Addis concentrated on the chief of staff: the kinky red hair that resembled an industrial product, the bushy eyebrows. In his early fifties, McGreer walked with a bow-legged gait. He was tall, nearly Addis’s height. None of Hanover’s main advisers, Addis thought, were short.

McGreer raced through the list. The Vice President was flying back from Dallas—again it had to be Dallas—and a federal judge had been located to administer the oath of office. White House security had been tightened to the maximum; the nearby streets were closed. The military, at the Vice President’s command, had been placed on alert, to Defcon Four. The Cabinet was to meet in a few hours. The National Security Council was sending messages to Russia, China, and the allies: the President is dead, the succession is transpiring in an orderly fashion, the chain of command is intact, the U.S. government is in complete control of its nuclear arsenal. The First Lady and Jack were being brought back to the White House from the young boy’s physical therapy session.

“The Vice President’s speech?” Addis asked.

“At nine,” McGreer said.

Ken Byrd, the press secretary, nodded. It was his second week on the job. His predecessor had resigned after a tabloid television news show aired video footage of her smoking marijuana at a celebration in Berlin the night the Wall fell.

“I’ll tell the nets,” Byrd said.

“What exactly will the Vice President say?” Addis asked.

“The President—”

Margaret Mason Hanover, the widowed First Lady, had entered the room. Half of the staff at the table stood. The others looked uncomfortable. Her gray hair was in its customary bun. Her eyes were red, her face ashen.

“If I understand correctly,” she continued, “now he is the President.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Only a week ago—or was it less?—she had passed through this room while Addis was chairing a planning meeting for a White House conference featuring former Cabinet members who were supporting Hanover’s decision to sign a controversial trade accord with China. Several of these past officials had helped run the Vietnam War. “Great,” Margaret Mason Hanover had whispered to Hanover, “we can call this event, ‘War Criminals for Free Trade.’”

McGreer kept his eyes on her. “We do not know what he’s planning to say,” he said. “He insisted on writing his own draft. Something reassuring, he said.”

No fucks now, Addis thought.

At the doorway, Lem Jordan stood with his arms crossed. He was the unofficial bodyguard and man-Friday to the First Lady. As a state trooper in Louisiana, Jordan had been part of Governor Hanover’s security detail. He came with the Hanover’s to Washington. He was a constant presence, always within yards of her or Jack. Addis stared at Jordan, a short, barrelchested fellow with chipmunk cheeks. Addis always thought of him as a fire hydrant topped by a pie plate.

“Any explanations, Brew?” she asked.