The air inside the Pacific Union Club smelled of expensive aged leather, heavily polished mahogany, and fifty-dollar cigars. It was three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, the time when the actual masters of San Francisco retreated to the private, windowless lounge to drink scotch and complain about federal taxes.
Arthur Sterling sat in a high-backed armchair. He was a broad-shouldered man in his early sixties, wearing a custom tailored suit. As the head of the Bay Area Media Coalition, he was used to dictating the news, not reacting to it. Right now, he was staring angrily into his crystal glass.
Across a low wooden table sat Robert Vance. Robert was thinner, older, and possessed the sharp, nervous energy of a man who managed billions of dollars in commercial real estate trusts.
"I am
