SAM BYERS WAS SITTING IN HIS CAR WITH THE ENGINE IDLING and the windshield wipers running when the Gulfstream streaked out of the sky and touched down on the rainswept runway at Dulles International Airport. He watched the plane taxi to a stop at a junction of the runways, waiting for instructions from the tower, then it finally executed a ninety-degree turn and rolled right past him. When the pilots got off, he pulled his raincoat up around his ears and ran forward through the puddles.

"It's a damn shame we have to meet this way," Byers announced breathlessly as the heavy-set sixty-year-old trudged up the last step and nearly collapsed onto the sofa, "but I wanted to give you this stuff in person, and it's a bad idea for us to be seen together." He reached inside his raincoat and removed a large brown envelope.

Cole took it and handed him a glass with vodka, ice, and a lemon twist—Senator Byers's drink of preference, he knew.

The senator noted the brand of vodka his host had just served as he glanced around at the luxurious, pale gray leather interior with its chrome-and-brass-trimmed lamps and tables. "You've got style and you've got taste, Cole," he said. "Unfortunately," he added as Cole sat down on the sofa across from him, "you've also got yourself a powerful enemy."

"Who is it?" Cole snapped.

He lifted the glass in a parody of a toast and said, "The junior senator from the Great State of Texas—Douglas J. Hayward. He's taken a very personal interest in putting you out of business and into the penitentiary." Without rancor, he added, "That boy has serious presidential aspirations. He'll probably make it, too. He has the look and the charisma of a young Jack Kennedy." Belatedly realizing that his audience seemed to be in a state of angry shock, he said, "Did you do something to aggravate him, or is he just out to get you on principle?"

The only possible explanation Cole could think of involved Jessica Hayward and a long-ago night when her husband, Charles, came home unexpectedly; yet it seemed insane that young Hayward would go to all this trouble after more than a decade to defend his mother's nonexistent honor. "The only reason I can think of is lame as hell," Cole replied curtly.

"That's not likely to concern him," Sam said dryly. "Every presidential hopeful needs a cause, a dragon he can slay for the public good. That's what gets them publicity, and publicity is what gets them elected. Reagan had the Ayatollah, Kennedy had Hoffa—you get my meaning?"

"I get the meaning, but I don't like the analogies," Cole said icily.

"Hear me out before you act on your impulse to beat the shit out of me," Sam said with a chuckle. "I was about to say that when high-reaching politicians can't find a legitimate public enemy to slay, they frequently create their own. For some reason, Senator Hayward has singled you out for that honor."

He paused to sip his drink; then he continued, "Cushman's board of directors is right behind Senator Hayward, urging him on in this quest for 'justice,' and they have some political allies of their own on the team. Between them, they've managed to convince the New York Stock Exchange, the SEC, and themselves that you started those nasty rumors that their microprocessor was faulty so that the value of their stock would drop and you could buy their company for half its worth. You already know most of that. Here's the part you don't know: The Cushman people are going to file a class-action lawsuit. In addition to a few hundred million dollars in damages, Cushman wants the court to grant them the rights to all profits Unified makes on the processor when it's marketed—and—they are also demanding that you hand over all future profits resulting from any other device, design, or formula of theirs that you may eventually use. My sources tell me that Cushman is particularly emphatic about the last part of that."

He took another sip of his drink and studied Cole's unreadable expression; then he shrugged. "I thought that was a little odd, but then I'm just a country boy. But even a country boy like me can figure out the obvious—If you are found guilty of any of the criminal charges in federal court, then Cushman's class-action suit is as good as won in circuit court."

"What's in the envelope?" Cole said, his mind on solutions and countermeasures.

"Nothing that will enable you to neutralize him, if that's what you're hoping, but it will give you an idea of where you stand. William C. Gonnelli, the administrative judge for the SEC who's going to hear your case, is already so sure you're guilty of something that he's helping the federal prosecutor decide whether the next step should be to haul you up before the grand jury and get an indictment, or take the short route and ask the judge for a warrant for your arrest. There's a copy of an SEC subpoena in there. Your lawyer will be served with it the day after tomorrow. Naturally, it will be leaked to the press. They'll be waving microphones in your face when you walk out your front door from that day on, I'm afraid."

Cole hadn't expected this much information or cooperation from Byers, and he was strangely touched that he'd gone to as much effort as he had—particularly because it appeared unlikely that Cole would be sponsoring any more fund-raisers for anyone.

As if he knew what Cole was thinking, the politician stood up and shook Cole's hand. "I liked you when I met you, Cole, and I liked you better later." With a grin, he said, "Nobody's ever laid a check for three hundred thousand dollars in my hand and told me to my face that they'd have handed it to a gorilla if he were the Republican candidate."

"I apologize for that, Senator," Cole said formally, and he meant it. "And I also appreciate your help."

"I thought your blunt honesty was refreshing. I'm not used to it." He turned and squeezed between the sofas, then stopped again in the open doorway of the plane and pulled the collar of his raincoat up. "I also think you're innocent. Unfortunately," he finished, "I won't be able to talk to you anymore after this. You understand, don't you?"

"Perfectly," Cole said unemotionally.

He didn't feel unemotional, however. As he looked at the subpoena with his name on it, he felt a rage that was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He wasn't afraid of subpoenas or trials or groundless accusations or the damage to his good name. The problem was that in two days, his name was going to be synonymous with fraud.

And by association, so would Diana's.

A laugh welled up inside of Cole, then turned to anguish. Diana had married him to save her pride and dignity. Now he was going to destroy all that, along with her reputation, in a way that Penworth never could have.

Last week, Diana loved him and believed in him.

Next week, she was going to despise him.

Cole leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, trying to think of a way to keep her safe… of a way to keep her at all. When he couldn't think of any, the unfamiliar constriction in his throat grew until it was painful.