The Campaign 

  by 

Marilyn Quayle  
  And 
Nancy Northcott 
(c) 1996

  

  
Sunday, October 25:

  Nine Days Before the Election

  "Russell Frederickson is dead."

  Senator Bob Grant turned a startled face to Mike Masterson, his campaign manager. Masterson leaned closer and raised his voice to be heard above the chant of "Grant! Grant! Grant!" echoing behind the auditorium curtain. "Found dead in his motel room. Shot."

  Grant's ruggedly handsome face softened with concern. "Robbery?" he asked.

  "Who knows? He was found a few minutes ago. No details yet."

  "Russell Frederickson murdered - hard to believe." Grant thought of the intense young reporter who'd been dogging him for over three weeks, visibly yearning to break a story that would cost Grant the election. Aggressive reporters like Frederickson must make plenty of enemies. But murder?

  On the other side of the curtain the spirited chant slowly subsided. Chairs scraped, and feet shuffled. The murmur of voices throbbed both with anticipation and with the comfortable camaraderie of those secure in their shared values and beliefs.

  Grant's pulse quickened as he awaited his cue. He loved these rallies. For him they embodied the strength and hope of the country - profoundly American celebrations of freedom. He felt an odd mixture of humility and pleasure at being the focus. That cheering crowds of diverse backgrounds and all races would work together to reelect him, a black man, United States Senator from Georgia proved that faith, family, and love of freedom were powerful unifiers. Grant heard Brandon Bascham, Republican Party chairman for Oconee County, Georgia, begin his introduction. Bascham's booming voice expounded on Grant's virtues, including an unabashedly partisan account of how the year before, Grant had almost single-handedly rescued Cuba from the hands of yet another dictator, one even worse than the late, unlamented Fidel Castro. His remarks well-seasoned with the crowd's cheers, Bascham exulted that their Senator Bob Grant was unafraid to fight for what was right and had even stood up to the President of the United States to insure justice was done.

  Grant smiled to himself at his friend's hyperbole. That had been a most satisfactory, though admittedly white-knuckle time, but definitely not to his credit alone.

  "- and if the rest of the nation is as smart as we are here in Georgia," Bascham thundered in conclusion, "the next President of the United States, Robert Hawkins Grant!" Masterson grinned and slapped Grant on the back. The Senator took the steps two at a time and strode onto the bunting-festooned stage. The crowd went crazy.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows of the Oval Office, throwing blocks of white light on the blue wing chairs flanking the fireplace.

  "Grant's starting to develop a following," the President said, stopping to stare at the two men in the room, his most valued advisors as well as closest friends: Attorney General Jonathan Hunter and White House Chief of Staff M. Eugene Corforth. "Grant's harangues against us are being mimicked by talk radio," he added with some bitterness.

  "If Grant wins this election by a wide margin," Hunter told him, "and barring a miracle, it'll be a landslide - he'll be the front-runner for the Republicans for sure. He'll be tough to beat."

  "Then he mustn't win by a landslide," he said. "It isn't too late for us to weigh in for his opponent. Can we do anything for Tobias Caruso?"

  "He's definitely salable," Hunter. "A Horatio Alger success story, and he's a good speaker - plenty of country humor. They seem to like that down there. We sure could do worse.

  "Anything we can do?" The President watched his friend closely, gauging the innuendoes in the answer by the degree of shrewdness in Hunter's eyes.

  "Nothing that would enhance your stature, at least at this point," Hunter told him. "Caruso's the only one who thinks he has a chance of winning. By the way," Hunter said, looking directly at the President and forcing him to hold that look, "I had John Smythe contacted yesterday."

  John Smith? Corforth wondered, 'Who was John Smith?' Knowledge was power in Washington. Being out of the loop meant being eased out of power.

  "John Smythe? Good." The President bestowed a reassuring smile on Corforth. "Smythe's a master at turning an election around."

  ####

  Sheriff Jimmy Jenks dialed the number written on the memo pad in Russell Frederickson's motel room. He leaned back in his oversized leather desk chair, contoured through years of service to envelop every curve of his massive body, and waited patiently to be put through to Peter Evans, editor of the Washington Herald, D.C.'s biggest paper and one of the most influential media outlets in the country.

  "I've been expecting your call," Evans said peremptorily.

  "You have?" Jenks asked, his words dripping with a pronounced southern drawl not usually so evident in his speech. "You were expectin' this ole sheriff from clear down in Oconee County, Georgia, to be callin' you? I'm right surprised."

  "You are calling about the Russell Frederickson murder, aren't you?" Evans asked.

  "That I am. That I am," Jenks said soothingly. "You mind if I tape this? Wouldn't want to forget anything important. The old memory ain't what it used to be."

  "No, go ahead," Evans replied. "I'll tape it, too, just to keep you honest." Jenks turned on the tape recorder. "I'm wonderin'," he said, "how you knew 'bout this here murder so quick like, Mr. Evans."

  "Quick!" Evans exploded. "The body was discovered over two hours ago! The paper was called almost immediately."

  "Mind tellin' me who called?"

  "Of course not," Evans said, taking a steadying breath. "A stringer called in the story. - " His voice trailed off in the face of the dead silence on the other end of the line. "Let me explain from the beginning," he said, forced patience deep in his voice.

  "I'd be right pleased if you would."

  "All right, but I haven't much time." When the sheriff made no reply, Evans gave a much-put-upon sigh but began speaking. "Russell Frederickson was coring the Grant-Caruso campaign for us."

  "You take a look-see at all Senate races?" Jenks interrupted. "That right?"

  "No, no," Evans said. "Just those of special interest."

  As I was saying," Evans continued with poorly disguised contempt, "Frederickson was covering the campaign and had been for several weeks. He called in two days ago. Asked to speak to me personally. Said he was on to something big, something damaging to Bob Grant. You do know who I mean, don't you? Robert Hawkins Grant, the Senator?"

  "Now, Mr. Evans. Most everybody in Georgia knows Senator Grant. Cain't say I've ever met the man personal-like, but I know who you mean. Course I do. A fine-looking colored man," Jenks finished, hoping calling Grant "colored" wasn't a bit much even for the dumb redneck image he was cultivating so assiduously.

  "Good, Sheriff," Evans said, apparently finding Jenks's words no more than he would expect from a small-town southern sheriff.

  "Then you understand how vulnerable Grant is right now with the election only days away," Evans continued, his impatience in no way tempered. "Frederickson was excited when he called. Said he'd found something that would do 'irreparable damage to Grant both personally and politically.' That's a direct quote, Sheriff. Find what Frederickson had on Grant, and you'll find the motive for the murder."

  Jenks remained silent for a long moment, then said equitably. "This here big story- any ideas 'bout that?"

  "Not really." Evans's voice became thoughtful, losing its impatient edge. "All Frederickson said was that it was big and damaging. Said he was keeping a copy of his notes in his briefcase and the original in his computer. Have you gone through his briefcase? Brown leather, pretty beat up, with his initials in gold barely discernible under the handle."

  "Mighty interestin' you'd ask, Mr. Evans. Cain't say that I've looked through no briefcase."

  "You haven't even looked through it?" Evans bellowed, his annoyance in full bloom.

  Jenks's eyes glittered at the other's obvious anger.

  "What are you waiting for, Jenks?" Evans demanded. "Read everything in it. Believe me, you'll find Grant's motive."

  "Oh, I believe you, sure enough, Mr. Evans. Trouble is, there ain't no briefcase nowhere."

  "No briefcase," Evans said, his voice suddenly speculative. "Someone must have taken it then. So Frederickson really had uncovered something important. The computer - have you checked the computer? Or has it disappeared, too?"

  "No, sir, it's right here, but them newfangled machines - just don't feel comfortable round 'em. But we've got a youngun hereabouts can right croon to them machines. Smart gal. Real modern. If'n that li'l ole machine's got somethin' on its mind, ole Bubba'll find it. Bubba sure will. Yes, sir." "Bubba!" Evans roared. "You do realize the importance of that 'li'l ole machine,' don't you? If anything happens to it, I'll destroy you!"

  "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Evans," Jenks said. "Sure will keep ever'thin' you said in mind."

  "And you keep in mind Grant's part in all of this," Evans growled. "Senator Robert Hawkins Grant. Don't let Grant fool you, and don't let his supposed power keep you from doing your duty. I'll have people dogging you until you make an arrest. The Washington Herald looks after its own." Evans slammed down the phone.

  Chuckling, Jenks leaned farther back in his chair. His conversation with Peter Evans had been most enlightening, he thought, wondering what to expect from Grant.

  Senator Robert Hawkins Grant. Jenks had heard little but good about the Senator, at least what Jenks considered good. According to all reports, Grant was a commonsense man who liked the heavy hand of government as little as Jenks himself did. Grant was black, true, but no harm there. Couldn't help wondering what kind of friends he had though. This was politics, after all, and politics like everything else had its share of evil. How much was Grant willing to do to keep his job? Murder? Jenks shook his head as if to clear it. Too early for that kind of speculation, way too early.

  "What was that all about, Sheriff?" Hank Farrar, his deputy asked, coming into the office and handing him a report. "You sho' sounded like a jerkwater hayseed."

  "Did I?" Jenks said with a grin. "Glad to hear it. Been talking to a big-shot Washington newspaper editor, Peter Evans. Hope Mr. Evans decides to teach me a thing or two. I might just learn more than he bargained for. Pretty condescending was Mr. Evans."

  Farrar laughed and shook his head.

  "And pretty damning about our Senator. Senator Grant, I mean. Insistent, too. Seems to think Grant's our murderer."

  Jenks gave Farrar the gist of his conversation with Evans. "I'll need to speak to the good Senator," Jenks finished, banging his boots on the linoleum-covered floor as he sat up. "See if you can track him down. Tell him to come on by at his convenience. Just make sure he understands that means as soon as possible. I'll handle it if he calls complaining, but I will see him tonight."

  *
Chief of Staff M. Eugene Corforth had come to hate the War Room. The windowless room was soundproof and microwave-proof. Each telephone had its own outside line, bypassing the switchboard and swept daily for bugs. No recording devices of any kind were allowed. The paper shredder in the corner had logged many hours of service.

  "Anne Peabody is dead," Hunter announced. His voice held no more emotion than if he were quoting polling data. Anne Peabody was the Wall Street broker whose accusation two years before against the then-president had helped bring about his defeat. Peabody had discovered that he'd accepted a hefty sum of money from a Saudi sheik, unreported money which the media and his challenger, the current President, had declared a bribe. Peabody had also been a staunch supporter of this President, who'd come to power with that defeat.

  Corforth's stomach churned. "A heart attack?" he asked. He knew he sounded hopeful, but he couldn't help it.

  "Heart attack?" Hunter queried. "Why would you think that? Peabody wasn't much over forty. No, she was killed by a mugger. In Central Park, no less."

  Relief flooded Corforth. A mugger. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, or even why he was so on edge, but if it were merely a mugging ... "Any special response from us?"

  "No," Hunter answered. "I doubt we'll even be asked about it. She had no relationship to us."

  Corforth tensed. He knew Hunter, and he knew Hunter's trick of dropping the bombshell, the real reason for the meeting, in a seemingly nonchalant manner.

  "Russell Frederickson, the Herald reporter, was murdered down in Georgia."

  "You're kidding!" Corforth exclaimed. "What does that have to do with us?"

  "Nothing except Bob Grant's been implicated in the murder. I've sent some NIIA agents down to Georgia to launch a thorough investigation of the murder. I'll be able to monitor the case and insure that justice is done, even if Grant is a United States Senator. If we need to point the sheriff in the right direction, we can do so."

  The President's first appointee had been Hunter, whose first act had been to push through Congress the National Investigation and Intelligence Agency (NIIA), an omnipotent bureau which combined the FBI, CIA, DEA, Federal Marshals, and Secret Service into one organization under the power of one man, Jonathan Hunter. All local law enforcement agencies were required to use the NIIA's computer system and urged to bow to the power and superior wisdom of those running the NIIA. The NIIA could supplant local law enforcement at any time at the discretion of the administration.

  "Derek Bender, NIIA's chief investigator, is in charge," Hunter continued.

  "Bender will report directly to me. He's aware of the need to handle everything properly. Media attention will be intense, which works to our advantage."

  "The Georgia campaign has been thrown wide open," Hunter threw over his shoulder as he passed through the door.

  ####

  It was a glorious day for a parade: A friendly late afternoon sun, its rosy-gold rays shimmering against all they touched, warmed a cloudless blue sky and gave promise of a sunset in keeping with the occasion.

  "Senator!" Grant felt Mike Masterson's hand on his arm. "A message for you from a Sheriff Jimmy Jenks of Oconee County. Wants to talk to you, ASAP."

  "Russell Frederickson?" Grant asked.

  "Must be, but he didn't say. "Grant glanced at his watch, then at the cellular phone Masterson held. "Better see what he wants."

  Masterson's momentary frown was wiped away by a conciliatory smile. "You'll need to hurry. The band will start up any minute."

  Grant was already dialing. He was put through to Jenks immediately.

  "Sure do thank you for getting in touch, Senator," Jenks said. "Be pleased if I could meet with you this evening."

  "We can't discuss this over the phone?" Grant asked.

  "Sorry, Senator. I know you're busy," Jenks said as if reading Grant's mind, "but this is something we'll have to discuss in person."

  "I see," Grant said slowly, wishing he did. He'd had no contact with Frederickson apart from the normal reportorial ones. "I'm about to walk in a parade," he continued, "but I should be done here about nine. Sorry I can't be more exact."

  "I reckon I understand your problems, Senator," Jenks said. Grant thought he detected an undertone of irony in the Sheriff's deep voice. Odd, if so.

  They made arrangements for that evening.

  Grant, a preoccupied look on his face, handed the phone back to Masterson.

  "Have the car ready to take us to Madison as soon as we finish here," he told Masterson. They were booked into a Madison hotel that night to be near their first event early the next morning. "Sheriff Jenks is meeting us there."

  ####

  For Janet Loomis, the past five months had been a suffocating, mindless torment. First, the policemen had arrived on her doorstep with their nightmarish news that her husband, Phillip Loomis, Senator from New York, was dead. Dreadfully dead - a suicide! Then she'd endured the funeral and the friends and family with their many kindnesses only partially masking their pity.

  Tonight, she was taking her first step to meet the future, choosing to do something that in the past had brought her unalloyed pleasure. Every year on each of her sons' birthdays, she took out his precious baby book and relived the joy of his life. This year, Chris's birthday had come too close to Phillip's death to make such a sentimental journey possible, but tonight she was going to rectify that omission.

  Sinking into a chair, Janet opened the book. The pages parted to the middle where a strange manila envelope had been inserted. Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. Her name was on the envelope in Phillip's writing! She picked it up, pushed the baby book aside, and slowly traced her name with her finger. Then taking a deep breath, she lifted the flap and poured out the contents. Her eyes narrowed, puzzled.

  Newspaper articles! Why would Phillip have left her yellowing newspaper articles? She glanced at them only long enough to realize they described legislation Phillip had sponsored in the Senate.

  Then she spotted the white envelope buried beneath them. Her breathing harsh and as unsteady as her hands, she picked it up.

  As she read the words on it, her racing heart seemed to jolt to a stop.

  "Janet," she read, "please give this to Bob Grant unread if he seems to be in any kind of trouble." That was all. She turned the envelope over, but the back was blank.

  A feeling of dread knifed through her, but she clenched her teeth and ripped the envelope open. Her face was haggard when she finished reading.

  ####

  Both Grant and Masterson were tired from a long day of campaigning, following long months of too many similar days. Having to spend time with an unknown sheriff for what was a pro forma task didn't appeal to either of them.

  When they stepped out of the car, Sheriff Jenks and his deputy moved out of the shadows by the hotel entrance and walked toward them.

  Although over six feet himself, Grant felt dwarfed by the Sheriff. Jenks was a mountain of a man, Grant thought. Must be at least six-five or six-six, with the bulk to go with it. Not an inch of it was fat, Grant was willing to bet.

  They greeted each other politely and entered the lobby, following an eager campaign volunteer to an already open and comfortably appointed suite.

  "Mike Masterson is my campaign manager," Grant said, gesturing toward Masterson, who had followed them into the room and was now seated on the couch opposite Jenks's chair. Deputy Farrar was seated behind, a notebook open on his lap.

  Jenks's initial questions were friendly and predictable. Grant's answers were short and factual. He knew little other than that Frederickson had been tenacious, determined to break a story to Grant's detriment. After twelve years, Grant was used to such scrutiny.

  "This murder is puzzling," Jenks said, his drawl becoming less pronounced the longer he talked to Grant. "Here's this reporter, who, according to you, was just doing what reporters covering you have been doing for the last twelve years. A necessary nuisance, nothin' more. But this reporter ends up dead. Shot through the head."

  "It wasn't robbery?" Grant asked, shifting in his chair and regarding the sheriff curiously. "You've eliminated robbery as a motive?"

  "Frederickson's wallet was just where you'd expect," Jenks said, "in his pocket. Some money, not much, and some credit cards were still in it. A right nice computer was left behind, too.

  "Do you have any leads?" Grant asked, still wondering why the sheriff had felt it necessary to see him personally.

  "What would you say," Jenks asked, "if I told you Frederickson claimed to know something downright dirty about you?" Jenks's eyes were deceptively bland under heavy eyelids. "'Irreparable damage to Grant both personally and politically' were that poor boy's words."

  Grant's vague misgivings could in no way have prepared him for the shock of Jenks's assertion. "Something damaging about me?" he asked incredulously. "With the potential of destroying me? Where'd you hear that?" Grant asked.

  "Feller named Evans. Russell Frederickson worked for his paper. This here Evans reckoned Frederickson was on to something mighty unsavory about you."

  "Peter Evans," Grant said with a mirthless laugh. He relaxed somewhat back into his chair. "I might have known. Evans doesn't have much use for me. You could probably tell. He makes no secret of it, in print or out. I managed to embarrass not only Evans but his newspaper a year ago. I'm sure you remember the incident - the international disaster that was averted when José Moya came to power in Cuba."

  Jenks nodded but remained silent.

  "I realize you'll have to follow up Evans's accusation, Sheriff, but I hope it won't be the only avenue you investigate. I had nothing whatsoever to do with his death."

  "You needn't worry yourself, Senator," Jenks said. "I've several avenues I'm fixin' to travel, and only one of them is Evans's dark secret about you."

  "Something damaging with the potential of destroying me," he murmured almost to himself as the door closed behind the sheriff and his deputy. He looked up at Masterson. "Have you heard any rumors about me, Mike, something Frederickson might have latched on to?"

  "Nothing," Masterson said. "This campaign is a no-brainer. You know that. Not even Caruso can think he has a prayer of winning. I can't think of anyone less likely than you to have a fatal secret or to commit murder."

  Grant looked at Masterson thoughtfully. He appreciated the words of support, but how much, really, could anyone know about anyone else? Could Masterson, for instance, feel confident he really knew Grant?

  "What did you think of the sheriff?" he asked Masterson.

  "Jenks? He is a Democrat, and he is white."

  "And you think he'll hold my being both black and Republican against me?" Grant asked. "Somehow I can't see Jenks letting politics enter into any investigation. He seems an independent cuss."

  "Maybe," Masterson retorted, "but he's obviously a hick, maybe part of the Klan even. Hard to say how smart he is.

  "Your Ivy League snobbery is getting the better of you," Grant quipped.

  "Jenks's good-old-boy pose seemed calculated camouflage for a sharp mind."
*
Grant closed the door to his hotel room with a sense of relief. Privacy. The lines on his face eased even more as he caught sight of the attractive woman waiting for him on the bed.

  "Ah, Rach, I was hoping you'd be here."

  Rachel Grant smiled and came to him.

  He didn't need to ask how she'd known he'd want her there. Twenty-seven years of shared experiences had engendered between them an intuitive bond, unbreakable and sustaining. He didn't need to ask how she'd known where to find him either. The order of events was as predictable as was everything - everything until tonight's meeting with the sheriff - in this well-ordered campaign.

  Rachel had taken a three-week leave of absence from her Washington oncology practice, the last three weeks before the election on November 2. As always during a campaign, she and Grant traveled separately so that they could personally cover as much of Georgia as possible. Because both of their schedules were known to both of their staffs, finding him would have been easy. Rachel would have realized upon hearing the news of the murder and the innuendoes about her husband's involvement that their nightly phone call wouldn't suffice.

  "A sheriff Jimmy Jenks in Oconee County is in charge of the investigation," Grant told her. "I met him tonight. He cultivates the good-old-boy image, but I'd say he'd be hard to fool."

  "Good. Then he knows any thought of linking you to murder is . . . is . . ."

  Rachel struggled for the right word. She sat up abruptly, sparks in her eyes.

  " - stupid! Totally stupid! Murder! How could anyone connect you with murder!"

  "Peter Evans is convinced I'm involved."

  Rachel regarded him with dawning enlightenment. "Now it's beginning to make sense," she said, settling back into the sofa again. "Peter Evans is an egotistical fool."

  Grant chuckled. Even so the gnawing concern remained, just below conscious thought, like a cancer that hadn't manifested itself but was wreaking its silent damage nonetheless.

