for the misconduct of some of my staff. And I wanted to tell you, here and now, that I will offer any support I can to help you find the man who is killing these innocent men and women. I hope what I said out there in that speech encourages him to stop. I bet all my political capital on the line for you just now.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Tom coughed into his fist. “Well, sir, about that…”
Bob suddenly let out a bellowing laugh.
Tom was confused.
Then he wasn’t.
“You heard we caught him.”
“About two minutes ago. It’s all over the wires.” Bob smirked. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve just been on a high for the past half hour. I’ve wanted to give that speech my entire adult life, Tom. May I call you Tom?”
Bob offered him a gold-rimmed cigar. At first Tom shook his head, but the look of undistilled charisma in the governor’s eyes—how could anyone say no to that? Cult of personality indeed. Kathryn excused herself to take a call, and the men sat back and enjoyed some world-class smokes.
“I can’t fire Paul,” said Bob. “He deserves it, but after the announcement I just made, any shift in my campaign staff would be seen as a sign of weakness and vulnerability. Now if you boys want to go after him with obstruction charges, I won’t stand in your way. But I wanted to let you know where I stood. Integrity is important to me, Tom.”
“Me, too, sir.”
Bob exhaled gray. “What are you doing tomorrow, Tom?”
“Well…”
“Paul told you about my plan to overhaul the intelligence community. With the FBI and the CIA and the NSA and what have you, every agency tripping over the other for jurisdiction, it’s alphabet soup in Washington and I want to get rid of the redundancy. How would you like to spend the morning with me and convince me otherwise? I have a scheduled stop on my way to New York City. Very low-key. I promise to keep an open mind. What do you say?”
What else was there to say? Tom said yes.
26
The campaign’s scheduled stop on the way to New York City was at a two-story hunting shop called Nassau Firearms, located several miles outside Port Washington. The store was owned and operated by one Will Clay, age sixty-two. Will Clay wasn’t a major contributor. He wasn’t even a registered Democrat. Ostensibly the purpose of the visit was to demonstrate the governor’s connection with all Americans, regardless of who they were, but the truth was…
“I just love guns,” he said to Tom and they ascended the stairs to the shop’s second floor. It was on the second floor of Nassau Firearms that Will Clay kept his renowned firing range, which was said to be the largest indoor range on Long Island. This was the shop’s main attraction, and the real reason why Kellerman had insisted on stopping here on the way to New York City.
A padded door met them at the top of the stairs. Tom used the key the governor had rented to open it, and they trotted into the massive soundproofed room. Targets—which varied in portrait from deer and elk and buffalo to a wide selection of featureless human shapes—could be flown back as far as 100 yards. Bob had rented them a pair of classic Smith & Wessons and each carried his steel-engraved weapon by its barrel.
As they set up at their stations and donned their protective goggles and plastic earmuffs, Bob elaborated.
“I was raised on guns. In the wintertime, we would drive up to Canada and hunt white-tailed deer. It’s a magnificent animal. We shared a cabin with our cousins, who lived over in Windsor. They had a daughter about my age. Her name was Margaret. That’s where I learned the essentials of healthy competition. Which is the topic of our discussion today, isn’t it, Tom—the unhealthy, downright juvenile competition that exists between our country’s intelligence communities.”
Bob loaded his pistol. He would have preferred to have a rifle, like a Browning A-Bolt, but shoulder-arms were strictly forbidden at indoor shooting ranges. C’est la guerre.
“Like you said,” replied Tom, loading his own pistol, “some competition is healthy. It inspires you to reach higher.”
“It also inspires you to cripple the other guy.”
They attached their deer targets to mechanical clips and with the slap of a button sent them back fifty yards. The back wall of the range, although solid cinder block, was mottled with erosion, reflecting years and years of missed shots.
Tom didn’t intend