“No, we have none,” McGreer answered.

“And ‘She knows’? It’s all over the news …”

“No, Maggie, we—”

That was odd, Addis thought. McGreer had known her for years, ever since NYU Law. He always addressed her as Margaret. Only the President called her Maggie.

She looked at Dunne.

“Not yet, Mrs. Hanover,” Dunne said. Maybe never, he thought.

“You know what people will say?”

Everyone in the room realized what she meant. That she was the one who knew, the she in she knows.

Is anyone going to ask her? Addis thought. The room was quiet.

“I have no idea. No idea. And HAPPY? Where do such crazy people come from? Where?”

It was as if she expected an answer. No one said anything.

“Well, you’ll excuse me. I have a son to tend to, and a husband to bury.”

She started to leave the room. At the door, she paused and without turning said, “Nick, please see me when you have a moment.”

Byrd waited a few seconds and then returned to the plans. The ceremony at the National Cathedral—who would preside? The Hanovers’ local pastor in New Orleans or a national religious figure? Hanover’s brother, the part-time evangelist, had already told CNN that he wanted to officiate.

“Let’s ignore the fuck,” McGreer said.

The route from the cathedral to Arlington. A riderless horse? Or would it be too reminiscent of the last time? A private burial for the immediate family or a larger affair for the public? What if the turnout was not overwhelming? someone asked. What about music? What pieces will be performed? And by whom? How do we handle the invitations? someone else asked. Which world leaders? Addis floated away from the details.

“We have to be true to him,” McGreer was saying. “The images of this day will fucking outlast everyone in this room. We must send him off with something better than the footage of his face being fucking …”

McGreer issued assignments. Addis was to meet the new President at Andrews Air Force Base and then assist—“gently,” McGreer said—in the preparation of the speech that Sam Mumfries would deliver that night.

Before adjourning the session, McGreer turned to Dunne.

“What are the prospects? Will you have anything for the speech?”

“Not unless we get lucky.”

McGreer started to curse.

“But,” Dunne continued, “we—the Bureau is trying to locate the reporter whose credentials he used. Maybe they’ll have something soon.”

“Can we have a closed chapter the day after next?” McGreer asked, referring to the day of the funeral.

“I don’t know,” Dunne said. “As of now, no name. No known address. No known history. No known associates.”

“Just a fucking unknown psycho,” McGreer said “Try, try very hard. That’s the fucking least we can do.”

Dunne knew what McGreer was saying. He knew everyone in the room was watching to see how he would react. “Yes, sir,” he said.