Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

Wickham was silent a moment, then said, “All right, Jack. I’m gonna trust you on this one. Never had any reason not to.”

“Thank you, Senator. Even if I’m wrong, it’s like my father always told me: better to look inside the watch than wait till it stops ticking.”

“Damn straight,” Wickham said. “Now, what I need you to do is get on a jet and get back to the U.S. as fast as possible. I’ll arrange to have a friend’s plane fly you out here to San Francisco.”

“San Francisco? What are you doing there?”

“The Legion of Honor dinner.”

“You, too?”

“The President’s in a nonpartisan mood and invited me to the gala on Saturday night. I decided I’d throw him a bone and make an appearance. So I’ve got personal reasons to hope you’re wrong.” He paused. “Now get on that jet and bring the woman with you. We’re gonna want to hear what she has to say, too.”

The knot of anxiety that had been plaguing Jack ever since he saw those messages was finally starting to dissipate. Wickham wouldn’t let him down.

Jack asked him if he could have some clothes brought aboard. Nothing fancy, just clean. The senator said he’d do what he could.

An hour later, Jack and Sara boarded their flight. It was a Gulfstream 550 that Jack and Sara had all to themselves, attended by a lone flight attendant. The young attendant explained that they had a choice of four separate living areas, each with its own climate control. There was a wireless broadband network and satellite communications should they require it. Abundant sunlight streamed through the fourteen oval windows, illuminating the deep leather seats, each with its own DVD player. With brawny Rolls-Royce turbofan engines, this flying carpet had a range of 6,750 nautical miles and flew at 51,000 feet.

Jack and Sara just wanted to shower and change. There were a stack of boxes from Harrods onboard. Jack slipped into slacks, a button-down shirt, and a black blazer. Sara snuggled into a pantsuit. Jack was pleased that he’d guessed right when he gave the senator her size. She looked like a runway model, only more radiant.

Two of the boxes contained formal wear: a tuxedo for Jack and a gown for Sara. Obviously, the senator intended for them to go to the dinner.

Unlike commercial aircraft, the air was one hundred percent fresh, the sound levels were extremely low, and no sooner had they sat opposite one another on the sofas in the rear cabin than they were asleep. They slept for more than half the flight then enjoyed a leisurely meal from one of London’s best restaurants. The ultralong-range jet took them directly to a private terminal adjacent to San Francisco International. They arrived in the late afternoon and found a limousine waiting for them at the bottom of the steps, a chauffeur standing with the rear passenger door open.

“Welcome back, Mr. Hatfield. Senator Wickham is looking forward to seeing you.”

Jack looked at Sara then glanced into the rear of the limo. “He’s not here?”

“He had another engagement,” the driver said. “You’ll be meeting him there.”

“Where?”

The driver smiled. “At the dog show.”

Jack had been to the Cow Palace many times in his life. Built on sixty acres of land in 1941 as a livestock pavilion, it was a San Francisco institution-although the only piece of it that actually stood on city land was a corner of the parking lot. The bulk of the property was in Daly City.

A large, indoor arena, the palace had been host over the years to the San Francisco Warriors, the San Jose Sharks, numerous rock concerts, wrestling events, two Republican national conventions, and a number of livestock exhibitions, including the Horse amp; Stock Show and the Grand National Rodeo.

Jack vividly remembered one trip here as a boy, when the palace was hosting an antiques exhibition. His father had known that a number of watch and clock collectors would be participating, and had brought Jack to show him some of their priceless wonders. They saw glass cases lined with watches from Rolex, Tudor, Lord Elgin, and Girard-Perrigaux, exhibit booths displaying grandfather clocks, Victorians, porcelains, cuckoo clocks, steeple clocks, and a variety of others, the rhythm of their ticking giving great comfort to young Jack.

It was a day he’d never forget.

The Cow Palace was an unimposing gray building from the outside, but once you set foot through the doors and moved past the concourse into the main arena, you were amazed by its size. A large oval, surrounded by high walls with satin curtains and gold and yellow seats, it boasted a capacity of up to sixteen thousand patrons, and often filled every single chair. Lights shone down from a maze of metal rafters overhead, reminding Jack of an alien craft hovering above the earth.

When they entered, Jack and Sara were guided by an usher toward a section near the arena floor. On the floor itself, men in blazers and women in conservative suits led dogs on leashes around a cordoned-off area, as the judges carefully eyeballed them, and the audience applauded. This was an all-breed conformation show, and there were a variety of purebreds in competition, including poodles, Irish wolfhounds, Boykin spaniels, German wirehaired pointers, Great Danes, mastiffs, Rottweilers-from large to small, fluffy to nearly hairless, all magnificent in their own way, the best of the best on display. An Irish wolfhound caught Jack’s attention-a breed he had always admired for its beauty and fearlessness. They were known to hunt wolves in packs. There were also Turkish sheepdogs, their gigantic, spiked iron antiwolf collars displayed beside them as they got to their feet. These Anatolian shepherd dogs hid among the sheep, giving an attacking wolf a huge surprise when they bit into their iron collars.

Jack had long been a dog lover, and seeing a gray poodle parade proudly across the floor made him instantly miss Eddie. But he knew the little guy was in good hands with Tony, and he’d be home soon enough to greet him.

He hoped, he prayed, it wasn’t to say good-bye. That was the thought that had haunted him from the moment they landed-that this city he loved, his home, would be harmed, possibly destroyed, by some lunatic with no regard for anything but his own, sick zealotry.

The usher led them to a pair of seats that were just a few yards from the arena floor. As they approached, Senator Harold Wickham rose from his chair and held out a hand. The men shook warmly. From the corner of his eye, Jack saw Wickham’s bodyguard-an athletic, powerfully built guy in a dark suit-watching them closely.

“Good to see you, Jack,” Wickham said. “Even if it’s under such pressing circumstances.”

Jack was immediately comfortable in his presence. “Good to see you, too, Senator.”

Wickham was trim and well built, with thinning silvery hair that framed an angular, green-eyed face. He wore an expensive charcoal-gray suit, and carried himself with what could only be called Republican charm-warm, fatherly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes. The gentle Texas accent completed the picture.

Wickham’s gaze shifted to Sara in the way that most men seemed to look at her when she entered a room-with sudden great interest.

“I take it you’re Ms. Ghadah?”

Sara shook his hand and smiled. “Sara.”

“Well, Sara, it’s a great, great pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry you’ve found yourself caught up in this mess.”

“Completely by choice,” she said. She added quietly, “I want to stop these madmen as badly as you do.”

Wickham smiled. “That’s good to hear.” He gestured. “Have a seat. Both of you.”

Jack glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, who didn’t seem to approve of either of them. In a way it was fitting. Jack just found out what it was like to be a Muslim under suspicion. Jack noted, curiously, that the bodyguard had what looked like a laser pointer clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket and wondered what it was for. Did he use it as some kind of defensive weapon? Jack certainly couldn’t imagine the guy giving PowerPoint presentations.