“I hate that righteous SOB,” the president said. “And I don’t say that about many people.”
“I never realized you and Rowan were enemies.”
“And nobody ever will. When I assemble a firing squad, we don’t line up in a circle.”
She smiled. Finally, a little levity. She’d been worried about him.
“Don’t get me wrong,” the president said. “I have the utmost respect for the Mormon religion. Charles Snow has always been straightforward with me. But every religion has its share of fanatics and nutcases. Unfortunately for us, one of theirs serves as head of the Senate Appropriations Committee.”
She’d left the president sitting alone at the dining room table. Edwin had escorted her to the Mandarin Oriental, the hotel where she stayed when in Washington. She’d freshened up, checked in with Atlanta, and spoken with Cassiopeia Vitt on the phone, learning what happened in Salzburg at the auction.
“You knew Cotton was coming here,” Cassiopeia said. “And said nothing?”
“I merely suspected it. And yes, I kept my fears to myself.”
“I should walk away from this right now.”
“But you won’t.”
“Cotton said that your agent is dead. He accused Josepe of his murder.”
“He’s right, on both counts.”
“I need to prove that to myself.”
“You do that. And while you’re at it, get your head screwed on right.”
“I’m not one of your people, Stephanie. I don’t take orders from you.”
“Then leave. Now.”
“If I leave, Cotton will still be here.”
“That’s right. And we’ll deal with Salazar our way.”
A taxi deposited her at the curb.
She was back in Georgetown, not far from where Wisconsin Avenue and M Street crossed. Three hundred years ago it was the farthest point upstream that oceangoing ships could navigate the Potomac River, so the spot became a trading post. Now it was a trendy suburb of the nation’s capital, home to high-end fashion shops, outdoor bars, and renowned restaurants. Parkland and green space buffered exclusive neighborhoods from urban sprawl. The homes and town houses were some of the priciest in the city, Rowan’s a lovely Federal-style building nestled among a cheerful cluster of Colonial and Victorian architecture. A towering canopy of live oaks shadowed the two-story white brick home. Flowers lined a brick walk and sprouted from planters dotting the porch railing. She climbed the stairs, crossing wooden planks, and rang the bell. Daniels had said that the senator should be arriving home from Utah around four thirty.
Rowan himself answered.
He was one of those people who made no attempt to reduce their stature, maintaining a perfect military bearing. His thick pale hair and weathered face cast the look of an aging sportsman. The eyes were like chips of coal, and their gaze appraised her with a palpable wariness. Her being here was a serious breach of protocol, a violation of the unwritten rule that proclaimed a person’s home sacrosanct, never to be breached.
“I need to speak with you,” she said.
“That would be wholly inappropriate. Call my office. Set up an appointment, with a Justice Department lawyer present. That’s the only way we’re going to talk.”
He moved to shut the door.
“Then you’re never going to see what it is you’re after.”
The door stopped just before closing.
“And what is that?” he coolly asked.
“What Mary Todd Lincoln wrote to U. S. Grant.”
She glanced around and admired the two Regency chairs and an antique settee, their burnished-gold upholstery held in place by dull brass tacks. Wooden pedestal tables supported an assortment of family photographs. Two crystal lamps with oversized tassels dangling from their shades burned softly. The parlor was like stepping back to the 19th century. Memories flooded through her mind of her grandmother’s house, where many of the same things could once be found.
“I’m listening,” Rowan said.
He sat across from her in one of the chairs, his spine rigid, posture perfect.
“I can’t respond to your subpoena. And not just for the obvious reason that it’s overbroad.”
“Why did you mention Mrs. Lincoln?”
“I know about your efforts to access some of the classified archives. I’ve been around a long time, Senator. Just like you. You sent your subpoena as a way to grab my attention. You tried pressuring, bullying, and threatening some of my colleagues in other intelligence branches and came up short. So you decided to give me a try and thought some carefully applied legal pressure might work. What you didn’t know was that I have a problem.”