Conspiracy by Stephen Coonts Page B

did the same thing in the room. It was a high-ceilinged, empty office; the linoleum on the floor was stained but swept clean, the walls bare except for shadows where photos had once hung.
    â€œSo?” asked Lia.
    â€œLet’s go see what the Secret Service people have to say.”

 
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    â€œLET ME PUT it this way,” Brian Wilson told Senator McSweeney as he began the slide show on his laptop. “If it weren’t for the possibility of collateral damage, I’d say you should get shot at every week. You’ve gained four to five points in the polls in every state. The metrics are definitely trending in your direction.”
    Jimmy Fingers rolled his eyes. Though in his early thirties, Wilson looked as if he were still a college kid, and dressed the part. He constantly sprinkled terms like “metrics” and “coefficients” into his talk. Jimmy Fingers wasn’t so old-fashioned that he would ever allow a candidate to seek office without a pollster, even if he was only running for dog-catcher. Still, Jimmy resented the tendency to reduce everything to numbers, and thought they were way overvalued.
    What did people
think
of McSweeney? That was what was important, after all. Did they think he was lucky to be alive? Or did they think he was special enough that the assassin’s bullet had missed because of fate or God’s hand?
    The answer meant a world of difference. But of course Wilson didn’t even ask the question.
    â€œThere are a few days left to make an impression for Super Tuesday. With all the publicity about the assassination attempt, I’d like to shoot a spot emphasizing your war record,” suggested Brian Carouth, the campaign’s media consultant, after the pollster wrapped up. “I think it will play very well.”
    â€œNo. We don’t need to do that,” said McSweeney. “The spots we’re using have done just fine.”
    â€œA little more biography—” suggested Carouth.
    â€œIssues are what’s important,” said McSweeney. “My health plan, immigration, taxes. That’s what we pound.”
    â€œNow, Senator, as we all know, people vote for the man, not the white paper,” said Wilson. He glanced at Jimmy Fingers, probably expecting him to help, but Jimmy said nothing. “And a war record is a big plus. It says a lot about a man’s character.”
    â€œThe Vietnam War is not the negative it once was,” added Carouth. “That’s ancient history.”
    â€œThere’s no need to bring up my military record,” said McSweeney. “We’ll leave it alone.”
    Jimmy Fingers recognized from McSweeney’s tone that he would not change his mind on the matter, even as Wilson continued pushing the ads. It was refreshing to see the consultant strike out so decisively, thought Jimmy Fingers.
    Truth be told, Jimmy Fingers actually agreed with Wilson. But since when was truth an important ingredient in a political campaign?

 
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    LIA FLICKED THROUGH the notebook. Most preschoolers had handwriting neater than Forester’s. Nor were his notes particularly informative or complete. An entire page would be devoted to a time—10:30, say—that appeared to be for an appointment, though neither a date nor a place was recorded. The words “Pine Plains” were written at the top of the last page. At the bottom of the page, were numbers and one word: “84, Parkway, 44, 82.”
    â€œIs this some sort of code?” Lia asked, passing the sheets to Dean.
    John Mandarin, the Secret Service special agent in charge of both the McSweeney investigation and the inquiry into Forester’s death, frowned.
    â€œWe think those are directions. Interstate 84, Taconic Parkway, U.S. Route 44, and State Route 82. It would be how to get to Pine Plains.”
    â€œBut he didn’t go to Pine Plains,” said Dean. “He went to Danbury.”
    â€œNearest approved