Denial of Duty: A Novel of Political Intrigue and Murder

By Sean Dexter

Secret Service Special Agent Nick Coffelt is accused of drunkenness and dereliction of duty when the president he is guarding is shot dead. He is banished in disgrace, but he knows something that the rest of the world doesn't: He was set up, and he intends to find out who killed his president.

The assassinated president's successor is being forced to intervene in a bloody coup in Iran. His daughter is being held hostage by high-ranking government officials in his own administration. Members of his protection detail have gone rogue. There is no one he can trust. He turns to the one man he knows could not have been part of the conspiracy: Nick Coffelt.

Using his unique, insider knowledge of White House security, Coffelt rescues the president from the White House. He and the President of the United States are on the run, pursued by legitimate law enforcement and by the conspirators.

The president will do anything to rescue his daughter, and Nick Coffelt will do anything to protect the president.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Dexter
• Release date: Aug 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301376384

Sean Dexter

Here's my story... Former military, process server, private investigator, and teacher. I live in the hills of Colorado with my wife, sons, a ferocious dog, and the gentle spirit of her predecessor. I am still grieving the death of Robert B. Parker and his wonderful creations who seem more real to me than many actual human beings. It has been difficult to get my mind around the death of not only Parker himself, but the passing of Spenser, Susan, Jesse, Hawk, and all the others who have been part of my life for so many years...peace, Robert B. I can still hear your typewriter clacking away... Another of my favorite writers is Max Allan Collins. His Nathan Heller books are the best in the genre. The amount of research that man does for his books is, well... frightening. That's all I have to say about myself for now. Peace, sd

Book preview

Prologue

Paris 1977

She had been told to stimulate her invisible audience. She was being paid well for her performance, but it was impossible to forget they were there. The man with the scars had told her they would be watching. Her stomach lurched when she thought of him. She could sense him there behind the mirror. She could feel his ruined hand touching her body.

As if summoned by her fear, the client appeared at the bedroom door. She guessed him to be around thirty. His skin was dark from both birth and exposure to the sun. The three-inch scar that ran vertically from just below his right eye to the corner of his mouth made him look sinister and cruel. His clothes looked expensive but hung loosely as if they belonged to a larger man. His thick black hair was swept straight back from his forehead and shone as if combed with oil. The man’s dark eyes were cold and empty like the eyes of a corpse.

Although she tried not to, she looked at his hand. All but the thumb and little finger of his left hand were gone, not cleanly, but as if the fingers had been torn away by their roots then left to heal on their own. The sight sickened her.

For just a moment he stared at her nakedness. She felt her skin shrivel under his lecherous glare. Marie, isn’t it? he said in rough French.

She nodded, afraid her voice would fail her.

Your clients will be with you shortly, Marie. You have pleased them with your activities. He gestured nonchalantly with his ruined hand toward the smoky mirror.

She followed his gesture. All of this was still new to her. She had fled a drunken, abusive father just weeks before her sixteenth birthday. In the three months since, she had never been with more than one man at a time. There are how many? she said nervously.

Three. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. But only two, I think, are interested. His ravaged hand waggled horizontally in the air, a gesture obviously meant to indicate that the third young man had different needs. "He will watch, perhaps.

It will be a few minutes only. Cover yourself if you wish. The boys need no more stimulation.

She snatched at the velvet spread that lay at her feet, pulling it over her nakedness.

A loud clicking sound echoed throughout the cavernous room. A deep frown creased the client’s forehead. He turned toward a tall, beautifully inlaid wardrobe that towered next to the mirror. He shook his head as if dislodging a sticky fly from his face. Rather than walk directly to the wardrobe, she watched as he circumnavigated the room. Opening one of the double doors, he reached inside. The noise stopped immediately. He used the same path to return to the door. For a reason she couldn’t explain, the man’s behavior terrified her.

He spoke soothingly. Please, have a glass of wine while you wait. He pointed to a crystal and silver cart next to the bedroom’s picture window. He slipped through the door.

