The Stochastic Man

“I agree,” I said amiably.

“But you tell us he’ll be beaten in 2000.”

“I say anybody the New Democrats put up will be beaten,” I replied. “Anyone. Qui

Missakian, squat, precise, thin-lipped, the communications expert, the man of clear vision, said, “Can you be more specific, Lew?”

“Yes,” I said, and swung into it.

I set forth my not very chancy prediction that whoever went up against President Mortonson in 2000 — Leydecker, most likely — would get beaten. Incumbent Presidents in this country don’t lose elections unless their first term has been a disaster of Hooverian proportions, and Mortonson had done a nice clean dull unexceptionable sluggish job, the kind a lot of Americans like. Leydecker would mount a respectable challenge, but there were really no issues, and he would be defeated and might be defeated badly, even though he was of obvious presidential caliber. Best to stay out of Leydecker’s path, then, I argued. Give him a free run. Any attempt by Qui

“So Qui

“More than that,” I said. I looked toward Bob Lombroso. He and I had already discussed strategy and come to an agreement, and now, hunching his powerful shoulders forward, sweeping the Armenian side of the table with an elegant heavy-lidded glance, Lombroso began to outline our plan.

Qui

“Great,” Ephrikian said. “When’s the assassination due — 2003?”

“Let’s keep it serious,” said Lombroso gently.

“Okay,” said Ephrikian. “I’ll give you serious, then. What if Leydecker decides he’d like to run again in 2004?”

“He’ll be sixty-one years old then,” Lombroso replied, “and he’ll have a previous defeat on his record. Qui

There was a long silence.

“I like it,” Missakian a

I said, “What about you, Haig?”

Mardikian had not spoken for a while. Now he nodded. “Qui

“And the country will be ready for Qui

13

One thing about politics, the man said, is that it makes strange bedfellows. But for politics, Sundara and I surely would never have wandered into an ad hoc four-group that spring with Catalina Yarber, the Transit Creed proctor, and Lamont Friedman, the highly ionized young financial genius. But for Catalina Yarber, Sundara might not have opted for Transit. But for Sundara’s conversion, she would very likely still be my wife. And so, and so, the threads of causation, everything leading back to the same point in time.

What happened is that as a member of Paul Qui

“It’s about time I went to one of your political di

“They’re pure formaldehyde.”

“Nevertheless.”

“You’ll hate it, love.”

“Are you going?” she asked.

“I have to.”

“Then I think I’ll use the other ticket. If I fall asleep, nudge me when the mayor gets up to talk. He turns me on.”

So on a mild rainy night she and I podded out to the Harbor Hilton, that great pyramid all agleam on its pliable pontoon platform half a kilometer off Manhattan’s tip, and foregathered with the cream of the eastern liberal establishment in the sparkling Summit Room, from which I had a view of — among other things — Sarkisian’s condo tower on the other side of the bay, where nearly four years earlier I had first met Paul Qui

During the preliminary session of bone-doping and cocktails Sundara drew more attention than any of the senators, governors, and mayors present, Qui