1

Camp David, Catoctin
Mountain, Maryland

"What are we doing here?" Laurel Stewart asked the man sitting next to her in the sanctuary of the presidential retreat's Evergreen Chapel.

"Praying for peace?" Max Kelly, a reporter from the Boston Globe, suggested.

"Granted, it's an admirable goal, but given that the Weather Service has declared this the hottest summer on record, what made the White House decide that August would be a good time to hold another round of Middle East Road to Peace meetings? Couldn't the State Department find a road map that leads to Maine?"

She slapped at yet another mosquito that had sneaked in through the window screen. "And how come they all invited us here to participate?"

She had to raise her voice to be heard over the huge pipe organ's rendition of "The Song of Peace." According to her program, Israeli prime minister Yitzhak Rabin had sung the song with over a hundred thousand people at a peace rally in Tel Aviv minutes before his assassination.

"This from the reporter who's always bitching that we don't get enough access when the president hides out at Camp David?"

"Like you think anyone's going to nail down a scoop here today," Laurel scoffed. Her dark auburn hair, styled in a sleek, no-nonsense cut that ended at her earlobes, hinted at a redhead's temper she usually kept tightly controlled. Her eyes were a cool, intelligent green in a pale complexion, her nose was straight, her mouth generous, and her chin as stubborn as she herself was. "We're being herded around the place like a bunch of senior citizens on an If-It's-Wednesday-This-Must-Be-Camp-David bus tour from hell."

"Hey, it's not every day you can watch two world leaders knocking down ten pins in the Nixon bowling alley."

"Bowling for Peace," she muttered. "Now, that's going to catch on. I'm still trying to find out if those were new shoes they gave the prime minister, but no one's talking."

"Go get 'em, Lois Lane. That story's bound to get you a banner headline."

"That's my point, Max. There is no story here. At least nothing new, other than their refusal to release the president's scorecard and the chef's diplomatic faux pas of serving sun-dried tomatoes with the beef tenderloin. I mean, really, no one's eaten sun-dried tomatoes since the Clinton Administration."

"I thought they ate Big Macs."

"Cute." Actually, a big, juicy cheeseburger with fries sounded a lot better than the uninspired deli spread of sliced cheese and cold meat that had been laid out for reporters in the mess hall. "It's an evil plot cooked up by the politicos to do away with us."

She felt the sting at the back of her neck and slapped again, an instant too late. "The gang in the White House is probably hoping all of us nuisances in the press corps will be attacked by a swarm of West Nile virus–carrying mosquitoes and drop dead before the election."

Unfortunately, the organ player wearing Marine dress blues chose that moment to pound out the last chord, which left Laurel's conspiracy theory hanging on the steamy air. The president and First Lady, displaying impeccable manners in the front row, did not turn around. Neither did the prime minister.

Her peers were not as polite.

Pretending vast interest in the flags on either side of the linen-draped altar at the front of the chapel, Laurel ignored their evil grins.

Two hours later, she was back in the Clinton Room at the Cozy Country Inn in nearby Thurmont, soaking in the Jacuzzi tub, when her cell phone started playing the theme from Jaws.

Buh dum. Buh dum.

"No one's home." She took a long swallow of the frozen margarita she'd brought up from the pub and savored the icy tartness.

Copyright © 2004 by The Ross Family Trust