The Campaign

By Hank Silverberg

The Vice-President of the United States is conflicted. She has risen to her current job by jumping on the bandwagon with President Andrew Freeman who is now, waging war against America’s biggest enemy—Iran.

Amy Roosevelt must make a decision whether to stay with Freeman or challenge him for the nomination.  Though back cha

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Feb 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647532192

Hank Silverberg

Hank Silverberg is an award winning journalist who has covered and written about the events that shape your world on radio and TV for four decades. A native of New England, he has lived in Virginia for more than twenty years. His fi rst book, "If the Log Rolls Over", was published in 2005. His second "News of War", the prequel to "The Campaign", was published in 2007.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T his is the WBN Evening News with John Conner.

The highest rated anchorman on American television turned to the camera. His scowl quickly turned to a look of concern as the red light on the camera went on, and the broadcast began.

Good evening. We begin our broadcast this evening in the Middle East, where both sides in the conflict with Iran are marking the second anniversary of the war with a broadside of rhetoric and offensive movements on the ground.

The viewers at home see video of American soldiers in armored personnel carriers, Humvees, and A-1 tanks moving swiftly across an open desert, kicking up dust as they go. The anchorman continues, in an authoritative voice. Off camera, as he reads over the video, he runs his hands through his thick hair, recently dyed black again, quickly glancing at the in-house monitor to make sure there is no hair out of place.

"Much of the fighting continues around the southern border between Iran and Iraq as it has for the past two years. The Iranians continue to send thousands of men and machines against US forces with little progress. American and allied forces have pushed them back, but have made little progress in advancing.

On Capitol Hill, critics have begun to compare the fighting to the trench warfare of World War I a hundred years ago, though casualties on the allied side have not been as horrific as they were in that war. Iran is not talking about their losses, but some experts say they are high. Reports from the front, increasingly negative, have increased opposition to the war here at home. Melanie Harrington reports from the Hill that there is an effort to cut off funding for the war.

A young woman appears on screen, standing in front of the U.S. Capitol’s west side, the dome behind her well lit against the evening sky. Her cameraman has set up portable lights to illuminate her dark black skin. Her earrings, which have become somewhat of a signature often noted in the trade press, are dangling off both ears. This evening they are wooden parrots painted yellow and blue.

There is more evidence here tonight, she begins, that President Freeman faces stiff opposition to his war strategy, with more than three hundred members of Congress approving a resolution that calls for a pullout from the Iranian conflict. Congressman Joe Bennett of Missouri, mentioned as a possible candidate for president in next year’s election, has been leading the effort, and he has been joined today by Senator Al Brockfield of Wisconsin, a member of the president’s own party.

Conner zoned out during Melanie’s report. He had read the script, something he rarely did on any story that did not involve the war. He checked his suit in the monitor hooked up to a camera that was always focused on him even when something else was on the screen. His workouts at the gym were paying off. The fat around his middle had turned to muscle. That makeup woman the network had brought in at his request continued to make him look much younger than sixty-one. The camera’s red light went on again.

There are new economic forecasts for this month that appear to indicate a slight downturn in the economy …

He kept reading from the teleprompter in front of him with little idea of what he was saying. He didn’t really understand economics.

The President of the United States threw a pen he had been writing with at the TV. It bounced off the flat-panel plasma screen hanging on the nearby wall, leaving a little dent in John Conner’s on-screen face for a moment before falling to the ground. Andrew Freeman was not a happy man. At sixty- two, his once thick brown hair was now totally gray. Three years in the White House had made it that way. The coffee he had been drinking, one of those fancy lattes, was now cold and had a bitter taste. He had sent one of his aides to get it from a coffee shop on Sixteenth Street, despite a White House kitchen that could prepare anything he wanted. His doctor said he was gaining weight and should stop drinking anything with caffeine. But nineteen-hour workdays made that impossible.

I’m in trouble, he thought to himself as he watched Bennett and Brockfield pontificate some broad view about more diplomacy and better equipment for the troops. How did I get into this mess? Freeman pushed a button on his phone.

Nancy, I want a meeting in fifteen minutes with Abe Silver, Marta McBride, and the vice president. Oh, and Clark Freisling too.

His personal secretary was on the phone dialing before the president’s receiver hit the cradle.

CHAPTER 1

The Setup

It was a cool April evening along the Blue Ridge in Virginia. The buds on the trees were beginning to turn to leaves. The ski slopes had all closed. The summer season had not yet begun, so most of the hotels and quaint country inns were flashing vacancy signs. There was a smell of early spring in the air.

