KATE WENT INTO the library of the presidential cottage and looked around. There were two chairs near the fireplace and a fire had been laid. She pushed the chairs closer to the fireplace and each other, then, using a long match, lit the fire. She pulled a drinks cart closer to the chairs, then looked at her work. Fine. She heard the doorbell ring and looked at her watch. “Right on time,” she murmured to herself. She opened her purse, took out a small dictating device, reset it, and pressed the record button. Then she stuck it into the outer breast pocket of her suit jacket and turned to face the door.

A butler opened the door. “The vice president, Madame Director,” he said.

Martin Stanton swept into the room, his hand outstretched. “Kate, how are you? It’s been too long.”

Kate took it and allowed him a peck on her cheek. “Last month isn’t so long ago,” Kate said. “Have a seat, Marty. Can I get you a cognac?”

“Yes, thank you.” Stanton went and stood in front of a chair but did not sit down until she had poured the drinks, handed him a glass, and sat down herself. I can’t fault his manners, Kate thought.

“I want to have a serious talk with you, Kate,” Stanton said. “We’re coming into this convention with me in the lead and you trailing everybody else.”

“I watch the news, too, Marty,” she said, keeping any reproof from her voice. “And what I’m hearing is that you’re short of the votes you need for the nomination.”

“I’m here to tell you—all that has changed,” Marty said. “The California delegation is solid for me, and I’ve heard only this evening from nineteen delegates from other states who will switch their votes to me.”

“On which ballot, Marty?” Kate asked, trying to sound really curious.

“Why, the first ballot, of course. I know you’ve been counting on a second ballot, with all the delegates free to change their votes to you, but that simply isn’t going to happen.”

“You may be right,” Kate said, “but on the other hand—”

“There is no other hand, Kate. I now have the nomination in my pocket.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?”

“Not entirely,” Stanton said. “I’ve come to ask you to be my secretary of state.”

“That’s awfully generous of you, Marty.”

“You’re perfectly suited for it. I’ve always thought of director of Central Intelligence as a foreign policy post.”

“So have I,” she replied.

“There’s nobody in the party who can lay a glove on you for qualifications.”

“I appreciate the compliment. And what do you want, Marty?”

“Me?” As if the thought of a quid pro quo had never occurred to him.

“There must be something.”