Pryce watched from the side as John Stockton conferenced with his rival for the Presidency. On the screen she could see Senator Stanley Kim with his Campaign Manager, Michael Brooks. Next to Stockton, here in the White House, was the craggy faced General Gordon Reid, Director of the NSA, in his full uniform, as always.

On the screen, from Chicago, Stanley Kim frowned.

“What are you talking about?” The Senator asked.

“General?” Stockton asked, turning to the NSA Director.

General Reid cleared his throat.

“Senator Kim, Mr Brooks, the information you’re about to receive is classified at the highest level possible. The President has opted not to release it to the American people, but has authorized me to share it with you, on the condition that you share it no further.”

“I’m briefed daily by the CIA, General,” Kim replied.

“This is more classified than that,” Reid said.

“Fine,” Kim nodded. “Understood. It won’t be shared.”

His campaign manager spoke up, “Agreed.”

The NSA Director nodded. “Good. We found evidence that Director Barnes’ home’s security system was penetrated by a Chinese military attack. Specifically: Chinese military intrusion software, launched from a Chinese origin IP – though in both cases they attempted to hide that. The attack rendered his house blind and dumb, turned off the locks, alarms, and counter-measures, just an hours before his video broadcast and apparent death.”

Which doesn’t explain Holtzman’s death, Pryce found herself thinking. Or Warren Becker’s.

Stanley Kim frowned. “And you’re telling me this, why?”

“Senator,” Stockton said, “the Chinese are behind Max’s death. They disabled that house, coerced him, and used him to sow doubt and chaos. That’s what I mean when I say we were attacked.”

“I know we have our differences,” Stockton went on. “But I also believe you’re a patriot, as I am. I’m not going to tell the world that the Chinese are behind this, because that could give away an edge that we have. But I do want Americans to know that the video they saw was a hoax, a fraud, and not a man speaking freely.”

On the screen, Stanley Kim shook his head.

Stockton pressed on. “I’m asking you, as a fellow patriot, to publicly state that you don’t believe Maximillian Barnes really meant those things he was saying. That you think someone is playing dirty tricks. And that you think when we find his body – which we will – we’ll find evidence that he was under coercion. Don’t let our enemies tear us apart like this.”

On the screen, Stanley Kim’s mouth was set in a hard line.

“Why,” he said, “should I believe a single word out of your mouth?” He leveled a finger at John Stockton. “Or you!” He shifted the finger, thrust it towards Gordon Reid, as if he could physically jab the NSA director across the thousands of miles that separated them.