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“You’ve been pestering your superiors about Dr. Harrington,” he said without preamble. “She’s your problem. How you handle her is entirely up to you.”

Gwynn was cautious. “She has powerful friends.”

“They won’t interfere.”

Bundy turned away, but not before noting with satisfaction the leap
of delight in the little man’s eyes. A fundamental principle of Washington life was never to let ambition blind you to manipulation. By that measure, poor Alfred Gwynn was as blind as they come.

The question was whether the same could be said of Doris Harrington.

The New York Central had a six-thirty train running south from the depot in Syracuse, more than an hour’s drive away, and even with Annalise driving full-tilt, Margo almost missed it. The train reached Garrison a little past eleven. There were no taxis at that hour, but from Syracuse she had called the Paxtons, the only other Negro family of means in the town, and their batman, as Mr. Paxton insisted on calling him, was waiting. The ride to Nana’s house from the station was all of five minutes. Margo could have walked, but arriving sweaty would have been taken by Claudia Jensen as a sign of disrespect and even what she referred to as disrepute: the sort of thing associated with the riffraff.

They turned past the crumbling stone lion—its mate had vanished long before Margo moved in—and entered the pitted drive that wound its way up Nana’s hill. Another corner, and suddenly the house loomed out of the darkness, a hulking shadow against the night sky. It was an Irish Palladian, sprawling and tumbledown, a granite monstrosity with chimneys and balconies and clever stone carvings everywhere you looked: one of those grand mansions built along the river at the turn of the century by the great industrialists—the barons, Nana called them—who used to shuttle between city and country by private barge, or, in a few cases of obscene wealth, private railway. The barons were long gone, and half the grand palaces stood empty and dying. Thus the wheel of history: the spectacular achievements of one
age became the forgotten detritus of the next. Margo had learned this history at her grandmother’s feet, because Nana wanted the little girl she raised as her own to be the brightest child in every classroom she would ever enter.

Knocking took as much courage as stepping alone onto that tram in Varna.

The heavy door opened at once: Muriel, the maid, had waited up. She told Margo that Mrs. Jensen had retired but would join her at breakfast. There was hot chocolate in the kitchen. Margo thanked her and told her to go to bed. She made a cup, then stood for a while on the stone portico around the back of the house. The hot chocolate warmed her against the autumn night. Once upon a time, Claudia Jensen had hosted grand parties out here. Now the stonework was cracked and the metal furniture sagging. Down below was a field of rushes that Nana always said would poison you should you get a scratch. Margo had never believed the story, and never tested it. Beyond the rushes was a mud-bound, bashed-in dock to which nobody would ever tie up a boat, and beyond the dock was the river. Ripples of moonlight teased their way toward the city. A distant thrumming marked the passage of a barge, gentled northward by a tug. In daylight the barge would be rusted and ugly, but by night it was majestic, braving the current. Margo thought of Fitzgerald, and wondered how you avoided being borne back into your own past. She nibbled at her lower lip. She hated this house, and for much of her life she had hated her grandmother, too, but no other route was available. Robert Frost was right in “Death of the Hired Man”: Home was indeed where, when you had to go there, they had to take you in.

Margo had nowhere else to go; and so had gone home.

She had told nobody other than Annalise that she was leaving campus, and nobody at all her reason: she had run out of ideas she could pursue from Ithaca. Nana represented her last hope. In a way, she always had. Claudia Jensen had never been kind to her granddaughter, but she had also never admitted that a single problem existed that was unfixable. That attitude had evidently rubbed off on her son, and perhaps a bit on Margo as well. Nana always claimed to know everybody who was anybody. Tomorrow Margo planned to put that claim to the test.

She had no choice. Fomin was counting on her, and if a part of her
knew perfectly well that the fate of the world could not possibly rest on her slim nineteen-year-old shoulders, another part of her hoped that history had thrown up a chance for the daughter to complete the work the father had begun.

The wind freshened. Margo sipped her cocoa and lifted her eyes to the lighted spires of West Point across the river. She remembered the dream. Was Garrison far enough from New York? Niemeyer would have said that was the wrong question. She knew because Littlejohn had asked in class whether Ithaca was far enough from some military base in upstate New York.

