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‘How many angles can there be?’ Stanley protested. ‘I only see one angle. The man can’t keep his pants zipped up for more than a day. He’s running around the whole damn time.’

‘As is just about every other politician in Washington,’ Mason replied maliciously.

He raised a placating hand as Stanley wheeled on him.

‘Present company excepted, naturally. But the American people knew that before he was elected, and they elected him anyway. Twice. It’s just not an issue right now, in light of his popularity.’

Stanley walked slowly over to Mason’s desk. He leaned forward and placed both hands on its polished cherrywood surface, allowing his ample body to hang over it. His attempt to look intimidating amused Mason, but he diplomatically suppressed his smile.

‘The Committee wants to make an issue of it.’

‘And how does the Committee suggest we do that?’ Mason asked.

‘That’s your job.’

Mason shook his head. He had a lot of work to do, and Stanley was wasting his time.

‘As I told you, Congressman, we are doing what we can. We are monitoring the situation, and if we come up with anything promising, I assure you we will pass it on to the Committee.’

‘The man is totally unfit to hold the office of President of the United States.’

‘If you apply that standard, so were most of the men who have held it before.’

‘We want him gone.’

Mason stood and looked directly into Stanley’s eyes.

‘You know, George, you might want to be careful what you say. Even here. Even to me. God forbid some crazy person should take a shot at the President after you go on record saying something like that.’

Congressman Stanley stepped back a couple of paces and suddenly sounded unsure of himself.

‘Jesus, John, I didn’t mean anything like that, for God’s sake. It’s the fact that the man was elected, that the people actually…’

‘I agree,’ Mason said. ‘But the people have that right. I think it’s in the Constitution somewhere. And, unfortunately, the people don’t always agree with us, and we sometimes lose elections. It’s part of the democratic process.’

‘Perhaps if you people put more effort into showing the people the truth about their President, that might change.’

‘Perhaps if the Committee put a little more effort into selecting a candidate people might actually want to vote for, we might do better next time.’

Congressman Stanley thought about continuing the argument, but Mason’s manner made it abundantly clear that it would be a waste of time. He decided to retreat without further loss of face.

‘I’ll see what the Committee has to say. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Stanley turned abruptly and walked out of the office.

Mason remained standing, staring down at this desk, long enough to rein in his frustration and gather his thoughts. Much as he would have liked to, he could not afford simply to ignore Stanley’s visit and the lurid interest it suggested on the part of the Committee. While he was not about to be intimidated by George Stanley, the Committee paid the bills, and, if he could not persuade the Committee to drop the thorny question of the President’s indiscretions, he would eventually have to produce some usable material for them. On the subject of political wisdom, he could only advise. The Committee contained calmer and wiser heads than George Stanley’s and, with any luck, they would prevail. But just in case, he needed a back-up plan. Resuming his seat, Mason called his secretary on the intercom.

‘Helen, bring me some coffee. I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the morning. And get Selvey on the phone.’

‘Very good, Mr. Mason,’ Helen replied in her native Oxford English accent, which the Committee found so charming.

He picked up a file from the stack on his desk, and was still reading it when Helen entered, tray in hand.

‘Coffee,’ she announced. ‘And Selvey’s on two.’

‘Thanks.’

He picked up the telephone.

‘Selvey?’

‘Yo.’ The voice was that of a middle-aged man with a thick New York accent.

‘That woman we were talking about the other day? What was her name?’

‘The one that’s with the President?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lucia Benoni.’

‘Is it for real?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘Does the press know about it?’

Selvey gave a contemptuous snort. ‘The press couldn’t find Dolly Parton in a phone booth.’

‘I take it that’s a ‘No’?’

‘It’s a ‘No’. But it’s also only a matter of time. Somebody will screw up.’

Mason took a deep breath.

‘Don’t do anything just yet, but be ready to move on it. I may want you to hand them the story.’

‘What story? The President’s banging some new broad? Big fucking deal. If it snows in Buffalo in January it would be more interesting.’

