If Dexter’s answers at the press conference were ambiguous, so, at this point, was everything. Even the Secret Service was at a loss whether to withdraw Dexter’s protection, now that he had, technically, lost the election. President Vanderdamp quietly and graciously gave orders for it to be continued until the situation clarified. To that end, Hayden Cork picked up the phone the moment Ohio put its favorite son over the top on Election Night and, his voice barely above a croak, whispered, “Mr. Clenndennynn, please.” Graydon, ensconced aboard the private 757 of the emir of Wasabia, had already heard the news and had instructed the pilot to turn around and fly back to the U.S.

His arrival at the White House was impossible to keep secret. It triggered a thousand camera shutters. A virtual computer game of questionable taste appeared on the Internet casting Clenndennynn (“White Knight”) and Blyster Forkmorgan (“Dark Knight”) in “Supreme Conflict.” The White House press secretary calmly noted that Mr. Clenndennynn was a “trusted adviser” and that it was “perfectly natural” that he should “provide counsel at this”-she groped for the blandest possible word-“juncture.” “Crisis” might have been more apt, technically. The country was in an uproar. The stock market had plunged nearly 2,000 points in three days, forcing a trading halt. When it reopened the next day, the bell was rung by the U.S. Vice President, a neutral enough entity, who gave a cheery little speech about “continuity,” whereupon the market plunged another 700 points. Alarmingly, military blogs hinted that “various elements in the Pentagon” were “unhappy” about the developments.

“Hell of a mess, Donald,” Graydon said, looking pale and hunched. He uncharacteristically waved away the offer of a martini. “Hell of a mess.” He slumped into the fauteuil, looking for the first time-old.

“I wasn’t trying to win,” the President said defensively, holding his untouched and warming beer. “But there’s no point wailing and gnashing our teeth and rending the garments. The question is where do we go from here?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Clenndennynn said. “We’re in uncharted waters. You have a predilection for steering us into them. How did you manage in the navy?”

“We had radar.”

“Well, it’s going to take more than radar. He’s hired Bliss Forkmorgan,” Clenndennynn said.

“Do we know that?”

“Bliss called me in the car ten minutes ago,” Clenndennynn said, wiping his brow.

“Oh. So it’s on.”

“Yes. It’s on. Battle stations, gentlemen.”

“I don’t want a battle,” the President moaned. “I just want to go home.”

“Well, you should have thought about that before, shouldn’t you have?” Graydon said irritably.

“Don’t hand me that. You were the one who kept pressing me to run.”

“And you did and now you’ve won. You did it for the principle of the thing. So now you can feel wonderful. Just don’t look out the window, because the country is on fire over your principle. Meanwhile, once again, it’s landed in my lap. Graydon Clenndennynn, presidential cleaner-upper. Every time you make a muck of things, I have to go forward to the cockpit and tell the pilot, ‘Never mind, turn around, back to Washington. President Vanderdamp has made another gigantic caca. For the principle.’ ”

“Oh? Oh? Well, at least I have principles. I apologize if I’m keeping the chairman of the Graydon Clenndennynn Influence Peddling Corporation-an offshore corporation, I might add-from making another squintillion dollars for-”

“Will you both, please, just… shut… up.”

The President of the United States and Graydon Clenndennynn fell instantly silent. They turned, stared at Hayden Cork, speaker of the harsh, imperative, unaccustomed syllables.

“I beg your pardon?” the President said.

“Sorry,” Hayden said. “But shall we move on, or are you two going to bellow at each like a pair of old water buffalo?”

“I think I will have that martini,” Clenndennynn said, mopping his forehead.

THE PROSPECT that Mitchell v. Vanderdamp or Vanderdamp v. Mitchell or The People v. The U.S. Constitution or whatever this judicial Frankenstein called itself was going to end up at the Court worked an eerie calm on the three hundred or so inhabitants of the marble palace.

A cloistral hush descended on the place. No one spoke in the corridors. The cafeteria was a funeral parlor. Even passersby on the sidewalk outside the building whispered, shot nervous sideways glances, and quickened their steps. Every hour brought another television satellite truck. Gradually, the building took on the look of an ancient, marmoreal Ground Zero-a temple in which furious gods were preparing to vie. Such was the atmosphere one afternoon when Pepper answered her cell phone, the very private one whose number was known only to a handful.

“Justice Cartwright?”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, immediately annoying Pepper that it should be coming over this phone.

“Who is this?”

“Joe Lodato, ma’am. FBI. We met-that day, in your office? We spoke just as I was leaving?”

“How did you get this number?”

Soft chuckle. Was he laughing? Pepper felt her face reddening.

“No disrespect, ma’am. It’s just a funny question to ask the FBI.”

“What do you want?”

“I was wondering if I might see you. Off premises.”

“Is this a professional matter?”

Another chuckle. “Ma’am, I may not be the smartest person at the Bureau, but I’m not stupid enough to hit on a Supreme Court justice.”

“Why off campus?”

“This must be a tense time at the Court. Who needs a knuckle-dragger prowling the halls, right? There’s a place on Capitol Hill called the Pork Barrel, it’s…”

“I know it.”

THEY SAT IN A BACK BOOTH and ordered coffee.

“I know this is sensitive for you,” he began apologetically.

“Agent Lodato,” Pepper said. “I can handle it. Now you’ve got me in a lobbyist bar at four o’clock on a school day. What’s up?”

Agent Lodato produced a piece of paper that she immediately recognized as a page from her Swayle opinion, annotated.

Agent Lodato pointed to a spot on the page. Pepper saw the words-words that she herself had typed in block letters: “KISS MY ASS.”

She froze. “No,” she said. “No. Hold on. Something’s wrong here. I deleted that.”

Agent Lodato pointed to the lower right-hand of the page. “Do you recognize those initials and that handwriting?”

Pepper looked. “IH.” Ishiguro Haro. The date was next to it.

“I’m told he initials every document he reads and dates it.”

“I don’t understand this,” Pepper said. “I did write that, but I deleted it.” Her mind raced. “He’d sent me his comments on my Peester opinion. I thought they were a little patronizing and I got a little frosted and… I typed this. But then I went to the gym to cool off and came back and I deleted ‘KISS MY ASS’ and typed in…”

Agent Lodato was nodding metronomically.

“… and typed in something like, okay, thank you, got it, good point, okay, fair enough, and…” Pepper’s voice trailed off. She looked at Lodato. “Aw, shit.”

“Happens all the time,” Agent Lodato shrugged. “You think you’re closing a file. Instead you’re hitting SEND and the next thing you know… I could tell you stories.”

Pepper’s heart was pounding. “How did you get this?”

“Ma’am,” he smiled. “I’m an FBI agent. It’s what I do.”

“But you can’t just… It’s the Supreme Court.”

“Off the record, Justice Haro appears not to be too popular among his own clerks.”

“Well, okay,” Pepper said, “but what does this prove?”

Agent Lodato took another piece of paper from his inside pocket, unfolded that, and laid it out in front of Pepper. It looked like a cell phone bill. One line had been yellow highlighted.

“This is a cell phone bill for someone named Aurora Fonacier,” he said. “This number here that’s highlighted, that’s a cell phone belonging to a reporter at the Washington Times newspaper-the one who wrote the unsigned Swayle item in the paper. The article wasn’t bylined so as to protect him from a subpoena, though I understand the AG is considering subpoenaing the editor and publisher and chairman of the board. See the date of this call? That’s the day after Justice Haro read and initialed your ‘kiss my’… rear-end comment note.”