Jameson fixed his gaze on the entrance to an office building across the street and pushed his sunglasses tight against the bridge of his nose. Motherfucker, he said to himself. Can’t fucking believe I’m sweating my ass off in the god-damn a.m. That sucker’s not right. It ain’t. I could have taken steel for that shit. I could’ve been busted at the chink’s house. Man, why are there so many fucking gooks every-fucking-where? I fucking hate this shit.

He wiped his brow with his sleeve. He felt the moisture beneath the silk bandana wrapped around his head. No fucking way, he thought. He should have listened to me. Showed respect. He could have entertained what I was trying to say. Man, just entertain it. Consider the damn proposition.

The Korean peddler looked at him. He was in between customers.

Like I can’t fucking stand here, Korean chink-man, Jameson thought. Brothers made this country, when your sorry-ass was in a rice paddy somewhere.

The Korean turned toward a customer.

You worry how to rip the fools, Jameson silently said to the Korean.

Starrell came out of the office building. A white woman was with him. They walked down K Street.

Good, Jameson thought. They ain’t taking no cab. Man, even in Chocolate City, a nigger can’t get a cab. Fucking Africans, man. Don’t even speak English.

He crossed the street and followed the pair.

48 - The White House July 1

48

The White House July 1

Addis was at his desk, bouncing a pencil against a yellow pad—no notes, he told himself—and considering options: try Palmer again, visit Dunne in the hospital, locate the CIA shrink, go to the Post.

He felt water, cold water, moving up his leg.

He saw her face, eyes closed.

He held his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed his feet against the floor. His lungs began to hurt. He grabbed the arms of the chair. His body started to writhe. The pain moved to his throat.

One more second, one more second …

He saw her face and gasped for air. There were tears on his cheeks.

A Secret Service officer knocked and entered the office. He wiped his face with his hand.

“Excuse me, sir.” It was one of the few women officers. “A Ms. Holly Rudd at the Seventeenth Street entrance says you’re expecting her. But you didn’t answer the call from the desk.”

She was the redheaded officer, one of the first to reach Hanover in the briefing room. Addis recalled that her head had looked like an explosion flash in the color photographs on the newsmagazine covers.

The officer noticed that Addis had disconnected the line to his phone. “Ms. Rudd was adamant that someone look for you. One of the officers at the desk did recognize her. From a photograph in the paper. So … I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine,” Addis said.