She wrapped the spread around her, stood, and walked to the serving cart. She reached for the wine and filled a glass. She drank it greedily. The wine was bitter, but she needed it to forget the devil she saw crawling around under the dark man’s skin.

She placed the glass back on the cart and paused long enough to pull aside the velvet drapes. No lights. No other homes. Just empty dark fields in every direction. Despite the luxury, she wished she had never left her busy, well-lit street corner. She blew out a heavy, nervous breath and returned to the bed.

The wine began its work quickly. Very quickly. The blood red liquid spread its warmth from her belly to her brain. Her vision blurred slightly, as if she were seeing the world through gauze. The skin of her face and hands tingled, cold as clay. This wine, she thought, is very strong.

Her heart banged against the walls of her chest like a trapped bird against a window. She struggled to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. They lay like dead meat on the mattress.

The door to the bedroom opened.

In a blur of color and motion, she watched two young men approach the bed. One was tall and thin. The other was shorter, muscular. They moved unsteadily.

The dark man stood by the door talking quietly to a third young man. Marie tried to speak, to plead, but could not make a sound save the rasp of her breath as she panted in panic.

The taller boy pulled the heavy spread from her body. Both young men fell silent at her nakedness. She watched them turn toward the dark man. He nodded. She closed her eyes to shut out the nightmare. The tall boy let out a strangled, high-pitched yell and pounced on the bed, fumbling frantically with his clothes.

His inexperienced hands explored her body, focusing on her breasts, kneading them like raw dough. She could not move, yet still felt the pain of his rough handling. He crawled awkwardly on top of her, pried apart her legs, forcing his way inside her. Within seconds he was done, a long sigh whistling through his lips. She felt him leave her body. This one, she knew, was finished for the night. She must be strong.

He rolled away. The bitch isn't helping any, he whined, as if trying to explain his abbreviated performance.

In the distance, she heard the older man speak. Her English, though far from perfect, was good enough to understand the words. You forgot what she likes, he said firmly, almost a reprimand.

She rotated her eyes to the boy's face, saw him shake his head as if confused. The other young man, now also nude, appeared in her line of vision. His face was a mask of drunken lust. Marie felt the bounce of the bed as the second boy stiff-armed the other to the floor.

I haven’t forgotten, the shorter boy rasped. His open hand swung in a vicious arc toward her face.

Though she could not move voluntarily to avoid the blow, the slap made her body convulse. The ugly smile that spread across her attacker’s face was the most terrifying sight she had ever witnessed. And she had seen some terrible things in her life.

See. Look at 'er go now. He straddled her. His hand, fisted this time, struck again. Her body arched in pain, raising her attacker into the air. She felt a tear burn a track down her face.

The taller boy approached the bed again. Hey, maybe you should cool it, man. His voice was a whimper.

Fuck off," the stocky one snarled. He struck again. Blood flowed from a deep gash above her eye.

Enough, the dark man said quietly.

Again the boy's fist pummeled her.

Enough. Not a shout, but none-the-less a command.

The young man peered over his shoulder, swaying drunkenly from his perch on top of her. She, too, looked at the dark man. In his hand was a large black gun.

He raised the weapon.

He is saving me.

Next to him, the third boy placed a hand on the dark man’s shoulder as if agreeing this had gone too far. The movement drew her attention to the young man’s face and when he smiled, she knew. She watched helplessly, in terrible silence. The weapon’s barrel centered itself on her forehead.

Vaguely, she heard the roar of the gun, feeling only a cold bludgeoning impact as the bullet tore through her skull.

Part I

The Plot

Chapter 1

Washington, DC

Nick Coffelt stood in the shadows at the back of the small, crowded auditorium. His eyes danced across the undulating mass of humanity in front of him. The speaker at the podium droned some tired political rhetoric. Shabby looking placards festooned with slogans pistoned half-heartedly into the air. From time to time, sporadic applause drowned the speaker's words.

