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crazy.”
    “I haven’t cut off your computer access here. Shall I leave it in place? You could check him out, and I expect the computer would be an asset in your new job.”
    “Yes, please.”
    “Done. Your codes will remain the same. Must run.” Lance hung up.
    A middle-aged woman in a business suit rapped on the door and walked in. “Hi, I’m Margery Lyon—Marge—and I’ve been assigned as your secretary, until you get sick of me and ask for somebody else. Got a minute?”
    “Sure, Marge, come on in.”
    Marge sat down, tossed a file folder onto the desk, and began flipping through her steno pad. “The folder contains the résumés for half a dozen people who want to be your assistant. You start seeing them at eleven, one every fifteen minutes. I’ll arrange call-backs for the ones you like. You’re not bringing someone from the New York station with you, are you?”
    “Nope. I haven’t even had time to think about it.”
    “Your staff ID card is good for the White House Mess. Anything else you need, ask me. I’m pretty good with computers, too, if you need help. Yours will be delivered”—she consulted her watch—“right now.” There was a knock at the door and a young man wheeled in a cart containing a computer and a printer. “Where do you want this?”
    Holly pointed at the shelving behind her. “Go.”
    He went to work.
    “Oh,” Marge said, “you have your first NSC meeting in the situation room in”—she consulted her watch again—“three minutes. Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”
    Holly followed Marge down the hallway to what appeared to be simply a rather cramped conference room. “This is it?”
    “Disappointing, isn’t it? You were expecting something more Hollywood, with lots of screens and high-tech stuff, right?”
    “Right. My situation room in New York was more impressive.” People were pouring into the room and taking chairs, so Holly grabbed one before they were all gone.
    Marge crept up behind her and whispered in her ear, “You’re senior here—it’s your meeting. Have fun!”
    The room settled a bit and everybody looked at Holly.
    “Good morning,” Holly said “I’ll get to know you all as soon as I can. The president’s first intelligence briefing is not until two o’clock this afternoon, so I have nothing right now. Let’s meet again at four, and I’ll pass on whatever I can. Starting tomorrow, those briefings are at eight AM , and we’ll meet right after that to pass on information in both directions. Anybody have anything pressing for us right now?” She looked around; nobody spoke. “No world crises? How disappointing. See you at four.”
    Holly got up and walked out.

9
    HOLLY INTERVIEWED each of the applicants for her assistant’s job, and it depressed her that the academic records of every one of them exceeded her own. Not the practical experience, though, which was mostly internships.
    The first four of them were from the same mold—two men, two women—she tried not to think of them as boys and girls—freshly scrubbed, fashionably dressed, bright as new pennies. The fifth applicant was their antithesis: model tall and slim, but poorly dressed, bordering on slovenly. Her hair was too long and close to being a mess, and she wore heavy black glasses and no makeup. Her record was astonishing: six years at Harvard, with a major in international affairs and a PhD at the end and a straight 4.0 average. This was the kind of woman who had probably alienated her peers, because she always knew the answer and always got the highest grade on her papers. Her name was Millicent Martindale.
    “Why do you want the job, Millicent?” Holly asked.
    “I don’t want the job,” she replied. “I want the secretary of state’s job, but I realize I’ll have to do something else until I’m old enough.” Acerbic, too, not to say arrogant. All right, arrogant.
    “I see you interned on the staff of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee for two summers.