Grayton assured McGreer that the NSA had gone through all its intercepts. Twice. Nothing of any bearing had been found.

“The President of the United States needs an answer,” Kelly said, taking charge again. “An answer he can share with the world. Last night he was on the phone with the President of Russia, and Vlad asked, ‘So why did this asshole shoot Hanover?’ The President had to lie: ‘Got some good leads, Vlad. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry.’ Jake, find him a god-damn answer.”

Grayton nodded.

“Any ideas, Clarence?” McGreer asked.

“When you have trouble with the who,” Dunne said, “you got to focus on the why.”

“Sheer brilliance,” Kelly responded. “Got any other guesses? Who should we be after about the why?”

Dunne shook his head. Then he thought, why the hell not?

“Actually, yes. There’s the First Lady. Their friends. His brother. Associates in Louisiana. President Mumfries. Anyone might know of something that we in this room”—he looked at Grayton—“don’t.”

Kelly checked his beeper. “Speaking for the current President, he has no clue why that clown decided to evade your security and shoot up the leader of the god-damn Free World.”

“And I think,” McGreer interrupted, “that we have to proceed carefully, if we’re going to start officially questioning friends, family, and … associates of President Hanover.”

Kelly looked at his watch and stood up.

“Time for another CIA briefing.” He headed toward the door. “On Asia, I think. Let’s hope none of the assholes over there think now’s a good time for a nuclear test. We’ll bust their balls.”

“Let me walk you there,” Grayton said. “See who’s doing the briefing. Still got some friends there. And …”

The pair left the room. Without Kelly, there was no reason for the conversation to continue. The others filed out. No one said a word to Dunne.

11 - Adams Morgan June 24

11

Adams Morgan June 24

Addis dropped his car keys and knelt down to find them. The accordion file slipped and fell to the wet cobblestones. Several pages slid out. Damnit, he cursed silently. He needed a light in the alley behind his house, where he parked the sensible Honda he had been driving for six years. He scooped up the papers and grabbed the keys.

He considered dropping by Havana Village, a bar around the corner. Rolando, the owner, always was a good host. A plate of rice and beans. A beer or two. But Addis was tired—the day after the funeral had been full of meetings on transition plans, on convention plans—and he had brought work home.

“Mr. Addis—”