  "We'd better call the kids," Rachel said. All humor was wiped from her face.

  Being far from the children was always difficult. The circumstances made it doubly so. She stood and started toward the phone by the bed. "Do we tell them anything special?"

  "To expect a few rough days, I suppose, but other than that -" Grant shrugged, as she reached for the phone on the end table, and began dialing.

  "We're under reporter siege," Henry, their youngest, a thirteen-year-old live wire, announced with obvious relish as soon as he heard their voices.

  "Is India there?" Rachel asked.

  "Sure. All of us are. Well, almost. Bailey's still out."

  "All" meant India, the oldest at twenty-two and a senior in premed at Georgetown University; Bailey, a twenty-one-year-old junior at Georgetown, who was taking this semester off to help in his dad's campaign; Olivia, a senior in high school; and Henry, the youngest, an eighth grader. Justice, a black lab, rounded out the family.

  "India, any problems?" Rachel asked when her daughter got on the phone.

  "Not now. What's going on? We heard about the murder of some reporter, but Dad involved? That's weird."

  "Sounds like you know about what we do," Grant said. "Poor Frederickson was murdered, and since it's campaign silly season, you'd better be prepared. We want you to stay with Cynthia, starting tomorrow."

  Cynthia Novitsky was Grant's administrative assistant. A widow with both sons recently on their own, she always welcomed overnights by the Grant kids. Rachel and India worked out the details, and after talking to Olivia, the Grants hung up.

  "I wonder what Bailey's up to," Rachel said, her eyes thoughtful. Bailey lived at home while he attended Georgetown, as did his sister India. For this semester only, he'd taken time off and was learning the fundamentals of campaigning, at present helping Cynthia with commercials, speech writing, fact gathering, voter lists, the minutiae of a successful campaign. His real talent, however, lay in his genius with computers. Anything about computers Bailey understood. He'd been absorbed by them since his tenth birthday when he'd received the first of three. Grant dialed Cynthia's number.

  "I'm glad you're sending the kids here," Cynthia told Grant. "You know how much I love having them. Besides, no need to take chances."

  "I don't expect any problems," Grant reassured her, "but thanks for helping out." Grant then recounted his conversation and meeting with Sheriff Jenks.

  "Frederickson is supposed to have said what?" Cynthia interrupted. "Some kind of damaging story about you? Strange. I'll see if anyone here remembers talking to him. I'll check the Atlanta office, too. I'm surprised someone hasn't mentioned it though. Frederickson must have been real cagey - if any of this is even true."

  ####

  
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Monday, October 26: Eight Days Before the Election

  The Madison Rotary Club rose en masse at the conclusion of Grant's speech, bestowing on him the last of several noisy standing ovations. Matt Goldie, his hands raised in a victory clench above his head, stood out in the middle of the crowd. Grant grinned and waved. There was no one he liked better or respected more than Goldie.

  Now retired and a flying fanatic who took any opportunity to crease the air with his private jet, Goldie had spent the last four years attending most of Grant's political events - social ones, too, for that matter. Goldie had been an unabashed Grant supporter from the beginning.

  Grant, grinning broadly at the cheers of support, stepped off the stage and into the crowd.

  Slowly, he made his way to Goldie and gave him a bear hug. Side by side the two circulated through the room as Grant reassured his friends and supporters. Only after he'd visited with everyone did he move to the back of the room, where the media waited with their questions. The reporters, unlike the crowd, focused on Grant's possible guilt. Grant continually turned the questions into ones of innocence but began to feel anger at the unremitting doubt inherent in them.

  "Don't let them get to you," Goldie whispered in his ear.

  "I've the oddest feeling about all this, Matt." Grant's face was creased with puzzlement. "Almost a sense of impending doom." He lifted an eyebrow in self-mockery. "Preelection jitters, you suppose?"

  ####

  As had been true at the Rotary breakfast, Grant's luncheon address was well attended and well received.

  As he and Masterson started down the weathered granite steps of the courthouse, several cars skidded to a stop in the street in front. Their doors flew open, and reporters and photographers jumped out and rushed toward them, clutching cameras, notebooks, and tape recorders as they ran.

  "Something's up," Masterson spoke into Grant's ear. He grabbed Grant's elbow.

  "Don't say anything. Let's get out of here and find out what's happening." He took Grant by the arm and hustled him down the steps and into the car. Grant leaned forward to address the driver. "Robby, find a pay phone. From now on we treat this as a hostile campaign, and the first rule is to use ground phone lines whenever possible. I'm not about to have the press monitoring my calls.

  ####

  Cynthia Novitsky grabbed her phone on the first ring. "It's bad, Senator," she told Grant.

  "Corinne Frederickson, Russell Frederickson's widow, just gave a live interview," Cynthia continued. "She swears her husband was afraid you would kill him."

  "What!"

  "Frederickson sent a letter to their lawyer," she continued, all emotion erased from her voice, "to be opened in case of his death. Frederickson gave no specifics, nothing about why he was afraid of you or what he expected to happen. At least that's the impression his widow gave.

  "Any proof Frederickson wrote the letter?" he finally asked.

  "None mentioned, but. . ."

  "Have someone transcribe the interview so we can study it, maybe pick up on some nuance.

  He hung up and called Jenks. After a short delay, Grant was put through to Jenks.

  "What do you know about this letter from Frederickson?" Grant demanded without preamble.

  "Hold on, Senator," Jenks chided. "You're the one who needs to be answering the questions."

  "Then the letter is genuine?" Grant asked, reigning in his impatience.

  "It appears to be," Jenks opined.

  Genuine. How could that be? Grant leaned against the side of the phone booth, his mind finding, then rejecting all possibilities. Nothing about this made sense. His sense of foreboding rushed back, magnified tenfold.

  "Printed on Frederickson's portable printer," Jenks continued. "Mailed before his death."

  "Did anyone else have access to the computer?" "Sure could have, Senator, but the signature appears genuine."

  "I don't understand," Grant said slowly. "Why would Frederickson believe that? Afraid of me . . ." He took a deep breath.

  "Sorry I have to ask this, Senator, but where were you Saturday night between 10 and 12?"

  "In my hotel room, Sheriff, by myself. No alibi. No alibi at all."

  "Talk to anyone?"

  "No one came to the room, not even Masterson. Wait a minute" Grant paused, wanting his account to be as accurate as possible. "I called Rachel at around 10, then Cynthia Novitsky, my administrative assistant, about 10:25 or 10:30."

  "I know, Senator. We have the record of those calls. You were a mighty talkative fellow, on that phone from 9:53 until 11:16."

  "And that establishes my innocence?" Grant asked, hope adding a detectable lightness to his voice.

  "Not according to the official time of death, but to my way of thinking it gives grounds for doubt, especially since you've spent about the same amount of time on the phone every night the past week."

  "Thank you, Sheriff," Grant said, relieved at having his favorable estimation of Jenks affirmed. The more Jenks looked into his background, the better Grant would like it. He had nothing to hide.

  "Anyone have what you might call a personal grudge toward you?" Jenks asked.

  "You mean someone killing Frederickson to get at me?" Grant's voice was incredulous. He turned and saw Masterson in the car, pointing with exaggeration at his watch. "That's almost as absurd as killing him myself."

  "Maybe, but you might give it some thought. Frederickson was investigating only you; all his information discredits you; every clue we have points to you." Jenks's voice was suddenly hard. "Right now you're our number-one suspect, Senator.
*
"You sure we got the right house?"

  The night was dark, the street lights pooling brightness only to the edge of the lawns. Three young men, bravado hiding their strained nerves, crept through backyards.

  "Come on. This is it."

  They skirted the darkened row house and crept to the front.

  "Here?" one young man asked, taking a trowel out of his pocket and kneeling down.

  "Closer to the street," commanded another, the arrogant assurance in his voice marking him the leader. "Don't want anyone to miss it.

  With a nervous glance first toward the street, then toward the leader, the other took a can of black spray paint from his pocket and ran to the house. They worked quickly, continually shooting wary glances toward the cars passing on the street, then up at the house.

  "Put some gas on the grass," hissed the leader.

  He threw a match, and without pause all three sprinted down the short lawn and then along the sidewalk. Fire whooped through the grass and up the cross.

  He'd return when the house was for sure empty. He'd steal the gun and car then and leave them in the car park exactly as Bonfire had instructed.

  Bonfire - the mere thought of the name brought with it a frigid tremor of fear. Bonfire, the unknown phantom whose horribly altered voice might phone at any time of the day or night. He paid handsomely for exact adherence to his orders. None dared say no to his demands any more than they dared violate them.

  The phone by Grant's motel room bed rang. Three A.M. The children! Grant grabbed the phone. He listened in silence, asked a few questions, then hung up and turned to face a worried Rachel.

  "That was Cynthia. Someone burned a cross on our lawn and sprayed swastikas on the house."

  "Oh, Bob!"

  "I'm sorry." He pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair. "No one was home. No one was hurt. The children didn't see it."

  "Thank God for that."

  Grant turned away from the darkened window and toward her. "This goes beyond dirty campaign tricks or hooligans up to no good."

  Rachel's eyes reflected his thoughts. "Could Sheriff Jenks be right about a vendetta? Could this be part of it?"

  ####


  Tuesday, October 27: Seven Days Before the Election

  "Anything new?" Grant asked Cynthia as they began their morning telephone briefing. As usual Mike Masterson had come to Grant's motel room. He was sitting on a nearby couch, an extension phone held to his ear.

  "Actually, things are looking better," Cynthia told him. "Strange, isn't it?" Cynthia asked. "You're now the underdog. Morale is higher than ever among our campaign workers. They're mad at all the lies. This cross burning will make them madder still. Hard to believe people can be so bigoted, isn't it?

  "What about this idea of Jenks's that someone has targeted me personally? Have you gotten any leads, Cynthia?"

  "Not a whisper. No one can remember anyone with that kind of motivation. The usual wackos, of course, but no one that extreme or with the money to coordinate all this. Your work on drug interdiction - is that worth considering? Violence and money - can drug warlords be far behind?"

  Grant, a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, had been holding hearings on using the military to combat drug smuggling. Grant felt interdiction, the prevention of drugs reaching the country, should be a major part of the drug war. He'd made this restructuring of the war on drugs a major platform of his Senate reelection bid. He made sure to mention it in every interview about a possible run for the presidency.

  ####

  Grant finished his speech to the group of businessmen and opened the floor for questions.

  "Maribeth Pariss," Kirk Vinton yelled from the back of the room where he'd just rushed in. Vinton, who headed a yet-to-be-named team of reporters for the Herald had already won one Pulitzer for his investigative journalism. An exposé of a senator was good material for another. "Tell us about your affair with Maribeth Pariss."

  Even as Grant ignored the question and motioned to another reporter, his mind raced. An affair? Who was Maribeth Pariss?

  "Your affair, Senator!" Vinton repeated belligerently, his voice overriding all others. "Are you responsible for her suicide?"

  By now, all eyes were moving from Vinton to Grant and back again. A wave of stunned disbelief swept through the crowd.

  No one was more taken aback than Grant. He felt his face hardening into an angry frown and forced himself to relax. He'd never needed his composure more. "I'm surprised you'd stoop to such a question," he said. "I've never had an affair and never will. Trust is essential to my marriage. Your question is insulting."

  "So you're calling Maribeth Pariss a liar, are you, Senator?" Vinton yelled. "I don't know what you're talking about," Grant finally said into the now oppressive silence, "but I do know that I'm not going to dignify such intolerable accusations by saying more."

  "What is going on?" Grant asked Masterson. "Who is this Maribeth? I've got to alert Rachel. Find me a phone!"

  ####

  At that moment, Sheriff Jenks was picking up a computer printout, one of two files that Sally, with the help of several "expert experts" as she called them, had found in Frederickson's computer.

  The "Leads" file had been easy to find, Sally had told him. The other file, which Frederickson himself had dubbed "Pulitzer," had been buried deep, Sally had said, a fact the sheriff found mighty interesting. They'd just happened to stumble on it, she'd said.

  Jenks glanced through it again, though he knew it practically by heart, all three pages. Names, places, and just single words. Nothing to hang an investigation on. In fact, nothing that made any sense. Jenks sighed and laid the file down.

  ####

  Bailey Grant was wrapped in thought as he walked down Prospect Street near the Georgetown campus. Again today he was meeting Sherrill for lunch, a quick bite before he resumed his computer search for any clue to the source of this smear campaign against his father. So far he'd come up empty. His father was counting on him, and despite Bailey's best efforts, he was letting him down. If only he could find something concrete, some thread that would unravel the whole. He hoped this lunch break would provide an inspiration. Someone grabbed his arm.

  "Hey, Bailey, why so gloomy?" Andrew Stoner asked, trying to steer him in the opposite direction. "You need a pick-me-up, couple of beers at The Cellar. Come on."

  "Can't, Andrew. I'm meeting Sherrill." Bailey grinned as he saw her sauntering toward them. She really was something - a bit mixed-up, agreed, but under it all he was convinced she was one very nice girl. He was willing to wait for her to get her act together.

  Andrew hadn't yet seen her. With a grimace of disgust, he let go of Bailey's arm. "What's gotten into you?" he asked. "No time even for a couple of beers? Geez, Bailey, you're turning into a regular nun - priest, whatever. Well, maybe not," he said, staring at Sherrill as she neared them. "How'd you ever get such a hot body interested in you?"

  Bailey wondered the same, though Sherrill's good looks weren't at the top of his list of reasons. "You have real wild parties," Sherrill told Andrew with a laugh as she linked her arm through Bailey's.

  Andrew looked gratified.

  "You ain't seen nothing yet," he said with bravado. "Drop by tonight. We're going to fly. Reg really wants you there, Bailey. So do I. "Are you crazy?" Bailey asked angrily.

  "I knew you'd say that." A scowl distorted Andrew's face. "Reggie's got a supplier and swears it's a trip worth taking. What've we got to lose?"

  "Don't be a fool, Andrew. People die, even on the first try."

  "Bailey, please!" Sherrill's voice was pleading.

  "Come tonight and really live." Andrew said. "You need something to help you forget this whole mess. Tonight's your chance. A little bliss and you'll forget all your problems."

  Without waiting for their response, Andrew sauntered away, heading toward The Cellar. "See you tonight in Wonderland, kiddos," he called over his shoulder, an impish grin on his face.
*
"Thanks for coming here, Sheriff," Grant said, opening his hotel suite door.

  The Senator looked weary, Jenks thought as he shook the proffered hand.

  "Sorry I couldn't come to your office," Grant said, leading them into the room. "But I'd hate to miss any campaign event. You can imagine what the media would make of that. I'd like you to meet my wife, Rachel."

  Both Jenks and Deputy Farrar looked at her with barely concealed consternation before returning her handshake.

  "I hope you don't mind if Rachel sits in?" Grant asked, sensing their unease.

  Jenks shook his head. He leaned down and carefully placed his hat under his chair. "This story about Maribeth Pariss, Senator," he said, straightening and looking Grant in the eye. "You have anything to say about that?"

  "I had nothing to do with the girl," Grant said easily. "In fact I'm embarrassed to admit I don't remember her at all. I can't prove that, of course. That's why this story of an affair is so damnable."

  "And so effective for that very reason," Rachel said softly.

  "Miss Pariss worked in your Atlanta office. That right?" Jenks asked.

  "Yes," Grant said. "I checked as soon as I heard the story. She worked there for about six months. That was two years ago.

  "I can't quite get a handle on this," the sheriff continued unemotionally, "why you wouldn't have known Miss Pariss. Your office that big?"

  "Ten people in Atlanta," Grant said. "I try to get to know all my employees, but Miss Pariss was only there for a short time, during most of which the Senate was in session and I was in Washington. Besides I only work closely with two of the people in my Atlanta office."

  "You own a handgun, Senator?" Jenks's eyes were again hooded but watchful.

  "Yes," Grant replied. "Two, both registered. Any particular caliber?"

  "Just a handgun, Senator," Jenks said. "Any chance you could turn them in for ballistic checks?"

  "Certainly," Grant agreed without hesitation. "They're in our D.C. house. I'll have Bailey go by and get them tomorrow."

  ####

  Bailey Grant started for the door of Andrew's apartment. With his hand on the doorknob, Bailey saw the faded and curled snapshot Andrew had taped to his TV.

  Five boys grinned at the camera, the Potomac River shimmering in the background: Andrew, Bear, Milton, Sean - a friend who'd gone west to school, and himself, back in the days when they'd thought their friendship would last forever, back when their major concern had been finding fun that wouldn't bend their folks too out of shape if they heard.

  After a long look at the snapshot, Bailey walked to the sagging chair in front of the TV and sat down. Several laughing girls came in, and Andrew tossed them cans. Soon the room was filled with young people. Apparently, word had gotten out.

  When the room was really rocking, Reggie, a newcomer to the group, raised clasped hands over his head. "Let the good times roll!" he shouted. He reached down, pulled up a plastic bag, and presented it with a flourish to the admiring cluster.

  Bailey argued with them. He even did some begging. They laughed at him.

  Then Sherrill walked through the door. Her smile faded as she surveyed the room.

  "Here, babe," Reggie yelled, intercepting her as she started toward Bailey. He offered her a line of coke.

  "No," she told Reggie, shaking her head. With a look at the white powder and at the unnatural state of those who had taken it, she rushed to Bailey's side. "We've got to get out of here," she said, her eyes darting toward the door.

  "I can't leave," Bailey told her, puzzled by her vehemence. First she'd begged him to come, knowing about the drugs, and now she couldn't wait to get him out of there! "Someone needs to stay with these guys." He gestured around the room. "They sure can't take care of themselves."

  "I don't care!" Sherrill shouted. "We shouldn't be here!"

  Bailey stared at her. He didn't want to be here any more than she did, but Andrew and Bear were his friends, and friends didn't leave friends, not when they obviously needed help and not when no one else was around to give it.

  Only a few more hours, and these bozos he called friends should be sober enough for him to leave. This was it, the last time, Bailey thought. Friends or no friends, his baby-sitting days were over.

  Suddenly, Bailey froze. Someone was shaking and turning the doorknob, trying to get in! Bailey had locked the door. This was one party he didn't want busted. Mesmerized, Bailey stared at the doorknob.

  The shaking stopped, and whoever it was began pounding the door, the force intensifying with each blow.

  Bailey crept to the door. At the next knock, he cautiously brought his eye to the peephole. Milton!

  Bailey flung open the door, barely restraining himself from throwing his arms around his friend.

  "Sorry I'm so late," Milton said.

  "They did it, didn't they?" Milton asked. Bailey nodded. "Fools! They all right?"

  "I think so." Bailey looked over at Joey. "What am I saying? I don't know. What's all right with all this stuff? Look at that guy. He collapsed just before you got here."

  They walked over to the limp body. Only the slightly fluttering eyelids and struggling chest gave sign of life.

  "That's Joey Hunter," Milton said. "His old man's the Attorney General."

  "You've got to be kidding!" Bailey exclaimed, staring down in horror at the blue-tinged, strangely empty face. "The A.G.! That's just what we need now!"

  "What's that sound?" Milton placed his hand tentatively on the boy's moist forehead. "Geez, it's him, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," Bailey agreed. "Shouldn't we keep him warm? Shock or something?" he asked.

  "What we should do is get him to a hospital," Milton retorted.

  Both boys turned as Reggie Dixon staggered noisily to his feet. "Where

  you going?" Milton demanded. "I'm outta here," Reggie said. He slurred the words.

  Bailey reached out to steady him. "You can't go anywhere, the shape you're in."

  Reggie glared at him through venomous eyes. "So long, Daddy's Boy," he said, speaking directly to Bailey, all slur wiped from his voice. "You're even more a fool than I expected." With a backward sneer, he slammed the door.

  ####

  Reggie Dixon went straight from Andrew's apartment to the nearest pay phone. He may have been swaggering, but even so his pulse throbbed to some wild tune. He was calling Bonfire, and his pulse knew it.

  "So what's the problem?" Bonfire demanded.

  "Well, it's like this. One of the guys at the party, he came late, see. Turns out the Attorney General's his old man. The cops could make a real stink, and not just about little Bailey."

  First, Bonfire was silent. Then he said, "I want you to disappear, Dixon. That's what I want you to do. And, Dixon, how's your memory?"

  "I don't remember nothing." Reggie was whimpering now. "I promise. Nothing."

  "That's what I hoped you'd say," Bonfire replied. "But just in case, I'll be watching you. Wherever you go, I'll be watching. Remember that, won't you, Dixon?"

  Reggie moaned a yes, but the phone was already dead.

  ####

  Bailey crouched over Joey Hunter, looking in vain for a trace of normal color in the chalky cheeks. Someone knocked on the door.

  He and Milton exchanged frightened glances. Who could it be at this hour? If it were a friend, why hadn't he tried the door? It was always unlocked. A vision of blue uniformed policemen flashed into Bailey's mind.

  Bailey looked from Milton's troubled face to Sherrill's panicked one. He reached for the door. Sherrill sobbed in relief and clutched his other hand. Just as he started to release the lock, a fist pounded against the other side.

  "Police! Open up!"

  Uniformed policemen filled the apartment, so many, all professional and competent.

