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Hagen uttered a coarse laugh that echoed off the gym walls. "I've b
een briefed in worse places."
"How's the restaurant business?"
"Showing a nice profit since we switched from continental gourmet to downhome American food.
Food costs were eating us alive. Twenty entrees with expensive sauces and herbs didn't cut it. So now we specialize in only five menu items the higher-class restaurants don't serve-- ham, chicken, fish casserole, stew, and meatloaf."
"You may have something," said the President. "I haven't bitten into a good meatloaf since I was a kid."
"Our customers go for it, especially since we retained the fancy service and intimate atmosphere. My waiters all wear tuxedos, candles on tables, stylish settings, food presented in a continental manner. And the best part is the diners eat faster, so there's a quicker turnover on tables."
"And you're breaking even on the food while taking a profit on the booze and wine, right?"
Hagen laughed again. "Vince, you're okay. I don't care what the news media say about you. When you're an old has-been politician look me up, and we'll open a chain of beaneries together."
"Do you miss criminal investigation, Ira?"
"Sometimes."
"You were the best undercover operative the justice Department ever had," the President said, "until Martha died."
"Gathering evidence on slime for the government didn't seem to matter anymore. Besides, I had three daughters to raise, and the demands of the job kept me away from home for weeks at a time."
"The girls doing all right?"
"Just fine. As you well know, all three of your nieces have happy marriages and presented me with five grandchildren."
"A pity Martha couldn't have seen them. Of my four sisters and two brothers, she was my favorite."
"You didn't fly me here from Denver on an Air Force jet just to talk old times," said Hagen. "What's going down?"
"Have you lost your touch?"
"Have you forgotten how to ride a bicycle?"
It was the President's turn to laugh. "Ask a stupid question. . ."
"The reflexes are a mite slower, but the gray matter still turns at a hundred percent."
The President tossed him the briefcase. "Digest this while I hike a couple of miles on the treadmill."
Hagen wiped his sweating brow with a towel and sat on a stationary bicycle, his bulk threatening to bend the frame. He opened the leather case and didn't look up from reading the contents until the President had walked 1.6 miles.
"What do you think?" the President asked finally.
Hagen shrugged, still reading. "Make a great pilot for a TV show. Closet funding, an impenetrable security veil, covert activity on an immense scale, an undetected moon base. The stuff H. G. Wells would have loved."
"Do you figure it's a hoax?"
"Let's say I want to believe it. What flag-waving taxpayer wouldn't? Makes our intelligence community look like deaf and blind mutants. But if it is a hoax, where's the motive?"
"Other than a grand scheme to defraud the government, I can't think of any."
"Let me finish reading. This last file is in longhand."
"My recollection of what was said on the golf course. Sorry about the chicken scratch, but I never learned to type."
