"You won't need that, Mr. Marten."

Abruptly his "guest" stepped from the dark and into the spill of the hallway light. As he did, Marten's breath went out of him. The man who stood there was John Henry Harris, the president of the United States.

"I need your help," he said.

Nicholas Marten pulled the room curtains and then switched on a small lamp and turned to face the president, who had taken a chair and now sat facing him. If he had been startled before, he was all the more so now. The man he had met moments before was probably the most recognizable person in the world, but in an instant he looked entirely different, almost unrecognizable. His full head of hair was gone, showing a nearly bald pate, and he wore glasses. It made him seem older, even slimmer, or as he had thought, just "different."

"A toupee, Mr. Marten. They make them very well these days," the president said. "I've worn one for years. Only my personal barber knows about it. The glasses are clear, an addition picked up in a store in Madrid. A simple stage prop that helps with the overall appearance."

"I don't understand, sir. Any of it. Even how you found me or why you wanted to. You're supposed to be in-"

"An undisclosed location because of a terrorist threat, I know. Well, I am in an undisclosed location, at least for the moment." The president reached to a side table and picked up the copy of La Vanguardia he had taken from the rest room in the train station. A page was folded back and he handed it to Marten.

A quick glance told Marten everything. On it was the photograph of himself with the body of his Salt and Pepper man hit and killed by the truck. The same photograph the cabdriver had shown him earlier.

"I saw your picture, Mr. Marten. I hired a young woman to help me find you. I was alone and desperately in need of a place to go, and for the moment, at least, you have provided it. Serendipity or kismet, I think it's called."

Marten was still wholly puzzled. "I'm sorry, but I still don't understand."

"The young woman found where you were registered. It wasn't that far from where I was, so we walked here. I was let into your room by a generous desk clerk after I told him I was your uncle and had planned to meet you earlier but that my plane was late in arriving. He was skeptical but a few euros convinced him."

"That's not what I mean. You are the president of the United States. How could you be on your own like this, and even if you were why come to me when you could have called anyone?"

"That's just it, Mr. Marten, I couldn't have called anyone. And I mean anyone." The president fixed Marten with a look that told him how truly desperate his situation had been and still was. "I remembered you from our brief meeting at University Hospital in Washington. Caroline Parsons had just died and very nearly in your arms. You asked if you might have a moment alone with her. You remember?"

"Of course."

"I found out later that she had had a legal document drawn up giving you access to her private papers and those of her husband, Congressman Parsons."

"That's true."

"I assume it was because she thought her husband and son had been deliberately killed and hoped maybe you could find out what happened."

Marten was stunned. "How did you know that?"

"For the moment suffice it to say it's the primary reason I'm here and seek your help. Both Caroline and Mike Parsons were my very close friends. Obviously Caroline trusted you a great deal and you were equally devoted to her, or," John Henry Harris half smiled, "you wouldn't have kicked the president of the United States out of the hospital room." Harris's smile faded and he hesitated as if he weren't sure exactly what to say next, or how much to reveal. Then Marten saw a look of deep resolve come over him, and he continued. "Mr. Marten, Mike Parsons and his son were murdered. So, I'm afraid, was Caroline."

Marten stared at him. "You know that for a fact?"

"Yes. No, I shouldn't say for a fact, but it was an admission by the people responsible for it."

"What people?"

"Mr. Marten, I want to trust you, I have to trust you because there is nowhere else for me to turn. And because of Caroline, I believe I can trust you." Again the president hesitated. Then Marten saw the resolve rise in him once more. "There was no terrorist threat. I left the hotel in Madrid on my own and under very difficult circumstances. You might say I escaped."

Marten didn't understand. "Escaped from what? From whom?"

"Our country is at war, Mr. Marten. A war that is being secretly waged against me and our country by a group of people at the highest levels of government. It is made up of my personal advisers and people in my own cabinet. People that I have known and trusted for years. But people who, in reality and as a group, are probably the most dangerous and powerful in the country. To my knowledge this is the closest thing to a coup d'état America has ever experienced. As a result, my life is in grave danger, and so is the future of not just our country but many other countries. Moreover, the window in which I can attempt to do something about it is extremely short. A little over three days at most. There is no longer anyone in the government that I can trust unconditionally. Nor do I have any friends or relatives this group won't have under close physical and electronic surveillance.

"That's why when I saw your photograph in the paper I knew I had to take the chance and find you. I had to have the confidence of someone and fortunately or unfortunately you are that person."

Marten was dumbfounded. Maybe in fiction the president of the United States came alone to your hotel room in the middle of the night and told you these things. Sat down and told you the country was being taken over from the inside and that you were the only person in the world he could trust to help him stop it. Maybe in fiction all that happened, yet this was not fiction, this was real. The president was here, not three feet away and visibly drained, looking at you with bloodshot eyes and relating these awful things and asking for your help.

"What do you want me to do?" Marten said finally in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

"At this moment I'm not exactly sure. Except-" John Henry Harris took a long, deep breath that was closer to a sigh of absolute exhaustion, "-that for an hour or two I would ask you to keep guard. It's been a damned long day. I need to think. But I need to sleep first."

"I understand."

Absently the president ran a hand over a stubble beard that was beginning to show. "This is still Friday, the seventh, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," the president smiled and Marten could see the fatigue begin to overtake him. As it did his eyes found Marten's. "Thank you," he said genuinely. "Thank you very much."