One of those men sat to Forrest’s immediate right. To Forrest’s left, two seats away, sat Brody Royal. Royal had become a member only twelve years ago, when his steadily expanding fortune and political power made it impossible for the old-line members to keep him out, despite his plebeian origins. Today’s event was part of the campaign to rebuild the clubhouse, which had burned in the hours after the storm, its flames towering above priceless racing vessels that Katrina’s surge had tossed into chaotic piles like bathtub toys thrown by a two-year-old.

The lieutenant governor wasn’t here for show. While the governor’s office might not fully understand the goals of Forrest’s benefactors—or agree with their tactics—the politicians in Baton Rouge had to concede that New Orleans was taking a terrible public relations beating, thanks to the media-created impression of a city that might not deserve billions of taxpayer dollars for rebuilding. New Orleans’s notorious history of crime and corruption weighed heavily on its national reputation, and something had to be done to address that problem going forward. Since Colonel Mackiever had argued against state police intervention in his official report, Forrest had been asked here today to give his “informal” opinion on the matter.

A black waiter in a white coat set a bowl of garlic cheese grits before him. Forrest’s mouth watered at the sight of the pale orange mixture. He was about to tuck into it when his secure cell vibrated again. Down the table, Brody Royal gave him a subtle glare. Forrest reached into his back pocket, took out the phone, and checked its LCD below the level of the table.

PAN-PAN, it read.

He jammed the phone back in his pocket. “Pan-Pan” was a radio code signifying a state of urgency one level below “Mayday,” which signaled imminent danger to life or a vessel, requiring all potential rescuers within hearing to cease all activities and begin a rescue attempt. In Forrest’s secret world, the “Pan-Pan” code signified a breach of security that could reach all the way up the chain of command.

He glanced to his left, at the main door of the dining room. Alphonse Ozan stood there in uniform, his face tight with concern. A slight inclination of the head told Forrest he needed to leave the dining room immediately.

“Is everything all right, Colonel Knox?” asked the lieutenant governor.

Forrest smiled at the politician, then gave him the old standby cover. “I’m afraid not, sir. We’ve got a serious situation with the High Density Narcotics Trafficking Unit. I’m afraid I’m going to have to excuse myself early.”