“Still, some people might expect a cover-up,” said Zen. “People inside the government would know—”

“This isn’t a cover-up. On the contrary—we’ll have full disclosure. I’m going to give a press conference in a few hours. I want a thorough investigation. I want someone I can trust to do the right thing on the committee.”

“The right thing?”

“Make sure that the committee is telling the truth,” said the President, her voice even blunter than usual. “You know this is going to be a propaganda bonanza, Jeff. At least if you’re there, I can trust some of the findings.”

“Or be criticized for trying to hide them,” said Zen.

“No. People have a high opinion of you. Other leaders. And the general public. As well as myself.”

“I’m sure there’s someone better.”

“I’m not.”

“Let me think it over,” said Zen, fully intending on putting her off.

His voice must have made that obvious.

“Jeff, I know we’ve had a few personal difficulties in the past. I consider you my loyal opposition—and I mean that in a good sense. You’ve done our country, and this administration, a world of good. I know it’s a lot to ask. But I think we need someone of your caliber on the oversight committee. You weren’t involved in the operation, but you know as much about unmanned fighters as anyone in the world who’s not directly involved.”

“I know a lot about the Flighthawks,” he told her. “Sabres are different beasts.”

“Think it over. Please, Senator.”

“I will.”

“Best to your family.”

Zen had no sooner hung up than there was a knock at his door.

“Come on in,” he said, thinking it was Jason.

The second knock told him that it wasn’t—Jason had a key. But now he had announced that he was there, and couldn’t pretend not to be there.

“Who is it?” Zen asked.

“Mina Toumi, from al Jazeera news service,” answered a woman. “I would like to ask a few questions, Senator.”

“I’m in my pajamas.”

“It will only take a minute. And I don’t have a camera, only a voice recorder.”

Al Jazeera—the Islamic news service based in the Middle East—had been generally favorable to the uprising. But he knew that didn’t make any difference now. He didn’t know what she wanted to talk about, but he could easily guess.

Was there a way to duck out?

“Give me a second to get my robe.”

Zen fussed with his robe, pulling it tight. Then he realized that he really ought to have a witness—he sent a text to Jason and told him to come over to his room ASAP.

He rolled to the door, unlocked it, then moved back in the corridor.

“It’s open,” he said.

A young woman pushed open the door shyly. She was pretty—and young.

“I am sorry to bother you, Senator Stockard. I wanted a few questions about the incident.”

“Is that a French accent?” asked Zen.

“My mother was from Lyon,” she said. She was standing in the doorway.

“Tell you what—maybe I should get dressed and we can go somewhere a little more comfortable downstairs,” said Zen, feeling very awkward in his robe.

“Oh.”

“Could you just wait in the hall a moment? It won’t take too long.”

She stepped back. Zen rolled himself inside and grabbed his clothes. A few minutes later Jason knocked on the door.

“Senator?”

“Hang tight, Jay. Say hello to Ms.—”

“Toumi,” she said.

Zen dressed as quickly as he could. When he came out of the room, Jason and Mina Toumi were standing awkwardly on opposite walls, staring down at the carpet. For just a moment Zen forgot that the woman was a reporter—they looked like they would make a fine couple.

“Senator Stockard, thank you for your time,” said Toumi. She pulled out a voice recorder and held it toward him.

“Let’s go downstairs where we can have a little more privacy. And you can sit down.” He started wheeling himself toward the elevator.

“I didn’t know . . .”

Zen glanced at her and guessed what the problem was.

“You didn’t know I was in a wheelchair?” he asked.

“No.”

“Yup. For a long time.” He spun himself around and hit the button for the car. “It was during a flight accident. A plane went left when it was supposed to go right. They tell me I’m lucky to be alive.”

“But, I heard you were an ace—”

“An ace?” He laughed. “Oh. Yes, I guess I am.”

“An ace pilot,” she said. “That you had been, before you were elected.”

“Senator Stockard is an ace,” said Jason, finally finding his voice, albeit a little awkwardly. “Certified.”

“Jason’s my flack,” joked Zen, using an old term for a press agent.

She didn’t understand. “You need a nurse?”

“I’m not a nurse,” blurted Jason. “I’m his assistant.”

Mina flushed. So did Jason.

Zen laughed. Clearly he was going to have to coach Jason a bit on how to deal with reporters . . . and women.

When they arrived at the lobby floor, the door opened on a small crowd. Zen felt a flicker of trepidation—were all these people waiting to talk to him? But it was a tour group, queuing to get up to their rooms after dinner. He rolled around them, heading down the corridor to a small conference room. Meanwhile, Jason went over and found a hotel employee.

The man unlocked the door. It was set up for a small talk, with four dozen chairs facing a podium at the front. Zen rolled down the center aisle to the open space near the podium and turned around.

“Grab a chair and fire away,” he told Toumi.

She hesitated a moment—his slang had temporarily baffled her. Then she took her voice recorder out and began asking questions.

“So, you know about the accident?”

“I don’t know much about it at all,” said Zen. “I heard earlier that there was a bombing incident in Libya, and there are reports that civilians were hurt. This would be a tragedy, if true.”

“If true?”

“I don’t know whether it is true or not,” said Zen, trying not to sound defensive. “Certainly if it is true, it would be terrible. Anytime anyone is killed or even hurt in war, it’s tragic. Civilians especially.”

“Should the perpetrators be punished?”

“I doubt it was deliberate,” said Zen.

“But even mistakes should be punished, no?”

“I don’t know the facts, so we’ll have to see.”

“In your experience,” boomed a loud voice in American English from the back of the room, “are robot planes more apt to make this kind of mistake?”

Zen looked up. The man who had asked the question was wearing a sport coat and tie. Someone with a video camera was right behind him.

Several other people crowded in behind the two men as they came up the aisle.

“Are robot aircraft more prone to this sort of mistake?” repeated the reporter.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know you,” said Zen.

“Tomas Renta, CNN.” The man stuck out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Senator.”

I’m sure, thought Zen as he shook the man’s hand.

“First of all, I haven’t received any official word on what sort of planes were or weren’t involved,” Zen told the man.

It was an obvious fudge, and the reporter called him on it before Zen could continue.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors and saw the YouTube tape,” said Renta. “Everyone is saying it was a UAV.”

“Well, theoretically speaking, unmanned planes are no more likely to have accidents than any other aircraft,” said Zen. “The statistics are pretty close. Frankly, since people have been flying for so long, UAVs look a little better. Statistically.”

The reporter drew a breath, seemingly gearing up for another question. Zen decided to beat him to the punch.

“But that doesn’t meant that they can’t have accidents,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “It has to be investigated, obviously. I’m sure it will be. Speaking as a civilian—”

“And former pilot,” said another journalist.

“And former pilot, yes.” He gestured toward his useless legs. “My perception is, accidents can happen at any time. And they may be terrible ones. But I don’t know what happened here, and I don’t know that it would be of much value for anyone to pass judgment on anything until all of the facts are known.”