The Sum of All Fears

30 EAST ROOM

Clark arrived at the house at the proper time and had to do something unusual. He waited. After a couple of minutes, he was ready to knock on the door, but then it opened. Dr. Ryan (male) came out partway, then stopped and turned to kiss Dr. Ryan (female), who watched him walk off, and, after his back was fully turned, fired off a beaming smile at the car.

All right! Clark thought. Maybe he did have a new career set up. Jack also looked fairly decent, and Clark told him so as soon as he got in the car.

“Yeah, well, I got sent to bed early,” Jack chuckled, tossing his paper on the front seat. “Forgot to have a drink, too.”

“Couple more days like that and you just might be human again.”

“Maybe you're right.” But he still lit up a cigarette, somewhat to Clark 's annoyance. Then he realized just how smart Caroline Ryan was. One thing at a time. Damn, Clark told himself, that is some broad.

“I'm set up for the test flight. Ten o'clock.”

“Good. It is nice to put you to some real work, John. Playing SPO must be boring as hell,” Ryan said, opening the dispatch box.

“It has its moments, sir,” Clark replied, pulling onto Falcon's Nest Road. It was another quiet day on the dispatches, and soon Ryan had his head buried in the morning Post.

Three hours later, Clark and Chavez arrived at Andrews Air Force Base. A pair of VC-2oBs had already been scheduled for routine training flights. The pilots and crews of the 89th Military Airlift—“The President's”—Wing had a strict regimen for maintaining proficiency. The two aircraft took off a few minutes apart and headed east to perform various familiarization maneuvers to acquaint two new co-pilots with air-traffic control procedures — which the drivers already knew backwards and forwards, of course, but that was beside the point.

In the back, an Air Force technical sergeant was doing his own training, playing with the sophisticated communications equipment that the plane carried. He occasionally looked aft to see that civilian, whoever the hell he was, talking into a flower pot, or just into a little green stick. There are some things, the sergeant thought, that a guy just isn't supposed to understand. He was entirely correct.

Two hours later, the two Gulfstreams landed back at Andrews and rolled to a halt at the VIP terminal. Clark gathered up his gear and walked out to meet another civilian who'd been aboard the other aircraft. The pair walked off to their car, already talking.

“I could understand part of what you were saying — clear, I mean,” Chavez reported. “Say about a third of it, maybe a little less.”

“Okay, we'll see what the techies can do with it.” The drive back to Langley took thirty-five minutes, and from there Clark and Chavez drove back into Washington for a late lunch.

Bob Holtzman had gotten the call the previous evening. It had come on his unlisted home line. A curt, short message, it had also perked his interest. At two in the afternoon, he walked into a small Mexican place in Georgetown called Esteban's. Most of the business crowd had gone, leaving the place about a third full, mainly with kids from Georgetown University. A wave from the back told him where to go.

“Hello,” Holtzman said, sitting down.

“You Holtzman?”

“That's right,” the reporter said. “And you are?”

“Two friendly guys,” the older one said. “Join us for lunch?”

“Okay.” The younger one got up and started feeding quarters into a jukebox that played Mexican music. In a moment, it was certain that his tape recorder wouldn't have a chance of working.

“What do you want to see me about?”

“You've been writing some pieces on the Agency,” the older one started off. “The target of your articles is the Deputy Director, Dr. John Ryan.”

“I never said that,” Holtzman replied.

“Whoever leaked all that shit to you lied. It's a set-up.”

“Says who?”

“Just how honest a reporter are you?”

“What do you mean?” Holtzman asked.

“If I tell you something totally off the record, will you print it?”

“That depends on the nature of the information. What exactly is your intention?”

“What I mean, Mr. Holtzman, is that I can prove to you that you've been lied to, but the proof of that can never be revealed. It would endanger some people. It would also prove that somebody's been using you to grind an axe or two. I want to know who that person is.”

“You know that I can never reveal a source. That violates our code of ethics.”

“Ethics in a reporter,” the man said, just loudly enough to be heard over the music. “I like that. Do you also protect sources who lie to you?”

“No, we don't do that.”

“Okay, then I'm going to tell you a little story, but the condition is that you may never, ever reveal what I am going to tell you. Will you honor such a condition?”

“What if I find out you are misleading me?”

“Then you will be free to print it. Fair enough?” Clark got a nod. “Just remember, I will be very unhappy if you ever print it, 'cuz I ain't lying. One more thing, you can't ever use what I am going to tell you as a lead to do your own digging.”

“That's asking a lot.”

