The note was on Addis’s desk. He logged on his computer to check Mumfries’s schedule. NO DATA AVAILABLE, the screen read. New security precautions, he assumed.

Next he called the Office of White House Administration and asked how White House telephone records were kept. Could he look at the records of his long-distance calls in order to find an old number? It was all in the computer, he was informed. Yes, he could review his own records. Could anyone else? Not anyone; only a few senior staff had access.

On the way to the Oval Office, Addis passed Mike Finn and Dan Carey outside McGreer’s office. “The Georgetown event—something, wasn’t it?” Carey asked Addis. He was beaming. Addis noticed how well Carey’s suit fit. Why didn’t his wig?

“The President was fine. He—”

“Not him,” Carey interrupted. “Margaret. That was something. I wasn’t in the room. But on TV … .”

Which for you is all that matters.

“ … it was something, really something.”

And all because of Dan Carey, right?

“She handled herself very well,” Addis said.

“Sounds like something Kelly would say,” Carey replied and laughed.

Finn was tapping his cane gently against his shoe. McGreer was in the doorway, frowning. Addis could tell the lineup remained the same. McGreer was holding on to Mumfries. Carey was pushing Margaret. And Finn was waiting—and probably talking to both camps. But with no declared candidates, there were no declared allegiances.

“Talk to you later, Nick,” McGreer said and shut the door.

Mumfries was at his desk, when Addis entered the Oval Office. His right hand was squeezing a golf ball. The books that Hanover had kept on the table behind the desk—a biography of Theodore Roosevelt, a history of New Orleans, and a first edition of Let Us Now Praise Famous Men—were gone.

“Sit down, Nick,” Mumfries said.

Addis took a seat in the wooden chair facing the desk.

“Can Millie get you anything? A Coke?”

Addis shook his head. He was surprised. In the hundreds of meetings he had had with Hanover here, the President had never offered him a drink in the Oval Office. It felt odd.

“Nick”—Mumfries leaned forward—“all the pundits and party hacks, and the god-damn weed pickers at the Post have been on my hump for me to say if I’m running. Of course, I intend to. But hell, I thought it was decent to wait a piece. The body’s not even—sorry, you know what I mean.”

“I do, sir, and I appreciate that.”

Mumfries rolled the golf ball across the desk and caught it with his left hand.

“I’ve been considering options, and I want your advice.”

“Yes, sir,” Addis said.

“You boys did a pretty good job making sure there was no competition in the primaries. And I know Pratt won’t be a problem in the general … .”