“I can certainly get to the White House right away,” said Zen. “And I’d love to have dinner with the President. Should I bring my wife?”

“Actually, it’s supper, not dinner. And while I happen to know that the President thinks very highly of Mrs. Stockard, the invitation is for one only. Would you like us to send a car?”

“I’ll drive my van over,” said Zen. “I’m leaving now.”

CHRISTINE TODD LIKED TO WALK AROUND THE WHITE House kitchen, not because she felt the urge to cook or check on the staff, but because it was a refuge from the formal business of the rest of the house. The people doing their jobs here—chefs, cooks, assistants—could have been anywhere in the world. They were naturally circumspect and on their best behavior when she walked in, but even so, the hint of the world beyond the bubble she lived in was welcome.

She wondered how they would take the news of the cancer. Certainly they’d feel bad for her. Would they feel that she betrayed them by not mentioning it?

Maybe she should arrange to tell them first. Or not first, but very soon in the process. Personally.

It was still too theoretical to contemplate. She had too many other things to do.

“Our guest enjoys his beer,” she told the head steward as he came over to greet her. “Anchor Steam is one of his favorites, as I recall. I believe you have that.”

“We’ll look after Senator Stockard, ma’am. Not a problem.”

The President walked around the steel-topped prep island, glancing at the stove and the young cook watching the gravy.

“Very good, very good,” Todd announced. “Wonderful, actually. Thank you, everyone. It smells delightful, as usual.”

One of the chief of staff’s aides intercepted her in the hallway; he had the latest update on the Iranian situation—the strike unit was standing by in Iran, waiting for the next target. The backup set of nano-UAVs were being programmed for the attack. The intelligence agencies were scrambling for more data on the possible target—still unsure which of the two former sites it was.

The update, ironically enough, had come straight from Breanna Stockard. The President had no doubt that Zen knew nothing about the operation, at least not from Breanna.

What an interesting household that must be, she thought as she headed to the family dining room where Zen was already waiting.

She entered the room with her usual bustle, greeting Zen and going straight to her chair. He moved his wheelchair back as a sign of respect.

“Senator, so nice to see you. I hope I haven’t kept you long.”

“I just got here,” said Zen politely.

The residence dining room—occasionally known as the President’s Dining Room or the Private Dining Room—was one of three in the building (not counting the formal room), and when she was dining with someone, Todd chose the room depending on the tone she was trying to set. This was the most intimate, less ornate than the Family Dining Room and less work-oriented than the Oval Office Dining Room. At least that was how she thought of it.

“I’m glad you could make it,” said Todd, pulling out her chair. “Especially on short notice.”

“I don’t get invited to the White House very often,” said Zen. “Especially without my wife.”

“Yes.” She turned to the attendant who was waiting nearby. “Perhaps the senator would like something to drink. A beer? Maybe an Anchor Steam?”

“That’d be fine,” said Zen. “Just one, though—I’m driving.”

“I’ll try one as well, and some water,” Todd told the attendant. She turned back to Zen. “I never understood—what’s the difference between regular beer and steam beer? Or is that just something for marketing?”

Zen elaborated on the difference in brewing styles. The beer arrived before he finished.

“It’s very good,” said Todd, taking a sip. “Crisp.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t invite me over to discuss beer styles,” said Zen.

He drank heartily, very much like her husband, Todd thought.

“No, though it has been educational.”

Todd studied him. He would make a good President: sure of himself, easygoing yet intelligent, with sound judgment—usually. An excellent service record, a decorated hero, which in some ways made him virtually unassailable.

Then again, she’d seen more veterans than she could count chewed up by the political naysayers. Washington was a place where real achievements meant much less than the dirt others could throw at you.

Todd felt an urge to tell him about her condition, and what it meant, and would mean, for the future. She wanted suddenly to suggest he run for President. But she couldn’t do that. Too many questions, too many complications. And that wasn’t why she had called him here.

“My invitation came after I called on behalf of the Intelligence Committee,” prompted Zen.

“Yes.” Todd pulled herself back into business mode. “Your committee is wondering, no doubt, what’s going on in Iran.”

“Exactly.”

“You and I, Senator—occasionally we have disagreed.”

“More than occasionally,” admitted Zen.

“Even so, I consider you one of our finer senators.”

“I’m flattered.”

“We’re wondering what’s going on in Iran ourselves.”

Zen raised his eyebrow.

“Of course, there are situations when we—when I—cannot tell everyone precisely all that I suspect about things that go on in the world,” said Todd, using her most offhanded tone. “I’m always faced with the question: will what I say jeopardize other people?”

Zen nodded. “I imagine it must be difficult to make that call. I think I may have even said something like that to the committee earlier.”

“Are you here personally?” she asked. “Or as the representative of the committee?”

“Both, I guess.”

“What is it that you personally want to know, Senator?” asked Todd.

Zen had pushed his wheelchair sideways—the table was a little higher than what would have been comfortable. He leaned his right elbow on it, finger to his lips, thinking.

“I would not want any information that would jeopardize anyone’s lives,” he told her.

“That’s good, because you won’t get any.”

“What I would want to know is that the administration is aware of the implications.”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m told that the signature of the earthquake is not the sort of signature that one sees in earthquakes.”

“Interesting.” Todd reached for her beer and took another very small sip.

“I think that news is going to be public knowledge pretty soon,” added Zen.

“Well, it is a fact that the area contains a number of nuclear research centers,” said Todd, choosing her words as carefully as he had.

Zen glanced toward the door. The steward was approaching with their dinners.

“Meat loaf,” said Todd. “One of your favorites.”

“It is,” said Zen, sounding a little surprised.

“You must have mentioned it somewhere,” said Todd. “The staff doesn’t miss much.”

“I bet they don’t.”

“I like it, too,” she confessed. “Especially the gravy. But it’s very fattening.”

They ate in silence for a while.

“Very good meat loaf,” said Zen.

“I think a full and candid report is in order for your committee,” said the President. “As soon as it can be arranged.”

“How long, do you think, before that can happen?”

“It may be twenty-four hours,” said Todd.

“That’s quite a while,” said Zen. “There are a lot of historical precedents with much shorter time spans.”

“Hmmm.”

The Constitution gave Congress the power to declare war, of course, but the operation was far short of that. Current law called for the President to “consult” with Congress about the use of force, but even that was a gray area here. The previous administration, and the two before that, hadn’t felt the need to inform Congress of every covert operation being undertaken, and in fact had even been rather “loose” when talking about specific programs.