Niemeyer had smiled benignly, the way he did in the face of lesser minds.

“Stop being a ninny,” he’d said. “Remember, we’re stronger than they are. We might not be stronger tomorrow, but we are today. They’re more frightened of us than we are of them. The right question, children, is whether Dubna or Kaliningrad or Yaroslavl—or wherever they plan to hide the Central Committee in case of war—is far enough from Moscow.”

“Are you saying you want a war?” another acolyte had asked, for the sheer pleasure of hearing Niemeyer’s response.

The great man waddled to the center of the stage. “Nobody wants a war,” he announced, and if he had told them he held the survey results in his hand, they would have believed him. “But if we’re going to fight one, the time to do it is now, when we can still win. Ten years from now, fifteen, God alone knows what the correlation of forces will be.” He flipped his hand dismissively. “When you children get to run things, I’m sure the first thing you’ll cut will be our military. Good luck scaring the Bear or the next bogeyman after you’re done beating your guns into butter.”

The memory of classroom banter had almost warmed her, but the bitter chill riding the river breezes reminded her of reality. Niemeyer was gone. He had abandoned her; and so had the State Department. The duty officer had paged through his codebook until he found the notation telling him to cut her off. Margo could not begin to fathom Niemeyer’s sudden flit, or the abrupt severing of her connection to Harrington, but she had to press on. Others in her position would have accepted that the world would likely be able to save itself without their
urgent assistance, but for Margo the matter had nothing to do with choice. It had to do with expectation.

Claudia Jensen had not raised her granddaughter to retreat; and Donald Jensen would never have given up.

Margo lay awake in the room of her youth, window open to catch the distant lapping of the waves, wondering whether tonight she would have the dream.

On Friday morning, she got down to business.

“The White House? You mean, the Kennedys?”

“Yes, Nana. The Kennedys. I’d like to meet the President.”

“Mmmm.”

“This weekend,” Margo added, feeling at once idiotic and determined. They were in what Claudia Jensen called the morning room, a glass-walled atrium off the kitchen, added well after the house was built. Potted monkey-puzzle trees guarded the corners. The view was of the sloping brown lawn down to the playhouse. The rosebushes had been covered in burlap for the season.

“Oh, well, of course, then,” said Nana, quite loud. She was a tall, imperious woman, whose idea of raising children had been to bark orders and then tell you to go away. If you ran to her because you had fallen and scraped your knee, she upbraided you for carelessness and called the maid to take care of the problem. A long time ago, she had been the first Negro to serve as a deputy mayor in New York City. The money was her late husband’s, because, in addition to practicing medicine, Arturo Jensen had owned a small piece of the largest black life insurer in the country.

Not that there was as much money left as Nana liked to pretend.

“Of course,” said Nana again. She took a long gulp of orange juice. She was unaware that Margo had known for years where Nana hid the gin she always had Muriel mix in. “Meet the President. I’ll call him up. How’s that? Call him up, tell him to make time in his schedule.”

“Nana—”

But Claudia Jensen’s sarcasm was as awesome as her disapproval, and, once launched upon the project of your humiliation, she never
stopped until your mortification was complete. If you cried, that was bonus.

“Mr. President, my dear old friend, how lovely to hear your voice. How’s Jackie and the little ones? Marvelous. Yes, I’m fighting fit, so terribly good of you to ask. Now, Jack, I’m afraid I need a little favor. Yes, another one. What can I tell you? I’m a soft touch, everyone knows it, so everyone asks. But if you might oblige me one last time, my fool of a granddaughter wants to visit the White House this weekend. Would you be available to give her a personal guided tour? You will? First thing tomorrow? I am so very grateful, Mr. President. I am forever in your debt. If you need any help against the Russkies in Berlin, or against the heathen Chinese wherever they might be making trouble, give a call.”

“Are you finished?” said Margo.

“What did you think I was going to say? Do you think I’m a magician?”

“Sometimes you are. Yes.”

The old woman smiled at this. “Well, well,” she said; and nothing more. Her heavily powdered face was almost pale enough to pass for white.

