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it down. It would be dicey, but it might work. One thing he wasn’t going to let happen was some rogue FBI agent unraveling the government’s top secret strategy to bring about regime change in Iran.

6
    T he president’s eyes were tired. It had been a long day, and he was jet-lagged. “Are we really going to do this?” he asked. Long sat slumped in a chair in the presidential suite of the St. Regis in Beverly Hills, the age lines in his face creviced, the bags under his eyes dark. The room was dimly lit, the curtains closed on orders of the Secret Service, who worried about snipers getting a shot at the president through the windows.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Jay. “We have to win this seat. It’s home cookin’. We’ve tested the top-tier candidates, and he polls the best.”
    â€œPolls, always the polls,” said Long, sighing. “Alright, bring him in.”
    Jay walked to the door of the suite and opened it. In breezed Governor Macauley “Mack” Caulfield, who served as Long’s lieutenant governor and rose to the governorship when Long won the presidency. Eager to please, with a lanky build, ready smile, and a male bouffant of boyish brown hair, Caulfield looked like he won the lottery.
    â€œMr. President, that was a terrific speech,” he fairly gushed as he loped across the huge Oriental rug in the living room, blue eyes dancing. “Never heard you better, sir.”
    Long grinned. “I got in a few licks.”
    â€œThe shot at Stanley was classic!” He glanced at Jay like a puppy in full wag. “What was it again? ‘I know the majority leader calls me the enemy. I only wish he got as worked up about opposing al Qaeda and Rassem el Zafarshan as he does me.’”
    â€œDo you realize only two of my fourteen appellate court nominees have even had a hearing?” asked Long.
    â€œOutrageous!”
    â€œMr. President, I’m going to let you two visit in private,” said Jay, backing out of the room on cue.
    â€œHave a seat, Mack,” said Long. “Pull up a chair.” It was bonding time.
    A White House photographer snapped a rapid-fire series of shots. As he captured the scene for posterity, the president and Caulfield caught up on political gossip.
    â€œAny truth to the rumor that Peg Lipscomb is going to run for governor?” asked Long, eyebrows arched. Lipscomb was the former CEO of a Silicon Valley software firm with a personal fortune of over $700 million.
    â€œShe’s looking hard at it. As you can imagine, the Republican Governor’s Association is salivating because she can self-fund.”
    â€œEgo with a checkbook,” said Long, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. “She’s Meg Whitman without the charisma.”
    Caulfield chuckled. “We’ve already got an oppo file on her six inches thick. She’s used undocumented aliens to mow the lawn of her mansion. She got fined by the SEC for backdating stock options.”
    â€œReally? I think you’ll beat her convincingly. She’s got money but no policy chops.”
    â€œZero,” agreed Caulfield. “She did the LA Times ed board, and someone asked her about how she could balance the budget and cut the state income tax at the same time. You know what her answer was?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLowering tax rates will increase revenue. She cited the Laffer curve.”
    Long laughed, slapping his knee. “That’s great for a Heritage Foundation lecture, but it won’t fly in Sacramento. Governors have to balance the budget.”
    â€œDon’t I know it,” said Caulfield, rolling his eyes.
    Long crossed his legs, reloading. “Mack, I want to talk about your future.”
    â€œOkay,” said Caulfield with a hint of reticence.
    â€œLook, I know your inclination is to run for governor, and I don’t blame you,” said the president. “It’s a great job. But I