“You make the call, Mr. Holtzman. You have the reputation of an honest reporter, and a pretty smart one. There are some things that can't be reported — well, that's going too far. Let's say that there are things that have to remain secret for a very long time. Like years. What I'm getting at is this: you've been used. You have been conned into printing lies in order to hurt someone. Now, I'm not a reporter, but if I were, that would bother me. It would bother me because it's wrong, and it would bother me because someone took me for a sucker.”

“You have it figured out. Okay, I agree to your conditions.”

“Fair enough.” Clark told his story. It took ten minutes.

“What about the mission? Where exactly did the man die?”

“Sorry, pal. And you can forget about finding that one out. Less than ten people can answer that.” Clark 's lie was a clever one. “If you even manage to figure out who they are, they won't talk — they can't. Not too many people voluntarily leak information about breaking laws.”

“And the Zimmer woman?”

“You can check out most of that story. Where she lives, the family business, where the kid was born, who was there, who the doctor was.”

Holtzman checked his notes. “There's something really, really big behind all this, isn't there?”

Clark just stared at him. “All I want is a name.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“What will Ryan do with it?”

“He doesn't know we're here.”

“Bullshit.”

“That, Mr. Holtzman, is the truth.”

Bob Holtzman had been a reporter a very long time. He'd been lied to by experts. He'd been the target of very organized and well-planned lies, had been the instrument of political vendettas. He didn't like that part of his job, not in the least. The contempt he felt for politicians came mainly from their willingness to break any rule. Whenever a politician broke his word, told the most outrageous of lies, took money from a contributor and left the room at once to perform a service for that contributor, it was called “just politics.” That was wrong, and Holtzman knew it. There was still in him something of the idealist who had graduated from Columbia 's journalism school, and though life had made him a cynic, he was one of those few people in Washington who remembered his ideals and occasionally mourned for them.

“Assuming I can verify this story you've told, what's in it for me?”

“Maybe just satisfaction. Maybe nothing more than that. I honestly doubt there will be any more, but if there is, I'll let you know.”

“Just satisfaction?” Holtzman asked.

“Ever want to get even with a bully?” Clark asked lightly.

The reporter brushed that aside. “What do you do at the Agency?”

Clark smiled. “I'm really not supposed to talk about that.”

“Once upon a time, the story goes, a very senior Soviet official defected, right off the tarmac at Moscow airport.”

“I've heard that story. If you ever printed it…”

“Yes, it would fuck up relations, wouldn't it?” Holtzman observed.

“How long have you had it?”

“Since right before the last election. The President asked me not to run it.”

“Fowler, you mean?”

“No, the one Fowler beat.”

“And you played ball.” Clark was impressed.

“The man had a family, a wife and a daughter. Were they killed in a plane crash, like the press release said?”

“You ever going to print this?”

“I can't, not for a lot of years, but someday I'm going to do a book…”

“They got out, too,” Clark said. “You're looking at the guy who got them out of the country.”

“I don't believe in coincidences.”

“The wife's name is Maria. The daughter's name is Katryn.”

Holtzman didn't react, but he knew that only a handful of people in the Agency could possibly have known the details to that one. He'd just asked his own trick question, and gotten the right answer.

“Five years from today, I want the details of the bust-out.”

Clark was quiet for a moment. Well, if the reporter was willing to break a rule, then Clark had to play ball, too. “That's fair. Okay, you have a deal.”

“Jesus Christ, John!” Chavez said.

“The man needs a quid pro quo.”

“How many people inside know the details?”

“Of the operation? Not many. My end… if you mean all the details, maybe twenty, and only five of them are still in the Agency. Ten of them are not Agency employees.”

“Then who?”

“That would give too much away.”

“Air Force Special Ops,” Holtzman said. “Or maybe the Army, Task Force 160, those crazy guys at Fort Campbell, the ones who went into Iraq the first night—”

“You can speculate all you want, but I'm not going to say anything. I will say this, when I tell you my end, I want to know how the hell you figured out that we even had this operation.”

“People like to talk,” Holtzman said simply.

“True enough. Do we have a deal, sir?”

“If I can verify what you've told me, if I'm sure I've been lied to, yes, I will reveal the source. You have to promise that it will never get to the press.”

Jesus, this is like diplomacy, Clark reflected. “Agreed. I'll call you in two days. For what it's worth, you're the first reporter I've ever talked to.”

“So, what do you think?” Holtzman asked with a grin.

“I think I ought to stick with spooks.” John paused. “You might have been a pretty good one.”

“I am a pretty good one.”

