SEVERAL HOURS LATER
COLUMBIA-PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL
168TH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Dewey stepped out of a black sedan and was surrounded by U.S. Navy SEALs, who pushed through the throng of reporters and were let through by a heavily weaponized member of the Secret Service.
Dewey entered the atrium of the hospital and was led down a hallway where a woman in a business suit met him and nodded.
“Mr. Andreas?”
“Yes,” said Dewey.
“Please follow me,” she said.
They stepped into an elevator. The young woman pressed a button and he looked straight ahead.
“Are they alive?” Dewey said.
She paused.
“Yes,” she said. “My understanding is that they’re both okay. President Dellenbaugh asked for you.”
When the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into a brightly lit, austere hallway. Straight ahead was a large, walled-off square space where the doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals managed the activities on the floor. To the right was a large waiting area. It wasn’t crowded, but there were at least two dozen people. Dewey saw Amy Dellenbaugh, sitting on a couch in between her two daughters.
The air had a fluorescent quality to it, a stillness as if history or time itself had stood still.
Dewey felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. It was Adrian King, the White House chief of staff. King looked up at Dewey, saying nothing. He stared into Dewey’s eyes.
“He almost died,” said King. His voice held no emotion or sadness, just a hint of anger. “That he didn’t is thanks to you.”
King waved Dewey into Dellenbaugh’s heavily guarded hospital room. The president’s head was bandaged in white. He was attached to several IVs and various life monitors. Both eyes were black and blue.
As Dewey approached, Dellenbaugh held out his hand. Dewey took his hand and held it. He felt a faint squeeze and looked down into Dellenbaugh’s eyes. Dellenbaugh smiled. He mouthed the words “thank you.”
Dewey held Dellenbaugh’s hand until he fell back asleep. Dewey went back out through the door to the ICU. The nurse who’d led him inside was standing there.
“Where’s Mike Murphy?” he said.
She nodded at the door next to Dellenbaugh’s.
Dewey pushed the big steel door aside and stepped into the room. Murphy was out like a light, and attached to at least twice the number of IVs and life-monitor devices as the president.
The monitors beeped in a steady pattern.
Dewey stepped to Murphy. His arms were tucked beneath blankets. Dewey reached out and put the palm of his hand against Murphy’s neck. He moved his fingers together, gently, pinching the skin at his neck, but ever so slightly.
“Hang in there,” said Dewey. He leaned closer, even though Murphy was completely unconscious, and spoke softly into his ear. “Mike, it’s Dewey. You did it. You saved the president and the country. Looks like I really am going to have to take you to Disneyland, you son of a bitch.”