It was standing room only in Conference Room Three. The vice president stood at the head of an enormous conference table. His jacket was off, top button unbuttoned, tie loosened, and shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He looked like a man bellied up to a bar after closing a big deal, ready to tell stories and toast his victory. Instead he was holding court with his advisers, speechwriters, and press liaisons arrayed around the conference area in order of importance. It was like an old medieval throne room—proximity to power was power. The outer ring contained lesser celestial bodies: eager assistants, interns, and aides.

There was an upbeat feel-good vibe to the proceedings. Gibson heard it in the conference room before he saw anything—the murmur of generous, self-congratulatory laughter. There might be work yet to do, but an air of celebration had already taken hold.

The pair of agents guarding the door had been alerted that something was up. Each stood at least six foot three, with wrists thicker than Grace Lombard’s legs. They stood shoulder to shoulder and struck a conciliatory, soothing tone. They never stood a chance.

“Mrs. Lombard. Can I help you with something?”

“Thomas, I’m fond of you, but get out of my way or when I’m through in there, you’re next,” she said. “I’m only going to tell you once.”

Once was enough. The two massive agents parted. They closed ranks, blocking Denise and Gibson’s way. Grace came to a halt just inside the conference room, her eyes resting heavily on her husband. Those nearest saw her and fell silent, feeling a terrible change in the atmosphere—dogs before the storm. Their silence rippled across the room. Conversations drifted off. Uncertain faces looked up expectantly until the only sound was an oblivious staffer on his cell phone, talking excitedly about television spots for Iowa. Someone elbowed him, and he turned, ashen faced, to join the mute chorus.

The room waited for her to speak, but she just went on staring at her husband. The vice president cleared his throat. He was an expert politician. He’d spent his career learning to deflect questions from reporters. He’d been described as unflappable so often it had become a cliché in the press. This was something else.

“Grace?”

“Out. Everyone,” she said.

No one moved.

“Grace. What is it?” Lombard asked.

“You want to do this in front of them? Because I will.”

The room’s eyes flickered toward their boss. Lombard didn’t like the rumble that accompanied her question. He forced a smile onto his face.

“All right, everyone,” he said, a portrait of benevolence. “We’re in good shape here. Let’s take an early lunch. We’ll reconvene at twelve thirty.”