The Brethren

In all, Tyner and D-PAC were meddling in thirty House races and ten in the Senate. She expected to raise a total of $60 million, and spend every dime of it by November.

Her third area of "focus" was taking the pulse of the country. D-PAC was polling nonstop, every day, fifteen hours a day. If labor in western Pennsylvania was bothered by an issue, D-PAC would know it. If the Hispanics in Houston were pleased with a new welfare policy, D-PAC would know it. If the women in greater Chicago liked or disliked a Lake ad, D-PAC knew yes or no and by what percentage. "We know everything," she boasted. "We’re like Big Brother, always watching."

The polling cost $60,000 a day, a bargain. No one could touch it. For the important matters, Lake was nine points ahead of Tarry in Texas, even in Florida, a state Lake had yet to visit, and very close in Indiana, Tarry’s home state.

"Tarry’s tired," she said. "Morale is low because he won in New Hampshire and the money was rolling in. Then you came from nowhere, a fresh face, no baggage, new message, you start winning, and suddenly the money finds you. Tarry can’t raise fifty bucks at a church bake sale. He’s losing key people because he can’t pay them, and because they smell another winner."

Lake chewed a piece of pineapple and savored the words. They weren’t new; he’d heard them from his own people. But coming from a seasoned insider like Tyner, they were even more reassuring.

"What are the Vice President’s numbers?" Lake asked. He had his own set, but for some reason trusted her more.

"He’ll squeak out the nomination," she said, offering nothing new. "But the convention will be bloody. Right now, you’re only a few points behind him on the big question: Who will you vote for in November?"

"November is far away"

"It is and it isn’t."

"A lot can change," Lake said, thinking of Teddy, and wondering what sort of crisis he’d create to terrify the American people.

The dinner was more of a snack, and from Mortimer’s Lake was driven to a small dining room at the Hay-Adams Hotel. It was a long, late dinner with friends, two dozen of his colleagues from the House. Few of them had rushed to endorse him when he’d entered the race, but now they were all wildly enthusiastic about their man. Most had their own pollsters. The bandwagon was rolling down the mountain.

Take had never seen his old pals so happy to be around him.

The letter was prepared in Documents by a woman named Bruce, one of the agency’s three best counterfeiters. Tacked to the corkboard just above the worktable in her small lab were letters written by Ricky. Excellent samples, much more than she needed She had no idea who Ricky was, but there was no doubt his handwriting was contrived. It was fairly consistent, with the more recent samples clearly showing an ease that came only with practice. His vocabulary was not remarkable, but then she suspected he was trying to downplay it. His sentence structure showed few mistakes. Bruce guessed him to be between the ages of forty and sixty, with at least a college education.

But it wasn’t her job to make such inferences, at least not in this case. With the same pen and paper as Ricky, she wrote a nice little note to Al. The text had been prepared by someone else, she did not know who. Nor did she care.

It was, "Hey, Al, where have you been? Why haven’t you written? Don’t forget about me." That kind of letter, but with a nice little surprise. Since Ricky couldn’t use the phone, he was sending Al a cassette tape with a brief message from deep inside rehab.

Bruce fit the letter onto one page, then worked for an hour on the envelope. The postmark she applied was from Neptune Beach, Florida.

She didn’t seal the envelope. Her little project was inspected, then taken to another lab. The tape was recorded by a young agent who’d studied drama at Northwestern. In a soft, accentless vice he said, "Hey, Al, this is Ricky. Hope you’re surprised to hear my voice. They won’t let us use the phones around here, I don’t know why, but for some reason we can send tapes back and forth. I can’t wait to get out of this place."Then he rambled for five minutes about his rehab and how much he hated his uncle and the people who ran Aladdin North. But he did concede that they had rid him of his addictions. He was certain he would look back and not judge the place too harshly.

His entire narrative was nothing but babble. No plans were discussed for his release, no hint of where he might go or what he might do, only a vague reference about seeing Al one day.

They were not yet ready to bait Al Konyers. The sole purpose of the tape was to hide within its casing a transmitter strong enough to lead them to Lake’s hidden file. A tiny bug in the envelope was too risky. Al might be smart enough to find it.

At Mailbox America in Chevy Chase, the CIA now controlled eight boxes, duly rented for one year by eight different people, each of whom had the same twenty-four-hour access that Mr. Konyers had. They came and went at all hours, checking their little boxes, picking up mail they’d sent themselves, occasionally taking a peek at Al’s box if no one was looking.

Since they knew his schedule better than he knew it himself, they waited patiently until he’d made his rounds. They felt certain he’d sneak out as before, dressed like a jogger, so they held the envelope with the tape until almost ten one night. Then they placed it in his box.

Four hours later, with a dozen agents watching every move, Lake the jogger jumped from a cab in front of Mailbox America, darted inside, his face hidden by the long bill of a running cap, went to his box, pulled out the mail, and hurried back into the cab.

Six hours later he left Georgetown for a prayer breakfast at the Hilton, and they waited. He addressed an association of police chiefs at nine, and a thousand high school principals at eleven. He lunched with the Speaker of the House. He taped a stressful Q&A session with some talking heads at three, then returned home to pack. His itinerary called for him to depart Reagan National at eight and fly to Dallas.

They followed him to the airport, watched the Boeing 707 take off, then called Langley When the two Secret Service agents arrived to check the perimeter of Lake’s townhouse, the CIA was already inside.

The search ended in the kitchen ten minutes after it began. A handheld receptor caught the signal firm the cassette tape. They found it in the wastebasket, along with an empty half-gallon milk jug, two torn packages of oatmeal, some soiled paper towels, and that morning’s edition of the Washington Post. A maid came twice a week. Lake had simply left the garbage for her to take care of.

They couldn’t find Lake’s file because he didn’t have one. Smart man, he tossed away the evidence.

Teddy was almost relieved when he got word. The team was still in the townhouse, hiding and waiting for the Secret Service to leave. Whatever Lake did in his secret life, he worked hard not to leave a trail.

The tape unnerved Aaron Lake. Reading Ricky’s letters and looking at his handsome face had given him a nervous thrill.The young man was far away and odds were they’d never meet. They could be pen pals and play tag at a distance and move slowly, at least that’s what Lake had contemplated initially.

But hearing Ricky’s voice had brought him much closer, and Lake was rattled. What had begun a few months earlier as a curious little game now held horrible possibilities. It was much too risky. Lake trembled at the thought of getting caught.

It still seemed impossible, though. He was well hidden behind the mask of Al Konyers. Ricky had not a clue. It was "Al this" and "Al that" on the tape. The post office box was his shield.

But he had to end it. At least for now.

The Boeing was packed with Lake’s well-paid people. They didn’t make an airplane big enough to haul his entire entourage. If he leased a 747, within two days it would be filled with CA’s and advisers and consultants and pollsters, not to mention his own growing army of bodyguards from the Secret Service.