  ####

  Rachel sat on the edge of the sofa, her feet tucked under her robe and her hands clasped tightly around her knees. Her eyes never left her husband's face.

  "Hello."

  Grant didn't recognize the voice. "Could I please speak with Bailey Grant?" he asked. He could hear voices in the background, odd words he didn't associate with a college gathering. Before he could clarify his thoughts, the voice was responding.

  "Could I tell him who's calling?" the stranger asked.

  "This is his father. Who is this?"

  Grant's question remained unanswered.

  "Who is this?" Grant asked again.

  "Senator Grant, this is Captain Fleming, of the D.C. police department."

  "Bailey's all right, isn't he?" Grant's voice was steady, but his heart had plummeted at Fleming's words. At the sight of his tense face, Rachel squeezed her knees tighter.

  "Yes, sir. Your son is fine."

  Grant closed his eyes in momentary relief. He leaned over and squeezed Rachel's hand, mouthing, "He's fine."

  "Then why are you there, Captain Fleming?" he asked.

  "I'm not able to answer that now, sir, but we're taking your son to police headquarters. We'll answer as many of your questions as we can then."

  "You're arresting him? What charges?"

  "We're not arresting him, sir," the policeman said patiently, "just taking him in for questioning, routine procedure in a situation involving drugs."

  "Drugs?" Grant repeated dumbly. He hung up and turned to Rachel.

  "The police have Bailey," he told her. "Drugs."

  "Oh, no." Two small words but filled with a mother's anguish.

  ####

  Bailey listened to the policeman's end of the phone conversation with mounting tension. Even as he listened, he frantically tried to decide what he should do. He'd been set up. That was certain. If possible he had to keep the setup from succeeding. But how?

  Captain Fleming said "Your friend doesn't look good, son."

  "He'll be all right, won't he?" Bailey asked again.

  "Bailey, you can help your friend by telling me his name and how to contact his parents."

  "Joey Hunter," Bailey said. "I'd never seen him before tonight, but I think he's Joey Hunter. His father is the Attorney General. Milton knows him."

  Captain Fleming, the lines on his face embedding themselves even deeper, turned to Milton. "Is that right, Milton? The boy we just took out of here is Attorney General Hunter's son?"

  Milton nodded. Captain Fleming gave the boys an appraising look. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.

  "We've got a problem here," he said, "a bigger one than we expected."
*

  Jonathan Hunter had been on the phone for several minutes, doing little but listen. As he listened, his body seemed to harden, then shrink in on itself.

  "I understand," he said finally. "I'll be there as soon as possible." With gentle deliberation, he replaced the receiver.

  "What is it, Jonathan?" Rebecca Hunter asked.

  "It's Joey," he said. His voice was unsteady. He could feel her fright, but he continued to avoid her face and to stare down at the blankets. "He's been hurt."

  Rebecca scrambled out of bed, throwing off her nightgown and frantically hunting for clothes. "I'm going with you." She stopped and faced him. "He's all right, isn't he?"

  Hunter ignored her questions. He continued to avoid her eyes. "I'm not going to the hospital, not yet."

  "Not - going - to - the - hospital!" She spat out each word. "Let me guess. You're going to the White House, aren't you? The precious White House!" He didn't respond.

  "Tell me, Jonathan!" she screamed. "Tell me about my baby!"

  "He OD'd. Drugs. He's been taken to the hospital. I can't do anything there now, but I can help him if I go to the White House. You may not like it, but that's the truth. I care about my son's good name even if you don't."

  He stopped at the door and turned. "I'll have a car ready for you in five minutes," he said. "They'll take you straight to the hospital. Don't worry. I'm sure he'll be fine." He left.

  ####

  Wednesday, October 28: Six Days Before the Election

  The President enfolded Hunter in a hug, giving his back a sympathetic pat. "I'm devastated about Joey," he said, leading the smaller man to a large leather chair.

  Edmund Miller and Charles Kendall, senior members of the National Security Council staff, were already seated as was Chief of Staff M. Eugene Corforth. All were used to middle-of-the-night meetings.

  "How's Rebecca?" the President asked.

  "She was on her way to the hospital when I left."

  The President nodded. "Let's get this meeting over as quickly as possible so you can be with her." He looked at Corforth.

  "Yes, Mr. President," Corforth said. "We want to help in every possible way, Jonathan. We've already taken steps to eliminate any mention of the nature of your son's illness." He nodded toward Kendall.

  "Notes are even now being inserted into his medical record," Kendall explained.

  "They'll verify that his medical problems are due solely to a pre-existing heart condition."

  Hunter's face was rigid. His eyes never left Kendall's face. His hands never ceased their rhythmic polishing of the glasses.

  "Further," Kendall continued, "the head of cardiology research at the NIH is en route to the hospital to supervise your son's care. After examination I'm sure he'll confirm the nature of the heart problem as congenital. We're committed not only to Joey's physical well-being but also to protecting him from the stigma of drug abuse."

  "By a curious turn," Edmund Miller said, "Bob Grant's son was at the same party as Joey. We have reason to believe he may have procured the drugs."

  Corforth looked at Miller in surprise. Then all eyes were drawn to Hunter, who surged to his feet, overturning his chair.

  "Grant's son?" Hunter whispered, the glasses dangling forgotten from his hand. Flames of color rushed up his neck and into his cheeks.

  When Hunter left fifteen minutes later, their plans were made. Joey Hunter's name would remain unblemished. The same couldn't be said for Bailey Grant's.

  ####

  The Grants were finally allowed to talk to Bailey if only over the phone.

  Reggie, the drugs, the timely arrival of the police, -his parents listened to Bailey's account with mounting helplessness.

  Cynthia, a lawyer herself, worked with the Grant's criminal attorney, trying to secure release for Bailey and Sherrill, who didn't have legal counsel of her own. Both lawyers reported foot-dragging unusual in an all-too-ordinary drug bust.

  And so Bailey and Sherrill would remain in jail for what little remained of the night. No one seemed able to prevent it.

  Rachel was booked on the next flight from Atlanta to Washington. Grant, however, would remain in Georgia.

  "You're right to stay here," Rachel told him. "Bailey's arrest has to be connected with Russell Frederickson's murder."

  "As soon as you see Bailey," Grant said, "have him go over everything again, every detail. Record it all. Give a copy to Cynthia, to anyone you think might help. I'll give one to Jenks. Logic says all this is related."

  ####

  At least the inside of the house was unchanged, Rachel noted with relief, closing and locking the door behind her. Bob kept the guns in the bedroom, easy to get in an emergency but out of temptation's way. Her movements were quick as she hurried upstairs. She was anxious to get the handguns, take them to the police station, and then get to Cynthia's in time to be there when Bailey arrived. They hadn't allowed her to see him in jail, but let them try to stop her once he was out!

  She walked into the bedroom closet, removed a concealing strip of wood, and reached into the space Bob had created to store the weapons. All color drained from her face. The space was empty! The handguns were gone, both of them.

  Nothing was missing but the handguns, as far as she could tell. Someone had taken Bob's guns, guns which were sure to bear his fingerprints. Had one been used to murder Russell Frederickson? Would it now materialize, the final piece in the case against her husband?

  ####

  During his seventeen years as a reporter, Kirk Vinton had interviewed several people at Lorton Prison - inmates, administrators, guards - so he was familiar with the routine. Familiar he might be, but he hated the place. The air seemed to get heavier and the light darker the farther he walked into the innards of the building. Even the walls seemed to close inexorably on him.

  Vinton looked up at the sound of the door opening. The man walking toward him had to be Hal Olexey, the orange prison garb said so, but he looked so ordinary: Suspected murderer? Vinton found that hard to believe.

  "Thought someone would be in to see me 'bout now," Olexey said.

  "Why were you expecting someone?" Vinton asked.

  "Been hearing about Grant. Figured someone would remember I sold to him."

  "You sold him drugs? The Senator?" Vinton's tone left no doubt he'd take a lot of convincing.

  "That's what I said." Olexey retorted belligerently.

  "You mean to tell me he actually bought drugs from you?" Vinton demanded. "You sold to him in person?"

  "Weren't you listening? Course I didn't know it was Grant then. Didn't know till I saw his picture in the paper. It was the Senator all right." "Can you prove you sold to Grant?" Vinton asked.

  "Prove?" Olexey laughed harshly, his cruel eyes raking Vinton, their derision unmistakable. "You think I have customers pay by credit card maybe? Got a picture, though, in a safe place." Olexey looked around slyly, then lowered his head. "Cost you, but it'll be worth it. You won't be sorry. Picture shows Grant and me together. No, Mr. Hot Shot Reporter, you won't be sorry."

  ####

  When Grant arrived at the storage room in the back of Martha's Fabulous Diner, a small but successful eatery owned by the sheriff's sister-in-law, Jenks was already there, firmly ensconced at a small table.

  "I appreciate your meeting with me, Sheriff," Grant said. "I was hesitant at first to approach you. I wasn't sure of the protocol in a murder investigation, but Rachel and I decided to trust you with everything we know - against several lawyers' advice, I might add."

  "You're smart to lay your cards on the table," the sheriff said, "though I got to warn you your lawyers may be right."

  "I'll take my chances," Grant said. "I'm innocent."

  The sheriff eyed him thoughtfully, like a poker player trying to smell out a bluff. "Why don't you just put those facts you mentioned on the table, and then we can see where we stand."

  For the next twenty minutes Grant outlined the attacks, beginning with the murder of Frederickson and ending with Bailey's arrest. Jenks listened, jotting down an occasional note.

  Jenks leaned back in his chair. "Mighty glad you decided to trust me, Senator. Gives me a few ideas. Think I'll go back to the office and do a little pondering. I'll give you a call if I come up with anything."

  "You might want to ponder this." Grant's eyes glinted an angry fire. "My handguns have disappeared, both of them, including an army issue Colt .45." Even Jenks, pro that he was, couldn't hide his surprise. Couldn't hide his doubt either, Grant noted grimly as he related what little Rachel had been able to tell him.

  "Let me know if they turn up" was Jenks's only comment as he stood. He regarded Grant thoughtfully for several seconds, then stuck out his hand. Grant shook it, feeling profoundly grateful as he did. Jenks was a proud man. He didn't offer his hand lightly, and unless Grant was mistaken, he wasn't offering just his hand.
*
As soon as the car stopped in Cynthia's drive, Bailey jumped out, loped around to the other side, and opened Sherrill's door. She sat there, staring straight ahead.

  "Come on, Sherrill," he said, grabbing her hand and urging her out. "We don't have much time. Mom's waiting."

  Hiding her shudder at his words, Sherrill reluctantly let him lead her to the back door.

  At the sound of the door opening, Rachel looked up from the notes she was studying. Her face lit with pleasure. "Bailey!" she exclaimed, hurrying around the kitchen table, her arms spread wide in welcome. Bailey grinned and grabbed her in a hug that lifted her from the ground.

  "Your son, the jailbird, in person," he said, the grin bigger than ever.

  Rachel frowned in mock anger. "And after all we've tried to pound into your head!" she said. Then her face became serious. "What happened, Bailey? What really happened?"

  Bailey turned to Sherrill, who was standing partially concealed behind him.

  "This is Sherrill, Mom, Sherrill Holmes," he said, moving so Sherrill was completely revealed. "She's going to tell us everything."

  Rachel took a step toward the obviously nervous young woman and extended her hand. "We're so pleased you would help us," she said with a warm smile. "Why don't you begin, Bailey? Tell me everything that happened. Then Sherrill can fill in the details."

  "Sure," Bailey agreed. Rachel pushed the record button on the tape player she'd left ready in the center of the table.

  ####

  A gray stillness hung over the white sterility of Joey Hunter's hospital room.

  For what seemed the first time in that interminable but all-too-brief day, Rebecca Hunter was alone with her son.

  Her entire being was concentrated on willing her son to live. Her hand cradled his hand. Flaccid.

  Now flaccid had been replaced by dead. She knew even before she heard the straight-line wail of the heart monitor. She knew before the room was overrun with frantic but orderly phantoms in white coats, who gently but firmly pushed her aside.

  She knew he was dead and felt a moment's relief that at least the wait had ended for them both. Then she felt nothing, nothing but the empty throb of despair.

  ####

  Bob Grant and Sheriff Jenks arrived at the alley door of Martha's Fabulous Diner at the same time. The media was already camped out in front. "Who leaked this?" Jenks demanded.

  Grant merely shook his head and held the door open.

  In Martha's back room, Grant and Jenks found Maribeth Pariss's boyfriend already waiting. George Beterman was nice-looking in a homely sort of way. He stood up nervously when they walked into the room, started to stick out his hand, decided maybe that wasn't the thing to do, and held it self-consciously at his side. Grant walked over to him and put out his own hand. After a moment's hesitation, Beterman grasped it.

  "Wasn't sure you'd want to," he muttered. He gave a reflexive smile, then darted his eyes back to the floor. "I know I should've said something earlier when all this about Maribeth and the baby first came up, but - "

  "This is Sheriff Jenks, Mr. Beterman," Grant said. "You suggested you had proof that Maribeth had no improper relationship with me," Grant prompted.

  "Oh, uh, the letters. Well, she started writin' these fool letters. Sent 'em to 'Charlie's,' where I work." He held out a soiled bundle of seven letters, some with envelopes, most without. "Don't know why I kept 'em. She was a nice girl, I guess."

  Jenks placed the letters on the table and began looking through them, careful to touch only the corners so as not to disturb any fingerprints. When he finished, he turned to Grant. "They establish that she thought George here was the father. Nothing to show you didn't have a relationship with her though."

  "You have something else to tell us, Mr. Beterman?" Grant prompted.

  "Well, I guess you might find what you need in this diary of Maribeth's." He pulled a red vinyl book from his suit-coat pocket, the kind of simple-lock diary a young girl might use.

  "I was hoping that would turn up," Jenks said with satisfaction. He took it from Beterman. "How'd you happen by it, Mr. Beterman?"

  "Oh, that was Maribeth," he said. "She sent it to me. Must have mailed it the day she died. I . . . I only read part of it. Why'd she have to go and kill herself anyway?"

  Grant and Jenks again had no answer.

  "Thanks for coming forward, Mr. Beterman," Jenks said with no trace of censure.

  "Not a strong character," Jenks said as the door clicked shut. "Soon as we know these are in Maribeth's handwriting, I'll hold a press conference. That'll be one monkey off your back."

  "Thank you, Sheriff," Grant said, watching the bags disappear into Jenks's satchel. "Any lightening of the load is appreciated.

  ####

  Back in Atlanta, Grant stood at a pay phone, trying to curb his impatience.

  Rachel in Washington was going to another pay phone to return his call. All these precautions were necessary, he was certain, but they ate up time, time they couldn't afford to lose.

  The phone rang. Rachel.

  "Bailey was deliberately set up, Bob. His friend Sherrill is with us and confessed to her part of it. She was set up too."

  "No doubt about it?" Grant demanded.

  "No doubt at all."

  Set up. Before, Grant had been content to learn the truth and make it public; now he was determined to uncover the evil and destroy it. No one could be allowed to abuse children with impunity.

  "Some FOW fanatic," Rachel continued, "a poli-sci professor, convinced Sherrill you should be destroyed no matter the cost. Bailey's arrest on drug charges was the goal. They even gave her the day. Yesterday." Silence greeted this alarming news. Rachel's next words came slowly. "It had been planned at least from the beginning of the semester. That means for more than two months someone's been working to destroy you. Two months!" She went on to explain about Reggie, giving every detail of the night before at Andrew's apartment and the events leading to it.

  "Bailey and Sherrill are out now talking to Andrew and some of the others, hoping to get a lead to Reggie."

  "I wish they'd leave it alone," Grant told her. Masterson signaled him from the car. Grant waved to him dismissively, then turned to face the blank brick wall beside him. "It may not be safe. If our enemy planned to use the children all along, if they're that kind of people - using Bailey to get at me puts this into another level, a dangerous one. Try to make him understand."

  "I will," Rachel said.

  "Thank Cynthia for all her work in tracking down Maribeth Pariss's boyfriend," Grant said, stuffing his notes into his pocket. "I just met with him and Jenks." He told her about the meeting. "The boyfriend can prove I couldn't have been involved with Maribeth. In fact, he had her diary," he concluded.

  "That's wonderful! Without a motive, connecting you with the murder is ludicrous."

  "I'm not expecting our enemy to give up that easily," Grant warned. I'll get in touch with you after my meeting, probably close to midnight."

  As soon as Mike Masterson was safely in his room for the night, Grant eased out of his room next door and hurried down the hotel's back stairway to the parking lot below. A black sedan with an Auburn University bumper sticker was parked in front of a "Do not litter" sign, an ignition key under the back floor mat.

  Grant drove to a motel near the Atlanta Airport. The door to Room 134 was unlocked. He entered. Stephen Yao was waiting inside.

  When Yao had phoned earlier that day offering his help, Grant had viewed it as the answer to prayer. He'd become acquainted with Yao years before when Yao was a naval intelligence officer under Grant's command. Mutual respect had become friendship. Now retired from the military, Yao owned a security firm based in New York. Yao had set up this meeting.

  "You don't look too bad," Yao said, shaking Grant's hand enthusiastically, "not for a dangerous desperado."

  "You either," Grant said, laughing.

  Yao shrugged modestly. Nothing much got by him. He possessed the intellectual keenness and physical agility of his Asian heritage. His mother's Caucasian genes had somewhat blunted the Chinese cast of his features, but his father's contribution was obvious nonetheless in his perfectly straight, still-black hair, wiry build, and dark eyes.

  "So someone's tagged you for a little rough play, have they?" Yao asked.

  "Sure seems that way," Grant agreed, settling back into his chair.

  "Any idea who?"

  "Afraid not."

  There was a tap at the door, a pause, then two more taps. In three strides Yao was at the peephole, glancing through it. He opened the door wide enough for entrance.

  "Matt Goldie, I presume," he said.

  "None other," Goldie agreed, shaking Yao's hand and nodding to Grant, who'd risen to greet him. Then Goldie turned his attention back to Yao. The two men regarded each other gravely. The inspection lasted only seconds, but years of experience were packed into them. Finished, they turned to Grant.

  "Satisfied?" he asked, a shade tartly.

  Yao laughed, and the tension was broken. "Remind you of two male predators, checking each other out?" he asked

  Again, a knock sounded. This time Yao looked through the peephole and opened the door immediately.

  "Cynthia," he said, pulling her in and give her a delighted hug. "It's been too long."

  "Agreed." Her eyes and her face warmed with pleasure. "You couldn't have picked a better time to resurface. Things are certainly heating up."

  Goldie gave her a hug and helped her into the chair next to his.

  "Now I understand how George Patton must have felt," Grant said, looking at each of his friends in turn, "going into battle knowing he had the best officers in the war standing at his side. I must say it's comforting. Thanks for knowing the risks and still coming on board."

  Grant filled Yao in on everything that had happened, with Cynthia and Goldie adding amplification.

  "First thing to do," Yao said when they'd finished, "is to put your family under protection, Bob." He looked at Cynthia. "I want someone with you at all times, too, Cynthia."

  Grant nodded, his face grim. "Again, I thank you."

  "I hope it's not needed," Yao said, "but from what you've said, I sure don't want to take chances. I have some friends on standby." He reached for the phone and began dialing. "I'll put them on it right away."

  Yao finished his instructions and hung up. "Okay," he said, "that takes care of our defensive measures for the moment. Let's see what kind of offense we can mount."

  "Operation Integrity," Cynthia said quietly.

  "Exactly," Goldie agreed.

  Yao nodded.

  "Then Operation Integrity it is," Grant said. "And beginning none too soon. We have a lot of ground to make up, judging by what's happened so far."

  When Grant left Room 134 an hour later, Yao kept him well in sight. Goldie left five minutes later after making sure Cynthia was locked in her room securely. Operation Integrity had begun.

  ####

  At Yao's suggestion, Grant checked into a new room on a different floor of the hotel. No one knew of the change. One of Yao's operatives had made the reservation in his own name. He'd even promised to bring a copy of the Washington Herald to Grant's room as soon as the bulldog edition was faxed to him.

  Yao had friends in Washington who even now would be giving Rachel the new room number and the name it was registered under, but it would take time for her to reach a safe pay phone and call.

  Grant threw his jacket on the bed and settled into the only slightly comfortable-looking chair in the room.

  Operation Integrity. Grant smiled.

  The phone rang. Grant picked it up on the first ring and leaned back, his eyes closed, the better to savor Rachel's voice.

  "Stephen was concerned for you and the kids," Grant told her after their greetings. "From now on you'll all have protection. Cynthia, too. Agents handpicked by Stephen. They should be at Cynthia's when you return. Listen to them, Rach, and be sure the kids do, too. They're professionals. They can anticipate problems."

  Using general terms and no names, he told her about his meeting. Cynthia would fill in the details the next morning. "I honestly believe we can lick this," he concluded

  "Cynthia named it Operation Integrity. I find that comforting."

  ####

  Thursday, October 29: Five Days Before the Election

  Grant held the Washington Herald as he might a puppy's befouled training paper. Today's story turned his stomach. He was still being touted as the only possible suspect in the murder of Russell Frederickson, but that was to be expected. This was the Herald, after all. However, today's edition was positively vitriolic, even by the Herald's standards.

