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and a cupped hand from the wind, lit the cigars. He used one of his prized possessions, a massive silver Ronson lighter, given to him by the premier of China during a pilgrimage Carson had made to Beijing six years ago to clear the way for his brother Edward, then a senator. Also, to consummate a highly lucrative deal with a Chinese high-tech firm headquartered in Shanghai.
    The two men continued their leisurely amble around the deserted parking lot, chatting about an upcoming Senate vote, personal golf scores, and Crawford’s new press secretary. Nothing important. Carson, walking on the balls of his feet, waited patiently for the current scenario to unfold. The Secret Service perimeter shifted with the location of the POTUS. The men’s electronic whispering to each other possessed the hard, dry rustle of an autumn wind.
    At last Crawford cleared his throat and said, “I’m growing concerned with Three-thirteen.”
    The mere mention of the name sent chills through the usually imperturbable Carson. “You’re always concerned about Three-thirteen,” he said, easily projecting a tone of nonchalance, “though for the life of me I cannot understand why.”
    The president stopped and turned toward his friend. “Because, Henry, I am growing tired of its monomaniacal focus on Iran.”
    “I should be the last person on earth to have to remind you of Iran’s growing threat in destabilizing the entire Middle East.”
    “All that is true enough, Henry. But the fact is you neglected to talk to your brother about Three-thirteen.”
    “Edward was rightly preoccupied with the Russia treaty. Besides, he was hardly in office long enough—”
    “I know very well why you didn’t tell Edward.” The president sucked on his Cohiba, as if to bolster his courage. “He wouldn’t have understood. Edward had a highly elevated sense of morality.”
    “Which we do not.”
    “We’re realists,” the president said, “not idealists.”
    “My brother would never have understood our motivations.”
    The president regarded the glowing tip of his cigar. “On the contrary, I think Edward would have understood all too well.”
    Carson turned on the president, his eyes blazing. “What have I told you, Arlen? I do not want to talk about Edward.”
    “The Good Brother.”
    Carson, eyes narrowed, took a step closer. “What is it with you tonight, Arlen? Do you have a death wish?”
    “Jesus, Henry.” Crawford, rearing back, turned pale.
    “I made you, Arlen, and I can destroy you. Without my influence, you’re a leaky boat dead in the water. If perchance you have forgotten, then consider this your wake-up call. Your last warning. Clear?”
    The president continued to suck on his cigar. His hand was trembling.
    “I was just … I’m voicing a concern … for both of us.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Of late, there has been talk among cabinet members,” Crawford said. “They’re growing uneasy with Three-thirteen’s power. They say it should have been shut down long ago. So I want … I think for both our sakes it should be dismantled before it takes on a life of its own.”
    Carson stared at the president with poisonous eyes. He rolled his cigar within the O of his pursed lips. “What you suggest  … can, of course, be accomplished.”
    “Good.” Crawford looked relieved. “I don’t want any more questions raised.”
    Carson felt his heart grow heavy, but he revealed none of his true feelings to the president.
    “And, while you’re at it, please make sure every trace of the Incident is expunged.”
    “Let’s not start that again.”
    “The Incident started events spinning out of control.”
    “The Incident is ancient history. The inquiry following it—”
    “Was a sham. We both know it.” The ash on Crawford’s cigar burned bright for a moment, before falling like snow at his feet. “The inquiry was meant to do one thing only: absolve those involved of any guilt or responsibility.”
    “Which, at the time, included