“Just how heavy is this thing?” Russell asked.

“Seven hundred kilos.” Ghosn did the mental arithmetic. “Three quarters of a ton — your ton, that is.”

“Okay,” Russell said. “The truck'll handle that. How do we get it from the truck into my truck?” The question turned Ghosn pale.

“I had not considered that.”

“How was it loaded on?”

“The box is set on a wooden… platform?”

“You mean a pallet? They put it in with a fork-lift?”

“Yes,” Ghosn said, “that is correct.”

“You're lucky. Come on, I'll show you.” Russell led the man out into the cold. Two minutes later, he saw that one of the barns had a concrete loading dock and a rusty propane-powered forklift. The only bad news was that the dirt path leading up to it was covered with snow and frozen mud. “How delicate is the bomb?”

“Bombs can be very delicate, Marvin,” Ghosn pointed out.

Russell had a good laugh at that one. “Yeah, I guess so.”

It was fully ten hours earlier in Syria. Dr. Vladimir Moiseyevich Kaminiskiy had just started work, early as was his custom. A professor at Moscow State University, he'd been sent to Syria to teach in his specialty, which was respiratory problems. It was not a specialty to make a man an optimist. Much of what he saw in the Soviet Union and also here in Syria was lung cancer, a disease as preventable as it was lethal.

His first case of the day had been referred by a Syrian practitioner whom he admired — the man was French-trained and very thorough — and also one who only referred interesting cases.

On entering the examining room, Kaminiskiy found a fit-looking man in his early thirties. A closer look showed someone with a gray, drawn face. His first impression was, cancer, but Kaminiskiy was a careful man. It could be something else, something contagious. His examination took longer than he'd expected, necessitating several X-ray films, and some additional tests, but he was called back to the Soviet embassy before the results arrived.

It required all of Clark's patience, but he let it go almost three days, on the assumption that Holtzman didn't get right on the case. John left his house at eight-thirty in the evening and drove to a gas station. There he told the attendant to fill up the car — he hated pumping it himself — and walked over to the pay phone.

“Yeah,” Holtzman said, answering his unlisted line.

Clark didn't identify himself. “You have a chance to run the facts down?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Got most of 'em, anyway. Looks like you were right. Really is annoying when people lie to you, isn't it?”

“Who?”

“I call her Liz. The President calls her Elizabeth. Want a freebie?” Holtzman added.

“Sure.”

“Call this evidence of good faith on my part. Fowler and she are getting it on. Nobody's reported it because we figure it's not the public's business.”

“Good for you,” Clark observed. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Five years, man.”

“I'll be around.” Clark hung up. So, John thought, I thought that's who it was. He dropped another quarter in the phone. He got lucky on the first try. It was a woman's voice.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Caroline Ryan?”

“Yes, who”s this?"

“The name you wanted, ma'am, is Elizabeth Elliot. The President's National Security Advisor.” Clark decided not to add the other part. It was not relevant to the situation, was it?

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” The line clicked off.

Cathy had sent Jack to bed early again. The man was being sensible. Well, that wasn't a surprise, was it? she thought. After all, he married me.

The timing could have been a little better. A few days earlier, she had planned to skip the official dinner, claiming work as an excuse, but now…

How do I do this…?

“Morning, Bernie,” Cathy Ryan said as she scrubbed her hands, as usual, all the way to the elbows.

“Hi, Cath. How's it going?”

“A lot better, Bernie.”

“Really?” Dr. Katz started scrubbing.

“Really.”

“Glad to hear it,” Katz observed dubiously.

Cathy finished, shutting off the water with taps from her elbows. “Bernie, it turns out I overreacted rather badly.”

“What about the guy who came to see me?” Katz asked, his head down.

“It was not true. I can't explain now, maybe some other time. Need a favor.”

“Sure, what?”

“The cornea replacement I have scheduled for Wednesday, can you take it?”

“What gives?”

“Jack and I have to go to a formal dinner in the White House tomorrow night. State dinner for the Prime Minister of Finland, would you believe? The procedure is straightforward, no complications I know about. I can have you the file this afternoon. Jenkins is going to do the procedure — I'm just supposed to ride shotgun.” Jenkins was a bright young resident.

“Okay, I'll do it.”

“Okay, thanks. Owe you one,” Cathy said on her way through the door.

