In college Graves had studied subjects that interested him, whether they were practical or not. On the surface they seemed highly impractical: Russian literature and mathematics. He was drafted immediately after college and did push-ups for five weeks before somebody in the Army discovered what he knew. Then he was sent to the language school in Monterey, where he remained forty-eight hours - just long enough to be tested - before being flown to Washington.

That was in 1957, and the Cold War was grim. Washington needed Russian translators desperately. There were fears of a land war in Europe, fears of grand conquistadorial campaigns conducted by World Communism, meaning those two friendly allies, Russia and China. At the time the fears had seemed compelling and logical.

Graves worked for two years in the Army as a Slavic translator, and after his discharge joined the State Department in the same capacity. The pay was good and the work was interesting; he had the feeling of being useful, of doing necessary and even important work. In 1959 he married a girl on Senator Westlake's staff. They had a daughter in 1961. They got divorced two years later. He had a kidney stone and spent five days in the hospital. He met a nice girl, almost married her, but didn't. He bought a new car. He moved to a new apartment.

In retrospect, these seemed to be the signposts, the significant shifts and alterations in his life. The years went by: he wore his hair a little longer, but the hair was thinner, exposing more of his temples. His trousers got tight, then flared, and now were baggy again, as they had been in the fifties. There were cyclic changes in himself and his world - but he was still working for the government.

State no longer wanted Russian translators. The big push was for Chinese and Japanese translators. Graves transferred into Intelligence, a division of State that was highly mathematical, heavily computerized. He worked in the foreign division for five years, doing a lot of code breaking. At that time the foreign embassies were all utilizing computer-generated codes of various kinds, and it was challenging work - even if the messages usually turned out to be requests for funds to refurbish the ballroom on the second floor, or to hire additional kitchen help. Graves was interested in the codes, not in the content.

In 1970 he was moved to the domestic end. It seemed a minor change at the time, and a change he welcomed. He was ready to do something different. It was a long time before he realized just how different it was.

During his fifteen years in the government, slowly and imperceptibly his enemy had shifted from the Big Bear, the Russkies, the Reds, the ChiComs - to his fellow Americans. That was his job now, and he hated it. It was tapping telephone transmissions and competing with other agencies; it was value judgements and it was very, very political.

Nothing was clean and direct any more. And Graves didn't like it. Not any more.

Graves had been planning to quit State for a long time, ever since his domestic work had become distasteful. But he hadn't quit.

What kept him was partly inertia and partly the fear that he might be unable to teach Slavic or mathematics. At least, that was what he told himself. He was reluctant to admit the real reason, even to himself.

The fact was that he took a genuine pleasure in his work. The pleasure was abstract, the pleasure of a compulsive jigsaw puzzle worker who will fit the pieces together without caring what the puzzle really means. It was a game he loved to play, even if it was fundamentally nasty.

He also liked the notion of an opponent. In the foreign division he had been up against institutions -embassies, foreign press corps, political groups of various kinds. In the domestic division, it was most often a single individual.

Graves had long ago discovered his skill at poker, backgammon, and chess - games which required a combination of mathematical insight, memory, and psychological daring. To him the ideal was chess -one man pitted against another man, each trying to calculate the intentions of the other in a game of enormous complexity with many alternatives.

That was why he had agreed to leave Washington in order to follow the activities of John Wright. In the realm of puzzles and games, nothing was more challenging than John Wright.

He and Wright were well matched: the same intelligence, the same mathematical background, the same fondness for games, particularly chess and poker.

But now after three months, Phelps was rolling him up. Wright would be arrested; the game would be called off. Graves sighed, trying to tell himself that this did not represent a personal defeat. Yet it was; he knew it.

With a low whine the plane began its descent towards San Diego, skimming in over the roofs of the highest buildings. Graves didn't much like San Diego. It was a utilitarian town dominated by the needs of the Navy, which ran it with a firm, conservative hand. Even its sins were dreary: the downtown area was filled with bars, pool halls, and porno movie houses which advertised `Beaver films - direct from Frisco!' as if San Francisco were six thousand miles away and not just an hour up the coast. Fresh-faced sailors wandered all over the downtown area looking for something to do. They never seemed to understand that there was nothing to do. Except, possibly, to get drunk.

Despite the early hour San Diego was hot, and Graves was grateful for the car's air conditioning. Lewis drove away from the airport, glancing occasionally at Graves. `The marshals checked in with us an hour ago.'

`So you know?'

`Everybody knows. They're just waiting for you to say the word.'

As they left the airport they passed beneath a banner stretched across the road: WELCOME REPUBLICANS. Graves smiled. `I'm going to hold off for a while,' he said. `At least until this afternoon.'

Lewis nodded and said nothing. Graves liked that about him, his silence. He was young and enthusiastic - characteristics Graves severely lacked - but he knew when to keep his mouth shut. `We'll go directly to his apartment,' he said.

`All right,' Lewis said. He didn't ask why.

`What time did Wright quit last night?'

`Nine. Lights out at nine.'

`Rather early.' Graves frowned. It was rare for Wright to go to bed before midnight.,

`Duly noted on the time-clock sheets,' Lewis said. `I checked them myself this morning.'

`Has he ever done that before? Gone to bed at nine?'

`July fifth. He had the flu then, you remember.'

`But he's not sick now,' Graves said, and tugged at his ear. It was a nervous habit he had. And he was very nervous now.

There were a lot of cops stationed on the road from the airport to the city. Graves commented on it.

`You haven't heard?' Lewis said.

`Heard what?'

`The President's coming in today.'

`No,' Graves said. `When was that decided? This is only the second day. I'm surprised he'd show before he's nominated.'

`Everybody's surprised. Apparently he intends to address the Convention delegates before the balloting.'

`Oh?'

`Yeah.' Lewis smiled. `It's also apparently true that there are some squabbles in the rules committee and the platform committee. He's going to straighten that out.'

`Ah.' It was making more sense. The President was a practical politician. He'd sacrifice the drama of a grand entrance if he had to get a political job done earlier.

`We just got the word a couple of hours ago,' Lewis said. `Same with the police. They're furious. The Chief has been making statements about how hard it is to provide security…' He gestured at all the wait- ing cops. They were stationed every thirty yards or so along the road. `I guess he managed.'

`Looks like it. What time is he due?'

`Around noon, I think.'

They drove on in silence for a while, leaving the coast road and heading into the centre of town. Graves noticed that Broadway had been dressed up, its honkytonk glitter subdued a little. But there were a lot of tough-looking girls around.