“National security override,” Pryce cut in. “Suspected terrorist activity clause. Authority: Executive Branch, office of the National Security Advisor. Carolyn Pryce speaking. Invoke.”

“Authority accepted,” her phone said. “Call configured. Call destination?”

“The White House,” Pryce said. “President John Stockton. Priority: Urgent.”

It picked up within ten seconds. The President’s secretary Elizabeth Finch appeared, her face projected directly onto Pryce’s retinas by the phone’s projectors.

Pryce had known the woman for more than twenty years. She’d been working for Stockton for all that time.

“Carolyn,” Finch said. “The President’s in with the Dutch Ambassador, talking about the Copenhagen Accords. How urgent is this?”

Text and numbers appeared to the side of Liz Finch’s face. The pulse in her throat was amplified in false color for Price. Her eyes had circles around them, showing pupillary dilation.

Pryce exhaled slowly. “What I’ve got tops that, Liz. Sorry. It should be fast.”

Finch was a professional. “No problem. I’ll get him. Hold on.” On screen, her finger reached for a key.

Telltales showed calm and cool.

“Wait!” Pryce said.

“Yes?”

“Liz,” Pryce paused. “Have Miles Jameson or his people called? In the last, say, hour or two? Or any time today?”

Finch frowned on screen. “Carolyn, you know I can’t tell you that.”

Mild anxiety.

“It’s important,” Pryce said. She took a breath. “Liz… I can’t even tell you how important it is.”

Finch pursed her lips. Then Stockton’s secretary gave the tiniest shake of her head.

Elizabeth Finch’s finger reached out, and the Presidential Seal replaced her face in Pryce’s view.

Truthful response. That’s what the stress meters made of Liz Finch’s little shake of her head.

Pryce took another deep breath, fought to regain her composure, to present a calm visage for the coming conversation.

Just over a minute later, the President’s face appeared. He was in his private study, just off the Oval Office.

More telltales appeared, giving her incredibly illegal monitoring of John Stockton. Of the man she’d worked for over the last two decades and more.

“Carolyn,” he said. “What’s the situation?”

Calm. Cool.

“Mr President,” she said, in her best analytic tone. “We’ve had a breakthrough in the PLF investigation.”

Stockton frowned slightly. “OK. Go on.”

Nothing unusual in the stress monitors. This wasn’t the topic he’d expected.

Stay cool. Stay calm.

“You recall the leaked memo,” she said.

“Yes,” Stockton replied.

He was still calm, still focused.

“The clue was the mention of the CALVINIST program,” she said. “That led us to more information about…”

She saw his brows knit just a tiny bit in concentration. His eyes went a little further away in attempted recall.

The telltales showed focus. No anxiety. No spike of fear. No rapid dilation of his pupils. No unusual visual saccades.

“You recall the mention of CALVINIST?” Pryce asked.

“Not… specifically,” Stockton said. “But go on.”