"Here you go," he said and passed it over. As he did, his eyes swept the ballroom for Serena. She was already on stage with various generals and senators, including the presumptive Democratic and Republican party nominees for the presidency in November. They were waiting for the president.
Most everybody else in the ballroom was seated, except hundreds of waiters attending to the tables. Conrad helped himself to some coffee and looked over the navy blue program with gold leaf trim in front of him. The opening prayer was to be offered by Sister Serena Serghetti following a contemporary rendition of "Amazing Grace" by the rock group U2's lead singer, Bono.
Conrad was about to pour himself a second cup of coffee when the young California man, who was Asian-American, said, "You might want to think twice about that. Security won't let you go to the bathroom while the president and first lady are in the ballroom."
"Thanks, I'll hold off…"
"It's Jim," the man said, offering his hand and Conrad shook it. "Jim Lee."
Conrad cocked his head. "Like Pastor Jim, the bestselling author?"
The black woman and the rabbi snorted a giggle. Conrad didn't get the joke.
"Pretty much," said Pastor Jim. "That's me."
"Oh!"
Conrad suddenly realized that Meredith from Texas had known from the start he wasn't Pastor Jim.
The old-timer from Minnesota said, "Is it true that there are more Christians in China than America, Pastor Jim?"
"Yes," said Pastor Jim. "But my family is Korean."
"From Seoul?"
"Burbank."
The old-timer, realizing he perhaps made some sort of faux pas, nodded enthusiastically. "You people make good citizens."
"Thank you." Pastor Jim smiled.
The black woman next to Conrad said, "He sells almost as many books as Bishop Jakes, you know."
Conrad nodded absently and, scoping the room for any sign of Seavers, said, "You sure don't see this kind of event in any other country on Earth."
"You mean elected officials acknowledging they're not God?"
"You got it," Conrad said, surprised by her dig. "You must work for one of them?"
"All of them. I'm a sergeant with the Capitol Police."
"I'd have never guessed," Conrad said slowly. There was something very familiar about her. But if she was feeling likewise she wasn't showing it. "Tell me, is it true what they say about politicians here in Washington?"
"What's that?"
"That the only ones with convictions are in jail?"
"You're funny! I'm Wanda, by the way. Wanda Randolph."
"J-Jack," he said, glancing over at Pastor Jim, who was now talking to the rabbi.
She put out her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Jack."
"The pleasure's mine."
The instant Conrad grasped her hand he knew it belonged to the woman who held his in the ambulance the night before, the same one who pumped several bullets his way in the tunnels beneath the U.S. Capitol a couple of days ago.
She knew it, too. Her smile froze and she looked down at his hand, not letting go. Her eyes widened like she had just been shocked with an electric buzzer.
"This your first time here, Jack?" she asked him, even as she glanced over her shoulder at the small army of plainclothes security surrounding the ballroom.
"First and probably last," he told her, not taking his eyes off her.
"Why is that, Jack?"
"I just feel like I don't belong, you know? Like I'm a criminal here with all the saints."
There were glances around the table. Then a few vigorous nods.
"We all are, brother," said the man from Minnesota. "But too few of us are honest enough to admit it and seek forgiveness at the foot of the cross. Isn't that right, Pastor Jim?"
Pastor Jim, his mouth full with an almond croissant, could only nod.
Conrad looked at Wanda as her hand reached into her purse. He slipped both of his own under the table and for a wild second was ready to upend it if necessary.
But her hands emerged with a card and a pen. "I know from the ballistics report that you didn't kill my man Larry last night," she whispered to him as she wrote a phone number on the back of her card. "But I can't yet prove that Max Seavers did." She slid the card across the tablecloth to him.
"What's this?" he asked.
"That's the number to Prison Fellowship. It's a charity that ministers to men and women behind bars. You're going to need it if you don't scram this second."
Conrad looked at her. "And why is that?"
"Because I see Max Seavers and two Secret Service agents walking straight toward our table."
From the stage Serena saw Max Seavers, too, and decided to jump the gun on the prayer breakfast by standing up, walking to the microphone stand, and offering up her opening prayer a good seven minutes ahead of schedule.
"Let us rise for the opening prayer," she said, and bowed her head, aware that the president hadn't arrived yet and that she had caught the senators on stage off guard. But there was nothing they could say at this point as everybody in the ballroom rose to their feet and effectively blocked Seavers from reaching Conrad.
"Almighty God," she prayed. "We make our earnest prayer that Thou wilt keep the United States in Thy Holy protection, and Thou wilt incline the hearts of the citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to government, and entertain a brotherly affection and love for one another and for their fellow citizens of the United States at large…"
She kept her eyes open, along with every member of the security detail stationed throughout the ballroom, and she could see Seavers seething in the back, craning his neck as he searched for Conrad.
"…And finally that Thou wilt most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed religion, and without a humble imitation whose example in these things we can never hope to be a happy nation. Grant our supplication, we beseech Thee, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen."
As soon as everybody sat down again, Seavers, a furious frown on his face, marched toward the corner of the room where Yeats sat. Bono, who was supposed to open the breakfast with a song before the opening prayer, now began to sing "Amazing Grace."
This prayer breakfast was like an absurd nightmare, Seavers thought, walking among the well-dressed deluded whose minuscule brainwaves were directed to a deity that did not exist, and who actually believed that the Founding Fathers sought to establish a Christian nation. That Conrad Yeats believed he could find refuge here was even more absurd.
Yeats had his back to him as Seavers approached and recognized the policewoman from the Capitol. Was there any place he could avoid that woman?
Seavers glared at Sergeant R.A.T.S. as the two Secret Service agents took positions behind her opposite Yeats. Seavers then placed his left hand with the stump of a finger on Yeats's left shoulder.
"Time's up, Yeats."
But instead of Yeats, Seavers found himself staring at the face of a Latino server, who was holding a pot of coffee.
"This is Pablo, our server," Sergeant Randolph explained. "We had an extra seat and in the spirit of this event invited him to join us in prayer."
"Goddamn you, where is he?" he said, drawing sharp glances from nearby tables.
"Relax, Dr. Seavers," she said, eyes like daggers. "Where's he going to go? He's not armed and you've got an army of security people down here."
Seavers snapped his head and scanned the ballroom for Yeats as the Irish lilt of Bono's voice swelled to an unearthly decibel level. No sign of him, only servers with coffee and breakfast items heading into and out of the kitchen entrance.