It was teatime, and they had all gathered in the White House library.
"More tea, Mr. President?" asked Miss Price, laying down her knitting.
"No, thank you, Miss Price", Ryan replied. "Please, don't keep me in suspense any longer. Who is the traitor?"
Arnie Van Damm poured himself a sirop de cassis, and stroked his moustache. "My leetle grey cells are leading me to a certain conclusion, but I would be interested to see if Miss Price is thinking ze same way."
"Well," Miss Price began, "I do think we should have a closer look at the background of that nice Mr Jeff Rahman. Such a nice boy, but he does remind me of my cousin Effie's gardener Ahmed. So pleasant to everyone, and so charming, but he was only biding his time until he could shoot her in the back of the head and flee to Damascus with her jewellery. And he is an Iranian, after all. I'm sure they're very nice people, but they're not Christians like us, you know."
"Mais certainement!" Van Damm agreed. "Ze very conclusion to which my leetle grey cells were leading me. He is a refugee, like myself, but he has not grown a magnificent moustache. Nor does he drink ze sirop de cassis. I suggest we lay a leetle trap. I shall need your help, Inspector."
Inspector O'Day sipped at his tea, lost in admiration at the astounding deductive powers of the frail elderly lady, and of the dapper Belgian with his absurd moustache. "Of course, Monsieur Van Damm. What would you like me to do?"
"Just one thing," President Ryan interrupted. "He doesn't get near my family. If he even looks that way, you take him down yourself, Miss Price."
"Oh, dear, Mr. President, I hardly think that is proper for a lady," Miss Price fluttered. She picked up her sharpened knitting needles. "Still, one must do one's best."