Lauren Caldwell turned to the familiar profile of Hutch Hardin. He was studying the pastries at the front counter of Sal’s Seaside Café. Overlooking the pure blue waters and pebble beaches of the Adriatic Sea’s far north coast, the café was the favorite virtual reality meeting spot for Lauren and her political mentor.

Unlike days past, when meetings at Washington watering holes were common among pols and provided fodder for the morning political gossip pages, virtual reality meetings were untraceable through normal channels. Any twosome or group could meet without fear of legal detection. Even illegal detection could be precluded by a sophisticated VR consultant.

“Everything between us is a crisis, Hutch. But nothing that some coffee and a pastry wouldn’t solve.”

He ordered croissants and coffees. They strolled to a table close to a railing separating them from a fifty-foot drop to the beach below. Lauren sat and gazed at two white yachts heading out to the open Adriatic, then turned toward her mentor. “Why, Hutch, I do believe you’ve lost a few years. And added even more hair.”

Hardin had, as usual, chosen a VR image of himself twenty years younger and ten pounds lighter than his actual body. “Considering making my own Senate run,” he deadpanned. “Do you think the voters will go for this look?”

“That’ll be the day, you running for Senate. Voters do like some sort of track record in the people they elect, you know. A public record, I mean.”

“Nothing would get done in this town without people like me.”

She smiled. “Which is why you’ve never run for office, isn’t it? No use taking a step down in actual power.”

“No. The political games we play, Lauren, are much too entertaining.”

A waiter appeared at their table, welcomed them with a distinct Croatian accent, and set their order in front of them.

Hutch took a bite of his pastry. “So tell me about this cousin of yours.”

“She’s actually the daughter of my first cousin, Sam Caldwell. I didn’t know him very well growing up. He was a religious activist. In their late twenties, while I was in high school, Sam and his wife, Emily, signed up with an organization that proselytized tribal people with the message of Christianity. They went to work with a tribe in New Guinea that was still cut off from the civilized world.”

“There were still tribes like that? What year was this?”

She sipped her cappuccino. “In the forties. My understanding is that this was the last such tribe, at least in New Guinea. And the government there finally declared them off-limits to the outside world, wanting to preserve the tribe’s cultural integrity.”

“But your cousin and his wife were already there.”

“Correct.”

“They didn’t have to leave?”