The Best Laid Plans

Chapter 14

Oliver stared at the paper unbelievingly. How could she have done that? He thought about how passionate she had been in bed. And he had completely misread it. It was a passion filled with hate, not love. There's no way I can ever stop her, Oliver thought despairingly.

Senator Todd Davis looked at the front-page story and was aghast. He understood the power of the press, and he knew how much this vendetta could cost him. I'll have to stop her myself, Senator Davis decided.

When he got to his Senate office, he telephoned Leslie. "It's been a long time," Senator Davis said warmly. "Too long. I think about you a lot, Miss Stewart."

"I think about you, too, Senator Davis. In a way, everything I have I owe to you."

He chuckled. "Not at all. When you had a problem, I was happy to be able to assist you."

"Is there something I can do for you, Senator?"

"No, Miss Stewart. But there's something I'd like to do for you. I'm one of your faithful readers, you know, and I think the Tribune is a truly fine paper. I just realized that we haven't been doing any advertising in it, and I want to correct that. I'm involved in several large companies, and they do a lot of advertising. I mean a lot of advertising. I think that a good portion of that should go to a fine paper like the Tribune."

"I'm delighted to hear that, Senator. We can always use more advertising. Whom shall I have my advertising manager talk to?"

"Well, before he talks to anyone, I think you and I should settle a little problem between us."

"What's that?" Leslie asked.

"It concerns President Russell."

"Yes?"

"This is a rather delicate matter, Miss Stewart. You said a few moments ago that you owed everything you have to me. Now I'm asking you to do me a little favor."

"I'll be happy to, if I can."

"In my own small way, I helped the president get elected to office."

"I know."

"And he's doing a fine job. Of course, it makes it more difficult for him when he's attacked by a powerful newspaper like the Tribune every time he turns around."

"What are you asking me to do, Senator?"

"Well, I would greatly appreciate it if those attacks would stop."

"And in exchange for that, I can count on getting advertising from some of your companies."

"A great deal of advertising, Miss Stewart."

"Thank you, Senator. Why don't you call me back when you have something more to offer?"

And the line went dead.

In his office at the Washington Tribune, Matt Baker was reading the story about President Russell's secret love nest.

"Who the hell authorized this?" he snapped at his assistant.

"It came from the White Tower."

"Goddammit. She's not running this paper, I am." Why the hell do I put up with her? he wondered, not for the first time. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year plus bonuses and stock options, he told himself wryly. Every time he was ready to quit, she seduced him with more money and more power. Besides, he had to admit to himself that it was fascinating working for one of the most powerful women in the world. There were things about her that he would never understand.

When she had first bought the Tribune, Leshe had said to Matt, "There's an astrologer I want you to hire. His name is Zoltaire."

"He's syndicated by our competition."

"I don't care. Hire him."

Later that day, Matt Baker told her, "I checked on Zoltaire. It would be too expensive to buy out his contract."

"Buy it."

The following week, Zoltaire, whose real name Matt learned was David Hayworth, came to work for the Washington Tribune. He was in his fifties, small and dark and intense.

Matt was puzzled. Leshe did not seem like the kind of woman who would have any interest in astrology. As far as he could see, there was no contact between Leshe and David Hayworth.

What he did not know was that Hayworth went to visit Leshe at her home whenever she had an important decision to make.

On the first day, Matt had had Leshe's name put on the masthead: "Leshe Chambers, Publisher." She had glanced at it and said, "Change it. It's Leshe Stewart."

The lady is on an ego trip. Matt had thought. But he was wrong. Leslie had decided to revert to her maiden name because she wanted Oliver Russell to know exactly who was responsible for what was going to happen to him.

The day after Leslie took over the newspaper, she said, "We're going to buy a health magazine."

Matt looked at her curiously. "Why?"

"Because the health field is exploding."

She had proved to be right. The magazine was an instant success.

"We're going to start expanding," Leslie told Baker. "Let's get some people looking for publications overseas."

"All right."

"And there's too much fat around here. Get rid of the reporters who aren't pulling their weight."

"Leslie - "

"I want young reporters who are hungry."

When an executive position became open, Leslie insisted on being there for the interview. She would listen to the applicant, and then would ask one question: "What's your golf score?" The job would often depend on the answer.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Matt Baker asked the first time he heard it. "What difference does a golf score make?"

"I don't want people here who are dedicated to golf. If they work here, they're going to be dedicated to the Washington Tribune."

Leshe Stewart's private life was a subject of endless discussions at the Tribune. She was a beautiful woman, unattached, and as far as anyone knew, she was not involved with any man and had no personal life. She was one of the capital's preeminent hostesses, and important people vied for an invitation to her dinner parties. But people speculated about what she did when all the guests had left and she was alone. There were rumors that she was an insomniac who spent the nights working, planning new projects for the Stewart empire.

There were other rumors, more titillating, but there was no way of proving them.

Leshe involved herself in everything: editorials, news stories, advertising. One day, she said to the head of the advertising department, "Why aren't we getting any ads from Gleason's?" - an upscale store in Georgetown.