Jake stood on the windswept balcony of his hotel room and stared across the water of the bay toward Fort Sumter. At this distance there wasn’t much to see, the fort was all the way out at the entrance to the bay, while this rundown hotel was on the city’s waterfront, miles distant.
Wishing he had a pair of binoculars, Jake muttered to himself, “That’s where the Civil War began. That’s where they started killing each other.”
It was a chilly day, even though the sky was clear and sunshine made the waters of the bay sparkle. Nowhere near as cold as New Hampshire, Jake told himself. Or Iowa. But he shivered in his suede sports jacket nonetheless.
He heard the phone ring inside his room. Hackman’s people, Jake thought. They had picked this hotel; it was out-of-the-way enough so that the chance of Jake being spotted by a news reporter was minimal. As if a reporter would recognize me, he grumbled to himself as he ducked back into the room and slid the balcony door shut.
He picked up the phone on its third ring.
“Dr. Ross?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes,” Jake replied, unconsciously nodding. With all the secrecy about this meeting, Jake was surprised that Hackman’s people hadn’t insisted on code names.
“We’re about five minutes away from your hotel. Could you please wait for us down in the lobby?”
“Sure. See you in five.”
The line clicked dead.
The hotel lobby looked seedy. You’d think they’d keep a hotel right on the waterfront in better shape, Jake said to himself. Then he realized that this was an independent operation: no Marriott or Hyatt or other national chain with deep pockets. This was a mom-and-pop establishment, a family business struggling to stay alive.
A dark sedan pulled up at the entrance and Jake started for the door. Then he saw that a short, squat, red-haired woman got out of the car. She didn’t look like a political operative in Jake’s eyes, more like a chambermaid coming in to start her working shift.
But she pushed through the lobby’s glass door, spotted Jake, and walked straight to him.
“Dr. Ross? This way, please.”
Jake followed her outside and ducked into the car’s rear seat. The woman sat up front, beside the driver.
As the car pulled out onto the street Jake asked, “Where are we going?”
“Downtown Marriott,” the woman replied.
Jake grunted. They stay at the Marriott. Me they put in a dump, like a witness against the Mafia.
Within a few minutes they swung into the Marriott’s parking lot and pulled up in front of a big black Cadillac. The woman pointed. “They’re waiting for you in the Caddy.”
Jake got out of the sedan. Somebody in the Cadillac opened its rear door. Jake climbed into the capacious car, sat down, and pulled the door shut.
The man sitting beside him on the rear bench was big, like a retired football player, with thick wavy gray hair, heavyset, wearing an expensive-looking suit of dark blue. On the jump seat facing Jake was a young woman, sharp-faced, peroxide blonde, in a tailored white blouse and forest-green jacket with short sleeves.
“Hello, Dr. Ross,” said the big gray-haired man, smiling broadly as he extended a meaty hand toward Jake. “I’m Bernie Untermeyer, Governor Hackman’s chief of protocol.”
Untermeyer’s voice was heavy, gravelly, with more than a hint of a Dixie accent.
Jabbing a thumb toward the woman, he went on, “This here is Louise Anderson, my assistant.”
Nodding, Jake said, “Pleased to meet you.”
“We’re happy y’all could come down and meet with us,” said Untermeyer.
“Senator Tomlinson was very pleased that you suggested this meeting,” Jake replied.
“Good. Good.” Untermeyer patted Jake’s knee, making him flinch with surprise.
Louise Anderson said, “Your Senator Tomlinson is doing quite well in this campaign.” Her voice was sharp, like a dentist’s drill, making Jake feel still more uncomfortable.
“Which our governor is not,” said Untermeyer, with a sad wag of his head.
“What are the governor’s plans?” Jake asked.
Untermeyer glanced at Anderson, then replied, “He’s pretty disappointed in the Iowa results. And the New Hampshire situation doesn’t look all that cheerful, either.”
“Of course,” Anderson cut in, “he expects to do better on Super Tuesday. All those southern states are much more inclined toward him.”
“I suppose so,” Jake noncommittalled.
Untermeyer retook command of the conversation with, “But the governor’s a realist. He’s wonderin’ if he shouldn’t cut ’is losses, withdraw from the race, and urge ’is followers to vote for somebody else.”
“Somebody else,” Jake echoed.
“Could be your Senator Tomlinson,” said Untermeyer, with a toothy grin spreading across his heavy-jowled face.
Jake said, “That would be fine with us, I’m sure.”
“Point is, what would the governor gain from throwin’ his support to your man?”
Jake held his tongue for a moment, then asked, “What does the governor want?”
Again Untermeyer looked over to Anderson. Jake got the impression that she was actually running the show, and this bulky gray man was merely a stalking horse.
“Governor Hackman’s made a strong issue out of immigration policy,” Untermeyer said at last. “Whoever he backs has got to come down against lettin’ all these Latinos and A-rabs enterin’ this country.”
Jake got a mental image of the Statue of Liberty lifting her torch beside the Golden Door. But he said, “Stronger immigration policy.”
“And more jobs for the state of Tennessee,” Untermeyer added.
Anderson leaned toward Jake and said sharply, “This space program of yours. You’re talking about a million new jobs. We need some of those jobs in our state.”
“I see,” said Jake.
“And more federal assistance for welfare,” Untermeyer resumed. “Our state’s being spent into bankruptcy by fed’ral welfare mandates that we’re forced to pay for!”
Jake said, “And if Senator Tomlinson backs these issues…?”
Bringing out his toothy smile again, Untermeyer replied, “Why, if your senator promises to back those issues, I’m sure the governor will urge his backers to vote for your man.”
“Super Tuesday is less than a month away,” Anderson reminded.
Jake nodded. “I understand.”
“Good. Good.” Untermeyer patted Jake’s knee again. This time Jake managed to resist the urge to recoil.
“I’ll explain your position to Senator Tomlinson and we’ll see what his reaction will be.”
“There is one more thing,” Anderson said.
“Oh?”
“The governor would like to be invited to be in the new president’s cabinet,” she said, slowly, carefully. “Maybe secretary of energy?”
Jake heard himself reply, “That’s an area that’s very close to Senator Tomlinson’s heart.”
“And your own,” Untermeyer jumped in. “You drafted the senator’s energy plan, didn’t you?”
“That was six years ago…”
“But it was a good plan. It’s workin’.”
“Governor Hackman will make a fine secretary of energy,” Anderson said.
Jake spread his hands and replied, “I’ll see what the senator thinks about all this.”
Untermeyer made a soft little chuckle. “Good. You do that. Personally, I’d hate to see th’ governor’s votes go to Sebastian.”
“So would I,” said Jake—the first unreservedly genuine statement he’d made since climbing into the Cadillac.