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continued every ten minutes.
    At four a.m. I decided it was time for the big gun. Reaching into the inside pocket of my suit coat, which was draped over the back of the passenger seat, I located the number the president gave me at Camp David. He told me it was his family cell phone number. Fewer than a dozen people in the world had it. I was the only nonrelative.
    How does one store the personal cell phone number of the president of the United States? I didn’t want to risk keying it into my cell phone directory. Cell phones get lost and misplaced. I had visions of an insurance salesman finding my phone on an airplane and trying to sell the president a whole life policy. Neither did I feel comfortable recording his name and number in my scheduler, at least not under his own name. I resorted to using a code name.
    My first thought was HH, for Head Honcho, but I settled on Doogie. It had been the president’s nickname in elementary school. There weren’t many people who knew that.
    I punched the digits into my phone. My thumb paused over the send button.
    What was I going to say when he answered?
    I gave it a practice run.
    Ummm . . . Mr. President? Grant Austin here. Sorry to bother you, but I’m out in California and I was chatting with a former high school buddy . . . well, he’s not exactly a buddy, more like a rival . . . but anyway, he happened to mention that there was going to be an attempt to assassinate you and . . . well . . . sir . . . he says you know about it. Do you?
    For several indecisive moments I stared at the send button trying desperately to think of nonlunatic phrases.
    A moment of clarity dawned. This wasn’t about me. Whether or not I came across as a lunatic wasn’t the issue. The issue was national security. The issue was alerting the president regarding a threat to his life.
    Immersed in a wave of patriotism, I pressed the send button. The connection was made. I heard ringing at the other end of the line without knowing where the other end of the line was. The residence? The Oval Office? Air Force One? Poolside for the president’s morning swim?
    Keep it simple and straightforward, I told myself. Alert the president to the facts. Save the details—the unbelievable details—for the Secret Service to laugh at.
    Three sharp tones sounded. A recorded message kicked in informing me that the number I’d dialed had been disconnected or was no longer in service.
    I was certain I’d dialed correctly. I checked the display against the number in my scheduler. They were identical.
    Myles Shepherd’s voice haunted me. “And that cell phone number the president gave you at Camp David? Disconnected.”
    How had he known?
    Seven a.m. The first students began arriving at the high school. Through tired eyes I watched as they drove into the senior parking lot. I recognized their kind. Overachievers. I could see it in their stride. School couldn’t start early enough for them. A new day was another chance to shine, another day to add more flowery kudos to their already burgeoning bouquet. They were the student government leaders, the newspaper editors, the club presidents. The elite.
    I never counted myself among them, though I associated with them. Even now I continue to work with them. Washington, D.C., is populated by a national roll call of valedictorians, every one of them determined to prove themselves.
    Christina is one of them. Graduated top of her class at Midland High in Odessa, Texas, with a repeat performance at the University of Texas as a political science major.
    Why hadn’t she returned my calls?
    I dialed again, having lost track of the number of messages I’d left on her answering machines, both cell and office.
    â€œYou’ve reached the desk of Christina Kraft, aide to Chief of Staff Ingraham. Leave a brief message and a number where you can be reached. I’ll return your