Page 128 of The First Gentleman

“Let’s hope that’s all it is,” says Maddy. “Just some muscle flexing.”

She knows the Philippine frigate is no match for two Chinese warships. She also knows that if the frigate is attacked or, worse, sunk, a century-old mutual-defense treaty with the Philippines requires a response from the United States. And once the missiles start flying, there might be no turning back.

“I assume we’re working our back channels,” says Maddy.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Flanders. “So far, nobody in Beijing is picking up the phone.”

An aide steps forward and slides a slip of paper in front of Maddy. She flicks her eyes down and reads the note:First Gentleman, line 2.

Maddy glances at the console in front of her and sees the blinking hold light. She rubs her temples.Compartmentalize! That’s what this job is all about.

She makes a split-second decision. She scrawlsNot nowacross the paper and hands it back to the aide.

About ten seconds later, she sees the light blink off.

First prevent Armageddon. Then return Cole’s call.

Maddy closes her eyes for a moment to clear her head. When she opens them, she turns to the secretary of defense. “Get in touch with Manila again. Tell them we advise them to turn their frigate toward the nearest Philippine port—immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looks at Boone. “Can our carriers communicate directly with the Chinese destroyers?”

“We can try, ma’am.”

“Do it. Make it perfectly clear that if they attack theAntonio Luna,we’ll send them to the bottom of the sea.”

CHAPTER

117

Rockingham County Courthouse, New Hampshire

The next morning, Ron Reynolds whispers to me as I pass him going into court, “I hear the deputy AG has a bombshell.”

I’m still trying to absorb the one Teresa Bonanno dropped on me yesterday. Had Suzanne really been pregnant with Tony Romero’s baby? Despite her newfound sobriety, Teresa had admitted to lying before. And I’m not sure if I can trust her.

The court clerk’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “All rise!”

Judge Walter Dow enters and sits down behind the bench. “Be seated.” He shuffles some papers, then looks at Bastinelli. “Is the State ready to proceed?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Dow lowers his glasses and looks out over the courtroom. “I am going to caution the gallery, as I have before, that I will not tolerate any expressions of approval or disapproval or outbursts of any kind. If you can’t control yourself, the bailiffs will eject you.”

Whatever the prosecution has, it must be pretty juicy.

Dow waves his hand at Hugh Bastinelli. “Go ahead, Counselor.”

“The State calls Mr. Craig Donovan.”

A nervous-looking guy in a corduroy jacket walks through the doors and the clerk swears him in.

It takes Bastinelli only a minute or two to establish the man’s credentials. Donovan, now in his sixties, is a retired professional photographer who spent many years working for the Patriots. He took pictures of the cheerleaders and the players, including Suzanne Bonanno and Cole Wright.

Why is he here? What does he know?

“Mr. Donovan, do you see Cole Wright in the courtroom today?”

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