The two Russians, whose brows seemed to simultaneously furrow, looked at each other and conversed again in Russian.

"I am sorry," Metachenko said. "But I am confused with words you just say. Maybe my English is not good enough."

"President Metachenko, you speak excellent English," Marshall said. "We have some very important information to show you."

Marshall turned to Armour, who opened his briefcase filled with pictures of deep space.

"I want to start by saying that some people might not agree with my point of view for the utmost secrecy," Marshall began. "But I hope that after you hear what I have to say, you will agree with what I've done. I further hope that our two countries will be able to work together."

The angry expression on Metachenko's face was replaced by one of curiosity, as he and his top aide leaned forward in their seats. Armour handed Marshall a thick stack of glossy photos of space, which the American President in turn pushed across the table to the two Russians.

"These pictures were taken by a deep-space telescope just a few days ago," Marshall began.

Metachenko looked down at the mostly black pictures. He was immediately drawn to the tiny red circle around a spot, which had the appearance of a particularly bright star.

Is this it?

Earl Ackerman's stomach fluttered nervously when he saw a pair of headlights approaching down the dark neighborhood road. As the lights got closer, he saw that they belonged to just another white limousine, not the van he was waiting for.

Can't these rich people afford more streetlights around here? he thought to himself. I thought dark roads were only found in poor neighborhoods.

And this certainly was no poor neighborhood. Earl thought the huge homes on the road looked more like hotels, the estates separated from one another by at least ten acres of land. He had never even been to Maryland before arriving earlier in the day and never would've assumed that such huge properties could be found in this small state. I guess if you're an oil industrialist like Paul Aston and you live in Maryland, this is the kind of area you'd want to live in.

Earl realized that the darkness of the road was probably a good thing, though, as he hoped nobody would notice his license plates. It would be nearly impossible for Earl to hitch a ride if people saw that his truck was registered in a state hours away.

Earl reached one of the most crucial parts of his mission, especially since it would be over if he could not succeed with this objective. And after having driven for several hours just to get to this dark road, Earl would not be happy if he failed to talk with Peter Mansfield.

Another set of headlights appeared in the distance. Earl walked back over to the front of his truck, pretending to look at a problem under the hood. When this vehicle got closer, Earl watched the shape of a van appear in the darkness. His heart skipped a beat when the white van got closer. For one last time, Earl looked down at the small piece of paper that had all of the information written on it that he'd need Confident that he had all the names committed to memory, he shoved the paper into his pocket. Earl forced himself to take a deep breath before stepping away from his truck, standing in the path of the oncoming van. He waved his arms in the air and the vehicle came to a stop just next to him. The window rolled down and Earl saw two attractive-looking women.

"Car trouble?" one of the women asked.

Earl looked at the side of the van, which was labeled "Merion Caterers."

"I can't believe my luck," Earl said. "I was just on my way to the Aston shindig when my truck broke down. I was worried I wouldn't make it on time and Johnny would fire me before I had a chance to start working for him."

After learning of the Aston benefit that Peter Mansfield would be attending, Earl set out to learn everything he could about the event. Earl's ex-wife had been a reporter at one time and Earl picked up the best ways to extract information from people. A few well-placed phone calls and he was able to learn that Merion Caterers provided the food for the benefit every year. Once Earl had this information, it only took clicking around a few websites to discover the name of the caterer's owner (Jonathan Merion), what their delivery vehicles looked like and the most obvious driving route they would take to the Aston estate.

"Wait, John actually hired new people?" the driver asked, noticing Earl's attire, a plain white shirt with black pants. He also had white gloves and a black bow tie in his pocket, just in case these workers got really fancy.

"I'm not sure if it's people or just person," Earl answered.

"I can't believe this," the van's passenger said. "We've been bugging him for months to get more workers. I guess he finally got tired of listening to us complain about being understaffed."

"That's what he told me," Earl said. "He said, 'Earl, I believe the girls I got working for me deserve a break every once in a while.' I didn't know what he meant at the time but I do now."

"What do you want to do about your truck?" the driver asked.

"I think it's the battery," Earl said. "It just went dead on me."

"Do you have jumper cables?"

"Uh, no. I don't. Look, we need to get to this benefit thing already. I don't want you two ladies to be late because of me. If you could just give me a ride there, I can worry about the truck later."