The Carmen Vita pulled into Hampton Roads barely an hour late. She turned to port and proceeded south past the Navy piers. The captain and pilot rode the port-side bridge wing, noting the carrier that was even now departing from the pier with a few hundred wives and children waving goodbye to USS Theodore Roosevelt. Two cruisers, two destroyers, and a frigate were already moving. They, the pilot explained, were the screening ships for “The Stick,” as TR was called by her crew. The Indian-born captain grunted and returned to business. Half an hour later, the container ship approached her pier at the end of Terminal Boulevard. Three tugs took their position and eased the Carmen Vita alongside. The ship had barely been tied up when the gantry cranes started moving cargo.

“ Roggen, Colorado?” the trucker asked. He flipped open his large book map and looked on I-76 for the right place. “Okay, I see it.”

“How fast?” Russell asked.

“From the time I leave here? Eighteen hundred miles. Oh, two days, maybe forty hours if I'm lucky. Gonna cost you.”

“How much?” Russell asked. The trucker told him. “Cash all right?”

“Cash is fine. I knock ten percent off for that,” the trucker said. The IRS never found out about cash transactions.

“Half in advance.” Russell peeled off the bills. “Half on delivery, a grand bonus if you break forty hours.”

“Sounds good to me. What about the box?”

“You bring that right back here. We'll be getting more stuff in a month,” Russell lied. “We can make this a sort of regular run for you.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Russell returned to his friends, and together they watched the unloading process from the comfort of a block building with a large coffee urn.

Teddy Roosevelt cleared the harbor in record time, bending on twenty knots before they reached the sea buoy. Already, the aircraft were orbiting overhead, first among them the F-14 Tomcat fighters that had lifted off from Oceana Naval Air Station. As soon as there was sea room, the carrier came into the northerly wind to commence flight operations. The first plane down had the Double-Zero number of the CAG, Captain Robby Jackson. His Tomcat caught a gust over the fantail, and as a result caught the number-two wire when it landed—“trapped”—somewhat to Jackson 's annoyance. The next aircraft, flown by Commander Rafael Sanchez, made a perfect trap on the number-three arrester wire. Both aircraft taxied out of harm's way. Jackson left the fighter and immediately sprinted to his place on Vulture's Row, high up on the carrier's island structure, so that he could observe the arrival of the rest of his aircraft. This was how a deployment started, with the CAG and squadron commanders watching their troops land. Each trap would be recorded on videotape for critiques. The cruise had not gotten off to a very good start, Jackson noted as he sipped his first mug of shipboard coffee. He'd missed his customary “OK” grade, as the Air Boss had informed him with a twinkling eye.

“Hey, Skipper, how my kids doing?” Sanchez asked, taking his seat behind Robby.

“Not bad, I see you kept your record going, Bud.”

“It's not hard, Captain. You just keep an eye on the wind as you turn in. I saw that gust you took. Guess I should have warned you.”

“Pride goeth before the fall, Commander,” Robby observed. Sanchez had seventeen consecutive OKs. Maybe he could see the wind, Jackson thought. Seventy uneventful minutes later, TR turned back east, taking the great-circle route for the Straits of Gibraltar.

The trucker made sure the container box was firmly secured to the bed of his truck, then climbed into the cab of his Kenworth diesel tractor. He started his engine and waved to Russell, who waved back.

“I still think we should follow him,” Ghosn said.

“He'd notice and wonder why,” Marvin replied. “And if something goes wrong, what would you do, fill in the hole it makes in the highway? You didn't follow the ship, did you?”

“True.” Ghosn looked at Qati and shrugged. Then they walked off to their car for the drive to Charlotte, from which they would fly directly to Denver.

Jack was ready early, as he usually was, but Cathy took her time. It was so unusual for her to look in a mirror and see hair that looked like it belonged to a real woman, as opposed to a surgeon who didn't give a damn. That had entailed the waste of two hours, but there were prices that one had to pay. Before she went downstairs, Cathy took two suitcases out from her closet and set them in the middle of the bedroom.

“Here, can you do this?” she asked her husband.

“Sure, babe.” Ryan took the gold necklace and clasped it around her neck. It was one he'd given her on the Christmas before Little Jack was born. Some good memories went along with this necklace, Jack remembered. Then he stood back. “Turn around.”

Cathy did as she was told. Her evening dress was royal-blue silk that caught and reflected light like glass. Jack Ryan was not a man who understood women's fashions — figuring the Russians out came more easily to him — but he approved whatever the new rules were. The rich blue of the dress and the gold jewelry she wore with it set off the blush of her fair skin and the buttery yellow of her hair. “Nice,” Jack said. “All ready, babe?”

“Sure am, Jack.” She smiled back at him. “Go warm the car up.”