He sat in front of a TV screen in one of those nearly vacant hotels, watching reports of the war that continued to rage in his homeland and the rage within him grew. The man known only as Ishmael was frustrated. It had been two years since his triumph in New York. The confusion and blood he had left in that small town upstate had been very satisfying. Nine people had died by the time it was over, and the media coverage had been worldwide. He had struck the infidels hard and escaped, spreading fear that he would strike again. The man he had duped into activating the bomb and the money-greedy American he had paid to help him get the explosives were both dead, but it was clear to the whole country that they had another accomplice. Since then he had been living day to day, never staying in one place for more than a few days. Twice he thought he had another attack set up, and twice he was thwarted by some dumb cop who had found a clue, or some stupid American who saw something strange and reported it. Both times he escaped. The second time in Los Angeles, the police had rounded up some of his supposed coplotters, brother Muslims whom he had used to protect him or hide him or finance his plan. They were mostly dupes. Only two had actually been aware of what he was planning. And they had all died in a federal detention center under what the media was calling mysterious circumstances. He knew better. He had learned fast in this country you could find someone willing to do anything for money.

Now an election year was ahead. He was carefully reading all he could about it. There were at least three people who were running for president and there would be more soon, including the criminal who had invaded his country. One of them would be his target.

Ishmael looked at his reflection in the mirror. His beard, longer than most Americans would wear theirs, would have to go. Allah would forgive him. He would lighten his hair color, make it more brown than black. At thirty- nine, he was not showing any gray. Perhaps he would wear a mustache. A little makeup could lighten his olive skin and make him look more Caucasian.

He would strike in June or July or maybe August. It would take some time to set up. He wanted to hit where he thought it would have the most effect. It had been over twenty years since his brother and young nephew had been killed by the dirty Americans.

They had shot down a commercial airliner over the Persian Gulf. The American government had called it a tragic accident, but that didn’t matter. An eye for an eye he had been taught, and he had more gouging to do.

John Conner finished his broadcast, walked out into the newsroom, spoke briefly to his producer, and then quickly left WBN’s New York studio. He had plans for tonight. Conner was six feet tall, broad shouldered. He looked much younger than he was thanks to that hair dye and those few hours a day at the gym. The gym membership had been part of the new contract he had negotiated after his network took off in the ratings and in revenue as a result. Of course, he knew deep down that he had only a little to do with his network’s rise to the top of the ratings heap, but he was still going to bleed it dry. He was the face of the network even though it took hundreds of people to make it what it was. As long as his face and delivery stayed on target and his reputation stayed clean, he was fixed for life.

Even before his nightly broadcasts had moved into the number one spot in the ratings, he had attracted women. He knew he was just a famous face to many of them. Now that he was number one in the news wars though, he was attracting a different kind of woman. No more bimbos. Now many of his conquests had brains and looks, and that was much more fun.

He hailed a cab, leaving his limo and driver, provided to him by the network, sitting in a Manhattan parking garage. No one needed to know where he was going.

Clark Freisling could see the look on the president’s face when he arrived at the Oval Office. He had seen it before. There was that day in Newark four years ago when the polls had Freeman down by fifteen points and the campaign contributions were starting to dry up. He braced himself for a blistering diatribe from the boss.

Freisling had been with Andrew Freeman for twenty years. He had run some of his campaigns for Congress, the first one for governor of New Jersey, and then served as a political operative in the last presidential campaign. He had cultivated big donors, enticed mayors from big towns and small to jump on the bandwagon, and even slid a few dollars in a few palms to get a few things done. It had been easy to buy loyalty and a few votes when they were needed. He had broken more than one law to get Andrew Freeman into the White House. The president, of course, could always say he had no knowledge of any of this. That was the way it was set up.

Few people liked Clark Freisling. He had a sinister look about him, always lurking around, listening to other people’s conversations. His hair was always out of place. He was short and overweight. He would sweat all the time even when he wasn’t exerting himself. He combed his hair over the bald spot on the top of his head. He knew many on the White House staff joked about his comb-overs behind his back, but he didn’t care.

He watched as the others came in. He loved to watch Marta McBride walk. She was in her fifties but was still a fine-looking woman who dressed in professional but well-fitting clothes. As the president’s press secretary, she was the one who had to go in front of the cameras every day, and looking good helped with that. Her hair was still blonde and she didn’t dye it. He watched her firm backside as she wiggled past him into a seat to the president’s left.

