After two years of working with Matt, I know he isn’t capable of what it would take to insert me so fully into this engineered life, and I grow more and more curious about the team behind Mr. Smith. I wonder how many people he has out there doing jobs like this.
But those are ponderings for another day.
The subject up for debate today for Andrew Marshall is the American Bar Association event at some fancy hotel in Hilton Head, South Carolina. It’s a weekend conference at which lawyers, including those like Andrew, who no longer practice but still keep their license up to date, will get continuing ed credits in between a morning round of golf and afternoon happy hour. It’s as much for rubbing elbows and networking as it is for thirty-minute crash courses, like the latest tech for small firms. And since my third set of instructions finally arrived and made it clear that Andrew most definitely should be there, that’s what I’m pushing.
But there is another opportunity for him, one that is better for his campaign, in Memphis at the same time. And given he’s running for governor in Tennessee and not in South Carolina, it’s an uphill battle.
Andrew’s wife, Marie, is weary of me. I have not given her a single reason to think I want her husband in any way, but women are funny. I don’t have to give her a reason for her to still expect it.
The surprising thing about Andrew Marshall is that he’s a good man. I have searched through every file and personal record I can get my hands on. And since he doesn’t suspect a thing from me, I’ve had access to all of it. There’s not a hint of stealing or skimming money, no back-door deals, no promises he wouldn’t admit to publicly, he’s as in love with his wife now as the day he met her, and he’s good to his employees. Even his pets are rescue dogs.
All my past jobs centered around me getting something Mr. Smith wanted or needed—whether it was computer files or documents or any other piece of physical goods or property. But this job was different from the beginning.
Now I know why I’m here. Andrew Marshall will be the next governor of Tennessee and Mr. Smith wants to own him on day one.
Since there was no blackmail to be found, I will have to create it.
His chief of staff has just finished laying out all the very good reasons to pick Memphis over Hilton Head. My very good reasons for picking the convention have already been laid out. The Hilton Head choice is a regional event, not just for South Carolina, and there will be some pretty big hitters attending, since the keynote speaker has just announced he’s running for president, so media coverage will be on the national level. The networking and potential for new campaign donors is greater. And with social media transforming the landscape of politics the way it has, to become the governor of Tennessee you need to think bigger than Tennessee.
The room is quiet as everyone present waits for Andrew to either accept or reject the invitation to the Memphis event.
Andrew knows my choice. He looks at me and I’ve got a few seconds to decide if I’m going to help ruin a perfectly good man.
A quick shake of my head seals his fate.
* * *
Andrew believed I left for Hilton Head a day ahead of him and the rest of the team to get everything set up so we could make the most out of his time there. But that wasn’t the reason I headed east a day early, and Georgia was my destination, not South Carolina. On Friday morning I’m in Savannah, an hour south of Hilton Head, waiting for the first ride of the day on the Hop on-Hop off Old Town Trolley.
When it’s time to board, I go straight to the back, taking the aisle seat on the last row on the driver’s side, hoping no one asks to squeeze past me for the window seat.
The tour company is efficient enough that we are loaded and on the move within a few minutes. An enthusiastic older man is on the mic, his booming voice so loud that not only the occupants of the bus but everyone on the street we pass gets schooled on all things Savannah.
By the time we finish the first loop, I’m the only passenger left from the group I started with, since the others disembarked at different stops along the route.
On the second stop of my third pass, a tall, thin Black man boards the bus and ambles down the center aisle, stopping in front of me.
He’s wearing an Atlanta Braves tee and hat and his eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses. “Is that seat taken?” he asks, pointing to the window seat I’ve been guarding.
I pull my legs in tight and gesture for him to help himself.
He scoots in past me, sits down, and sets his backpack in his lap.
“Devon, I presume,” I say. “I appreciate all the cloak-and-dagger but I have a lot to do and wasting two hours riding in a circle wasn’t in my plans.”