He had nothing to lose but his good name, and he had already lost most of that in the political mess. And he had a whole world to win.
Revival of the dead? How about a dead career, Harker wondered. Can I revive that too?
Rising from his desk, he paced round the office, pausing to depolarize the windows. Bright morning sunshine poured in. Through his window he could see the playground of the public school across the street. Thin-legged girls of nine or ten were playing a punchball game; he could hear the shrieks of delight and anguish even at this distance.
A sudden sharp image came to him: himself, nine years before, standing spread-legged on the beach at Riis Park, with Lois staring white-faced at him and three-year-old Chris peeking strangely around her legs. It was a blisteringly hot day; his skin, to which sand had adhered, was red, raw, tender. He heard the booming of the surf, the overhead zoop of a Europe-bound rocket, the distant cry of refreshment-venders and the nearer laughter of small girls.
He was not laughing. He was holding a small, cold, wet bundle tight, and he was crying for the first time in twenty years. He huddled his drowned five-year-old daughter to him, and tried to pretend it had not happened.
It had happened, and Eva was dead—the girl-child who he had planned would be America's darling when he reached the White House, fifteen years or so from now.
That had been nine years ago. Eva would have been nearly fifteen, now, flowering into womanhood. He had no daughter. But she could have lived, Harker thought. Maybe.
He returned to his desk and sat quietly for a while. After twenty minutes of silent thought he reached for the phone and punched out Lurie's number.
CHAPTER II