THE ADMINISTRATION: Hannibal Astride the Potomac

At about 7.30 a.m., Hamilton Jordan arrives at the White House by bus, or is driven from his Capitol Hill home by his wife Nancy—causing him daily to rue Jimmy Carter’s decision to strip his assistants of limousine service. But one plus about his job as the key senior adviser to the President is the fact that he does not have to cope with rush-hour traffic. He comes to work too early and leaves too late.

Jordan swings into his spacious office, a six-window, high-status corner formerly occupied by the likes of Bob Haldeman and Alexander Haig, but, he insists, the parallel stops there. He loosens his tie, takes a fast look at the in basket, then lopes into the Roosevelt Room for the daily 8 a.m. meeting of senior advisers. He takes his place at the big table, leaving Presidential Counsel Robert Lipshutz to preside, but Jordan’s presence spills beyond his chair. He is recognized as the ascendant power.

At 9 a.m. he assembles his own staff, and each in turn talks about where difficulties may lie for the President. Political problems; personnel matters; Paul Warnke’s troubles on the Hill; how Jordan’s staff can help Frank Moore’s much criticized legislative liaison operation.

From then on toward midnight, he tries, in his own words, “to prioritize.” Prioritizing takes him into the Oval Office to talk each day with the President and to drop in on his next-door neighbor Vice President Mondale. Ham and Fritz have meshed in a manner rare in White House history; each savors the guts of things rather than the trappings.

Asked to describe his duties, he says: “Right now I’m a short-order cook. You want some French fries, I’ll give you some French fries. I’m not sitting here making great decisions.” That is pure Jordan, or “Jerden,” as the name is pronounced down home. To all appearances, he is the good ole boy come to Washington: joshing, tieless, rumpled, feet on desk, a thick scallop of hair falling across an unlined, apple-cheeked face that is as unrevealing of emotion as a painted Easter egg. Operating only 50 steps from the Oval Office, Jordan, 32, still looks as if he would be more at home with the boys in Billy Carter’s filling station.

But Washington, which can detect power budding in the dark, has now had eight weeks to lock its sensors on Jordan and decide this is no good ole short-order cook. It has found he is enough at ease with power not to have to show it. His informality lulls people into relaxing their guard, encourages them to underrate him. Those who have crossed him learn all too late that he is an infighter who can hold his own in any political company and a far more complex personality than appearances suggest. House Speaker Tip O’Neill has dubbed him Hannibal, a tribute to this invader’s rapid political conquests.

Impossible Numbers. Jordan’s greatest source of strength is obvious: he has the President’s complete confidence. When Carter was Governor of Georgia, Jordan was his executive secretary and played a major role in getting legislation passed. Jordan was the first to urge Carter to run for President, and he mapped out the campaign; it is said that he is already planning the 1980 campaign. “The chemistry between the two is unbelievable to watch,” says former Democratic Party Chairman Robert Strauss.

Jordan has not yet mastered his job, and has not found a way to deal with the impossible numbers of people who are gravitating to his power. “He has excellent organizational talents,” says Strauss, “and tremendous strengths in his feel for people and his political instincts, but he is much weaker in administration.” Critics contend that this is showing up in his handling of appointments. Half of the sub-Cabinet-level posts have still not been filled, a problem of increasing concern. Cabinet officers have to spend extra hours testifying before congressional committees since there are few subordinates to go to the Hill. Complains Agriculture Secretary Bob Bergland: “I’m the only one in the department who can sign the mail.”

Talking with “Jimbo.” When Press Secretary Jody Powell brings a covey of reporters to ask Jordan about the appointments bottleneck, Jordan self-deprecatingly points to himself. But it is a shared responsibility. While Jordan may be methodical to a fault, his boss has insisted on more elaborate procedures than in the past. The appointment process has been stretched from the normal three or four weeks to five or six because the Administration is making an unparalleled effort to avoid conflicts of interest and other potentially embarrassing situations. Security clearances and IRS checks are also taking longer than expected. “These people are going to be here four years,” Jordan says. “It is important that we get the right ones.”

White House watchers also think they can glimpse a tad of arrogance showing through the good ole boy pose. Jordan is specifically charged with not answering enough of his telephone calls. He pleads in his defense that he gets from 200 to 300 of them a day. But he could hardly spend more time at work. He usually eats lunch at his desk, constantly fighting his weight (185 Ibs.) with a low-cal chopped sirloin, cottage cheese and salad—then snitches sweets from his secretary’s candy jar. His rollicking good humor leavens the fatiguing days. He responds to pressure cheerfully in unprintable four-letter language and laughs off complainers with epithets.

Jordan is tough and loose and sublimely self-confident in the Carter White House. He can joke about calling the President “Jimbo.” He has no need to overstate his importance or drop names, and although he insists that “I’m not going to stay in this job forever,” nobody doubts that he can stay in it as long as he chooses. He is, pure and simple, the President’s man.

And Washington’s too. An incident one evening revealed what Washington senses: that Hamilton Jordan has found his place. He was sitting in his office, as usual sans tie, his feet on a table. The phone rang. It was the President asking about someone he was considering for an ambassadorship. “He’s a good man,” said Jordan. “But his wife has a serious problem. I may be wrong. I’ll check it. Yes, sir.” He hung up. He had coolly warned the President of a difficulty. The tone of his voice had never changed. His feet were still on the table.