Typical chaos. The kind of chaos that overloaded and dulled the senses. Made murder and mayhem possible.

He allowed his constantly roving gaze to settle on the back of one head to the exclusion of all others, noting with satisfaction the woman's placement in the crowd. Glancing to the stage, he saw the two young men, one at each side of the dais. They looked stiff and nervous. Frighteningly ineffectual.

He feigned a scratch to his forehead and spoke quietly into the microphone attached to his wristwatch. Now, he said, no inflection in his voice.

The woman began to snake forward through the throng. She moved well, fluidly, gaining a frontal position in the crowd without attracting attention. Her stealth was a dangerous and deadly skill.

Fascinated by her natural ability, he forced his attention back to the two men on the stage. He studied them carefully, drinking in their every blink and twitch. Their eyes darted across the crowd, never moving in any discernible pattern, their hands never far from the guns concealed beneath their off-the-rack jackets.

The woman now stood one row back from the front of the auditorium, well to the right of the speaker. Had she stood directly in front of him, the podium would have blocked much of his body. And that would be unacceptable. To ensure a kill, trajectory had to be considered at all times.

The men on the stage were oblivious to the woman's deadly journey. As far as Coffelt could tell, their eyes had not once lit on her. Incredible. And fatal.

Again he whispered into the small microphone. On my mark.

He detected no change in the woman's posture. She stood still as stone. One of the few mistakes he had ever seen her make. Extreme immobility often attracted as much attention as sudden movement.

Mark, he said, feeling an intense, almost sexual excitement at what was about to happen.

The woman's right shoulder rose slightly. She extended her arm forward. The gun looked huge in her small hand.

Several rows behind her all hell broke loose.

Gun! a man screamed, piercing and shrill.

Coffelt tracked the shouting man with his eyes, saw him surge forward through the crowd roughly knocking people in his path aside.

Screams. The crowd scattering, stumbling in panic.

The woman held her ground, raising her weapon even higher into the air. She settled into a modified Weaver stance. The gun looked natural and comfortable in her small hands.

Then the flat crack of the weapon's discharge.

Before she could pull the trigger again, the man behind her leapt on her back, forcing her down. He held his closed fist over the gun's smoking bore, trained to deflect the bullet any way possible.

Textbook, Coffelt thought. And amazing speed. Almost as fast as me. Nine times out of ten, though, smart made up for fast. Prevention rather than reaction. Force was a final and unacceptable option.

The young man to the right of the speaker stood frozen, eyes unbelievably not yet focused on the woman and her gun. The other man on stage leapt sideways like a malfunctioning rocket surging crookedly from its pad, his body slamming into the speaker behind the podium. Also fast. But a lifetime too slow. A huge, bright red stain blossomed on the speaker's chest.

Coffelt had seen enough...too much. His earlier excitement had metamorphosed to the exhaustion of dull routine. Freeze! he bellowed loudly enough to be heard over the pandemonium.

The crowd, the assassin, everyone froze on command.

Coffelt stepped from the platform and wormed his way through the silent crowd. Heads tilted upward as he stepped to the stage. He looked down at the men sprawled at his feet, watching their chests heave more from adrenaline than exertion. Red dye stained their clothes like neon signs announcing failure. The woman with the gun, still pinned under her tackler, peered up at him with one nervous looking eye, the side of her face pressed to the floor.

This group of trainees—the fourth Coffelt had trained since requesting reassignment to the Secret Service training facility a year ago—was the lamest yet. He expected high attrition.

Coffelt shook his head, managed a weak smile for the sake of morale. Okay boys and girls, drill's over. Somebody go get LBJ. We got us another dead president.

*****

Coffelt sat with two other trainers in the Secret Service training facility's lunchroom sipping lukewarm, rancid coffee dispensed from a stainless steel urn the size of an Apollo space capsule.

Shit, Gary Baldwin said. Could have walked up there and strangled the son-of-a-bitch, Harrison wouldn't have been fast enough to stop him.

