the country needs.â
Knight watched cigar smoke rise, silent. He seemed on the cusp of saying something else. But got up abruptly instead and walked Dan to the door. A handshake, briefer than the first, and he was on his way.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
The car idled, crept forward, idled again. A Metro cop stood with hat pushed back and hands in his pockets. A marine guard bent to glance inside the Bentley ahead, then straightened and waved them on. Dan saw it had diplomatic plates.
He was in blues, and it felt good to be back in them, but the marine still wanted to see his ID. He also managed an appreciative glance at Blairâs legs. Dan couldnât blame him. She looked great in a short black cocktail dress. She knew what her legs looked like, and occasionally used a strategic glimpse of thigh to fluster and confuse.
The vice presidentâs residence was a white Victorian with mansards. Dan thought it looked like a battleship, with its porch as a prow and the cupolaed turret as the bridge. More marines directed them where to park on a clipped lawn. Dan held Blairâs door. It wasnât Halloween yet, but mist eddied from the porch as they approached, and creepy music. A skeleton twinkled with electric lights.
âGood evening, how are you, thanks for coming ⦠Oh, Blair, thanks for coming. And whoâs this? Mr. Titus?â
âDan, meet Geraldo B. Edwards. And Mrs. Edwards. Dan Lenson, Mr. Vice, currently serving on the NSC staff.â
The vice president was short and peppery, with gray hair brushed straight back like Spiro Agnewâs. A former Disney executive, then junior senator from Florida, Geraldo B. Edwards had cratered on Super Tuesday after a bitter nomination fight. De Bari had picked him at the convention to balance the ticket. The office of the vice president was in the Old Executive, but Dan had never seen him there. Early in the term, Edwards, appearing on The Capital Gang with Al Hunt, had challenged the presidentâs decision to reduce troop levels in NATO. Since the First Commandment of the vice presidency was âDo not publicly disagree with the president,â Edwards hadnât spent much time around the Eighteen Acres since. The president kept him on the road with trade delegations, fundraising, and foreign funerals. The word was that Edwards was âout of the loop,â and there was no more scathing dismissal. The second lady was padded, powdered, and pleasant, and said absolutely nothing as she shook his hand with a slow, sweet smile that plainly conveyed Inside my head Iâm far away.
The house seemed empty, though guests were still arriving. They looked down into a tented annex set up in the garden, facing a back lawn and a wooded ravine. The guests were already deep into the drinks and buffet. Most were elderly or middle-aged. Many seemed to be foreigners, judging by the dashikis and thobes and saris among the black ties and long dresses. Dan even saw one tiny woman in a kimono.
âSee anyone you know?â he asked Blair. She was fiddling with her earrings, a wrinkle between her eyebrows indicating mild annoyance.
âIâm more interested in those I donât know. Is that Milton Obote?â
Dan wasnât sure who that was. But the intellectual-looking officer by the garden exit was certainly the new deputy CNO for training, Admiral Contardi. Dan remembered briefing him in the cramped flag officerâs quarter of USS Cochrane before a strike into the littoral of Africa.
In the foyer, shaking hands with the vice president, Mrs. Clayton sparkled like a garnet set in gold. Behind her Dan recognized Alicejames âMokeyâ Revell, the secretary of state, a political general whoâd served four presidents with steadily decreasing competence. So heâd be Dina Whiteâs boss ⦠âBig Jackâ Weatherfield, the secretary of defense, the only African American in the cabinet. He was a former trial
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley