This was the day, however, when the shit was very likely to hit the fan. He had taken a calculated risk, and it was about to come back and bite him. It was just seven-thirty. The president had agreed to see him in his study. He rose from behind his desk when Murphy came in. He was a large man, who like the general preferred rolled-up shirtsleeves and loosened ties and had some years ago served a brief term as director of the CIA. He was a no-nonsense man. “Harry S told his people that the buck stopped at his desk. I tell mine that this is where the bullshit stops!” “We have a developing problem on our hands, Mr. President, that could turn into something very political.” “You wouldn’t be here at this hour of the evening if it wasn’t serious, General,” the president said wryly. “Coffee?” “I’d prefer something a little stronger this time.” The president’s thick eyebrows rose. “This is serious,” he said. He poured them both a good measure of Jack Daniel’s.