Next to Baldwin slouched Phil Garman, another over-the-hill, slightly paunchy agent with a six-president record. He's probably still standing up there scratching his balls wonderin' what the fuck. Anybody bother telling him the drill was over?

Coffelt pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, squeezing hard, hoping the headache would get the message and move on for a while. Don't write him off yet. Failure teaches a man a whole hell of a lot faster than success. Next time he'll take the bullet.

God, Nick, Baldwin said disgustedly, none of these bastards are anywhere close to what we were. There was a wistful look in Baldwin's eyes that disgusted Coffelt.

Garman held up his coffee cup in a toast. The best, he said.

The brightest, Baldwin responded ritualistically, clinking his mug against Garman's.

The Trainer's Toast, Coffelt thought. Self-mockery designed to take the sting, the shame, out of being banished from Crown—the White House.

He glanced at his reflection in the smoked glass walls of the lunchroom. Unlike his tablemates, at forty-two he was still lean and hard from daily exercise. High, prominent cheekbones and a long nose, bent in the middle from an ancient break, saved his blue-eyed countenance from being pretty. But not by much. His hair, black and cut brutally short, was streaked with gray at the sides and back. Fifteen years in the Secret Service could do that to a man. Except for the deep furrows creasing his forehead, his skin was smooth for his age.

And he was far from being used up. He was here for other reasons.

Halfheartedly, he touched the other two cups. The burned out, he finished, his voice flat and cold as hammered copper.

He took a final drink of the bitter coffee then glanced at his watch wondering if he had time to step outside the facility for a cigarette. But there was no time. He should just quit. He'd been saying that for years. I gotta go. Paxon wants to see me.

Shit, man, Baldwin said. What'd you do this time?

Coffelt shrugged, fighting to conceal his nervousness. Unconsciously he slapped at his shirt pocket. Lord God in heaven, how he wanted a cigarette.

Meeting with Paxon was rarely a good thing. Try as he might, he couldn't figure out why he was being called in. At four this afternoon, he would have been sober for three hundred forty-seven days. His record at the academy was flawless. As he had everything in his life, he took his training duties seriously. If he couldn't protect the president himself, he'd make damned sure the people he trained could. That was his job, his purpose in life.

He took a deep breath and stood from the table. See you guys later. As he walked from the lunchroom, he felt Baldwin and Garman staring at his back. His head hurt worse than ever.

*****

Three hours later, he slipped the key into his apartment door, fighting valiantly to keep the grin off his face. Bad luck to feel this good about something. Put the jinx on it. Never celebrate. Like his father used to tell him when he played wide receiver at Oklahoma University a thousand years ago, Boy, when you get into the end zone, don't jump around like a fool celebrating. Act like you've been there before.

Coffelt had just scored the most important touchdown of his life, and he had no intention of acting like a fool.

But the grin was still there. His goddamn mouth wouldn't cooperate, went right on with its business.

He pushed the door open, already thinking of it as someone else's door, someone else's pathetic sanctuary from a world that spent the day beating the shit out of them instead of him.

It had been a long year, the culmination of which had finally come this afternoon.

When he stepped inside, closed the door behind him, a lot of his pleasure evaporated. It was too damn quiet. No one to hear his triumphs or care about his disasters. The two-room apartment was sterile, sparsely furnished, a barracks more than a home. There were no pictures on the walls. A couch, a cheap television, and a card table with a telephone squatting on its center were pretty much it. The bedroom had a single bed, neatly made, and an unfinished pine dresser with drawers that never quite closed right.

Home.

Almost a year ago, he had requested reassignment to training. His drinking had not been out of control, but close. He could have covered, hidden the binge drinking, but it was not in him to be deceptive about his duty. His addiction could have compromised the president’s safety. And that would have been unacceptable.

But now he was going back to Crown—the White House. Only this time as Agent-in-Charge. He walked to the telephone, needing someone to share the news with. His hand lingered for a moment on the cold plastic then snaked away. There was no one to call.

