"Ach, truth. Such a word. I would have never thought it was one of them words that meant different things in different parts of the country, like soda and pop or pancakes and flapjacks. Is that what you told me back in the office about how you came to be at the White House? The truth?"

"I'm sorry. You have every right to be irritated, but I was just doing what I had been ordered to do."

"And what should I tell my boss?" he asked.

"That's up to you, but I'm not sure what's to be gained."

"Secret Service protection?"

"Depends on how badly cramped you want to be."

Gabe again pawed at his eyes. He felt worn down by the events surrounding the president and utterly bewildered by this woman and by the attempt on his life, but he was also strangely unwilling to head up to his apartment. Below them, the surface of the river had begun subtly reflecting the first changes of the new day. Gabe found himself absurdly wondering which dignitary had gotten the bull's head on President Calvyn Berriman's Botswana flag cake. Maybe it was Lily Sexton.

"So tell me," he asked finally, "how did a nurse end up with a badge and a gun and a desk job in San Antonio?"

"You sure you don't want to do this later in the—"

"No, no. I'm really interested. Besides, I feel a second wind coming on."

"I can't tell if you're being facetious or not."

"Defensive might be a better word. Or maybe I'm just testy. I was busy taking care of the president's gastroenteritis and migraine, and missed out on dessert."

Gastroenteritis and migraine. The untruth rolled out effortlessly. Perhaps he had a future in D.C. after all.

"Well, okay," she said with a shrug. "The story I told you is pretty close to what is. I was born in Louisiana and raised in New York—Queens. My dad, I think I told you about him, is . . . was, I mean, part Creole, part southern cracker—very handsome, very charming, rarely employed for long. My mom is part Japanese, part other things. She's a nurse. Still works in a nursing home. I became a nurse because of her, and got my master's."

"When we first met, I tried to piece together your background from your looks."

"I doubt you would have come close."

"I didn't. But it's a combination that works pretty well."

"Thanks. More?"

"If you want?"

"Let's see, then. A brief fling at marriage took me to L.A., where I worked in a surgical ICU. Like many hospitals, it was more or less ruled by the surgeons—one group in particular, busy beyond imagination, wealthy, and arrogant, all male, all well connected. The Cognac and Cuban Cigar Club, we used to call them—the Four Cs. The problem was that while most of them were top-notch and maybe deserving of the big bucks, a few of them weren't that good."