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second term in the Senate. That was all about to change.
    One of his aides knocked gently at the door. His phalanx of aides was drawn from the ranks of the Special Forces. Mark Calahan was like all the others. He was six feet in height—tall enough to be imposing but not so tall as to dwarf Elliott—short dark hair, dark eyes, clean-shaven, dark suit and tie. Each carried a .45 automatic at all times. Elliott had made many enemies along with his millions, and he never set foot in public without protection.
    “The car is here, Mr. Elliott.”
    “I’ll be down in a minute.”
    The aide nodded and silently withdrew. Elliott drifted closer to the fire and finished the last of his whiskey. He didn’t like being sent for. He would leave when he was ready to leave, not when Paul Vandenberg told him. Vandenberg would still be selling life insurance if it weren’t for Elliott. And as for Beckwith, he would have been an unknown San Francisco lawyer, living in Redwood City instead of the White House. They both could wait.
    Elliott walked slowly to the bar and poured another half inch of whiskey into the glass. He went back to the fire and knelt before it, head bowed, eyes closed. He prayed for forgiveness—forgiveness for what he had done and for what he was about to do.
    “We are your chosen people,” he murmured. “I am your instrument. Grant me the strength to do your will, and greatness shall be yours.”
     
    Susanna Dayton felt like an idiot. Only in movies did reporters sit in parked cars, drinking coffee from a cup, conducting surveillance like some private investigator. When she left the office an hour earlier, she had not told her editor where she was going. It was just a hunch, and it might lead to nothing. The last thing she wanted her colleagues to know was that she was tailing Mitchell Elliott like a B-movie sleuth.
    Rain blurred her view. She flicked a switch on the steering column, and wipers swept away the water. She scrubbed away the moisture on the inside of the windshield with a napkin from the downtown deli where she bought the coffee. The black staff car was still there, engine idling, headlights off. Upstairs, on the second floor of the large house, a single light burned. She sipped the coffee and waited. It was awful, but at least it was hot.
    Susanna Dayton had been White House correspondent for the Washington Post, the pinnacle of power and prestige in the world of American journalism, but Susanna had loathed the job. She hated filing, every day, essentially the same story that two hundred other reporters filed. She hated being herded around like cattle by the White House press staff, shouting questions at President Beckwith from rope lines at staged and choreographed events. Her writing took on an edge. Vandenberg complained regularly to top management at the Post. Finally, her editor offered her a new beat, money and politics. Susanna took it without hesitation.
    The new assignment was her salvation. She was to find out which individuals, organizations, and industries were giving money to which candidates and which parties. Did the contributions have an undue effect on policy or legislation? Were the politicians and the givers playing by the rules? Was the money spent properly? Did anyone break the law? Susanna thrived on the work because she loved making the connections. A Harvard-trained lawyer, she was a thorough and cautious reporter. She applied the rules of evidence to virtually every scrap of information she uncovered. Would it be admissible in a court of law? Is it direct testimony or hearsay? Are there names, dates, and places in the story that can be checked out? Is there corroborating testimony? She preferred documents rather than leaks from anonymous sources, because documents can’t change their story.
    Susanna Dayton had concluded that the nation’s system of financing its politics amounted to organized bribery and shakedowns, sanctioned by the federal government. There was a thin