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Fitz wondered if Adam were blowing his political future with his recent choices. Morally he agreed with them, but practically
he doubted if even Adam could juggle both concerns. “I’ll get right on this.”

“Palmer wants me to fly back to California tomorrow for back-to-back meetings with big business. You can come along and we’ll
work up a first draft on the plane.”

“Right.”

“By the way, why did you almost punch that photographer out?”

Fitz hesitated, then decided he might as well tell him. “He wanted to know if the other woman in your life was Liz Fairchild.”

“What newspaper was he with?”

“The
National Examiner.”

His brother-in-law Harlan’s tabloid. “So that’s how Diane found out. Good old Harlan.”

“I never liked the man. See you later.”

As soon as Fitz had closed the door behind him, Adam picked up the phone and dialed Liz. He thought it best to warn her. The
moment he heard her voice, he relaxed. “I miss you.”

In Pacific Beach Liz closed the refrigerator door and
crossed the kitchen to sit down. “I miss you, too. After reading the papers, I thought you might call. Lord, what a mess.”

“Have you heard from the people at Helping Hands?”

“Oh, yes. They’re
so
upset. I guess they had people sleeping everywhere when Claire walked in—on the floor, in the hallway. She took one look
and left quickly. Mary Simms, the woman in charge that evening, said they’d have made room for her somehow, but Claire assumed
they wouldn’t and ran off.”

“I’ve got Fitz working on a way to get more funding. Of course, these things take time.”

“At least you’re trying. That’s the important thing.” She curled the telephone cord around her finger, picturing him as they’d
parted early this morning. With all her heart she wished they hadn’t had to leave the cabin. “Are you all right? You sound
a little stressed.” She tried for a little levity. “Did I wear you out?”

He smiled. “Yeah, but in the best possible way. There’s something else. Fitz almost decked a photographer outside his apartment
Saturday night. The guy’s from the
National Examiner, y
the supermarket rag Diane’s brother writes for.”

Liz closed her eyes. “Oh no. Then they know about me?”

“I’m afraid so. But so far they don’t have proof. However, they might come around, harass you, try to intimidate you into
saying something they’ll take out of context and print. Don’t let them goad you into saying anything. Maybe you should go
stay at your mother’s for a spell. Just until we can sort things out. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“It so happens I was just making dinner for Molly and me. She’ll be here shortly.”

“That’s good. See if she can spend a couple of days with you. And if a reporter or photographer shows up, please go to La
Jolla. I’ll feel better.”

She didn’t want to do that, but she could see why it might be best. She certainly didn’t want to add to Adam’s worries. And
more important, she didn’t want to cause an incident
that might make the papers, lest Sara see it before Liz could talk to her. “All right.”

“I’ll be flying back to California tomorrow. Three days of meetings in San Francisco, L.A., then San Diego.”

“But I won’t get to see you because of all that’s happened?”

“Oh, yes, you will. I’ll find a way.”

She smiled. “I hoped you’d say that.”

“Liz, I’m sorry about putting you through all this. You’ve got a spotless reputation, and suddenly it’s being sullied.”

“I don’t think of it that way. It’s just something to get through until it’s all over and we can be together.”

“I love you. You’ve got my beeper number. Don’t hesitate to call if you need me. Or if you just want to talk.”

“I won’t. And I love you, too.”

Smiling, Adam hung up just as Anne buzzed him. “Yes?”

“Mrs. McKenzie’s here and would like to see you,” Anne said in her smooth voice.

Just what he needed. However, there was no escaping her here. He hoped she’d come to settle the details reasonably. “Send
her in, please.”

She was wearing a pale yellow linen suit and huge sunglasses. She walked in slowly, hesitatingly, and sat down on the chair
opposite his desk. His eyes on her face, Adam waited.

Diane took a steadying breath. “Adam, I’ve come to apologize.” She brushed the air with a shaky hand. “For everything. For
sounding like a fishwife, for
acting
like a fishwife. I’m sorry I nagged you, that I hounded you about your absences. I’ve been in politics almost as long as
you, and I know you have a very demanding job. Please forgive me, and I
promise
you’ll never regret it.”