Cathy watched him head off into the garage, then said a few words to the sitter. She put on her fur — surgeons typically have little use for animal-rights activists — and followed Jack a minute later. Jack backed out of the garage, and headed off.

Clark had to laugh to himself. Ryan still didn't know beans about counter-surveillance techniques. He watched the taillights of the car diminish, then disappear entirely around the bend of the road before heading into the Ryan driveway.

“You're Mr. Clark?” the sitter asked.

“That's right.”

“They're in the bedroom.” The sitter pointed.

“Thank you.” Clark returned a minute later. Typical woman, he thought, they all overpack. Even Caroline Ryan wasn't perfect. “Good night.”

“Night.” The sitter was already entranced with the TV.

It takes just under an hour to drive from Annapolis, Maryland, into Central D.C. Ryan missed having an official car, but his wife had insisted that they drive themselves. They turned off of Pennsylvania Avenue, through the gate into East Executive Drive, where uniformed police directed them to a parking place. Their wagon looked a little humble mixed in with Caddys and Lincolns, but that was all right with Jack. The Ryans walked up the gentle slope to the East Entrance, where Secret Service personnel checked their invitations against the guest list, and checked them off. Jack's car keys set off the metal detector, evoking an embarrassed smile.

No matter how many times one goes there, there is always something magical about visiting the White House, especially at night. Ryan led his wife westward. They handed off their coats, and took their numbered tokens right next to the White House's own small theater, then continued. At the chicane turn there were the usual three social reporters, women in their sixties who stared you in the face while making their notes and generally looked like the witches from Macbeth with their open-mouth, drooly smiles. Officers from all the military services decked out in their full-dress — what Ryan used to call “Head Waiter”—uniforms waited in files to provide escort duty. As usual, the Marines looked best with their scarlet sashes, and a disgustingly good-looking captain motioned them up the stairs to the main level. Jack noted the admiring glance cast at his wife and decided to smile about it.

At the top of the marble stairs, another officer, this one a female Army lieutenant, directed them into the East Room. They were announced into the room — as though anyone were listening — and a liveried usher approached at once with a silver tray of drinks.

“You're driving, Jack,” Cathy whispered. Jack took a Perrier and a twist. Cathy got champagne.

The East Room of the White House is the size of a small gymnasium. The walls are ivory-white, its false columns decorated with gold leaf. There was a string quartet in one corner, along with a grand piano that was being played, rather well, Ryan thought, by an Army sergeant. Half the people were already here, the men in black tie and the women in dresses. Perhaps there were people who were totally comfortable at such affairs, Ryan told himself, but he wasn't one of them. He started circulating, and soon found Defense Secretary Bunker and his wife, Charlotte.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Hi, Dennis, you know my wife?”

“Caroline,” Cathy said, sticking her hand out.

“So, what do you think about the game?”

Jack laughed. “Sir, I know how you and Brent Talbot have been fighting over this. I was born in Baltimore. Somebody stole our team.”

“You didn't lose that much, did you? This is our year.”

“But the Vikings say the same thing.”

“They were lucky to get past New York.”

“The Raiders gave you a brief scare, as I recall.”

“They got lucky,” Bunker grumbled. “We buried 'em in the second half.”

Caroline Ryan and Charlotte Bunker traded a woman-to-woman look: Football! Cathy turned, and there she was. Mrs. Bunker made off, while the boys talked about boy things.

Cathy took a deep breath. She wondered if this were the right time and the right place, but she could no more have stopped herself now than she could have given up surgery. She left Jack facing the other way, and headed across the floor in a line as direct as a falcon's.

Dr. Elizabeth Elliot was dressed almost identically to Dr. Caroline Ryan. The cuts and pleats were a little different, but the expensive garments were close enough to make a fashion editor wonder if they had shopped at the same store. A triple string of pearls graced her neck, and she was talking with two others. Her head turned as she saw the approaching shape.

“Hello, Dr. Elliot. You remember me?” Cathy asked with a warm smile.

“No. Should I?”

“Caroline Ryan. That help?”

“Sorry,” Liz replied, knowing at once who she was, but not knowing anything else that might be of interest. “Do you know Bob and Libby Holtzman?”

“I've read your material,” Cathy said, taking Holtzman's extended hand.

“It's always nice to hear that.” Holtzman noted the delicacy of her touch and could feel the guilt shoot up his arm. Was this the woman whose marriage he had attacked? “This is Libby.”

“You're a reporter, too,” Cathy observed. Libby Holtzman was taller than she, and dressed in an outfit that emphasized her ample bosom. One of hers is worth both of mine, Cathy noted, managing not to sigh. Libby had the sort of bust on which men yearned to lay their heads.