Abe Silver was there also. The president’s chief of staff was a former senator from New York. He was over six feet tall and distinguished looking. He was considering a run for the White House himself four years ago even though he was sixty-six. Then all of a sudden some pictures showed up of him in a Manhattan hotel with one of his female senate staffers. The pictures reached Silver’s desk just as he was getting ready to declare his run for the White House. They were never made public. Freisling had seen to that personally. Shortly after the pictures mysteriously got lost, Silver, to the surprise of almost everyone in politics and in the media, announced he was not, after all, going to run. The president, of course, did not know about any of this. He liked old Abe and was delighted when Silver decided not to run. He invited him to join the campaign as manager and Silver had run it so well and raised so much in donations that he ended up as chief of staff when Freeman entered the White House. Silver was technically Freisling’s boss, but those pictures still existed, providing Clark with some job security. They had an understanding.

The vice president was late. She was always late. Freeman looked annoyed, but offered everyone some coffee and bagels while they waited and chatted about things that really didn’t matter. Everyone took a bagel and coffee except the president. He didn’t want them to see him cheating on the diet his doctor had laid out for him.

Amy Roosevelt came in about ten minutes later. She was dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, with a North Face jacket that she handed to an aide as she approached the president’s desk. She made no apology for being late. She had been on her way back from a weekend at her cabin in the Shenandoah Valley when she had gotten the president’s summons.

Roosevelt, the former governor of Indiana, was a distant relative of FDR. Her grandfather had been Franklin’s second cousin once removed, or something like that. Only a genealogist could figure it out. But she had the Roosevelt name. She had been a big plus in Freeman’s campaign with her startling auburn hair, blue eyes, and beauty-queen-like figure even at forty-three. She had good name recognition because of her family connection and because of two outstanding seasons as a guard with the national champion Lady Hoosiers in college. Freisling was convinced she had nothing between the ears. She had majored in physical education after all. Freeman liked her because she talked and thought like the average housewife instead of like one of those Ivy-League pinheads that always seemed to show up in the cabinet. And she looked good standing next to him.

They were all there.

A few miles away, Congressman Joe Bennett was sitting in a living room in a Georgetown rowhouse. He had been asked to come by a few of his friends from Missouri. The few friends had invited a few more friends, who had invited a few more friends, and by 8:30 there were about 130 people crammed into the two adjoining rooms. Joe recognized a few of them. His old college buddy Matt Sweeney got up, said some nice things about him, and then asked Joe to speak. He had not prepared anything, but like most members of Congress, he rarely needed to prepare a speech to give a speech.

I want to tell you a story I heard last week about a young soldier named Jefferson Bond. You may remember that TV reporter killed in the early days of the war, Christa Bond? Well, Jeff is her son. He’s a sergeant now.

He’s the black kid who tried to save that girl from Oklahoma, right? someone yelled from the crowd.

That’s right, said Bennett. So you all know about Jeff? He risked his own life to try and save the life of another young soldier who was dying in the Iranian desert. Unfortunately, she died. But he was a hero nonetheless. What I am going to tell you is the untold story, witnessed by only a few people.

The room got very silent. Jeff Bond’s story had been one of the few bright spots to come out of the early part of the war and most people thought they knew all about it. WBN, his mother’s network, had made sure of that. Most of America was well aware of how Jeff, Janet Revelle, Andy Van DeMeer, and a few others held back an entire tank column. They had planted a few mines, which temporarily delayed the tanks and created a chance for navy fliers to take out the whole column. That stopped what could have been a massacre of thinly spread, outmatched American forces at the start of the war.

The part of the story you didn’t hear was about the bully Jeff faced once he got back to the United States. Jeff wanted to talk about the lack of adequate equipment that he and his fellow soldiers had to go to war with. He wanted to talk about the high incidence of so-called friendly fire that has been occurring in this war.

Not a person in the room moved or coughed.

He wanted to tell you, but he was silenced by a bully named Andrew Freeman. Bennett raised his voice when he pronounced the president’s name.

See, old Andy Freeman did not want you to know that he sent our children over to foreign soil to fight a ruthless enemy without the right preparation. See, old Andy Freeman did not want you to know the real reason we have gone to war. See, old Andy Freeman did not want you to know that it was his ignorance and his arrogance that provoked the Iranians and put our boys and girls in harm’s way!

The crowd broke out into applause. There was chanting. We want Joe! We want Joe! We want Joe!

Across the room, someone held up a homemade red, white, and blue sign: Bennett for President.

