As an additional precaution, the meeting was set not for the White House but across the street in the Old Executive Office Building. Though few in the President’s circle regarded the press as particularly astute, one of the key participants—Kenneth Markell, Director of the ACF—was marginally recognizable, since his picture had appeared from time to time in the newsweeklies. So had that of the somewhat younger man at his side: the renowned breast cancer specialist, Gregory Stillman.

The three others in the small meeting room stood to greet the doctors as they entered. Stillman knew only one personally.

“Hello, Paul,” he said, shaking the hand of the President’s personal physician.

Dr. Paul Burke nodded crisply. “Greg. Good of you to come.”

Burke introduced the other two: Charles Malcolm, special assistant to the President for domestic affairs; and Roger Downes, identified as the First Family’s private counsel.

Stillman maintained a careful reserve. Clearly, these people were in no mood to banter. Markell had told him nothing in advance—not the identities of the participants, nor even where it was to be held—a sure sign of the meeting’s importance. But only now was he starting to gauge how important.

They took their places around the table.

“Well,” began Malcolm, evidently presiding, “Dr. Markell assures me you’re the top man in your field. The very best in the world.”

Stillman stared at him levelly. “I try.”

“Dr. Stillman is being uncharacteristically modest,” noted Markell quickly, and his colleague cast him a glance; it was Markell who was being uncharacteristically deferential. These guys really had him cowed.

“I take it you have not yet been made aware of the reason we’ve asked to see you today?” asked Malcolm.

“Of course not,” reassured Markell. “The instructions were explicit on that point.”

Malcolm looked at Dr. Burke, who picked up the cue. “It’s about the First Lady, Greg. She’s got breast cancer—with widespread metastases to bone.”

Stillman nodded soberly. “I see. I’m terribly sorry.” But inside the contradictory emotions were already stirring. This was unbelievable, a potential career capper, a wide-open shot at superstar status! But, on the face of it, it could also be a bitch of a case. “How widespread?”

Burke handed him a large manila envelope across the table. Wordlessly, he opened it and withdrew the contents. He held a CAT scan up to the light, then handed it to Markell.

“I’ve seen it,” he said.

Now Stillman turned to the thick file of reports, skipping to those, in pink, bearing blood-test results. Almost immediately he spotted two negative prognostic factors: the tumor was estrogen-receptor negative; and the tumor cells were undergoing an extremely high rate of DNA synthesis and mitosis.

“How old a woman is Mrs. Rivers?” he asked. “Fifty? Fifty-one?”

“Forty-nine.” Malcolm shook his head sadly. “Just a wonderful woman, extremely vital. As you know, she’s been a major asset to us.”

“Obviously,” picked up Burke, “I—we—are hoping you will take the case.”

“I don’t think there’s any question about that,” interjected Markell. “Personal considerations aside, we are aware of our duty.”

“Of course,” concurred Stillman.

Involuntarily, Malcolm made a face. A top-notch player of political hardball, he had an extremely low tolerance for everyone’s bullshit but his own. “Good. I don’t know much about these things, but I assume you’ll want to start immediately.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll talk to Mrs. Rivers today,” said Burke. “Perhaps you could set aside Friday morning?”

It was less a question than an order.

“Yes, of course.”

“Obviously, this is highly privileged information. You are to discuss it with no one. That includes family members.”

“I understand.” Though, in fact, this extraordinary degree of secrecy struck him as extreme. The First Lady was human, after all, and human beings get sick.

“I’m sure you will appreciate the political ramifications should this information emerge prematurely,” added Malcolm, as if reading his thoughts. “The President is very devoted to the First Lady—but he must also run for reelection next year. There are those, even in his own party, who’d be only too happy to use President Rivers’s long absences during his wife’s illness to their own advantage. There might even be suggestions in the press that a caring husband would not run at all.”

Of course Stillman understood. No one at the entire ACF was prepared, by experience or temperament, to better understand such thinking. He smiled. “You can count on my total discretion.”

“I know we can.” It was Downes, the lawyer, speaking for the first time. “We’ve had the FBI check you out.” He looked at Markell. “No names—but not all of your colleagues fared so well.”

Stillman looked quickly at his boss. So he’d considered letting Shein in on this too? Yet almost instantly his annoyance gave way to quiet elation: the little bastard, his extracurricular antics and big mouth had finally caught up with him!

“There is no question in my mind that, if we all play our part, we can make it through this very difficult period,” said Malcolm. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there happens to be a precedent for such a situation. A very encouraging one.”

“Oh, yes?” Stillman’s interest was not feigned. He was actually starting to get caught up in the intrigue.

“Early in his second term, President Grover Cleveland was diagnosed with cancer of the mouth. The country was in an economic crisis and had the President’s illness become public knowledge, the financial markets might’ve collapsed. So they handled it. They got him to New York on some pretext, and had surgery performed during Independence Day weekend on a boat in the East River. Pretended it was an outing. Then they pretty much kept him out of sight until Labor Day.”

“July 1893,” said Markell helpfully. “The boat was called the Oneida. I looked it up after you mentioned it at our first meeting.”

“Of course, that was over a hundred years ago,” continued Malcolm. “No radio, never mind TV. But he was the President, we’ve only got a First Lady to hide.”

“We won’t have to hide her,” said Stillman. “With luck, the treatment shouldn’t be too drastic. I ought to at least be able to buy you a year. That’ll get you past the convention.”

“Excellent. But you know what? The President would be even happier if you got her well.” He looked again at Markell and his voice grew cold. “Let’s not forget something else I mentioned the other day—all the resources we’ve pumped into the ACF over the last thirty years. Now we’re going to find out if we’ve been getting our money’s worth.”