Lester holds his stare for as long as he can. Then his gaze drops down to the floor. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels. “Then tell me,” he says. “Not Intelligence. Not the Gang of Eight. Me. If it’s as important as you say, tell me what it is.” Lester Rhodes is the absolute last person to whom I would give all the details. But I can’t let him know I think that. “I can’t. Lester, I can’t. I’m asking you to trust me.” There was a time when that statement, from a president to a House Speaker, would be enough. Those days are long in the rearview mirror. “I can’t agree to
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