He didn't acknowledge the chorus of "Good morning, Mr. President" that trailed him to his tidy desk.
There was no sign in the Oval of the move that would take place this weekend. The President had refused to allow anyone-either government or political employees-to touch so much as a single scrap of paper in his office. In this way, he hoped to put off all reminders of the few fleeting hours that remained for him at the White House.
No one said another word as the President took his seat and swiveled away from his guests. He sat quietly for a moment, his bleary eyes trained on the Washington Monument. When at last he spoke, his hoarse voice was faraway.
"Cure," he muttered, the bitter word directed at the bleak January sky.
The men behind him frowned in confusion. No one spoke.
"Cure, my ass," the President grumbled as he looked out the window. His words were directed at the monument, at the sky. At something far, far beyond that famous room. "They didn't cure nothin' for me. Two lousy terms. Wouldn't even help with a third. FDR got four, for chrissakes. Four. Instead, I get some rigmarole about some Twenty-second Amendment that I never even heard of until I got into office in the first place. That and some lemon-voice technocrat lecturing me on 'operational parameters.'" His tone grew mocking. "'We do not exist to indulge your political whims,'" he growled quietly. "Sanctimonious bastard."
His mumbled words were met with baffled silence. That was, by all but one man.
Alone in his corner, Mark Howard's eyes betrayed intrigue. Although muttered, the President's "lemon-voiced technocrat" comment hadn't gotten past the young analyst. His thoughts flew to the mysterious General Smith.
When the silence in the room at last became intolerable, the NSC man spoke up. "Mr. President, are you all right?" he asked, leaning forward.
After an interminable pause, the President finally spun slowly to face the men in the room. His puffy eyes were flat. "Let's just get on with this," he said gruffly, rubbing the sleep from his face. "What's going on in Cuba?"
They all knew the situation to which he referred. Since the previous day, the runaway boat that had found its way into Guantanamo Bay had become a minicrisis.
"Castro is furious," the CIA director said efficiently. "He claims the boat's Cuban property, that it had medical supplies aboard and that it was seized illegally."
"Blah-blah-blah," the President snapped. He waved away the man's words with a soft white hand that had never seen a single day's work. "What do you think about this, Mark?"
Mark Howard assumed he hadn't heard correctly. He had a stack of papers on his lap. When he looked up from them, he found all eyes in the room had turned to him.
The Oval Office had grown deathly quiet. The only sound was the person crying in the next room. For the first time, it sounded like a man.
"Um," Mark Howard said slowly. "Me?"
"Yeah, you," the President said, annoyed. "Didn't you write some memo or something about this?"
Howard was surprised anyone had read it, least of all the President of the United States.
Mark had detected a pattern in organized crime that had been evolving over the past month. Even before the previous week's botched DEA raid in an old New Jersey airplane hangar, Mark had linked the emerging pattern to a company called Raffair. He didn't know why. The feeling again. It hit him while he was going through the NYSE listings in the newspaper. His finger was tapping "Raffair" even before he realized it.
The fact that audiotapes collected from the abandoned DEA van had mentioned prominently the name Raffair merely clinched it for Howard. He had filed a report yesterday.
Since the CIA's responsibilities were to advise the President and NSC on international developments, Mark assumed that his memo would be turned over to the SEC or FBI at best. At worst, it would be ignored completely. The fact that it had been read by the President shocked him.
He could feel the eyes of the other men burning into him. The CIA director seemed particularly agitated.
In the outer room, the sobbing continued. "There, there," the disembodied voice of the President's secretary consoled. "I know getting a new job's scary, but it must have been even scarier when you were inventing the Internet. Here, let me get you some nice warm cocoa."
The door closed carefully, silencing the crying man.
In the Oval Office, Mark cleared his throat. "The incident in Cuba is part of something larger that's emerged in the last month or so, Mr. President," he began. "I think it's linked to a company called Raffair."
"I know," the president said impatiently. "I read your report. Why do you think it's connected?"
Mark glanced at the CIA director. The older man's eyes were locked on his.
Howard knew he'd be laughed out of the room if he mentioned the feeling. He'd spent his entire adult life avoiding explanations for his gift. Fortunately, it wasn't necessary to get into detail here.
"Simple," Mark began, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Raffair was mentioned during a drug raid that went wrong late last week. I happened to check the company's stock price the next day. Turns out it went up a couple of points. After yesterday's screw-up in Cuba, Raffair's stock went down. I thought I smelled a pattern, so I did a little digging. Turns out every time Raffair's stock dips, there's been some kind of action against organized crime the day before. Otherwise, they've had nothing but smooth sailing for the past month, ever since their ISO."
Mark tried not to meet the disapproving gazes of the other men. He kept his eyes focused on the President.
Behind his desk, America's chief executive nodded.
It was as if the others weren't even there. Howard had heard this about the President. The commander in chief had an unerring ability to make a person feel as if they were the only other human being on the face of the planet.
"You sure about all this?" the President asked, biting his lip in thoughtful concentration.
"Yes, sir," Howard said. "Raffair took its biggest hit last Monday when the President-elect mentioned his new drug policy. The stock really took a tumble that day."
The President's face soured at the mention of his successor. "That reminds me," he grumbled to himself. "I've got a meeting to set up with him. Betty!" he shouted.
His secretary's door opened. A middle-aged black woman stuck her face into the room. Behind her, the crying had only gotten worse. The man was blowing his nose loudly.
Although it was barely 7:30 a.m., the President's secretary already looked worn out. "Yes, Mr. President?" she asked wearily.
"I need to have a meeting with the incoming President."
The crying in the outer room grew worse. "Oh, gawd!" the man bawled, his voice filled with uncharacteristic emotion.
The secretary rolled her eyes apologetically. "I'll contact the transition people, Mr. President." She nodded. With an exhausted smile, she ducked back into her office.
Behind his desk, the President shook his head. "Cure," he said to himself, his hoarse voice laced with bitterness. "I'll show him cure." He rose to his feet, slapping his hands on his desk. "That's it. Everybody out."
The men in the room exchanged baffled glances. "But ...but our briefing," the FBI director said, his tone betraying confusion.
"Go brief yourself," the President said as he padded to the door. "I've got my own problems. Come next week, I don't even have a place to live. Worse, I could stay in New York. With her." He shivered visibly as he left the room.
Behind him, the President's bewildered advisers began gathering up paperwork and briefcases. Mark Howard didn't even notice the evil glance the CIA director gave him as he collected his own satchel from the floor next to the sofa. His thoughts were somewhere else, far beyond the confines of the Oval Office, a room that now seemed much smaller than it had just a few minutes before.