Chapter 2

Montgomery, Alabama

William Ardmore, Democratic governor of Alabama, thought the President of the United States was a prick. And not just because the son-of-bitch was a Republican. Although forced to give an honest assessment—not something a good politician would ever consider in the real world—that probably would have been enough.

From his office in the Governor's mansion, he stared at the television screen recessed discretely in the wall to the left of his desk. With the volume blessedly muted, he glared at the grinning idiocy of the current and undoubtedly future president.

For the past number of years, scandal had devastated the Democratic Party, all but destroying Ardmore's own presidential aspiration. As a second term governor of a stump-water state—a state more closely associated with George Wallace's blatant bigotry than with progressive democratic ideals—he had more than likely reached the pinnacle of his career. He was a Harvard graduate of law, Rhodes Scholar, leader of a whole goddamn state, and he grossed barely over a hundred grand a year.

He glanced at the framed studio shot of his family. His wife, Christine, still beautiful at forty-six, smiled at the camera. Her image conveyed a phoniness that Ardmore found disconcerting. Her blond hair and blue eyes, skin not quite as smooth as it had been so many years before when he'd met her at one of the thousands of political rallies he had attended—but damn close—reminded him of a Barbie doll. For twenty years she had been the epitome of a politician's spouse.

His own face peered back at him from behind the glass. In his early sixties, he appeared ten years younger. Big and heavy-boned, he carried his body like his dirt farmer father had carried his. But with his hair graying nicely at the temples, laugh lines etched perfectly around his firm mouth, teeth as white as money could buy, he was a perfect presidential portrait.

Staring at the framed picture, his attention focused on the little girl tucked into her mother's lap. He remembered the frustrating hour it had taken to calm the irrepressible child for the photograph. She grinned crookedly, obviously not aware that the moment called for sobriety. Beneath Christine's manufactured beatific smile of motherly love, Ardmore could sense—feel in his heart—her impatience with the little girl. At six years old, Cassandra—Cassie—was the best thing that had ever happened in his life. She deserved the world. He intended to give it to her.

The depths of his love for the child had surprised everyone, even himself, especially himself perhaps. Originally seen as a political necessity for an ambitious politician, a fierce passion had exploded in him the moment he saw her draw her first breath. Too old for such a young child, he still considered time away from her as time ill-spent. When he was not presiding over stuptifyingly boring meetings on some petty state policy issue, Cassie would often spend hours happily playing on the floor of his office.

As an additional bonus, her existence made his marriage tolerable. Just.

Grinning stupidly at the thought of his daughter, he jumped when the intercom on his telephone buzzed, jerking him unceremoniously back to the reality of his office.

Yes, he said a little irritably.

Your eleven o'clock is here, sir.

It'll still be a few minutes, Ellie. Thanks.

Yes, sir.

Bernard Winthrop, III. The third what Ardmore wasn't sure. Rich people elicited in him all kinds of conflicting emotions, envy not being one of the lesser ones. Ultra-rich people like Winthrop—who had deemed it unnecessary to divulge to the goddamn governor of Alabama the nature of his business—mostly just pissed him off.

For the next ten minutes Ardmore did a crossword puzzle, hummed Beatle tunes under his breath, then sang ‘Maxwell's Silver Hammer’ all the way through twice.

Now before him—somewhat casually dressed for a gubernatorial appointment—sat Bernard please call me Barney Winthrop, III, owner of WinWare, Inc., the world’s largest and most profitable software company. Winthrop was an electronics billionaire, philanthropist, and apparently all around asshole.

His expensive cashmere jacket appeared several sizes too large. But the problem, Ardmore realized, lay more in the cut of the man's body than in the cut of his clothes. His pants missed the top of his shoes by enough to let even a casual observer see how his socks pooled around his ankles. He looked tall even sitting down, shoulders slouched and round. Thinning red hair and a skeletal frame added to the comical image. As rich as he was, Ardmore suspected no one had ever told him he looked like a carnival geek.

I appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Governor. Especially since I may have been somewhat...clandestine.