“You operated on a cousin of mine a year or so ago,” Libby Holtzman said. “Her mom says you're the best surgeon in the world.”

“All doctors love to hear that.” Cathy decided that she would like Mrs. Holtzman, despite her physical handicap.

“I know you're a surgeon, but where have we met?” Liz Elliot asked, with the offhand interest she might have shown a dog breeder.

“ Bennington. In my freshman year, you taught PoliSci 101.”

“Is that a fact? I'm surprised you remember.” She made it clear that she did not.

“Yes. Well, you know how it is.” Cathy smiled. “Freshman Pre-Med is a real bear. We really have to concentrate on the important stuff. So the unimportant courses are all throwaways, easy A's.”

Elliot's expression didn't change. “I was never an easy grader.”

“Sure you were. It was just a matter of repeating it all back to you.” Cathy smiled even more broadly.

Bob Holtzman was tempted to take a step back, but managed not to move at all. His wife's eyes went a touch wider, having caught the signals more quickly than her husband. A war had just begun. It would be nastier than most.

“What ever happened to Dr. Brooks?”

“Who?” Liz asked.

Cathy turned to the Holtzmans. Times really were different back in the 70s, weren't they? Dr. Elliot just had her masters, and the PoliSci department was — well, kind of radical. You know, the fashionable kind.“ She turned back. ”Surely you haven't forgotten Dr. Brooks and Dr. Hemmings! Where was that house you shared with them?"

“I don't remember.” Liz told herself to maintain control. This would be all over soon. But she couldn't walk away.

“Wasn't it on that three-way corner, a few blocks from the campus…? We used to call them the Marx Brothers,” Cathy explained with a giggle. “Brooks never wore socks — in Vermont, remember, he must have gotten terrible colds from that — and Hemmings never washed his hair. That was some department. Of course, Dr. Brooks went off to Berkeley, and then you went out there, too, to finish your doctorate. I guess you liked working under him. Tell me, how is Bennington now?”

“Just as nice as ever.”

“I never get back there for the alum meetings,” Cathy said.

“I haven't been back there myself in over a year,” Liz replied.

“What ever happened to Dr. Brooks?” Cathy asked again.

“He teaches at Vassar now, I think.”

“Oh, you've kept track of him? Still trying to bed every skirt in sight, too, I bet. Radical-chic. How often do you see him?”

“Not in a couple of years.”

“We never understood what you saw in them,” Cathy observed.

“Come now, Caroline, none of us were virgins back then.”

Cathy sipped at her champagne. “That's true, times were different, and we did lots of very dumb things. But I g0t lucky. Jack made an honest woman of me.”

Zing! Libby Holtzman thought.

“Some of us haven't had time.”

“I don't know how you manage without a family. I don't think I could handle the loneliness.”

“At least I never have to worry about an unfaithful husband,” Liz observed icily, finding her own weapon, not knowing it wasn't loaded anymore.

Cathy looked amused. “Yes, I suppose some women have to worry about that. But I don't, thank God.”

“How can any woman be sure?”

“Only a fool is unsure. If you know your man,” Cathy explained, “you know what he can and cannot do.”

“And you really feel that secure?” Liz asked.

“Of course.”

“They say the wife is always the last to know.”

Cathy's head cocked to one side. “Is this a philosophical discussion, or are you trying to say something to my face instead of behind my back?”

Jesus! Holtzman felt that he was a spectator at a prize-fight.

“Did I give you that impression? Oh, I'm so sorry, Caroline.”

“That's okay, Liz.”

“Excuse me, but I prefer—”

“I go by 'professor,' too you know, medical doctor, Johns Hopkins, and all that.”

“I thought you were an associate professor.”

Dr. Ryan nodded. “That's right. I got offered a full professorship at the University of Virginia, but that meant moving away from the house we like, moving the kids out of school, and, of course, there's the problem with Jack's career. So, I turned it down.”

“I guess you are pretty tied down.”

“I do have responsibilities, and I like working at Hopkins. We're doing some pioneer work, and it's good to be where the action is. It must have been much easier for you to come to Washington, what with nothing to hold you anywhere and besides, what's new in political science?”

“I'm quite satisfied with my life, thank you.”

“I'm sure you are,” Cathy replied, seeing the chink, and knowing how to exploit it. “You can always tell when a person is happy in their work.”

“And you, Professor?”

“Life couldn't be much better. As a matter of fact, there's only one real difference between us,” Caroline Ryan said.

