Conner was not entirely surprised when he received his summons to the chairman’s office. Given the way Derwood had stomped out of the champions’ dinner, some attempt at reciprocity seemed inevitable. The only questions in Conner’s brain were when and how. When turned out to be that very night. How turned out to be a command performance in the vice-principal’s office.

It was impossible for Conner to predict what would happen next, because the Masters-and its powers-that-be-were like no other. The Masters was neither connected with, nor accountable to, any professional association or organized league. It was administered by a private fraternity-virtually a secret society-of well-heeled, conservative duffers. They did not discuss the inner workings of the Club; what had been described as the Augusta National omerta was always maintained. And at the Masters, their word was the law.

Two tournament officials escorted Conner back to the clubhouse. Without even allowing him to pause at the bar, they led him downstairs, past the public areas into the inner catacombs of the building. Conner trailed them down a long hallway where the staff offices were located. The hallway seemed enormous; Conner wondered why they hadn’t installed an airport people-mover. Only as they approached the end of the dimly lit corridor did Conner realize there were doors there. Two dark mahogany, magnificently carved doors.

As they approached, the doors swung open, as if moved by a higher power.

“Please come in.”

Following the instructions of the voice from within, Conner and his two escorts stepped inside.

The office was magnificent, every corner filled with golf memorabilia and curios. One entire wall appeared to be covered with photos and awards relating to Bobby Jones and Cliff Roberts (always referred to by Club members as Bob Jones and Mr. Roberts), the founders of the Augusta National who oversaw the construction of the golf course (designed by Dr. Alister MacKenzie, M.D.) and carved it out of 365 acres that were once an indigo plantation. The walls were all rich, dark wood, floor-to-ceiling. The furniture reflected the dark motif, right down to the plush upholstered chairs. But the most magnificent piece was the desk-as immense as some conference tables. Behind the desk, leaning back in the chair with his fingers steepled, was a distinguished white-haired gentleman Conner knew all too well: Artemus Tenniel-chairman of the Augusta National Golf Club.

Conner nodded politely. “Evening, Artemus.”

Conner could see the man burn at the casual use of his first name, which of course was exactly why Conner had done it. “You will address your remarks to Mr. Spenser.”

“Ah. Forgive me.” Apparently being summoned by the chairman was akin to having an audience with the queen. You could only speak when spoken to, and then only through an intermediary.

Conner pivoted slightly, enough to take in the middle-aged, middleweight figure of Andrew Spenser, the Masters tournament director. And cowering behind him, his associate Derwood Scott.

“Let me ask you a question,” Spenser said, in a slow, deep Southern accent. He paced around the room, slowly encircling Conner. “You are Conner Cross. A three-year member of the PGA tour.”

“Guilty.”

Spenser continued his slow circles, as if he were trying to recreate the torture and brainwash scene from The Manchurian Candidate. “What do you think the Masters tournament is?”

“A chance to make some really big buckos?”

“No. The Masters tournament is about much more than big… buckos.” He gave a mock shiver. “The Masters tournament is a celebration of mankind’s finest qualities. When the tournament was established in 1937, it was perceived as the pinnacle of-”

“I’ve read the brochure,” Conner said.

“The Masters tournament represents the best of all mankind-”

“If it represents the best of all mankind, how come the Masters didn’t have any African-American players until 1975? How come the Augusta National didn’t have any black members until 1990?”

Spenser studiously ignored him. “Over the years, this tournament has come to represent much more than simply a sports competition. At the Masters, we try to establish an exemplar for athleticism, ethics… and behavior.”

Conner had the distinct feeling that behavior was the exemplar they were going to be discussing tonight. “Aren’t you guys taking this all a wee bit too seriously? I mean, we’re talking about a golf tournament here, not the end of Western civilization.”

Spenser drew in his chin. “What we are trying to do is set a standard-”

“No, what we are trying to do is knock a silly white ball into a tiny hole in the ground. It ain’t international diplomacy.”

Spenser raised a knobbly finger. “Your behavior has been inexcusable.”

“I was strafed with Spam. I had to defend myself.”

“Tonight’s debacle at the champions’ dinner was only the culmination of many violations that have come to our attention.”

“Such as what?”

“Destruction of tournament property.”

“I said I’d pay for the tee marker.”

“Use of foul and offensive language.”

“You try talking to Derwood without-”

“Disorderly conduct.”

“Well, maybe a little…”

“Violation of the tournament dress code.”

“The tournament hasn’t even started yet!”

“Need we remind you, Mr. Cross, that a strict code of dress and conduct applies to the entire PGA tour?” This came from someone behind him. Conner turned to face a man who was altogether too familiar to him.

“Richard Peregino,” Conner said, exhaling. “The PGA morals cop.”

“Vice president of Decorum and Image, thank you.”

“But it isn’t even a PGA tournament!”

“As the on-site representative of the PGA,” Peregino continued, “I must tell you that we take these charges very seriously.” Peregino wore a suit that was too small, too old, and was tacky even when it was new. Perched in the midst of this high-class office, he was like a walking-talking What’s Wrong With This Picture? “We’ve had you under close observation for some time now because we’ve suspected you of improper conduct.”

“Is that why you’ve been watching me everywhere I go? And here I thought you had a crush on me.”

Peregino’s jaw tightened. “You know perfectly well that the PGA demands that its members uphold high moral and ethical standards. Our regulations prohibit illegal or offensive behavior, improper or insufficient attire, sexual misconduct, profanity. We carefully screen all entrants to prevent any rogue bull from tarnishing the PGA image.”

“Someone must’ve been snoozing when I got my card,” Conner muttered.

“That mistake can be easily corrected,” Peregino replied, drawing himself up to his full height, which was still about six inches lower than Conner’s. “And believe me, if your conduct doesn’t change, it will be. You won’t finish the tour.”

“You won’t finish this tournament,” Spenser chimed in. “Here in Augusta, we have rules. And if those rules are not observed, you will be excused from the competition.”

“Wait a minute,” Conner protested. “I was personally invited to participate. You can’t toss me out now.”

“I can and I will,” Spenser shot back. “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. One more disruption or violation, and you will be escorted off the property.”

Conner remembered what Fitz had told him earlier about Haas and the others. When the Augusta National wanted someone gone, he was gone. Which would definitely put a crimp in Conner’s plan to win big and pay off his trailer home.

Conner paused a moment before speaking. “I’ll try to behave myself.”

Spenser preened triumphantly. “See that you do.”

Derwood stepped out of the shadows. “And your attire?”

“Whatever.”

That wasn’t good enough for Derwood. “I will be at the first tee tomorrow morning to personally inspect your clothing. If you’re not dressed in compliance with our standards, I won’t let you on the course.”