The bus arrived. He climbed aboard and gave the driver the number of his rental car. Two minutes later, he climbed out.
Inside the car, he cranked the heat to the max. The car had an automatic navigation system and he spent a minute programming in Francois Guilfoyle’s address. Just in case, he opened the glove compartment and retrieved a map of D.C. and Virginia. “Chain Bridge Road,” he murmured to himself, flipping through the index.
A shadow passed close to the car.
Franciscus looked up, but saw nothing.
He returned his attention to the map.
Just then, the passenger-side front and rear doors opened and two men climbed into the car. The one nearest him shoved an automatic into his gut. “Try anything and you’re dead,” he said, leaning across his chest and clearing Franciscus’s pistol. “Start the engine and drive.”
“Senator Marvin, good evening, sir. Great to have you with us.”
Dapper in his dinner jacket and cummerbund, a dab of pomade to groom his hair, James Jacklin stood inside the entry to his home, greeting his guests. Every man got a thunderclap of a handshake, every woman a peck on the cheek and a heartfelt compliment. If people remarked that he seemed happier than they remembered, warm even, they would be correct. After a day and a night of stress and uncertainty, things were headed back his way. Not only did they have Bolden in custody, but Guilfoyle had nabbed the detective from New York as well. He only needed one more to make it a hat trick, but he was too old a dog to ask for more. He’d been chasing that rabbit for twenty-five years with no luck. All he really wanted to hear was a “yes” that Hugh Fitzgerald, senator from Vermont, would vote in favor of the appropriations bill and the night would be a doozy.
“General Walker, it’s a pleasure, sir,” said Jacklin, with a hand to his shoulder. “Any word from Fitzgerald about the pre-pos? The nation is in a dire state.”
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” said Walker.
“Director Von Arx, glad to see you,” said Jacklin to the director of the FBI. And in a whisper he added, “I thank you, Mr. Hamilton. We have the young man in custody as I speak. All’s well that ends well. Let’s have a drink together afterward.”
“Make it a double,” said Von Arx.
There was a break in the line of guests. Jacklin stepped outside to survey the cars and limousines clogging the long, curving driveway. Even the weather couldn’t keep people away. He checked the sky. The clouds were as dense as a bowl of cotton, the snow falling steadily. The broad front lawn sprawled before him as white as a wedding cake.
“Well, well, the billionaire himself.” Senator Hugh Fitzgerald lumbered up the stairs. In his greatcoat and black tie he looked like a coachman from the nineteenth century. A very large coachman. He wore a bloodred carnation in his lapel. “I thought you’d have a butler answering the door.”
“Now, Hugh, I’ve been waiting here just for you,” said Jacklin, seizing his forearm as they shook hands, and drawing him near. A gesture reserved for the closest of friends. “You’re on my short list. I don’t suppose you’ve done any thinking…”
“But I have, J. J. In fact, I’ve done nothing but think.”
“And?”
“Ah…” Fitzgerald offered a pat on the shoulder and an Irishman’s wink. “I didn’t say I’d decided.”
Jacklin joined him in convivial laughter, then he turned to the next guest. “Ah, Secretary Luttwak…”
But under his breath, he swore.
The line of parked cars ran up and down both sides of the narrow two-lane road for as far as she could see. Jenny pulled the rental behind the last one and killed the engine. The wipers skidded to a halt. In the seconds before snow dusted the windscreen and the world was whited out, she saw a man in a red windbreaker running up the hill, then another running down it. A car pulled in behind her, the lights illuminating the interior. For a moment, she caught her own eyes in the rearview mirror. The pupils were pinpricks. Her mouth appeared drawn; her complexion waxlike. She forced herself to take a breath. To calm herself, she applied a fresh coat of lipstick and ran the eyeliner a second time beneath her eyes. I can’t do this, she said to her reflection. I’m a teacher, not a spy. Her hand rested on her stomach. She thought of the new life growing inside her. A spy. She remembered that Mata Hari had died in front of a firing squad. It was better than a bullet in the back, or not seeing it at all.
“Excuse me,” she called, opening the door.
The parking attendant was a young man, his thick black hair crowned with snow. “Ma’am?”
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“Bring your car to the top of the driveway. I’ll be happy to park it for you.”
“I might need to make a quick getaway.”
He came nearer and got a look at Jennifer. His frown dissolved into a welcoming smile. “Wait right here. I’ll be back.”
He disappeared into the falling snow, a pair of legs running at full tilt. It took him five minutes to return, long enough for Jenny to erase any ideas about a quick getaway. He offered Jenny the umbrella and his arm. She accepted both. She didn’t like the idea of slipping in her high heels. Shoulder to shoulder, they marched up the street, then crossed it and continued up a long, curling drive.
The house was Mount Vernon’s ugly stepsister, bigger, bolder, and more garish in every way. To shield guests from the elements, a temporary porte cochere had been erected in front of the entry. A car passed on their left. Jenny paid careful attention as each couple presented their invitation to a very large doorman before being admitted. Elsewhere, she noted men in dark overcoats standing like sentries near the garage and at either end of the house.
“Why so much security?” she asked as they began the long walk up the hill.
“The President is due here at ten. He’s going to eat some dessert and say a few words. The Secret Service owns this place.”
Jenny felt her throat catch. “Damn,” she said. “I forgot my invitation.”
“Is it in the car? I can run back and get it for you.”
“No. At home, I’m afraid. Can you run to Georgetown? Things look pretty tight up there.”
The valet caught Jenny’s disappointed look. “Come with me,” he went on. “I’ll slide you in the kitchen entrance. I don’t think you qualify as a threat.”
“You never know,” she said, squeezing his arm.
A host of parking attendants stood inside the garage, helping themselves from a table laden with roast beef sandwiches, chicken legs, soft drinks, and hot coffee. Two Secret Service agents stood among them, talking. Jenny smiled as she walked past. She even waved, thinking a tall blonde with all-American good looks couldn’t possibly raise any alarm bells.
A moment later, the two agents were standing in front of her. Both had four inches on her, necks the size of fire hydrants, and a discreet wire trailing from their ears.
“Your invitation, ma’am?” asked one.
Jenny answered earnestly. “I forgot it at home. I know it was stupid. I even told this young man, here, and he was nice enough to help me get in.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t permit you onto the premises.”
“I know,” said Jenny. “It’s just that my boss is here and I’m sure he’ll be upset if I don’t show up. The Ten Billion Dollar Dinner. You can imagine, it’s a big deal.”
“Your name, ma’am?”
“Pendleton,” she said. “Jennifer Pendleton.”
The lead agent brought his mouth toward his lapel. “Dallas one, this is Dallas four. Requesting a guest check. Jennifer Pendleton.” He turned his attention back to Jenny. “This will take a moment. In the meantime, I’ll need to see your driver’s license.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Jenny opened her purse, fiddling with her Kleenex and lipstick and eyeliner and chewing gum. The last thing she wanted to show the Secret Service was a driver’s license giving her real name. Not being on the guest list was one thing. Lying about it, another.