“I can flash their names on the podium.” I told him.

He leaned back in the seat, utterly relaxed. “Might as well. I’ve got them all up here”—he tapped his temple with a forefinger—“but it’s always better to be over-equipped than embarrassed.”

Robert H. H. Wyatt nodded a tightlipped agreement. Everybody on the staff thought the H. H. stood for “His Holiness.” At least, that’s what we called him behind his back. He was a crusty old dude, bald, lean, sharp-eyed. Been a retainer of the elder Halliday—the President’s father—since before James J. was born. We all felt that one of His Holiness’s main duties was to report back to the old man on how and what his son was doing.

Wyatt said, “Mrs. Halliday’s due to land at four-fifty; you’ll still be at the press conference.”

The Man let a flicker of annoyance show. The First Lady had been originally scheduled for an earlier flight, but had begged off for some reason. “You’ll have to meet her, Robert, and bring her to the dinner.”

Halliday had always been able to handle the Washington press corps like a chess master playing a roomful of amateurs simultaneously. So I wasn’t expecting any trouble from the news hounds at the Boston Sheraton. I took a chair in the rear of the ballroom, behind the news and media people and all their cameras and lights, and tried to relax. The Man was enjoying himself up there, making my job easy.

The only sour face in the big ballroom belonged to McMurtrie, who headed the President’s security team.

“Relax, Mac,” I whispered to him, while Halliday was explaining his stand on the Iranian invasion of Kuwait. “The only danger he’s in is from being smothered with affection. These people love him. He’s another JFK.”