"Are you sure you want to just leave it here?" the driver asked.

Earl quickly glanced around the neighborhood, then turned his attention back to the two women.

"I don't think anybody around here will want to steal my piece of junk," he said, a smile on his face. The women chuckled.

"Jump in the back," the passenger said. "Just be careful of the food back there."

Earl slid open the van's door and climbed in, positioning himself carefully around dozens of trays of food.

"You sure got lucky we stumbled on you," the driver said when she pulled away from the side of the road. "All the other vans got there much earlier in the day. We just had to bring a few last minute things."

A white, stretch limousine drove up the long, winding driveway, finally coming to a stop in front of the Aston mansion. A long red carpet led to the front door and a dozen photographers waited in the mostly empty press area. It was quite apparent that the press area had been set up for many more members than had actually shown up.

After putting the vehicle in park, the driver got out and opened the back door. Before Mansfield even stepped out of the car, a dozen flash bulbs blinded him. He tried to fake a smile as best he could. As he took his first few steps along the red carpet, an elegantly dressed couple emerged from the mansion. The couple was in their later 50s and looked very distinguished, as if they had never gone a day in their life without being surrounded by opulence.

"Mr. Mansfield, it's so nice of you to join us tonight," the woman said, extending her limp hand.

God I hate rich people, Mansfield thought as he bent over and kissed her hand, which was adorned with diamonds that probably cost more than all the money he would make in his lifetime.

"As disappointed as I was to hear that President Marshall had to cancel, I was still happy and honored that you were nice enough to take his place, Mr. Mansfield," the man said, pumping Peter's hand energetically.

"Please, Mr. and Mrs. Aston, call me Peter," Mansfield said. "And it is indeed my honor that you fine people think so highly of me to think I could replace the President, who sends his best regards to you both. He also wanted me to convey his deepest regrets that he had to be called away on matters of national importance."

"Peter, you tell the President that his country needs him much more than we do. We look forward to seeing him next year. But you, on the other hand, you are welcomed in our home whenever you'd like. You have single-handedly saved this benefit from a sure disaster. And while we are on the subject of names, please call me Paul and my wife Maria," Paul Aston said.

Maria Aston took Peter's arm and wrapped hers around it. The two of them followed Paul Aston into the mansion.

"To be honest with you," Maria said, "I'm very glad that you were the one who showed up, not the President." She leaned in and whispered something after her husband was a few feet in front of them. "You're much more handsome."

"Thank you, ma'am," Mansfield responded, wondering if Mrs. Aston meant anything by that comment. He wanted to leave even more now.

"Besides," Maria continued, "the atmosphere at this event is too stuffy every year when the President is here. That's when all of the real snobs show up. And this year, we didn't have to worry about security so much, which has made all of our other guests more comfortable. Last year, one my closest friends was frisked by one of those God-awful Secret Service agents. I tried telling my husband that..."

Mansfield assumed that whenever Maria Aston talked, everyone around her listened. That was normally the way it went with rich people. But unfortunately for the Chief of Staff, this meant that the woman was going to keep talking and talking. He desperately wanted to tell her to stop with her boring story but he'd been instructed by the President to be as friendly as possible.

The world might be ending and Marshall can't run for re-election but he's still concerned about how his campaign donors think of him. Mansfield had brown-nosed enough with rich people throughout his political career, one part of the job he'd hoped had ended for good after winning the last election. With how this night was proceeding thus far, his assumption was wrong.

Maria Aston continued to talk all the way through the tour of the house, her story nowhere near finished even as the three of them finally walked into the jam-packed ballroom.

At the gate of the driveway, the van pulled to a stop next to the guardhouse.

"I told you already why we're late," the van's driver said. "We had some last minute things we had to bring."

"But the rest of your crew showed up two hours ago," the guard said. "And nobody told me anything about more of you showing up."

Earl was sitting in the back of the van, trying to keep as silent as possible to avoid detection from the guard. When they pulled up to the driveway, Earl hoped they would be waved right through.

What if the guard discovers me back here and decides to investigate who I am? A call to the caterer owner will prove that I'm lying. Or what if they're already on the lookout for me? What if Peter Mansfield informed every guard about my possible presence? What if someone discovered my truck down the road already and ran the license plates?

