Felder watched from the doorway as the Senator scribbled. The Montblanc was a blur in the puddle of light from the faux-antique desklamp.
Eventually, Felder cleared his throat.
“Ah, come in, my boy, come in.” The Senator’s pearly caps appeared like scythe in the moonlight, the top half of his face obscured in shadow. “Take a seat. Care for something from the bar?”
“No, sir, thank you, sir.” Felder used about a quarter-inch of the chair’s cushion, took in the landscape atop a plateau of mahogany that probably weighed more than his car.
The Senator rose, shot his cuffs and crossed to the matching sidebar to pour two fingers of bourbon from the leaded-glass decanter. “Late hours, Page, Page …”
“Yes. Page Felder. Late hours indeed. Sure you won’t have a belt? I find it warms me on a cold night, and tonight is about to get much, much colder.” He chuckled. “Am I right about that, Page Felder?”
“Yes, sir. I just heard from the team at Blue Mountain. The satellites are in position. Operation Indian Winter is a go.”