always in the privacy of her home. Nothing was public then. She died young. Dixon never saw his father shed a tear of grief. He’d thought then that the senator had no soul. He believed something different now, that long ago in the body of a cocky cowboy his father had possessed a soul, but Senator William Dixon had readily exchanged it for the currency of power.
The president felt bile rising in his throat, and the anger that brought it up was not just at the senator but also at himself. Not long before, Kate had accused him of selling his own soul and that of the nation to the devil simply because he’d never made it to the Super Bowl. He was beginning to be afraid that maybe she’d been right.
The phone rang. It was Rich Thielman, head of the POTUS detail.
“Mr. President, the Technical Security Division has finished its sweep of the White House, as you requested.”
“And?”
“Nothing, sir. They found absolutely nothing. I checked the roster for the White House Communications Agency last night myself. The personnel on duty are impeccable in their credentials. There’s no evidence of a breach in the security of the communication line itself. I had Secret Service in Minnesota check the line at Wildwood. Nothing there either.”
“I see,” the president said.
“Sir, if you’d be willing to share the cause of your concern, I might be able to offer more assistance.”
“Thanks, Rich. I’ll think about it.”
Dixon called Bobby Lee at his home on the Potomac outside Alexandria.
“Thielman just reported on the security sweep. No bugs, Bobby.”
Lee hesitated before replying. “Which leaves us with the probability that someone talked.”
“And that brings me back to my original question. Who knew, Bobby?”
“Only Sherm, Megan, and Ned Shackleford. Our people. We were sure we could trust them.”
“Megan,” Dixon said, speaking of his congressional affairs adviser. “She’s good, but sometimes that Harvard mouth of hers moves way out ahead of her brain.”
Lee said, “If I had to guess, Clay, my vote would be Ned. He’s a little too ambitious for my taste.”
Dixon hated this. Skewering the people he trusted, wondering about his own judgment. “What do you think, Bobby?”
“I think we need to know what the senator is up to.”
“If we can figure that, maybe we’ll have an idea how he’s been getting his information.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Just keep an eye on him, Bobby. And make absolutely certain none of his people know you’re watching.” Dixon paused a moment, then said, “Jesus.”
“What is it?”
“Our people, his people. My God, how did I let my presidency come to this?”
“You can still fix things, Clay. It may be late in the game and we may be deep in our own territory, but hey, you’re Air Express. You’ve still got the arm.”
For the first time in days, Dixon allowed himself to smile.
chapter
twenty-nine
Tom Jorgenson was built like a Viking, big and raw-looking. He’d lost most of his hair young. The thin, silver fringe that remained he kept bristle short. His eyes were Scandinavian blue and clear in the way of someone who’d come to terms with what he was and what he wasn’t and had found a measure of peace.
On the morning Bo was scheduled to be released, he made his last visit to Tom Jorgenson’s room. Kate’s father was lying down, slightly propped by pillows. A tube came out the side of his chest, draining fluid that still collected in one of his lungs. He was clean-shaven, courtesy of the nursing staff, and he smelled faintly of lime aftershave, a nice contrast to the medicinal odor that permeated the room. He reached toward a glass of water on the stand beside his bed but in the end needed Bo’s help.
“You and Kate seem to have become good friends,” Jorgenson said after he’d sipped. “You like her?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m her father. I’m allowed to ask all kinds of strange questions. It’s a simple one. Do you like her?”
“Everybody likes the First Lady.”
“I’m not asking about everyone.”
“Yes,” Bo said. “I like her. What are you getting at?”
Jorgenson said, “I think Kate’s a little vulnerable right now. She’s been through an ordeal. She’s tired. She may not be thinking clearly about some things. That’s all I’m saying.” Bo waited for something more, an admonition perhaps, but apparently Jorgenson had said all he meant to. He reached out to shake Bo’s hand in parting. “Thanks again for saving her life.”
Ishimaru was waiting near the nurses’ station. “Your discharge is official,” she said.
“I thought you were going to have an agent drive me to Wildwood so I could get my car.”
She said, “That would be me.”
Before he left, Bo took a moment to drop by Chris Manning’s room. Manning was fighting a severe infection that was the result of his wound, and no visitors were allowed. Bo stood at the door watching the agent’s restless sleep. As nearly as he’d been able to tell, being near death hadn’t changed Manning’s perspective or personality, nor had it altered Bo’s own disaffection for the agent. Still, he hoped sincerely that Manning would pull through.
He had one last stop. He found Nurse Rivera in the fourth floor lounge, scanning the pages ofBetter Homes and Gardenswhile she took a break. At the sight of him, she got up, clasped his hands, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek.“Vaya con Dios, Bo.” He wondered if she said good-bye to all her patients in this way.
Ishimaru’s Sable was in the parking lot. It was hot from sitting in the sun. Bo eased the window down to let in the breeze until the air conditioner could start cranking out something cooler.
“So what do you want to talk to me about?” he asked.
“What makes you think I want to talk?”
“Because you could have any agent do this.”
Ishimaru pulled out of the lot and headed toward the highway along the river.
“Take a look at this,” she said, tapping a folded newsprint publication that lay between them on the seat. “It’s due to hit the stands tomorrow.”
Bo picked it up. It was a tabloid, theNational Enquirer. He was surprised to see on the cover a photograph of him and the First Lady standing together at his hospital window. Although sunlight reflected off the glass, Kate’s image was quite clear, and she was quite clearly laughing. Bo’s image was not so definite. It could have been almost anyone. The headline read “ROMANCE BLOOMS AT HOSPITAL BEDSIDE.” Bo glanced through the text that chronicled the First Lady’s daily visits to his room, quoted unidentified hospital staff about the intimacy of their relationship, and hinted that rumors of an as yet undisclosed indiscretion on the part of the president were sending his wife into another man’s arms.
“Rumors? What rumors?” Bo asked.
“A rag like that doesn’t need facts. It relies on innuendo and unfounded conjecture. So what about it?”
“You mean Kate and me?”
“Kate?” Ishimaru glanced at him, her eyes full of concern.
Outside Stillwater, they headed south toward Wildwood. They picked up the St. Croix Trail, which was less trafficked than it had been after Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon first arrived. Even considering the attack at Wildwood, she was already becoming yesterday’s news. Bo knew the tabloid story would probably change that.
Ishimaru said, “The rag got the facts all screwy, but I’m thinking they may not have missed the target by much. She’s beautiful, she’s bright, and if there’s any substance to those rumors about the president, she may be
