Although nothing concrete had ever surfaced-no evidence of marital infidelity, no smoking gun-it didn’t matter. Presidential politics wasn’t played out in a court of law. Innocent until proved guilty beyond a reasonable doubt wasn’t applicable when the world’s most powerful position was at stake. Accusations themselves, no matter how baseless, were sufficiently scarring.

But the anti-Parmele forces weren’t the only ones conducting investigations into extracurricular lives. Fletcher had quietly sicced private investigators on those Republican members of Congress who claimed moral superiority while leaking the unsubstantiated charges against Parmele and his wife. He had orchestrated a succession of leaks about their dalliances, real or imaginary, to the media. It was a game of mutual deterrence between Democrats and Republicans, played not with bombs during the cold war, but with revelations ready for release should the other side launch a preemptive strike.

A dirty business to be sure.

And exhilarating to men like Chester Fletcher, who viewed politics as war without the restraints of a Geneva Convention.

The entourage pulled into a fairgrounds festooned with colorful banners and a thousand balloons. Spirited march music blared from huge speakers located throughout the welcoming area.

Getting out of his car, Fletcher looked up into a gray sky, thick with rain that would undoubtedly fall within the hour. Rain was the perpetual curse of such rallies. The speaker’s stage would be covered as ordered, but the crowd would be thinner than expected. The threat of getting wet could dampen even the most fervent political zealot.

He watched the president of the United States step from his limo and extend a hand for his wife. Surrounded by Secret Service agents, the first couple was led through hundreds of well-wishers into the fairground itself, where many more men and women, some with children on their shoulders, broke into cheers. Adam and Cathleen Parmele went to the podium and joined a dozen local dignitaries waiting to shake their hands.

Fletcher, Brown, Havran, and press secretary Robin Whitson were herded to a spot at the side of the stage.

“They’d better get on with it,” Havran said, glancing skyward.

They did, one local Democratic politician after another addressing the crowd until impatience and a few stray drops of rain forced the issue and moved them on to the main event. After a rousing and flowery introduction by Indianapolis ’s mayor, Parmele raised his arms, stepped to the microphone, and shouted, “It is good to be here in Indianapolis!”

The anticipated enthusiastic response erupted from the crowd. Parmele smiled broadly, then took in those in the front rows and pointed an index finger at some of them, as though they were old friends receiving special recognition. He spread his arms to quiet the assembled and said, “Receiving a welcome like this is gratifying. But I don’t harbor any illusions. The person you really want to greet is Cathleen, the splendid first lady of this land and-”

Applause and whistles interrupted.

“-and I admit it. I married up and got myself more than the most wonderful wife any man has the right to deserve. This great nation of ours has the best first lady in its long history!”

And so it went.

First lady Cathleen Parmele addressed the crowd after her husband. She kept her remarks brief, saying only that it was a privilege and honor to represent the American people in the White House and adding the requisite tagline: “I am looking forward to being at my husband’s side as he leads our nation for another four years. God bless you. God bless America!”

One of Parmele’s aides, who’d been standing close to the president, looked to where Fletcher stood. The political adviser indicated with a nod of the head to get Parmele and the first lady off the stage and to the limo.

A fat raindrop hit Fletcher’s nose, and he absently wiped it away. He was about to leave the area when a Washington Post reporter covering the president’s trip came to Robin Whitson’s side and said something in her ear.

“Let’s go,” Fletcher said.

Robin held up a hand. “In a minute, Chet.”

Fletcher’s frown matched the press secretary’s. What’s going on? his expression asked. We have a schedule to keep.

The press secretary walked with the reporter to a secluded pocket away from others’ hearing.

The first couple passed; Havran and Brown fell in behind them. Fletcher stayed where he was, his attention never leaving the press secretary and the reporter.

“Where’s Chet?” Parmele asked when he reached his limo.

“With Robin,” Havran said.

Robin Whitson finished her furtive conversation with the Post reporter and joined Fletcher.

“What was that about?” he asked as they headed for the waiting cars, heads lowered against a steady rain.

“You tell me, Chet,” she replied.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning-what’s going on with the Widmer hearings?”

“That’s what he wanted to know?”

“Yes.”

“Why doesn’t he ask Widmer?”

“He tried. Widmer’s staff is treating the hearings as top secret. What’s with this book, Chet?”

“Book?”

“About the chief. He even asked me about the man who was killed in Union Station.”

“Not now, Robin.”

“Not now? Look, Chet, I’m supposed to be kept in the loop. I don’t like being blindsided by a reporter.”

“Not now!”

Fletcher climbed into his car where Havran and Brown were already seated.

“Went well,” Brown commented.

Fletcher said nothing.

“A problem?” Havran asked.

“What? No, no problem.”

Later, airborne and halfway back to Washington, Fletcher huddled with the president in his private office at the front of the aircraft. When he emerged and headed down the aisle toward the rear, he came face-to-face with Robin Whitson. Her expression was one large question mark.

“Don’t worry about anything, Robin,” Fletcher whispered. “Everything is taken care of. There is no problem.”

Tim Stripling saw the departure from Washington of President Parmele and his entourage on CNN that morning. Why TV and cable networks bothered to cover the president winging off on a fund-raising and campaign trip to Indianapolis puzzled him, as coverage of such nonevents always did. Leaving to attend an international peace conference or to address a conference of mayors or governors might have justified TV time. But a campaign trip on Air Force One, financed by the taxpayers? There’d be plenty of those as Parmele’s quest for a second term got into gear. Did the public really want to watch every time the president’s plane lifted off a runway? Maybe it was the need on the part of news organizations to fill the time, or not to be caught short by competitors. The why didn’t matter. As far as Stripling was concerned, the whole thing was dumb.

While Stripling, the former CIA operative, cared little about Parmele’s campaign swings, it didn’t represent a total lack of interest in this president, or in others, for that matter. His years of developing information on Washington bigwigs-those already in power and those poised to achieve it-had given him privileged insight into aspects of their lives. He sometimes thought of himself as the ultimate voyeur, encouraged to snoop on men and women in the public eye and paid handsomely in the process-a supermarket tabloid reporter with a badge and official government cover.

The use to which his superiors at the CIA put the dirt he’d uncovered wasn’t, as noted, for him to know, although it didn’t take much imagination. After all, this was Washington, D.C.

After a breakfast of two soft-boiled eggs, an English muffin, juice, and coffee, he dressed and headed for WTTG-TV’s studios on Wisconsin Avenue N.W. and his nine o’clock appointment. He was kept waiting for half an hour; Joyce Rosenberg was in an editing room doing a voice-over. He watched a TV monitor in the reception area. The president’s departure for Indianapolis was still the lead story; it would play over and over all day. How many times can you watch a plane’s wheels leave the ground?