Joe Bennett smiled, put out his hand, and started working the room. He would shake hands with everyone in the room, learn their names, and tell them how important it was to tell their friends about him. And then, after he had made his way out of the house, his friend Matt and Matt’s young, attractive trophy wife would pass a basket around the room asking for contributions. Most of the money would be tens and twenties, but every dollar mattered. Bennett, at fifty-two, with a slim build, wavy brown hair, and penetrating green eyes, would not get his hands dirty with raising money. That was for other people to do.

Rob Hill sat across the room watching the congressman shake hands with everyone. He had been hesitant to come to this event. It was no secret that he took sides. His syndicated radio talk show now reached almost the entire country. Before he had started talking partisan politics he wasn’t known outside Ohio.

Hill had spent the last ten years building up a radio following. He had done two terms as mayor of Dayton before he had been thrown out by the voters. There was no particular reason. He wasn’t a crook. He was short and fat, with a receding hairline that made him look much older than forty-five, but he still managed to charm the voters during campaigns with his jovial mood and his upbeat presentations. But once in office he just wasn’t very good at government. He didn’t care about potholes or traffic lights or zoning, and the voters eventually figured that out. He didn’t care much for itemized budgets, or know much about after-school programs. Nothing got done in the eight years he sat at city hall. But he was good at talking.

Six months after he left the mayor’s office, the owner of a local car dealership where Hill was working and selling Fords approached a local radio station about putting Hill on the air with his own radio show. The car dealer wanted to use Hill as a way to sell more cars. Within a month he was doing 8:00 p.m. to midnight on a 500-watt station with the car dealership as his only sponsor.

Hill’s reputation grew slowly. First he jumped to the 50,000-watt AM station across town for a fatter salary and a wealthier sponsor. Then the owner of that station decided to put him on two other stations he owned in Toledo and Cincinnati. And the next thing Hill knew he was in nationwide syndication. When Andrew Freeman became president he had twenty-five stations. Now, three years later, he had 150, and more were signing on every week. Hill still did his show from Dayton. It was beamed across the nation by satellite.

Hill liked Bennett. The guy seemed down-to-earth. His record was moderate on most things, but conservative where it counted: on defense spending, gun control, and taxes. Even hawks were not pleased with the way the war with Iran was going. Hill had a feeling that Bennett was hitting the right chord. And of course, Bennett’s family owned twenty-seven radio stations, with only two now carrying his show. Hill was going to mention Bennett on his radio show tomorrow. He shook hands with the congressman without introducing himself and then slipped out of the house. He had to catch a flight back to Dayton anyway.

They all waited for the president to officially open the meeting. Freeman purposely let them wonder why they were there.

Okay, folks, here’s why you are here. The day after tomorrow, I am officially going to announce my candidacy for reelection.

Silver was going to say something, but the president cut him off.

I know, Abe, it’s a bit early. But everyone is positioning themselves, and Marta will tell you she gets THE question almost daily in the briefing room. So let’s get it out.

Do you want to do it here or somewhere else? Marta said.

Somewhere else, for sure, Abe said. We want to appear to be keeping partisan politics out of the White House.

That’s what I was thinking, said the president, with a smirk on his face. Clark, I want you to go to New Jersey. Make it Madison. Contact the mayor; I think he owes me a few. I think on the campus at the university would be good, like that first campaign?

Okay, said Silver, jotting a few things on paper. But we have no campaign committee, no funds, and no campaign manager. He jotted down more notes. He was an old-time politician preferring to keep information in notebooks instead of on a tablet or smart phone.

Oh yes, we do, said Clark. There’s about $16 million sitting in our Political Action Committee. ‘Friends of Andrew Freeman’ can be changed into the ‘Freeman Reelection Campaign Committee’ right away. And as soon as he announces, the bucks will roll in fast.

Silver looked surprised, but he said nothing. If Clark had pulled his usual crap with the campaign rules, Silver could say later he didn’t know anything about it.

The vice president was silent.

Freeman turned toward Roosevelt. Amy, of course, you will come with me for the announcement? It was more of a command than a question.

She hesitated for a moment. I’m not sure I can change my schedule, Mr. President.

The formality, using the term Mr. President rather than simply saying Andrew as she usually did, sent a signal to everyone in the room that something was up.

Nonsense, said Freeman. You’ll join me on Air Force One, he said as he looked at her calmly. Abe, we have that foreign policy speech up in Princeton, right? So we can justify the expense of using Air Force One to get to Jersey?

Yes, sir, but we will have to have the campaign pay for transport from Princeton to Madison. He looked at Clark. A helicopter would be best.

