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I felt disoriented, yanked out of my quiet existence into a plot I couldn't keep pace with. Everyone was being too damn polite, which told me that whatever I'd fallen into was as lethal as those innocuous-looking bundles of spent-fuel rods resting at the bottom of that pool. One thing was for sure: I was well out of my depth. I wiggled my sneaker ever so slightly-Charlie's key was still in there, insistent as ever.

Caruthers regarded the crew waiting on the far side of the room. "Anything else?"

The woman in the horn-rimmed glasses said, with barely contained anger, "Please do not ever again say 'ass' on broadcast television."

"Come on. Voters like a little moderate swearing."

"Not in Colorado Springs they don't." She studied his frown, decided to press the point. "Don't make me remind you and everyone else that you stepped in it on the family-values business."

Alan redirected to cut the tension. "We're still waiting on finals, but it looks like the San Onofre thing bumped Bilton's numbers."

Caruthers waved him off, leaning to confide in me, "When people are scared, they cozy up to the incumbent. If nothing else, Bilton is soothing for his consistency. When he dies, his tombstone will read, 'Here lies Andrew Bilton. He was appropriate.' " Caruthers swept a hand in your-name-in-lights fashion, and I couldn't help but smile.

Alan said, "Well, he's up three in the polls this morning. Masterfully handled operation, can't switch horses midstream, blah-blah-blah. They're spinning it as Bilton's idea to direct Secret Service resources to the threat."

Caruthers scowled. "Bilton wouldn't think of that if it was typed out on his teleprompter."

"Well, it's his Service, sir. We're just borrowing it right now." Alan shot an after-the-fact glance at the post-stander, whose face still betrayed nothing.

Caruthers and I were elbow to elbow at the end of the table, like two senior board members. "All right, thank you, everyone. Please give me a moment with Nick." He waved them out. "You, too, James."

The Secret Service agent at the door didn't budge. His even stare took my measure. "I'd prefer not to leave you alone in a room with anyone, Senator."

"I agree wholeheartedly. But this isn't anyone. It's Frank Durant's boy."

"Okay." The agent withdrew, but as he went through the door, I heard him say, "Though we don't want you ending up like Frank Durant."

Caruthers scowled after him before settling back in his chair. And then it was just me and a presidential candidate and the Westside laid out beyond the broad window.

He eyed me gamely. "Are you a Democrat or a

Republican?"

"Neither," I said. "I didn't vote in the last election."

"Yes you did," he said. "And your candidate won."

It took a few seconds for me to pick up his meaning. Caruthers seemed to be pithy like Frank, even away from the cameras. He had the same talent for cutting to the heart of a matter, for leaving you reflective rather than defensive.

"Okay, fair enough-" I caught myself. "With all due respect…"

He was leaning forward, genuinely interested in me now, or else doing an excellent job of faking it. "Please, by all means, continue."

"The dogma and feigned moral indignation, it just wears at me. In my old job, I saw a lot of policy changes, and God knows Bilton has gutted social services, but I've found that whatever politicians promise, it usually doesn't trickle down to the people who need it."

He licked his lips, seeming to enjoy the frank exchange. "Not a fan of government?"

"Government can be a nasty thing when you're on the wrong end of it."

He rested a hand on my forearm, a gesture that from anyone else might have seemed condescending, but his eyes were so alive, his face so receptive and oddly vulnerable, that it didn't bother me. "People are fed up with the bullshit. And rightly. I hear that some of the agents on the team think something more went down in that nuclear power plant."

Just like that. No transition.

We stared at each other. My mouth was dry, and my blood was moving at a good clip. I thought about his sending the Secret Service agent outside and wondered who he trusted and with what.

"So that's why you wanted to talk to me?"

The phone chirped, and Caruthers tapped a button to silence it. "You're the only person who was actually inside that nuclear plant. You say you're tired of bullshit, and we both know that the official line on San Onofre hardly smells like roses. If you want to talk, I'm someone who will listen to you. The administration is very eager to label this terrorism, because it drives their stock up. But I have to wonder if a guy like Mike Milligan with a bomb is looking for something more than just turning Southern California into a radioactive wasteland."

I said tentatively, "You believe there was a bomb?"