Earl assumed that getting the van to stop earlier and hitching a ride would be the most difficult part of the mission, but he now realized how easy it was for the walls to still come crumbling down.

"I don't know what to tell you," the driver said, beginning to get an attitude with the guard. "Believe me, I don't feel like working tonight so you turning me away would be more than alright with me. But if you want to be the reason that the rest of the food doesn't arrive, go ahead and be my guest."

Oh God, she's going to blow it for me, Earl thought. All my hard work is gone because this crazy lady can't keep her cool.

Earl was expecting the van doors to be thrown open at any moment.

"Wait one moment please," the guard said.

Earl moved away from his hiding spot for a moment and got a clear view of the driver's side mirror. Looking into it, he saw a guard walking toward the back of the van, talking on a walkie-talkie. Earl held his breath for a few seconds to see if he could hear anything the guard was saying. When the guard turned and walked back to the driver's window, Earl ducked back out of sight.

"I'm sorry about that, ma'am. I just called up to the house and they confirmed your story," the guard said. "At the top of the driveway, turn left and take the small service road to the side entrance of the kitchen."

"Thank you," the woman said, rolling up her window.

As soon as the van began to move again, Earl breathed another sigh of relief.

Tyler Ainsworth felt out of place. Although he'd been the head of a major company for the past eight months, and worked closely with his father for a few years before that, there had never been a need for him to attend a formal gathering such as the Aston fund-raiser. After all, this benefit was nothing like the parties he used to attend, the crazy parties that led to his father throwing him into rehab against his will...

The only thing worse than feeling out of place was feeling uncomfortable at the same time. Dressed in a tuxedo for the first time since his high school prom, Tyler felt like an oversized penguin. He took little solace in the fact that every other man in the ballroom was dressed the same. It looked like every other man in this room was at least 20 years older than Tyler, who sauntered around the ballroom alone.

"Would you like some champagne, sir?" asked a waiter, who roamed around the room carrying a tray of tall glasses. Even though the thought of drinking fifteen glasses of champagne might make this party more interesting, Tyler knew he'd come here for one reason and one reason only.

And that reason suddenly walked into the room.

The entrance to the ballroom cleared of people when the Astons escorted Peter Mansfield inside. Mansfield was nowhere near as well known as President George Marshall, but the people who knew him realized he was nearly as powerful. After purchasing a ticket to the benefit, Tyler had been crushed when he'd heard the President canceled at the last moment. Not wanting to fly cross-country simply to attend a high-class party, Tyler planned to cancel when he heard the President would be replaced by his Chief of Staff.

Tyler meandered his way through the crowd, determined to greet Mansfield and speak with him right away about his company's Navy contract. Rome wasn't built in a day, but if Tyler impressed the Chief of Staff and left the man with a positive understanding of his company's situation, maybe he could lay the groundwork for a later meeting with the President. Tyler did not know how successful this strategy would be but was willing to try anything at this point to help turn around his company's recent misfortune.

By the time Tyler made his way across the room, a large group of people already huddled around Peter Mansfield, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with the President's right-hand man. Tyler stood patiently behind this group of people, consisting of mostly older men, and waited for the right moment when a path to Mansfield would clear. This is ridiculous. What I need to talk to him about is much more important than this small talk.

Tyler politely pushed his way through the crowd, even stepping in front of the Astons, until he was face-to-face with Mansfield. Although the Chief of Staff wore a smile, Tyler could somehow sense the man felt as uncomfortable as he did.

"No champagne for me right now," Mansfield said, turning back to one of the other older men. It took Tyler a moment to realize Mansfield had mistaken him for one of the waiters.

"No, sir. I'm not a waiter," Tyler finally blurted out. Mansfield turned back to him. "My name is Tyler Ainsworth. I'm in charge of Ainsworth Industries."

Tyler extended his hand to the Chief of Staff, who looked over the man he'd just assumed was a waiter.

"Sorry about that. You look much younger than the other guests," Mansfield said, shaking Tyler's hand and turning back to the other group of people.

Much younger? You probably aren't more than six or seven years older than I am. Tyler was about to interrupt Mansfield's group again when Mrs. Aston pushed past him.