He knew her too well to believe her. “I accept your apology, if that’s what you want. But it doesn’t change anything. I still
want a divorce.”

She needed a cigarette badly but knew how he disliked
smoking. She swallowed in an effort to control the pain of his repeated rejections, the pain she dared not show him. “I’ve
been wrong, I know. But I can change. Please, sugar, let me show you.” Begging, humbling herself like this, didn’t come easily.
But she was about to lose all her dreams as well as the man she’d learned belatedly she cared about. That bitch in Pacific
Beach would undoubtedly take her place.

“This is useless, Di, and demeaning for both of us. We had some good times. Let’s end things on a pleasant note. I’ll see
to it that your settlement is more than fair.”

“I don’t want your goddamn settlement,” she said, her voice rising. “I want my life back. I
deserve
my life back. I’ve been faithful to you, which is more than I can say for you. I’ve helped get you elected, put up with your
moodiness, your absences. Even adopted a child,
for you.
And this is the thanks I get?”

Adam’s patience fled. “Let it go, Di, before we wind up hating each other.” He stood in dismissal. “Leave your lawyer’s name
with my secretary, and my attorney will contact him.”

She was trembling so badly that she could barely get to her feet without letting him see. Her back straight and unwavering,
she walked away without another word.

Adam and Fitz walked along the jetway at L.A. International Airport, deep in conversation, fine-tuning the first draft of
the shelter bill. They were nearly inside the main terminal when they heard Adam being paged. Looking around, he spotted a
white phone and called in. In moments he heard Liz’s voice.

“Hey, how’d you find me?” he asked, thinking she might have decided to drive up and surprise him.

“I talked with your secretary and managed to find out your arrival time.”

Something was wrong. Her voice sounded unnaturally strained, frightened even. If those damn reporters had gotten
to her, he’d have to give Harlan a call. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I know you’re on a tight schedule, but I don’t know where else to turn. I’ve called the State Department and they could offer
very little. I need help.”

“The State Department? What’s happened?”

“It’s Sara. She’s being held hostage by the IRA in Ireland.”

Adam paced the small office he still maintained in San Diego, wondering whom to call next. He and Fitz had cancelled the L.A.
meeting and taken the next flight down. After listening to Liz tell him everything that Anthony Bromley from the Associated
Press had said, he’d assured her he’d take it from there and contact her as soon as he had something positive.

So far, he had nothing to tell her.

He’d talked with Bromley and with Wayne Parker’s immediate superior at the Associated Press office in New York and learned
very little more than they’d told Liz. Apparently Wayne had rented a car and driven the girls up to the Donegal Bay area just
west of Ulster, where they’d rendezvoused with an old college chum of Wayne’s named Kendrick Ryan. From that meeting on, no
one was certain how or why they went over to the Ulster area.

Adam stood looking out at late afternoon traffic on Broadway, knowing he’d have to call Liz soon. Invoking congressional
privilege, he’d talked with officials of the State Department and the Irish embassy, as well as international experts on the
government staff.

He’d had only one concrete suggestion.

The secretary of state’s office, while declining to get involved, suggested that perhaps if he were to go to Ireland in person
and negotiate for the release of the hostages, he might be successful, because trying to get through to their captors from
this side of the pond seemed unlikely. Adam’s negotiating skills had been highly regarded since his early days in politics.
Recalling the understandable anxiety in Liz’s voice, he knew he just might have to get involved. That he was thinking that,
knowing it would be an unpopular decision, told him just how deeply he cared for Liz.

Mickey Jones, his aide in charge of the San Diego office since Steve Quinlan’s departure, appeared in the doorway. “Phone
for you, Adam. Jesse Conroy from Sacramento. Says he’s been calling all over looking for you.”

“Thanks, Mickey.” Adam picked up the desk phone. “Jesse, what’s up?” The attorney general was probably calling about the McCaffrey-Davis
investigation. Ordinarily he’d be eager to hear the report, but right now he had other, deeper concerns.

“I guess you haven’t had the television on. There’s been a plane crash at Selfridge Air Force Base in Michigan. One of McCaffrey-Davis’s
T-38’s. Both pilot and trainee killed. They crashed into a field, narrowly missing a Softball game in progress with sixty,
seventy people in attendance.”

