Chief of Staff Magnus Lattimore had materialized at Gabe's elbow. He was a slightly built, kinetic man with a boyish face, carrot hair, and the vestiges of a brogue. Of all the president's men, Gabe had learned the most about him—Scottish immigrant, Harvard grad, tireless, smart in many senses of the word, decisive, meticulous, not the least afraid of stepping on toes, and blessed with a rapier wit that at times could be devastating. He was also, it was clear to Gabe, absolutely devoted to Andrew Stoddard, his presidency, and his reelection.

"It's the monkey suit," Gabe replied. "Throw a tux on me and you've got instant socialite."

"I can tell. Your bow tie is a dead giveaway that there's more to you than the backwoods buckaroo you claim."

"How's that?"

"Tying a bow tie is an absolutely individual affair. It should never be knotted perfectly. Yours is tied with perfect imperfection. Says a lot about your level of sophistication—gruff saddle tramp image or not."

"Is that why you didn't have the rental people include a clip-on?"

"I suppose you could conclude that, yes. I was prepared to help you if necessary. In dealing with people, data is worth collecting regardless of the source. If I ever did have the urge to underestimate you, which I most certainly do not, I need only remind myself of your skill with a bow tie."

Gabe flashed on Alison Cromartie, her brow knit as she focused on the task at hand. Had she left the knot just slightly askew on purpose? The truth was he hadn't even noticed. Gruff saddle tramp, indeed.

"Was that article in the Post about my arrival on the scene your doing?" he asked.

"We have a friend or two on the staff there," was Lattimore's typically oblique reply.

"I had sort of planned to keep a low profile until I was done with the job."

"In Wyoming you get to keep a low profile. Here you keep whatever profile most benefits the president."

"So I gathered. Speaking of the man, where is he?"

"Actually"—Lattimore checked his Omega—"he's late."

His expression had darkened.

"Any problem?"

"No, no. He's usually fairly prompt, though, and Calvyn Berriman is a man he actually likes and admires. He went out of his way to have me ask Joe Malzone, the pastry chef, to do a cake in the form of the presidential flag of Botswana, and a wild flag it is, too, complete with zebras, African shield, elephant tusks, and even a bas-relief bull's head, perfectly rendered in black frosting. Makes our flag look sedate."