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Parkinson put on a pair of reading glasses, and rummaged through a pile of papers until he found what he was looking for.

‘I must say it’s very interesting,’ he continued. ‘It seems you’ve been hard at work in that committee of yours.’

‘Yes,’ Stanley replied nervously. ‘Well, it’s mostly Mason and his source, you know, who actually get the information. We leave that kind of thing to them. We just evaluate it and decide what to do with it. In this case, we thought it was serious enough to bring to your attention.’

Parkinson scanned the memorandum again.

‘Well, you were right,’ he said, after removing his glasses and staring at the wall to the right of his desk for some time. ‘It is serious. Steve has been a naughty boy, hasn’t he? No doubt about that.’

‘Even more so than usual.’

Parkinson smiled.

‘Yes. The question, of course, is what to do about it.’

He turned to face Stanley across the desk.

‘I can’t agree to your suggestion at the moment, George. However much I may agree with you that he deserves it.’

‘Gerry…’

‘No, let me finish. As things stand now, Alex Vonn is right. We would get nowhere with impeachment proceedings. We wouldn’t get much more than a bare majority of our own people in the House. We’d be annihilated in the Senate. It would be a political train wreck.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘Remember Clinton, George. Even people who hated his guts and were disgusted by what he did thought impeachment was over the top. Not in the national interest. If anything, we would be in a weaker position here. I can’t expose the Party to that kind of risk, not at the moment.’

Stanley shook his head and put his coffee cup down on the edge of the Leader’s desk, as if about to protest. Parkinson raised a finger to cut him off.

‘George, I’m not saying ‘No’. I’m saying ‘not at the moment’. We would have to build a case, a way better case than we have now. We’d have to get people thinking, not ‘how can we impeach him?’ but ‘how can we not impeach him?’ We’d have to have such a strong case that not even Wade’s best friends would dare to defend him.’

Stanley seemed deflated.

‘How would we do that?’

Parkinson smiled comfortably.

‘Your Committee has the right idea. We have to prove that this is not just another instance of the presidential pants being unzipped. We have to prove that it hurts America, and I don’t mean in the Clinton sense of a failure of moral leadership. I mean, something that has the potential to fuck the nation in a very tangible and visible way.’

‘You mean the national security angle?’

‘Exactly.’

Stanley frowned.

‘That’s where we’re on the weakest ground, Gerry. It’s a matter of proof.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Parkinson agreed. ‘But, as it happens George, you came to the right man at the right time.’

‘Oh?’

‘It so happens that I have one piece of information which Mason’s source didn’t mention, which may help us quite a bit.’

Stanley looked up sharply.

‘You mean we missed something?’

Parkinson smiled.

‘No, not really. I doubt there’s any way Mason’s guy could have got to this, unless he’s a lot better placed than I think he is. Your memo suggested that we should see if we could find any information on this Hamid Marfrela character in relation to the Lebanon situation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we did. Not only was Marfrela the number one suspect in the Benoni murder, as Mason’s source discovered but, at that exact time, he was also under surveillance by the Bureau on behalf of the State Department.’

George Stanley’s eyes opened wide.

‘For God’s sake. Why? Was it because of his connection to the Benoni woman? What interest did the State Department have in a murder investigation?’

Parkinson took a deep breath.

‘George, you understand that this is…’

‘Sensitive. Of course.’

’’Sensitive’ would be an understatement. The information I’m about to give you originates in classified material supplied to a House Committee under the usual rules. Now, it can go to your Committee informally. You can tell them it came from this Office, but there are to be no further inquiries without my authorization. None. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

‘All right. Marfrela had contacts with an extreme White Supremacist group based in Oregon, called the Sons of the Flag. According to the Bureau, these people are suspected of hatching some ambitious plans, which could involve the use of armed force against the Federal Government.’

Stanley’s eyes had opened wide.

‘My God.’

‘Marfrela actually went out there to see them at least once. The Bureau was keeping an eye on the situation for obvious reasons but, at first, they had no idea who Marfrela was. Eventually, they were able to get a good photograph of him, which State was able to identify. Someone at State pitched a fit about it, and they decided to go into business with the Bureau. Up to a point, at least.’