  It all but accused Sheriff Jenks of capitulating before Grant's power as senator. As proof, it cited the sheriff's clandestine meetings with Grant at Martha's Fabulous Diner. Every word seemed to confirm Grant's guilt, and every word was a condemnation of Sheriff Jenks, his integrity, and his handling of the case.

  The phone rang.

  "Do you believe the nerve of that Peter Evans?" Rachel demanded immediately. She'd been angry when she'd read the paper, but not so angry that she'd neglected to use a pay phone, a different one this time, and not so angry she'd left without taking her bodyguard. "Evans has judged and condemned you already. Sheriff Jenks, too."

  "If the murderer isn't caught, you've lost the election. You have to win, Bob. You need the power of the Senate to expose the truth."

  "Have you heard from our Cuban friend?" Grant asked. Rachel would know he meant Benjamin Dashev, their old friend. He was ostensibly attached to the Israeli Embassy as the deputy chief of mission but in reality was an agent of Mossad, the Israeli intelligence arm. Dashev had provided much of the information that had helped Grant keep America's enemies from grabbing power in Cuba the year before.

  That was one name better left unsaid, even with the precautions they'd taken.

  "No," Rachel told him, "no message yet. I'll get word to you as soon as I hear. Bailey thinks he's getting closer to finding Reggie, and Sherrill is hopeful of figuring out who set her up. I can't stop them hunting, but at least they've agreed to the bodyguards as long as they don't 'bug them.' So many trails to follow, Bob. Whoever's behind this has buried himself deep. Speaking of which, Cynthia and I spent last night going over Frederickson's computer lists."

  "Bailey found the second one?"

  "Gosh, yes," Rachel said apologetically. "Late last night. I presumed Mike had told you. I'll fax it to Matt right away." Goldie would be sure the list reached Grant and only Grant. "Bailey said it was a real bear to break. Frederickson called it 'Pulitzer,' if you can believe it. Now he's working on tracing Reggie. Cynthia and I've been concentrating on the 'Pulitzer' list he found."

  "Learn anything?" Grant asked.

  "We may have," Rachel said. "Does A. Peabody mean anything to you?"

  "Peabody," Grant said slowly. "That name . . ."

  "What about Anne Peabody?"

  "Of course!" Grant exclaimed, sitting upright, his eyes alive with speculation.

  "The woman who brought down our President."

  The whole sequence of events, including the fortuitous discovery of the money so close to the election, had bothered Grant at the time. Without a trial, the former President would forever be perceived as the man who had sold his country for a few pieces of silver. He'd died a short time later, a death attributed by many, including the majority of the media, to a guilty conscience.

  "Anne Peabody's dead," Rachel said, "killed the day before Frederickson."

  "What!"

  "A mugging in Central Park."

  "Talk about coincidence!"

  "It gets even better," Rachel said. "Cynthia talked to Anne Peabody's secretary. Frederickson called her the day she died. They were supposed to have met the next morning."

  "This could be the break we've been looking for," Grant said, hope lighting his eyes. "I've got to talk to her coworkers today, before someone else gets to them. There has to be some vital connection between Frederickson and Peabody, maybe even the motive for Frederickson's murder."

  They made plans. Grant would contact Matt Goldie and leave for New York as soon as Goldie could have a plane ready.

  ####

  Jenks fingered the memo neatly centered on his desk. The federal jackasses, under the signature of Attorney General Jonathan Hunter, no less, demanded that all files on the Frederickson murder be turned over no later than five o'clock that day. At that time Jenks's participation in the Grant investigation would be terminated.

  The Grant investigation! Jenks fumed. Had they forgotten that Frederickson was the murdered man?

  Jenks leaned back in his chair and perused the Washington Herald. Jenks's jaw hardened. He hated any aspersions on his integrity. A man's integrity took years to develop but could be destroyed overnight, its fragile fabric violated by even the whisper of misconduct. The Washington Herald believed in integrity-shattering screams.

  His direct line rang. It was Bob Grant.

  "Give me your number and a couple of minutes," Jenks said, reaching for his hat and jacket, "and I'll get right back to you." He took time to stuff duplicate files on the Frederickson case, as well as his working notes, into a grocery sack and to put the whole bundle into a bag he used for church league basketball.

  "Be back in a minute," Jenks told his secretary.

  He bypassed the pay phones in the corridor as well as the nearest ones on the street, turning instead into the old red-brick hardware store around the corner and down one block.

  "Got a place you can keep this?" Jenks asked the owner, taking out the grocery sack.

  The wizened old man, a family friend of Jenks's father, picked up the bag. With a backward look out his cluttered front window to be sure he was unobserved, he headed for the storage room. "Won't interest anybody much if I put it in a box behind some supplies."

  "Thanks, Gus. Mind if I use your phone?"

  "Really up to no good, aren't you?" Gus said, grinning broadly and inclining his head toward the back office. Affection beamed from behind his wire-rimmed trifocals.

  Grant picked up on the first ring.

  "Mainly, I'm calling to ask a favor," Grant said. "Several, actually."

  "Fire away, Senator. Then we'll see."

  "First, I'm hoping you can get your hands on some information. How did the police know about the drugs at Andrew Stoner's? Why was a police captain - his name is Fleming - sent to investigate a routine college party, a police captain who knew I was a senator without being told? Coincidentally, how did the media know immediately that my son was involved? Why was Bailey taken to jail and kept there even though charges have yet to be brought against him?"

  Jenks raised an eyebrow. His right boot tapped against his left in the rhythm of his thinking. Sending a captain? Held but no charges? Whole thing sounded downright strange. If Grant had gotten it right, Jenks reminded himself. His foot stilled as the senator continued.

  "Bailey also found a file Frederickson called 'Pulitzer.' " Grant paused but continued when he realized Jenks wasn't planning to respond. "Said Frederickson had it well protected. Anyway, Rachel and Cynthia went over the 'Pulitzer' printout last night. They noticed the name A. Peabody on it. Mean anything to you?"

  "Can't say it does," Jenks said thoughtfully. He wrote A. PEABODY in caps on the pad, right under PULITZER. "Should it?"

  "I can't be sure," Grant said, "but an Anne Peabody was the Wall Street account executive who accused our former President of accepting a bribe. She was murdered the day before Frederickson, a random mugging supposedly."

  "Jumping Jehosophat!" Jenks exclaimed, underlining PEABODY with two broad strokes. "Any proof she's the one Frederickson meant?"

  "Cynthia talked to Peabody's secretary. Frederickson called Peabody the day she died and made an appointment to meet with her the next morning. I'd like to go to New York to interview her coworkers, if you'll agree to it." Jenks was quiet. Grant leaving the state - Derek Bender would be madder than a hornet. Jenks grinned. "Sounds reasonable to me, long as you fill me in down to the dust on Peabody's desk. Soon as you get back, too."

  "Certainly," Grant agreed. "Every speck."

  "This bit of information might make your flight a tad more pleasant," Jenks told him, having decided today was right for imparting a bit of quid pro quo.

  "The Pariss letter's a forgery. A good one, but a for-sure forgery." Jenks smiled at Grant's loud "Had to be."

  "And the diary?" Grant asked.

  "No time yet for a full work-up, but they're nigh onto positive the handwriting was hers and written over a long period of time. Almost five years, they're figuring. I should hear for certain this afternoon. should make for one fine press conference this evening. Maybe give us both a little breathing room."

  "Maybe," Grant said, "but given the last few days, the only change I expect is in the direction of the attack." Jenks heard an airplane engine start up in the background. "Got to go," Grant said. "I'll be in touch."

  ####

  "I appreciate your willingness to see me," Grant told Craig C. Flannery, Anne Peabody's startled lawyer, who couldn't believe that the beleaguered Senator Grant was actually in his office in New York City. But, as Grant had figured, the mention of that "beleaguered senator's" name had gotten him immediate entrance into the lawyer's inner sanctum.

  "Anne Peabody was a friend as well as a client," Flannery said.

  "I don't think Miss Peabody was mugged," Grant said. "I think she was deliberately murdered and that her scheduled interview with Russell Frederickson in some way precipitated her murder."

  "Because Frederickson was murdered, too?" the lawyer asked. His tone was skeptical, but he inclined his head as if to encourage Grant to elucidate.

  "Certainly that was the clincher," Grant agreed, "but the whole chain of events is highly suggestive as well. Miss Peabody got a call from Russell Frederickson. She was visibly upset and indicated that her statement against the former President was the cause of her agitation. Then she telephoned Attorney General Hunter. Afterward, she telephoned you, and she telephoned Frederickson. She told several people that she would be meeting with both of you the next morning. Late that evening she was killed while taking her nightly run through Central Park."

  "You think she was killed to keep her from talking to Frederickson?" Flannery asked. His tone was as noncommittal as only a lawyer's could be.

  "And Frederickson was killed to keep it all secret," Grant agreed with a slight nod. "The two murders are too coincidental not to be related."

  "Since you're the prime suspect," Flannery said, "diverting suspicion from yourself seems logical, ergo this story - " His voice trailed off, inviting Grant to divulge more.

  "I have the advantage of knowing I'm innocent," Grant told him. Then he told Flannery about the forged letter and the efforts to embarrass Grant through Bailey.

  "You mean your son was set up?" Flannery asked. He seemed genuinely disturbed.

  "You know for a fact it wasn't coincidence? Sometimes parents are the last to know about their own children."

  "One of the two people coopted to set Bailey up has explained how she was duped. No, Mr. Flannery, there can be no doubt. My son was compromised with the avowed purpose of compromising me. Given the preponderance of evidence, do you wonder at my questions about the events surrounding Miss Peabody's death?"

  "Interesting, Senator," Flannery said. "I'm willing to answer at least some of your questions. If you're right, Miss Peabody was as much a pawn as anyone. She was an accomplished woman. She deserved better."

  Grant relaxed into the chair. He'd cleared the biggest hurdle: He'd gotten the lawyer interested. Now if he could prime Flannery so he gave some useful information, maybe even was coaxed into action, all the better.
*

  ####

  When Vinton finished his piece on Hal Olexey, a half-page exposé containing every gram in Grant's drug history, he went to Peter Evans's office. A messenger had just delivered the picture.

  "No doubt about that being Grant," Evans said with satisfaction, tapping the picture. It showed two men, both dressed casually, both faces clearly revealed. Several indistinguishable figures mingled in the background. The location could have been anywhere. "That Olexey?" he asked, pointing.

  "Sure is," Vinton confirmed. "Couldn't be clearer."

  Evans flung the picture down on his desk. "We print the picture. We print the story. We let the reader draw his own conclusion. Good work, Vinton. Looks like you'll get your headline."

  "Thank you, sir," Vinton said, putting the picture back into the envelope.

  "Couldn't have done it without your tip," he added.

  ####

  Sheriff Jenks felt like a piece of raw meat being preyed on by scavengers. The NIIA didn't want just a piece of him; they wanted it all. And now the media had joined the hunt. They'd attended his press conference and heard about Maribeth Pariss and her noninvolvement with Grant. They'd seen the letters and the diary. They'd seen the memo detailing the lab's findings. But they were treating his verifiable proofs as the planted evidence of a police official beholden to a corrupt political system.

  Bob Grant was right in deciding to forget his campaign and hone in on the attack itself. Too bad about the campaign, though, Jenks thought.

  Jenks was straightening the papers on his desk when Farrar entered.

  "I guess you've heard that Bender and his NIIA buddies are taking over the investigation," Jenks said.

  The deputy nodded, his eyes on the floor.

  "Let me know if anything else comes in," Jenks said.

  "That won't be necessary, now will it, Sheriff?"

  Farrar and Jenks turned toward the voice. Derek Bender, his eyes expressionless above his charcoal-tinged square jaw, leaned against the door frame.

  "I'm in charge now," Bender said. "Anything that needs to be reported, Deputy, you report it to me. You received the court order?" Bender asked, turning his gaze on Jenks. Though no smirk marred his lips, one lurked undisguised in his eyes. "As a matter of fact," Bender continued, his face softening into self-satisfaction, "I think the sheriff was about to leave.

  

  ####

  

  The addition of Anne Peabody to the game had pushed it into another dimension, Grant thought as he left Craig Flannery's office and looked for a phone booth away from prying eyes and curious ears. Peabody's murder and the introduction of the White House as somehow involved: He wondered what he would need to win against such power. Certainly more than he had now, dauntingly more.

  Grant found a phone and got out a pile of change. He wasn't chancing a credit card or collect call. One of Yao's operatives had put a scrambler on Cynthia's phone. Even so, Rachel, when he reached her, kept her end of the conversation as uninformative as possible.

  "Everyone all right?" Grant asked. He hadn't realized how tense he was until he received her reassurances. Too many murders and the attempt to incriminate Bailey had given him a healthy dose of caution.

  "Your friends have kept all of us in sight, regardless of where we've gone," Rachel told him. "You're all right, aren't you?"

  "Yes," Grant said, turning to look at the deceptively slight figure lounging against a far wall. Stephen Yao was one tough former Seal. His karate black belt was reassuring as well. "Have you heard from our Cuban friend?" As before Grant was careful not to mention Benjamin Dashev by name.

  "Yes. He said he'd meet you. He didn't say why or where, just that you should keep to your present schedule and lose anyone following you."

  "That sounds encouraging." Grant gave the chain a final flick. "He must know something, or he wouldn't go to so much trouble. I'll meet him and then fly to Washington later this evening. I'll need to get back to Atlanta for a meeting with Ginger Wright and the others early tomorrow."

  Ginger Wright, Fulton County Republican Chairman, was an old friend. Her husband, John, had been chairman of the English department at Landsdowne College, a small liberal arts school in Atlanta, when Grant was college president. Together, the Wrights had been instrumental in getting Grant to run in that first Senate race.

  "They've already taken care of it, but Mike told her he's having trouble lining up people willing to meet."

  Grant was quiet for a moment. "Interesting," he finally said. "I thought I'd picked the real diehards, and with Ginger weighing in for me - Tell Mike to do what he can. Have Cynthia make a few calls if she has time."

  "He also says Caruso refuses to debate unless Kirk Vinton is the moderator."

  "Caruso refuses?"

  "You heard right."

  "I can't believe I'm agreeing to a debate, much less letting Caruso set the ground rules," Grant said resignedly. "Vinton of all people. He's Evans's man." Grant turned and leaned his back against the phone ledge.

  "Tell Mike to use his own judgment about their demands. Just make sure the only audience is family." Grant had a hazy plan in mind, hazy being the operative word.

  "Another potential problem," Rachel said.

  Grant's "When it rains . . ." was more resigned than upset.

  "I know," Rachel said calmly. "Cynthia got a call just a few minutes ago from a friend at the Herald. Apparently, they're planning a huge exposé tomorrow. Details are sketchy, but the friend was disturbed enough to call. Cynthia's working on learning more."

  "I can't imagine what more they could say, but a week ago - You were right about Anne Peabody," he added. "I don't have proof, but Peabody's death and Frederickson's have to be connected. I'll fill you in this evening."

  He hung up and edged past a woman waiting for the phone.

  A huge exposé? What could the Herald be planning now?

  

  ####

  

  Grant, followed unobtrusively by Stephen Yao, arrived at the Teeterburrow Airport in New Jersey, as scheduled. Grant knew he'd shaken all surveillance, but in doing so he'd failed to make contact with Benjamin Dashev. What had happened? Grant needed Dashev's resources and expertise, and he needed them now.

  At least Matt Goldie's plane was poised on the tarmac as scheduled. Grant glanced at Yao, standing in the shadows of a nearby building and conversing with one of his men. Receiving Yao's nod, Grant moved at a brisk but unremarkable pace toward the plane. He hurried into the dark interior, welcoming its safety but still preoccupied with his failure to meet Dashev.

  "So you have finally arrived," a voice said softly.

  "Dashev!" Grant shook his friend's hand, probably more vigorously than necessary. "You old devil, you! And to think I was worried."

  An almost imperceptible smile played at Dashev's mouth, the only kind of smile Dashev allowed himself.

  "Mr. Goldie was kind enough to keep me company," he said. "We have spent a most informative hour. You are wise in your friends."

  Goldie grinned at Grant.

  Yao entered and pulled the door shut. With a wave to Dashev, he went to the front and sat in the copilot seat by Goldie.

  Grant looked at Dashev, who nodded.

  "I hope your warning that I might be followed means you've come up with something," Grant said as the plane raced down the runway.

  "Several items of interest," Dashev assured him. "I can give no guarantees, but you know how I value my instinct, Bob, and that instinct tells me that what I've discovered is in some way part of this most complex campaign being waged against you."

  Grant nodded. He did indeed know his friend's instinct, one that, through years of experience, was seldom at fault.

  "Do the names Bonfire or John Smythe have meaning for you?" Dashev asked. Grant shook his head, but his face became guarded. He'd detected the change in timbre in Dashev's voice at the mention of the two names. Dashev was seldom discomfited. That he was now was significant.

  "Bonfire is the premiere agent-for-hire in the world today," Dashev said, confirming Grant's premonition. "Some say he's a former Soviet mole who for fifteen years at least has been working within your government. Is that true?

  We do not know just as we know little else about him. He is a clever man, who prides himself on the invulnerability of his cover and the impenetrability of his disguises. He is known for seeking and completing even the most difficult assignments. I mention his name because your situation has the convoluted brilliance that has become his trademark."

  "And John Smythe?" Grant asked. After Dashev's reaction to Bonfire, he was afraid he knew.

  "Smythe appeared on the international scene two years ago," Dashev said, reflectively. Something in his tone made Grant wonder if Dashev had been personally involved in that first encounter. "He is as cunning as Bonfire but with a pronounced ruthlessness. Both men are said to be presently involved in something major. If for either of them that something is the destruction of you, then the stakes are, indeed, high. Bonfire and John Smythe are the best. They command the highest remuneration."

  "You mentioned that John Smythe is ruthless," Grant said. "Does that mean he's more likely to be involved in the Frederickson and Peabody murders?"

  "Possibly, though Bonfire is not adverse to such expedients. Unlike Bonfire, Smythe seems obsessed by the use of disguise. I've heard a strange rumor, unsubstantiated as yet, that Smythe has taken to using the same disguise throughout an assignment, changing only when the assignment has been fulfilled."

  The plane began losing altitude as they approached Leesburg Airport outside Washington, D.C.

  Goldie dropped Grant in Washington. Then he and Yao flew on to Georgia, where they would work on plans for the debate. Lining up dependable people in Georgia, especially to scope the sites, would be essential.

  Dashev, too, deplaned in D.C., but somehow he disappeared between the plane and the terminal. His power of subterfuge continued to amaze Grant.
*

  ####

  Friday, October 30: Four Days Before the Election

  
"There's Reggie! I saw him, Bailey! There!" Sherrill grabbed Bailey's arm and started pulling him from the car. "He was going inside. I'm sure it was Reggie."

  They raced up the steps, then paused for a moment. He looked across the street at the dark blue sedan carrying their shadows. Ramon was a good guy with a great sense of humor. Tommy was even cooler. They had been keeping in the background

  Bailey cautiously opened the door. The dingy vestibule was empty.

  "Where'd he go?" Bailey whispered even as he took the stairs two at a time. Sherrill raced after him.

  "You look down here," he said, pointing toward the dingy second-floor corridor.

  "Come get me if you find him." He was already halfway up the next flight. As he reached the top, he saw someone disappear into a door down the hall.

  Fourth door on the left, Bailey decided, counting quickly. Pausing only long enough for whoever it was to get inside, Bailey tiptoed down the hall and pressed his ear against the door. He could hear voices, a woman's and a man's, but could distinguish no words.

  Silently, he ran down to the second floor, grabbed Sherrill by the arm, and explained his plan as they raced back up the steps. Below, the door to the outside opened, but they paid no attention.

  They hurried to the fourth door on the left. Sherrill took a deep breath, then knocked.

  "Who's there?" Reggie's voice! He'd been right! Bailey exulted, his adrenaline roaring.

  He gave Sherrill a thumb's up.

  "Federal Express," Sherrill said. "A letter for Reggie Dixon in care of Angel Soesbe."

  "What!" They could hear whispers behind the door. Sherrill took another steadying breath. Reggie finally spoke. "Slide it under the door." Sherrill looked at Bailey. He mimed using a pen. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to get a signature," she said, unconsciously reaching out to grasp Bailey's hand.

  They stood hand in hand, straining toward the door.

  The door chain jangled. Bailey grinned at Sherrill triumphantly and moved her back out of the way.

  The door opened a crack. Reggie stuck out his hand. "Give it to - " Bailey kicked the door open, knocking Reggie to the floor. The girl in the room with him began screaming.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she screamed. "Get out of here! Get out before I call the cops!"

  "Not until Reggie tells us who paid him to frame me," Bailey said.

  The door to the room banged open.

  "We'll take over now," Ramon said, as he and Tommy walked into the room.

  Reggie pointed toward Bailey. "I want him arrested."

  "You're talking to the wrong people, amigo," Ramon told him. "We don't make arrests. We give choices. You two can either come stay with us for a few days, or we'll call your boss. Take it or leave it."

  "My boss?" Reggie stood and brushed off his jeans, faking nonchalance. With their arrival, he'd regained most of his swagger. "You're bluffing." He started for the door. "Come on, Angel."

