret Service men were going to stop him, but Babington recognized Mark and told his guards to let the young man through. Mark had been counting on that. The Governor was too experienced an operator to take a chance on offending the Senator, especially when he was just minutes away from delivering the endorsement that would all but ensure the nomination and probably the White House.
“Governor,” Mark said. “Congratulations! I couldn’t be happier. I won’t be able to stick around, so I’m getting my best wishes in now.”
Babington stuck out his hand. Mark had been expecting that, too. The note rested securely in his left palm. Mark took the Governor’s hand, dropped it, then turned to his father. “You, too, Dad,” he said. He brought his hands together and shifted the note. “You made the best-possible choice.”
The Senator flashed his famous smile for the cameras. “Glad he said that—Mark’s got the best political mind in the family.” The press, or at least enough of them to gratify the Senator, laughed dutifully. Still playing to the cameras, the Senator shook hands with his son. Mark gave his father a significant look as he passed him the note. The Senator returned the look, then smiled again.
As Mark walked away, he was surprised to realize that he could not remember ever shaking hands with his father before. He must have, he was sure, he just couldn’t remember it. It didn’t really matter.
The procession entered the Grand Ballroom, leaving silence in its wake. Mark walked about forty yards in the opposite direction. He turned the corner, then stopped at the fire-hose installation. He opened the glass and took a brown paper bag from behind the hose itself. Then he carefully closed the glass, and wiped the handle with his sleeve.
He walked back to the Grand Ballroom. The guard at the door was an amateur. The Secret Service would draw their perimeter closer to Babington, and Mark had no intention of getting anywhere near Governor Babington. This guy remembered Mark from the crowd that had come by before, and waved him right in.
There was a row of dressing rooms in back of the ballroom, accommodations for the second-rate singers and washed-up TV stars that appeared at “The State Capital’s Number-One Night Spot!” as the posters in the elevator had it. Mark had been all around here this afternoon. He’d decided on dressing room “D.”
Dressing room “D” was farthest from the ballroom itself, closest to the fire stairs. If Babington or Mark’s father were to use anything at all, they wouldn’t go any farther than room “A.”
There was only one chair in the room, a bench, really, stuck in front of a tacky, pinkish-beige lighted makeup mirror. Mark went to it and sat down. There were about ten feet of gray carpet between him and the door. Mark toyed with the idea of facing the mirror, of greeting his father with his back to him, but he decided against it. There was no need to be theatrical. This was far too serious.
And it would go on being serious, even afterward. Even after Senator Henry Van Horn joined the ranks of martyred Van Horn heroes, when no one would dare whisper the name of Pina Girolamo, let alone play so-called “incriminating” tapes of the incident (what’s the matter with you people, have you no sense of dignity at all?), when the mantle of holiness, enhanced by the blood of yet another Van Horn, descended on the waiting shoulders of the grieving son, Mark Van Horn would still be in danger.
Because people would know. Not many, but important ones. Ainley Masters, for instance. Ainley could hardly fail to figure it out—Mark, after all, had practically warned him it was coming. But Ainley had winked at murder before, when the power of the Van Horns had been in danger. Who was more aware than Ainley that the greatest danger the family had ever faced was the stupidity of its current head? What would he say if he knew Hank had delivered the power of the Van Horns into the hands of the Russians? Mark would make sure he did know.
Ainley would squirm; he might balk at first. But he’d come along. If things really got desperate, Mark could probably force himself to cozy up to Ainley in a physical way. It had been obvious to Mark since he was twelve that Ainley had it bad for him. Sometimes, Mark wondered if Ainley himself knew.
If that didn’t work, Ainley would have to go. It would be a shame. The road ahead would have lots of hidden turns, and there was no better guide through that sort of territory than Ainley Masters.
But in the long run, Ainley didn’t matter. Ainley could be taken care of.
The Russians would know, too. General Dudakov, or whatever his real name was.
Mark figured he would have a year, maybe two, before the Russians came after him. They had their own tricky game on, and the death of yet another Van Horn would be a wild card that could cost them the whole thing. They’d take things nice and easy, and secure the White House for Babington before they made any move against Mark.
That, at least, was the way Mark had to play it. That was why he had decided to do this after the endorsement speech. Let the Russians have their fun. Their success would be Mark’s own.
Because Mark would be in the next Congress—he was over twenty-five, and even now, no power on earth could keep a Van Horn from winning an election in the home state. After Hank was dead, the voters back home would gladly elect him God, if the Constitution allowed it.
But he would be different from all other freshman congressmen. Mark Van Horn would know for a fact that the President of the United States was a Russian agent. And he would have the media access and the clout to get that assertion thoroughly investigated, if not instantly believed, should he choose to make it.
Not that he planned to so choose. It was just that he intended to make sure the White House was very friendly to any legislation he might propose. The legislation, of course, would all be carefully designed to aid and ennoble the American People. It would be even more carefully designed to add to the power and riches of the Van Horn family, as represented by heroic young Mark Van Horn.
His plan was to make himself indispensable. Being on the inside, he could be a great help in furthering General Dudakov’s plans, whatever they might be. For a time. After all, Babington couldn’t be President forever.
Time would tell. All he could do was to continue to act boldly. He was having a lot of fun in the meantime.
Mark grinned at the door and waited for his father.