Bear followed him into the waiting people carrier, driven by an immaculately turned out female US Marine Corps Lance Corporal, who took them up the front drive of Aspen Lodge. There, in the moonlight, sitting on top of a hill in a three-acre forest clearing, Bear saw the rambling single-story wooden cabin used by US presidents since Franklin D. Roosevelt had converted a camp built for federal civil servants and their families into a presidential retreat and refuge from the rigors of Washington.

The two men were shown into the living room where President Dillon sat chatting with Pete Chiarini, her Senior Executive Assistant, who invariably traveled with her to ensure the umbilical cord back to the White House remained unbroken. Both men knew Chiarini well and shook hands as he came forward to greet them.

It was Bear’s first visit to this room, the President’s inner sanctum, and he took in the atmosphere of relaxed, informal warmth and comfort: wooden walls decorated with paintings by classic American landscape artists, beamed rafters under the low roof, a glowing log fire in the grate to ward off the chill of a spring night in the mountains, deep-cushioned sofas and low table lights around a rustic, wooden coffee table. Large, picture windows, which in daytime would doubtless provide panoramic mountain views, were hidden by well-chosen check curtains.

Dillon, in jeans, a plaid lumberjack shirt and deck shoes, greeted them. “Welcome, gentlemen. I’m very glad to see you,” she said in her warm, vibrant voice, which Bear was beginning to recognize as a key element of the charisma she radiated.

“Madam President,” began MacWhite. “Good evening . . . or should I say good morning. It’s good of you to see us. I’m sorry we’ve had to disturb you at this time of night, but there’ve been some important developments I need to brief you on in person.”

“Of course, Abe. I appreciate that,” Dillon replied. “Now, you gentlemen have come a long way and it’s late. Please sit down. What can we get you to eat and drink?” She gestured at the sofa opposite where she’d been sitting.

MacWhite, the tall, rangy ex-Special Forces soldier, whose eccentric passion for sea buckthorn and ginger tea was well known, declined food and asked for his usual herbal tea. With some regret—it was going to be a long night and he could have murdered a Danish, but he did not want to be the only one with a mouth full of food while the others were talking strategy—Bear contented himself with strong black coffee.

“I understand you’ve been talking to SACEUR?” With the immediate needs of the men in her team satisfied, she was now all business.