  "Bonfire will be glad to know where to find you, won't he?" Bailey asked softly.

  The shot hit home. Reggie blanched and staggered over to lean against the wall. "Bonfire?" His voice was hoarse. "What do you know about Bonfire?"

  No one answered.

  "What do you know about Bonfire?" He screamed the first words, but the name Bonfire came out as a hoarse whisper. Still they remained silent. He pushed himself wearily away from the wall. "We'll go with you, but you've got to promise to protect us, and I mean real protection." The shiver subsided only to be replaced by an odd tic over Reggie's left eye.

  ####

  
Later that morning Jenks returned to his office. Sally brought in his mail along with a mug of coffee. A smaller stack of mail than usual, Jenks noted, sipping the coffee but too engrossed to appreciate it. Was the NIIA holding some of it back? He rustled through the stack and smiled for the first time that day. A note was buried in the middle. Good ole Bubba! Coffee and support all in one trip.

  PHONE CALL IN USUAL PLACE. ONE HOUR.

  Jenks reread the note, tore it into small pieces, and burned it in his ashtray. Then he finished his coffee, leaning back and enjoying it.

  He'd barely seated himself at Gus's desk an hour later when the phone rang. It was Bob Grant.

  "Is it safe to talk?" Grant asked.

  "Yes, safe but less than satisfactory. NIIA has officially commandeered the case."

  "So I heard. I'm just surprised they waited so long."

  "Figured they could wear me down, I suppose," Jenks said, "then discovered I'm too ornery. Them city slickers reckon to cut me out of everything. Guess they've never heard of the Bubba factor."

  "Bubba factor?"

  "You Washington folks aren't the only ones with a good-ole-boy network."

  "You've picked up something?" Grant asked eagerly.

  "This might interest you," Jenks said, leaning back, the better to relish his role as the bearer of good news. Grant was due for a spot of that. "Sheriff friend of mine knows Olexey's mother. She's no better than her no-good son. White trash, both of them. She's a might richer these days, though. My friend thinks he knows the right screws to turn to get her to talk. May take time, but maybe we can blow the whole Olexey story."

  "That is good news," Grant said. "Your Bubba network doesn't extend to New York, does it?" Grant asked, making another survey of the area around the phone booth. "The officer in charge of the Anne Peabody murder," Grant continued, "Sergeant Alvarez, was less than helpful - I think the NIIA had gotten to him - - but I got the impression that someone may have witnessed the murder. Be nice to know."

  "I'll work on it," Jenks said. He leaned forward to jot down Alvarez's name, then leaned back in the chair, easing his back to get more comfortable. "Maybe this Alvarez has a composite. I've got two already."

  "Any similarities?"

  "Enough to be interesting. Mainly a more-than-manly beard."

  "A disguise?" Grant asked, thinking of John Smythe and his apparent penchant for using the same disguise throughout a case. A chill edged its way up Grant's spine. First, Bailey had confirmed Bonfire's involvement through Reggie. Now John Smythe, too?

  Jenks heard the back door open. "Gotta go," he said, slamming his feet onto the floor and starting to rise.

  "Thanks for everything."

  "Sure thing, Bubba." Chuckling, Jenks hung up.

  ####

  
Saturday, October 31: Three Days Before the Election

  

  Bob Grant spent the night at Ginger Wright's brother's farmhouse outside Atlanta. Her brother had no political connections. He was no more than an acquaintance of Grant's. No one would think to look for Grant there. He dialed Sheriff Jenks at his new place of business, Gus's Hardware Store. Jenks was continuing his precautions, using a digital phone scrambler borrowed from his office.

  "You better think about lying low," Jenks said. "I overheard talk about closing in on you. I'm guessing they plan to arrest you for Frederickson's murder after the debate. No warrant yet, but that's just a formality."

  "They'll wait until after?" Grant asked, running possible hideouts through his mind. He would remain in Georgia, of course, until after the debate. If he were able to get away safely afterwards, someplace near Washington might make better sense. All lines of inquiry seemed to be converging on that city.

  "That's my read," Jenks told him. "Give you a chance to hang yourself during it answering some pointed questions."

  "So you're out of the investigation?"

  "They think so." Jenks' disgust was dispelled in a grunt. "As if I'd let them stop me. I got copies of the case files on both the Peabody murder and your son's drug bust. Never seen such empty reports in my life. No details to speak of and darn little to read between the lines."

  "Maybe not on the surface," Grant suggested, "but from a different perspective, in light of what we're learning?"

  "That's what I'm hoping. I didn't strike out completely. I was told, confidential-like, that someone with the Peabody case just might be willing to talk. He's skittish though. Wouldn't even give a name. Said he'd talk, but only to you and only face-to-face.

  "Sometime today?"

  "Yep."

  "I'll be there. I really have no choice, do I? We've got to have more than we have now if we hope to break this open."

  "We all have choices, Senator. You made the choice to run for office. Someone else decided he didn't much like that. Now I'm making a choice. I figure you and I better join forces - not like we have been, mind you, but an all-out assault on the vermin out to get you."

  "Join forces?" Grant repeated, seeking to determine the extent of Jenks's commitment. "You know what you're saying?

  "Never been surer in my life, Senator," Jenks said. "Been tending that way from the beginning."

  ####

  
Hunter went to the Oval Office. He knocked on the door, but walked in before the President had a chance to respond.

  The President looked up from his paperwork. "What is it?" he asked irritably.

  "Anne Peabody's death." Hunter walked to the desk. "We may have a problem."

  The President put down his pen and regarded Hunter a trace warily. "I thought she was mugged."

  "She was. At least . . ." Hunter stopped, then continued. "Remember I said I'd contacted John Smythe?"

  The President nodded. Now the wariness was obvious.

  "I contacted Smythe because Anne Peabody called me. Russell Frederickson had called her. Peabody was upset. Frederickson was threatening her with proof that the bribery charge was rigged."

  Hunter watched as the President clutched the desk.

  "She made an appointment to meet with Frederickson the next morning," Hunter continued. "As soon as Peabody hung up, I contacted John Smythe and left a message explaining the situation."

  Hunter paused again, the better to flex his power muscles. The silence stretched.

  "And?" The President prodded, his voice tight.

  "And now Peabody and Frederickson are both dead."

  ####

  
Matt Goldie was flying Grant from a small private landing strip outside Atlanta to New York City, where Grant would meet Jenks's mysterious source about the Anne Peabody mugging.

  "Did we get away clean?" Goldie asked as the plane lifted into the air.

  I don't see anyone," Grant said, staring intently out the airplane window. A cloud intervened, and he turned to Steven Yao, who was using a sophisticated communication system to link them to his associates on the ground. "Anything?"

  "No. So far nothing suspicious."

  "Good." Goldie turned back to the controls.

  "That won't hold, I'm afraid," Grant told them. "At least not much longer. I just got word the NIIA is planning to arrest me after the debate tomorrow." "We'll just have to make sure they can't," Yao said easily. He stowed his equipment behind his seat.

  "As long as I attend the debate," Grant reminded him.

  "Matt and I have it well in hand," Yao assured him. Goldie turned toward Grant and gave him a thumbs-up before turning back to his instruments. "Just be sure you have plenty to say," Yao added good-naturedly.

  "We've a long way to go before we can be sure of that. That debate will have a huge audience if the networks have anything to say about it, but I don't know, Stephen. Things aren't falling together fast enough. I'm thinking we may have to use the debate to stir things up."

  "Force Bonfire into a misstep," Yao agreed.

  "Bonfire or whoever hired him," Grant amended, wondering who inside the White House that might include. "The longer I'm missing, the more nervous they'll be getting. I might even find the real murderer."

  He and Yao, with Goldie adding an occasional suggestion, spent the rest of the flight considering every angle. They had to decide which buttons were right, then how to push them. The more they learned of Bonfire, the more costly they knew a misstep would be.

  ####

  
Grant got to Times Square five minutes early for his meeting with the Peabody informant. He scanned nearby faces, seeing no one familiar, no one who looked interested in him. He glanced at Steven Yao, lounging against a storefront nearby. Yao looked through him. No one had followed them. Dressed as roughly as he was, Grant doubted any casual observer would recognize him.

  "So you did come."

  Grant turned slowly toward the voice. "Alvarez!" He stared, unable to hide his surprise.

  The corners of Alvarez's mouth turned in a mocking smile. "Yeah, me. Sorry about the other day, but I had orders."

  "Orders?"

  "I think you know what I mean. Let's just leave it at that, okay? Time we were moving." He crossed the street. Grant followed. They merged with a crowd going in the opposite direction, Yao never far behind. After several minutes and several direction switches, Alvarez spoke. "Now what is it you want?"

  "One question," Grant said. "I got the impression the other day that someone may have witnessed the mugging."

  "Possibly."

  "Any chance of getting a composite from this possible witness?"

  "Possibly."

  Grant laughed good-naturedly. "At least I don't have to worry you'll talk about me to the wrong person."

  "Possibly," Alvarez said again, then laughed. He regarded Grant through eyes tempered by experience. "Might even be able to rummage up a copy of the ballistics report. Never know. Two points. Never have liked mixing politics with an investigation. Never have liked anyone - especially the feds! - telling me what to think. If I happen to run across a composite in the next day or two, any way I can get it to you?"

  "The sheriff will keep in touch." They stood. "Thanks."

  "Sure. And, Senator, watch your back."

  ####

  
"What's Grant up to?" the President demanded of Jonathan Hunter.

  "No one knows," Hunter answered. "He's disappeared. Bender says his cars are all missing, too. No reported sightings of any of them." The pulse in Hunter's temple throbbed with every mention of Grant.

  "Grant's not lying low, that's for sure," the President said, his eyes thoughtful. "Grant doesn't lie low. Grant attacks. No, Hunt, Grant is out there planning something, and we'd better be ready."

  "Something about Anne Peabody, I would guess, since he was nosing around her office."

  The President nodded. "Did you tell John Smythe to back off?"

  "Smythe seems to have disappeared," Hunter told him. "I haven't been able to contact him through the usual channels."

  "Disappeared! What do you suppose that means?"

  "Maybe he feels his job is finished," Hunter suggested.

  "Is that what you feel, Hunt?" the President asked, turning to face him. "That everything is under control?"

  "Yes." Hunter's voice was emphatic. "Yes, I do."

  "Grant will take the blame for everything . . .Frederickson, the drugs, even Anne Peabody ... and deservedly so."

  The President studied Hunter. "Keep trying to contact Smythe," he said. "He'd better not have murdered those people!"

  "As long as he can't be connected to the White House," Hunter said, replacing his glasses, "it doesn't matter."

  ####

  
She couldn't stand another sleepless night, Janet Loomis thought, reaching back to give her pillow an almost savage thumping.

  Bob Grant was certainly in trouble now. Could the information her husband had obviously collected with great care help in some way to exonerate the Grants, two people to whom she owed so much, including her life? Rachel had been the one who'd learned of the new cancer protocol and secured a place in the clinical trial. If it hadn't been for Rachel, Janet would be dead right now, and the boys would be orphans.

  Janet reached for the phone. This time there weren't going to be any if onlys. She was going to do what she'd known she should do from the beginning. She dialed the number quickly before her tenuous resolve could shatter.

  No one answered at either the Grant's or Cynthia's. She'd keep trying until she reached them, Janet decided. Now that she'd made her decision, the need to reveal the letter consumed her.

  ####

  
At the last moment, India, Olivia, and Henry Grant left the car Ramon was driving, hurried across the tarmac of Leesburg Airport, and ran up the steps into Matt Goldie's plane. Bailey and Sherrill, would remain in hiding near Washington. So would Rachel.

  Bailey needed to be near the prodigious records stored in D.C. computers. "Have modem; will travel," he'd told his mother with a grin. His resilience was reassuring.

  Grant and the children would use extra care in going to their safe house when they arrived in Georgia. Whether someone had seen them leave the airport or not was immaterial. Grant knew his enemy, and he knew his enemy's ruthlessness. His children must remain safe.
*
####

  
Sunday, November 1:

  Two Days Before the Election

  The sky was just light when Grant arrived at the home of Martha Jenks, the sheriff's sister-in-law.

  Jenks was seated at the kitchen table, digging into a plate piled high with eggs, country ham, and grits with red-eye gravy. A similar plate awaited Grant.

  Hungry despite his tension and general weariness, Grant took a bite. "What do you have for me?" That was the reason for this meeting. Jenks had promised to bring Grant information he could use in the debate later that day.

  Jenks pulled a sheaf of papers from his gym bag. "First," he said, handing Grant the top paper, "an affidavit swearing that the diary entry where Pariss moans 'cause she'd never even gotten to talk to you was in her hand."

  "Nice of the NIIA to let you have this stuff."

  "Yeah, real nice guys," Jenks said dryly. "I wouldn't go waving this stuff around until the last moment, mind you. Let's see. Here's the two composites."

  Grant compared the two drawings. Both showed a man with a bushy beard that hid seemingly nondescript features. "I don't know that these help much,"

  Grant said dubiously. "A fake beard, without doubt."

  "This is a mite more interesting," Jenks said, handing Grant another stapled set of papers. "The report from Bailey's drug bust."

  Grant glanced through it while Jenks talked. "All began with some good citizen - who remains nameless - calling the NIIA, saying to watch out for bad-boy Bailey Grant. Even mentioned your name.

  "And this?" Grant asked, pointing to the next set of papers.

  "Report on the Peabody mugging. Nada. Zip. Nothing but a mugging."

  "Until - or if - Alvarez comes up with his witness. I can't help feeling Peabody and the bribe are the beginning of it all."

  "Now, this report may be the most interesting of all." He handed the last sheets to Grant, who began scanning them immediately.

  "My counterpart in Olexey's hometown was able to get Ma Olexey to talk. Seems sonny boy likes to brag, a trait he learned at his mama's knee. She told plenty of folks, confidential-like, that her son had come into a wad of cash, that his drug conviction was a setup, and that he'd be out before long."

  "Whew!"

  "Gets better. She hinted he made another deal while he was in prison."

  Grant was chuckling. "That's some Bubba network you have."

  "Sounds odd, but Mama mentioned something about Bonfire." Jenks leaned forward at the look on Grant's face. "Seems like I may have sparked a fire of my own."

  "A real inferno," Grant agreed, then told him about both Bonfire and John Smythe.

  "Sounds like we've moved right out of my league." Jenks looked a little shaken.

  "I doubt that." Grant gestured to the information Jenks had amassed, most of it with little to go on but his own instincts. "You've done yourself proud."

  Grant stood and carefully stowed Jenks's papers in a large pocket he'd sewn inside his jacket that morning. Grant liked the feel of hard evidence against his body, not much hard evidence, maybe, but a sign of trust from a good man. Combined with what else they were finding, maybe it would be enough.

  "Guess it's time to be going." Grant shook Jenks's hand. "When I was a boy," Grant said, "my daddy told me that during my lifetime I would meet a few great men, that they most likely wouldn't be famous or powerful. Instead they would be men of integrity who valued right above everything and who had the courage to fight for that right. I'm thankful the Lord led me to one of those men the day he led me to you. I would count it an honor if I could consider you a friend."

  Jenks swallowed hard. "Shucks, Senator," he said, his voice thickly southern with emotion, "you better believe we're friends. I want to be there when this story gets its happy ending, don't I?"

  He walked with Grant to the back door. "Don't wait too long between calls."

  "I won't. And thanks. Thanks so much." Grant slipped out the door and down the back alley.

  "And take care, my friend," Jenks whispered to the closed door.

  "Take care, hear? Great men are hard to come by."

  

  ####

  

  Cynthia was fifteen minutes late for her meeting with Janet Loomis, and every one of those minutes had been agonizing. Cynthia surveyed the parking area per Tommy's instructions. It was filled with the cars of early churchgoers, but she could see no lurking watchers, nothing suspicious at all. Satisfied, she pulled into an empty space and walked to Janet's car. After a final look over her shoulder, she slid into the front seat.

  Startled by the sound, Janet jerked her gaze from the stained glass of St. Aloysius Church. "Cynthia!" she exclaimed, her hand at her throat.

  "Where's Rachel?" Her voice was high and anxious.

  Over the phone, Janet had been adamant that she would give her information to Rachel and Rachel alone. Cynthia had agreed, feeling guilty at the deception.

  Now she had to hope Janet would see reason.

  "She wanted to come, believe me, she did, but she couldn't. It wasn't safe. I'm sorry."

  Janet squeezed her eyes shut and struggled for control. "I wanted to destroy this," she finally whispered, staring at the manila envelope she held.

  "But Phillip wanted Bob to have it."

  Janet reached into the envelope and pulled out a smaller white one. "Take it, she said. She shoved the envelope into Cynthia's hands. "Give it to Bob," she said. "Tell him to use it if it helps. If not, please beg him to destroy it. Tell Bob the decision is his."

  "Here are the other envelopes you wanted." She reached under the car seat and pulled out two manila envelopes, both similar in appearance to the one Cynthia already had.

  Cynthia compared the three envelopes. They were enough alike to fool a casual observer.

  "I wish I knew how to thank you," she said.

  "I wish I knew that what I'm doing is right," Janet answered bleakly.

  

  ####

  

  After her meeting with Janet Loomis, Cynthia drove directly to Washington National Airport. A Senate staffer was waiting outside with a ticket to Atlanta. Cynthia brushed against her and took the ticket. Neither spoke. Her heart thumping, Cynthia walked through the airport terminal. Never had she felt so exposed. She hoped the dowdy brown wig she wore changed her appearance enough to fool someone who didn't know her, but she couldn't be sure. She forced herself to walk confidently.

  Finally, Cynthia came to the rest room nearest her gate. She hurried inside and into the first stall. Everything depended on having Rachel already waiting in the second one. Her heart in her throat, Cynthia bent down and looked under the partition. Black old lady oxfords, the left one untied. Rachel! So she had reached the senator and made arrangements for Atlanta, Cynthia thought, her head light with relief.

  With a shaking hand, she opened the leather bag, checked to be certain she had the envelope containing the originals, and sneaked it under the partition. Rachel took it from her. Neither spoke.

  Clothes rustled as each woman concealed her copy of Phillip Loomis's message.

  Each hoped it would provide the key to clearing Bob and destroying Bonfire.

  Neither could be sure. They just knew they had to get at least one copy to Bob before the debate.

  Three hours and hundreds of miles, Cynthia thought as she heard Rachel leave her stall and wash her hands. Then she heard the clomp of tired old feet making their way out of the rest room.

  "Final boarding call for United Airlines Flight 4921 to Atlanta." The words blared over the loudspeaker. Time for her to leave. She took a deep, steadying breath and opened the door. No one in the rest room paid her any attention.

  ####

  Grant strode to the door and threw it open. He had Rachel in his arms and inside the room in one movement. The look on his face twisted between relief, love, and amusement. Rachel was still in her disguise.

  "I'll love you when you're that old," he told her, a bemused twinkle in his eyes. "But I'm willing to wait. Any problems?" he asked Steven Yao, who had come in behind her, then secured the door and pulled a chair in front of it. Rachel disappeared into the bathroom. She left the door cracked so she could hear.

  "None," Yao said, sitting in the chair. "Couldn't have gone better. If we hadn't gotten Cynthia out immediately as you suggested and if Rachel hadn't been so well-disguised, things might have been different. Great acting, Mrs. G.," he said as she walked back into the room.

  Grant gave her a thoughtful look, then took out the single sheet of paper the envelope held. Phillip Loomis's words, written in his distinctive, almost elegant hand, seemed to jump from the page.

  My friend Bob -

  If you are reading this letter, my suppositions, sadly, will have proven correct.

  In life I find that small compromises of one's ethics tend to grow until, before one is aware, compromise has led to duplicity, and duplicity has led to evil. I find I cannot be party to that evil. Hence, the need for this letter.

  Our friendship allows me some atonement.

  Remember the discussions we've had about our greatest President? Oddly enough, he holds the key to my dilemma, possibly to yours as well. We discussed the plans for his entombment in our Capitol and about his refutation of the wishes of others. Now more than ever, I admire his integrity.

  Wouldn't you agree the greatness of his character is felt most profoundly by those who kneel and pray? May your faith lead you under the sacrament.

  In thee, Senator Robert Hawkins Grant, I put my trust.

  Phillip Loomis

  Grant felt for a chair and slowly lowered himself into it.

  "Look at the date on the letter," Rachel said, pointing to it.

  "The day Phillip died."

  Grant nodded thoughtfully. "Loomis was afraid something might happen to him and that something might happen to me. He died more than five months ago. Five months! What on earth could he have known."

  They spent several minutes studying Loomis's information, trying to understand its significance. Grant kept returning to the letter, so cryptic and so unlike the Phillip Loomis he'd known for twelve years.

  "Our greatest President?" Rachel queried.

  "Has to have been Washington," Grant told her, remembering their impassioned discussions just as Loomis had known he would. Basically, it had come down to Washington versus Lincoln. Both men had served during perilous times. Washington, however, with his grasp of the future needs of the country, a rare foresight proven through the years, had been deemed the greater.

