“Mr. President,” Addis said quickly, “could I speak to you a minute?”

Mumfries looked at Kelly. His expression asked, what’s this about? “Don’t think there’s time, sir,” Kelly said to Mumfries. “The networks will carry the send-off, but they asked that we don’t go too far into the slots for the soaps.”

“Later, then, Nick.” He returned to the document and headed back toward the Oval Office.

“But—”

Addis felt a jab. He looked down. Grayton had drawn a gun and shoved the barrel into Addis’s side. Because Grayton had moved closer toward Addis, no one else could see it.

No fucking way. Here in the White House? In front of the President? You’re not that stupid.

Then Addis realized Grayton was no fool. In the time that Addis had processed Grayton’s threat, Mumfries had entered his office and shut the door. Grayton returned the gun to the holster inside his jacket. He stepped away from Addis.

“It does distract,” Grayton said. He turned to the Secret Service agent: “Henry …”

The burly officer took Addis by the arm. Grayton whispered into the Secret Service man’s ear.

“Sorry, sir,” the officer said to Addis and led him away.

Addis stood by his desk. The door to the office was closed. Henry was standing guard at the other side of the door. Addis took Kelly’s cell phone—the one he had pickpocketed during their struggle—out of his inside jacket pocket. He stared at the phone on the desk. Monitored or dead, he thought. The smart move would be for them to keep it alive to see whom he called. He picked up the handset: no dial tone. Addis flipped open the cell phone and punched the buttons.

Please, Ham, don’t need to make a call. Not now.

“It’s me.” He spoke in a low tone. “Is he there? … Good. And he’s got it? … Keep him there. I’m going to have someone come by … . You’ll know. It’ll be a surprise. Show him what’s in the bag. Point out Clarence’s notebook. Make copies. Lots of copies. Give him the originals … . Yes, the originals. He’ll need them to make people believe him. And hide the other copies everywhere. Around your office. Give them to friends. To strangers … . Can’t get into it now, got to go … . Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for asking. And thanks for helping more than you had to. I’ll explain everything real soon. Everything. Promise.”

He pulled a directory of Washington reporters from his shelf and found the right page. He dialed the number.

Be there. Be there. Be there … .

“Hulloh.” It was that unctuous British accent. “Hynes-Pierce here.”