The crowd quickly sensed the potential for an interesting confrontation and stepped back enough so the woman was put into the front row facing Bryce. The newswoman was motioning quickly to the cameraman to get both of them in frame.
But if Bryce had meant to throw his opponent onto the defensive, he was wrong. She smiled right back at him, sweetly, but her eyes were crackling. “As a matter of fact, I was reading the Constitution again this morning. And when was the last time you read it, Mr. Sherwood?”
That won her a few guffaws from the crowd, and Bryce flushed.
She pressed her advantage. “Don’t you find it a little intimidating to try to rewrite a document that took some of the finest minds in American history several months to create? But then,” she went on, before he could answer, sarcasm dripping from every word, “I suppose graduating magna cum laude from the Harvard Law School does qualify one to sit right up there with George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin.”
Bryce had not taken three national titles in college debate or won ninety percent of his cases in court by being slow on the uptake. He shook his head, seemingly puzzled. “You obviously have the advantage of knowing more about me than I do about you, Miss…?”
“Adams. Leslie Adams.”
“And which newspaper are you with, Miss Adams?” he asked pleasantly. “The Washington Hatchet?”
There was a ripple of approving laughter. The crowd had stopped to watch an interview and gotten a prize fight instead.
Now it was she who flushed deeply. “I’m not with a newspaper. I’m a volunteer worker with a citizen’s group called Save the Constitution.”
“Ah, yes,” Bryce said, understanding now. “The STC. No wonder you’re a little depressed this morning.” He looked around innocently. “I suppose you have American flags edged in black in case we win today.”
“That’s right!” she retorted bitterly. “Flash the boyish grin, spread a little cutesy humor around. But whatever else we do, let’s not focus on the real issues.”
Bryce caught himself. It wouldn’t do to be too brutal with her. Not on national television. He turned back to the blonde newswoman and the camera and noted with satisfaction that it swung away from Miss Adams. “I agree,” Bryce said pleasantly. “Why don’t we focus on the real issue, which in my mind is this: Is it time that big government becomes more responsive to the will of the people, or do we continue to lumber forward into the future with a government that grows more cumbersome and unworkable every day?”
He glanced quickly at his opponent, then turned away, before the flashing eyes could fire back at him. “And with that, I too had better excuse myself. There is a very important vote coming up in an hour or so, and there is much yet to be done.”
The newswoman, glad to have the ball back in her court, nodded smoothly. “Thank you, Bryce. Good luck to you on what will prove to be a very important vote for all of America.”
Bryce lifted his arm in farewell and started out of the circle. On impulse, he turned back to face the dark-haired young woman. “I wish we could continue this,” he smiled. “I haven’t had this much fun since my last root canal.” Again he waved and pushed through the crowd, not unaware of the good-natured laughter rippling through the group, nor of Leslie Adams’s tightlipped glare boring into the back of his head.
Outside, the heat was stifling. It was the first week of August, and the temperature stood at ninety-seven degrees, the humidity only four points lower than that. Tourists, queued up to enter the White House, wilted like parched corn in a West Texas drought. At the far east end of the Mall, the gleaming dome of the Capitol shimmered as though it were slowly evaporating in the summer sunshine. Tourists dutifully followed their guides through the Capitol rotunda, sensing but not understanding the hush that had fallen over the building. And in fact, for a moment it seemed the whole city paused, cocking one ear to catch the proceedings just beginning to unfold in the Senate chambers.
It was at that moment that the buzzer signaling the roll call sounded. It brought instant response. Senators and their aides poured from doorways and down the hallways. Senate pages, in their neat blue uniforms, began lining up for duty. In less than three minutes, the Senate floor was filled, every eye riveted on the man seated in the black leather chair next to the American flag.
The vice president of the United States leaned forward, let his eyes sweep the chambers slowly. A hundred senators accepted his silent census gravely. Finally he nodded with satisfaction. “All time having been yielded back, the question before us is the bill by Senator Benjamin Hawkes and Senator Howard Larkin. On this question, the yeas and the nays have been ordered. The clerk will call the roll.”
