“I certainly do. Remember your history classes. In World War Two, when the Nazis invaded Soviet Russia, Winston Churchill immediately offered Josef Stalin all the aid that Britain could give to the Russians. When some members of Parliament criticized Churchill for becoming friendly with the Communist dictator, Churchill replied that if Hitler invaded hell, he would try to say a few good things about the devil.”

Cardwell chuckled while Jake stared at him uncertainly.

Getting to his feet, the older man said, “Politics, Jake. It’s the art of getting what you want out of people who generally don’t want the same things you do.”

As he pushed himself up from the comfortable chair, Jake muttered, “Sleeping with the enemy.”

But he was thinking about sleeping with Amy Wexler. Yet it was Glynis Colwyn’s serious, sensuous face that popped into his imagination.

Sheridan Hotel

SHERIDAN HOTEL

It was the oldest hotel in the capital city, named, Jake thought ruefully, after a general whose major contributions to the state were to nearly wipe out both the Native Americans and the buffalo. For those accomplishments, Philip Sheridan was revered by the movers and shakers of the state.

“The only good Indians I ever saw were dead.” Some historians claimed that Sheridan never said that, but his actions in the Indian Wars certainly reinforced that image of him.

The hotel itself was an imposing pile of brickwork and Victorian ornate décor. A statue of the general on horseback adorned the front entranceway. Jake hurried through the lobby, nearly empty in mid-afternoon, and took the groaning old elevator up to the suite where Tomlinson was to meet with Professor Sinclair. And Nacho Perez, Senator Leeds’s man.

Jake had briefed Tomlinson and Amy on Sinclair’s position, barely hiding his disdain for the professor. The bastard chased after Mrs. Cee even after she had married Lev. Was he hopelessly in love or just mad to get his hands on her? The latter, Jake felt. Sinclair didn’t impress him as the type to pine away for love. Lust, yes, but not love.

Amy opened the door to the suite and let Jake in. Looking bright and cheerful in a knee-length pale yellow chemise, she smiled at him, but nothing more. As he stepped into the room, Jake saw that the furnishings were slightly old-fashioned: overstuffed chairs, a pair of smallish sofas, and a dusty-looking little desk of dark wood. A bar had been set up by the draperied windows.

“Where’s the man?”

“In the bathroom,” Amy said. “He’s a little nervous about this, you know.”

“Nervous? Him?”

“He has nerves. He’s not as cool as he pretends to be.”

Before Jake could think of a reply the door to the bedroom opened and Tomlinson stepped in, looking perfectly relaxed in a pair of pearly gray casual slacks and an open-necked coral shirt beneath an ivory sport jacket.

“Where’s Professor Sinclair?” Tomlinson asked.