Stanley sat back in his chair.

‘God Almighty, Gerry,’ he breathed. ‘What’s the connection?’

‘We don’t know for sure,’ Parkinson said. ‘The security people are working on the theory that these sons-of-bitches in Oregon might have enlisted the help of the Lebanese.’

‘To do what?’

‘Probably to supply them with some commodities, let’s say arms, which they might have been having trouble getting elsewhere. The Lebanese interest being, we presume, in destabilizing the United States Government to relieve the pressure put on them by the President’s Middle Eastern policy.’

George Stanley breathed heavily, stood, and walked a little way around the Majority Leader’s desk.

‘Well, Gerry, if that’s true, it proves my point. It’s even more serious than the Committee thought. We need to…’

‘No, hold on a moment, George,’ Parkinson interrupted firmly. ‘First, we still don’t have any definite connection to the White House beyond a possible one-night stand between Wade and Benoni in Chicago. Second, the whole thing is still very little more than speculation. We need more evidence.’

Stanley turned to look at the Majority Leader.

‘What kind of evidence are you suggesting we look for?’

‘It’s not a matter of looking for it. Not any more. The bodies are buried in places where Mason’s source can’t go.’

‘So, who can go there?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Well, then…?’

‘No one person, I mean. It’s going to take a congressional committee,’ Parkinson said, rising to stand behind his desk. ‘George, I can’t give you impeachment proceedings – not yet. But here’s what I can do. I have enough to begin hearings in some appropriate committee, and we’ll have to think about which one, I’m thinking probably the House Intelligence Committee, on the issue of Marfrela’s involvement with the White Supremacists. It has clear enough national security implications, even if you leave the President out of it. But we won’t leave him out of it, of course.’

‘So you would let the committee develop its own evidence?’

‘Well, one thing the chair of that committee would have to do is gather all the available information about Marfrela’s activities, including the Benoni situation.’

Stanley sat back down with a satisfied smile.

‘Which would mean,’ Parkinson continued, ‘there would be an investigation of Ms. Benoni’s activities, which in turn would mean that the committee would issue subpoenas for witnesses such as your Secret Service agent, what was her name, Samuels? Then, depending on the committee’s findings, we may decide that further proceedings are justified. If so, we will have a much stronger basis for it than we do now. Either way, I can’t see a down side.’

The Majority Leader smiled.

‘Can you live with that?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Stanley replied.

‘Good,’ Parkinson said decisively, walking around his desk to offer his hand. ‘Why don’t you run it by your committee and see if they agree. If so, I will notify the Chair of the House Intelligence Committee, and we’ll get the show on the road.’

T
HE
YELL
G
ARY
Mills gave over the radio brought Linda Samuels up physically out of her chair. It was not yet time for her to walk over to the Oval Office, and she had been relaxing with a cappuccino and a doughnut in the Detail office. But in an instant, she recognized the moment for which every agent attached to the Detail spent his or her whole life preparing. There was danger. The President might be in danger. In such a situation, you reacted. Suddenly, your own life became dispensable. You might take a bullet, but the President must not. You never thought about that during the action. Afterwards, you thought about it a lot. Before, in times of quiet, sometimes. But not during the action. In a flash, Linda was racing out of the office, radio in hand, and running hell for leather along the corridor.

‘Gary, where are you? Come back. Gary?’

With the radio on receive, Linda thought she heard Gary’s voice, but it was indistinct, and there were other voices, other noises, in the background.

‘Fuck,’ she said desperately, to herself. ‘Talk to me, Gary, damn it. Where are you?’

Linda realized that, not only did she not know where Gary Mills was, but she could not even remember where he was supposed to be. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine. Almost time for the President to be at work. She decided to make for the Oval Office. She switched the radio to transmit.

‘Gary, come in. Gary. Where are you, Gary?’

As she neared the Oval Office, Linda almost collided with Agent Dennis Waite, a young African-American member of the Detail, who was running in the opposite direction. He had his gun drawn.

