She knocked lightly on the door.

“Yeah,” came the voice of J. P. Dellenbaugh from inside.

Jessica opened the door and popped her head in.

“Hi, Mr. President.”

“Come in, Jess.”

Jessica closed the door behind her. Dellenbaugh looked up from a document he was reading, returned to the document, then looked up again, scanning Jessica from head to toe.

Her auburn hair was braided back in a thick, neat ponytail. She wore a diamond necklace, a blue sleeveless Prada dress that clung tightly to her body and came barely halfway down her thighs, and shiny brown riding boots that climbed to her knees.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Dellenbaugh, “but you could get arrested for wearing that in some places.”

“Are you harassing me, Mr. President?” Jessica laughed. She walked across the office and took a seat on one of the chesterfield sofas at the center of the room.

“Trust me,” said Dellenbaugh, laughing, “after I saw what your future husband is capable of doing, I’m the last person who’d harass you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dewey didn’t tell you what happened at the rink?”

“No.”

“Nothing,” said Dellenbaugh, who grinned, stood up, and walked to the sofa across from Jessica. “He got a goal and three assists. He’s good. He’s got a very graceful, almost gentle way about him out there.”

“Gentle?” she asked. “Are we talking about the same guy?”

“You look like you just stepped off a Hollywood set, Jessica.”

Jessica blushed light red.

“Thank you,” she said. “Dewey and I are leaving for Argentina at lunchtime. I thought I’d wear my travel outfit to work.”

The morning sun shone brightly through the French doors, creating a checkered, geometric pattern on the tan leather. Dellenbaugh reached forward and poured two cups of coffee from the silver service atop the table, handing one to Jessica.

Dellenbaugh raised the cup to his lips to take a sip.

“So what’s up?”

“I’m resigning,” said Jessica.

Dellenbaugh paused as he was about to take a sip. For a moment, he didn’t move.

“I know the timing isn’t great, sir. But I want you to know it has nothing to do with you or the team here. I love my job.”

The president put the coffee cup back down on the table. He leaned back, put his hand to his tie, loosened it, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

“Wow. I definitely was not expecting that. You and Hector are the linchpins of our national security team. You more than anyone. I need you here.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

“Does Hector know?”

“Not even Dewey knows,” said Jessica. “I felt it was my duty to inform you first.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all. I love it here. And, President Dellenbaugh, I truly enjoy working with you. To be perfectly frank, I didn’t think I would. I thought after President Allaire died, I’d hate my job and resent you. But the opposite is true. You’re doing a fantastic job. Every day has been a blast. I understand now why Rob Allaire asked you to be his vice president. And, you’ve given me the freedom to do my work, and you’ve given me your trust. That’s all a national security advisor can ask for.”

Dellenbaugh ran his hand back through his hair.

“You didn’t answer me, Jess.”

“I’m thirty-seven years old,” said Jessica. “I’ve got a wedding to plan, and that’s just for starters. I also want to make some money, sir. I’ve never held a job outside of government.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” said Dellenbaugh. “You are at the center of this administration. You are a critical component to our national security. This might sound corny, but we need you. America needs you.”

Jessica smiled.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that. But I’ve made up my mind.”

Jessica’s eyes were red with emotion.

Dellenbaugh paused, then smiled. He stared at Jessica in silence for several moments. He sighed.

“I understand,” he whispered. “I understand, and, as sad as I am right now, I’m very proud of you. How much time do I have?”

“A while,” said Jessica. “I’d like to work with you to find the best possible individual to serve as your next national security advisor. Then, from the private sector somewhere, I’d like to remain your friend, as well as be a part of the team that gets you reelected in two years.”

Dellenbaugh laughed.

“Jessica, I can’t stop you. But I’m going to try and talk you out of it.”

“I’ll always listen to anything you have to say, President Dellenbaugh.”

Jessica stood up. She walked around the coffee table and put her hand out, but Dellenbaugh ignored her outstretched hand and wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hug.

“You have fun down there, will you?” he said.

“I will. Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll check in from the ranch.”

“Don’t do that,” said Dellenbaugh. “You’re on vacation. I’ve got things covered here. You go have fun with Dewey. Let him know I already ordered him a new helmet and a decent pair of skates.”

8

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY

BEIJING

Headquarters for the Ministry of State Security comprised six large buildings in a sprawling rectangular campus on the southern outskirts of Beijing, the buildings connected underground by tunnels and, on the ground floor, by concrete courtyards. Each of the six buildings was indistinguishable from the next: ten stories high, square, built of drab gray concrete and small windows, not so much ugly as boring and bureaucratic. The courtyards were largely empty except for a few people milling about. The occasional low rumble of the underground subway system, which ran in an internal circular loop connecting the six buildings, could be heard above the din of traffic beyond the unexpectedly ornate steel fence that enclosed the campus. The complex was guarded by armed soldiers stationed every few hundred feet.

The black limousine carrying Hasim Aziz, Iran’s highest-ranking intelligence official in China, turned through the main entrance at the northeast corner of the campus, then entered the subterranean parking garage. The vehicle stopped in front of a glass-enclosed lobby with yet more soldiers standing about, submachine guns held aimed at the ground. This was building 6.

Aziz had been to the ministry many times before. To say that Iran relied on the Chinese ministry of intelligence was an understatement. Annually, the ministry provided Iran with more than one billion dollars in covert aid in the form of cash payments. In addition, and more important, the ministry doled out intelligence about Iran’s enemies and allies alike, gleaned from ministry agents spread like flies across the Middle East. In return, China did not ask for anything specifically. Anything, that is, except to be obeyed at those times when they called.

They took the elevator to the tenth floor. Aziz followed one of Bhang’s staffers down a long corridor. At the corner of the building, two men in suits stood in front of a set of imposing steel double doors. As Aziz approached, the man on the right reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

Inside the office, to the left, the wall was covered in an ancient Chinese tapestry, which hung from the ceiling. Two green sofas faced each other across a simple glass coffee table. The other side of the office faced the outer part of the building; both walls had windows looking out on Beijing. Fao Bhang was seated behind a desk in the corner, his fingers interlocked, still. He stared at Aziz as he entered. Two other ministry officials stood to the left, next to the desk. A single chair sat unoccupied in front of Bhang’s desk.

“Minister Bhang,” said Aziz, bowing slightly, out of respect, then stepping toward Bhang, his right hand extended.

“Good evening,” said Bhang, ignoring the Iranian’s hand. He pointed to the chair. “How was your trip, Mr. Aziz?”