Washington, D.C, heat.
Adleman rocked back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Ninety-five percent humidity, you say?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right,” the young project officer from the State Department confirmed. “The Philippines stays that high. Will that affect your plans?”
Adleman shook his head. A sudden vision raced through his mind of a summer he had spent in Mississippi, traipsing through the swamps. “No, that’s fine.”
“Any more questions, sir?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Kelt.”
The man nodded and left the room, leaving Adleman alone with Jerry Weinstein. The National Democratic Party Chairman had been silent throughout the briefing on the Philippine Islands. Weinstein had insisted on speaking to the vice president before the next Cabinet meeting, and this had been the only time that Adleman had not been fully committed.
Weinstein leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. This looked ridiculous, because the former NBA basketball star’s kneecaps were at least a foot higher than the chair seat. Coming from a poverty-stricken background, Weinstein’s exposure to opulence as a high six-figure basketball player had made him appreciate the inequities of the American dream.
“Robert … ah, Bob.…”
“Umm?” Adleman turned his attention away from the upcoming trip and focused on Weinstein.
“I wanted to spend some time with you before the next meeting between the President and his Cabinet.”
“Okay, what’s up? We’ve got fifteen minutes.”
“This trip.” Weinstein nodded with his head to all the information the State Department had left—briefing booklets, statistics, analysis of trends. “It’s critical for your political future. In fact, it might be the nail that drives in the lid on your election.”
Adleman looked puzzled. “I missed something. Run that past me again.”
Weinstein sat up. “Bob—Mr. Vice President. We both know you’re the unspoken leader for the next election. You have Longmire’s backing, you have the experience and background, no skeletons in the closest.…”
You said it, thought Adleman.
The FBI special investigation background check had been nothing compared to the scrutiny of the Democratic party. The Democrats hadn’t had a viable Presidential contender since Clinton—including Obama, who Adleman was convinced had been a fluke, a backlash against the Bush era. So they were going to make sure their candidates were squeaky-clean.
Weinstein had personally examined Adleman’s record: as a magna cum laude Princeton grad with his sights set on Congress, and armed with a law degree from Berkeley, Adleman hadn’t made the same mistake as the last vice president: he had put in his time on active duty with the Army for a four-year-stint, serving as a staff judge advocate. The generals he had impressed were also the ones who introduced him to their congressional liaisons.
After leaving the Army, Adleman served on several congressional staffs, making a name for himself as a hard-charging fact-finder, turning out policy prose in a coherent fashion. Senator Longmire had fingered the young blond staffer as an up-and-coming force, and helped him to rise through the ranks of various political appointments.
Finally deciding to try his hand at political office, Adleman won his district in Albuquerque by a landslide. And then as a mere second-term Congressman, at forty, Robert E. Lee Adleman was chosen to run for vice president of the United States.
“… but now you need to show that you can pull off an international agreement, something that could affect the security of an entire hemisphere.”
Adleman nodded to himself. “Sounds like what Francis Acht was pushing. Except that he had the economic security, not necessarily our defensive security, in mind.”
“I’m sure he was speaking about both,” said Weinstein softly. “Francis knows that without one, you can’t have the other.”
“So you really think this trip can position me for