“Then you have my permission to tell any or all of your recalcitrant delegates that if they do the right thing, the next vice president of the United States will be their governor. But tell them in the strictest confidence. We don’t want Otero or Willingham getting wind of this before the voting starts.”

“Right,” Sam Meriwether said. “They’ll wait and see how the voting goes before they make their move. Willingham will want to know how many delegates he has to pass on to Otero.”

Chapter 28

Harry Gregg sat outdoors at a sidewalk café on Santa Monica Beach, drinking a cup of espresso. Harry worked as a gunsmith at the Centurion Studios armory, which housed all the weapons used in Centurion productions and also rented to independents. He looked around for the person he was meeting but didn’t see anyone likely. He checked his watch: five minutes before noon.

Then somebody slid into the seat opposite him. A woman. It had been a man on the phone. What was this?

“Hello, Mr. Gregg,” the woman said. She was dressed in a large floppy straw hat and dark glasses, and the lower part of her face was covered by a veil as if she were afraid of getting too much sun. He couldn’t even tell how old she was.

“Look over my shoulder or out to sea,” she said, “not directly at me. You shouldn’t want to know who I am or what I look like.”

“Okay by me,” Harry said, shifting in his seat to turn toward the Pacific Ocean. “I believe you’re supposed to have some work for me.”

“Wet work,” the woman replied. “Do you know what that is?”

Harry nodded. “I’ve been there. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“His name is Ed Eagle,” she said. “Ring any bells?”

Harry had heard the name. “Lawyer?”

“Right.”

“In the papers a few weeks ago, won a big murder case?”

“Right.”

“Sounds like the kind of guy I’d want to hire if this went wrong.”

“If you do your work well, he won’t be a candidate. And you won’t need a lawyer anyway.”

“He’s real tall, right?”

“Six feet seven. Wears good suits with cowboy boots and a Stetson.”

“Right, I’ve seen pictures. Where do I find him?”

“He’s staying at The Arrington.”

Harry shook his head. “Not good—too much security. I mean, the president is staying there, you know?”

“I understand you know something about explosives.”

“I know everything about explosives,” Harry said.

“You were a navy SEAL, weren’t you?”

“No, army, Special Forces. Pretty much the same thing. My specialty was booby traps.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “He flies an airplane called a Citation Mustang.”

“I know the one—small jet.”

“What would it take to blow it out of the sky?”

“You want it in tiny pieces?”