“Whatever the answer is, whatever the reason for the cover-up—and make no mistake about it, cover-up is the right term—it happened almost half a century ago, and the reason is surely no longer valid. It’s my own guess that the secret is like most Washington secrets, kept by inertia rather than necessity.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I wanted to say to you tonight. Either I or one of my spokesmen will be available to the press starting tomorrow. Thank you for your attention, and good night.”

“You have seventeen minutes left!” hissed the director in a panic.

“I bought them, they’re mine. Run a test pattern until the half hour’s up.”

The director frowned. “What’s a test pattern?”

“Ask somebody,” said Bucky, walking off the soundstage.

Brent hustled him to a waiting limo, accompanied by Gloria and Camden. It peeled off just before the paparazzi could surround them.

“Back to the hotel?” asked Brent.

Bucky shook his head. “We’re registered there under my name. They’ll find us in five minutes. Have the driver take us over to a nice hotel in Jersey, and get us a suite and a couple of rooms in your name.”

“Right,” said Brent, sliding the glass barrier behind the driver’s seat and giving the instructions to the chauffeur.

As they drove, Camden turned on the small TV in the passenger section. “They won’t break into basketball, or any of the sitcoms, but I’ll bet you’re on every cable news show.”

He switched the channel, and suddenly the president’s press secretary was facing the camera.

“No, of course it’s hogwash,” she was saying. “There are always paranoid conspiracy theorists out there. You think being a billionaire disqualifies you from buying into this drivel?”

Another channel, and the vice president was speaking: “Next thing you know, he’ll be telling you that Obama was born in Kenya and that George Bush was a cokehead.”

Another, and this time it was the Majority Leader of the Senate: “We don’t need another witch hunt at this time, and especially for such an unlikely, make that impossible, witch. Mr. Blackstone has made a fool of himself, which is his privilege, but he has also doubtless convinced a number of gullible Americans, as well as America-hating foreign powers, that our government has propounded the most unbelievable lie for half a century. Accordingly, I am instructing my staff to return all of his campaign contributions . . .”

“Turn it off,” said Bucky.

“It bothers you?” said Camden. “You had to know what their reaction would be.”

“No,” said Bucky. “It bores me. Every one of them is protecting a secret they don’t even know exists. I’ve never been a fan of sheep.”

Camden turned it off.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Brent registered them at an upscale hotel, made sure Bucky had his face buried in a handkerchief as he walked through the lobby, and a couple of minutes later the four of them were ensconced in the parlor of the presidential suite.

“See what room service has and order enough for the four of us,” Bucky told Gloria, and she picked up a menu, studied it for a moment, then walked to the phone and ordered.

“Well, at least we’re free and clear for the rest of the night,” said Camden, relaxing on a leather recliner.

“You really think so, do you?” asked Bucky, amused.

“Sure. The press is probably still nosing around the last hotel.”

“I wasn’t referring to the press.”

And ten minutes later, a bellhop knocked on the door.

“What can I do for you?” asked Camden, opening the door.

“Is one of you a Mr. Blackstone?” asked the bellhop.

Camden was about to deny it when Bucky spoke up. “One of us is,” he said.

The bellhop walked over to Bucky and held out a silver tray with an envelope on it.

“You’re in the habit of hand-delivering notes, are you?” asked Bucky.

“From this particular source, yes, sir,” said the bellboy nervously. He turned and left the room before anyone could tip him.

“So what have you got?” asked Brent.

“Why guess?” asked Bucky, opening the envelope, unfolding the letter, and staring at it. “They’re good, I’ll give them that.”

“What is it?”

“From the White House,” answered Bucky. “Received four minutes ago. That means they knew we were here about a minute after we walked into the suite.”

“And the message?” asked Gloria.

“About what you’d expect,” said Bucky, laying it down on a coffee table for everyone to see. The stationery said: Office of the President, and the handwritten note read:

Bucky—

We have to talk.

George Cunningham

“So are you going to talk to him?” she asked.

“Sure,” replied Bucky. Then he smiled. “Eventually.”

8

A presidential visit to the Space Center was a rare event. The last one had occurred in 2011, when Barack Obama and his family followed through with their plans to watch the launch of the Endeavour despite receiving news that the mission had been scrubbed because of problems with a heater system. It was, probably, an appropriate conclusion for what some described as man’s most epic achievement.

But George Cunningham was coming. “He’s going to stay overnight,” said Mary.

That was a surprise. “Will Lyra be with him?” The First Lady.

“No,” she said. “She’s on a peace mission to the Middle East.” She grinned. The First Lady, like most presidential wives in recent years, was an active player in the administration. And Lyra had proven herself a decent diplomat. But peace in the Middle East? That was a loser’s game. “He wants to stay at the Beach House.”

The Beach House was an unassuming cottage out on the Space Center shoreline. In another era, it was where the astronauts and their families stayed before a mission. It was where they’d said good-bye to each other. But that was a long time ago. Now it served primarily as a conference center. “He can’t stay there,” Jerry said. “The place doesn’t even have a bedroom anymore.”

Mary glanced briefly at the ceiling. “Last time I looked,” she said, “he was the president. He can probably stay wherever he wants.”

Jerry shrugged. “Okay. I’ll talk to Tom.” Tom Bergmann, who’d refitted the place.

“No. He wants it as is. Don’t touch anything.”

“But—”

“Jerry, the president has a taste for history. The word we got is that he’ll sleep on the sofa. Leave it alone.”

“You’re sure?” Presidents don’t sleep on sofas.

She sighed. “Stop pushing.”

“All right.” He looked out at the palm trees. “Why’s he coming? Going to announce a flight to Mars?”

“They didn’t say. My best guess is that he’s going to try to boost morale. You know how he is. Or maybe he just wants an excuse to stay over at the Beach House.”

“I hope,” Jerry said, “he’s not coming in to close us down.” That was a dumb thing to say, and they both knew it. If he was shutting the doors, he’d do it from the capital.

“That’s not really fair, Jerry. He’s done what he can for us.”

“I expected more.”

“Let’s try to be reasonable. Anyhow, I want you to arrange a press conference for him. We’ll use the theater at the Visitors’ Center.”

“Okay.”

“He’ll be coming in Saturday morning.” Four days. She smiled. This White House never gave you much warning.

—

Ordinarily, assisting with the preparations would have been at the top of Jerry’s priorities, but he’d allowed the business with the Myshko and Walker missions to obscure everything else. Nevertheless, he had Vanessa set up the theater for the press conference. That would have the additional advantage of allowing a formal luncheon. Earlier in the day, the president would make an appearance at an orphanage. There would also be a Saturday evening reception. Jerry was charged with putting together a guest list.