  "Then 'entombment' must refer to the crypt built for Washington's tomb in the basement of the Capitol," Cynthia said excitedly. "Since Washington refused to allow it to be used, just as Phillip said, the room is seldom visited. A perfect place to hide something!"

  "That has to be right," Rachel agreed. "Someone on the staff can go see."

  Cynthia reached for the phone.

  "Just a minute," Grant said, stopping her. "Would Loomis have been so enigmatic in the rest of the letter if the tomb were his hiding place, not just one of several clues? What if something else holds the key, something he hopes will have meaning only for me? I have a feeling he's trying to keep his information from falling into the wrong hands."

  "I think you're right," Rachel said slowly, like the others trying to piece it together. "His mention of the sacrament and of 'kneel and pray' is odd. Not at all like Phillip."

  " 'In thee, Senator Robert Hawkins Grant, I put my trust,' " Cynthia added, her voice as puzzled as theirs. "Strange way to talk, almost like a minister. Maybe it was part of Washington's funeral service."

  "That's why I have to go myself," Grant said with finality. "Loomis gave his clues, thinking I would understand."

  "Then I guess we'd better figure out how it can be managed," Yao said, bringing over a chair and sitting next to Cynthia.

  "Everything ready for the debate?" Cynthia asked, knowing Yao had masterminded Grant's escape plan. She needed to channel her thoughts away from the possible treachery of those she worked with every day and in whom she'd always placed her trust.

  "All ready," Yao assured her. "Everything depends on getting Bob away before he can be arrested."
*

  
Grant, accompanied by Rachel, arrived at the debate with only minutes to spare. Cynthia was on a plane back to Washington, where she would begin implementing plans for Grant's foray into the Capitol late that afternoon.

  Walking into the downtown Atlanta hotel room set aside for the debate, Grant saw India, Olivia, and Henry sitting in the front row of chairs. His brother, Tucker sat partly concealed behind them. Other family members filled the remaining three rows.

  Caruso's side was similarly filled with family. No other audience had been allowed.

  Grant had time to observe no more before he was swept away by an angry television producer and an even angrier Edmund Miller, who was in Atlanta coordinating the White House backing of Caruso.

  Tobias Caruso, unsure whether to hope for Grant to be a no-show or not, was waiting at one of two lecterns. Facing them both was a table with four panelists, two from television and one each from the print media and radio. Kirk Vinton as moderator sat at the center of the four, a look of sardonic amusement in his eyes.

  The red light of the camera came on.

  The debate had begun.

  ####

  Kirk Vinton was introducing the two candidates.

  " - Robert Grant, the incumbent, and his opponent, Tobias Caruso, the challenger. After I give a brief summation of his background, Mr. Caruso will make the first opening statement. I'll then introduce Mr. Grant, whose statement will follow. Questions will be asked, alternating between each candidate. Each will have two minutes to respond. Any questions?" Vinton's cursory glance was proof he expected none. He began his first introduction.

  ####

  Caruso was good, Edmund Miller thought from his position in the control room as he watched his candidate's opening statement. Caruso may have been a virtual unknown, but that wouldn't be true much longer, not the way he was performing.

  He'd remembered his introduction perfectly, and his tone and expression combined just the right degrees of humility, understated passion, and basic values. He was proving himself a good choice. Not only would Grant be gone, but Caruso would be a credible Senator. More important from Miller's point of view, he would be malleable.

  ####

  Grant, too, thought Caruso was good. Grant wasn't sure just what his opponent was saying - he was too intent on reviewing his own plans to really listen - but he could feel the empathy Caruso was generating. For a political novice, Caruso was surprisingly astute and competent.

  Caruso wound up his remarks.

  ####

  Hunter slipped into the empty seat beside the President. "Everything's under control," he whispered. The President continued to stare at the screen. "I just called Bender in Atlanta. NIIA agents are ready to blanket the studio once the debate is well underway. They didn't want to scare Grant away by being too much in evidence beforehand. He'll be arrested the moment he finishes his closing statement."

  The President made no response.

  Hunter turned to the television screen as Vinton began his introduction of Grant.

  "Robert Hawkins Grant, the twelve-year incumbent, is a graduate of the United States Naval Academy, a career military officer who rose to the rank of admiral, and former president of Landsdowne College in Atlanta. Of more immediate interest, Senator Grant has been implicated in the murder of Washington Herald reporter Russell Frederickson."

  The camera focused on Grant. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes held a combative glint.

  "As a possible motive for the murder, several members of Grant's staff allege that Frederickson had discovered evidence that Grant had impregnated one of his youngest employees and that his rejection of her and their baby led to her subsequent suicide."

  Vinton paused, giving his words time to adhere. "Further," he continued gravely, "Grant has been tied to a man who is currently in prison for drug dealing and who twice has allegedly been associated with murders."

  "The cloud over Mr. Grant is so dark that many hope he will use this forum to resign.

  "Mr. Grant - "

  ####

  Grant stared, unsmiling, at the camera.

  Apparently, Vinton hoped to turn the debate into a lynching, Grant thought, making a surreptitious survey of the room. No law officers, NIIA or otherwise, were visible. He would be wise to move up the timetable, Grant decided, while he still had the advantage of surprise. He looked straight into the camera.

  "Everything that has been 'alleged,' " he said bitingly, "is untrue. I'm close to having complete proof, not only of my innocence, but of the guilt of the real murderers. The motive rests in Washington, in the highest levels of government. Since the NIIA is controlled by the White House and is incapable of conducting an honest and comprehensive investigation, I have been forced to investigate these murders myself. Courageous friends who believe in justice are helping me. Tomorrow, we will have proof. Tomorrow, I will make that proof public."

  "This 'debate' is a sham!" He began unclipping his mike. "Just as the so-called evidence against me is a sham. The people of Georgia and of this nation deserve better. I intend to expose the truth."

  ####

  

  As Grant uttered the last sentence, a prearranged signal to Rachel, she glanced toward the curtain behind the stage. Steven Yao, dressed in a jumpsuit bearing a TV station's call letters, gave her a barely perceptible nod.

  She stood immediately and with the rest of Grant's family, all twenty-eight of them, rushed the stage. In the confusion, Grant slipped in with them, and Grant's brother, Tucker assumed Grant's place behind the podium. Rachel threw her arms around Tucker, kissing him and thereby obscuring his features, so like Bob Grant's own but so different. India, Olivia, and Henry reached up for hugs as well, doing their best to divert attention both from their father and from the identity of their uncle.

  Even as Tucker took his place so Grant moved to his sister-in-law, Melissa's, side. Melissa started moaning softly about the horrid treatment of her beloved brother-in-law. As Grant placed his face next to hers in commiseration, she begged to be taken to the nearest rest room.

  "Oh, Tucker, I feel so sick," she said, moaning even more convincingly. He put his arm around her. His face partially hidden in her plump shoulder, he led her toward the door.

  "Oh, my, oh, my," she moaned. "I'm sure I'm going to be ill." She grabbed her mouth with her hand and hunched her shoulders. Any one watching gave Grant no more than cursory attention. Their concern was all with Melissa.

  Steven Yao was waiting. "This way," he said, running toward the back stairway. As Grant entered the stairwell, he tore off his tie. As they raced down the steps, he yanked off his jacket and shirt to reveal a neon tie-dye T-shirt underneath.

  Yao opened the door to the third floor. Seeing no one, he signaled Grant, and they sprinted to the left toward a door marked Employees Only. The door opened as they reached it. Grant's younger brother Curtis was waiting. Grant thrust his shirt, tie, and jacket into Curtis's waiting hands.

  "Everything's set," Curtis said over his shoulder as he led them, running, into the open service elevator.

  After what seemed an eternity but was in reality only seconds, the elevator reached the basement garage. Yao hurried them to a waiting Blue Racer Cab. An attractive young woman, one of Yao's operatives, was seated in the back. Grant jumped into the driver's seat. The woman thrust a dreadlock wig into his hand, then a smoking cigarette. Grant jammed the wig on his head and stuck the cigarette in his mouth.

  "Go for it!" Yao called, giving the fender a good-luck pat.

  ####

  Matt Goldie's plane was waiting at the end of the private airstrip, engines running, when the car bringing Grant screeched to a stop beside it.

  Sheriff Jimmy Jenks was standing just inside the door of the plane. His face broke into a grin as his bearpaw of a hand enveloped Grant's and pulled him into the plane. "Had us a mite worried," he told Grant as he thumped him affectionately on the back.

  "Any problems?" Jenks asked as they sat and fastened seat belts.

  "Not really." Grant had to yell to be heard above the engine noises. Goldie was flying a smaller plane than usual, a concession to the shorter runway.

  "Rachel called. She said to tell you that Operation Integrity is now entering Phase Two and right on schedule.

  Grant spent the next twenty minutes filling in Jenks on the details of Phase Two, their plan to search the Capitol for Loomis's information.

  ####

  Ever since the late, unlamented Phillip Loomis had reentered the picture, Bonfire had kept the Capitol under surveillance. If Loomis had hidden something for Grant, the Capitol was the logical place.

  John Smythe entered the familiar domed building soon after word came that Grant had been seen entering. When Grant disappeared down the hall by the Capitol Museum, Smythe was only minutes behind.

  He would let Grant find whatever he'd come for, Smythe decided. Then he would relieve him of it with pleasure.

  ####

  Grant turned and ran down another of the Capitol's staircases, this one leading to the basement. Grant paused a moment, noting the narrow corridor on the left, leading under the staircase. Then he turned into an identical corridor on the right.

  He plunged forward, running now. Ahead he could see the iron bars protecting Washington's tomb. Surely, this was what Loomis had meant by entombment. Grant reached through the bars. His hand fell far short.

  Infused now with a sense of lost time, Grant searched the area outside the bars. Nothing. No place of concealment. His mind raced. Entombment. If Loomis hadn't meant here, where - His letter had said something odd about kneeling and praying. Then where -

  Grant froze. Footsteps were pounding down the staircase above his head! He whirled and ran soundlessly back the way he'd come. He had to get out before he was trapped. He bounded lightly up the steps, his footsteps silent.

  Kneel and pray. Kneel and pray. The words pounded through his mind with every step. George Washington. Kneel and pray.

  The Senate Chapel with its stained glass window of Washington praying at Valley Forge, was that what Loomis had meant? Grant paused on the first floor. If he were being pursued, he would have time for one more search if he were lucky. Grant glanced down the corridor toward the museum. The chapel was the first door on his right. He tried the handle. Locked!

  Grant ran to the desk where the docent sat during visiting hours, yanked out the drawer, grabbed the key to the chapel, and silently pushed the drawer closed.

  Grant jabbed the key into the chapel lock, turned it, threw himself into the room, shut the door and relocked it, all in one fluid movement. Whoever had been running was now paused at the top of the stairs. Finally, the footsteps moved away down the hall, the sound gradually diminishing.

  Even before the echo of the steps was silent, Grant was moving to the front of the chapel.

  Kneel and pray, Loomis had said. Grant went to one of the prayer benches and knelt on its needlepoint cushion. Was this what Loomis had wanted him to do? he wondered.

  Still kneeling, Grant scanned the area, seeking a place of concealment. His eyes moved down. The offering table. The pulpit. The -

  His eyes went back to the table, enclosed on three sides. What was it he was trying to remember? Of course! Under the sacrament! That was what Loomis had said. Grant rose and pulled the table away from the wall.

  Grant's hand stilled. Only his eyes moved. Someone was coming down the hall, slowly, almost silently. Grant pushed himself under the table, his knees forced up to his chest. He pulled the table as close to the wall as he could. He heard the lock to the door jiggling. He heard a soft curse, then the sound of the door opening.

  Grant waited. Every nerve in his body strained to hear and decipher each sound. Finally, his stalker moved, his steps soft on the carpet of the aisle. Again, the footsteps stopped. The silence was finally broken by the sound of the door opening and closing.

  At that moment Grant spied a pale triangle above his head where the lip of the table formed a natural ledge. Grant reached above his head. The triangle grew into a manila envelope.

  With infinite care, he moved from under the table, easing his legs to rid them of incipient cramps. He leaned down and retrieved the envelope.

  Half an hour later, Jenks and Grant were turning into the long gravel drive leading to the cabin hideout. Jenks didn't think they'd been followed.

  Bailey and Sherrill were waiting, their faces lighting with relief at the sight of the two men. Grant took Loomis's envelope from its protective file. He lifted the flap and emptied the contents onto the table. No one spoke as he sorted through it. Newspaper clippings. He put them to one side to be read later. The next was a group of typed messages. Grant read the signature on the top one.

  "Bonfire!" he said incredulously. He handed it to Jenks and flipped rapidly through the others, careful to avoid smudging fingerprints.

  "Twenty-one in all," Grant said, "and all signed 'Bonfire.' "

  "This one's over ten years old," Jenks told him. "Mentions a bill Bonfire wanted passed." Jenks turned it over to look at the back. "Nothin' else."

  "Each of these suggests support for or specific attacks against pieces of legislation," Grant said, skimming them quickly, "except for these five which recommend a political appointment he should support." Grant thought of the five people who were mentioned. All had been supported by Loomis, and all had been appointed. Grant was stupefied. Four of the five were judges, one on the Supreme Court.

  "Leastways we got proof this Bonfire really exists." Jenks took out a plastic bag and had Grant drop Bonfire's messages into it. "Check them out later for fingerprints," he said. "Probably a waste of time though," he added philosophically.

  "Except to prove they were in Loomis's possession," Grant noted. The next envelope contained a paint chip, a shard of plastic and two pictures of the same car, one with a dented fender and one without. Grant frowned and rechecked the envelope. Nothing else. He put it into another of Jenks's plastic bags.

  Grant looked back down at the table. His heart began pounding. Next in the pile was a bulging envelope. Loomis's typewritten name had been crossed out, and Grant's had been written in its place. Grant opened it and took out the sheets of paper it contained. They were interoffice memos. On the back of these pages Loomis had written his letter to Grant. It was dated the day of his death, Grant noted. Then he began reading, handing each page to Jenks as he finished.

  Jenks handed them to Bailey and Sherrill. No one touched anything but the corners.

  Bob -

  I didn't ever expect to reveal this to anyone. Even now I hope, maybe even I pray, that this letter will remain unread. That will mean I misjudged the enclosed information as it regards you. It will also mean that I misjudged the effect of my defection on Bonfire. Yes, that is his name, the only name I know. As they say, I'll begin at the beginning. Early in my Senate career, I attended a dinner party. I was driving home alone. I'd had some wine admittedly, but I don't think I was drunk, at least not by legal standards. The road was dark, and I was tired. I felt and heard a thud. When I reached home, I found that my right fender was slightly dented, and some paint chips were missing. The turn signal cover was cracked, and several pieces of it were missing also. There was a little blood, but not much.

  The next morning an article in the city pages of the Herald told of a man who'd been killed in a hit-and-run accident. He'd been found at the side of the road in the exact spot I'd felt the bump. I panicked, I admit it, and decided to say nothing. I'm not proud of myself - I wasn't even then - but I couldn't think what else to do.

  One month to the day later, I received the first packet from the aforementioned Bonfire. It contained a paint chip, a piece of plastic from the turn signal, and photographs of my car both before and after it was repaired. In other words, irrefutable proof I'd killed the man, and more importantly that Bonfire knew and could prove it.

  Even then, it was six months before he began his demands. I found the first less than onerous. He wanted me to sponsor a piece of legislation, one which I supported more or less anyway. I acquiesced. Maybe I would have even if the legislation had been abhorrent. I like to think not, but now I'm not so sure. As I said earlier, evil creeps up on one unawares.

  And so it continued, year after year, request after request, never too often, never too much of a strain on my conscience.

  How I came to dread the arrival of those blasted manila envelopes! The last one, which came today, demanded I initiate ethics proceedings against you.

  Included was proof, most comprehensive proof, of your ethical violations.

  Use the enclosed information if you must, but spare Janet and the boys if you can. I love them so much. My regret is for them, the grief they have already endured and that which I may cause them yet.

  Knowing Bonfire as I do, I fear that the time of reckoning may be nearer than I might wish.

  Phillip Loomis

  Grant handed Jenks the last page, then realized a last letter from Bonfire was also included. He read it, finding it essentially as Loomis had written, a partial outline of Bonfire's plan to destroy Grant, emphasizing a proposed Senate Ethics investigation.

  Grant rose slowly and walked over to stare into the fire. Poor Phillip. How right he'd been about the evil he feared.

  "I reckon that clears up one thing," Jenks said. "Loomis didn't kill himself."

  "He was murdered, wasn't he?" Bailey asked, still holding the last page by a corner. "By Bonfire."

  "Reckon so, son," Jenks said, putting an arm on the boy's shoulder. "Lessen I'm mistaken," he added, "that'll be welcome news to that unhappy man's widow."
*

  
####

  Grant called Benjamin Dashev from the cabin hideout. The scrambler was in place. That should be enough,

  Grant hoped, given Dashev's equal desire to remain undiscovered from his end. It would have to be. Time was short, too short to try to find a safe phone somewhere else.

  "I'm glad you were able to phone," Dashev said. "I have news."

  "The source behind everything?" Grant asked.

  "Yes," Dashev agreed. "Just so. An agent of mine, one of my most reliable, has learned that our supposition about an informal North Korean/Chinese alliance was correct. According to my source, Bonfire has guaranteed the continuation of technological transfers to these two countries, including the transfer of formerly restricted computers and computer parts essential to their nuclear future. This is the interesting part. Both countries seem secure in their demands, as if they know their wants will be met."

  "Someone inside the White House is guaranteeing it?" Grant asked.

  "So it has been suggested."

  "Then we were right," Grant said thoughtfully. "Bonfire is one of the President's top aides or has one of them under his thumb. With what you just told me, I think I can give Smythe a name."

  "If that is so," Dashev said gravely, "you will have made life more secure for many."

  "I must ask you to reveal his name to no one until after tomorrow."

  "I am to be your insurance," Dashev said, amusement tingeing his voice. "Is that not so?"

  "That is so," Grant agreed. "You, I know, will insure he is brought to justice."

  "You have my word and my silence."

  Grant gave him the name. Dashev rang off to make his plans.

  Grant remained on the sofa, sunk in thought. He knew he was right about the identity of John Smythe. He had no proof, just too much coincidence to ignore.

  "I think it's time to put some pressure on our esteemed Attorney General," Grant said, rising. "Want to come for a ride, Sheriff?"

  "Looks like a mighty fine night for one." Jenks ambled over to the door and took his coat from a peg.

  ####

  Twenty minutes later, an aide walked into the War Room. Hunter looked up from the papers he was studying and inclined his head for the other to speak.

  "Sir, Senator Robert Grant just called."

  "What do you mean Bob Grant just called?" Hunter demanded. "Grant called me?"

  "Yes, sir," the aide said, swallowing convulsively at the unbridled anger his words had provoked. "He said he would call you back at the same number in exactly an hour. Then he hung up. That was four minutes ago."

  "Inform the President that I'm on my way to see him."

  ####

  The President walked into the Cabinet Room.

  "So what's the big deal?" he demanded of his Attorney General. "This had better be good."

  "Grant's calling me in" - Hunter looked at his watch - "twenty-five minutes."

  "Grant's calling you?" the President repeated. His voice was puzzled. "What does he want?"

  "How do I know?" Hunter demanded. "The Peabody thing is collapsing, and without her to testify, an investigation could be disastrous. Unless you want to lose your presidency, maybe even go to jail" - the President blanched - "we have to have someone to take the fall."

  "I was considering Edmund Miller."

  "Didn't I hear he's resigning, something about an illness in the family?"

  "Exactly. Miller faxed his resignation this afternoon. Totally unexpected." Hunter began polishing his glasses.

  "That's one reason he's so perfect. We can make his resignation look like guilt. Everything else can be made to fit, too."

  When Hunter reached the War Room, he called Edmund Miller and ordered him to come to the White House immediately.

  Then he turned to the NIIA agents across the room setting up phone-monitoring equipment. "Everything ready?" he demanded. Grant's call would be shunted here.

  They assured Hunter that it was.

  The phone rang.

  ####

  Grant stood in a wooded area, Sheriff Jenks at his side.

  "Think Hunter's had enough time to stew?" Grant asked. The psychology of this call was infinitely more important than the content.

  "The more immediate question," Jenks said, looking up at the telephone pole beside them from which a wire led down to the handset in Grant's hand, "is whether this setup will work."

  "You're the expert. Will it?"

  "Supposed to. 'Course I've never tried it. Always wanted to, though." Jenks attached a small metal disk to the handset and pursed his lips in satisfaction. "Now this is one mighty pretty piece of work. If it does its business, Hunter and his NIIA lackeys will figure you're calling from northern Georgia. Should throw a right healthy corncob up their britches."

  "Very nice," Grant said.

  ####

  As the phone rang for the fifth time, the door to the War Room opened, and Edmund Miller entered.

  "That's Grant calling," he told Miller, who stared from him to the ringing phone in open-mouthed amazement.

  "Bob Grant? On the phone?" The phone rang again. "How can you be sure it's Grant?"

  "Grant called earlier," Hunter said. "Demanded I wait for his call.

  Hunter lifted the receiver.

  "Hunter?" Grant asked.

  "Yes?" Hunter's voice was wary.

