When reporters asked him why he wanted to be president, Lombard mouthed the same elegant clichés that his forebears had uttered—platitudes about service and country and having a vision for the future of the nation. It was nonsense, of course, and he doubted that they had meant it any more than he did. The truth? When else in human history could someone ascend bloodlessly to become the most powerful man in the world? It was the chance to be a civilized god, and he didn’t trust anyone who aspired to less. But the difference between him and most people was that he’d been born for it. Made for it.

The motorcade roared to a halt outside the hotel, and Lombard watched the Secret Service spring into action. Two dozen car doors opened simultaneously. Agents spilled forth and spread out like marines establishing a beachhead. When they were ready, his limousine door opened and he stepped out into the sunshine, smiling broadly. Taller than all but one of the agents, he paused to survey the hotel, button his suit jacket, and wave to his supporters on the far curb, who greeted him with a burst of applause. Then he allowed himself to be ushered into the hotel.

He made a mental note to have the tall agent moved off his detail.

His flock of aides surrounded him inside the hotel and brought him up to speed on the way to his suite. While the rundown was going on, he scanned two memos and peppered them with questions. He was adept at following multiple conversations simultaneously.

“What time is the fund-raiser?” he asked.

“Eight, sir.”

“Where’s my speech?”

Someone handed him a fresh copy. He also took two briefing books that included the latest intelligence on a developing situation in Egypt and an update on Senate wrangling over an immigration bill.

“Leland, I want to see you in two hours. We’ll talk over lunch. Otherwise, don’t bother me unless there’s a constitutional crisis and I’m president.”

That brought a polite chuckle from the flock. The Secret Service pulled the door shut behind him.

Alone, Benjamin Lombard took off his suit and laid it out on the bed so it wouldn’t pick up a crease. The air-conditioning felt good after the unrelenting Arizona heat. He wasn’t sure why, but a five-star hotel had better air-conditioning than just about anywhere else on earth. He considered it the pinnacle of civilization, enabling a man to live in such godforsaken places as Phoenix, Arizona.