Man O' War, стр. 7

subtle signal only she would notice, he continued talking to the freshman congressman, telling him, "Don't worry, I know where you want to go next. You want to tell me that we're not going to be dealing with just the man in the street when we strike the Tenth. You're thinking that if we move to eliminate the blocks between federal and state power that we'll end up fighting our own kind. Right?"

"Ah, well . . ."

"Sure you are. The masses we can trick, but fellow politicians, they'll see what we're up to."

"It is possible . . . yes, Senator."

"Mayors and governors, all with their own police forces and militias. They might not stand for it. Might threaten to fight, or secede." Carri sat back in his chair, shaking his head sadly. "The Civil War was a long time ago, son. It's been two hundred years since anyone's thought about trying to leave the Union or use force on Washington."

"But, sir," countered the younger man, "I was thinking more that voter resistance might be their line of attack. Forcing out incumbents."

"A sensible thought, Peterson—worth the time you've taken. But we've been at this game a long time. Trust me, it's already covered. Pomeroy's got the bill scheduled for committee now, which means we'll vote in less than six months. It'll all be in the bag long before anyone can even start trying to organize any of the voters, much less lever any of us out of office. I appreciate your watching out for the old man, son. . . ."

"As you've said yourself, sir, you are the meal ticket."

Waving his hand to encompass everyone in the room, Senator Carri turned his head as he moved, then added jokingly, "And don't any of you forget it."

As everyone chuckled appreciatively, the committee chairman brushed a wild strand of hair back off his forehead. A year earlier, as he approached sixty-five, he had asked his barber to do something to make people forget the fact. She had started cultivating a wild lock for him to give him a more boyish look. Over the year it had grown to where he could simply turn his head and flip it down into his eye. It would have looked affected for many other men his age, but so far Michael Carri had been able to maintain his weight and health and looks. To most people he looked no older than forty-five.

As the polite laughter died down, Carri waved his hand, calling for it to cease. Then, before anyone could bring up any other distracting matters, Gladys Beckett, his chief of office operations, moved forward and broke up the fun—playing the heavy and calling the meeting to a close—as she knew the senator wanted. After everyone filed out, he told her, "Gladys, we've got advance warning on Benton Hawkes—he should be here in about fifteen minutes."

"He's here today?" she said without shock, not thrown by the abrupt change in schedule.

"What can I tell you?" answered the senator, shrugging his shoulders. Turning up the wattage in his smile, he said, "I guess you give some guys a Nobel Prize and they figure the rules don't apply anymore." As his operations chief gave him an appropriate chuckle, Carri got serious, asking, "So, just what do we need to do?"

The senator had started his adult life on the football field, a top player for a major team, leading the way to several Super Bowl victories. It had been an important stepping-stone to a choice spot in the automotive industry. Showing he had brains to offer as well as fame, Carri had used his time there as an audition for a larger role in the world of communications financing. With his past fame, voter recognition, contacts in heavy industry, and access to both funding and the media, he had all he needed to reach the goal he had sought from the beginning—politics.

Quickly looking around the senator's inner office, the woman analyzed every aspect of its layout.

"Get your jacket off, Mick," she told him, bending over a panel on the far side of the room. "And loosen your tie." While the senator did as he was instructed, Beckett killed the air conditioning. Her fingers dancing across the control array, she pulled back the curtains covering the massive windows in Carri's office, then opened several panes at varying angles.

"Hawkes is an outdoorsman," the woman explained, lowering the overhead lights until they only complemented the natural light. "Lives on a ranch in the mountains when he's not posted out country. Best bet is to subtle him over."

"It's awful humid after last night's storm," the senator complained. Even a minute without climate control had started him sweating. He could feel drops forming along his hairline and beading at the back of his neck.

"That's why you should be unbuttoning your top button," Beckett told him. "You're a man of the people— you work hard. Get your nose in some papers and be ready to slip your jacket on when he gets here. Effect a surprised look."

"Can I roll up my sleeves?"

"Can you get them up past your elbows?" she asked, more interested in getting the paper stacks and books on Carri's sideboard in order. Her advance research had told her that Hawkes was an orderly man—impressed by straight lines, right angles.

Neatness counts, she told herself, squaring everything off.

"No," said the senator, trying to roll up his sleeves. "Must be European cut. There's not enough give."

"Then leave them down. But unbuttoned is okay."

Paying the senator no further heed, she buzzed Carri's makeup staff and then began to index through his paintings, looking for something suitable for the upcoming meeting. The office was equipped with five different acryvid screens, framed monitors meant to appear as actual paintings. She knew that simply setting them all to outdoor scenes would not fool a man as seasoned in the game as Hawkes.

She left the second largest, the ornate multiple-imaged portrait of the senator at the various stages of his way-to-the-top journey