The means for dealing with situations beyond the norm had never been explicitly stated. Anne had been the one to suggest they base their relationship on “plausible deniability.” Levering would never issue directives that could later come back to haunt him. Anne would be given a free hand, so long as Levering didn’t know the details.

What surprised Anne at the time was how easily they both had accepted the parameters.

Anne calmly replied, “The cops know this guy is a potential witness against you. On the other hand, he isn’t much of one. It’s a really weak case. I don’t think the public would buy it.”

“But there’s a chance,” Levering said. “I mean, I’ve got a little bit of a reputation in that area.”

Boy howdy. “This guy might take off, hit the road. They’re not going to hold him.”

“How do we convince a crazy homeless person to leave town?”

“I’ll handle the details.”

“Right,” he said. “I don’t want to know anything specific.”

“Of course,” Anne said. Then she added, “When you get to the White House, you will need a chief of staff.”

Levering smiled wryly at her. “You have anyone in mind?”

“Maybe.”

He nodded. “You make this little problem go away, and the job is yours.”

5

The plane rose into fog, a gray netherworld. Millie took a deep breath and looked out the window.

In so many ways this day should have been a relief. She’d spent precious hours with her mother, seen her before she died. That wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t had her accident. And she was going back to Washington to assume the job of a lifetime – chief justice of the Supreme Court.

So why the feeling that her whole life was about to change?

She put on the earphones the flight attendant had passed out earlier and clicked the dial until she got classical music. The recording was right in the middle of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 9, The Ode to Joy.

She put her head back, letting the music wash over her. Then she looked outside again. Bright sunlight streamed through her window as the ascending plane topped the fog. Suddenly, there was clear sky, the bluest of blues, and soft clouds seen from above, like an angel’s playing field.

The music swelled.

Inside her something opened up. There was a flooding in, an expansion, as if she were a sail filling with wind. And it terrified her.

She put her hands on the earphones, pressing them in, making the music even louder to her ears, as if she could crowd out all thought, all sensation.

But she could not. For one brief moment of almost unendurable intensity she felt like a door was opening, and thought she might go crazy.

Part Two

CHAPTER ELEVEN

1

By mid September, Washington was buzzing again.

Anne Deveraux could feel it in the air, the way a ballplayer must feel when the new season is about to begin. Time to play hardball.

First order of business in the new season involved two games at once. One was keeping Dan Ricks, sleaze reporter, off balance. The other was using him for the essential information on Millicent Mannings Hollander. Her hearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee, which would vote on her nomination to be chief justice, was coming up. Should Hollander suddenly veer off her liberal course, she and Levering would be ready to leak embarrassing material.

So she was ready for the first pitch. But Ricks was late.

He had insisted on meeting her in the parking garage of the Marriott. He joked about it being like the scene in All the President’s Men, that he was Deep Throat and she was Woodward and Bernstein. But Anne was convinced it was not really a joke with Ricks. He loved this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He thought he was into big-time investigative journalism, when really he was a weasel in a coat and tie.

Anne checked her watch. 12:30. Lunchtime. That was the other absurdity about this. If he wanted to do the Deep Throat thing, why had he chosen the afternoon?

Maybe the guy was just nuts. But if he was any later, Anne was going to make sure he was dressed down, too.

She thought of calling Ambrosi, but remembered him telling her never to call him on his cell. She could understand. What if she got him while he was whacking some guy? I thought I told you never to call me at the office! Funny.

The stifling air smelled of gas and tires. Anne sat back in her car and listened to rock music. She closed her eyes and immediately heard a tap at the window.

It was Ricks.

“You took your sweet time,” Anne said.

“Traffic,” Ricks said. He was sweating. His forehead looked like it was speckled with rock salt.

Anne opened the door of her car and got out, making Ricks do a little backwards dance. “You could have called,” she said.

“Hey, I’m here,” he said, a little too aggressively for her taste. He held a ratty briefcase, the kind with a foldover flap. He opened it and pulled out a file folder. He did not immediately hand it to Anne. “You have something for me?” he asked.

“Anxious, aren’t we?”

“Just doing business.”

Anne reached in through the open window of her car and snatched an envelope. It was filled with cash. She had counted out the five thousand herself.

“Perfect,” Ricks said, taking the envelope. He handed Anne the file.

“Detail me,” she said.

“Everything’s in there we talked about. I have a copy on disk.”

“Copy?”

“Sure.”

“You aren’t supposed to have a copy of any of this. That wasn’t part of the agreement.”

“Way I remember it, we didn’t have anything in writing.”

“Writing? Listen, you work for me, you do what I tell you to do, you get paid, and you shut up.”

“Hey – ”

“This is for Senator Levering, not for your rag.”

“We didn’t say anything about that.”

“It was understood.”

“By you maybe.”

Ricks had wet pit stains starting to show through his light brown coat. Anne thought she could smell him. Or was it exhaust fumes?

“This is extremely sensitive material,” Anne said. “If any of it should get out without our authorization…”

“Not to worry, okay? Let’s just call it insurance.”

“Insurance?”

“Sure,” Ricks said. “As long as we’re all on the same page, I’m happy, you’re happy.”

Anne waited for him to say something else. Instead he smiled. She could not stand smugness, especially from a guy like Ricks. “Don’t think you can mess with me,” she said. “That wouldn’t be very smart.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat or something?” Ricks said.

“Gee, you are a good investigative reporter.”

With a slight recoil, Ricks said, “I’ve been threatened by better people than you and your boss. I don’t rattle.”

Anne wondered if she should tell him about her boyfriend, about his way of rattling people. But no. Let it be a surprise if need be.

“Besides,” Ricks said, “you need me.”

“What would I need you for, Mr. Ricks?”

“I got poop that’s a scoop. News you can use and won’t make you snooze.”

“Just what is it?”

“I get paid for my scoops, don’t you remember?”

“Not interested.”

“Okay,” Ricks said. “I’ll give you something because I like you, Anne. I see a little of me in you.”

Anne almost gagged. “What have you got?”

“Oh, just a little something from Mr. Burrow.”

That got Anne’s attention. Biff Burrow was the owner and operator of the Burrow Bulletin, the Web’s most popular political gossip site.