  "I expect you to be at Union Station tomorrow morning at 7:30," Grant told him. "No NIIA. No one but you." "Why would I agree to that?" Hunter asked. He hadn't taken his eyes from the agents working to locate the call. One held up ten fingers, closed them, held them up again. Twenty seconds. Twenty more seconds.

  "You have no choice," Grant said. "I know about Anne Peabody."

  "Anne Peabody?" Hunter repeated, obviously delaying. "I don't know what you mean, but what you ask is impossible." Stall. Stall. "I'm too well known." Ten fingers. "I can't just stand around waiting for you, not at that hour of the morning. That's rush hour." Five fingers. "Security would never let me. You know that. Don't be a fool."

  A triumphant "Got him!" exploded from the other side of the room. Hunter leaned back in his chair, a half-smile on his lips. Several agents rushed out the door.

  "Why should I even want to meet with you, Grant?" Hunter continued, knowing Grant would hear the release of tension in his voice. "The only reason I can imagine would be to cuff you myself."

  The connection was cut.

  ####

  "They traced the number," Grant said with surety.

  Jenks, once again using the phone scrambler to indicate another Georgia number, looked at him with a philosophical lifting of an eyebrow. "Then if I screwed up, we're fixing to have some company. Three minutes, I'd reckon. Five at the outside."

  Grant began dialing. "No need to prolong this."

  ####

  "Georgia!" Hunter scowled at the agent bringing the information about Grant's location. "What do you mean, he's still in Georgia! You told me he'd flown to Washington. Which is it?"

  "I'm not sure, sir," the agent said, refusing to be rattled. "Our equipment says Georgia, a number about seventy miles north of Atlanta."

  The phone rang again.

  Hunter stared at it, finally lifting the receiver on the fifth ring.

  "Grant?" he asked.

  "Does the name John Smythe mean anything to you, Hunter?"

  Hunter's eyes narrowed. "You're speaking in riddles, Grant."

  "If you want the riddles answered," Grant told him, "meet me tomorrow morning. 7:30. Union Station. I want my name cleared and the name of my son. Work it any way you want, but those are the conditions. Otherwise I go to the media. I don't want our country destroyed." Grant laughed mirthlessly. "Not that I care about you, Hunter, or that poor excuse for a President. I don't want you to have any misapprehensions about that, but I do love our country. I'd prefer to avoid a national scandal, but if that's the only way to clear my name and to see justice done, I won't hesitate to bring you down."

  "I'm not sure - "

  The line was dead.

  ####

  "Get out!" Hunter ordered the NIIA agents. "Take your worthless junk with you!" The agents, working quickly, cast covert glances at his brooding visage, being careful to draw no attention to themselves. Miller, too, eyed Hunter but with a speculation absent from the others.

  The room was quiet. They were gone. He was alone with Miller.

  "You heard what Grant said?" Hunter asked.

  Miller indicated that he had. Their discussion progressed from this innocuous beginning through the many problems caused by Grant to the Anne Peabody story. Hunter knew he'd laid the groundwork well. He'd made numerous omissions, but Miller had no way of knowing. Miller wouldn't realize he was being set up, Hunter thought. By the time he did, he would be in too deep to wiggle loose.

  By tomorrow, Miller would be under suspicion, and Grant would be in their grasp. Neither would be able to escape.

  ####

  Miller left the War Room unsure whether to laugh or curse. Hunter had had the audacity to try to make him the fall guy for the administration's stupidity! That wasn't what Hunter had said, of course, but Miller, like Hunter, was too much a student of Machiavelli to be fooled.

  Hunter had tried to sucker the wrong man this time, Miller thought, his mouth tightening grimly.

  He entered his office and began going through his files. The paper shredder didn't stop humming for several hours.

  ####

  In the cabin hideout near Washington, Sherrill sat in front of the glowing fireplace, going through the stack of printouts Bailey had produced during his various computer searches. She was trying to find a link between the man they suspected was John Smythe and the events they thought Smythe had masterminded.

  "Sherrill," he said excitedly, jerking his eyes from the computer monitor to look at her, "you've got to see this."

  She walked to his side. "You've found something?" she asked, trying to make sense of the information on the screen.

  "You'd better believe it!" Bailey handed her a printout. "See this White House schedule? Out of D.C. on the night Frederickson was killed." He flipped a page, pointing again. "And on the day Peabody was, too. And look here." He flipped more pages.

  "How can it be?" Sherrill protested hurriedly. "He's one of the President's closest advisors. Everyone trusts him."

  The phone rang. Bailey grabbed it. It was Grant.

  "I found it, Dad," Bailey told him excitedly. "I found what you needed. You were right. He has to be John Smythe. Everything points to it."

  "Good work," Grant said.

  Bailey beamed.

  "Get word to Yao," Grant said.

  "I will," Bailey promised.

  "Phase Three of Operation Integrity is committed," Grant told him. "We've contacted the White House."

  As soon as Bailey replaced the phone, the fax machine in the corner began whirring. Sherrill ran to it. "It's another composite," she said, leaning forward gracefully to grab it the moment it fell out.

  Bailey walked over to the machine and looked over Sherrill's shoulder. "So Sergeant Alvarez did come through. Now let's see what we have." He held up the drawing, studying it. "What do you think?"

  "That you were dead on."

  The fax machine kept spewing out pages.

  Bailey held the new composite beside the other two, compared the three with a photograph Cynthia had sent, and nodded with satisfaction. John Smythe. Surely this was John Smythe.

  He taped Alvarez's composite onto the wall by the first two. The other reports that Alvarez had sent, including a ballistic report, he saved for the sheriff.

  ####

  "Where have you been?" Hunter demanded of Derek Bender when at close to midnight the NIIA officer finally arrived.

  "I had to - " Bender began.

  "I won't have your excuses!" Hunter interrupted angrily. "When I order you to come, you'd better come. Immediately!

  "I want you to concentrate your men at Union Station," Hunter continued.

  "Union Station? But - "

  "Of course, Union Station," Hunter interrupted. "You've heard what Grant said." Hunter regarded Bender appraisingly. He sensed the other's reluctance. "We can't ignore Grant's words just because they make no sense. Grant may well be trying a double bluff. That sounds like something he would do. He said Union Station for some reason, maybe just so we'd discount it. That's why you'll be there. If you don't get Grant, Bender, you'll be out of a job, and I'll see you never get another."

  "But Grant may have - "

  "Grant is clever," Hunter said, leaning out over the desk. "Can't you understand that? He picked Union Station for a reason. You figure out the reason, and you get Grant. He's a lying murderer. Get Grant before he destroys everything!"

  ####

  Monday, November 2: One Day Before the Election

  When the phone rang, it was 5:45. Hunter was awake, but his mind didn't focus completely until he heard the name: John Smythe. With recognition came an avalanche of fury.

  "What do you mean by calling me?" Hunter demanded.

  "A slight change in plans," Smythe said, his mechanically altered voice making even those prosaic words sinister. "We have to meet."

  "Meet? Are you mad?"

  "Believe me, I know the risk better than you," Smythe said. "Nevertheless, we must meet and as soon as possible."

  "The only time I can spare is this morning, 7:30, Rockville Cemetery." That at least would keep Smythe away from Union Station at the crucial time, Hunter thought.

  While Grant was hunted down like the dangerous animal he was, Hunter would be at his son's grave, his first visit since the funeral. Then Hunter could resume his duties without the distractions of either grief or Grant. He could fulfill his destiny and the intertwining destiny of the presidency.

  ####

  John Smythe picked up the semiautomatic lying next to the phone and fingered it almost lovingly. He wore rubber gloves. It was Grant's own gun, stolen from his unoccupied house by the skin-headed hooligans.

  Now Grant's gun would complete its destiny, destroying both men who dared to threaten him. He carefully wrapped it in a hand towel, also taken from Grant's house, and stowed the tight bundle in his coat pocket. His eyes took in the room. He wouldn't be returning. His work in Washington and his work as John Smythe were at an end. He was retiring.

  Smythe looked down at the bulge of the towel-swathed gun. The melancholy dissipated in anticipation of sweet retribution. The smile returned to his lips. Bob Grant destroyed, Jonathan Hunter destroyed, maybe even the presidency destroyed - enough satisfaction for the day.

  What did he want to take with him? His diaries, of course, he would take. A worn brown briefcase, a memento mori from Russell Frederickson, waited open in front of him. Smythe stared at it for a moment. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it. Certainly, he'd never kept evidence from other murders. Perhaps it was for the added fillip of danger, the edge, like his repeated disguise, all of which enhanced his reputation and proclaimed his superiority.

  Placing the diaries, his record of triumph, in the bottom of the briefcase, he added the other papers in the safe, a step-by-step documentation of his life's work. The top sheets chronicled his campaign to destroy Bob Grant.

  His notebook computer came next. By its side he placed the tape recorder that he'd converted into a repository for his Glock semiautomatic pistol. The gun's plastic body would pass through airport security undetected.

  With a decisive snap, he closed the briefcase. It was time, time for him to leave.

  ####

  Jenks and Bailey began their surveillance of the apartment of the man they'd deduced was John Smythe.

  Goldie left to ready the plane.

  Half an hour later, the lights went off in the apartment, and within minutes a black BMW roared out of the apartment's underground garage and onto the street. The man they presumed to be John Smythe was at the wheel.

  Bailey pulled their nondescript rental car into traffic, being careful to place several cars between himself and his quarry.

  Several miles later, they turned the corner in time to see the BMW pulling into the crowded parking lot of an office building.

  "There's a space around the corner," Jenks said, "where you can still see his car. I'll just get out and mosey on over to see if I can figure out what he's up to.

  ####

  Bob Grant raced down the twisting back roads near the cabin, pushing the car to enough above the speed limit that he would make good time, but not so fast that he would be stopped by the police. What a superb piece of irony that would be! Sought for murder but arrested for speeding!

  Grant tugged the dreadlock wig, as much from the nervous tension of waiting as from the need to make it more comfortable. He glanced down at the cellular phone, willing it to ring.

  Grant's eyes were flinty. Everything, his personal freedom, the welfare of his family, the safety of his friends, hinged on his having gotten enough facts and then interpreted them correctly. Had he seen through the lies and subterfuges, through the personal and political maneuvering and prejudices to the face of John Smythe?

  Were they following the right man? And what about Bonfire? Where was he and how did he fit into the equation?

  The phone rang. Grant reached for it, his foot unconsciously pressing the accelerator. He eased back and punched the talk button.

  "What's the license number on your Olds?" Jenks asked. Urgency underscored his words. Grant told him. Jenks must have lowered the phone, for his voice became distant. "Up there, Bailey. Turning left. We've got him now."

  "Sorry about that, Bob," Jenks said after a few more hurried words to Bailey, "but things were downright difficult there for a moment. Afraid we'd lost him."

  "But you haven't," Grant said, wanting confirmation.

  "Nope, sure haven't.

  Unconsciously, Grant held his breath, waiting.

  "He's driving your car, Senator."

  "So we were right," Grant said, grim triumph in his words. "He is John Smythe."

  "I'd reckon so," Jenks agreed, "especially since he's sporting a most bodacious beard."

  "What!"

  "Sure nuff," Jenks assured him. "It's the composites come to life."
*

  
"Smythe's turning into that cemetery up ahead," Bailey said, surprised. He eased back on the gas and turned through black wrought-iron gates hanging on stone columns. Smythe's car was just disappearing around the curve ahead.

  Jenks dialed Grant.

  "Rockville Cemetery?" Grant repeated thoughtfully. "I'm almost there. That's where Joey Hunter's buried, isn't it?"

  "By gosh, I believe you're right!" Jenks exclaimed.

  Jenks left the car and hurried across the grass, using tall monuments to shield him from view as he reached the top of the rise.

  ####

  When his Town Car pulled to a stop inside the cemetery grounds, Jonathan Hunter didn't get out immediately. He was savoring the moment.

  A small knoll hid the grave from the car. Hunter had had his protective detail park on the far side for that reason. This was a moment to share with his son alone.

  He left the car and ordered his agents to remain where they were. Seven-twenty-five. Hunter quickened his pace. He would have five minutes alone with his son before Smythe arrived, five minutes to share the joy of his vengeance.

  He didn't hear John Smythe approaching with muffled step through the grass.

  ####

  "You called it," Jenks told Grant over the phone."

  "I'm entering the cemetery now," Grant told Jenks.

  "When you come on the first side road on the right, pull in, and no one'll be the wiser. Better turn 'round so you can pull out fast if need be.

  "I've reached the side road and parked," Grant said, grabbing his camera from the seat beside him. "I'm going up the hill."

  ####

  Hunter started violently at the touch on his arm.

  "Smythe?" he asked hoarsely, turning his face toward the other. He cleared his throat again. "Smythe?"

  The bearded man nodded.

  "Hunter!"

  The word snapped Hunter's mind from its macabre thoughts, and he jerked toward the voice. Suddenly, Hunter was afraid.

  Hunter's pulse slowly stabilized, and he chided himself for succumbing to Smythe's queer menace. The man was his employee, after all! "You said we needed to talk?" he asked.

  Smythe chuckled. Hunter felt another stab of unreasoning fear. "Talk?" Smythe asked. "Did I say talk? Actually, what I have in mind is for you to listen."

  The voice, Hunter thought, something about the voice. "Edmund Miller!" he blurted. "You're Edmund Miller. "I don't understand. "This silly masquerade. You don't need to play games with me. I've thought only of you. You know that, Miller. Be a team player, and you'll find yourself handsomely rewarded." Again, Miller chuckled. "You poor, dumb, arrogant fool."

  Hunter's eyes widened at the gun that had materialized in Miller's gloved hand, a government model semiautomatic Colt .45. Was that a silencer on the end? Hunter wondered. He darted a glance in the direction of the unseen security detail.

  "You planned to throw me to the wolves," Miller said. His tone was conversational, making a parody of the gun held rock steady in his hand.

  "Throw you to the wolves?" Hunter repeated with a nervous laugh. "No, that was never our intention," he said, trying to smile.

  Miller's eyes never left his. They never blinked.

  "Maybe I should reintroduce myself," Miller said, cocking his head as if in thought. The chuckle was still in his voice. "John Smythe at your service."

  The chuckle poured over and became an amused laugh as Hunter's face blanched and his legs buckled, his knees sinking into his son's grave.

  Miller really was John Smythe, Hunter thought in some reflexive corner of his numbed mind, a direct link to the White House.

  The ground was cold, so cold under Jonathan Hunter's knees, but not as cold as the evil he recognized in Edmund Miller's eyes. With more astonishment than fear, Hunter felt the searing entry of the bullet.

  Slowly, his body crumpled until his arms embraced the newly turned soil.

  Even before Hunter's body recognized death, Miller began loping across the grass, skirting tombstones as he ran. About three hundred yards from the body, he tossed the gun into some shrubs. One hundred yards further on, near the car, he tossed the towel away as well.

  Little more than three minutes after his most recent murder, he was in Grant's car.

  ####

  Through the lens of his camera, Grant watched as Jonathan Hunter slowly slumped onto the raw earth. He watched Miller bend toward him, pause, then turn and begin running down the hill. Grant snapped pictures of it all. Only in the last was Miller, beard fully revealed, facing the camera.

  Still, Hunter didn't move.

  His mouth suddenly dry, Grant rose to his feet and ran to the Attorney General. Grant saw the small red circle in the center of Hunter's forehead, now partially hidden by a lock of hair, and understood.

  Grant glanced in the direction he knew hid Hunter's agents, wanting to call for help. He couldn't. They didn't know Miller had been there. Curse the man!

  Grant turned. His only hope lay in following Miller. He raced toward his own car.

  Miller was out of sight by the time Grant pulled from the curb.

  ####

  The car phone rang. Jenks and Bailey both lunged toward it. Jenks grabbed it.

  "Hunter's dead," Grant told him. "Miller shot him. I'm in the car, trying to catch up with him now."

  "We'll be right behind you," Jenks said. "I'm calling Yao." The phone went dead.

  ####

  Miller glanced in his rearview mirror. The same car had been behind him for several miles, he realized, far behind but closing fast.

  Had someone witnessed the shooting at the cemetery? Was that someone now following him? Miller pressed the gas pedal to the floor and made two random turns, always careful to stay somewhat on track to the airport. The other car dropped back but continued to follow.

  ####

  "Miller is somewhere ahead of me," Grant told Jenks over the phone.

  "I'm guessing he's making for Dulles Airport."

  Miller's car spurted ahead and disappeared over a hill. Grant wedged the phone between the seats and grasped the steering wheel solidly in both hands. He, too, flew over the hill, airborne at the crest.

  "Can you hear me?" he yelled, never taking his eyes from the speeding car, once again visible ahead.

  He heard a weak "Yes" from Jenks.

  Grant yelled the turns as he made them.

  ####

  "What is it now, Corforth?" the President demanded irritably when his Chief of Staff walked into the Oval Office unannounced. "You know we can't begin our briefing until Hunt's here."

  Corforth shifted his feet uncomfortably. "This is about Jonathan." The President looked up sharply at the odd note in Corforth's voice. At the sight of the pallor of his sunken cheeks, the President felt a frisson of fear.

  "Jonathan was shot while visiting Joey's grave."

  All color drained from the President's face.

  "He's dead," Corforth finished none too gently. There was no easy way to break the news.

  Deep grooves etched their way around the President's mouth. Slowly, his head dropped until it rested on his hands clasped in front of him on the desk.

  ####

  Miller checked his rearview mirror. The car was still there, behind but narrowing the gap. He pounded the steering wheel angrily, cursing Grant and his old car. The BMW would have left everyone in the dust.

  Miller reached toward the passenger's seat, lifted the jacket resting on it, and removed his gun from the pocket.

  This time when Miller glanced into the mirror, the face of his pursuer was caught in full relief. Miller, seldom nonplussed, was now. The driver was Bob Grant!

  Slowly, Miller replaced the gun on the seat beside him and floored the gas. Much as he wanted to kill him, he couldn't, not and have Grant labeled Hunter's murderer.

  Miller glanced at the dashboard clock. His plane would leave in half an hour. Some premonition of danger caused him to look up. His breath caught spasmodically. A hairpin turn! Too fast! He was going too fast!

  The steering wheel jerked in his hands. He pumped the brake. The car swerved into the turn, skidding on loose gravel.

  The car skewed from the edge of the culvert and became airborne.

  ####

  Sweat dripping down his back and attaching his suddenly sodden shirt to his jacket, Grant watched Miller's car swerve, upright itself, then take the corner on two wheels. Grant's eyes widened in horror as the car disappeared around the curve.

  In front of him he saw Miller's car, airborne and on target for a huge oak tree, as immovable as one hundred years could make it.

  "No!" Grant screamed, slamming on his brakes and yanking the steering wheel hard to the left.

  Even as the command left his lips, the shriek of metal tangling with wood ripped the still sky.

  Grant fought the wheel of his own skidding car, but the car steadied and finally slammed to a rocking stop. Wrenching open the door, Grant jumped out and raced back toward the mangled remains, fifty feet behind him.

  Steam hissed, and still bending metal screeched its protest. Jenks's and Bailey's car, tires wailing, skidded into the turn. Grant ignored it all, focused only on reaching Miller. Miller alone knew all the answers. Miller alone could exonerate Grant and his son.

  A shiver of dread thrummed down Grant's spine as the smell of gasoline became stronger. The car was going to explode! He had to get Miller out!

  Using the fender to steady himself on the rutted ground, Grant skirted the car and ran to the driver's side. His stomach heaved. Miller, so evil in life, was in death nothing more than a bloody pulp smashed against the steering wheel.

  Behind Grant, car doors slammed. "Dad!" Bailey shouted.

  Grant looked up and waved them back. "He's dead. The car's going to explode!"

  Jenks ignored him, loping on long legs toward the rear of the car. Grant stepped back from the car, but Jenks - Grant's heart stopped - Jenks was leaning into the trunk!

  Jenks yanked out Miller's briefcase, turned, and ran. He'd only taken two long strides before the car exploded, throwing him through the air and flinging him pitilessly to the ground.

  Grant slapped out a greedy flame on Jenks's pant leg, then loosed Jenks's collar. The sheriff opened his eyes and managed a weak smile. "I can feel I'm alive," he wheezed, a hand straying to his ribs, "but the briefcase. It okay?"

  "Still clutched in your hand." Grant felt Jenks's pulse. It was rapid but not alarmingly so. Thank God.

  ####

  Corforth walked into the Oval Office, hoping to find the President ready to take charge.

  "What am I going to do without Hunt?" the President asked, leaning beseechingly toward Corforth. "What am I going to do?"

  "They've found the gun that killed Jonathan," Corforth told him, working to jolt him into decisive action. "A government model Colt .45."

  "It's registered in D.C. to Robert Hawkins Grant." Even as he said the name, Corforth felt a tremor of disbelief.

  "Bob Grant," the President whispered. "He murdered Hunt."

  Corforth manned the private line, relaying messages.

  "A car was seen in the cemetery around the time of the murder," he told the President. "A cemetery employee noticed it."

  "They're running the license number now."

  "Good. Good."

  Again, the phone rang.

  "They traced the car," Corforth said "It belongs to Bob Grant."

