The Threat

“As a National Security Council staff member, you’ll be working with full generals, agency heads, the most powerful people in government. But as far as the Constitution goes, we don’t exist. If you want your name in the papers, you’re in the wrong place. If you have any criticism of the president, or anyone around him, keep it to yourself. Or bring it to me, if you absolutely have to.”

“I know what loyalty means, sir.”

“I hope so,” Sebold said. “A lot of what goes on inside that iron fence never goes public. The people who matter know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“I keep classified information to myself,” Dan said. “If that’s what you’re talking about.”

“Good. Because you’re going to be working with some who it will sometimes seem aren’t playing on the same team as we are. Before you assume they’re being mendacious, or willfully ignorant, pick up the phone and talk it through. Nine times out of ten it’s just someone protecting his turf. If that doesn’t fix the problem, call me. I’ll take it to a level that’ll settle it.”

Sebold reflected. “Don’t be surprised when people you expected more of turn out to have feet of clay. And when things get chaotic around here, remember, you get to see only one little piece of an issue. There’s a bigger picture, but you most likely won’t see it till a lot later … if you ever do. And don’t get the idea you’re at the center of things. We may work here, but we’re not the banana. We’re actually more like that white pulp on the inside of the peel.”

Dan was ready for more words of wisdom, but that seemed to be all. The senior director slid past them. “I’m due in the West Wing. If you want to come along, I’ll drop you at the DNSA’s office.”

Meilhamer murmured that it had been nice to meet him.

Outside, a small lot was parked solid with freshly waxed black Lincolns. Sebold said this was West Executive Drive. The white awning ahead, flanked by small evergreens and flower plantings in heavy cast-concrete pots, was the staff entrance to the West Wing. A blue-carpeted lobby was hung with framed art. Dan recognized a World War II battle scene by Tom Freeman. A vase of roses stood on a side table, their perfume mingling with the odors of frying pork and coffee. Keyboards rattled in the offices they passed.

At the corridor intersection of the Roosevelt Room, the Cabinet Room, and the steps Sebold said led up to the Oval Office, the general grabbed his arm. “Just a minute. Someone’s coming.”

Dan saw them, young guys in suits, walking purposefully abreast. A hefty black man with round, babyish cheeks examined him as they neared. His look was impersonal, yet observant. His eyes flicked to Sebold, but they didn’t exchange any greeting. Dan looked after them as they went away down a corridor which had, he noticed, suddenly gone empty.

His mind formulated a sentence along the lines of “What’s going on.” But when he glanced back, mouth open, he was looking into the president’s eyes.

Robert De Bari looked much as he did on television. Only the screen didn’t convey how tall he was, nor how blue his eyes were. He wore a beautifully tailored suit, gleaming, wedge-toed cowboy boots, and a sky-blue silk tie. Two more agents flanked him; another, a compact and expressionless young woman in a gray skirt and blazer, trailed the swiftly moving party.

Beside him Sebold said, “Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Hello, G-man. Who’ve we got here?”

“New staffer, sir. Dan Lenson. Going to counterdrug.”

The president stopped, braking his entourage, and put out his hand. Dan flinched as a static spark zapped between their meeting palms. “Good to have you with us, Dan. I need somebody to shake things up in that job.”

Dan couldn’t seem to think very well. But looking into De Bari’s eyes, feeling the strength in his grip, he suddenly felt both totally known and completely accepted by someone he could trust. It was the feeling you got sometimes with a brother, or a best friend.

He felt he should say something back, but couldn’t get the words out. Having the Secret Service basilisking him didn’t help. Despite himself, his eyes dropped to the president’s right hand. The famously missing fingers. De Bari had lost them years before, as a firefighter, carrying a black child through the broken window of a burning apartment building in Carson City. The president nodded in a friendly way, as if he understood how Dan felt. He slapped his arm and bounded up the carpeted steps, taking them two at a time.

He got a breath at last. He said to Sebold, “Sorry — should I have said something?”

“You could have, but don’t worry about it.” The director waved him off. “Don’t forget. Sit Room. Ten tomorrow.”

2

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

The house was within walking distance of a new Metro station, down a street that still had maples and elms and an afterglow of the sleepy peace of the 1950s, when most of the homes along it had been built.