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absent-mindedly wedged into a corner between windshield and dashboard was almost ripple-free.
    Slayton removed the cup, finished its contents, and wondered how in the world he would be risking his life this time.
    WASHINGTON, D.C., 6:54:10 a.m. EST
    Winship’s office was baroque, government-issue splendor in mahogany paneling and curved moldings, worthy of even the most
     insistent demands for power. There was a view of the White House from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Winship’s desk.
    He stood at those windows now, hands clasped behind his back, as an armada of male and female secretaries swirled in and out
     of his inner sanctum, leaving in their wake teletypes still warm from the transmission machine, stamped “Top Secret” in bold
     red block letters.
    President Reagan will have been awakened by now, he thought to himself, and probably briefed on the threat to Nixon’s life.
     What will he make of it? More importantly, what will Haig make of it? Winship shook his head. Reagan he liked. He might even
     want to go fishing with Ronald Reagan. Bush he could tolerate. But Haigl There was a man Winship would be chary about accompanying
     on a fishing trip. Fishing, after all, necessitated sharp hooks and sharp knives.
    His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of Ben Slayton.
    “Okay, Hammy, what’s the hurry?”
    Winship groaned. Why couldn’t Slayton make even the slightest bow to protocol?
    “Sit down,” Winship said solemnly. He cast a suspicious glance at Slayton’s work clothes, started to say something in the
     way of a sartorial objection, then changed his mind and proceeded to the emergency at hand:
    “I want you to look at something,” he told Slayton, handing him a photo-transmission of the note slipped into Nixon’s newspaper
     less than an hour ago in New York.
    Slayton studied the message carefully after reading it for content quickly.
    “Of course, we can’t be sure until we receive the original,” Slayton said, “but I’d say first off that it was written on a
     Royal Manual Standard, typed from notes…”
    “That’s hardly important now. We’ll let forensic do the scut work. What I want to know, Ben, is what you might know about
     the Rogers case.”
    “Johnny Lee Rogers, the Nazi?”
    Winship nodded his head.
    “Not too much, I’m afraid. But from what I see in the press, he’s something apart from the common herd of Nazi scum. He’s
     above them, but not too far above them to be revered. Under the right circumstances, under the campaign of a rival as smart
     as Rogers…”
    “You think—”
    “Yes. That this isn’t necessarily a threat endorsed by Rogers. He’s too slick for that.”
    “All supposition, of course.”
    “Of course,” Slayton agreed. “But tell me, did anyone up in New York see anything?”
    Winship shook his head.
    “I figured as much. You want me up in New York, right?”
    “Unless you’ve got some more logical place to start.”
    Slayton said nothing. He read the message to Nixon again.
    “One thing, Ben. What connection is there to the ‘colliery’?”
    “I don’t know, and it’s our only clue just now.”

Chapter Four
    FAIRMONT, West Virginia, 8 September,
    7:00:00 a.m. EST
    When the whistle sounded, the gang leader closed the steel mesh gate of the cage, and the last squad of the day shift, twenty-two
     men in all, crowded onto the elevator platform and began their descent into the Lovebridge mine.
    This final squad, preceded by four others, would travel seven hundred and thirty-two feet down the black shaft before hitting
     bottom. If this day was one of average output, the men and the impressive assembly of machinery they operated would produce
     8,376 tons of coal before the tiny overnight shift of maintenance and safety-standard workers began their descent about 11
     o’clock that evening.
    “First time on a real day in the pit, lad?”
    The gang leader, a red-faced man by the name of Hughes, who would come out quite