When the cup finally arrived, weak, more milk than coffee, Gene Newman was still coming to terms with the fact that, far from now having his reason, it seemed the entire might of his intelligence services was unable to give him a name, nationality or political persuasion for the man.

"Paula." Gene Newman caught his CIA chief as she was putting on her coat for a meeting on the Hill. "I've got a question."

Paula Zarte waited.

"Why do you think he wanted to kill me?"

She smiled. "You're the President of the United States of America."

"Yep." President Newman nodded. "I've been told that already, but it's not an acceptable answer. Think about it," he said. "Is that an answer?"

"It works for me."

"Let them wait," Gene Newman said. "Let's take a stroll."

They walked in silence, Paula waiting as the President watched a bird swoop beyond the Rose Garden. "You know," he said, "Ally wants a cat."

"You don't like cats?"

"Of course I like cats. And dogs and horses, cows, pigs, mules, turkeys, especially turkeys. I even love coyotes. But that's not--" He stopped suddenly. "Did I leave anything out?"

"Eagles, sir."

Gene Newman frowned. "Let's take that one for granted."

"So what's the problem with cats?"

"They kill birds and they make me sneeze."

"Didn't you have a cat in--?"

"Two," he said. "Siamese and Persian. One lilac, one blue. They belonged to the director's mistress. You remember the nose job I was meant to have got done just after I left the show?"

"It's been mentioned."

"That wasn't rhinoplasty, that was how I looked when not suffering from histamine overload."

"Is there something I can help you with, Mr. President?"

"Yeah," Gene Newman said, "there is. There's something Ed's not telling me. I need you to find out what."

"I love this garden..."

The CIA operative standing next to a twisted crab apple nodded. He was wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a very good Italian suit, probably better than the one the President was wearing.

"This whole area used to be greenhouses. Did you know that?"

"No, sir."

"Well, it was, before that monstrosity was built." Nodding over his shoulder Gene Newman indicated the lighted windows of the West Wing and the still-open door to his office. "You know what was here before the greenhouses?"

"No, sir."

"Jefferson's pavilion. The one he had built in 1807."

The agent looked blank and Gene Newman sighed.

"You knew Charlie Bilberg?"

He saw the answer in the set of the young man's jaw.

"And you were present when Prisoner Zero was retaken?"

"Yes, Mr. President." Michael Wharton looked like he wanted to add something but restrained himself and Gene Newman smiled.

"I know," he said. "You led the capture, only you didn't because it's not our country, so officially you were there as an observer. An unnecessary question but we have to begin this conversation somewhere. And that was it."

They were standing, shoulder to shoulder, at the far end of the Rose Garden, the President's bodyguards safely out of earshot but firmly within view. Gene Newman was resisting the First Lady's latest suggestion, that he have himself microchipped for safety like some dog, and he'd threatened her with a state visit to Belgium if she dared mention the idea again.

A bit of Gene Newman wanted to ask the boy if he knew who first planted roses on this site and when, but it was unfair to expect everyone to have his own interest in the minutiae of White House history.

"What was Charlie Bilberg like?"

Agent Wharton hesitated.

"This is off the record," said the President. "In about two hours' time, when you've got sufficiently bored being shown Mrs. Roosevelt's china collection by an intern, my Chief of Staff is going to bring you into the Oval Office for thirty seconds so we can go through the rigmarole of being introduced all over again. That will be the first time you've ever met me. Is this clear?"

A quick nod.

"Good. Now tell me about Agent Bilberg."

"He would have made a good officer, sir."

"But he wasn't there yet. Is that what you're saying?"

"He spoke Chleuh."

"What?"

"It's the language of the Atlas, one of them anyway. Charles spoke a little and intelligence suggested Prisoner Zero spoke it also."

"That was why he was sent?"

Agent Wharton almost shrugged, but caught himself in time. "Someone obviously thought--"

"Someone?" the President said sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"But you don't know who?"

"No, sir. I don't have that information."

Gene Newman sighed. "No problem. I'm sorry about Agent Bilberg."

"Yes, sir, so am I."

"He was a friend?"

"No, sir. We barely knew each other."

"Well," said the President, "that was quick." He was still in the garden, thinking about Thomas Jefferson, slave owner, drafter of the Declaration of Independence and third President of the new United States of America.

Paula Zarte's smile was a full-on dazzler and revealed perfect teeth, the kind Gene Newman would never have dared possess, even when he was in Hollywood and certainly not now he was in his late forties. Mind you, for all he knew they were real and untouched by cosmetic dentistry.

"I did what you asked."

"Good," said the President. "That's what you're there for."

Paula paused, decided his comment wasn't serious and risked a mocking smile.

She was beautiful, Gene Newman thought in passing. A full ten years younger than he was with the body of someone ten years younger than that. Full breasts, slight hips and curved buttocks, her skin almost purple in a certain light. The President couldn't help himself, he noticed the same things, every time.

Paula Zarte also had the nerves of a poker player and a brain so sharp he paid it the respect due to an edged weapon.

"Maybe we should go in," Gene Newman said, "before someone starts talking."

They sat in the West Sitting Hall, by a window which overlooked the Executive Office Building. Yellow curtains behind them, eaude-nil walls and a dado rail and door arch painted in a hue his wife's Italian designer insisted on calling duck-turd blue.

"Is something wrong, Mr. President?"

"A madman wants to kill me and no one can tell me why. The Republicans are targeting my son's girlfriend. My wife thinks I need a trip to the vet. The coffee around here tastes like dishwater. Apart from that everything's fine."

The black woman smiled. "I've just called in the transcript of the very first interrogation, the one when he was first asked why he tried to shoot you."

"And what was his answer?"

"He was listening to the rain."

"What?"

"That's what he said. ‘I was listening to the rain.’ We're not talking conspiracy here. We're talking lone nutter. That's what Ed doesn't want widely known. Conspiracy plays better."

"And what was he hearing?"

Paula looked puzzled, then understood. "Who knows?" she said. "Something else, I guess..."

"You want to be my excuse to order some coffee?"

"Sure," Paula said, amending it to, "that would be good."

The First Lady might not approve of caffeine but she approved of Paula Zarte even less. It was down to the business in Paris. And then the President appointed Ms. Zarte head of the CIA over the head of the obvious candidate. The First Lady wasn't the only one still deciding what she thought about that.

"What do you want?" Gene Newman asked, when the coffee had been brought and a woman from the kitchens had shut the door behind her.

"I'm sorry?"

"I want to win the next election," said the President. "That's short term. Long term I want to walk out of here in six years with some of my self-respect still intact. I want Ally and Bill to be happy. And if I make a small difference to the safety of this country and the world, then that would be good too.