The third-floor windows of Bryce Sherwood’s office were on the south side of the Richard B. Russell Senate Office Building, providing a stunning panorama of the Capitol. But at the moment, Bryce Sherwood had no eye for the view. The office looked a little like a war zone. The desk was strewn with newspapers, computer printouts, and scribbled vote projections. A half-eaten hamburger and an untouched soft drink were perched precariously on a pile of manila folders. Normally a fastidious dresser, now Bryce had tossed his coat across a chair. His vest was open and the top button of his shirt undone, with the tie pulled loose. Behind him a computer screen waited patiently for data, its cursor blinking with monotonous regularity.
But Bryce Sherwood had no eye for that either. He had the phone jammed up to his ear, his shoulder holding it in place, one hand poised with a pencil. It was that pose, with head cocked to one side, that caused people to compare him to Robert Redford as the crusading journalist in All the President’s Men. Blue eyes, the color of an early morning sky, and short sandy-blonde hair with just the touch of a natural wave were complemented by cleanly cut features and a mouth that always seemed to be toying with a smile.
He listened intently to the voice drumming into his ear, then broke in. “You’re sure of that, Jim?”
The response was unequivocal. “Absolutely! I just left him two minutes ago.”
“Great!” Bryce stabbed down on his secretarial call button, then began to scribble furiously on a notepad. “That’s terrific, Jim! We owe you.”
The door to his office pushed open, and Bryce’s secretary poked her head around the corner. He waved her in.
“No, I mean it, Jim. Senator Hawkes won’t forget this. You have my word.”
Dropping the phone into its cradle, he ripped the sheet off the pad and thrust it at his secretary. “Call a page and get this to Senator Hawkes immediately. Joseph Larson is changing his vote!”
The secretary’s eyes widened. “Senator Larson! Wow! That should help.”
“Help!” Bryce crowed jubilantly. “That could do it! That could just do it!”
Taking the note, the secretary stepped quickly to the large walnut cabinet on one wall and slid back the doors. She pushed the “power-on” button on the television set built into the cabinet. “They’ve just started the roll call.”
Bryce waved his thanks to her as he swung around in his chair. The screen was filling with the face of the vice-president of the United States. Bryce pulled over a pad already marked in two columns—one titled “yea” and the other “nay”—and poised his pencil.
The camera switched to the legislative clerk, a pleasant looking man in steel-rimmed glasses. He took a deep breath, consulted his list, then called out: “Mr. Anderson.”
The junior senator from Nevada, whose privilege it was to be first in every roll call, leaned forward. “Yea,” he said loudly.
“Mr. Atwood.”
“Yea.”
Even with the volume turned low, Bryce heard the murmur that swept through the Senate chambers. Two yea votes did not a victory make, but it was a good omen.
The phone rang and Bryce snatched it up. “Sherwood.” He listened for one moment, then yanked the phone toward him so sharply he almost spilled the soft drink. “What!” he shouted.
This time the voice on t
he line was apologetic, almost whining, which only fueled Bryce’s anger.
“I don’t care what kind of pressure he’s getting, Weatherby gave Senator Hawkes his word.”
The whining started again, but Bryce cut it off, smacking his hand down sharply on the desk. “That’s not acceptable, Karl, and you know it! Now you get word to that distinguished Senator Weatherby of yours that if he backs down now, Senator Hawkes will not, I repeat will not, support his farm bill.”
The line was silent.
“He’s not bluffing, Karl. You know that. And you know as well as I do, that Senator Hawkes can be a very powerful ally…” He let that sink in, then added quietly, “or a potent adversary.”
Again there was a pause, then finally over the line came a weary, “Okay, I’ll try.”
“You’d better do more than try!” Bryce snapped, swinging around again toward the television. “And you’re going to have to hurry. They’ve started the vote.” He slammed the phone down, still fuming.
