Washington, 1300 GMT (0800 EST)

The Secretaries of Defense and State stood as the President entered the Oval Office. The President looked crisp and rested in a pressed blue suit and white shirt and small-figured red tie. The Secretary of State felt a sudden awareness of his unkempt appearance and great fatigue; the senior staff briefing had begun at 3:00 a.m. and concluded just twenty minutes ago. He looked sideways at the Secretary of Defense and noted the bastard had somehow found time to shave, and smelled faintly of after-shave lotion.

The President motioned his cabinet officers to a small table that had been set up for breakfast before the fireplace. A navy steward swiftly served juice, eggs, sausages, rolls, and coffee from silver serving pieces onto blue- and gold-edged china, which bore the seal of the President of the United States. Only after the steward had departed did any of the three men say a word beyond “good morning.”

“Well, Dave, Henry, where do we stand?”

The Secretary of State leaned forward. “The political news is mostly bad, Mr. President.”

“Shoot,” said the President, sipping his orange juice.

Henry Holt glanced hungrily at the full breakfast before him, then continued. “The Italians have informed us, a scant fifteen minutes ago, that they have agreed to release Abu Salaam-”

“Damn!” said the President, shaking his head. “And?”

“Well, they think they bought us some time, sir; seventy-two more hours, to meet the rest of the hijackers’ demands before any executions take place.”

The President ate a forkful of scrambled eggs. Holt’s stomach growled audibly. “What else did the Italians give away?”

“They promised to deliver Abu Salaam to Tripoli, in an Italian Air Force aircraft, and they promised to refrain from any actions against the terrorists, or against Libya, unless the hostages are harmed.”

“White-livered socialists!” spat the President. “Dave?”

The Secretary of State fell gratefully to eating his eggs and savoring the always-excellent White House coffee. It was Wasserstein’s turn, and as usual, he had staged a small triumph. “Mr. President, we, that is London, and Sixth Fleet, and the Joint Chiefs, think we have, ah, the beginnings of a workable plan to extract our people, if political means fail.”

“Lay it out, Dave,” said the President.

Fuck you, Dave, thought the Secretary of State.