“And your number. That was it. I only wanted to help. He is a catch. And the director is so keen on you, and others have made inquiries. You’re more popular than you think, and I’m only trying to—”

How does she know how popular I think I am? Lancette wondered.

“I know, I know. But please don’t give out—”

“Okay, dear, I was only—”

Lancette said good-bye and hung up.

Two men in one day, she thought. Now she would have something to tell her mother the next time she called. At her desk, she looked at the note. Charlie Walters must have placed it in the shaving kit. The genealogy room at the Library of Congress was an odd place for a romantic encounter. Damn strange bunch, she thought, people who spend their lives in secrecy.

13 - White House June 25

13

White House June 25

A memo from McGreer was on Addis’s desk.

Hamilton Kelly informs me that President Mumfries—President damnit—wants to invite prominent historians to the White House to discuss transitions and periods of national tragedy. Please compile a list of those who should be invited.

The resident son of eggheads. He would call his mother, a European history professor at Columbia, and gather names. This was the sort of action Hanover would have taken in a similar circumstance. Reach out, bear the symbolic burdens. For Mumfries this cut against his public image as a drawling, backroom patrician who above all else cares about the deal, whatever the deal is. This is presidential. Kelly may be learning, Addis thought.

Addis picked up today’s pack of newspaper clippings. He had avoided looking at the newspapers at home. Now he forced himself to read. “Mumfries Request for Better Security Ignored.” “White House Security Chief Neglected Veep-Elect Concern.” Addis felt sorry for Dunne. He flipped through the other clips. Mumfries had granted an interview to the Associated Press, during which he discussed his feelings about assuming office due to tragedy. He talked about healing. He said that a staffer had suggested the lines of poetry he had placed in his first presidential address. “Not my strong suit,” he explained. When the reporter asked if he intended to seek the party’s nomination, Mumfries took her by the hand and said, “Young lady, let’s just get through the next few days. I’m still thinking about him—and Margaret and Jack.”

Addis threw the stack into the trash. He looked at the boxes still scattered throughout the office. Well, that’s convenient, he thought.

There was a rapping at the door. Addis turned to see Mike Finn. The White House political director was banging his cane against the doorjamb.

“Mind taking a walk with me to Brew’s office?” Finn asked. “Are you busy?”

“Not much. Hard to tell.”

“Know the feeling. Come on.”