“And that is?”

“… I don't know where my wife wandered off to. There's yours with Liz Elliot and the Holtzmans. I wonder what they're talking about?” Bunker said.

“At home, at night, I sleep with a man,” Cathy said sweetly. “And the nice thing about it is that I never have to change the batteries.”

Jack turned to see his wife and Elizabeth Elliot, whose pearl necklace seemed to turn brown before his eyes, she went so pale. His wife was shorter than the National Security Advisor, and she looked like a pixie next to Libby Holtzman, but whatever the hell had just happened, Cathy was holding her ground like a momma-bear on her kill, her eyes locked on the taller Elliot. He moved over to see what the problem was.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hello, Jack,” Cathy said, her eyes fixed on her target. “Do you know Bob and Libby?”

“Hi.” Ryan shook hands with both, catching looks from them that he could only guess at. Mrs. Holtzman seemed about to explode, but then she took a breath and controlled herself.

“You're the lucky guy who married this woman?” Libby asked. That comment made Elliot turn away first from the confrontation.

“Actually she's the one who married me, I think,” Jack said, after a further moment's confusion.

“If you'll excuse me,” Elliot said, departing from the battlefield as gracefully as she could. Cathy took Jack's arm and steered him towards the corner with the piano.

“What in the hell was that all about?” Libby Holtzman asked her husband. She thought she knew most of it already. Her successful struggle not to laugh aloud had nearly strangled her.

“What it's about, my dear, is that I broke an ethical rule. And you know something?”

“You did the right thing,” Libby announced. “The Marx Brothers? 'Three-way corner.' Liz Elliot, the Queen Radical WASP. My God.”

“Jack, I have a terrible headache, I mean, a really terrible one,” Cathy whispered to her husband.

“That bad?”

She nodded. “Can we get out of here before I get nauseous?”

“Cathy, you don't just walk out of these things…” Jack pointed out.

“Sure you do.”

“What were you and Liz talking about?”

“I don't think I like her very much.”

“You're not the only one. Okay.” Jack headed for the door with Cathy on his arm. The Army captain at the stairs was very understanding. Five minutes later, they were outside. Jack helped his wife into the car and headed back up the drive towards Pennsylvania.

“Go straight,” Cathy said.

“But—”

“Go straight, Jack.” It was her surgeon's voice. The one that told people what to do. Ryan pulled past Lafayette Park. “Now left.”

“Where are we supposed to be going?”

“Now turn right — and left into the driveway.”

“But—”

“Jack, please?” Cathy said softly.

The doorman of the Hay Adams Hotel helped Caroline from the car. Jack handed the keys to the parking attendant, then followed his wife in. He watched the concierge hand her a key, then she breezed off to the elevators. He followed her onto and off the elevator, and from there to a corner suite.

“What gives, Cathy?”

“Jack, there's been too much work, too much kids, and not enough us. Tonight, my darling, there is time for us.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, and there was nothing for her husband to do but kiss her. She put the key in his hand. “Now get the door open before we scare somebody.”

“But what about—”

“Jack, shut up. Please,” she added.

“Yes, dear.” Ryan led his wife into the room.

Cathy was gratified to see that her instructions had been carried out as perfectly as the staff of this most excellent of hotels could arrange. A light dinner was set on the table, along with a chilled bottle of Moët. She draped her coat on the sofa in confidence that everything else was as it should be.

“Could you pour the champagne? I'll be back in a moment. You might want to take your coat off and relax,” she said over her shoulder on the way into the bedroom.

“Sure,” Jack said to himself. He didn't know what was going on, or what Cathy had in mind, but he didn't really care all that much either. After dropping his dinner jacket atop his wife's mink, he peeled the foil off the champagne, then twisted off the wire, and gently worked the cork free. He poured two glasses, and set the bottle back in the silver bucket. He decided to trust the wine untasted, then walked to look out the window at the White House. Jack didn't hear her come back into the room. He felt it, felt the air change somehow. When he turned she was standing there in the doorway.

It was the second time she'd worn it, the floor-length gown of white silk. The first time had been their honeymoon. Cathy walked barefoot across the carpet to her husband, gliding through space like an apparition.

“Your headache must have gone away.”

“I'm still thirsty, though,” Cathy said, smiling up at Jack's face.

“I think I can handle that.” Jack lifted the glass and held it to her lips. She took a single sip, then moved it to his.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

She leaned against him, taking both his hands in hers. “I love you, Jack. Shall we?”

