“Is it possible that you have forgotten seeing it?”

“Possible, but not likely.”

“And why not likely?”

“I tend to take the suggestions of vice presidents seriously.”

Several commissioners grinned.

“So how do you explain this discrepancy?” Representative Gravitt interrupted. “Can it be that the White House is so disorganized that memos about security get lost?”

Typical, Dunne thought. Gravitt, the former owner of a pest-control business in Orange County, was a rising star in his party. The Washington Post had reported that morning that he had pressured the House Speaker to recommend his appointment to the commission.

“This memo was supposedly written before the current administration inhabited the White House,” Dunne replied.

“But you were already security chief at the White House, right?” Gravitt, an athletic-built, thick-lipped fellow with lacquered sandy hair, looked pleased.

“Yes.”

“And once the administration came in,” Gravitt continued, “this memo was never acted upon?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And did Vice President Mumfries ever follow up on the matter.”

“Not that I saw.”

“So he let it drop?”

“And last I checked,” Alter interrupted, “the Vice President’s job is not to oversee who comes and goes from the White House. Isn’t that true, Mr. Dunne?”

Before Dunne could answer, the staff director spoke: “Thank you, Secretary Alter, Congressman. I’d like to ask Mr. Dunne if, regardless of the memo, there ever was a full review of the screening process for individuals, including media representatives, who had access to the White House?”

“Not a comprehensive one.”

“And should there have been?”

“The answer is obvious.”

Dunne was questioned for an hour-and-a-half. Gravitt interrupted several times. Wenner said nothing. At the end of the interview, the staff director asked if Dunne had anything else to say about the assassination.

Dunne paused for a moment. Mr. Al-Fusah and his friends? No, a scapegoat-to-be should hold on to something. That was his way into the investigation. Mention it now and Grayton would grab that lead.

“No, sir.”

Dunne left the building, crossed 15th Street, and entered the Hotel Washington. He called home, let the phone ring three times, and hung up. He waited twenty seconds, then dialed again. He knew his wife, Alma, hated such nonsense. She would not admit it, but he realized this scared her.

On the fifth ring, she picked up. He did not say anything.

“608 H Street Southwest. Suite 219.”

He returned the receiver to its cradle. He had taught her a simple code. Subtract from each digit of the street address the amount corresponding to the number’s place in the series. 608 meant 721. And change the first part of the quadrant. It was not a foolproof system. Nothing was foolproof. It was a matter of rendering life more difficult for whoever might be paying attention.

Chinatown, he thought.