Spencerville

they were doing, they flew directly over the Potomac River, which afforded a spectacular panorama.
    Keith, in the window seat, looked out at the sunlit city. The aircraft seemed to glide over the river, and Keith could see Georgetown, the Watergate, then the Mall, the Lincoln, Washington, and Jefferson monuments, and in the distance the Capitol. It was truly a beautiful experience, and he never tired of it, especially after he’d been away awhile.
    It occurred to Keith that, as he landed, the city was exerting its own gravitational pull on him, drawing him into its grip. It had probably occurred to Charlie Adair, too, when he booked seats on the left side of the aircraft.
    They landed on time at National Airport. There was no twenty-one-gun salute, nor a red carpet or a band, but there was a government Lincoln Town Car and a driver who took them to the Hay-Adams Hotel on Sixteenth Street, a block from the White House.
    Adair offered to come in and have a drink, but Keith said, “You’ve been kind enough for one day.”
    “Don’t take it out on me.”
    “What time tomorrow?”
    “I’ll come by and collect you at ten-thirty.”
    “Too early for an eleven-thirty.”
    “You know the drill at the White House. A half hour early is late. A minute late is a bad career move.”
    “See you at eleven.”
    “We could hit traffic. The car could break down—”
    “We can
walk.
I can see it from here. See?”
    “Ten forty-five.”
    “Okay. Bring my return ticket, or I’m not going anywhere with you.”
    “I’ll have it with me.”
    “And reserve me a car at the other end. Toledo, Columbus, or Dayton.”
    “Will do. See you tomorrow.”
    Keith went into the restored landmark hotel and checked in. The reservations having been made by the White House travel office, everyone was deferential. This was a town, he knew, that lived and breathed power, not politics, as people thought. Power.
    Up in his room, he looked out over Lafayette Square at the White House and the huge dome of the Capitol beyond it. He’d been gone less than two months, but the mad energy of the place grated on his nerves. Too many cars, too many horns honking, too many people, too hot, too humid, too everything.
    He considered calling the Porters, but there was still a possibility that their phone was tapped, and in any case, there was no reason to call them and no reason to call Annie’s sister since he intended to be back in Ohio on Friday evening, home before midnight, and at Terry’s house before ten A.M. Saturday.
    He also considered calling friends in Washington, but there was no point in that, either. In this town, among government workers, your friends and your business colleagues were almost always the same people. If you lived in the suburbs, you might have neighbors who were also friends, but if you lived in town, as he had done, your social life was an extension of your career. He’d gotten a few letters from former colleagues, but basically, if you were out of the business, you were out of the loop, even if you stayed around.
    He made himself a drink from the room bar and stared out at the city, which someone had recently described as the last and only power capital left in the world. Could he live here again? Why would he want to? Even as a retired government employee, he never considered it.
    In many ways he was typical of hundreds of thousands of men and women, military and civilian, whose careers had been suddenly cut short by the end of the Cold War. And in this respect, too, he was no different from millions of other warriors in the past, the winners as well as the losers, whose services were no longer required. But unlike the soldiers or veterans in Charlie Adair’s little ditty, he never felt slighted, and would have welcomed being ignored.
    He watched the rush hour traffic below, then looked over the city. Most of the people he knew who were in his situation had not gone literally home as he had, but had found that they were more comfortable close to the Beltway where they’d spent probably half their careers. He, on the other hand, wanted a complete break with the past, and he thought he’d accomplished that. In fact, he
had
accomplished that. “I can say no to the president. That’s what I fought for. Mr. President, what part of no didn’t you understand?” He smiled to himself.
    He had an early dinner alone in his room and ordered a bottle of Banfi Brunello di Montalcino to go with his Chateaubriand and