Cummings leaned back in his chair. "No one's. I thought you knew ninjas were invisible. What I mean is the myth is they can disappear, dissolve, whatever the hell it is they do. We have to ignore it because if we give any kind of credence to the news, it just makes us look worse. Thanks again, Bert, for saving my life. You know what I want to know is, where in the damn hell those Secret Service guys were while all this was going down?"

"They were there. Well, after the fact they were there. I remember lying on the ground and looking up at all those Brooks Brothers suits." Bert turned around and closed the door. On his way to Cummings's desk, he flinched a few times from the pain in his legs. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and laid it on the desk. The words were simple and concise. "A setup, right?"

Cummings nodded, then slid the slip of paper into the shredder.

"I'm on my way to the White House. No, Bert, you weren't invited. It's been a hell of a busy morning, I can tell you that. By the way, Martine Connor, our next president, if the polls are right, sent me a box, all tied up with a red ribbon, with seventy-two jelly donuts inside. I think that was her way of letting me know you're going to be confirmed tomorrow. You know how sneaky you have to be in this town, and if a box of seventy-two jelly donuts is what it takes, then so be it. I also think that's why I'm being called to the White House. Regardless, I'm outta here come morning. I'm going to Vegas."

"Seems like a lot of people are going to Vegas lately." Bert snickered. "Is there any truth to the rumor that you're traveling with Judge Easter and that you're getting married? Not just tying the knot but doing it in one of those Elvis chapels with the King singing at the nuptials?"

Cummings pretended horror, but it didn't quite come off, since he himself, on orders from Nellie, had started the rumor. "Who told you that?" he blustered.

"Aside from the fact that I almost got stomped to death by some fucking ninjas, then saved your life and still managed to come to work, I'd say it's because we at the Federal Bureau of Investigation are agents who are known to always get our man after we track down all the. . ."

"Enough!" Cummings growled. "Now will you get someone to carry these boxes down to my car?" The boxes contained the junk he'd accumulated during his tenure as director of the FBI. Junk, but still he couldn't leave it behind because one was supposed to exit with boxes of junk. As far as he knew, it was some kind of unwritten rule.