Tuesday night

It appeared to Davis that Arliss Goddard Abbott’s second husband was a booze hound, but then he supposed he’d have to consider that Brooxey Wallingford, of the Philadelphia mainline Wallingfords, could support one or two third-world countries. Davis thought the elder Wallingford seniors must have hated him to pin such a ridiculous name on him. He’d obviously drunk one too many shots of Glenfiddich that evening and was ogling the women, particularly Natalie, that or her diamonds, Davis wasn’t sure which. He and the secretary of state, who’d kept her own name, had been married less than a year, Natalie had told him, and said only, “He was always nice and charming the half-dozen times I was with him socially. He was a prince at their wedding.” She looked from Arliss to Wallingford, sighed. “I wonder if Arliss knew he was such a drinker before they got married.”

Cynical to the bone, Davis said, “It may be a huge mitigating factor that he and his family are almost as rich as Bill Gates.”

Natalie shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, it’s none of my business.”

When they reached Arliss Abbott in the receiving line, she cheek-kissed Natalie and gave Davis a cool smile and a firm handshake. She was a tall, elegant woman in her long black designer gown, similar in age and as beautifully presented as Natalie. She was, Davis thought, the undisputed queen of her kingdom. It was odd though, that Natalie seemed to radiate warmth and interest, whereas Abbott gave off an “I’m in charge and don’t you forget it” vibe. Maybe, he thought, she had learned to project that image on the job, but he doubted it. He rather thought she’d learned it in the cradle. He saw her give a nearly imperceptible nod to one of her aides. Davis watched the young man discreetly lead second husband Wallingford away, with some practiced excuse, no doubt. What would the aide do? Put him in his jammies and tuck him in bed?

He felt her powerful intelligence focus on him. “Natalie tells me you’re a special agent with the FBI. I understand you work for Dillon Savich, and everyone is impressed with him, the president included.”

Maybe Davis was impressive by extension? “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and left it at that.

“However did you hook up with Natalie?”

Hook up? Well, she was sitting in a smoky bar over on K Street, drinking alone, and I—“Natalie tells it better than I do, ma’am. I guess you could say I protect her from unwanted attention.” Davis kept his eyes firmly on her face, not about to see if Mr. Brooxey Wallingford was still in sight. It was Madame Secretary of State Abbott who snuck a look toward the door her aide and her husband were currently negotiating, Brooxey swaying a bit, the aide speaking to him quietly.

Natalie said, “Arliss, I’ll tell you about it later. Oh, yes, Perry told me she’s coming with Day.”

Arliss Abbott placed a beautifully manicured white hand on Natalie’s arm and moved in close, her voice pitched low. “We need to talk. I don’t think in my office, it would invite speculation. Some afternoon we can both get away?”

Natalie kept her voice steady. “Of course. We need to discuss this—situation.” She drew a deep breath, her head very close to the secretary’s. “I need to hear your advice about what I should do.”

Arliss Abbott nodded, beamed a practiced, smooth smile at Davis, and turned to greet a plump older woman with a smoker’s wrinkled face, a congresswoman from Connecticut, Natalie whispered to him.

Natalie moved gracefully from one small conversation group to another, all in all about thirty A-list men and women, as jeweled up and beautifully turned out as she was. Davis noticed when Natalie neared, conversation stopped for half a second, all eyes focused on her, until the guests remembered their manners and responded as naturally as they could to her greeting. Davis kept a bland smile planted on his face. He was sure they were burning to know what the secretary of state had said to her and what they were planning. He wondered if she would still be ambassador if the two women hadn’t been best friends since college, along with the president of the United States. Davis had a feeling that despite that fact, this roomful of politicians would bet their galoshes that Natalie would end up thrown under the bus.

Davis stood a little behind her, aware of everyone who came near her. Of course, information was the currency in Washington, and everyone wanted a big chunk, but they weren’t rude enough or honest enough to ask Natalie directly. She smiled and nodded, ignored the covert stares, and her voice was cultured and beautifully pitched, but she wasn’t saying what they really wanted to hear. She deflected supportive comments about the events in England with great skill and charm—events—as if that was the only polite word for a man’s death and Natalie’s attempted murder. If her laughter was a bit thin at times, no one let on that they wondered why, but of course they did. She continued from one group to another and neither her conversation nor her expression revealed that her reputation, and her life, in fact, was in the balance.