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in a while, he thought about the money a Wall Street career could have provided. But he was convinced he would ultimately come out ahead if he stayed committed to his long-term strategy in politics. There was an inner circle he’d heard whispers about ever since coming to Washington. Party leaders who fed off the political system with help from private sector moneymen the same way investment bankers fed off the financial system. And Lucas wanted in on it.
    He’d signed up for on-campus interviews with the New York investment houses during senior year, but hadn’t heard back from any of them. So after graduation he’d come to the Hill to serve in the office of a newly elected Illinois senator. The son of a small-time Chicago lawyer, Lucas had a strong sense of national pride and political duty. His mother’s father had been a six-term state senator from a county near Springfield. And, from the time Lucas was old enough to wave the flag at Fourth of July parades, his grandfather had instilled in him a responsibility to serve.
    After two more Congressional staff tours and an administrative management position at party headquarters, Lucas had come to the West Wing to serve as deputy assistant political director to the president. Translated, that meant he had to be ready for anything. One day, he touched up a canned “Buy American” speech for the president to deliver to steelworkers in Pittsburgh. The next, he interfaced with the Secret Service, coordinating a European trip for the president. The next, he helped the First Lady plan a dinner. Important jobs that enabled him to interact daily with high-level members of the administration, and gain their trust.
    Important, but tedious. Until two weeks ago, when he’d been summoned to the first of these meetings.
    The call had come at one o’clock in the morning, distracting him from an intense chess match on the Web just as he was finally cornering a slippery opponent. The anonymous caller told Lucas to be on the southwest corner of Fourteenth and M Streets precisely at ten o’clock that morning, and to wait there for contact. He was told nothing else except that he was
not
to go into work that day. And that he was to be on the specified corner no earlier than five minutes before the specified time.
    He would have brushed the call off as a hoax, except that the person at the other end of the line mentioned a photograph taped to the inside of his desk drawer at the West Wing. A photograph of the only girl he’d ever really cared about. A girl he’d dated during his junior year at Northwestern. Brenda Miller. Though not beautiful, Brenda was more attractive than the few other girls he’d dated. And she was nice, too. Apparently unconcerned with his lack of physical appeal and impressed with his IQ.
    He’d feared the entire time they were together that she would figure out she could do better. When she left him, it had devastated him.
    Lucas had been forced to watch her walk around campus senior year with other men, one in particular she’d started seeing second semester. All three of them had been in a psychology class together, and it had sickened him to watch Brenda holding hands with the guy during lectures. Lucas had followed Brenda to his apartment once, wishing he had the courage to do what he really wanted to do as he stood there knowing what was going on inside.
    Now Brenda was in Washington, divorced and childless. A lawyer with a prominent firm in town. Here for a fresh start after leaving a physically abusive husband. He’d heard all this from a friend back in Chicago, but he hadn’t called Brenda yet. She’d probably agree to have lunch or even dinner with him, for old times’ sake. But then he’d have to endure that disappointed look when she first saw him. At least he’d had
some
hair back then.
    The door of the limousine opened and Franklin Bennett, the president’s chief of staff, eased inside. “Morning,” he said curtly, settling onto the