“The President is well acquainted with my abilities,” Grayton replied. “I used to spend more time with him and the committee than with my wife. That’s why”—he held up his left hand—“I lost the golden band. At least I still have a good relationship with one of them.”

“You made the right choice, Jake,” Kelly quipped. He rubbed his hairless head with one hand. The other hand pulled at the suspenders that arced across his paunch. Thirty-eight, Dunne guessed, staring at Kelly’s round, pink face—a premature middle-aged man. You should slow down, Mr. Kelly, Dunne wanted to say.

“Wasn’t really mine to make,” Grayton asked with half a chuckle.

“Enough banter,” Kelly said. “The NATO ambassadors are due here in an hour. And I don’t have all their fucking names memorized.”

Dunne could see who was running the meeting. On paper, McGreer was chief of staff. But Kelly was the big-foot in the room: “Jake, the latest, please.”

Grayton nodded toward an assistant who was standing by the door. The young man stepped forward, opened the file folder he was holding, and began the briefing. Nothing, still, on the identity of the assassin. The Bureau had received over twenty-three thousand phone calls from people who thought they possessed some knowledge of the fellow or the deed.

“Only a third mentioned Elvis,” Grayton interrupted.

The assistant waited to see if Grayton had anything else to add. Then he proceeded: The hotel room was clean. No prints. A few strands of fiber and hair. A shaving razor was found, and the condition of the blade’s edge indicated that it had been used recently to shave off a beard. No phone calls in or out. Paid in cash. No credit cards found on him. No cash cards. No driver’s license. The local theater supply stores had been checked; no one remembered him. The wig, the nose putty, the false beard—commonly available.

The autopsy had produced leads. His face had experienced serious trauma at some point within the past several years. The nose had been broken, the cheek bones and jaw smashed. Probably an accident. Perhaps a car crash had sent him through a windshield. He had undergone reconstructive surgery. It would make it harder for people who knew him before the surgery to recognize him. A full genetic screening was underway at the NIH.

“Look for the psycho-killer gene,” Kelly said. “And those scars? Any fucking idea what he was so happy about?”

Nothing solid, the aide replied. A team of psychiatrists was working on it. The medical unit had determined the scars were all carved recently. Within the past few weeks.