The campaign roared on, with Sebastian and Tomlinson neck and neck as they raced across the country giving speeches, interviews, meeting with local leaders, wooing votes. Jake stayed in Washington for the most part, but even when he had to travel he phoned Tami every evening.
She seemed happy enough, caught up in the excitement of the campaign and a plethora of local happenings, ranging from a suspicious warehouse fire to a heroic dog that saved a ten-year-old boy from drowning by rousing a pair of firefighters to rescue the lad when he got swept away in a flooded river.
Tami sent Jake DVDs of her appearances on the evening news. She seemed bright, knowledgeable, cheerfully smiling. She even interviewed Senator Tomlinson briefly when he swung through Fresno on his way to a major party rally in San Francisco.
Bright, Jake thought, watching her on the TV in their empty condo. Knowledgeable. Cheerful. But he thought he caught an edge of sadness in Tami’s smiling face, an undertone of misery. Jake shook his head, frowning. That’s projection, he told himself. You’re miserable so you think she ought to be miserable, too.
She’s not, he saw.
* * *
As if Jake wasn’t already up to his earlobes in work, William Farthington called him, exactly one week before the GOP nominating convention was scheduled to begin in Philadelphia.
“Hello, Bill,” Jake said tightly to the image of NASA’s chief administrator on his wall screen. “How are you?”
For once, Bloviating Billy didn’t waste time on niceties. “Hal Harmon wants to talk to you.”
Surprised, Jake asked, “General Harmon?”
“Right away,” Farthington said, his face dead serious. “Tonight, if you can.”
Jake didn’t have to check his calendar. He had nothing on tap for the evening.
“Okay. Where and when?”
“My house. Nine thirty.”
No dinner this trip, Jake said to himself. The expression on Farthington’s face, though, told him something serious was percolating. The head of the US Air Force’s Space Command doesn’t call for a private meeting to talk about trivia.
So he downed a TV dinner that purported to be manicotti, tossed the emptied container into the trash, then went downstairs for his car.
Fortunately, Jake had programmed the location of Farthington’s suburban Alexandria home into his convertible’s GPS. Traffic was on the light side, and he pulled up onto the NASA administrator’s driveway a few minutes early. Two other cars were already there: a sleek gray hatchback and a dead black Mercedes. A shadowy figure was sitting behind the steering wheel of the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette. He looked lean, youngish.
William Farthington himself opened the front door for Jake. No servants? Jake asked himself.
Farthington led him to a small book-lined study toward the rear of the big house. Two men got to their feet as Jake stepped in: General Harmon and a stranger. Harmon was in civilian clothes: his tweed sports coat looked like it hadn’t been pressed for ages, but his slacks were razor-creased. Jake imagined he could see the general’s four stars still on his shoulders, perfectly in place.
Farthington said, “You already know General Harmon, Jake.” Gesturing toward the other man, he introduced, “This is Grigor Medvedev, of the Russian foreign secretary’s office.”
The word for Medvedev was compact, Jake decided. He was the shortest man in the room, but his physique was burly, like a middle-aged weightlifter. Jake thought he must spend a lot of his time in a gym. His face was squarish, with a lump of a nose and a strong, stubborn chin. His eyes were small, squinty; his hair dark but thinning, brushed straight back from his advancing forehead.
“Mr. Medvedev,” Jake said as he shook hands with the Russian.
“Dr. Ross,” said Medvedev. “Author of the so-called Tomlinson space plan.”
Jake smiled. “Success has a thousand fathers.”
Each of the other three men already had drinks in their hands. Farthington said apologetically, “I’m afraid the servants have the night off.” Pointing to the bar built into the bookcase near the room’s only window, he asked, “Can I get something for you, Jake?”
“A club soda will be fine.”
As Farthington went to the bar, General Harmon explained, “Grigor and I have known each other since we sorted out the mess in Syria.”
Medvedev nodded solemnly. “Without coming to blows.”
Jake recalled Bashar al-Assad’s final, desperate attempt to get Russia and Iran to prop up his tottering regime. The world had come closer to a nuclear confrontation than most people realized. If Medvedev helped get past that hurdle he must be an important man in the Russian foreign ministry.
At last Farthington handed Jake his club soda and all four men seated themselves in separate armchairs around a bare coffee table.
“So what’s this all about?” Jake asked. “Why have you asked me here?”
Medvedev broke into a guarded smile. “Typical American: straight to the point.”
General Harmon also came close to smiling. “Jake, this is what is called a back-channel meeting.”
“Back-channel?”
“Mr. Medvedev wants to discuss this undeclared war we’ve been having in Earth orbit.”
“Before something serious happens,” Farthington added.
Medvedev leaned back in his armchair, a glass of what must have been vodka in one hand, studying Jake as if trying to decide how far he could trust him.
“You are advisor to Senator Tomlinson, are you not?” he asked.
With a nod, Jake agreed, “I’m the senator’s science advisor, yes.”
“Good,” Medvedev said, with a humorless smile. “Perhaps we can achieve something here.”