Senator Clark's limousine pulled into the Congressional Country Club and started up the drive. The golf course, originally designed by Devereaux Emmett and later redesigned by Donald Ross, Robert Trent Jones, and, more recently; Rees Jones, was one of the finest courses in the country. The limo veered to the right and passed the starters' shack. Four golfers dressed in sweaters and wind shirts stood on the first tee. Clark frowned. He'd have to see if he could clear his schedule this afternoon and sneak in eighteen. It looked as if it was going to be a beautiful day: The car continued around the circle drive and stopped in front of the classic Mediterranean-style clubhouse. The senator thanked his driver and told him he'd be no more than an hour.

Once inside, Clark headed downstairs to a private meeting room he'd reserved. He was flanked, as he wove his way through the maze of hallways, by black-and-white photographs laying out the history of the club – President Calvin Coolidge on opening day in 1923, U.S. Open and Kemper Open photos, and Clark's favorite, a shot of the course during World War II when it had been turned into a training camp for OSS spies.

Clark entered the windowless meeting room to find Congressman Rudin and Secretary of State Midleton in heated debate. Clark said hello and stopped at the side buffet to grab a bagel and a bowl of cereal. Before sitting down, he filled up a glass with cranberry juice and signed the ticket. Both Rudin and Midleton were members of the club, but in the twenty-some years that Clark had known them, he had yet to see either of them pick up the tab for anything. The two men were cheap in different ways. Rudin was a simple spendthrift, whereas Midleton was from Mayflower stock. He'd been raised in the way of the Daughters of the American Revolution. His family was royalty, and royalty didn't carry cash, nor did they pick up the tab. So once again, it fell on the shoulders of the boy who'd been raised by two alcoholics in a trailer.

Despite the huge social chasm that lay between them, Clark was by far the wealthiest of the three men. With a net worth in excess of one hundred million dollars, he was one of the top five wealthiest politicians in Washington. Midleton had his precious estate that had been passed down to him. It was worth eight million dollars, pitiable by today's new standards of wealth. Midleton was very proud of the fact that he'd never touched the principal in his inheritance. The money was handled by the same bank that had managed Midleton's great-great-grandfather's money; Clark had done some checking. The portfolio had shown a laughable return of eight percent over the last decade. It seemed the secretary of state invested his money the old-fashioned way; He paid huge fees to stodgy old bankers who put his money into tax-free municipal bonds and a few old stalwart utilities.

Congressman Rudin was somewhat better off. Having been in the House for thirty-four years, he could retire tomorrow at full pension and benefits, more than enough money to support his frugal lifestyle. He'd been squirreling his money away over the years. Two years ago, his IRA was worth almost eight hundred thousand dollars. That was when Clark had finally persuaded him to let his money managers take a whack at growing the account. It was like pulling teeth to get Rudin to turn over control. In just two years, Clark's people had turned the eight hundred thousand dollars into $1.7 million, and Rudin had yet to offer a thank you, let alone pick up a tab.

There had been a time when this would have bothered the senior senator from Arizona, but Clark had risen above his feelings. He pitied the way the two men nervously fretted every time a waiter delivered a check. It was truly pathetic. Today, as he sat at the table and spread cream cheese on his bagel, he tried to gauge just how far he could play these two before they figured out what he was up to.

Clark had no intention of asking the secretary of state why he had called this meeting. The senator knew why. His spies in the White House and over at Foggy Bottom had told him there had been an incident between the president and his top Cabinet member. An incident involving the German ambassador and one that had been extremely embarrassing to Secretary Midleton.

Rudin was perched over a bowl of Grape-nuts, shoveling the tiny rocks into his mouth. In between spoonfuls, he would lean even closer to Midleton and spew forth his own take on what was going on at the Central Intelligence Agency. When Clark appeared to be settled in, Rudin turned his attention away from the secretary of state.

«Hank, did you hear what happened at the White House yesterday?»

Clark played dumb and shook his head. For the next forty seconds, Rudin retold his inflamed version of what had taken place in the Oval Office. For Midleton's part, he sat there looking wounded in his gray suit and paisley bow tie. Clark was on tricky ground. As amateurish as Rudin and Midleton could seem at times, one could not forget the fact that they were two of the most influential and powerful politicians in town. They were Democrats, and he was the enemy. If they got even the slightest whiff that he was playing them, it would be over.

When Rudin was done rambling, Clark set his juice down and looked at the secretary of state. «I'm sorry you had to be embarrassed like that, Charles. It's inappropriate to take you to task in front of other Cabinet members. But it sounds like the president did have a point.»

Before Midleton could respond, Rudin was lurching forward. His weather-beaten face twisted in a grimace of disbelief. «What point could you be talking about? Did you listen to a thing I said?»

«AI, this Hagenmiller guy was consorting with the wrong people.»

«Wrong people. That's the CIA's side of the story, and we all know how much that's worth.»

«We've discussed this before, AI. We differ on the value of Langley.» Clark took a bite of his bagel and waited for the inevitable tirade.

«The wretched Central Intelligence Agency is the biggest waste of money this country has ever seen. The way they operate is unconstitutional, and they are a danger to the future of democracy not only in this country but around the world.»

Clark pushed himself back and folded his arms across his chest. «I didn't come here to be preached to about something that we will never agree on. Now, if there is something constructive you two would like to discuss, let's get to it. Otherwise, I have other things to attend to.»

Rudin shook his head in frustration. It drove him crazy that his friend from Arizona couldn't see the CIA for what it was.

Midleton, always the diplomat, stepped in. «Hank, what are you hearing about Thomas Stansfield's health?»

Clark stifled a grin. They had gone right where he wanted them to. «My sources tell me he could be gone in two weeks or two months but no longer than that.»

Midleton nodded thoughtfully, as if he were actually mourning Stansfield's approaching demise. «Are you concerned over who will succeed him as director?»

«Of course I am.»

«Have you heard any names?»

«No.» Clark shook his head. «You're in the administration, not me.»

«Well, as the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, you're going to have a lot of say in the matter.»

«In confirmation only. Your man is the one who gives us the name. All we do is ask a few questions and vote up or down.»

«You are being far too modest,» countered Midleton.

Rudin was busy shaking his head and trying to pick something from his teeth. «Surely you must have heard a few names thrown about?»

«No, not really.»

Rudin pulled a toothpick from his mouth and barked, «What about Irene Kennedy?»

«No, I haven't heard her name mentioned, but I think she would be a good nominee.»