“Nat Phillips,” I said. “I just got back from a deployment in Iraq, but I live over in Sconset,” I said, using the local nickname for Siasconset. “Could use some help fixing some stuff up around the place.”
“Fair enough.” He held out his hand as I approached. “Alan Wilson. Good to meet you. When can he start?”
“Well, sir, if you can give me a lift home, he can start as soon as we get there—unless this storm flares up again.”
“Jump in.”
Wilson’s Rover was much nicer than my old Defender. The leather still smelled fresh from the showroom.
We chatted a little about my work, then turned to the state of affairs in Iraq. Wilson grilled me on the war effort and the details of the ambush I had mentioned to Si. Like his son, Alan Wilson nearly went into a trance when listening to a real story about battling terrorists. I liked him. He was a no-shit kind of guy—self-assured, intelligent, and on the right side of freedom.
I had to give him credit, too: Wilson seemed completely unfazed by the ridiculous events both his son and I had just experienced. The subject of the sunken Porsche never came up during the ride home. I liked him for that too.
Twenty minutes later, we parked in front of my house, now covered in remnants of yellow-and-black crime-scene tape.Bet the local cops appreciated the chance to break out the tape for the first time in a while.
I saw the elder Wilson glance at Senator Harrison’s rental next door.
“That guy’s always been an asshole, I swear,” he muttered disdainfully.
Si and I grinned at each other and then back at his dad.
Alan and I made plans to have a beer that evening when I dropped Si off. After making me promise to repeat my ambush story to his wife later on, he gave Si a slap on the back and drove off.
CHAPTER 5
Harrison Campaign War Room
Baxter Road, Nantucket
“What the fuck were youthinking?!” Coleman Harrison’s campaign manager, Walter Fitzgerald, screamed. Harrison watched as Fitzgerald’s face flushed and spittle flew from his mouth. “You selfishfucking bastard, you havefucking ruined the entirefucking campaign!”
After almost ten years, the senator had withstood many of his campaign director’s legendary tirades, but he had never seen Fitzgerald so angry.
“She wantswhat?” Fitzgerald hissed. He was almost apoplectic after hearing Harrison relay his press secretary Aimee Sullivan’s demand.
“I hope like hell you enjoyed yourself,” the campaign manager spat as he frantically paced the room. “You tell that bitch that it takes more than her tits, ass, and a Princeton degree to get a seat on the National Security Council!”
Harrison was careful not to make eye contact with the possessed man in front of him as Fitzgerald poured himself three fingers of scotch without offering any to the senator. He took a sip.
“Tell Aimee I want to talk to her. Just the three of us. You sit there and keep your mouth shut unless I tell you to speak.”
Harrison watched Fitzgerald undergo a familiar transformation as the velvety liquid slid down his throat. The campaign manager’s features softened as he went into hunting mode. Harrison, Fitzgerald, and Sullivan all agreed on one goal: Getting Coleman Harrison through the gates at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in a position of power. Secrecy was at a minimum in the political world, especially when all eyes were on the campaign trail. But Harrison had deluded himself into thinking that Fitzgerald would succeed in keeping the senator’s affair with Sullivan under wraps. Fitzgerald would fix the problem and, in a few days, probably even press Harrison for some of the sordid details.
“When do you want to see her?” Harrison asked with new enthusiasm.
“Give me about twenty minutes, then bring her in. I have a few phone calls to make first.”
The senator was already walking out the door when he realized that Fitzgerald had basically just dismissed him from his own office.
* * *
Coleman Harrison held the door as Aimee Sullivan walked confidently into the meeting. She carried herself like a woman in a strong bargaining position.
Walt Fitzgerald was sitting behind the large mahogany desk, cleared of all but a single sheet of paper.
“Aimee, please have a seat.” He gestured to an overstuffed chair. “We’re here to talk about how we can keep you engaged with our team.”
“Walt, where I want to be is the true power center of this country,” Sullivan said. “I want to broker policy options for the president. That means a significant position on the National Security Council. I will accept nothing less.”
