“Senator Blake, word on the street has it that you might not be running after all. That you might endorse someone else. What do you say to that?”

Shit! Did that fuckhead London talk? If that preening, empty-headed moron spilled the beans, Blake would have his balls on a plate. But London wouldn’t have talked. Too much depended on discretion. The presidency, no less.

Blake’s heart beat hard in his chest and he had to school his face to blandness. He smiled down into the reporter’s eyes, momentarily nonplussed to find them so familiar. And intelligent. This was a sharp one and he had to tread carefully. She was getting info from somewhere.

Blake smiled. His patented you’re-not-getting-anything-from-me smile. “Why, where would you get that idea?”

She didn’t smile back, simply held her cell up. “Rumors swirl in this city, Senator. You know that better than anyone.”

The little bitch. Blake wasn’t going to play this game. He held up his hand and turned his head slightly. When played back, the viewer would see a palm and a one-quarter profile. Of no interest for a podcast.

“This country doesn’t run on rumors, it runs on facts,” he said flatly and moved away. He motioned to his chief of staff and assistant. They came in fast and spearheaded his way through the crowd as he moved forward in a babble of voices.

Hands reached out to touch him, heads swiveled to follow his progress along the walkway.

Thank God the plate glass entry doors were wide open. His staff would have insisted on that, knowing he liked to get into buildings fast. He hated revolving doors, they made him feel trapped, shuffling slowly at everyone else’s pace.

With each step, he realized he had made not only the smart move but also the right move. Politics at this level wasn’t for him. He’d had to glad-hand thousands of Virginians to be elected senator but the presidency? A year and a half of touching thousands and thousands, maybe even millions of voters. A year and a half of bad meals, hotel rooms, smiling at crappy jokes, pretending to like the local pols who endorsed him.

No, very soon, within the hour, all this would be behind him and he himself would be behind the throne. London would obey him and he’d be Cardinal Richelieu, crafty and strong, to the weakling Louis XIII.

He, Hector Blake, was going to bring the country to its knees, and it was going to bow to him and the masters he served. But he would stay in the shadows, as real power must.

Suddenly, the clutching hands, anxious faces, fevered voices got to him. Years ago he’d perfected the art of moving fast without looking like he was hurrying. He couldn’t wait to get this farce over with. He lengthened his stride and watched as his aides and chief of staff scrambled, startled, to keep up with him.

Blake was only a few yards from the big entry doors of the hotel when someone bumped into him, hard. He was knocked back a step and almost fell. A hard hand grasped his neck, steadied him.

A vet. A homeless vet, by the look of him. Matted filthy hair, long beard, dark round sunglasses, a BDU that looked like it had been slept in for weeks. And the smell. God. Blake barely kept from wrinkling his nose in distaste. The man smelled like a sewer, with an additional layer of stale beer breath.

“Don’t forget the vets!” the man shouted, spewing saliva.

Blake closed his eyes and stepped back in instinctive horror. God only knew if the man was carrying a disease. He was shouting slogans, rambling phrases, as one of the security guards placed at the hotel’s entrance rushed forward and wrestled him away from Blake. The man struggled but the guard was strong. Blake saw the back of his head, tangled dirty hair straggling over his shoulders.

Blake cricked his neck, a little ache coming from where the man had grasped him.

God, he hated people. And he particularly hated poor people. He could never have put up with the farce of a presidential campaign.

He moved ahead again, eager to get this over with. As he entered the huge ballroom, thousands of people shouted when they saw him. Those who weren’t near the doors saw him enter the room on the huge monitors on the walls.

Unnerved by his encounter with the vet, Blake made his way forward, touching as few people as possible. Clearly expecting him to glad-hand his way slowly to the podium, his handlers and the security people behind scrambled to catch up as he walked up the short staircase to the podium.

The roar of the crowd intensified, grew deafening. Blake appeared to bask in it, head uplifted, smiling. Though it was a crowd of politicized people, mostly wealthy, he could smell sweat under the thick haze of perfume. Some women down under the podium were screaming and jumping up and down in a frenzy. Very close to what looked like an epileptic fit.

They weren’t crazy for him, but for what he represented—the Delvauxes, who had been taken from America. He represented pre-Washington Massacre America. He represented the America that kicked ass, not the weakened giant everyone perceived but no one could say. The crowd wanted a Delvaux but if they couldn’t have Alex, then they’d take his best friend.

Well, they weren’t even going to get the surrogate Delvaux.

They were going to get a puppet and Blake’s job now was to make sure they’d scream for that puppet.

The crowd swayed to the piped in beat of “Happy”, waving banners with 3 x 5 posters of his head, as if he or any politician could make them happy. The song had been chosen by his PR team and would do for London, too. “Happy” was a perfectly fine anthem for unhappy times.

Blake stood at the podium, spotlights honed in on his smiling face, seemingly soaking in the adoration, taking in the frantic crowds, foot tapping to the music, arms up, embracing everything about the event.

The lights blinded him but he was able to pick out people he knew in the crowd nonetheless. But most of the screaming enthusiastic men and women were complete strangers who had no idea who he really was. They were screaming for an idea, not a man. And even the idea was nebulous. Bright, shiny future. Prosperity while saving the environment. Inclusion, as long as it wasn’t of people too different from them. Helping the third world as long as it didn’t affect their lifestyle.

That’s what they were screaming for.

They were so ripe. This time next year or maybe the year after, they’d have overlords and he’d be one of them and all the confusion and panic of freedom would be gone forever. They’d be told what to do and when to do it and they’d be happier.

Finally, when he judged the peak of enthusiasm had passed, he held his hands up. He bent to the microphone, judging it would take three passes.

“Dear friends,” he began, but they were still enthusiastically shouting and waving. Blake put an indulgent smile on his face and bent again. “Dear friends.”

They started shushing each other as he waited, kindly smiling at them all.

He patted the air and finally there was silence in the great hall, an expectant hush.

“Dear friends.” Blake looked out over the crowd once everyone had settled down. He’d perfected the paternal smile, a loving father surveying his beloved progeny. Each and every one of you is precious to me, that smile said. “This city, our country, suffered a grievous loss half a year ago.” When the crowd understood that he was opening with the Massacre, even the rustling stopped and they listened reverently. “Our attackers hate us, hate what we represent. And the only way they know how to deal with that is to kill what they don’t, and they can’t, understand. Not only did we lose many of our best and brightest, including the man I believe from the bottom of my heart was to be our next president, but we lost something even deeper. Our hope for the future. But the enemy cannot be allowed to win. They didn’t destroy our spirit!”