The assassin stopped as he passed Dunne. He wiggled his tongue over a rear molar and then bit down hard. He felt a spurt of liquid—then convulsions seized him. He fell to the floor. An agent ran for a medic. Dunne dropped to his knees and grabbed the shaking body. The man’s eyes were rolling upward. Dunne reached into the man’s mouth to keep it clear. The FBI agents shouted at each other. Someone pounded on his chest.

“Damnit!” Dunne yelled. “Don’t do this, you fucker!”

A medic pushed Dunne aside. The shaking was slowing down. The pulse was slipping. The medic grabbed for a hypodermic. He jabbed a needle into an arm. He sought a pulse. There was none.

“Gone,” he said.

They stood over the still body.

Dunne looked at the Bureau man.

“You won’t do any better,” Dunne said.

“Mr. Dunne, that’s two today.”

4 - The White House Roosevelt Room—June 21

4

The White House Roosevelt Room—June 21

Brewster McGreer paced around the oak conference table.

“‘She knows.’ She knows?” he said. “What the fuck does that fucking mean?”

He was trying to make sense of the only two words the assassin had said to the business wire service reporter sixty minutes ago. “Any fucking ideas?”

The senior staff was there. No one answered.

“And HAPPY? Is this a fucking joke?”

Addis sat at the table and stared at the Nobel Peace Prize medal in the glass case, sitting on the mantel at the far end of the room. Teddy Roosevelt had won the award for brokering an end to the Russo-Japanese War.

Addis was in shock. They all were. His mind drifted to his first tour of the West Wing during the transition. A Navy officer who worked in the mess was showing him about. In this room, he pointed out the medal display. You’ve heard about San Juan Hill? he asked Addis. Without waiting for an answer, the officer disclosed that he had studied that Spanish-American War battle. His speech quickened: It was, you probably don’t know, not actually a heroic contest, as depicted in Roosevelt legend, with T. R. valiantly leading the Rough Riders in the fight for the ridge overlooking Santiago. Addis began to feel trapped. The officer continued his well-rehearsed lecture. Roosevelt’s force, he explained, engaged in desperate maneuvers, reckless and bloody attacks, and took many needless casualties. When the Navy man started diagraming the battle on a piece of scrap paper, Addis requested they push on. The fellow was disappointed. He handed Addis the drawing, and Addis had placed it in his pocket.

Addis raised himself from his reverie. McGreer was proceeding with a situation report, the word fuck punctuating almost every sentence. Yesterday—yesterday? —an intern had asked Addis if McGreer suffered from Tourette’s syndrome. For what else would account for the amount of fucks in his speech?