front of Jack, his pointed chin thrust out. "You may have just given the nomination to Barnett! You realize that?"
"I thought that was you." Jack's formless anger centered on Tachyon. "I thought that was you, off banging Fleur and switching to Jackson when things got tough."
Tachyon colored. "The only thing you can do now is try to move California to Jackson."
Jack sneered at him. "Fuck you, asshole. At least I'm doing something."
Tachyon stared at him, swallowed a retort or two, then flounced away.
Jack, standing by himself at the back of the press room, realized he was going to be mobbed by reporters as soon as Barnett finished his speech. He headed back to the bar set up in the back of the room, found a 500-milliliter flask of 151-proof rum, and put it in his pocket.
He figured he'd probably be safest on the convention floor, where he could hide behind the rest of his delegation.
2:00 P.M.
Gregg phoned from Ellen's hospital room. He stroked her hair as the call went through, smiling at her pale, drawn face. Ellen tried to smile back and failed. She looked lovely and very vulnerable, and he could feel tears starting in his eyes, looking at her.
God, I'm sorry, Ellen. I'm very, very sorry.
Someone picked up the phone and he tore his attention away from her. "Cal? Hartmann."
"Senator." Redken sounded nervous. Gregg could tell that he didn't want to talk. "How's things going?"
The fat s.o.b. If we were there .. Puppetman rose, angry. "That's what I wanted to know. I'd expected some action by now, Cal."
That put the man immediately on the defensive. Gregg could damn near see the flush on Redken's pimply face as he blustered. He'd be reaching for a candy bar in consternation.
"Look, Senator, it isn't so easy." A wrapper snapped in the background. "The bottom line on your Russian is that he's dead. Dead a year and a half and fried to a crisp. The file is closed according to everyone I've talked to, and no one in the justice Department, the CIA, or the FBI seems inclined to open it. I'm getting tired of being told I'm nuts or a pain in the ass or stupid."
Gregg could feel his own temper fraying. Redken was stonewalling and making excuses, and in the meantime, Tachyon was still here and still kissing up to Jackson.
Devaughn was scowling and cursing, and all the political favors had been called in just to slow the reversed momentum. Ellen smiled at Gregg quizzically from her bed, sleepy from a shot of Demerol; Gregg brushed her hair back from her forehead and shrugged back to her. He took a deep breath and returned his attention to the phone.
"Video's got the damn pictures, Cal. I know she's a joker, but the images are real. Didn't they convince someone to at least start looking? Didn't you get her deposition? What about the reporter who made Polyakov here in Atlanta. Doesn't anyone believe him?"
"No one can find Video, Senator. That's the problem. A reporter's supposed sighting isn't enough. No one's seen Video for several days. Without her, well, I don't know how much I can help you."
"That's not good enough," Gregg said flatly. "Not good enough at all."
Cal sighed, just on the verge of insolence. He put something in his mouth, chewing noisily. Puppetman stirred. When we get back to Washington, he'll pay for this. Gregg pushed the power back down harshly.
"I'm sorry, Senator," Redken was saying again. "I've done all I can do at the moment. We'll keep looking for Video. I'll keep following the paper trail, but it's damn cold and you know how slow that can be at the best of times. I'll hound Peters over at Intelligence and tell him again that his data's screwy. If I do get more, I'll make sure the right people jump. But it might be a few days before that happens."
Gregg's temper went entirely. "I don't have a goddamn few days, Cal. I may not even have this afternoon."
There was no answer to that, just the hiss of the satellite connection and Redken's chewing. "Look, get what you can as soon as you can," Gregg said at last. "And keep in mind that I'll remember just how well you do." He slammed the phone back into the cradle.
"Serious problems?" Ellen asked. She held out her hand to Gregg.
He took it. He let Puppetman lick at the pain that leaked around the edges of the Demerol. It seemed to salve his own frustration.