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  “Thank you,” the President replied warmly.

  “Mr. President,” an aide said. “You have a ten-thirty with Daniel Page.”

  The President nodded, collected his notes from the lectern, and crossed the corridor between the Roosevelt Room and the Oval Office. He sat in the oak rocker and gazed out at the wintry landscape of the White House grounds. The capital was gripped in a cold snap that sent the temperature plunging to a record low.

  At precisely ten-thirty, the President’s secretary knocked at the concealed door between their offices and escorted in the President’s campaign manager.

  “Good morning, Mr. President,” Page said.

  The President rose and met Page in the center of the Oval, where the two shook hands.

  “Let’s talk in my study,” the President said.

  He led Page through the ornate door on the room’s west side, down a short corridor, and into his private study. The President sat in a leather chair and propped his feet on an ottoman. As Page took a seat on the couch, the President switched on the array of flat-screen televisions to the twenty-four-hour news channels and muted the sound.

  “How are we doing?” the President asked, his eyes skimming the news crawls at the bottom of the screens.

  “Online contributions are down.”

  “Down?”

  “We expected it after Lynn dropped out. You’re running unopposed, so a lot of your voters won’t get interested in the campaign until the fall—which is fine because we don’t want these folks getting message fatigue. Don’t worry about it. Your core is intact; we’re just operating in a behind-the-scenes mode. The goal for now is just to have you at your job, looking presidential.”

  “And the war chest?”

  “Still on track to have the largest presidential campaign fund ever. The unions are one hundred percent behind you, as are all of your big backers. Sturla is rock solid, just like last time. I wouldn’t worry about the bank.”

  “Did you learn anything from Iowa and New Hampshire?”

  Page shook his head. “We reviewed all the exit polling and didn’t find any surprises. Neuske is strong among seniors, but he’s splitting the vets with Hook. Oates is doing well with Republican women in all age groups. Small business owners are split between Widmer and Walterhouse. Vogel is running strong with the more libertarian conservatives. It’s a mixed bag of nuts. Neuske took Iowa but came in fifth in New Hampshire. Walterhouse squeaked a win in New Hampshire, but barely took third in Iowa.”

  “Just like our side, four years ago—too many candidates.”

  “There’s not much to separate one from the pack. In the first two contests, the spread between first and last was just a hair bigger than the statistical margin of error. In terms of delegates, Walterhouse is the front-runner, but a stiff wind could change the order.”

  “How’s their fund-raising?”

  “Can’t match ours,” Page replied. “Each candidate has a small core of financial backers, but the big money is sitting on the sidelines until a serious contender emerges. We were essentially in the same position four years ago, until we broke out on Super Tuesday.”

  “What if no one breaks out?” the President mused.

  “Nobody wins the nomination on Super Tuesday, but it usually thins the pack.”

  “I think it’s in our best interest if the pack remains thick for as long as possible.”

  “I agree,” Page said with a smug grin. “And we’re working on a strategy in the open-primary states. We had a strong primary team in place across the country, and I’m putting them to use.”

  “Good. How are we coming with the opposition research?”

  “All of them have something we can spin if and when the need arises. Oates is pretty clean, but with her it’s just a matter of guilt by association with the previous administration.”

  “That always plays well with my core voters, but I’m not so sure I want to face her in the fall.”

  “You don’t think you can beat her?”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t want the Republicans to be the first major party to nominate a woman for president—and a black one no less. We’re the ones who are supposed to break down the race and gender barriers. I’d like to see her sprint to the finish but come up short.”

  “I can gin something up that will do a little short-term damage and play in the end like a GOP, sexist dirty trick.”

  “Just so long as it doesn’t tie back to us.”

  Page arched a quizzical eyebrow at the President. “Who is going to look? For the media to turn on you the story would have to involve you in bed with either a dead woman or a live boy.”

  “What the hell,” the President growled as he fumbled for the remote control.

  Page turned his head and saw a picture of the Vice President on all of the news channels. The President brought up the sound on one of the broadcasts.

  “… involved in an apparent hunting accident early this morning. Reports from the scene indicate that the Vice President was not injured in the incident. Another individual, as yet unidentified, was pronounced dead at the scene. Officials are waiting until the family has been notified before releasing the name. Back to you …”

  The President muted the audio and shook his head in disbelief.

  “The man is a political disaster,” the President said.

  “Depends on who he shot,” Page replied. “A bullet between Garr Denby’s beady little eyes would probably bump your approval rating up ten points. Of course, you’d probably net fifteen if he’d offed himself.”

  “I couldn’t be so lucky.”

