Swinburne seemed to be having trouble believing the president was a closet diabetic, but then, so did everyone else in the bunker. “Is he receiving any treatment?”

“Yes. He’s controlling the condition with a combination of diet, exercise, medications, and insulin injections.”

“So the president is dependent upon these insulin injections to sustain his life?”

“At the present, yes.”

“Doesn’t that leave him… vulnerable?”

“No more so than any of the other twenty-four million diabetics in the United States. As long as he receives his treatment, he’s fine.”

“Is there a cure?”

“The only real cure at this time is a pancreas transplant.”

“Has the president considered that?”

“Yes.”

“Will he have it done?”

“Not while he’s in office.”

“Why not?”

Ben knew he could object here-Swinburne was asking one witness to explain another person’s reasoning. But the doctor apparently knew the answer, and given the time restrictions they were functioning under, Ben suspected Admiral Cartwright would not appreciate any unnecessary objections.

“If the president were to have surgery of this nature, he would have to be rendered unconscious by anesthesia. That would mean that, for a few hours, anyway, he couldn’t govern. Therefore, under the Twenty-fifth Amendment, he would have to transfer power temporarily to the next in line.”

“Yes? And?”

Albertson averted his eyes. “And he said he’d turn into a pillar of salt and die before he’d turn the presidency over to you.”

Ben saw Admiral Cartwright cover his mouth and turn away. The judge couldn’t be seen laughing at the prosecutor, right? But it was good to know that, behind his stern exterior, Cartwright had a sense of humor.

Swinburne threw back his shoulders. He looked mad, not that he had exactly appeared delighted before. “So the president has been hiding not one but two serious medical conditions?”

“I wouldn’t use the word hiding. He’s chosen not to make these matters public. That’s his right.”

“The public has a right to know the condition of the president’s health.”

“Do they really? Why do they need to know?”

“Well-”

“And of course if they know, then so does everyone else. Does Colonel Zuko need to know the intimate details of the president’s health? What about the leaders of North Korea? Pakistan? Do they need to know when the president is not feeling at his best?”

“If he’s not fit for the job,” Swinburne countered, “he should step down.”

“Let me tell you something, mister. No one has perfect health. And even if they did, one month in this job would wreck it. Nonetheless, the president’s health is not something that should be detailed to anyone who does not have an immediate need to know. If nothing else, it’s a national security issue.”

“That’s your opinion.”

Albertson smiled. “Well, son, that’s what you asked for.”

“Dr. Albertson, I assume that if the president’s diabetes were not treated, or were not treated properly, he might exhibit some… odd behavior.”

“Mental symptoms are possible,” the doctor replied. “But what you’d more likely see is a man in pain, perhaps a man in shock or even a coma.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes. And anyway, what’s the point? His diabetes has been treated. There has been no time since his diagnosis when he suffered for want of treatment.”

“But he has been exhibiting aberrant behavior.”

Ben felt his eyes twitch. This was where things were bound to get sticky.

The doctor pushed himself up in his seat. “Was that a question?”

“You witnessed the sorry spectacle of the president of the United States, just a short while ago, reacting to a crisis with the behavior of a three-year-old. Singing, laughing…”

Albertson shrugged. “He’s the president. He can sing if he wants to sing.”

“The theme from The Brady Bunch?”

“If he wants.”

“So a foreign dictator has flung one of our own missiles at a domestic target-and you think the appropriate response is to sing sitcom songs?”

“I think different people release stress in different ways. Who cares? Whatever works.”

“Objectively speaking, if you didn’t know the president personally and you heard that a man in his mid-fifties was behaving in this manner, what would you think?”

Albertson tried to appear casual-not entirely convincingly. “I try not to be judgmental. I’m not a psychiatrist. Different strokes for different folks.”

“Well, then, since the members of the cabinet who are watching on the webcam did not see this themselves, let me describe it. And then you can tell them whether I described it accurately.” Swinburne took a deep breath. “Abruptly, in the middle of a discussion regarding our response to the colonel’s threat to launch one of our missiles, the president began singing the Brady Bunch theme song. If I recall correctly, he also played the air guitar.”

Ben observed the faces of the ten men and two women in the cabinet on the closed-circuit screen. When Swinburne mentioned singing, their expressions became somewhat quizzical. When he mentioned playing air guitar, their expressions became concerned.

“He did that for maybe a minute,” Dr. Albertson said. “Then he stopped and-”

Admiral Cartwright pounded on the table. “This is not a time for making speeches. The witness will restrict himself to answering questions.”

Ben arched an eyebrow. Usually it took a judge more than ten minutes before he contracted “judgitis.”

“The point is,” Swinburne said, turning his attention back to the witness, “for a period of at least five minutes, the president was not behaving as a capable leader. He was behaving like someone suffering from mental illness.”

“Objection,” Ben said, rising to his feet. “Sorry, your honor, I know time is of the essence. But that was not a question and the prosecutor is not qualified to render a medical opinion.”

“Sustained,” Cartwright said. “Try again, Mr. Swinburne.”

Swinburne pursed his lips. “Dr. Cartwright, did you not find the president’s behavior during this episode… disturbing?”

Ben glanced over at his client. The president was keeping a good poker face, but he clearly did not like being talked about as if he were not there. Particularly when the subject of the conversation was his sanity.

“As I said, he’s under a lot of stress.”

“And it would appear he snapped under that stress!”

“It would appear to be that he was letting off some steam, perhaps as a coping device.” He looked up at the camera. “But I did not at any time see anything that I took to be a sign of mental illness or incapacity. Never!”

Ben hoped that this ringing declaration made an impact on the de facto jurors on the closed-circuit television, but he had a disturbing intuition they were still hung up on the reference to air guitar.

Swinburne paused for a moment and took his chair. Ben had started to wonder if the examination was over when Swinburne said, “Dr. Albertson, isn’t it true that the president saved your life?”

An audible murmur ran through the room, reassuring Ben that he was not the only one who did not know this story.

More eye contact passed between the two men. They were sitting only about five feet apart, but for the moment, Ben felt as if a gulf had come between them that was immeasurably wider.

“Yes,” Dr. Albertson said quietly. “Yes, that is true.”

“When did this occur?”

“When we were in college. We were at a party. A private organization. Something for those who were too cool-or too poorly connected-to be members of Skull and Bones. I’d had a few-well, more than a few. Way too many more than a few. I was up on the roof, messing around like an idiot. Like most damn fools that age, I thought I was invulnerable.”