“I’m serious, Nana. I really do need to meet the President. Not want to. Need to. And I can’t tell you why.”

“Mmmm,” said Nana again. She spooned her oatmeal, looked around suspiciously, then grabbed the syrup and poured a healthy tot. “Well, I do grant that you’ve been acting strange since you made that fool trip to Hungary.”

“Bulgaria.”

“Where?”

“Bulgaria!”

“No need to shout. Besides, it’s all the same, dear, isn’t it? They’re all Commies, aren’t they? But I must say, you’re being very mysterious.”

Half the truth: because Claudia Jensen, whatever airs she might put on, was no fool. “I wish I could tell you, Nana. All I can say is that it’s a—a security thing. It has to do with what happened over there.”

“
What
happened to your hair?”

“
Security,
Nana. The security of the United States. I wish I could tell you more.”

“Imagine that. Margo Jensen is going to save the world. Well, well.”
But something in her granddaughter’s face impressed her. “Very well, dear. Maybe you’re not the silly little girl you seem. The security of the nation. And you have to see the President. Well, well.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mmmm. The President. Kennedy. I never took to the Kennedys. New money. I hate new money. Always putting on airs. Now, the Roosevelts. That was a family. Eleanor Roosevelt and I used to have tea now and then. Did you know that, dear?”

“Yes, but—”

“Eleanor’s very ill just now. She lives right up in Hyde Park. Not in the big house. She stays in that little cottage. It’s really been too long. I should get up to see her before it’s too late. She isn’t long for this world, I’m afraid. Maybe you could come with me. You’ve never met her, dear. I’m sure she’d adore you.” Another long drink of orange juice. “So—what exactly is this magic you expect of me, dear? How am I supposed to arrange for you to meet the President?”

“Your godson.”

“I have thirteen godchildren—”

“I’m talking about Uncle Eddie. Eddie Wesley. He was something big in the campaign, right? Doesn’t he work in the White House?”

“Not any more.”

This brought Margo up short. Another one of her master plans shot to bits.

“He resigned a few months ago,” Nana was saying. “I’m sure it was some matter of principle. All the Wesleys are that way. And the most dreadful social climbers. Muriel. Muriel!”

The maid raced in.

“This is cold. Freezing cold. And the syrup is a clotted mess. Look. Look! Take it, dump it, eat it yourself. I don’t care. Hot. Bring it hot.” Lifting her chin toward her granddaughter. “Take hers, too. I can’t imagine what they feed them up there in Ithaca, but it’s bound to be better than this.”

“I’m fine, Nana.”

“See? She hates it, too. Bring her something else. Cereal. Cold cereal. That’s the ticket. Cornflakes. We do have cornflakes, don’t we? And milk, I take it? Then bring her cornflakes and milk. She can put the sugar on it, same as she did when she was a girl. And I’ll have more orange juice.” Alone again. “Now, dear. Where were we?”

Margo was having trouble keeping up. Each time she visited Nana, Nana was worse than before.

“Your godson. Uncle Eddie. He must still know people in the Administration.”

“I really wouldn’t have any idea.” Nana gave her a calculating look. “But I suppose I might give him a call.”

Doris Harrington stood by the window, watching as two security officers emptied her safe and searched the other cabinets and shelves for classified material. She would keep her security clearance while she served her thirty-day notice period, Gwynn had assured her, but he had also made clear that she wasn’t expected to do any work of actual significance, adding that if she chose to spend her time at home, the State Department would have no objection, and would of course continue her salary and benefits. As a matter of fact—he had added, blank-faced—that might turn out to be the best idea.

She had known this day would come, of course. In her business, everybody flamed out sooner or later, and taking the blame for failed operations was one of the risks of the trade. Lorenz Niemeyer had tried to warn her that the balance of opinion was starting to run against her, and their uneasy marriage, whatever its pains, had taught her to trust his political judgment. So she had not been entirely surprised to learn yesterday evening that she was finished. But to lose out to a little snake like Gwynn: that had indeed surprised her. Even more surprising had been the way all her fabled links to people of influence had gone dead: she had telephoned everyone she knew, and nobody had taken her calls.