  The President and his running mate had started the previous presidential campaign as rivals for the nomination. The wide field of Democratic candidates that year thinned considerably after Super Tuesday; the former Maryland governor’s ambitions were among those derailed. While failing to connect with the voters on a national scale, the Vice President was a loyal party man with strong union ties, an honest working-class background, and the good fortune to have been born and raised on the southern side of the Mason-Dixon Line. His resume and contacts complemented those of the victorious nominee and helped propel the ticket to victory in November. But since that time, the gaffe-prone politician had proven to be far less useful.

  “This is the last thing I need right now. Instead of staying on message, my people have to waste time on damage control.”

  The President’s secretary appeared at the door to the study.

  “Let me guess,” the President said before the woman could utter a syllable. “Chief of Staff. Press Secretary. Secret Service.”

  “And the Vice President. He’s en route back to Washington.”

  “I’ll meet with the first three in the Oval in five minutes. Patch my running mate through to me here.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  As the secretary disappeared down the corridor, the President turned back to Page.

  “You want to know what the worst part about this is?”

  “Aside from the Vice President accidentally killing someone?” Page asked rhetorically.

  “Yes, though it’s a close second. Tonight I will give one of the most important speeches of my presidency. Sitting behind me, leering over my shoulders, will be the Speaker of the House and that—that jackass.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  COPPERHEAD, MONTANA

  “The veep is moving,” McColl announced.

  “I was beginning to wonder if the police were going to arrest him,” Hopps replied.

  “C’mon, Double-H. You know that shooting was an accident.”

  Hopps strummed a couple of chords on his guitar. “Now how could I possibly know that, darlin’?”

  “That man is so freaking incompetent that if he had planned on offing Crusca, he would have missed,” McColl explained. “Then Crusca would have taken him out with his bare hands.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt. Any guess on where they’re taking him?”


  “Looks like his personal residence. Nice thing about a Secret Service detail is all their electronics make them easy to track.”

  “And the veep still has the package?”

  “Based on the security cameras in the police station, Crusca’s Thermos has not left his person. Signal is strong. I still can’t believe Taylor and Buttrey hot-wired a gold coin.”

  “Gold’s a great conductor,” Hopps offered. “It makes a fine antenna, and the coin was more than big enough to accommodate a bit of microelectronics. The real trick was making sure the dealer had our coin in the stack he sold Crusca.”

  The wall of screens in front of McColl displayed images from traffic and security cameras along the motorcade’s route and a map with their current location. McColl’s band of rogues had little difficulty hacking the surveillance feeds. While some relished the idea of hacking the Secret Service communications, Hopps decided it was an unnecessary risk. Their electronic footprint was large enough to track without resorting to eavesdropping.

  A short time later, the motorcade reached the Vice President’s personal residence near Baltimore.

  “‘Home again, home again, jiggity-jig,’” Hopps said as the rogues tapped into feeds from the cameras installed on and around the property by the Secret Service.

  Once inside the gates, the SUV carrying the Vice President headed for the main house while the rest of the retinue peeled away toward the carriage quarters. An agent opened the front door just as the Vice President emerged from the vehicle. The Vice President gave his protective detail a sheepish wave and headed for the front door.

  “Aside from the Secret Service, the house is empty,” McColl reported. “His wife is in D.C. getting her hair done for tonight. We know he’s called her since the shooting.”

  “To tell her not to worry,” Hopps mused. “Being pragmatic, he probably told her to continue with her schedule for the day, but to clear tomorrow to deal with the Crusca situation.”

  “The story’s breaking,” a rogue from Ole Miss reported.

  Starting with the cable news channels, sketchy reports emerged of a shooting involving the Vice President. The blogosphere quickly caught up with postings on the incident.

  “Que sera, sera,” Hopps said. “Where’s our hapless veep?”

  McColl brought up a three-dimensional computer model of the Vice President’s home acquired from the electronic archives of the architect who built the house for the previous owner.

  “Internal motion sensors have him heading down into the basement,” McColl answered. “Confirmed by GPS on the tracker.”

  A tracking dot floated ghostlike through the virtual model. The dot moved through a large entertainment room and stopped at a door.

  “Bringing the basement security camera up,” a rogue announced.

  A black-and-white image appeared on one of the monitors, showing the Vice President punching an access code into a keypad beside a heavy wooden door. The left pocket of his coat bulged and the fabric on that side was taut, as if weighted. The door, which had a rounded top and bowed out slightly, looked ancient and weathered. At eye level, the door featured a small, circular metal opening.

  “What kind of door is that?” McColl asked.

  “Having spent some time in wineries,” Hopps said, “I believe that door was cut from the top of a fermentation barrel. The little porthole you see is where the vintner would lower a dipper into the barrel to see how the wine was aging.”

  “Makes sense,” McColl said. “That’s the door to the wine cellar. Somehow, I never pictured the guy as a wine snob.”

  “Perhaps a rare bottle of LaFitte isn’t the only thing he has stashed away in there.”

  “Got the access code to that door,” a rogue said. “The keypad and the room’s environmental controls are wired into the alarm system.”

