Mac glanced at Marienthal before taking the phone from her. “Richard?” he said.

“Yes, Mac. I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner.”

“We’ve just finished. Your father is here.”

“Dad’s in Washington?”

“He certainly is. I’ll put him on.”

“No, Mac. In a minute. I need to speak with you. I need some detached advice.”

“Hold on a minute.” Mac placed his hand over the phone and said to Marienthal, “He wants to run something by me, Frank. Give me a few minutes with him.”

Marienthal’s face was gray and sunken, as though attacked by a sudden burst of gravity. Large circles puffed beneath his eyes; his mouth was a tight, thin slash.

Smith walked away from the table, went to his office, and shut the door. “Before we get into advice-giving, Richard, I want you to listen to me. I understand you’re under considerable pressure, and your need to become incommunicado might also be understandable. But you have a mother and father who are worried about you. I think you owe them some contact.”

“I know, Mac,” Marienthal said, “and I’ve been meaning to call. It’s just that-”

“No excuses, Rich. When we’re through with this conversation, I’ll put your father on.”

“Okay.”

“Now, care to tell me where you are?”

The moment Smith said it, the possibility of his phone being tapped struck him. He was happy when Rich replied, “Not yet. Kathryn has been urging me to talk to you, Mac. I’ve resisted it because-well, because I suppose I’m not ready to take advice from someone else. What it comes down to is that I am very confused at this point.”

“I’m glad you called. Now that the book is out-your father brought a copy with him, and the media is all over its publication-your tape-recorded interviews with Louis Russo take center stage.”

“I know.”

“You have them, I assume.”

“Sure I do.”

“And I assume you’re pondering what to do with them.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think this is the sort of decision to be made while under pressure, Rich. If you are seeking my advice, I urge that we all meet-you, me, and your father-and that you bring the tapes. We can decide what to do with them under calmer circumstances.”

Marienthal hesitated. “I know you’re right, Mac. Let me give it a little more thought. But you are right. Kathryn said you were the one to handle this.”

Handle this? Smith thought. All he wanted to do was effectuate a meeting between father and son, and let them decide what to do with the tapes.

He’d silently speculated during dinner that there were three possible options as far as the tapes were concerned: turn them over to Senator Widmer’s committee; pass them on to the White House; or destroy them. But as he spoke with Richard, a fourth option emerged in his thinking. The tapes could be placed under seal at some disinterested institution such as the Library of Congress or in a school like his own George Washington University, perhaps not made available to researchers and other interested parties until a specific date, long after President Parmele was out of office.

He was acutely aware that while the immediate concern was the well-being of Rich Marienthal, the broader political ramifications were potentially huge. The book was bad enough. Although it preached to the already converted, who would wave it about as “proof” that the president was unfit to hold the nation’s highest office-and his defenders would dismiss it as nothing more than braggadocio from a demented former Mafia hit man-it would do damage. But with the tapes played before a Senate committee, and played over and over on radio and TV newscasts, the hit man’s actual words would provide gravamen to the charge against Parmele and throw his bid for a second term into turmoil, the need to defend himself overwhelming the presentation of more meaningful political positions. A familiar plight for modern candidates or officeholders.

“I’m going to put your father on now, Rich,” Smith said. “Before I do, I suggest you not wait much longer to decide what to do with the tapes. You may end up losing your ability to determine their fate. I might have an idea for you if you’ll agree to meet. Hold on.”

He brought the phone to Frank Marienthal at the dining room table. “Rich wants to talk to you, Frank. Take it in my office. You can use this phone or the one on the desk.” He handed the cordless to Marienthal, who slowly got up and left the room, disappearing behind the door to Smith’s office.

The conversation between the elder Marienthal and his son consumed ten minutes. During it, Mac filled Annabel in. Frank Marienthal’s voice was occasionally heard, the words unintelligible, the tone unmistakably angry. When he emerged, he said, “I think I finally talked some sense into him. He’s promised to call again tomorrow.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“He didn’t say. I could use a drink. Scotch if you have it. Neat.”

“Sure.”

“If he only realized what this is doing to his mother, his name splashed all over TV and the newspapers, hiding out like some dumb kid playing a prank on his parents.”

Mac brought Marienthal a tumbler of single malt. “I think Rich is genuinely afraid, Frank,” he said. “I wouldn’t be too judgmental at this juncture. It’s not all directed at you and Mary. Maybe none of it is.”

Marienthal ignored Smith’s counsel and asked, “Did he tell you where he was calling from?”

“No.”

The phone rang, and Annabel went to the kitchen to answer. It was a friend, an art dealer from New York confirming plans to visit Annabel at her gallery the following day. The two men sat quietly at the table, Annabel’s words filling the void.

“And I’m so pleased you’re coming, Karen. Your train gets in at Union Station at one? Grab a cab out front-you’ll be at the gallery by one-thirty. Can’t wait to see you. We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”

At the Com Center in the Hoover Building, two agents from the communications division heard “We’ll spend time at the gallery and then find some lunch. I have some wonderful new pieces to show you. Great, see you then.”

”Just a couple of ladies doing lunch,” said one agent, laughing.

“Maybe it’ll get juicier later on,” offered the second one.

“Yeah, let’s hope.”

Lights in the White House burned bright that night.

Political adviser Chet Fletcher had been at work since early morning, as had every other member of the president’s most trusted senior staff. A siege mentality existed in offices manned by press secretary Robin Whitson and her aides. “We have no statement at this time” was the official party line.

“When will the president address this directly?” reporters repeatedly asked.

“We have no statement to make at this time.”

“Does the president deny his involvement in the Eliana assassination?”

“We have no statement at this time.”

While Whitson’s staff fielded the barrage of media calls, the press secretary spent most of her day and evening conferring with other presidential handmaidens. Sides had been taken early in the day; Whitson lobbied for the president to hold a press conference and issue an official denial of the claims in the Marienthal-Russo book. Others, led by Chet Fletcher, argued that to do so would only bestow credibility on the book’s charges.

“No,” Whitson said during one of a dozen meetings since the news broke-she’d lost count of how many there had been. “That’s exactly what stonewalling will accomplish. The longer it festers, the more the story will be believed.” She’d become uncharacteristically strident during that particular debate with Fletcher, and left the room to calm down, hopefully to formulate a more reasoned case for her position. But she was painfully aware that no matter what tack she took, she would lose out. Fletcher’s power within the Parmele inner circle was unquestioned, particularly when it involved politics-and this was politics pure and simple, although a silent minority thought it might be a crime, impure and not so simple.