Three blocks farther east, in an older office building beyond the inner circle of government buildings, a group of eight or ten people watched the television with equal avidness. This was a smaller office, more subdued. An old walnut desk in one corner was also covered with papers, but it was arranged in orderly piles. The outer door, standing open, showed a large round plaque with the initials STC in the center. Forming an oval around the letters were the words SAVE THE CONSTITUTION. One wall held a framed replica of the Declaration of Independence, another a large print of Howard Christy’s painting “The Signing of the Constitution.”
Leslie Adams was the youngest person in the room. Like Bryce Sherwood, she also had a notepad and was tallying the votes as the clerk continued through the roll call. The grandfatherly man who sat next to her leaned over and did a quick count, then shook his head. “Not good. That’s forty-five votes so far—thirty yeas and fifteen nays.” He let out a discouraged sigh. “Thirty votes is exactly a two-thirds majority so far.”
“Mr. Larson,” intoned the clerk from the television set.
There was a pause, and a sudden hush settled over the Senate chambers. A heavyset man, with his head down, appeared on the screen. Finally he looked up. “Yea,” he said softly.
The hall erupted in a wild burst of noise clearly evident even over the television’s speakers. The vice president rapped the gavel sharply. The screen changed abruptly to show the face of one of America’s best-known television anchormen. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said breathlessly. “Senator Joseph Larson, senior senator from Michigan, and a man who this morning was considered a solid opponent of the Hawkes/Larkin bill, has just stunned the Senate by voting in the affirmative. That gives the bill an unexpected vote in the yes column.”
Leslie looked into the face of the man next to her and just shook her head slowly.
The phone rang again, but Bryce ignored it now. It was too late for any further action at this point. He continued marking the votes as the roll call droned on.
“Mr. Van Orden.”
“Yea.”
Bryce marked it, counted quickly. If he had not lost track, they were two short of what they needed, with five names to go.
“Mr. Washburn.”
“Yea.”
One to go!
“Mr. Weatherby.”
Senator Roger Weatherby was a vacillator. He was famous for it on the Senate floor. Most knew it was merely a ruse to see what benefits he could pick up for himself if he came down on either side. Bryce suspected that was the reason for the last phone call. Weatherby wanted that farm bill badly. The question was, had anyone else gotten to him with something better?
Bryce leaned forward, suddenly tensing. “Come on, Senator! Don’t cave in on us now.”
There was no answer, and a sudden tension filled the Senate chambers. The camera cut to a view of the Senate floor, adjusted slightly, then focused on a dark-haired man near the back.
“Mr. Weatherby,” the clerk repeated with just a trace of annoyance.
Even through the television, Bryce could feel the electricity in the air as every eye swung to the junior senator from Washington State. Finally his head came up. He looked toward the clerk, ignoring everyone and everything else.
“Yea,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.
There was an angry cry from the back of the room from some unseen senator, but Bryce didn’t hear it. He leaped to his feet. “All right!” he shouted, punching his fist into the empty air. “All right!”
Chapter 2
Bryce was standing at the window, gazing at the Capitol Building. Sixty-eight yeas—one more than they needed—and thirtyeight nays. That represented nearly six months of head-banging, bone-jarring work, planning, and negotiations. In spite of his confident response during the interview earlier, he had not been sure they were going to pull it off. Now it was sweet indeed!
There was a soft knock at the door. He turned, and his secretary was there. “Bryce, Elliot Mannington’s chauffeur is here. He says Mr. Mannington would like to see you.”
Before Bryce had even reached the gray-and-black limo parked in the underground garage, Elliot Mannington III was out of the car with his hand extended. “Bryce, congratulations! A great victory today!”
