[center][b]American Interlude #2[/b][/center] [h3]Washington D.C.[/h3] [b]Washington Post 11:23 AM[/b] "Bob!" Traci Lord shot up from her cubicle and raced towards the executive editor's office. She clung hard to the letter and envelope she just opened. The workers in the newsroom had all stopped what they were doing to look at Traci as she jogged in heels. The big man's corner office door was open, so she didn't hesitate to walk through into his inner sanctum. Bob Bigger looked at Traci with a neutral expression. He sat behind his desk with a folded page from that day's [i]Post[/i] in one hand, a pencil in the other hand. "Oh, I'm sorry," said Traci. "I saw the door was open and--" "No, no," Bigger said with a sigh. "As much as I love my crossword puzzle time, I leave the door open for a reason. What's going on, Lord?" She always felt a little warm glow when he said her name. All the other editors at the paper called her "honey" and "sweetheart" in a tone that was meant to be kind but always came off condescending. Bob called everyone by their last name regardless. "I just got this in the mail." Traci handed him the letters and envelope. Bob slipped on his reading glasses and looked it over. While he read it over, Traci looked around the office. There were framed [i]Post[/i] articles he had either written or edited. "LONG ASSASSINATED" read one headline. Another proclaimed "WAR OVER; WHEELER CALLS FOR UNITY." Mixed between the articles were photos of Bigger and his wife with presidents, diplomats, and movie stars at black tie galas. "How legitimate is this?" he finally asked, looking up from the letter. With his thick eyeglasses and bushy eyebrows, he looked owlish to her. "I just opened it. I need to do background and talk to some people at State for confirmation before I even start writing word one." "What's your angle?" "After a run-in with criminals, a member of the Ethiopian royal family is wounded here in the US. Kowtowing to diplomatic pressure from the emperor, the Norman Administration payoffs the nation with subsidies to be passed through congress." Bigger stroked his chin and looked off in the distance. "Not bad. But the president is a lame duck, so who cares? Think we can find out if the vice president was involved?" "I can surely try." "I'm gonna call in some help." "Oh, come on, Bob!" The look he gave her shut her up quick. "It's a big story, Lord. Now you got some talent, but this is too big of a story for one reporter. We need confirmation from the west coast, here in DC, and even in freaking Africa. You ain't that good, Lord." "I guess," she mumbled. "You guess," Bigger said as he removed his glasses. "I'm gonna get Maxwell from the White House to come in on this and see if he can scrounge anything up. The [i]Post[/i] has a bureau in Nairobi that can do some follow-up with the Ethopian government on this." He laid the first paper flat on the desk. It was a copy of a diplomatic cable US Ambassador Jefferson Davis Bacon sent to Foggy Bottom three weeks earlier, the date in the corner confirming the time period. Bigger ran his hands across the surface before staring at it. "If it's a fake, it's a damn good one. As curious as it is, what do you make of this?" He held up the second sheet of paper that came with the cable. It was blank with no stationary on it at all. Centered in the middle of the page was the short, typed message. [center]This is only the beginning. There is more than you or the American people realize. Make this a story and the rest will follow. --A friend[/center] Tray took the letter from Bigger's hand and looked it over again before speaking. "It's either a nutball--" "A nutball with amazing forgery skills." "--or someone high-up in the government who is pissed." "Let's pray for the latter." said Bigger. "Now get on the phone with someone at State and confirm that this thing is real. I'm going to contact legal and see if we have a precedence on running what I assume is classified material." Traci nodded as she collected the material from Bigger's desk. She could feel her heart racing. Finally, after five years at the paper working middle of the road political stories, stuff that almost never made the A-section, and when it did it was in the back pages, this was a shot at some real front page, above the fold news. She just had to make sure it was real. --- [h3]California[/h3] [b]Sacramento 2:45 PM[/b] "I am flattered by your words," Rick Marshall said with a raised palm. "But I am done with politics, Russ. I am content to serve the rest of my term with as little fanfare as possible and then retire. My days of campaigning are through." Russell felt a sharp annoyance at the governor's words. They'd just finished nine holes of golf and an exquisite lunch, all on Russell -- well the campaign's -- dime. They were still in the khaki slacks and polo shirts Russell had purchased for them at the proshop. Russell hadn't had to kiss ass like this since his early days in the Senate, when he was so deep in Wilbur Helm's ass everyone thought the junior senator was a proctologist. "I need your support, governor," Russell said with his best fake smile. "California is going to be a big state in the election and your popularity transfers across party lines. You're the state's Abe Lincoln." Marshall chuckled and stood. They were in his private study in the governor's mansion. This same study where where Sam Bromowitz met his grisly end. The floors had been converted to hardwood after the war, the carpet soaked with Bromowitz's blood removed and disposed of. The governor walked towards the large bay window in the study. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and he looked out on the mansion grounds. "I'll be honest with you," Marshall said with a sigh. "I don't like you, Russ. Never have. You represent all that's wrong with American politics. You seek power for power's sake, and you pass legislation to either fill your pocket or get reelected." Marshall turned around to stare at Russell. "You turned our convention into a goddamn mockery. Michael Norman is a good man and he deserved better than you turning him into a fucking fool, Russ. The only reason I'm not supporting Baker is because I care too much about the party to actively hurt it." Russell stood, tightly gripping the back of the wingback chair he had been sitting in. "You know what you dislike about me, Rick? The fact that I get what I want. I see what I want and I take it. I have the balls that you lack. You could have been an amazing president, but you were always too much of a pussy to take it. You'd rather stay in California and play it safe." "Get out of this house," snapped Marshall. "You've got some campaigning to do. Bob Baker is in San Francisco next week. I'll think I'll make a surprise appearance at his rally." "Why stop there?" said Russell. "Why not head down to Fresno and see little Catherine." The color left Marshall's face so quickly that Russell almost thought the governor was about to drop dead. "What did you say?" Marshall finally asked. "Catherine --- or is it Cathy? Although she's not little anymore. She'd be, what thirty years old now? I wonder if she has children." A smile crept on to Russell's face. "Hey, maybe you're a grandfather, Rick." "How do you know about that?" "Oh, Rick. It's my job to know these things. I've known it for years, back when I thought you were going to run for president." Russell stepped around the chair and walked towards the window and Marshall, the cold smile still on his face. "See, you think that since you're leaving office you have nothing to lose. And politically, that's true. No more campaigns to win, so who gives a shit about you having a bastard daughter... or a bastard son in Irvine. William, I think is his name. A family you never had anything to do with, a family you kept paying hush money to year after year until both women died. See, politically you can't be touched. But Rick, your legacy will take quite the beating. The Great Uniter? More like the Great Abandoner... not sure if that's a word, but we'll make it one." Marshall's face had gone from bone white to beet red. Russell put his hands on the governor's neck and helped fix the collar of his polo shirt after it had somehow gotten rolled up. "I want your public endorsement, a press conference before I leave the state this week should do, and I want a series of rallies in the month prior to election day. You give me those, Rick, and your legacy remains intact. What do you say?" "You silence says it all," Russell said after he finished straightening Marshall's collar. Russell headed for the door of the study, looking back at Marshal as he walked. "If you'll excuse me, I gotta get back on the trail. I'll have my people contact you sometime tomorrow and give you your speech for the press conference. I enjoyed that round on the links today, Rick. Next time I won't go so easy on you!"