He would never meet Ron Fisk, and, as in all of Barry's campaigns, the candidate would never have the slightest clue about who was pulling the strings.

Flying home, Tony ordered a whiskey sour and tried to force a drink on Ron, who declined and stuck with coffee. It was the perfect setting for a drink-aboard a luxurious jet, with a gorgeous young lady as the bartender, at the end of a long and stressful day, with no one in the world watching and knowing.

"Just coffee," Ron said. Regardless of the setting, he knew he was still being evaluated.

Plus, he was a teetotaler anyway. The decision was easy.

Not that Tony was much of a drinker. He took a few sips of his cocktail, loosened his tie, settled deep into his seat, and eventually said, "Rumor has it that this McCarthy gal hits the booze pretty hard."

Ron simply shrugged. The rumor had not made its way to Brookhaven. He figured that at least 50 percent of the people there couldn't name any of the three justices from the southern district, let alone their habits, good or bad.

Another sip, and Tony kept going. "Both of her parents were heavy drinkers. Of course, they're from the Coast, so that's not unexpected. Her favorite hangout is a club called Tuesday's, near the reservoir. Ever hear of it?"

"No."

"Kind of a meat market for the middle-aged swingers, so I hear. Never been there myself."

Fisk refused to take the bait. Such low gossip seemed to bore him. This didn't bother Tony. In fact, he found it admirable. Let the candidate keep the high ground. The mud would be slung by others.

"How long have you known Senator Rudd?" Fisk asked, changing the subject.

"A long time." And for the remainder of the short trip they talked about their great senator and his colorful career.

Ron raced home, still floating from such a heady encounter with power and its trappings.

Doreen was waiting for the details. They ate warmed-up spaghetti while the kids finished homework and prepared for bed.

She had many questions, and Ron struggled with some of the answers. Why were so many diverse groups willing to spend so much on an unknown and thoroughly inexperienced politician? Because they were committed. Because they preferred bright, clean-cut young men with the right beliefs and without the baggage of prior service. And if Ron said no, they would find another candidate just like him. They were determined to win, to clean up the court. It was a national movement, and a critical one.

The fact that her husband had dined alone with Senator Myers Rudd was the clincher.

They would take a dramatic plunge into the unknown world of politics, and they would conquer.

Jarry Rinehart took the shuttle to LaGuardia, and from there a private car to the Mercer hotel in SoHo. He checked in, showered, and changed into a heavier wool suit because snow was expected. He picked up a fax at the front desk, then walked eight blocks to a tiny Vietnamese restaurant near the Village, one that had yet to appear in the travel guides. Mr. Trudeau preferred it for discreet meetings. It was empty and he was early, so Barry settled himself onto a bar stool and ordered a drink.

F. Clyde Hardin's cheap class action may have been small news in Mississippi, but it was a far better story in New York. The daily financial publications ran with it, and the battered shares of Krane's common stock took another drubbing.

Mr. Trudeau had spent the day working the phones and yelling at Bobby Ratzlaff. Krane's stock had been trading between $18.00 and $20.00, but the class action knocked it back a few bucks. It closed at $14.50, a new low, and Carl pretended to be upset.

Ratzlaff, who had borrowed a million bucks from his retirement fund, seemed even more depressed.

The lower the better. Carl wanted the stock to fall as far as possible. He'd already lost a billion on paper and he could lose more, because one day it would all come roaring back. Unknown to anyone, except two bankers in Zurich, Carl was already buying Krane's stock through a wonderfully nebulous company in Panama. He was carefully gathering shares in small lots so that his buying would not upset the downward trend.

Five thousand shares on a slow day and twenty thousand on a busy one, but nothing that would draw attention. Fourth-quarter earnings were due soon, and Carl had been cooking the books since Christmas. The stock would continue to slide. Carl would continue to buy.

He sent Ratzlaff away after dark, then returned a few calls. At seven, he crawled into the backseat of his Bentley and Toliver drove him to the Vietnamese place.

Carl had not seen Rinehart since their first meeting in Boca Raton, back in November, three days after the verdict. They did not use regular mail, e-mail, faxes, overnight parcels, landlines, or standard cell phones. Each had a secure smart phone that was linked solely to the other, and once a week, when Carl had the time, he called for an update.

They were led through a bamboo curtain to a dimly lit side room with one table. A waiter brought drinks. Carl was going through the motions of cursing class actions and the lawyers who bring them. "We're down to nosebleeds and skin rashes," he said.

"Every redneck who ever drove by the plant down there is suddenly a plaintiff. No one remembers the good old days when we paid the highest wages in south Mississippi.

Now the lawyers have created a stampede and it's a race to the courthouse."

"It could get worse," Barry said. "We know of another group of lawyers who are rounding up clients. If they file, then their class will be added to the first one. I wouldn't sweat it."

"You wouldn't sweat it? You're not burning cash in legal fees."

"You're going to get it back, Carl. Relax." It was now Carl and Barry, first names and lots of familiarity.

"Relax. Krane closed today at $14.50. If you owned twenty-five million shares, you might find it hard to relax."

"I would be relaxed, and I would be buying."

Carl knocked back his scotch. "You're getting pretty cocky."

"I saw our boy today. He made the rounds in Washington. Nice-looking fella, so clean-cut it's frightening. Smart, good speaker, handles himself well. Everybody was impressed."

"Has he signed on?"

"He will tomorrow. He had lunch with Senator Rudd, and the ole boy knows how to twist arms."

"Myers Rudd," Carl said, shaking his head. "What a fool."

"Indeed, but he can always be bought."

"They can all be bought. I spent over four million last year in Washington. Sprinkled it around like Christmas candy."

"And I'm sure Rudd got his share. You and I know he's a moron, but the people in Mississippi don't. He's the king and they worship him down there. If he wants our boy to run, then the race is on."

Carl squirmed out of his jacket and flung it across a chair. He removed his cuff links, rolled up his sleeves, and, with no one to watch, loosened his tie and slouched in his chair. He sipped his scotch. "Do you know the story about Senator Rudd and the EPA?" he asked, with full knowledge that fewer than five people knew the details.

"No," Barry said, tugging at his own tie.

"Seven, maybe eight years ago, before the lawsuits started, the EPA came to Bowmore and started their mischief. The locals there had been complaining for years, but EPA is not known for swift action. They poked around, ran some tests, became somewhat alarmed, then got pretty agitated. We were watching all this very closely. We had people all over the place. Hell, we have people inside the EPA. Maybe we cut some corners with our waste, I don't know, but the bureaucrats really became aggressive.

They were talking about criminal investigations, calling in the U.S. attorney, bad stuff, but still kept internal. They were on the verge of going public with all sorts of demands-a zillion-dollar cleanup, horrendous fines, maybe even a shutdown. A man named Gabbard was CEO of Krane at the time; he's gone now, but a decent sort who knew how to persuade.