"Peter, you must come over here and meet a friend of mine," she said, grabbing Mansfield's arm and pulling him away. Tyler's feet felt like they had been glued to the floor. He could do nothing but watch as Mansfield and possibly his only chance of talking to him was being dragged away.

Maybe I came on a little strong, Tyler reasoned. This party is supposed to last another four or five hours. I will have plenty of chances to corner Mansfield and talk to him.

Earl was in the precarious position of simultaneously keeping his head up to look for Mansfield among the crowd and keeping his head down to avoid being seen by any of the other caterers.

An hour earlier, Earl helped carry some of the food inside, placing the trays down on random counters in the huge kitchen. There were already twenty or so caterers rushing around, preparing serving-trays with a delicious selection of hors d'oeuvre.

"Once we unload the rest of the van, I'll introduce you to the other staff, Earl," the driver of the van told him once they entered the house.

"Please, I don't want to inconvenience anybody," Earl replied. "Everyone seems busy already. I'll be able to catch on pretty quickly around here."

"Oh, there's Johnny. Let's go say hi and tell him we got here," she said, looking across the kitchen at a short, smarmy-looking man.

"You go on over, I'll be right there," Earl said, watching as the woman bounded over to the owner.

Before Earl gave the woman a chance to point him out to Johnny, he grabbed the first tray of food he could find and walked out of the kitchen. He followed a few feet behind another waiter, walking down a long deserted hallway. The other waiter balanced his tray at shoulder length with one hand, as did all of the other waiters. I can't hold this thing with two hands. That would look too suspicious. There's no telling what kinds of government people will be walking around here.

Earl glanced behind him to make sure nobody was looking. When he saw the coast was clear, he tried balancing the tray the way he'd seen the other waiters doing it. It didn't prove to be as hard as expected. After all, the recent work he'd done with ladders on the underground room definitely helped improve his balance.

When he reached the end of the hall and approached the large double doors of the ballroom, what Earl saw made him realize he definitely needed a Plan B. The ballroom was jam-packed with people and unless he wanted to dump a whole tray of food on an unsuspecting rich person, he needed to get rid of this food.

He walked by the ballroom and stepped over a rope barrier designed to confine people to one area of the house. Luckily, nobody was in the hall to see him do this. But with so many people in the ballroom, somebody was likely to stumble out of the room at any moment. He ducked into the first door on his left, relieved to find an elegant bathroom deserted. It only took a few seconds to find a small trashcan in the corner.

Once the food was trashed, Earl ducked his head out of the bathroom and waited as a waiter disappeared down the long hallway, no doubt heading back to the kitchen to restock his tray. The hall now empty, Earl carried his empty tray into the ballroom, ducking inside before any other waiter could notice him.

Inside the large ballroom, Earl browsed around for the next hour, attempting to blend in with the crowd while trying to appear busily working. He kept an eye out for Mansfield the entire time, but avoiding his fellow 'coworkers' took top priority. Earl knew he couldn't talk to the Chief of Staff in the ballroom anyway, and would have to wait for the perfect moment to confront his fellow 'Inner Circle' member. Finding that perfect moment would be the final difficult task of his mission.

After mostly staying toward one corner of the room for an hour, Earl noticed a sudden influx of waiters now serving his area. He slipped away and walked around the rest of the room, noticing a large group of people gathered in one particular area of the ballroom.

This must be where Mansfield is camped out. I might as well have a look.

Earl walked toward this group of men and indeed noticed the Chief of Staff's face among the crowd. Although Earl realized it was probably against his best interests, he continued to walk toward the group, getting closer and closer to Mansfield. If Peter recognized him and alerted security, Earl's plan could come to a sudden end. But a part of his inner voice urged him to move nearer, telling Earl that he had to get closer if he was going to find the best time to talk to Mansfield.

"No more food?" a voice asked.

Earl concentrated so intently on Mansfield that he completely forgot about the other guests at the benefit. He looked into the face of a younger man, at least younger than most of the other guests, a face that seemed oddly familiar. Speechless for a moment too long, Earl noticed that the younger man seemed to return the knowing look, as though the two somehow knew each other.

"Sorry, sir. All out," Earl said, quickly turning away from the young man.

No, I couldn't possibly know anybody here, he thought edging closer to Mansfield.