“Cheyenne,” Harper said. “For God’s sake, it’s the Cheyenne who are threatening to take over their reservations.”

“All right, yes, the Cheyenne.” Augustine leaned back, closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. “Do you have any idea how tired I am, Maxwell? How tired I really am?”

“We’re all tired these days,” Harper said. “But that doesn’t excuse a lack of preparation or errors in diplomacy.”

“Meaning Israel or the Indian problem?”

“Both, as a matter of fact.”

“I told you, I’ll handle things.”

Harper was silent.

“But then I’ve got to have a rest,” Augustine said, “even if it’s only for a few days. What I think we’ll do is go out to The Hollows at the end of the week. On Sunday.”

“Again? We were just out there ten days ago-”

“I know that, don’t you think I know that?”

“Nicholas, the media is already accusing you of spending a disproportionate amount of time in California. The Post editorial this morning-”

“To hell with the Post. The Western White House is the only place I can relax, you know that.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call The Hollows the Western White House,” Harper said. “It’s the same phrase Nixon used for San Clemente, as the press has been so fond of pointing out.”

Augustine made an impatient gesture. “It’s my ranch and I’ll call it any damned thing I please. The point is, I need another few days of relaxation, Maxwell; I need them. We’re going to The Hollows on Sunday and that’s all there is to it.”

Harper just looked at him. The Hollows again, he thought. Only a few days this time. Again. This time…

Three

Nicholas Augustine sipped wine from his crystal goblet and looked around the table and wished fervently that he and Claire had decided to dine alone tonight.