butcher block island in her kitchen. Teddy had invited three friends for cake. He was never one for big parties—not like Helen. They were such different children. After all the problems Jill had had getting pregnant, she called Helen her miracle baby. She never expected to have another child. Teddy—Theodore Roosevelt Parsons—was named after the president who had gone on a nearly fatal expedition in the remote headwaters of the Amazon. Henry had traveled to the same region in western Brazil, a rain forest near the Bolivian border, on one of his epidemiological trips. A tribe of Cinta Larga Indians, who operated a diamond mine, were dying mysteriously. When Henry arrived, only a few members of the tribe remained alive. He tracked down the source of the illness—Jill seemed to remember that their supply of sugar had been poisoned by narcoterrorists intent on taking over the mine, or something like that. One dying woman was heavily pregnant. Henry performed an emergency delivery and found that the baby was still alive. Henry brought him home. Miracle Baby No. 2, Henry called him.
From the start, Teddy was solemn and withdrawn. Jill worried about him, wondering if the poison had affected his personality. Even as a baby, he seemed to her eerily dignified, like some fairy-tale prince who had been kidnapped and would one day reclaim his kingdom. Teddy was small but sturdily built and immensely curious. His dark eyes shone like polished onyx. He never sought popularity, but other kids were drawn to his aura of self-containment—he was like Henry in that way—friendly but not needing to impress anyone, radiating a kind of confidence that few children possess.
The problem was Helen. She had never really accommodated to having another member of the family, four years younger, and her opposite in so many ways. She was a lanky redhead, with a beguiling cascade of freckles. Life naturally bent in her direction: adored by teachers, envied by girls and pursued by boys, sought after by teams and clubs. Her life was destined to unfold in ways that Jill could only imagine. Sometimes, she would catch herself looking at Helen in a bathing suit, or when she was getting ready for bed, and would marvel at having produced such a lovely human specimen.
And yet, Jill worried about her. Helen was like a crystal, perfect but brittle. She was petulant and demanding. In her world Teddy was the only real competitor for affection and praise, and because he didn’t seek it, his modesty was constantly rewarded by people who admired his intelligence and poise.
Before Teddy’s guests arrived, Jill turned on the news. On Fox, Bret Baier was talking about the terrorist attack in Rome. She switched to CNN. Wolf Blitzer was speaking to a reporter standing outside WHO headquarters, in front of an avenue of national flags. “Indonesia has agreed to allow international monitors to oversee the country’s ports and transport facilities,” the reporter said. “Meanwhile, the Kongoli camp has been cordoned off, and authorities say they have the situation fully under control.” Oh, Henry, Jill thought, when will you ever be home?
4
The West Wing
Somehow everyone made it in through the spring blizzard. Washington traffic was a mess any day of the week, but in the snow the city became nearly impassable. Now the blinding sun was out, reflecting off the white blanket of snowfall that covered the Rose Garden and melting the icicles on the colonnade, but the Situation Room, in the basement of the West Wing, was in eternal night, a high-tech dungeon. It was where the president and his advisers exercised command and control of U.S. forces around the world and dealt with domestic crises. Flat-panel displays for highly secure videoconferencing lined the mahogany walls, regiments of black leather chairs surrounded the long oval table, and the ceiling was studded with sensors to detect eavesdropping equipment and unauthorized cellular signals.
The members of the Deputies Committee of the National Security Council—in addition to the CIA, they included State, the Office of Management and Budget, Treasury, Justice, Joint Chiefs, and Homeland Security—leafed through the morning packet, searching for something new or useful. Their job was to narrow the issues for their busy bosses and frame them in a way they could understand. Normally, the Deputies Committee was chaired by the National Security Council’s number two, but she had fractured her leg in a skiing accident in Jackson Hole, so it was left to Matilda Nichinsky to shoulder through the agenda.
Like a soap bubble, Tildy had