He knew from his wife’s response what had happened that morning. An old friend—a private detective—had dropped by his house and handed Alma an envelope. She opened it, memorized the address written on a slip of paper, and then burned the paper. If none of that had happened, she would have picked up the phone on the tenth ring. And he would have said, “Hello, dear.”

The day before, after Dunne left the Moroccan official, he returned to his White House office and opened the Yellow Pages. He remembered what Al-Fusah had told him: “Maybe some name like a joke … . Said maybe they’d send Mrs. Hanover.”

Dunne read through the pages for escort services: Potomac Escorts, Ecstasy Escorts, Exclusive Escorts. A few bore more imaginative names: High Positions Escorts, Executive Power Escorts. He turned the page: First Ladies.

That fit the punchline. There was a phone number but no address. He called; the number was disconnected. He phoned a friend at a large private investigation firm. Can you get me an address for a phone number? Dunne asked. Can’t the Secret Service get its own information? the friend replied. It’s for me, Dunne explained. Not until tomorrow morning, the friend said. Fine, Dunne said. They went over the arrangements for dropping off the information.

After hanging up the phone in the lobby, Dunne left the hotel and walked down F Street. Three Secret agents he knew were heading toward him. An awkward moment began. He could tell what they were thinking: Should we stop to talk? That’s understandable, Dunne thought. He was an awkward man. Perhaps the most awkward in the service’s history.

“Off to grab a bagel,” Dunne said. That is, no need to start a conversation. The three men said hello and walked on.

Dunne entered the mall attached to the National Press Building. He rode the escalator to the lower level. He headed toward the bathroom and went through a firedoor to a flight of stairs. He climbed two levels and followed the hallway that led to the Marriott. He moved through the hotel lobby and jumped into a cab. He order the cabbie to take him to the Cannon House Office Building.

As the taxi navigated traffic, Dunne wondered why he was engaging in such precautions. He had no reason to suspect he was being watched. Perhaps it was a guilty reaction to having not told the commission about Al-Fusah. He had lied under oath. Fuck, that was easy, Dunne mumbled to himself. But enough self-analysis. Playing it cautious, running a countersurveillance exercise was always good practice.