8

THE PRESIDENT STOPPED by the Oval Office to pick up the mail that was to be delivered to the relatives and to review the statement he would make. He looked at his watch. Nearly three. The relatives, he knew, were already gathered in the East Room. The television cameras were set up, all the geegaws of a presidential appearance in place.

His immortal words would go out to the four corners of the world. America is a wimp, he thought, mocking himself. Sorry, folks, we've lost our cojones. Go on. Take a piece of our ass. It's up for grabs.

The Secret Service contingent was ready and waiting outside the corridor. He knew the routine, the pacing, the right moves. They wore their little lapel buttons and earpieces that plugged them in to the great orchestration known as "protecting the President."

He supposed he had upset Amy with his talk about danger. Subconsciously deliberate, he decided, regretting it. But it was easy to dispense advice about violence and morality when you were safe and snug. Or thought so.

The fact was that danger existed every second of every day. Indeed, he had been continually reminded of this situation by the head of the Secret Service contingent, Ike Fellows. No system was perfect. To press the point home, he had been shown notes, letters, transcripts of conversations, all threatening, in one way or another, to eliminate him. Whenever he exhibited the slightest bit of bravado or machismo, the material was trotted out for his perusal.

"You make them up," he had told Fellows. "Just to scare the hell out of me."

"I'm not asking you to be a believer. Just to remind you of four things." It was his standard reply and the President knew his response.

"And what are those?"

"Lincoln, McKinley, Garfield, and Kennedy."

"And Roosevelt and Reagan. The two that got away."

The remainder would invariably find its mark.

Nevertheless, he had offered a pro forma objection to the placement of cement barriers around the White House entrances and the use of walk-through security devices to check all incoming personnel, visitors, and guests.

"It's demeaning," he had protested to Fellows.

"Yes, it is," Fellows had agreed. "But less demeaning than lying on the floor showing the world the presidential innards."

Fellows knew all the stock answers and was savvy enough to spare him the "My job is to keep you alive" crap. Mostly, the President worried about Amy and the kids. Their children were both grown. They had their own lives; Tad, a stockbroker in New York, Barbara married to a doctor in Connecticut. They, too, were protected by the Secret Service. But there was some comfort in the historical fact that no presidential wife or child had ever fallen victim to either an assassin's bullet or a kidnapping.

As instructed, he moved through the corridor from the Oval Office in the direction of the East Room. Nickels met him at the corridor's entrance.

"Ready?" Nickels asked.

"Like a pig being introduced to a python." The President smirked.

"Which one are you?"

The President looked at his Chief of Staff and snorted.

"Where's Potter?" he asked, looking around for his press secretary.

"He just called, Mr. President," Nickels said. "He asked us to wait."

"Wait? I'm the President."

The little self-effacing wisecrack seemed to fall flat.

"Got a good house?" the President asked.

"Unfortunately."

"Want to switch jobs for the rest of the afternoon?"

"I would if I could, Mr. President."

And so you would, the President thought. Nickels was a good man, loyal and tough on the troops. Just the way he wanted it. They waited for a minute or so. The President began to get impatient. Then he saw him, coming across the corridor from his own office. He was walking slowly, as if the unhurrying gait was a deliberate attempt to advertise an oncoming sense of doom. He was obviously not carrying happy baggage.

"What's with you, Steve?" the President asked. For some reason, he had the impression that Potter's burden was of a personal nature.

"Jesus, Mr. President," his press secretary replied. His voice seemed to hang in his throat. The President reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"They've executed three of them," he whispered.

"Three. My God."

"Ruthless bastards," Nickels said.

The President leaned against the wall and shook his head.

"How can I face them?"

"They won't know until after it's over," Potter said without conviction.

"But I know," the President whispered. "Can we call it off?"

"Probably be worse," Nickels said.

"But they'll know I knew," the President said.

"Who'll tell?" Nickels replied. He turned to the Secret Service man standing a few feet from the President, just out of earshot. "No one in or out of that room until after the President is finished. All doors closed." The Secret Service man nodded and whispered hurriedly into the microphone on the inside of his wrist.

Subterfuge, the President thought with disgust. How he hated that part of it.

"We better hurry," Nickels said.

The President straightened, breathed deeply, determined to compose himself. There was no alternative but to go through with the charade, no time to debate a course of action. He strode toward the room, holding the file of letters in a manila envelope. His hands were sweating.

It did not occur to him until he reached the podium that he might be carrying letters from the dead.