Footfall

“Jack,” the Chief of Staff said, “meet another member of our family, Major Jeanette Crichton. The President has assigned her to his staff. NSC. She’ll have regular personal access.”

“Right.” He studied her again.

“This is Jack Clybourne,” Jim Frantz said. “Secret Service.”

“I worry about keeping the chief healthy,” Clyboume said.

“Get word to all the security people, Jack.” Frantz turned to Jenny. “Major I’d like you to check in this evening about four … I should have some room for you by then. Meanwhile — oh. You came with General Gillespie. You’ve lost your ride.”

“No problem sir.”

“Right. Thanks.” He started down the hall, stopped, and turned his head but not his body. “Welcome aboard,” he said over his shoulder. He scurried off. Jenny giggled, and Clybourne gave her an answering smile. “He’s a worrier, that one.”

“I gathered. What’s next?”

“Fingerprints. Have to be suit you’re you.”

“Oh. Who does that?”

“I can if you like.” Clybourne lifted a phone and spoke for a few moments. Presently another clean-cut young man entered and sat at the desk.

“Tom Bucks,” Clyboume said. “Captain Jeanette Crichton … Next time you see her she’ll be wearing oak leaves. The President just promoted her. She’s the newest addition to NSC. Personal access.”

“Hi,” Bucks said. He studied her, and Jenny felt he was memorizing every pore on her face. They both act that way. Of course. Not Joe Gland, just a Secret Service agent doing his job.

Clybourne led the way downstairs and through a small staff lounge. “I keep gear back here,” he said. He took out a large black case and put fingerprinting apparatus on the counter of the coffee machine.

“You really have to do this? My prints are on file.”

“Sure. What I have to be sure of is that the pretty girl I’m talking to now is the same Jeanette Crichton the Army commissioned.”

“I suppose,” she said.

He took her hand. “Just relax, and let me do the work.”

She’d been through the routine before. Clybourne was good at it. Eventually he handed her a jar of waterless cleanser and some paper towels.

“How did you know the President had promoted me?” she asked.

“The appointment list said ‘Captain,’ and the Chief of Staff called you ‘Major.’ Jim Frantz doesn’t make that kind of mistake.”

And you don’t miss much, either.

She cleaned the black goo from her hands while Clybourne poured two cups of coffee from the pot on the table. He handed her one. “Somebody said you live in Washington?”

“Grew up here,” she said. “Which reminds me, can you call me a cab?”

4. BLIND MICE

Only one ship is seeking us, a black Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break.

—PHILIP LANJARD, “Next, Please”

COUNTDOWN: H MINUS SIX WEEKS

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“Flintridge. It’s out Connecticut, Rock Creek Park area.”

“I know where it is.” He glanced at his watch. “If you can wait ten minutes, I can run you out.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble…”

“No trouble. I go off duty, and I’m going that way.”

“All right, then. Thank you.”

“You can wait for me at the main entrance,” Clybourne said. He took a memo pad bearing the White House seal from his pocket and scribbled on it, then took a small triangular pin from another pocket. “Put that in your lapel, and keep this pass,” he said. “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He smiled again, and she found herself answering.

General Narovchatov paused at the door and waited to be invited inside even though Nadya had told him that Comrade Chairman Petrovskiy was expecting him. Petrovskiy did not like surprises.

The Chairman was writing in a small notebook. Narovchatov waited patiently.

The office was spartan in comparison to his own. Petrovskiy seemed not to notice things like rugs and tapestries and paintings. He enjoyed rare books with rich leather bindings and was fond of very old cognac; otherwise he did not often indulge himself.

There had been a time when Nikolai Nikolayevich Narovchatov was concerned that it would be dangerous to enjoy the trappings of wealth and power while the Chairman so obviously did not. He still believed that in the early days that concern had not been misplaced; but as Narovchatov rose in status, the gifts sent him by Petrovskiy had become more numerous and more valuable, until it was obvious that Petrovskiy was encouraging his old associate to indulge himself, to enjoy what he did not himself care for.

Narovchatov had never discussed this with Chairman Petrovskiy. It was enough that it was so.

Chairman Petrovskiy looked up. His welcoming smile was broad. “Come in, come in.” Then he grimaced. “I suppose it was not a joke. They continue to come, then?” He lifted his glass of tea and peered at Narovchatov over its rim.