‘Did you hear it too?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Where’s Gary?’ Linda almost screamed.

‘Not in the office. Must be in the Residence,’ Dennis replied. He stood still for a moment, leaning against the wall, breathless.

‘Oh, fuck,’ Linda said. ‘That’s right. He was doing escort today.’

‘Let’s go,’ Dennis said, forcing his back from the wall.

Linda held him back with an arm.

‘No chances,’ she said. ‘We take no chances with this. Sound a code red, and meet me there.’

‘A code red?’

‘My responsibility, Dennis, do it.’

Dennis looked doubtful.

‘Linda…’

But Linda Samuels was already in full flight.

‘God damn it, Dennis, just fucking do it. And meet me up there.’

Dennis Waite exhaled heavily. What he was about to do would paralyze the White House for several hours, perhaps the whole day. Every exit would be sealed, the entire building would be closed and searched from top to bottom, and every armed agent would be at the scene of the suspected trouble within a minute or two. It would be total disruption. An unnecessary declaration of a code red would not be appreciated by the top brass of the Secret Service or by the White House staff. On the other hand, neither would a dead President.

‘This is Agent Waite, for Agent Samuels,’ he said into his radio. ‘I’m declaring a code red. Unknown noises from the Residence, agent possibly in trouble. All armed units respond to the Residence immediately. Repeat, this is Agent Waite, declaring a code red. Waite out.’

As he began to run upstairs, Waite heard responses from several other agents. Help was on the way.

Linda paused briefly at the door of the presidential living quarters, a little out of breath after a desperate run up the two flights of stairs which had stood between her and the scene of the trouble. Inside she could hear shouting and, to her relief, the voice of Gary Mills. She quietly put down the radio, which she had silenced to conceal her approach, and drew her gun. At that moment, she heard a loud crash and a torrent of curses. She looked around. There was no one else in sight. Only one possible course of action. Without hesitation, she savagely kicked open the door, and looked around. Her training had left her in no doubt of what to do. If the President was even arguably in danger, she would shoot to kill. She was less than a second from squeezing off a fatal round.

But she did not pull the trigger. She stood just inside the door, and looked around her in disbelief. The President was standing on one side of the living room, holding a hand to the side of his head, which was bleeding from a nasty-looking wound. Fragments of what had been a blue ornamental Chinese vase lay at his feet. He was almost dressed for work, in his customary white shirt and a red tie. Only the jacket was missing. Across the room were the only other two occupants. Gary Mills was lying sprawled over the screaming and kicking body of a woman, who was barefoot and dressed only in a lace nightgown. Gary was attempting to subdue the woman, with only limited success. Seeing Linda enter, he held up a hand.

‘It’s OK, Linda. Put down the gun. It’s under control.’

Linda did not put the gun down. Instead, she spoke, not loudly, but very seriously.

‘Let me see, Gary. I can’t see whether you’re armed or whether she’s armed,’ Linda said. ‘I need to see your hands now.’

Gary Mills nodded and rolled slowly off the woman, but made no move to stand up. The woman turned and looked at Linda. It was Julia Wade. Linda could see no weapon. Cautiously, she approached the First Lady.

‘Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stand and put your hands in the air.’

‘Fuck you,’ Julia Wade snarled.

‘This is not a joke, Ma’am,’ Linda insisted. ‘Do it now. Please.’

The seriousness of Linda’s manner had its effect. Very slowly, and with a bitter smile, the First Lady did as she was told. Linda breathed a sigh of relief. She could still see no weapon.

Gary Mills had climbed gingerly to his feet.

‘You too, Gary,’ Linda said quietly.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Linda.’

‘Do it,’ Linda insisted.

With an expletive, Gary Mills turned and placed his hands in the air.

At that moment, all hell broke loose again, as a number of agents, armed with everything from sub-machine guns to standard automatics, burst into the room.

‘It’s OK,’ Linda shouted. ‘It’s under control. Everyone relax. Mr. President, we have declared a code red, but I don’t believe you are in any further danger.’