  "Bob Grant!" The President spat the name. "Send out an A.P.B. for him: armed and dangerous, shoot on sight

  ####

  The sky was overcast and the air chilling, but Sherrill, huddled in a down coat, sat outside on the steps of the cabin.

  At the first sound of tires crunching on the gravel at the top of the drive, she jumped to her feet and raced down the steps. She was beside the car before it came to a stop.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  Ignoring her question, he steered her toward the house. "We need to pack things and be ready to leave shortly. Put the evidence, anything we might need this afternoon, in a separate box."

  In less than five minutes Sherrill and Grant had scattered boxes around the room. Some were now full.

  The minutes mounted, and still no one arrived. When car tires finally crunched on the gravel, Grant moved to the front window and cracked the curtains. Bailey and Jenks!

  "What happened?" Grant asked. His eyes went to the battered briefcase Jenks still held. It was similar to millions of others, but this one, resting just inches from him, could contain proof of his innocence and of the innocence of his son.

  "We took a long way back," Jenks told him.

  Before Grant could comment, the door banged open, and Stephen Yao strode in.

  "You've got to get out of here while you still can," Yao said.

  "And that means pronto. They have an APB: armed and dangerous, shoot on sight out for you, Bob.

  "Gather up what you need," Yao said, moving over to take the composites off the wall, "but get a move on it. We're meeting Goldie in forty-five minutes, and he figures he's only got a five minute window for touchdown before air-traffic control gets suspicious."

  Yao commenced outlining his plan, beginning with their imminent departure from the cabin in two different vehicles by two different routes and ending in little more than three hours with Grant delivering his speech of vindication in one of CNN's Atlanta studios.

  ####

  Rachel Grant watched the TV in frozen horror. An APB - shoot on sight order! How could this have happened?

  She knew Bob wouldn't call until he gave the final signal, but, oh, how she wished she could hear his voice!

  Jonathan Hunter was dead. Bob was accused of his murder. What did it all mean? And how did it affect their plans?

  The phone rang.

  With a shaking hand, Rachel answered it.

  She listened for a minute, hung up, and let out a shuddering sigh.

  The others in the room stood motionless, their eyes never leaving her face.

  She raised her eyes and met theirs. "That was Bob. So far they're all safe." "We're to go ahead with the plan?" Cynthia asked.

  "Yes, beginning now."

  Cynthia left the room.

  "The video will arrive on schedule," Rachel continued. "We'll have it the moment they land."

  Someone said a relieved, "Right on."

  "I'll call Brandon." John Wright moved toward a phone. Brandon Bascham was waiting to make copies of the tape and take them to stations around Georgia. Goldie, assuming he was still free, would fly other copies north to New York and Washington.

  No one in the media would receive a video tape until Bob began his press conference. The surprise had to be absolute.

  Rachel didn't let herself think of the alternative, that the tapes would be delivered because Bob was unable to hold the press conference. Shoot on sight. The words haunted her.

  ####

  "I don't like this," Corforth said, even before the door to the Oval Office closed behind him.

  The President, who was staring sightlessly out the mullioned window, spoke without turning. "What is it this time?" His voice was listless. "A news conference," Corforth said. The President still didn't turn. "To be held by Bob Grant."

  This time the President's reaction was as passionate as Corforth could have wished. He spun around and with two angry strides was confronting Corforth.

  "What do you mean, Grant's holding a press conference? He's a fugitive. The entire country is searching for him. Where is this blasted press conference anyway? And when? He has to be stopped."

  "Presumably he'll hold it soon. But where?" Corforth shrugged. "Grant's emissary - and we don't know who she was, just that she was using a pay phone in Atlanta - called stations in Washington, New York, LA, and Chicago. She told them to spread the word, said she'd be calling different stations with the next instructions. Clever plan."

  The President began pacing. "Grant has to be stopped."
*

  

  After the phone call to Rachel, Grant, Yao, and Jenks made it safely to a side road near the abandoned airstrip where they were to rendezvous with Matt Goldie.

  They'd already decided it would be safer to wait until they were inside the plane to open Miller's briefcase. No chance then of unwanted interruptions. No chance of losing something. Their plan was for the sheriff to accompany Grant to the Atlanta TV studio. His presence in his uniform would give Grant's accusations and supporting evidence the stamp of official approval.

  "There's no doubt we need a video in case I'm not around to tell the story myself," Grant said.

  "Goldie will have everything on board and ready to go," Yao assured him.

  They heard a plane engine, the sound gradually obscuring the quiet.

  They left the truck and hurried toward the plane, Yao helping Jenks, Grant carrying the box of evidence and the briefcase.

  Goldie was waiting at the top of the plane's steps. "Glad to see you guys," he said, giving them a lopsided grin.

  Behind him, Grant could see Ginger Wright. Ginger was also a photographer. She was on board to film Grant's video. Normally, she did video productions of weddings. Today, her filming wasn't once in a lifetime. It was life and death.

  Yao stowed the box and briefcase for takeoff, then began conferring with Goldie about arrangements for their arrival. Everything was under control.

  Even before Goldie reached a protective layer of clouds where he could change direction undetected, Grant opened Smythe's briefcase. Even now, knowing what he did, Smythe and Bonfire seemed more real - and more sinister - than Edmund Miller.

  Jenks looked over. "See those initials?" He pointed to worn gold letters under the handle. "That's Frederickson's briefcase, just like ol' Evans described it."

  "So it is!" Grant exclaimed, lowering the lid and touching the letters. "The arrogance of Smythe! He sure didn't expect to be caught, did he?"

  Everyone gathered around as Grant once again lifted the briefcase lid and began examining the contents.

  Brandon Bascham was waiting when they landed at the private airstrip, but not the NIIA. Too many airports and airstrips to cover? Grant wondered. Regardless, Grant and his allies wasted no time. The precious video tape they'd made on board was sent with Ginger and Bailey for a massive copying effort. Goldie took the one duplicate they'd been able to make on the plane. He would make his own copies before delivering them to as many cities as possible on the eastern seaboard.

  Watches were synchronized. Rendezvous were coordinated. Everyone left. Yao drove Grant and Jenks into downtown Atlanta without incident.

  They made it into the CNN skyscraper without being recognized.

  "I'll get you into the broadcast room," Yao. "The feed is set so you can be on any networks worldwise that choose to access it, but you're the ones who have to make your case. You've all but been hung, Bob. You'd better make it good." He looked directly at Grant. "Remember, I can't guarantee you'll have much uninterrupted time."

  With Stephen Yao in the lead, Bob Grant, dressed in an only slightly mussed navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, walked out of the elevator on the studio level of the CNN building. Sheriff Jenks, officially attired in his tan uniform shirt, badge gleaming above the pocket, walked at his side. Only a slight hitch in his step gave indication of his pain.

  One of Yao's agents was waiting for them. He handed Yao several thick manila envelopes.

  "I labeled each one by the affidavit it contains," the operative said as he fell in step with them. "Mrs. Novitsky said you were aware of the contents of each." He addressed the last sentence to Grant, who nodded.

  "And the pictures?" Yao asked.

  "Clear shots. We blew them to 10 x 14."

  Yao opened the door to the studio. One of Goldie's friends, an executive of CNN, was waiting for them.

  Grant and Jenks were miked and escorted by an excited technician to a table and floor mike in front of three cameras. Grant placed Frederickson's briefcase under the table by Jenks.

  Only then were those in charge told of Grant's presence. Only then were cameramen sent to the room. Almost immediately, other CNN personnel rushed in, all flushed with the media scoop which would be theirs.

  As a hush descended, Grant closed his eyes in prayer. He had seconds only, but his needs were simple: wisdom to speak the truth and faith to accept the outcome, whatever it might be.

  In moments, Senator Robert Hawkins Grant would begin the speech for his life.

  ####

  The news of Grant's impending broadcast immediately reached NIIA headquarters in Washington.

  "Grant's going to be on CNN!"

  "Which studio?"

  "We think Atlanta."

  "Contact Bender. He arrived there fifteen minutes ago and is already headed in that direction. He can handle Grant. But get hold of Bender now!"

  ####

  We interrupt CNN's regular programming for a CNN exclusive live broadcast of Senator Robert Hawkins Grant, the man accused by the President of the United States of earlier today assassinating Attorney General Jonathan Hunter. With Senator Grant in our studio is Jimmy Jenks, sheriff of Oconee County, Georgia. Sheriff Jenks has been investigating the murder of reporter Russell Frederickson. Senator Grant is accused of that murder as well.

  Grant, with Jenks beside him, appeared on the screen. Then the camera angle tightened to show only Grant. Grant: formidable but at ease. Grant: confident in the truth.

  "It is with great sorrow for our nation that I come before you today," he began gravely. "For the past two weeks my family and I have been subjected to an evil and unremitting persecution, a persecution planned and implemented by the President of the United States."

  "Unfortunately, to further his quest for personal power, our President has held himself above the law and has held human life as expendable. Tonight, as a sitting United States senator, I demand the impeachment of the President of the United States of America."
*

  
The door flew open.

  "Grant! There's Grant!" Derek Bender's voice.

  Grant's face was obliterated from the TV screen by a huge gray-suited back. Another camera zoomed in. Televisions around the world showed Grant being manhandled by four burly NIIA agents.

  "Leave the Senator alone!" Jenks's disembodied voice boomed over the airwaves. "He's innocent, I tell you! Is this the American way, condemnation without justice?"

  The agents, confused and wary, loosened their grip momentarily. Grant straightened his suit coat and spoke into the microphone. "I ask for a few minutes only. Then if you still demand it, I'll go with you."

  Bender looked from Grant to the handheld camera. Its red light glowed like a warning. His job was on the line. Bender knew it. Everyone viewing knew it. "All right, he can speak," Bender growled, moving away from the angry eye of the camera. "Stay right beside him," he told his agents, "but let him speak. Lock and guard all exits," he added to agents at the back of the room. He began holstering his gun.

  "Thank you," Grant said. Then he turned back to the cameras. The air was expectant, like the heavy dull throb before a violent storm.

  "I repeat," Grant said, his tone resonating with the fervor of innocence, "it is with regret that I, as a sitting United States senator, must demand the impeachment of the President of the United States. I'll present my evidence. I ask you, the American people, to judge its worth."

  "The trail of deceit began during the last presidential election. Finding himself far behind in the polls, our current President, the challenger, hired John Smythe, a nefarious underworld agent, to grasp victory from sure humiliation. Within weeks, the incumbent President was accused of accepting a bribe from a foreign government. That allegation was based on information fabricated by John Smythe. Our current President was subsequently elected, largely because of those lies. As the newly elected President, his first act was to pardon his predecessor, ostensibly a generous gesture to save the nation the shame of a trial. Actually, he acted to prevent the thorough examination a trial would have demanded."

  "Russell Frederickson, a reporter for the Washington Herald, was murdered investigating that same bribery charge. On the surface the charge appeared irrefutable. On examination by Frederickson, the truth was revealed. Frederickson realized no bribery could have taken place because no money had been involved. A bogus electronic trail camouflaged a transfer of money which never occurred. Frederickson called Anne Peabody, the broker who originally leveled the bribery accusation. He confronted her with an outline of his suspicions and made an appointment with her for the next day. Ms. Peabody immediately reviewed the appropriate files and pulled up some information on her computer. Then in great agitation, she placed a call to Attorney General Jonathan Hunter."

  "Forty hours later, both Ms. Peabody and Mr. Frederickson had been brutally murdered."

  "The phone call from Russell Frederickson to Anne Peabody as well as the one from Anne Peabody to Attorney General Hunter have been confirmed by Ms. Peabody's secretary and by phone records from the White House. The notes Frederickson made after his phone call with Ms. Peabody and his documentation of the bogus bribery evidence were retrieved from his computer at the Washington Herald. All this evidence has been sworn to under oath by Ms. Peabody's secretary and by representatives of every financial institution, both domestic and international, that was compromised by Smythe's operation." "These composite drawings," he said as the camera zoomed in on them, "one of the murderer of Anne Peabody," he lifted the one sent by Alvarez, "and one of the murderer of Russell Frederickson," he lifted the other, "suggest that both murderers are, in truth, the same man."

  "Russell Frederickson was murdered to prevent disclosure of the bogus bribery plot. Anne Peabody was murdered by the same man because she discovered she'd been deceived, thereby becoming a potential threat."

  "These questions remain: Who is this man who so callously murdered Russell Frederickson and Anne Peabody, and why was I brought into the plot? Part of the answer lies with the late senator from New York, Phillip Loomis. Senator Loomis discovered that someone using the code name Bonfire was mounting a campaign to destroy my reputation. Drug and adultery charges were to be the basis for the attack. Senator Loomis tried to warn me, and as a result he had to be eliminated."

  "Yes, Phillip Loomis was murdered."

  "Sheriff Jenks has reviewed the evidence found at the scene after Loomis's death and ignored by NIIA investigators. This evidence indicates that Phillip Loomis did not commit suicide as was alleged. Senator Phillip Loomis was murdered."

  Grant picked up the letter from Loomis which Jenks had laid ready for him. The handwriting stood out dramatically against the white paper."

  "Phillip Loomis wrote this letter to me the night he died," Grant said. "I received the letter only yesterday evening. In it, Senator Loomis described the plan to destroy me, attributing it to a shadowy figure he knew only as Bonfire. Loomis ended the letter by saying he feared for his life because of what he'd discovered. Were it not for Senator Loomis's courage in trying to expose the plot against me, the truth might never have been revealed."

  "And so another question must be added to our list of questions. Who is this mysterious Bonfire who murdered Senator Loomis and plotted my destruction?"

  "The attacks against me escalated, and - I find this unconscionable - my son Bailey was made the target. I have affidavits," he said, holding them up, "from two individuals, indicating they were part of a conspiracy to set up my son on drug charges. The ultimate purpose of that scheme was to embarrass and further discredit me."

  "At the same party where my son was 'set up' by these tools of Bonfire, Joey Hunter, son of the Attorney General, inadvertently ingested a lethal combination of drugs and alcohol. All evidence of Joey Hunter's presence at the party, of the true nature of his drug-related medical emergency, and of his transport by ambulance from the party to the hospital where he subsequently died were omitted from the police report and his hospital records. I don't blame Attorney General Hunter for wanting to protect his son; however, I do fault him for using circumstantial evidence to try to destroy my son. Grant stared out at the CNN personnel and NIIA agents who filled the room. Almost as one, they leaned forward expectantly, transfixed by his words. Grant could only hope that millions of others were equally interested and that they understood the implications."

  "Bonfire's next attempt to discredit me," he continued, "involved drugs as well. It had its roots in this past summer. You have no doubt heard or read the statement of convicted drug dealer Hal Olexey in which he swears I bought drugs from him. You have no doubt seen the photograph purporting to show me buying those drugs. Both are false. The picture was taken last summer at a national fund-raiser attended by more than a thousand people. Further, Olexey was paid to go to prison in order to implicate me."

  "Now we come to the Attorney General of the United States, Jonathan Hunter," Grant said gravely. "His longtime friendship with our President was known to everyone. What may not be known is that for the past year, Mr. Hunter had made most decisions, domestic, international, and political, for the President and with the President's blessings. It was after a phone call to Attorney General Hunter that both Anne Peabody and Russell Frederickson were murdered."

  "A high level White House advisor has agreed to testify to the collusion with John Smythe by both the Attorney General and the President."

  "This White House official will further testify that in July of this year, John Smythe was again mentioned, this time in connection with the upcoming presidential election. Because I was considered the strongest opponent the President could face in two years, Smythe was hired to insure I would be in no position to mount a challenge."

  "John Smythe was initially recommended to Attorney General Hunter and the President by Edmund Miller, a senior White House staff member who died earlier today in a fiery crash in rural Virginia. Unknown to either Hunter or the President, Edmund Miller was in reality John Smythe."

  "With the help of Sheriff Jenks and other concerned Americans, I was coming close to finding the truth, not just about John Smythe but about the White House involvement as well. Ironically, unaware of his other persona as John Smythe, Attorney General Hunter and the President decided to make Edmund Miller the scapegoat for their problems. They recognized that Miller possessed all the necessary qualifications. During the Peabody bribery episode, Miller had been administrative assistant to a high ranking senator. As such he had access to the information necessary to make the bribery plot succeed. Further, Miller was away from the White House during the crucial time of each murder."

  "I can't tell you why Edmund Miller, wearing the beard of John Smythe, was at the grave of Joey Hunter this morning. However, Sheriff Jenks, convinced that Miller was Russell Frederickson's murderer, was keeping Miller under surveillance. At six A.M. this morning, the sheriff followed Miller from his apartment to an office complex on the D.C./Maryland border. When Miller walked out of that building several minutes later, he had transformed himself into the bearded John Smythe."

  "Miller drove away in my car, a car that had been stolen from my Washington, D.C., garage several days earlier. Sheriff Jenks followed Miller to Rockville Cemetery, where Joey Hunter is buried. The sheriff contacted me, and I arrived soon after."

  "Hunter met with Miller," Grant said. "We do know that when Miller left, Hunter was dead. He was shot with a gun stolen from my home, presumably at the same time my car was stolen."

  "I followed Miller, who was still driving my car, from the cemetery. Sheriff Jenks was close behind. According to airline tickets found later, Miller planned to catch a flight out of the country. Instead, he lost control of his car, slammed into a tree, and was killed."

  "Before the car exploded, Sheriff Jenks in an extraordinary act of bravery retrieved Edmund Miller's briefcase, the briefcase he planned to take with him on his flight from this country."

  Grimacing slightly in pain, Jenks lifted the briefcase and spoke into the microphone. "Edmund Miller had this briefcase with him, but it wasn't his. It was Russell Frederickson's. "Hidden in it I found four passports in different names and with different pictures, including a legitimate one for Edmund Miller and a bearded one for John Smythe. According to his notes, Miller used another code name as well, Bonfire. I know for a fact both Bonfire and John Smythe are wanted by most every major country in the world."

  "Miller's personal computer was also in the briefcase," Grant said, Jenks standing stoically at his side. "In it he recorded numerous White House meetings, the conversations presumably verbatim for the most part."

  "And so we are back to the White House," Grant said slowly, "the beginning chapter of a long and sordid story. As you've seen, the President subverted this nation's law enforcement agencies through his manipulation of the NIIA. Knowingly or not, he conspired to at least four murders. He obstructed justice, tampered with evidence, and interfered with the election of both a United States President and a United States senator. For these reasons, I ask that this President be removed from office."

  "If the people of Georgia," Grant continued, "see their way to reelect me their Senator, I promise to insure a full and fair investigation into this White House. Further, I promise to insure the return of law enforcement power to local agencies, where it belongs. Never again will the federal government be allowed to amass so much power that a few are able to control the many. Never again will such abuse of individual rights be tolerated."

  "Yes, this is a dark time for our nation," he said, his words ringing with the conviction of his beliefs, "but tomorrow we hold an election. This election, like those that have come before, proclaims the enduring principles on which our greatness was founded and for which we must be willing to sacrifice: Freedom. Honor. Selflessness. Respect for privacy, individuality, property. Hard work. Courage. Integrity."

  "Tomorrow, as has been true of every election since the founding of our great nation, we can vote freely, casting our ballots for those we feel will best preserve these principles. Tomorrow, we can once again show the world that we, the people of the United States of America, will not tolerate any abuse of power. In the words of our second President John Adams, ours must be a nation of 'honest and wise leaders,' willing to stand firm in preserving its liberties. That is our American legacy, and that legacy will once again preserve us from the evil of our enemies. The United States of America, the greatest nation the world has ever known, will triumph in this black time because our trust is based, not on man, but on God. In God there is no falling."
*
#### 

  - the Conclusion of the Campaign

  Tuesday, November 3: Election Day

  "Returns are just beginning to come in from what has to be the most bizarre Senate election in history," a television announcer intoned. "Incumbent Georgia Senator Robert Hawkins Grant is in a virtual dead heat with his challenger, respected businessman Tobias Caruso. To comment on the far-reaching implications of this race, one that is certain to go down to the wire is - "

  "It's almost over," Rachel Grant said from her position inside her husband's protective arm.

  Grant smiled at her. He was tired, never more tired in his life. His body ached with fatigue. A few restful days with his family would cure that, but he wasn't sure anything could cure the heaviness in his soul.

  "Dad."

  Grant turned to Henry.

  "Dad, we want you to know," Henry said, indicating India, Olivia, and Bailey, "that even if you don't win, we think you're the best."

  "No one could be prouder of their father than we are of you," Bailey said earnestly."You are the best, Dad. We hated everything they said about you, but we knew it wasn't true."

  Suddenly, Grant felt free. He started chuckling, then laughing outright. The others watched a moment uncertainly, then they, too, joined in. Grant was surrounded by those he loved, laughing and exulting in their shared love and respect. Jenks's southern twang, out-twanged by that of his deputy Hank Farrar, mixed with the Washingtonian accents of Cynthia and Janet, the excited babble of Tucker and Melissa's children, the elation of his friends and family.

  "Look, Dad,"

  Henry said excitedly, pointing to the TV.

  "With 99 percent of the precincts reporting and with a 52 percent to 48 percent margin, Senator Robert Hawkins Grant has been reelected to a third term in the United States Senate."

  END

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