“First the President, then his wife,” the agent said. He looked at the corpse. “But not this time, dirtbag.” He turned to Addis. “Fifth week on the job.” He then shooed away several hotel guests who were trying to take photographs of the dead man.

A white-haired man in a turtleneck snapped a shot of Addis. He felt the flash against his face and shut his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the young Secret Service officer pushing the tourist back. The elderly man was wearing a large button on his shirt. It read: “Pratt’s for God. Pratt for President.”

“Bless you,” the tourist said to Addis, over the shoulder of the Secret Service man.

Addis looked toward Margaret. She was staring at him and tucking strands of hair into place. She mouthed one word at him: “See?” Did she think that the man in the raincoat had come for her? That her cause was so strong she was targeted for assassination? Addis decided not to ask.

The young Secret Service agent was demanding the tourist hand over the film. Addis stood by himself. No one had told Addis he could not leave, so he headed out the door.

51 - The White House July 1

51

The White House July 1

“We were told to notify Mr. Grayton and Mr. Kelly immediately if you showed up.” The uniformed guard at the Pennsylvania Avenue gate had an apologetic expression on his face.

“So notify them,” Addis said.

“I think they’d probably want me to have you wait here.”

“Did they order you to detain me on sight?”

The guard shook his head.

“Then tell them I am heading toward an unscheduled meeting with the President.”

Several limousines, towncars, and sports utility vehicles—all obligatory dark blue, all with dark windows—lined the driveway that led to the front portico. Camera crews and technicians were hustling across the compound. Correspondents were filing live remotes. Like the old days, Addis thought. The security restrictions had been eased to facilitate media coverage of the President’s departure. Of course.

Media uber alles, he said to himself. Besides, Grayton was aware that no threat existed. Not now. They all were dead. All the remnants of the covert action unit—Grayton’s unit?—were dead. They had been trained, at taxpayer expense, to kill foreign enemies. Then they came home. And one had … Addis recalled a line from the letter. I hope you ain’t got no twitches yet. And what else had the father written to his son? That the governor’s aide talks like your momma did. What did this say about the man who had killed Hanover? His mother stuttered. His father worried he might develop “twitches.”