Cunningham looked suspiciously into the camera. “What, exactly, are you proposing?”

“I want to give you a copy of the video. I could send it over the Internet, of course, but it’s too easy for pirates to swipe it and disseminate it. There have to be dozens reading, or trying to read, everything that comes and goes from the White House, and any company as big as mine has its share of would-be eavesdroppers as well. But if you will send an authorized member of your staff here to pick it up, I’ll turn it over to him; and then you can see for yourself. And yes, I expect you to have your experts analyze it to make sure it hasn’t been faked or tampered with.”

“If I send a representative, then what?”

“Then I hope you’ll be curious enough to start pulling strings,” said Bucky. “And, surely, you have more strings to pull than I have.”

“That’s it?” said Cunningham. “You just want to pique my curiosity?”

“There’s been a massive cover-up for fifty years,” said Bucky. “We don’t know exactly what happened or why it’s been covered up. Your government—well, the tiny handful of members with any knowledge of this—are still covering it up. Wouldn’t you like to know why? And if it’s no longer important to keep it secret, wouldn’t you like to be the president who pulled it out of a darkened corner and put a light on it?”

Cunningham stared silently at him, as if considering his response.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” continued Bucky. “I’m willing to spend every last penny I have to find out what happened and why. Right now, I’m a billionaire kook who’s making ridiculous claims, but I can already back some of them up, and if I get to the bottom of this while you’re denying everything, the press and the public are going to assume your government has been trying to discredit me out of malevolence rather than ignorance.”

“All right,” said Cunningham at last. “I’ll send someone by with written authorization, signed by me, and I’ll look at your video. But I make no promises.”

“I haven’t asked for any.”

“No, you’ve just made veiled threats,” said Cunningham. “I don’t like you very much, Mr. Blackstone.”

“That’s a shame,” said Bucky with a smile. “I really did vote for you, you know.”

The president broke the connection.

“Well, this has been quite a morning of bribes, entreaties, and threats,” said Gloria. “Isn’t there anyone you’d like to murder before lunch?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Bucky spent the rest of the morning okaying outlays for the ship’s continuing construction and upgrading, had lunch with some visiting business associates from Japan, and got back to the office in midafternoon. He answered messages from Ed Camden, told Sabina Marinova to be prepared to go on a new assignment on a minute’s notice, and refused interviews with three television stations, four radio stations, and two Internet news services.

He was reading over some financial statements from a small subsidiary in Nepal when his computer beeped and told him that he had a message waiting. He ordered the machine to play it.

Instantly, Jerry Culpepper’s haggard face appeared, looking at if he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a week.

“Hi, Bucky,” it said. “I got your message. If there are no crouching dragons or hidden tigers, I’ll do what I can.”

17

The president had taken the call from Blackstone at Camp David, where he and Lyra were, finally, enjoying a relatively quiet weekend. Usually, when Cunningham went to the presidential retreat, Ray Chambers manned the guns at the White House. But the chief of staff’s wife, Paula, had grown increasingly close to the First Lady, so this time they’d all gone to Maryland.

Paula had been a literature professor at Ohio State. It was where she’d met Ray, when both were graduate students. Ray claimed she’d fallen in love with him on that first day and he’d eventually given in and agreed to a marriage. Paula, of course, had a different story. It wasn’t hard to see where the truth lay.

Lyra was especially taken with her. “She is,” she told her husband, “probably the smartest person anywhere near the White House.” And, when he’d frowned, she’d added, “Except you, dear, of course.”

Both women had been kept up to speed on the Moon flap, and all four were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Blackstone’s video.

—

The delivery hadn’t taken long. Less than three hours after the phone conversation, the White House messenger had been helicoptered in. They sat down in the main lodge, and Lyra opened the package, removed the video, and inserted it into the drive. There was no preamble, no explanatory comment by Blackstone, simply the date and time of the recording, seven days earlier, played against the sterile backdrop of a hospital corridor. Then they were looking at an old man propped up against three pillows in a bed. Ray checked the image against a photo. “It’s Bartlett,” he said.

Then a woman’s voice: “I’m very glad you agreed to see me, Mr. Bartlett.”

Bartlett stared up over the top of the screen. “He doesn’t know he’s being recorded,” said Paula.

After that they fell silent while Bartlett rambled through his conversation with his unseen interrogator.

“My bet is even the Congress doesn’t know about this. Probably just the president, and maybe two or three others, tops.” His voice trembled.

Ray glanced across at the president, shook his head, and looked away.

“Who sent you here, really?” Bartlett asked.

“Mr. Blackstone.”

“How do I know you’re not working for The New York Times?”

When it was over, and they’d listened to the interviewer, Sabina Somebody, explain how she’d been sent for a cigarette, then locked out of Bartlett’s room, they simply sat staring at one another. “Look,” said Lyra finally, “this guy’s probably certifiable. He thinks The New York Times has an army.”

Ray agreed. “You ask me, George, Blackstone’s got nothing.”

“If this recording shows up in the media,” said Paula, “it will convince everybody that something did happen during the mission. It can’t be read any other way, except that Lyra’s right, and he’s deranged. But that perspective will get no traction unless you can do a second interview and demonstrate he’s out of his mind. Do that, of course, and the country will end up hating you.” She looked squarely at Cunningham.

“I agree,” said the president. “We need to send somebody to talk to him. Find out what we’re dealing with.”

“Not a good idea,” said Ray. “Too much is at risk. If we’re seen taking this seriously, and it turns out to be as crazy as it seems, we’ll be permanently connected with it. I suggest we tell the media we’d be happy to see Mr. Blackstone reveal whatever factual information he might have. In the meantime, the White House has more important things to do. And we keep our hands off it.”

Cunningham shook his head. “If something really did happen during the Moon flights,” he said, “I’d like very much to know about it.”

“George, we’ve already talked to everybody who might have known something. They’re laughing at us.”

“We haven’t asked everybody. Paula’s right.”

“George, please, stay clear of Bartlett. If it gets out—”

“Make it happen, Ray.”

—

Three hours later, they were on their way back to the capital in Marine One. Lyra and Paula sat talking quietly. Ray was reading through a Defense Department report. Cunningham stared out at the mountains, listening to the thrum of the blades. In the distance he could see a pickup moving along a narrow road.