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Prologue

JANUARY 20

It had to be a joke.

Being hazed on the first day of work was nothing new, but John Gutierrez had never thought someone would have the b.a.l.l.s to prank him on this first day.

On Inauguration Day.

One simply did not haze the president of the United States.

“Murray, I’m not finding the humor in this,” John said. “The country has some very serious issues to deal with, and this goes beyond the realm of good taste.”

Murray Longworth looked surprised. “A . . . joke? This is no joke, Mister President.”

Of course it was. John Gutierrez hadn’t been born yesterday.

He looked around the Oval Office, gauging the reaction from his key advisers. Tom Maskill, his twitchy deputy chief of staff, was trying and failing to look nonplussed. Secretary of Defense Donald Martin sat back on an antique couch, his legs crossed. Donald was old-school Was.h.i.+ngton: tall, white, graying hair, tailored suit . . . looked like he was made of plantation money. Chief of Staff Vanessa Colburn sat on a striped chair. In appearance she was Donald’s polar opposite—female, black and young. Her no-nonsense poker face carried a cold stare that could freeze you where you stood. At the moment, that stare was fixed directly on one Murray Long-worth, deputy director of the CIA.

Murray also had an old-school Was.h.i.+ngton look, but different from Donald’s. Murray’s suit looked expensive, too, but like its owner it seemed a bit rumpled and tired. Murray was past retirement age, slightly overweight, with a scowl permanently etched into his face. His was a familiar image among the dinosaurs of Was.h.i.+ngton, a look Vanessa had dubbed Cold War White Man. He was a CIA deputy director, but not the deputy director. Murray worked mostly behind the scenes.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Murray,” John said. “I spoke to all five former presidents before I took office. Of the many nice things they had to say, there is only one person they each pointed out by name—you. They said that you are a . . . how shall I put this? A special kind of go-to guy.”

“Yes, Mister President,” Murray said.

“Now it seems they all pointed you out for a reason, to set me up for this ridiculous story about triangular growths infecting Americans and turning them into psychopathic killers.”

“Sir,” Murray said, “I a.s.sure you this is no joke.”

“Then why haven’t we heard anything about it before?” Vanessa asked, her voice almost as expressionless as her face.