Jack turned her around, and walked behind, his hands at her waist. The bed, he saw, was turned down, and the light out, though the glare from the flood-lit White House washed in through the windows.

“Remember the first time, the first night we were married?”

Jack chuckled. “I remember both, Cathy.”

“This is going to be another first time, Jack.” She reached behind him and flipped off the cummerbund. Her husband took the cue. When he was naked, she embraced him as fiercely as she could manage, and the silk of her nightgown rustled against his skin. “Lie down.”

“You're more beautiful than ever, Cathy.”

“I wouldn't want anyone to steal you from me.” Cathy joined him on the bed. He was ready, and so was she. Caroline pulled the nightgown up to her waist and mounted him, then let it fall down around her. His hands found her breasts. She held them in place, rocking up and down on him, knowing that he couldn't last very long, but neither could she.

No man should be so lucky, Jack told himself, straining, trying to control himself, and though he failed miserably, he was rewarded with a smile that nearly broke his heart.

“Not bad,” Cathy said a minute later, kissing his hands.

“Out of practice.”

“The night is young,” she said, as she lay down beside him, “and that's the best I've had in a while, too. Now, are you hungry?”

Ryan looked around the room. “I, uh…”

“Wait.” She left the bed and returned with a bathrobe with the hotel monogram. I want you to stay warm."

Dinner passed in silence. There was nothing that needed to be said, and for the following hour they silently pretended that they were both in their twenties again, young enough to experiment in love, to explore it like a new and wonderful place where every turn in the road revealed something never before seen. It had been far too long, Jack told himself, but he dismissed the thought from a mind that for once was untroubled. Dessert was finished, and he poured the last of the champagne.

“I have to stop drinking.” But not tonight.

Cathy finished off her glass, and set it on the table. “It wouldn't hurt you to stop, but you're not an alcoholic. We proved that last week. You needed rest, and you got your rest. And now, I want more of you.”

“If there's any left.”

Cathy stood and took his hand. “There's plenty more where that came from.”

This time Jack did the leading. Once in the bedroom, he reached down and pulled the nightgown over her head, then tossed his robe on the floor next to it.

The first kiss lasted for some eternal period of time. He lifted her in his arms and laid her on the bed, joining her a moment later. The urgency had not passed for either of them. Soon he was atop her, feeling her warmth under and around him. He did better this time, controlling himself until her back arched and her face took on the curious look of pain that every man wants to give his wife. At the end, his arms reached under her and lifted her off the bed, up against his chest. Cathy loved it when he did that, loved her man's strength almost as much as his goodness. And then it was over, and he lay at her side. Cathy pulled him against her, his face to her regrettably flat chest.

“There never was anything wrong with you,” she whispered into his ear. She was not surprised by what came next. She knew the man so well, though she'd been foolish enough to forget the fact. She hoped that she'd be able to forgive herself for that. Jack's whole body shook with his sobs. Cathy held him fast to her, feeling his tears on her breasts. Such a fine, strong man.

“I've been a lousy husband, and a lousy father.”

Her cheek came down on the top of his head. “Neither one of us has set any records lately, Jack, but that's over, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” He kissed her breast. “How did I ever find you?”

“You won me, Jack. In the great lottery of life, you got me. I got you. Do you think that married people always deserve each other? All the ones I see at work who just can't make it. Maybe they just don't try, maybe they just forget.”

“Forget?”

What I almost forgot. “'For richer, for poorer, for better, for worse; in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.' Remember? I made the promise, too. Jack, I know how good you can be, and that's plenty good enough. I was so bitchy to you last week… I'm sorry for all the terrible things I did. But that's all over.”

Presently the weeping stopped. “Thanks, babe.”

“Thank you, Jack.” She ran a finger down his back.

“You mean?” His head moved back to see her face. He got another smile, the gentle kind that a woman saves for her husband.

“I think so. Maybe this one will be another girl.”

“That might be nice.”

“Go to sleep.”

“In a minute.” Jack rose to head for the bathroom, then into the sitting room before coming back. Ten minutes later, he was still. Cathy rose to put her nightie back on, and on her way back from the bathroom she cancelled the wake-up call that Jack had just ordered. It was her turn to stare out the windows at the home of the President. The world had never seemed prettier. Now, if she could just get Jack to quit working for those people…

The truck made a fuel stop outside of Lexington, Kentucky. The driver paused ten minutes to load up on coffee and pancakes — he found breakfasts best for staying awake on the road — then pressed on. The thousand-dollar bonus sounded pretty good, and to be sure of it he had to cross the Mississippi before the rush hour in St Louis.