"Do you want me to call the police? Because there they are." She nodded toward two black-uniformed, black-booted motorcycle police who stood just outside the front door.

Marten slowly let go of her arm. She fixed him with an irate stare, then walked off. He saw her stop at the concierge desk and chat briefly with a mustachioed gentleman behind it. He smiled knowingly, then reached into his desk, took out an envelope, and handed it to her. She thanked him, glanced briefly back at Marten, then followed the porter to a taxi waiting outside. A moment later she was gone.

• MADRID, HOTEL RITZ, 7:05 A.M.

"What do you mean he's not there?" Six-foot four-inch National Security Adviser Dr. James Marshall abruptly stood from his working desk, his papers and electronic message boards scattered across the top of it.

"I mean he's not there. He's gone. Vanished." Jake Lowe was white with disbelief. "I went into his suite to get the answer to what we talked about last night and there was no one there. Pillows were rolled up under the bedcovers to make it look like he was still sleeping."

"The president of the United States is gone? He's missing?"

"Yes."

"Does the Secret Service know?"

"They do now. But it wasn't until I started yelling. Then they freaked."

"Good Lord."

"What the hell's going on?" Hap Daniels came hard into the room. "Is this a joke? Is POTUS (the president of the United States) having fun? Are you guys? If this is a game, say so. I'm not kidding!"

"No game here, Hap," Marshall snapped. "The president is your charge! Where the hell is he?"

Hap Daniels stared, openmouthed, stunned. "You're kidding."

"Nobody's kidding."

"Jesus Christ!"

• THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE, THIRTY SECONDS LATER

Front door closed. Jake Lowe and James Marshall stood in horrified silence waiting while Hap Daniels made a sweep for the second time. Conference room, bedroom, bathroom. Seconds passed and he came out, crossed the room without a word and went into the hallway. A half minute later he came back in with a six-foot one-inch bulldog of a man, Secret Service agent Bill Strait, his deputy special agent in charge.

"Other than Mr. Lowe, only room service has come or gone from the suite since the president entered at 0020 hours," Daniels said.

"At 0035 hours the president called for a sandwich, a glass of beer, and some ice cream," Strait said. "A hotel employee brought it on a pushcart at 0045. The cart had a vase of fresh flowers, the sandwich, beer, and ice cream-vanilla-cloth napkin, and silverware. At 0132 hours, the president said he was going to shower and then go to bed and asked that the cart be taken away. At 0144 hours the same employee entered the sitting room here and took the cart away as asked. By then the president had closed the door to the sleeping area. The employee left and no one has come or gone since. That was until Mr. Lowe arrived to see the president at 0700 hours."

"Well, gentlemen," National Security Adviser James Marshall said icily, "bottom line, 'Crop Duster' has gone missing."

(CROP DUSTER- the Secret Service's code name for President Harris.)

"It's impossible," Agent Strait protested in shock and chagrin. "I was right outside his door all night. There are monitored surveillance cameras in every hallway, elevator, and stairwell. We have a dozen agents on the floor with a dozen more stationed at every ingress and egress, not to mention the Spanish Secret Service on the grounds. A mouse couldn't get in undetected."

"Well somehow Crop Duster got out!" Lowe snapped. "Who did it, how it was done, who has him now, and what the hell we tell the rest of the world I haven't the damnedest idea."

"Fuck!" Hap Daniels said loudly and to no one, after what had been the longest minutes of his life.

Within minutes the entire hotel was under lockdown. A suspected breach of security, hotel and hotel security officials were told, as was the Spanish Secret Service, which, as the host country, was providing the majority of the president's protection. Guests were not allowed in or out of their rooms. Every hallway, closet, room, and possible hiding place was searched. Every employee interrogated, including the room-service waiter who had delivered the president's order at a quarter to one the previous morning.

Yes, he had seen the president, he said. Had been graciously thanked and then left.

"What was he wearing?"

"Dark blue pants and a white dress shirt with no tie."

"You're certain?"

"Yes, sir. You don't forget the president of the United States when you meet him in person in the middle of the night."

"Did you see him when you came back to retrieve the food cart?"

"No, sir. His bedroom door was closed."

"Your food cart is covered with material that goes from the top of the cart to just above the floor."

"Yes, sir. In case we have extra china, utensils, chafing dishes, or the like."

"Is there any way a person could have hidden unseen in that space when you took the cart away?"

"Yes, sir. And no, sir."

"Explain."

"Yes, there is room for someone to hide, if they tucked themselves up. But all I delivered was a sandwich, beverage, and ice cream. I would have noticed the extra weight immediately and checked to see why."

The white dress shirt and dark blue trousers the room-service waiter described matched the white shirt and dark blue suit the president had worn the evening before. His explanation of the extra weight if someone had attempted to hide in the food service cart either on the way into the presidential suite or on the way out of it seemed accurate and correct. His security clearance was verified once again. There was no reason to suspect him of doing anything other than what he had done-deliver room service to a hotel guest.

As the minutes ticked by and the search intensified it became increasingly clear POTUS was not in the building. At the end of an hour it was confirmed without doubt. Yet no one outside the highest levels of the Secret Service agents present or the men there who comprised the president's closest inner circle knew it.

At 9:20 A.M. those men gathered in a highly secured suite on the Ritz's fourth floor: Jake Lowe, National Security Adviser Dr. James Marshall, Secretary of Defense Terrence Langdon, Chief of Staff Tom Curran, White House Press Secretary Dick Greene, and the president's SAIC Hap Daniels.

The rest-Vice President Hamilton Rogers, Secretary of State David Chaplin, and United States Air Force General Chester Keaton, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff-were en route back to Washington by private jet and in live communication with the others by secure speaker phone.

"We have to go on the premise of foul play," Hap Daniels told them.

"Yes, of course," Marshall said, and looked to the others. "This is not only a monumental catastrophe, there's protocol here. Our ambassador in Madrid needs to be informed immediately. So do the CIA, the FBI, and probably a dozen other agencies. All we can hope to God is that we don't get a tape with him in terrorist custody pleading for his life with some hooded sonofabitch threatening to cut off his head.

"Still, until we learn something, until we see what happens next, we can't afford to have this get out. The world can't think the president of the United States is missing. If that happened God only knows what the hell the financial markets would do and what rumors and power plays would begin and who might try to take advantage of it inside their own countries." Marshall leaned toward the speakerphone. "Mr. Vice President, are you there?"

"Yes, Jim." Vice President Rogers's voice came back clearly.

"You understand what position this puts you in. Until POTUS is found and is safely in our custody, you are put on notice that you may be sworn in as president at any moment."