The president’s cell sounded, the old horse-race theme, “Bahn Frei.” It usually fired up his circulation. But not this time.

The phone was lying on his desk, while the horses tore around the track. Ray disapproved of that particular ringtone. It sent the wrong message, he’d argued. Left people with the impression that Cunningham wasn’t a serious person. But Cunningham was, of course, the president of the United States, and if he wanted horse races—

“Mr. President.” It was Kim. “Admiral Quarles is here.”

The African meltdown was intensifying. Quarles wanted to send in the Marines. The last poll indicated that 58 percent of the country wanted to do just that. It always amazed him how quickly people forget.

“Give me three minutes, Kim. Then tell him to come in.” He turned back to his chief of staff. “Ray, we need to find out what was in that briefcase. Do what you have to.”

“How do you suggest we manage that, George?”

“Track down the people who worked in the DNC office at the time of the break-in.”

“That was Lawrence O’Brien.”

“I know.”

“He’s no longer with us, sir.”

“Damn it, Ray, don’t you think I know that? But there must be somebody who was there. Somebody who remembers what happened. A secretary, maybe.”

“Okay, Mr. President. I’ll do what I can.”

“Make something happen, Ray.”

The admiral arrived with two aides and a complete digital show demonstrating why we had to intervene. People were dying. More massacres were coming. The entire area was falling apart. And there were strategic considerations.

Usually, in military matters, Cunningham maintained a calm demeanor, listened to the arguments, and explained why he was not going to commit U.S. troops. It was a downhill slide. Put those first guys in. That’s the easy part. Then reinforce them. Then watch the other side show remarkable endurance. Fight until the country gets tired of it all. Then pull out and leave those who helped you in said country, your friends and allies, to be killed. The country had done it time and again since the end of World War II. Until it had left the U.S. financially drained and hopelessly divided. Last Days of the Empire, if you believed the title of a current bestseller. “We aren’t playing that game anymore, Admiral,” he said finally, letting his irritation show. “We are staying out.”

Quarles was a small, thin man with an eagle’s beak. His scalp was crowned with thick white hair. He had an uncompromising conviction that the U.S. should use its military to stop the assorted killers in power around the globe. He was unwilling to recognize that Cunningham’s first obligation was to the citizens of the United States. “With all due respect, Mr. President,” he said in an angry whisper, “the blood’ll be on our hands.”

He meant Cunningham’s hands, of course. And he was right. The president would have blood on his hands whichever course he chose. “Thank you for the briefing, Admiral,” he said. “I trust we won’t see any stories in the media about grumbling among the top brass.”

When it was over, and the military contingent was gone, Cunningham switched on the TV and looked at the pictures that were coming in, of towns burned and people brutalized. Usually, it was hard even to find a motive for the killing.

And, of course, rumors of dissension at the Pentagon surfaced that evening.

—

“We can’t just stand by and watch,” said Senator Brig Nelson. Nelson was chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, and a member of the president’s own party. “It’s time we took action,” he continued, speaking on Editor-at-Large. “And do I think the president intends to move against these killers? I don’t like to put words into his mouth, but I’d be shocked if we don’t see something within the next few days.”

Lyra sighed. “George, why don’t we watch Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines?”

They occasionally spent their evenings with a classic film, when the outside world permitted. They always went for comedy. But it didn’t happen often. Usually, they were committed to a banquet or they were having one of their artist-of-the-month events or there was an emergency meeting of the Haubrich Commission, which was looking into the most recent breakdown of the nation’s infrastructure.

“I don’t think so,” said Cunningham. He was too stirred up at the moment.

Lyra reached over and touched his shoulder, trying to remind him he wasn’t alone. She still looked good. Beautiful eyes and soft brown hair and a killer smile. The media agreed she ranked right in there with Jackie, Laura, and Michelle. But one of the Fox commentators thought she needed to pay more attention to her wardrobe. And one of the women on NBC said she could be a bit more diplomatic. It was true that she tended to say what she thought, a definite drawback in the political world, especially when she noted that the Speaker of the House would probably not be so anxious to jump into a war if anybody in his family was in uniform. (The Speaker also belonged to the president’s party.) And just last week, she’d commented that the people who opposed family planning should learn how to count.

“George,” she said, “don’t you get tired of being attacked by these morons?”

“Try not to take it so seriously, love.”

She wanted to get rid of Nelson but couldn’t locate the remote. “If we don’t act now, and decisively,” he was saying in that standard supercilious tone, “we’ll pay a price for it down the road. And eventually we’ll be trying to explain to our grandchildren why we stood aside and did nothing.”

“His attitude might be different,” she said, “if he’d ever had to stand out at Dover and watch the bodies come back.”

“Lyra, I’ve never had to do that.”

“And I think it’s smart of you to keep it that way.”

The host raised the issue of Blackstone’s Moon mission. “They’re almost home, Senator. What do you think it all means?”

Nelson came close to scratching his head. “I’ll admit, Jules, that I’m baffled. And I’d bet the White House is as puzzled as the rest of us.” He looked out of the screen, playing his customary role as the Sage of Washington. “But I’ll tell you this: We’ll be putting together an investigation to find out exactly what happened and what they were trying to hide.”

“Right,” said Lyra. “You know, George, I’d love to see some of these people come in here and make some decisions. Maybe—”

The racetrack music started. Lyra rolled her eyes. She didn’t like the ringtone either.

It was Ray. “Mr. President,” he said, “we’ve found somebody.”

“From the DNC?”

“Yes. Her name’s Audrey Conroy. She was a bookkeeper.”

“Beautiful.”

“She’s retired. Lives in Washington State. You want me to send Melvin to talk to her?”

Cunningham thought about it. “No,” he said. He was pleasantly surprised. He hadn’t thought anybody would still be alive. “We don’t have the time. Call her. You do the interview. Set it up so I can listen.”

—

While he waited, he did a quick search. Conroy’s stint with the Democratic Party had ended six months after the break-in, when she took a job with the Department of the Interior. About the time Jimmy Carter came to the White House, she met her future husband, a dentist who was vacationing in D.C. A few months later, they married, and she moved to his hometown of Walla Walla. Today, Audrey was a grandmother. Four kids. Seven grandkids.

Lyra was watching him sympathetically. “It’s a wild-goose chase, George. You know that.”

“Probably,” he said.

“I hope your biographers don’t find out about it.” Her eyes grew very round. “I can see it now. Chapter 17: Chasing Watergate.”

Editor-at-Large had gone to commercial. Lawyers appeared, reassuring the audience they would fight to the end for them.

Then Ray was back. “Mr. President, we have her.”