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influential men in the land. Lately he had been permitted to give orders on his own signature – ‘for the President: John Curl’. It made him feel very proud to do that.
    After dinner with his family, the President had spent two or three hours reading official papers. Then, at about ten-thirty, he liked to ride the elevator down from the residence to see the latest news. One of the NSA staff wasalways standing by with up-to-date backup material, such as maps, graphics and satellite photos. Curl was there too: only sickness or duty could keep him away. Often in the evening the President was approachable in a way he wasn’t at the 9.30 am security briefing held in a room filled with people.
    The West Wing changed character at night. The fluorescent lighting seemed especially hard when unmixed with daylight. The voices that echoed in the corridors were hushed and respectful. The ceremonial rooms and library, the Press rooms and the barber shop were closed and dark. The night-duty offices were quiet except for the intestinal noises made by the computers, and the sound of laser printers periodically rotating the fuser rollers. The only signs of life were made by the night duty staff at the end of the corridor. A secretary could occasionally be seen there using the coffee machine, or exchanging banalities with a guard.
    In the corridor leading to the Lincoln sitting-room, Curl was buttonholed by the Air Force aide who asked, ‘Did you read “Air Bus to Battle”, John?’
    Curl stopped, sneaking a quick look at his watch as he did so. The Air Force aide was a man of influence. He controlled the planes of the Presidential Flight. When an extra seat on Air Force One was needed, the general knew how to fix it for the ones he favoured.
    Curl said, ‘Halfway through.’ The document he referred to was a 100-page report on a new military transport plane demonstrated the previous week. They both knew that ‘halfway through’ meant Curl had not even glanced at it.
    â€˜I just came from the chief,’ said the general. He said it casually, but minutes with the President were added up proudly, like high school credits. He tapped the Air Force promotion lists to show what the President had signed.
    â€˜Is he alone?’
    â€˜Waiting for the eleven o’clock TV news.’
    Curl looked again at his watch. It was 10.58 pm. Hewas already turning away as he said, ‘Thank you, General. Can I tell you how much we all enjoyed Monday?’
    All enjoyed Monday was a far cry from how impressed we all were on Monday. But the general smiled. He liked John Curl. He was not one of those peaceniks who were yelling for more, and still more, military cutbacks every time they saw a newspaper picture of happy smiling Russians.
    Right now the Air Force needed every sympathetic voice it could get here in the White House. The poll-watchers were shouting for mega-dollars to be switched to education and fighting crime and drugs. They were saying that it was the only way to avoid the President getting severely clobbered when the mid-term elections came. ‘It was a pleasure, John,’ he called after him. ‘The Air Force is hosting one hundred and fifty Senators and guests for the same demonstration on the twenty-first. If you want tickets for anyone …’
    â€˜Great. I’ll be in touch,’ said Curl, turning to wave. Then he smoothed his wrinkled sleeve. The silk-mixture suit, custom-made shirt and manicured hands were part of Curl’s public image. Even when this handsome man was summoned from bed to an emergency conference in the Crisis Management Center he cut the same dashing and impeccable figure.
    Curl had already forgotten the general. His mind was on the newscast that the chief was waiting for. The news he was bringing might be made public and that would change the whole picture. Curl worried that he might need more figures, dates and projections but it was too late