Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

The four men in suits seemed not to notice as the one with the book continued. "See if any of these men are the passenger on that Gulfstream."

And he was. An unmistakable likeness was on the second page. Williford pointed, and all four of his visitors nodded as though sharing a secret.

"Who he be?" Williford naturally wanted to know.

"A man we got business with," the man with the book said, and gave another smile, one that reminded Williford of a shark approaching a wounded fish.

Washington, D.C.

The White House, Oval Office at the same time

In the opinion of Sam Hoffman, senior senator from Georgia, the president's plan was irrational, ill-considered, and utter rubbish. Worse, it would be seen for what it was: an effort to appease the opposition. Still worse, it could cost the party support from its most generous constituency.

It wasn't all the president's fault his poll numbers were now pushing Nixon's. The people screaming the loudest about gasoline prices were largely the same ones who had stridently opposed the building of new refineries, expanded drilling in Alaska, or nuclear power. Those demanding "affordable housing" howled when he permitted limited cutting in national forests to increase the supply of wood, the backbone of the home-building industry.

The list was nearly endless.

Actually, the president was well intentioned. A Vietnam veteran who had never even been mentioned in the same breath as any scandal, he had served his state and his country for over thirty years in every capacity, from state school superintendent to governor, from Congress to the

White House. Married for over forty years, church elder. The all-American Mr. Clean who was just now learning that, even as president, he really couldn't please everybody, a fact that disappointed him no end.

But the president's plan was far too transparent to jack a feather off the floor, let alone the president's abysmal polls.

Senator Sam, as he liked to be called by his constituents, was always awed by the White House. Scant places in America contained more history-history that few in Washington understood, much less read. In this town, history was what had been said last night by the talking heads on CNN. The president was a prime example. Seated behind the desk on which Lincoln had supposedly signed the Emancipation Proclamation, the man could give you the current poll numbers to two decimal points, but his knowledge of the past was a blank slate. Appeasing opposite interests didn't work.

Never had, never would.

Like all politicians, he was much more interested in the future.

Specifically, his future.

"I need your help on this, Sam," the president said. "As chairman of the Environmental Study Committee, your endorsement of the plan is essential if we're going to get bipartisan support."

Sam chose to ignore the we, which was either the royal plural or included him in a plan he viewed as both deceptive and useless. Neither was a pleasant possibility.

"What you propose doesn't need congressional approval, Mr. President," Sam said noncommittally.

The president smiled that million-vote grin. "I know, Sam, but your approval would generate support. After all, you're a very influential man."

Sam ignored the flattery. God, but would this, his last term, ever end? Another year and he could retire to his farm in the Appalachian foothills, where a man was as good as his last promise and bullshit was fertilizer, not an art form.

The president took his silence as acquiescence and plowed ahead. "Having various environmental groups here in Washington next year to discuss a single plan to mitigate global warming, create pure air and water, conserve of the earth's resources and all that should please the Sierra Clubbers and all the bunny huggers. Ten and a half million votes, I understand. Sam, we'll even offer to grant amnesty to those radicals who've committed crimes in the name of the environment, agree to a halt to drilling in the ANWR in exchange for no more bombing of oil platforms in the Gulf, no more destruction of property. We'll steal the opposition's whole Green vote."

Appease the advocates of the Key Largo cotton mouse and southern snail darter? Stop development and a slow but steady increase in the job market on behalf of the Virginia wild plum vine? Make peace with fruitcakes who had blown up mining equipment, sabotaged power grids, even killed people in the process?

"You sure you want to pardon criminals, Mr. President? Most conservationists may be liberals, but they're law-abiding citizens. I'm not sure the radicals compose that big a bloc of votes."

And certainly an even smaller group of contributors.

The president's face became serious, that almost-frown he used to stare into the TV cameras when urging his fellow Americans to accept something. "That's why I need you aboard, Sam. If you endorse the plan, the more conservative members of your committee will go for it. Tell you what." He looked around the room as though to make sure the two were alone before lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level. "You come out for my conference, you help me, and I think I can get the Defense Department to double that sub base on the Georgia coast. Over a thousand new jobs, Sam; think about it."

Sam did think about it, and it made his head hurt. The president wanted the same thing every first-term president wanted: a second term.

The trouble with appeasement of radicals was that it was like pissing down your leg to keep it warm: it worked only as long as you kept it up.

Sam glanced around the room, half expecting to see a picture of Neville Chamberlain beside those of Eisenhower and Reagan. Nixon was conspicuously absent. But then, this president had probably never heard of "peace in our time."

On the other hand, even if the conference generated only empty promises, the international publicity of hosting those who believed in global warming-that something could be done about it and the world could agree what that was-would generate hours of airtime, which translated into votes in next year's election, votes from people who, like the president, had no concept of history.

By the time the conference was fading newsprint and the election safely in the win column, the rich would return to seek wealth wherever it could be found, and the poor would continue to complain about it rather than helping themselves. That was what maintained class status quo.

Ah, well, Sam would be plain Citizen Sam by then, far from the poisonous political vapors of the Potomac.

"I'll give it some thought, Mr. President."

The president vaulted to his feet. Sam almost expected him to jump over the desk to shake hands, like the champion tennis player he had been in college. "I knew I could count on you, Sam."

Sam left the room with the pleasant thought that his imminent retirement enabled him to be a statesman thinking of the next generation instead of a politician thinking of the next election.

And being a statesman didn't include showcase conferences and amnesty solely for the purpose of vote pandering, not with misguided if intellectually honest conservationists, nor with their criminal fellow travelers.

Saint Barthelemy, French Antilles

Two days later

Jason Peters navigated the Zodiac across Gustavia Harbor to the public dock at the south end. Tying the small inflatable up to a cleat already crowded with several other hawsers, he climbed up and merged with the winter crowd of visitors shopping along the Rue du Bord de Mer. His white T-shirt and shorts might have led an observer to conclude he was just one more hired crew buying supplies for one of the dozen or so yachts that annually brought the rich, beautiful, and famous to the island's eight square miles of beaches, Parisian shops, and French cuisine. Ninety-nine meter ships, the largest the tiny inner harbor could accommodate, contained more living space than most people's homes. And more expensive art and furnishings.