‘I understand. But we may have to give it to them anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need the goddamned Committee off my back, that’s why. I had to waste over an hour with that moron George Stanley this morning. I may need to throw them a bone, distract them for a while.’

‘This story is not going to distract anybody. It’s going nowhere, John. It’s bullshit.’

‘Maybe so. Get ready to do it anyway.’

Mason heard an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line.

‘Whatever you say.’

‘Thank you.’

Mason replaced the receiver, and pushed the intercom button.

‘Helen, I need full press monitoring for a certain subject starting tomorrow until I tell you otherwise.’

‘Yes, Sir. Who or what are we looking for?’

‘Our friend Steve and a babe called Lucia Benoni.’

‘Oh. Is it going to be interesting?’

‘Not especially. But it will keep the client happy for a while.’

Though she would never have admitted it, this was the part of her job Helen enjoyed most.

‘No problem, Mr. Mason,’ she said brightly.

L
INDA
S
AMUELS
WAS
on duty outside the Oval Office when Martha Graylor, the President’s Press Secretary, arrived. Linda and Martha liked each other. They had hit it off instantly when Linda had first been assigned to the Detail. Martha had the gift of not taking herself too seriously. She was a cheerful forty-five year old, with the classic Irish combination of dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, an infectious smile, and a wicked sense of humor. Her energy made her appear taller than her five feet five inches of height, and made sure that her figure did no more than fill out her frame. She had worked with Steve Wade ever since he had been governor of his state, and had the reputation of being his most intimate confidante, of having his ear on the most sensitive questions. Martha was carrying a large stack of papers which seemed to be weighing her down.

‘Good morning, Agent Samuels.’

‘Good morning, Miss Graylor. Looks like they’re still keeping you busy.’

‘Oh, just a little light reading,’ Martha smiled. ‘In case I got bored over dinner last night. Are they ready for us in the press room?’

‘Let me check for you.’

Linda put her radio on transmit, and turned the volume down to minimize the crackle.

‘You guys ready down there?’

‘Almost, Linda,’ Agent Gary Mills responded. ‘Give us five.’

‘Five. Roger that,’ Linda said. She turned back to Martha. ‘They’ll be ready by the time you get down there. Here, let me get the door for you.’

‘Thanks,’ Martha smiled. ‘If I have to carry much more of this stuff around, I’m going to apply for some of that danger money you people get.’

Linda knocked on the door of the Oval Office, then opened it for Martha without waiting for a response.

Martha dispensed a smile around the room, and waited for her chance to speak. The President was with Ted Lazenby and his Vice President, Ellen Trevathan. Ellen was not a career politician. She had started out as a university professor. Her writings on public administration got her noticed, and she soon made the move from a tenured professorship at George Mason University to the first of a number of high-level government jobs. At just over six feet, she almost towered over the stocky Lazenby. Handsome and dignified, with short gray hair and blue eyes, she had a natural gift for dealing with people, with a charisma of her own just as appealing as the President’s, many people said. Steve Wade trusted Ellen, and allowed her an unusual freedom of action. Taking full advantage of this, she had steadily built a reputation in Washington as someone who said little in public, but quietly got things done behind the scenes. Her trademark gray-black suits cut high at the neck, Nehru style, were a familiar sight in the corridors of power.

‘Our people are keeping a close eye on them, Mr. President,’ Lazenby was saying. ‘But with all due respect, I don’t think we can write them off as just another gang of crazies. Our intelligence suggests there may be more to it.’

‘I can’t say I’m losing too much sleep over them,’ the President replied. ‘What is it they call themselves again?’

‘The Sons of the Flag,’ Ellen Trevathan grinned. ‘Sounds more like a Boy Scout troop than a serious anarchist group.’

‘Don’t be misled by the name, Madam Vice President,’ Lazenby replied. ‘They’re serious, all right. Our agents report that they have a well-organized operation and the satellite picked up some very useful hardware. We also believe they’re working on some kind of common cause with other such groups in the Pacific Northwest. We’ve seen some familiar faces visit them in the last week or two. The general rule in the past has been that these kinds of groups hate each other more than they hate the Government.’

