Stu Garret was not known for his patience. In his mind this was the singular trait that had propelled him to such great success. He was a decisive taskmaster who worked people as if they were his serfs. He wanted positive results and nothing less, and compliments to subordinates were almost unheard-of. In the world of political consulting and campaign management he was king. No other living person had successfully managed two separate bids for the Oval Office. His ability to orchestrate a campaign had taken on an almost mythical aura in the media and Democratic circles.
His opponents, on the other hand, thought of him as the most underhanded, unethical jerk ever to stalk the wings of American politics. Garret wore this reputation as a badge of honor. If his opponents were dumb enough to follow the rules, that was their fault. He was a practitioner of all the most underhanded techniques. To him politics was guerrilla warfare. Hit-and-run tactics were the marching orders he gave his staffers and operatives. Go on the offensive and never let up, and absolutely never ever admit any wrongdoing to the press or your opponent.
Elections were a competition that took place over a relatively compressed period of time. Garret often carried the day by sheer inertia, like slowly moving a rugby scrum toward the goal line. This bullish attitude and uncompromising vision served him well in politics, but was about to fail him in another arena. One with a far more serious endgame. Garret and his wife were asleep in the master cabin that was tucked up in the bow of his brand-new Baia sixty-three-foot Azzurra.
Garret rolled over, his left leg dangling off the side of the king-size bed. His eyes opened, blinking several times.
Slowly the blue numbers of his bedside digital clock came into focus. He let his eyelids close and rolled onto his back. Occasionally, if he changed positions it would take the pressure off his bladder and he could fall right back asleep. People all over the world are creatures of habit and Garret was no different. He liked to start his day with several cups of very strong black coffee and end it with a bottle of Chardonnay-sometimes two. These habits and an enlarged prostate made a certain nightly ritual inevitable.