Not a problem, said Freisling.

Okay then. Marta, you keep this under your hat until the early briefing on Wednesday. Then you can tell the press what’s going on if they ask. Okay?

She nodded.

Andrew Freeman looked around at each face. He saw what he wanted to see from everyone but the vice president. What’s bugging her ass, he thought.

John Conner took another sip of scotch as he looked at the woman who lay next to him. She was napping. It had been a vigorous romp and he had to admit she was pretty good. Her first name was Megan and he really didn’t care to remember her last name. She worked as an administrative assistant in some office in the same building that housed the network, but he didn’t care what she did. She had big breasts, a round ass, and was young enough not to have a single wrinkle. She had told him she was twenty-nine, but he suspected she was closer to thirty-five. He had told his long-time girlfriend, who had wanted to go out tonight, that he had to work late this evening.

The cell phone rang. Only a few people had that number, and his wife was not one of them, so he answered right away.

Mr. Conner, please hold for President Freeman.

It was the White House switchboard.

John, you old geezer, how are you? The president sounded like he was in a good mood or maybe he had had a few drinks.

Fine, sir, just fine, it has been a while since we have chatted. Their last private discussion had been nearly two years earlier.

John, I want to give you a bit of news ahead of the rest of those devils you compete against!

Conner sat up and put his feet on the floor. It had been quite a while since his old college buddy had given him an exclusive.

Yes, Mr. President, what is it?

Mr. President? Come on, John, why so formal? You can always call me Andrew!

Conner’s smile went to a frown. For the past two years, ever since that incident with Christa Bond’s son, their relationship had been cold. Freeman wanted something.

What do you want to tell me… Andrew? He suddenly had a vision of a young Andy Freeman puking all over himself in front of that sorority house on campus all those years ago, and smiled.

You can use what I am telling you on your broadcast tomorrow night, but you cannot attribute it to me. Use that old stupid quote, ‘a person close to the president,’ okay?

They had played this game before. Conner said, Okay.

I’m going up to Princeton on Wednesday to make a foreign policy speech, and then right after I will go to good old Madison U, where I will announce my candidacy for reelection on the library lawn not far from where we used to throw the Frisbee around. Nobody else will know anything about it until the last-minute stop is announced, and then they will probably figure it out.

Conner smiled. It was a good story and he would use it. He relaxed for just a second. Thank you for the advance notice, Andy. He had not called the president Andy in thirty years.

Then he heard a change in Freeman’s tone.

What do you think my chances are, John?

Conner hesitated. He did not want to answer the question. Are you asking me as your friend or as the anchorman?

Both! Will the answer be different? Freeman sounded annoyed.

Conner now got out of bed, away from any ears that might still be awake on the bed next to him under the covers. Andy, as your friend, I will say you have a damn good chance to win reelection if you run a good campaign.

And as the anchorman?

Freeman sounded almost scared, something Conner had not heard in his friend’s voice since they almost got expelled from college for a semester for that night of drinking.

Your approval rating is below 50 percent, the unemployment rate is rising, and that damn war with Iran has the public questioning your judgment. I’d say it will be very tough.

Thanks for your candor, John. Be the first to report my reelection campaign. And if you want to boost your ratings, be sure to have a reporter there too. There may be some more urgent news out of this. Goodnight.

The connection was cutoff before he had a chance to say goodbye.

John Conner wondered a bit about that last comment, but he went back to the bed, woke up Megan, and spent the next hour enjoying her again.

CHAPTER 2

Horses

W ell, folks, here’s the big story of the day.

Rob Hill pushed a button that set off a digital recording of bells and whistles and a gong sound. It was his way of alerting his audience that he had something important to say.

Folks, I want to tell you about Joe Bennett. Who, you say? Well, Joe is a four-term congressman from Missouri. And, folks, let me tell you, Joe is going to be the next president of the United States!

He looked up. His producer, sitting at the control board on the other side of a glass partition, rolled his eyes, put his hands on his belly, and imitated a big chuckle.

He had spent the first hour of his nationally syndicated show talking about the Freeman Follies, his moniker for just about everything President Freeman had ever done. He didn’t care if only half of what he said had any semblance of truth and the other half was an outright lie. Every time he talked about the Freeman Follies, his ratings would climb and another station would want to sign up his show.

Joe is a down-to-earth, feet to the ground, pull up the bootstraps kind of guy who believes that ‘gubmint’ is too big and spends too much of your money. And Joe says your right to own your gun and protect your home and your loved ones is sacred.