‘I thought Obama kind of brought them together,’ Wade said, with a thin smile.

‘For a while,’ Lazenby replied, ‘but it didn’t seem to last very long. So, up till now, we’ve been assuming these guys had reverted to their old ways as sworn enemies. But recently, the Sons of the Flag have been rolling out the red carpet for the other groups. There’s something going on out there.’

‘Some kind of organization building?’ Wade asked.

‘That’s the way it looks.’

‘An organization of anarchists?’ Ellen asked. ‘Sounds like a contradiction in terms, doesn’t it?’

Both men smiled.

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Lazenby said. ‘But they could turn into quite a force if they get their act together. Even now, I’m not sure there’s any way to take them down. We couldn’t go in there without risking a repeat of Waco.’

Steve Wade shuddered.

‘Forget that. Any way of infiltrating them?’

‘We’re working on it. The field agents are due to report with an assessment this afternoon.’

Lazenby reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and took out a small brown envelope. ‘The other thing that concerns me, Mr. President, is this.’

He handed the envelope to the President who, with Ellen looking over his shoulder, opened it and took out a single black-and-white photograph. It was a distant and not too clear shot of a man wearing a black suit, a dark gray tie over a white shirt, and shades, standing by the main gate of the Sons of the Flag’s Oregon compound. Despite the lack of focus, there was something about the man’s appearance and dress that suggested he was not American.

‘Who’s this?’

Wade handed the photograph on to Ellen.

‘I just found out myself. The picture was taken yesterday by Phil Hammond, one of the field agents we have in place. Phil sent it to us in the hope we could identify the guy, but the Bureau had nothing matching.’

‘So, how did you…?’

‘We ran it by the Agency and State. State nailed him.’

‘The State Department? Are you telling us he’s a diplomat?’ Ellen asked, looking sharply at Steve Wade.

Lazenby nodded.

‘His name is Hamid Marfrela. Assistant cultural attaché
with the Lebanese delegation to Washington. Fairly junior, been in station about two years.’

‘Suspected of irregular activities?’ Steve Wade asked.

‘Not till now. State had no particular concerns. Not until he showed up in Oregon.’

‘I hope that got their attention.’

‘It did. Oregon seems a strange place for a Lebanese cultural attaché to be plying his trade. Mr. Marfrela may have a little explaining to do.’

President Wade walked around the office, and eventually came to rest, leaning with his back against his desk.

‘How sure are State about this? That’s not a great picture, and he’s wearing shades, for God’s sake.’

‘They were able to enhance it, Mr. President. You wouldn’t believe the things they can do these days. They’re sure.’

Wade nodded.

‘You understand there are certain political considerations in the case of Lebanon?’

‘Yes, Mr. President,’ Lazenby replied at once.

‘We must be careful about this. What are your people doing about it?’

‘Keeping their heads down for now. State asked us to put a tail on him. Unless you have an objection, I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow. We’re not sure whether he’s back in town yet. But I don’t want to give away the fact that we’re on to him.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve Wade saw Martha Graylor move into his line of vision.‘Time to go,’ she mouthed silently.

The President nodded.

‘No objection. Just make sure the watchers are discreet. Keep me informed, Ted. I have to run to my press conference.’

‘I will, Mr. President.’

* * *

‘Talk to me on the way,’ Wade said to Martha. He strode purposefully from the room for the short walk through the West Wing from the Oval Office to the press briefing room, with his Vice President and Press Secretary close behind, Martha struggling to keep up, still clutching her stack of papers. Linda Samuels fell in unobtrusively by his side.

‘Good morning, Agent Samuels.’

‘Good morning, Mr. President.’

‘Am I safe?’

Linda smiled. It was the President’s standard pleasantry with her.

‘I believe you are, Sir.’

She deliberately increased her pace, walking a little ahead of the President so as to avoid appearing to overhear his conversation, and checked in with Gary Mills on her radio.

‘What’s new, Martha?’ the President asked.