The woman didn’t have time to answer, because someone else appeared behind her and nudged her into the background the way an actor occupies center stage. The frown on Peach’s face deepened.

‘Oh, Peach, there are you,’ Ogden Bush announced. ‘Congratulations, I heard about your coup with Walter and Brent today.’

‘You did?’

Bush smiled. He had the arrogant smile of a wolf living among chickens. ‘I hear about everything. That’s my job.’

His job was to direct opposition research for Diane’s campaign. Target the Republicans. Target the Democrats. Plant media stories. Craft negative ads. He’d spent two months inside the building since Diane formally announced her candidacy. The activities of the political foundation had been unofficially swallowed up by the activities of the campaign, and they were squeezed together in the same space. Bush had hired his own staff who worked side-by-side with Peach, Deacon, and the other foundation employees. The political operative had his hand in everything now.

Peach didn’t like him, but she didn’t like many people. We are alone, Peach. Alone and on our own. Justin.

Ogden Bush had no allegiance to Diane or the foundation. He was a hired hand who followed the money. Ten years before, he’d been on the opposite side of the fence, working for the liberal Democrat against Birch Fairmont. Now he was on Diane’s side, because she was the one paying the bills. Bush was clever and tough, but Peach didn’t trust people who went where the wind blew.

He wasn’t tall for a man, barely five-foot-nine, and he’d just turned forty. He had ebony skin. A generous-sized ruby ring adorned one finger. His coal eyes had the sharpness of a hawk that missed nothing, but he also had a way of looking through her, not at her, as if she were no more than prey. He kept a thin, neat mustache on his upper lip and a trimmed chin curtain along the pointed line of his face. His black hair was shaved short, with smudges of gray above both ears. He wore suits a size too small to emphasize his sleek, toned body. The suits were expensive and fashionable, because he wanted everyone to know how successful he was.

‘People only pay attention to you if they know you can do something to them,’ he’d told Peach when they first met. ‘Good or bad, it doesn’t matter.’

Bush squeezed the shoulder of the woman in the cubicle doorway. ‘This is my newest researcher, Annalie Martine. Take her with you to the convention tomorrow. I’d like her in on the humint side of things.’

‘I work alone,’ Peach said.

‘Take her with you,’ Bush repeated, ignoring her protest. ‘She’ll be a quick study. She’s got great references.’

Peach said nothing. She hated being paired with strangers. Bush knew it, but he didn’t care.