  The Vice President eased the cypress door open and disappeared inside. The heavy construction surrounding the wine cellar caused the tracking dot to flicker. He reappeared on the camera feed a few moments later, Crusca’s Thermos in hand. After securing the wooden door, the Vice President playfully flipped the Thermos in the air and caught it.

  “Now we know where the honorable Vice President keeps his bribes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Mr. Speaker,” the House Deputy Sergeant at Arms announced from the door to the House Chamber, “the President of the United States.”

  Representatives and senators, Supreme Court justices and cabinet members, and the many guests who filled the balcony—all rose to applaud the nation’s chief executive. Some applauded in enthusiastic support of the President and his policies, others more out of respect for the office than its current occupant.

  The President moved slowly down the aisle followed by the congressional escort committee. He shook hands and warmly greeted his friends and supporters. For some, he signed copies of the speech he would soon deliver.

  The applause continued as the President ascended the rostrum. He found two manila envelopes on the House Clerk’s desk. He handed one to the Speaker of the House and the other to the Vice President. The two men locked eyes for the brief moment of the exchange, the Vice President noticing that none of the fury that the President expressed during a private meeting that afternoon had waned. Though the President had not demanded his resignation, if offered it would have been quickly accepted.

  Turning from the leaders of the House and Senate, the President faced the audience of elected officials, dignitaries, and millions of Americans on the other side of the cameras.

  “Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, members of the Supreme Court and diplomatic corps, distinguished guests, and my fellow citizens,” the President began. “The Constitution of the United States requires that the president ‘shall from time to time give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.’”

  The text of the President’s speech slowly scrolled up the face of the twin teleprompters, staged to his right and left, just outside the frame of the primary camera televising the speech.

  “My predecessors have done so in times of peace and in times of war, in times of prosperity and in times of depression, in times of blissful tranquillity and in times of grave uncertainty. The success our nation has enjoyed since its founding was not preordained. In each age, the people of this great nation have been tested, and to each challenge, the people rose up, united in their resolve.”

  Applause filled the chamber and the President smiled. In honoring the past, he offered all those assembled something on which they could agree. Still, he noticed members of his own party were more enthusiastic than those of the opposition.

  “When I assumed the office of President three years ago, our nation was at war and our economy was tumbling into the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression. Millions of Americans were out of work, and millions had lost their homes in foreclosure. Unbridled greed on Wall Street brought ruin to Main Street. That is the challenge that the American people elected me to solve.”

  The applause here was decidedly lopsided. The most enthusiastic were those up for election in the fall who needed party funding for their campaigns. Scanning the audience, the President noticed a flicker on his left teleprompter. The text of his speech disappeared and was suddenly replaced with the following message:

  Hyperbolic oratory

  Severity comparison of current economic conditions with respect to equivalent time frame of the great depression depends upon indices of measurement.

  Comment regarding unemployment and home foreclosures nonspecific. Unemployment rate of 1% equals 1.65 Million people out of work. In the year prior to president’s inauguration, less than one million homes repossessed by mortgage lenders.

  Causality error. For-profit activity of publicly traded entities is not primary cause of recent economic boom-bust cycle, merely effect. Financial sector regulation coupled with expansion of money supply caused spe
cific financial sector activity resulting in economic boom and subsequent bust.

  The President’s eyes remained locked on the scrolling critique. His mouth hung slightly open in astonishment. It was like receiving back a grade school essay and finding the teacher had bled over the document with a red marker. The President felt his cheeks involuntarily flush before his attention snapped back to the silent chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The President fled the Capitol as quickly as decorum would allow. He had accepted the polite compliments of his partisan fellows and avoided the condescending looks of the opposition. An unusually gifted orator, the President was thrown badly off tonight and some in the House Chamber doubtless took pleasure in his discomfort.

  Throughout the hour that the President spoke, the right teleprompter had dutifully reproduced his speech while the left one dissected his words almost as quickly as he enunciated them. After his initial shock, he had avoided looking directly at the offending device, but he knew from the occasional glimpse that it was still mocking him.

  The Secret Service quickly guided him down secured corridors to the waiting motorcade. The President ducked into the first limousine and was quickly joined by his wife.

  “What happened up there?” the First Lady asked sharply, as soon as the doors closed and they were alone.

  The President ignored the question, suppressing what he was certain would be a profanity-laden response. Instead, he speed-dialed his chief of staff, Levi Knopper.

  “Good evening, Mr. President,” Knopper answered. “And yes, Who Is I did parse your SOTU address. It went live just as you entered the chamber.”

  “I know. The bastards hacked my fucking teleprompter.”

  “What?”

  “My teleprompter! I had my speech running on one screen while the other was chopping it up like a sushi chef.”

  “I figured the scroll was acting up. It definitely rattled you.”

  “You think?” the President snapped back.