“Jesus.” Adam slumped onto the desk chair.

“Those parts are definitely defective. Our man tested several himself. One out of three failed. The heads of the company still
deny it all. They’re up to their eyeballs in a cover-up. This crash should make your case.”

Right. If he could convince Palmer. “Thanks, Jesse. I’ll take it from here and get back to you.” He walked into the main room
and flipped on the television, searching for the news. He
found no coverage of the plane crash, but rather a report on the Americans being held hostage in Northern Ireland.

Leaning against the edge of a desk, Adam watched as they flashed pictures of all three in turn. Blond, blue-eyed Sara Fairchild
smiled back at him, lovely, young, and innocent, from what looked like a studio portrait. Liz must be terrified. He had to
go to her, and soon. First, though, he must deal with this plane crash, and Palmer.

Fitz joined him just as the announcer was ending the story. “It’s just been learned that Senator Adam McKenzie, the Democratic
vice-presidential candidate in the forthcoming election, has been contacted and is considering intervening on behalf of the
hostages. More on this later.”

“Oh, brother,” Fitz moaned aloud. The phone started ringing just then. He glanced up at Adam. “Guess who that is.”

Adam just shook his head. Mickey caught it and motioned to him.

“It’s Palmer Ames.”

With a resigned sigh, Adam picked up the phone. “Palmer, I was just going to call you.” No defense like a good offense. “I
assume you’ve heard about the T-38 that crashed in Michigan, killing both pilot and trainee. That was a McCaffrey-Davis plane.
Now do you believe we have a problem with those shipments?”

Taken aback, having been all geared up to do battle over another issue, Palmer was silent a moment, regrouping. “I did hear
something about that. Didn’t know whose plane it was.”

“I just got a call from Jesse Conroy. He’s checked it out. We’ve got to insist on a recall of the rest of the T-38’s.”

In his Alexandria, Virginia, home, Palmer propped his slippered feet on his favorite footstool. “Now, hold on. I talked with
Jim McCaffrey after you brought this to my attention last time. He assured me the situation’s been remedied.”

“Remedied? Two men died today. Many more could have
if the plane had gone down in that ball field next to the crash site.”

Palmer took a sip of his after-dinner brandy. “Of the thousands of planes McCaffrey-Davis has sold to the government, theoretically
only a handful could jeopardize human life. This must have been one of those peculiar coincidences where all circumstances
were present at the same time. Odds are good that that won’t happen again.”

“Theoretically? Palmer, how would you feel if your son was test-piloting one of those planes? Would the odds comfort you?”

“Now, listen here, son—”

“No, Palmer, I won’t listen. If even
one
more life is in danger, the planes should be recalled. I’m sure we all want to act with honor on this.”

“Honor can be a slippery concept, son.” Palmer forced himself to calm down. There were better ways to handle this—and Adam
McKenzie. “You’re right. Tell you what, let
me
take care of this. I’ll call Jim and work it out because I understand you’re quite busy. You’re too busy to attend the meeting
I’d set up in L.A., but not busy enough to keep off the evening news.”

Here it comes, Adam thought. Win one, lose one. “I haven’t decided definitely if I’m going.”

Palmer decided to use the fatherly approach. “Listen, son, you need to think this through.” He knew that if he ordered Adam
not to go, he’d hop on the next plane. “The last thing we need so close to election is to get involved in international politics.
We’re not in a position to meddle in a foreign war. It’s a hotbed. There are voters here in our country on both sides of this
touchy issue. You risk alienating them all.”

“I don’t see how. All I would do is try to negotiate the release of an American newsman and two young girls.”

And one of those girls was Liz Fairchild’s daughter, the other woman, according to Palmer’s sources. Crazy what a man will
do for the right bedmate. “I’m asking you. No, I’m
begging you to let this be. It’s political suicide. You’ve worked long and hard to get where you are, Adam. Don’t blow it.
Let the State Department and the Associated Press get them out. They will, you know.”

Maybe. And when? Under what conditions were they being held? What damage, physical and mental, would those girls wind up with?
“I’ll give it serious thought, I promise you. Meantime, you call Jim McCaffrey.”