A little overwhelmed at the warmth of the greeting, Bryce took his hand, returning the firm grip. “Thank you.” He stepped back a little dazzled. Elliot Mannington, scion of one of Boston’s wealthiest families, senior partner in Mannington, Carlson, Frederick, and Brown, Boston’s most prestigious law firm, and the man who was personal advisor to senators, cabinet members, and the president of the United States, was smiling at him like an exuberant fan. Though barely five feet seven, Elliot Mannington was an event. Just over sixty, he was as lean as a marathon runner and every bit as wirey. Dark, thick hair, just now graying at the temples, only added to the youthfulness of the man. The dark eyes were quick, piercing, always alive. One only had to be with him for a few moments before his size was forgotten, for the man wore an unmistakable aura of power and influence.
Mannington laid a hand on his shoulder. “Senator Hawkes is at the White House. The president wants to congratulate him personally, so he asked that I come and get you. We’re having a little victory celebration over at my place in Georgetown. Call your secretary on the car phone and tell her I’ll have you back about five.”
“Well,” Bryce said, not trying to hide his pleasure. “Thank you, Mr. Mannington, I—” “None of this Mr. Mannington, Bryce. It’s Elliot, please.”
Mannington’s condominium was palatial, luxurious, and awash with people. In spite of almost four years in Washington, where one became accustomed to rubbing shoulders with the nationally and internationally famous, Bryce was impressed. He counted over a dozen senators, easily that many members of the House, two cabinet members, several undersecretaries of various agencies, the British and French ambassadors, and more diamond-studded women than one could find at a Cartier’s modeling extravaganza. He also noted wryly that as near as he could see, he was the only senator’s aide in the entire bunch.
At the moment, the group in which he was standing included Hawkes and his wife, the undersecretary for Middle Eastern Affairs from the State Department, the junior senator from Massachusetts and his wife, and a Supreme Court Justice. Just as Hawkes started one of his famous anecdotes, Bryce looked up. Elliot Mannington was standing nearby. He motioned, almost imperceptibly, with his head. Bryce waited a moment, then excused himself and drifted away. As Bryce moved up next to him, Mannington murmured softly, “Slip away in about ten minutes and come to the condo directly below mine, room eight-oh-seven.” He smiled enigmatically at Bryce’s surprised look and moved away.
The name on the doorplate read “Sterling Jennings.” That surprised Bryce. Jennings, formerly secretary of defense, was now the president of one of the largest of the Fortune Five Hundred companies. Jennings had not been to the party above, of that Bryce was almost certain, for though he had never m
et the man personally, his face was a familiar one to most of Washington.
Bryce rang the bell, still puzzled by the unexpected invitation. Almost instantly, Mannington was there, smiling broadly.
“Ah, good, Bryce. Come in, come in.”
Though not quite as large as Mannington’s, this condominium was just as richly furnished. A painting that looked like an original Gaugin hung in the entryway, and an elegant marble bust of a young girl sat on a bronze table in front of a huge mirror.
As they entered the main living room, another man stood. It was Jennings.
“Let me introduce you,” Mannington said. “This is Bryce Sherwood, legislative assistant and senior staff member to Senator Hawkes.”
Who isn’t here! Bryce realized with a sudden start. Hawkes had not been invited! That really set his mind racing.
“And,” Mannington was continuing, “this is Sterling Jennings, former secretary of defense.”
“Yes, sir. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Jennings smiled. “The pleasure is mine.” He was smoking a cigarette. He stubbed it out quickly, then shook Bryce’s hand. Surprisingly, his grip was not particularly firm. But the penetrating gaze more than made up for it. “Great job today, Sherwood. Great job.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ve read a lot about you. It’s a pleasure.”
“Sit down, Bryce,” Mannington offered, pointing to a chair that would put him facing both of them. As they sat down, Jennings motioned toward a well-stocked bar off to one side. “May we get you something to drink, Bryce?”
He saw that both of the men had drinks on the table in front of them, but he shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
That seemed to please Mannington. “We won’t hold you too long. Wouldn’t want anyone upstairs to miss us.” Jennings smiled with him on that. “Besides, we think we can offer you something a little headier than wine tonight.”