Ardmore thought he detected remnants of a Southern accent carefully filtered through years of wealth and training, like pits caught in a sieve. His own cracker twang made him feel inadequate, as it so often did in social situations.

Ardmore smiled. Rich assholes like you, Barney, always think they can do whatever they want and have people lapping around them like obedient puppies. I always have time for one of the country's most prominent and generous citizens. It's an honor, Mr. Winthrop. Though I am curious why you asked for this meeting. I can't imagine my influence, however small it might be, extending to your home state. Consciously, he quickened the cadence of his speech, hoping to ameliorate his syrupy drawl.

Yes, to business. A subtle nuance in Winthrop's voice changed, became hesitant. For just a moment his face was stained with what Ardmore could have sworn was fear. It passed so quickly the governor dismissed it as an over-active imagination.

When Winthrop spoke next his voice had strengthened, regained its earlier pomposity. If I could impose on you just a little further, Mr. Governor, I'd hoped our meeting could be a bit more private.

Irritation flared in Ardmore. I can assure you, Mr. Winthrop—

There is such a lovely park behind your home. Please don't be difficult, Mr. Ardmore.

It did not pass unnoticed that Winthrop had dropped his title and any pretense of the gracious, appreciative guest. Something momentous was taking place here. He couldn't allow his pride and his dislike for Winthrop to interfere. Eyes locked in mortal combat with his visitor's, Ardmore picked up the telephone and jabbed the intercom button with his finger as if killing a spider. I'll be taking lunch in the garden, Ellie, he said, still staring menacingly at Winthrop.

His secretary's voice crackled through the speaker, hollow and loud. Sir, you have two other meetings before noon, and a lunch appointment with the mayor.

Almost imperceptibly Winthrop shook his head.

Ardmore's left eye twitched several times before he raised a finger to the eye and massaged the spasm away. Cancel them, he said far louder than was necessary. Make the appropriate excuses. And offer my apologies. He severed the connection before she could protest further.

Winthrop nodded slightly. A look of relief played across his face. Then a brief smile that could have meant anything...or nothing.

This better be good, Mr. Winthrop.

Oh it is, Mr. Governor. It is.

*****

So let me get this straight, Ardmore said. You want to buy me the presidency. The smell of honeysuckle blossoms filled the air like a broken bottle of cheap perfume. Heat and humidity bore down on him, dampening his flesh and his spirit. And yet, he could feel his excitement building. He looked away from Winthrop long enough to mask his emotions with a stony facade.

If you weren't the right man, no amount of money in the world could win you the presidency. Even so, it will be extremely difficult...and expensive. You'll have to earn it, Mr. Governor.

Ardmore paused to prepare a cigar, pointedly not offering one to his guest. Careful not to let the flame from the slim golden lighter—a gift from one of his more private constituents—touch the rich brown leaf, he puffed slowly until the tip of the cigar glowed intensely. The smoke from the Macanudo—not the most expensive cigar in the world, but arguably the best—enveloped his face, providing a welcome relief from the cloying odor of honeysuckle.

Are you suggesting that I knowingly accept illegal contributions?

It's not so much money I'm offering, but powerful friendships. The origin of some of the funds could, I suppose, be considered...irregular. Though completely untraceable, Mr. Governor. Super Pacs are marvelous things and quite legal..

Irregular, Mr. Winthrop?

The money would all be American, Sir. Every dime.

He referred, of course, to what the press had dubbed 'Chinagate,' the campaign donation allegations that had scandalized a past Democratic administration.

And all this in exchange for what, Mr. Winthrop? Time for the fly in the soup.

An occasional favor. And the opportunity to guide you in selecting some key individuals in your administration. Nothing more than that. And certainly nothing you didn't support one hundred percent yourself.

Ardmore's cigar tasted uncharacteristically bitter in Winthrop's presence.

The process would need to begin right away. Of course, Landon is unbeatable this time, but in four years he'll term out. Politically, four years is a heartbeat, Winthrop said.

