Damn! He didn’t go over with that too well. It was phrased too baldly. Goddamit! I’d worked over that foreign policy speech with him for a solid weekend, just the month before, when the Iranians had first jumped into Kuwait. He had bowled over the Washington press corps with what they had described as “shrewd political sense and uncommon candor.” You’d think he could remember the goddamned wording. It’s all-important in this game; it’s not merely what you say, it’s the way you say it. You can carry candor too far.

McMurtrie nudged me gently with his elbow. For a guy his size, “gently” can leave your ribs sore. “Now you look worried.” He came as close as he ever does to smiling. “Welcome to the club.”

I had begged off attending the dinner before we’d left Washington. The First Lady flew into Logan late in the afternoon and met Halliday at the hotel. Then they went off to their quiet little thousand-buck-a-plate dinner at the Harvard Club.I kept wondering what old Harry Truman would’ve said to that.

Vickie covered the dinner for me, letting old Wyatt escort her. It was unusual to see her so dressed up, in a long gown and everything. With her slim figure, she looked like a high-schooler going to her first prom. But she had good color sense; her gown was sea-green, and it picked up the color of her eyes while setting off her sunstreaked blonde hair beautifully.

His Holiness looked stunning in an old-fashioned tuxedo. His parchment-smooth face glistened; he had reached the age where his skin had taken on that translucent look that only infants and octogenarian have. He made a stately old gentlemanly figure. Vickie could have been his grand-daughter, making her debut in society.