He pushed another button and John Phillips Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever started playing across 150 radio stations from Encino to Cape Cod. His producer faded down the music just low enough so Rob could talk over it.

Now, folks, Joe hasn’t announced that he is running for president yet. He needs a little encouragement. So I ask all you Hill fanatics out there to get on the phone and call your neighbors and tell them all to call good old Joe in Washington and tell him you are for him.

There were more bells and whistles and then a commercial break for a new energy drink. Hill had a broad grin on his face. The phones were starting to light up and he was sure all those calls were about Joe Bennett.

Alfredo Fernandez-Brockfield hung up the phone in his senate office. It had been another call from his mother, who was still living in New Mexico. She was still grieving for his younger brother Jamie who was dead now two years, one of the first casualties in the war with Iran. Brockfield was in his third term as the senior senator from Wisconsin. He had spent much of that term moving the president’s agenda through Congress. The list was long. The National Security Act, the Full Employment Act, the Social Security Reform Bill, the New Enhanced GI Bill, the Veterans Affairs Reform Act. He had forgotten many of the others. Neither he nor the president had actually written the bills of course. The staff had done that. But he could take credit for some skilled political maneuvering that turned those ideas into law. Hundreds of roads would be built because of his legislation, putting thousands of people to work. And veterans, particularly veterans of the current war who had fought with his brother, would be getting some of the best benefits ever laid out for America’s fighting men and women. At least, that’s what it said in all the brochures, emails, and tweets his office had sent home to Wisconsin.

Now he had a decision to make. He knew the president was planning to run for reelection. But with the polls showing a 43 percent approval rating for the president and an unpopular war near a stalemate, Brockfield was beginning to think his close relationship with Andrew Freeman was more of an albatross than an advantage. Quietly, without anyone noticing, he had begun to collect a group of supporters who just might buck the party leadership and choose someone other than the current president as their nominee. And if that someone else they asked for turned out to be the junior senator from Wisconsin, so be it. Unlike the president, at sixty-one, Brockfield’s hair was a dark black. His current wife was younger and attractive, and his son was serving in Iran in the marines. No one could question his credentials. He owed Andrew Freeman nothing.

Clark Freisling walked into the vacant store front in Madison, New Jersey, looking over his shoulder. The realtor was already waiting for him.

Mr. Smith? she said, looking at him closely.

Yes. Thank you for being here on time. Let’s look around.

It was a typical store layout, large glass windows in the front, about 2,200 square feet of floor space, including two rooms in the back that could serve as private offices. It was clean, on a main street, and there were several parking spaces in the back. He paid particular attention to the back door and how much space there was behind the building.

This will do just fine. We want to move in tomorrow afternoon.

The realtor smiled. She had been trying to rent this store for six months. It rents for a thousand a month. We need a month in advance. May I ask what kind of business?

Clark pulled out a wad of cash. The realtor’s eyes lit up.

I am not at liberty to talk about the business. But you will find out tomorrow. Expect people to start arriving around noon to move in.

She pulled out a standard lease. He looked it over.

This is fine, but I can’t sign it. The office manager will be here at noon tomorrow when it will become very clear what the store will be used for. He can sign the lease.

The realtor, who would get a nice commission for renting the place, didn’t skip a beat. Freisling handed her $2,000 in cash, asked for a receipt, and left after she handed him the key. The Realtor bounced out of the store with a glow in her eyes.

The same thing was happening around the same time in fifteen other storefronts in fifteen other communities where campaign staffers had been given money and specific instructions. Later this afternoon, Andrew Freeman’s political action committee would rent two floors of a Manhattan office building, a block from ground zero, where the new World Trade Center rose above the rest of the skyline. By 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday they would all have great big blue signs with white lettering that said Reelect President Freeman. By Friday, they would have three hundred storefronts. In a week, there would be a thousand in big cities and small towns across the country. And by the political convention in late July, maybe five thousand.

The president would visit his campaign headquarters in Madison shortly after making his official announcement with the media in tow. TV cameras would record him shaking hands with volunteers who were already working on his reelection campaign. They would be wearing campaign buttons and be surrounded by huge signs. The tables would be full of glossy brochures and bumper stickers. There would even be some litter on the floor, making it look like it had been there for months. Local reporters would know the storefront was empty the day before and might even report that, so would some of the more savvy political reporters. But the national press corps, particularly the cable and broadcast networks, arrogant as always, would never bother to talk to the locals. To them, and many in the general public, it would all look like a well-organized campaign had been underway for some time, and in