In some ways four years was a political lifetime. Without constant exposure—the kind purchased with vast amounts of money—his political aspirations would be as short-lived as his cigar, dead and cold long before the expiration of Landon's second term.

President Landon—former conservative talk show host and all-around closet fascist—was unbeatable this time around. He was the most popular incumbent since Ronald Reagan bumbled through eight long, tedious years. Landon, and the Republican Party in general, had harnessed the power of the Democratic scandals and ridden them gloriously into the future, confident that the American people would forget that the country under the Democrats had been better off than it had been in fifty years. Misguided, bible-thumping morals continued to guide the country's destiny.

On the other hand, Vice president Stinson was as ineffectual as they came, Quaylian in his political charm and abilities. In four years, or even forty, his political image could not be rehabilitated to a point where he could win the presidency. Yet the Republican Party would have little choice but to nominate him in hopes, that with Landon's support, he could make a viable run of it. Fat chance, thought Ardmore. Stinson was the most beatable Republican to come down the presidential pike since Bob Dole floundered in '96.

Winthrop's answer to the next question was crucial. Ardmore chose his words carefully, using his cigar as stage business to cover the long pause. When he spoke, he allowed the slightest bit of irritation to creep into his voice. What made you think I would be open to such an offer, Barney?

Not the slightest pause, as if the answer had been rehearsed. You are not the only possible choice, Governor. Just one of a very short list. We are awaiting several responses. Even if you say yes, the choice will not be an easy one.

Ardmore's stomach lurched at the mention of other possible candidates. That didn’t answer the question.

Your ethics are not in question here if that's what you're concerned about. Quite the contrary. You were selected because of what you've done for Alabama, what we believe you could do for the country. Your visions on health care, welfare reform, the Middle East, and perhaps most importantly, Mr. Governor, your stand on corporate taxation, is similar to our own. My own, he corrected quickly.

You see, he continued, my involvement is not altruistic.

Ardmore allowed himself a small smile. So that's what this is all about. Corporate taxes. Corporations ran the world. Frankly, Barney, I had no intention of accusing you of altruism.

The smile Winthrop offered in return was glassy, artificial. And as brief as a politician's good intention. Simply stated, Mr. Governor, I believe you care enough about your country to do what is necessary to make a contribution. I believe we can set this country back on its intended course.

They were nearing the end of the long, circular garden path. Two uniformed state troopers, heads held close in conversation, walked the grounds listlessly. Ardmore mused briefly that they might be protecting him from the wrong sort of intruder.

And if I report this conversation?

Governor, Winthrop said, a look of practiced disappointment crossing his bony face, I have done nothing but offer you whatever limited support I can. It would be a matter of my word against yours. If you reject my offer, then this meeting never happened.

One conversation, two realities. In the absence of hard, empirical evidence, plausible deniability was a powerful force. And great wealth could purchase plausibility as easily as any other commodity.

"I'll need some time to consider all the possible ramifications. If we do come to an agreement, limitations on these favors will have to be set."

Understood. I would expect nothing less from a man of your caliber.

There was a subtle shifting of power taking place that Ardmore found disturbing.

Winthrop took a white business card from an inside jacket pocket. All I ask is that you consider our conversation, then give me a call.

Ardmore glanced down at the card. In the center of the crisp, white rectangle was Winthrop's name and a telephone number preceded by a three-zero-three area code. Nothing else.

I'll be in touch, the Governor said, still staring at Winthrop's card, but seeing something else—his little girl scampering playfully on the floor of the Oval Office while an amused and worshipful nation looked on.

*****

Bernard Winthrop folded himself into the back of the limousine. A solid partition separated him from the driver. Privacy was his religion. Keying the microphone, he ordered a return trip to the airport. He was physically sick over his encounter with Governor Ardmore. For thirty-five years he had been waiting for this moment, waiting for the demand that would irrevocably alter his life. It had finally come several months ago. The constant and ever-increasing money demands had been one thing. This was