Pryce turned and looked back at him now, let anger show on her face.

“Young man,” she said, acidly. “I am the National Security Advisor to the current President of the United States. I’m here to see former President Jameson on that authority, to discuss a matter of the gravest possible importance to national security.”

She paused, watched the agent.

“Now, relay to Miles Jameson that I’m here. And that I’m not leaving until I see him.”

They kept her waiting for an hour. The anxiety built and built inside her. It was one thing to construct a plan, to game out a series of moves on a chessboard. It was one thing to know in the abstract that the sequence of moves would work.

It was another thing entirely to actually put oneself in play. To be the piece, on the board, at risk of capture should the opponent discover a flaw in one’s strategy.

The agents in front of her periodically held their fingers to their ears, made the tiny lip motions of men sub-vocalizing. They were talking with someone.

Then abruptly the gate was opening. One of the agents was motioning her out of the car.

Pryce opened her car door and rose.

“He’s ready for you, Dr Pryce,” the agent she’d spoken to told her. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll drive you down there.”

She sat in the back of the massive armored SUV as the agent played chauffeur.

“I’m Agent Taggart,” he said.

“Carolyn Pryce,” she said, neutrally.

She saw the agent smile in the rear-view mirror, like Pryce introducing herself was the funniest thing in the world.

“You’re not cold in that thin jacket, Dr Pryce?”

“I left my parka in the car,” she answered.

Taggart ferried her to the vast, sprawling main ranch house, led her inside, and left her in the care of another Secret Service agent, a tall, muscular, dark-skinned woman Pryce recognized. Middle-eastern origin. A Muslim, if Pryce remembered right. Lebanese? Syrian? Something like that. You saw so few in this line of work.

What was her name?

“We have to ask you to relinquish your briefcase and phone, Dr Pryce,” she said, “along with your shoes, belt, and any jewelry. And I’m afraid we’re going to wand and search you.”

Pryce nodded. She’d expected that. What was the woman’s name?

She stripped herself of jewelry, kicked off her shoes, pulled off her rings, held out her arms as the agent wanded her, again and again, thoroughly.

“Now I’m going to pat you down, Dr Pryce,” the woman said. She was nearly six feet tall, with broad shoulders, strong arms.

The voice did it. Pryce kept her arms outstretched as the agent did a thorough, professional job.

“You were on President Jameson’s protection detail four or five years ago,” she told the woman. “When I was on the Veep’s staff.”