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And so, without raising any suspicion, the head of China and the head of the United States would now be in the same secluded location with no press and no fanfare. The President was pleased. Though he felt his position was weak, needing so much money as quickly as he did, he felt that he regained a small bit of power simply by having this meeting on his own turf. And by keeping it secret he wouldn’t have to face the press afterward in case things did not go well, which was also a relief.

The Chinese delegation, which came in a separate American aircraft not nearly as luxurious, arrived two days ahead of the Premier. Susanna Colbert flew up Friday morning with John Van Dyke and Commerce Secretary James Gilford. Normally the Secretary of State, Bob Nugent, would be there, but he was in Korea at a trade summit and they thought that bringing him home would arouse suspicion.

Friday night, without the President or the Premier in attendance, there was a barbecue for the thirty-plus delegates attending the summit, and the two countries mingled over roasted pork, chicken, steaks, and vegetables. There was drinking and much laughter and a very good vibe. Nothing, absolutely nothing political, was discussed that night; it was just about setting a tone. A few of the Chinese got very drunk and told bawdy stories that made everyone laugh, even though the Americans did not always understand the punch lines. The Chinese had great stories about the former North Korea, as if it were the black sheep in the family. They had Kim Jong Il short jokes, and Dalai Lama fasting jokes, and even a couple of laundry jokes, thinking the Americans would still laugh at that.

By the end of the evening people felt quite friendly and ready to hear what the leaders had on their minds the following day. The Americans understood that the Chinese were as tough a group of negotiators as there were, and even though in their hearts they knew the barbecue would mean nothing once the dealing started, it still felt good to pretend everybody liked one another.

Bernstein and the First Lady arrived by helicopter on Saturday morning. Elizabeth Foreman told the press it was a simple weekend rest and that nothing but relaxation was on the schedule. The President was concerned that eventually the truth would get out, but he felt confident that if it did he could tell the press that it had had to be kept secret or else the complicated financial negotiations could fall apart, though when he thought of that excuse he had no idea what those negotiations were going to be. Then again, there might be a chance this would never leak, at least not while Bernstein was in office. The Chinese were the best secret keepers in the world, and if the American delegation took their secrecy oaths seriously, this could possibly remain private.

* * *

The night of the barbecue was also the night of the fourth act of terrorism against the olds. At eight o’clock on that Friday evening a bomb went off in a San Diego retirement community, killing twenty seniors and wounding a hundred more, including younger staff. What had started several years earlier as an isolated incident was now intensifying in frequency and magnitude. Paul Prescott was on the phone with Jack Willman as soon as he heard.

“What the fuck is going on out there?”

“This one I don’t know about. It was a suicide event.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“They’ve recovered the body, which will tell us something, but we had no warning of it and we don’t even think it was connected to the others.”

“Jesus,” Paul said. “How vast is this?”

“I don’t know. This one was scary. Maybe someone who lived there did it.”

“Why? Someone was pissed because they never won at bingo?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a relative or someone who expected an inheritance. When I get more information I’ll tell you.”

“You’re being really great here, Jack. I feel like this is one-way. What can I do for you?”

“Do you have seats to the Redskins?”

“Are you a football fan?”

“Yeah.”

“Gimme a week. I’ll get you seats on the bench.”

“Listen, Paul, if you did nothing I would