In order to give Patrick status with the rank-obsessed Germans, he was promoted to major. Since the promotion was premature, some professional jealousy had manifested itself, and he was confident that his next promotion would not be for a very, very long time, if ever.

Both he and the Germans arrived in Hong Kong after the siege had been lifted, but he spent the next couple of months watching the Imperial German Army function in a “real” environment. On his way home from that task, he stopped in the Philippines. His malaria, previously caught in Cuba, flared up again and he was sent to Washington to convalesce.

Patrick stood and stretched, deciding he had time for breakfast. Had anything else occurred that would justify his summons? Teddy Roosevelt had visited him a couple of weeks ago, but that meeting was purely social. In fact, Patrick was certain that the vice president had been in the hospital to visit someone else and had simply noticed his name on a list upon arrival and decided to be polite.

Several hours later, a crumpled and sweaty Patrick Mahan found himself on a bench across the street from the White House quietly cursing the summer heat and stifling humidity that made Washington in the summer more like a Cuban swamp than a nation’s capital. Whatever creases and folds his clothes had once possessed had disappeared, and he felt himself to be little more than a soggy, sweaty lump. His tie hung limp and his starched collar, except where it chafed his neck, had collapsed. As always, there were scores of tourists staring at the famous building, and he wondered just how so many of them managed to look even slightly comfortable. Several adults were taking photographs using Mr. Eastman’s new box camera, and a number of children were crying to either go home, go to the bathroom, or eat. Maybe the tourists weren’t that comfortable after all, he decided.