Dunne escorted him out. In the elevator, Dunne asked if Mumfries had made any decisions about the assassination investigation.

“Not yet,” Grayton said. “But I expect I’ll be in charge. The President and I get along well.”

“Good.” Dunne felt stupid for saying that.

“On the intell committee, he always backed us. Has respect for the professionals. Lets them do the job. One of the few guys in his party who believes in us. I like that. He understands.”

The door opened.

“Glad we settled everything,” Grayton said. “We are, after all, on the same squad. If you have any ideas for the investigation, do bring them to my attention.”

Grayton spotted the national security adviser passing by and headed off to catch him. This is a man who does not walk, Dunne thought; he strides.

Outside the West Wing, Dunne paused to watch the the limousines dropping off Cabinet members for a meeting with Mumfries. In his earpiece, he heard the watch command tracking Mumfries’s movements. Dunne somberly greeted passing Cabinet officials. The Defense Secretary bit his lip and shook his head. Out of sympathy or out of blame? Only Louis Alter, the septuagenarian Treasury Secretary, stopped to talk.

“I’ve already heard from Mumfries,” he said. “That is, Hamilton Kelly. He wants a replacement for the White House security unit.”

“That’s understandable.”

“And an investigation of how—”

“Of course. I’ve begun to—”

“An outside investigation. We’ll figure out all these details later.”

Alter placed a thin, withered hand on Dunne’s shoulder.

“It’s a heavy load to bear, Clarence.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Plenty of people will be looking for heads. There’ll be hearings, commissions, Monday-morning media harrumphing. I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But I’m no miracle worker. Remember that.”

Alter drew back his hand. He signaled to an aide, who brought him a cane, and he slowly shuffled into the White House.

Dunne’s car was waiting. As he got in, a message came from the watch commander: Brady Sandlin had been found.

“Up the street, to the Mayflower,” Dunne told the driver.

8 - White House East Wing Residence—June 21

8

White House East Wing Residence—June 21

Lem Jordan was sitting outside the private office of the First Lady. The door was closed. He rose abruptly when Addis appeared.

“How is she?” Addis asked.

“Fine. Going through papers.” His usual stammer was absent.

“And you, Lem?”

Jordan raised a finger in the air. It was an odd pose for him, Addis thought, as if he were imitating a politician.

“Well, I keep thinking that if I had been there …”

“There were a dozen Secret Service agents in the room. I don’t think you could have done anything. And your job has always been her, not him.”

“Yeah, I know. But I keep thinking … You know those g-g-g-guys h-h-h-hate me. They do.”

Addis knew; this was Jordan’s constant complaint.