Read Online The Race by Richard North Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard North Patterson
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Christians
will
look elsewhere."
Tense, the audience awaited a pronouncement that, if made, could utterly transform the race. "There are those in our party," Christy told them, "who claim that for a minister to seek high office will only hurt our cause.
"To them I say, Rest easy. For if Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton did not manage to kill American liberalism, conservatism has nothing to fear from
me
..."
As sudden laughter rose from the audience, Corey saw Rob Marotta allow himself a brief, ironic smile. "Perhaps," Christy suggested amiably, "those particular spiritual leaders did not quite match the nation's needs. Or perhaps, in these more perilous times, Americans at last are ready for a different servant of God."
This last phrase, to Christy's credit, was delivered with a certain humor. "For now," he concluded simply, "I implore you to help make our beloved country what God intended it to be."
Abruptly, Christy stopped, his head bowed as if in prayer.
For an instant there was silence. Then applause rose from Christy's listeners, slowly building—perhaps reflecting courtesy, perhaps fear, but perhaps, Corey suspected, a new respect. "Think he'd settle for vice president?" he dryly inquired of Rustin.
"Maybe." Still watching Christy, Rustin's eyes seemed brighter than before. "This much I know: if God wants you to be president, He'll tell the Reverend Christy to run first."
5
AT A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN THAT NIGHT, SENATOR ROB MAROTTA AND his chief strategist, Magnus Price, met with Alex Rohr on the roof deck of the Hotel Washington. From the outset, Marotta felt on guard: as wary as he was of Rohr, that Price had urged this meeting made him warier still.
Their corner table had a panoramic view of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials; much closer, the White House was brightly etched against the dark night sky. "Place sure looks noble," Price drawled with a smile. "All that moonlit marble with no people to screw it up. If you're dumb enough, or drunk enough, you'd almost forget this place is the ultimate proof that Darwin was right—only the fittest, and the meanest, survive. To get to be a statesman, you first gotta be a prick."
"So what's Bob Christy?" Rohr asked sharply.
This was a sore point, Marotta understood. "A botched experiment," Price answered with a rueful tone. "Tonight was like watching Frankenstein escape. For thirty years I've busted my ass to bring Christians into the tent—including Christy—and now he's so delusional he thinks he owns the tent."
Price's laconic manner, Marotta knew, belied the man's frustration. In Price's grand design, he was the orchestrator of the Hydra, through which the various tentacles of the party—business, Christian conservatives, right-wing media, and advocacy groups from the gun lobby to the tax cutters—combined to dominate America's politics and culture. "The whole idea," Price continued, "is to make sure each stockholder in our enterprise helps get the others what they want. The rich folks and the Bible-thumpers don't gotta love each other—they just gotta help each other. Nobody's bigger than the whole.
"Problem with the Reverend Bob, Alex, is he's getting himself confused with God. And God don't go to meetings, or work through coalitions. Bob's God, to my lasting sorrow, just isn't a team player."
"So what are you going to do about him," Rohr cut in, "when the senator's running against this bastard in the primaries?"
"If,"
Price amended. "That's where Rob is gonna need all the help you can give him." Pausing, Price smiled across the table at Marotta. "I ran my own little poll after the last election. Rohr News persuaded ten percent of its viewers to change their vote and support the president. Despite his modesty, Alex here's a kind of genius. Maybe he'll treat you to what I call his 'theory of postmodernist media.'"
Rohr did not smile; to Marotta, who knew him only casually, Rohr gave off the chill of a man who disdained
will
look elsewhere."
Tense, the audience awaited a pronouncement that, if made, could utterly transform the race. "There are those in our party," Christy told them, "who claim that for a minister to seek high office will only hurt our cause.
"To them I say, Rest easy. For if Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton did not manage to kill American liberalism, conservatism has nothing to fear from
me
..."
As sudden laughter rose from the audience, Corey saw Rob Marotta allow himself a brief, ironic smile. "Perhaps," Christy suggested amiably, "those particular spiritual leaders did not quite match the nation's needs. Or perhaps, in these more perilous times, Americans at last are ready for a different servant of God."
This last phrase, to Christy's credit, was delivered with a certain humor. "For now," he concluded simply, "I implore you to help make our beloved country what God intended it to be."
Abruptly, Christy stopped, his head bowed as if in prayer.
For an instant there was silence. Then applause rose from Christy's listeners, slowly building—perhaps reflecting courtesy, perhaps fear, but perhaps, Corey suspected, a new respect. "Think he'd settle for vice president?" he dryly inquired of Rustin.
"Maybe." Still watching Christy, Rustin's eyes seemed brighter than before. "This much I know: if God wants you to be president, He'll tell the Reverend Christy to run first."
5
AT A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN THAT NIGHT, SENATOR ROB MAROTTA AND his chief strategist, Magnus Price, met with Alex Rohr on the roof deck of the Hotel Washington. From the outset, Marotta felt on guard: as wary as he was of Rohr, that Price had urged this meeting made him warier still.
Their corner table had a panoramic view of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials; much closer, the White House was brightly etched against the dark night sky. "Place sure looks noble," Price drawled with a smile. "All that moonlit marble with no people to screw it up. If you're dumb enough, or drunk enough, you'd almost forget this place is the ultimate proof that Darwin was right—only the fittest, and the meanest, survive. To get to be a statesman, you first gotta be a prick."
"So what's Bob Christy?" Rohr asked sharply.
This was a sore point, Marotta understood. "A botched experiment," Price answered with a rueful tone. "Tonight was like watching Frankenstein escape. For thirty years I've busted my ass to bring Christians into the tent—including Christy—and now he's so delusional he thinks he owns the tent."
Price's laconic manner, Marotta knew, belied the man's frustration. In Price's grand design, he was the orchestrator of the Hydra, through which the various tentacles of the party—business, Christian conservatives, right-wing media, and advocacy groups from the gun lobby to the tax cutters—combined to dominate America's politics and culture. "The whole idea," Price continued, "is to make sure each stockholder in our enterprise helps get the others what they want. The rich folks and the Bible-thumpers don't gotta love each other—they just gotta help each other. Nobody's bigger than the whole.
"Problem with the Reverend Bob, Alex, is he's getting himself confused with God. And God don't go to meetings, or work through coalitions. Bob's God, to my lasting sorrow, just isn't a team player."
"So what are you going to do about him," Rohr cut in, "when the senator's running against this bastard in the primaries?"
"If,"
Price amended. "That's where Rob is gonna need all the help you can give him." Pausing, Price smiled across the table at Marotta. "I ran my own little poll after the last election. Rohr News persuaded ten percent of its viewers to change their vote and support the president. Despite his modesty, Alex here's a kind of genius. Maybe he'll treat you to what I call his 'theory of postmodernist media.'"
Rohr did not smile; to Marotta, who knew him only casually, Rohr gave off the chill of a man who disdained
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