“Thanks, Sergeant,” Sellers said. The car rolled forward, then swung left slowly onto the oval portion of West Executive Drive, headed straight toward the White House. The entrance into the inner portion of the south lawn was blocked by a row of marines and several black-suited Secret Service personnel.

“This is the Southwest Appointment Gate,” Sellers said. “The West Wing is right up there, just to the left of the main building.” Two marines and a uniformed Secret Service agent approached the car. “They’ll take us through metal detectors, just as a precaution; then they’ll escort us in.”

“Lieutenants, if you would step out of the car and follow me,” the marine said. They got out of the car. A woman, a naval officer bearing the rank of lieutenant commander, was walking from the White House toward them.

“That’s Lieutenant Commander Beth Murray,” Sellers said. “She’s an intel officer, attached to JCS. I’m sure you’ll be working with her.”

“Roger that.” Robert opened the door, put his cover on his head, stepped out, and was immediately greeted by the faint scent of perfume carried by the gentle southerly breeze. He looked up, and there she stood: Lieutenant Commander Murray, her smile revealing perfectly white teeth, and her blue eyes seeming to dance under the light of the overhead sun.

He came to attention and snapped off a sharp salute. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Lieutenant,” the commander said, returning an equally sharp salute. “I’m Beth Murray, with J-2.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Beth. And follow me. We can talk on the way to the briefing.”

“Sure thing, Beth. I’m Robert.”

“I’ll accompany you to the cabinet room, where the NSC is meeting with the president, and I’ll be there to support you in your briefing.”

“You know commodities, Beth?”

“Not exactly, Robert,” she said. “But since I’m an intel officer, somehow I got picked to be your support in the briefing. Lucky me, huh?” She smiled, and as she did, two cute dimples appeared on each side of her face.

“Commander…Excuse me, Beth. To be honest, this morning I’m minding my own business. Now I’m suddenly called to active duty, flown to the White House to brief the president of the United States, of all people, and I don’t even have a briefing prepared. Can you give me a hint on what they want?”

A marine, again in full blue regalia, came to attention, saluted, and opened a door leading into the West Wing.

“They’re interested in the theory that these…what do you call them…limit moves?”

“Right. Limit moves,” he said, as they stepped into an ornate hallway.

“That these limit moves may be in some way tied to terrorist activity.”

“It’s possible,” he said. “The timing is suspicious.”

“I’m armed already with charts and PowerPoint presentations. Anything you need. I have a timeline sequence, which I figured you may want to illustrate your briefing, that shows times of limit moves in relationship to real-time events in the Malaccan Strait and Singapore.

“They’ve concluded that you understand this stuff better than any officer in the navy. And you’re an intelligence officer. In addition to my real-time chart, we’ve got an overhead projector, audio visual stuff, maps of the area, and even stock charts if you want them at your fingertips. Just let me know, and I’ll call up any chart or map you want. But right now, Robert, the stars are aligning in your favor. You’re the expert they need. You are the man.” She stopped in front of large, ornate double doors, which were guarded by four marines and four Secret Service agents. “We’re here. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

She nodded at one of the Secret Service agents. The double doors slowly opened, and faces that he had seen only on television came into view.

There was the vice president, the secretary of state, the secretary of defense. Next to the secretary of defense sat the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Roscoe Jones. Beside Admiral Jones sat one of the most glamorous figures in America, National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt, who was the first in the group to speak up in her famous velvety voice. “Mr. President, I believe he’s here.”

A man, whose salt-and-pepper hair was only visible from the back, but who sat at the end of the table closest to Robert, stood and turned around.

“Welcome to the White House, Lieutenant Molster.” The president of the United States, Mack Williams, speaking with the native twang of his beloved Kansas homeland, extended his hand. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing up there in the Big City.”

The commander in chief’s grip was firm, and he exuded charisma. In a blue pinstripe suit and red tie, President Williams seemed more imposing in person than on television.

“Not a problem, Mr. President,” Robert heard himself saying. “I’m a native Virginian, and I’m always grateful for a free trip back home.”

The president released his hand and gestured him to his seat. “Always happy to accommodate the members of our armed forces, and especially the navy,” the president said as he settled back into his chair. “Secretary Lopez over here has to call me down for playing favorites. Claims my navy roots come to the surface too often.”

“Yes, sir,” Robert said, surprised at the sudden ease with which he was conversing with the most powerful man in the world.

“So, Lieutenant.” The president sipped from a glass of ice water. “We understand you had an eventful morning.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, you’re here because you’re the one intelligence officer in the navy with an expertise in the area of oil futures. Word has it that you’re concerned about a possible linkage between these limit moves that you’ve observed and some terrorist activity going on right now in Southeast Asia.”

“Last night, I grew concerned about several rapid spikes in the price of crude oil futures. We had three limit moves during the night. I felt there was a connection as soon as I became aware of this terrorist activity going on in Singapore and the Malacca Straits. At first, all I knew was that someone was making billions from these limit moves. Then I learned of the attacks on the tankers, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I voiced my concern to Admiral Jones.” Robert’s eyes met with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, whose poker face returned a hard stare. Robert looked back at the president. “I think there may be a linkage, sir.”

“You do, do you?”

I’m sticking my neck out with an unproven theory. Suppose I’m wrong? The end of my career, for sure. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I can’t say for sure, but I have a strong feeling this may be the case, sir.”

The president looked around the room. “All right, Lieutenant. Let’s get down to business. Tell us why you suspect this.”

He took a deep breath. “I cannot say for certain that the events are related. But two factors here give us reason to pause. The first is volume. The second, and closely related to volume, is timing.

“First, volume. Up until the last twenty-four hours, ladies and gentlemen, the greatest daily volume in light, sweet crude contracts was 800,731. And that occurred on November 1, 2007.

“In the twenty-four hours before the first limit move, light, sweet crude experienced just over a million trades. That’s a record of over two hundred thousand more trades than was ever experienced in any twenty-four-hour period since we started keeping statistics. About two-thirds of those trades were buys. In other words, the buys mean that someone is expecting the prices to jump. Now, all that buying occurred just before these attacks in Singapore and again in the Malaccan Strait. I believe Commander Murray has a timeline chart to illustrate. Commander?”

Beth Murray nodded her head and clicked a switch. The timeline that he had not yet seen himself illuminated from a PowerPoint projector onto the screen just behind his seat.