He entered the State Floor and bore left through the diplomatic reception area into the warren of executive offices in the west wing. In the hall he spotted a familiar and unhappy face.

“Hey, Bob,” John said. “I’m looking for the boss.” Robert Decker, Supervisory Special Agent, Secret Service, was a veteran of that exclusive club, the presidential detail. Today he looked harried and hassled. His gray suit was uncharacteristically rumpled, as if he’d been wearing it all night. John noted his tired eyes. Maybe he had.

Decker jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Down in the exec offices.”

“Anything wrong. Doc?” John shrugged. “Just doing his monthly blood pressure.”

“Do me a favor and give him a checkup from the neck up while you’re at it, will you?”

“All this getting you worried?”

“We’re already getting category-three death threats. I’ve canceled all tours and that’s earning me a ton of flack. Talk to him, will you?”

“I don’t see what I can do. He can’t exactly take it back.”

“Sure he can. He can go back on the tube tonight and say that he never said those things. It was his evil twin.” John waited for Decker to smile… and waited…

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“Look at this face,” Decker said grimly. “Is this the face of someone who’s kidding?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” Decker said, then walked off.

John continued down the hall. He stopped by the small, dungeonlike clinic that shared this ground-floor corner with the White House physician’s office to offer a courtesy hello to Jeff Stein, the young doc who manned the clinic. Jeff could have taken Tom’s blood pressure every day if need be, but the President preferred his old buddy. And John didn’t mind. It was a way of keeping in touch with Tom, of piercing the wall of “splendid isolation” that was inexorably rising around him.

A blond nurse whose name John forgot sat at a desk, doing a crossword puzzle.

“Where’s Dr. Stein?”

She moved a folder over the puzzle, hiding it. John imagined things could get pretty slow in a little clinic like this.

“He went for some coffee, Dr. Vanduyne. Can I help you?”

“No. Just letting him know I’m here. Maybe I’ll catch him later.” He continued on toward the door with the presidential seal and pushed through.

The executive offices, normally a calm, well-ordered complex, were jumping with frenzied activity: aides and secretaries hustling back and forth, shouting across the rooms and between the offices, phones ringing off the hook.

Not at all a party atmosphere. Grim expressions on everyone. And the grimmest was on the face of the small, compact curly-haired, middle-aged woman approaching John right now: Stephanie Harris, White House Press Secretary.

“You’re here to sign the commitment papers, right?” she said.

She’d be upbeat and four-square behind her boss when she faced the cameras later, but not now.

“Nope. Just the usual blood pressure check.”

She stuck out her arm. “You want blood pressure? Check mine. It’s got to be a record.”

“Think you can top Bob Decker’s?”

“Definitely! He thinks this is a security nightmare? It’s nothing compared to the PR catastrophe! The phones have not stopped, not for an instant. Do you know how many calls we get on an average day? Forty-eight thousand. We’ve had that many already since midnight, most angry as hell. The damn fax machines have run out of paper so many times we’ve stopped refilling them. Beat Decker’s? I can double it!”

John laughed but wondered if Tom’s pressure would beat Stephanie’s. “Where is he?”

She turned and pointed.

John had to smile at his old friend, an island of calm in a sea of turmoil: President Thomas Winston, code-named “Razor” to the Secret Service, looking as sharp as ever—tall, and serene in his dark blue suit, talking to a pretty young woman. Every strand of his dark, just-the-right-amount-of-gray-at-the temples hair in place, the tanned, chiseled features composed into a relaxed, confident expression. John was willing to bet Tom’s pressure was all right. This was a man who caused more hypertension than he suffered himself.

Tom glanced up and spotted John. He smiled, pointed at him to indicate that he should stay where he was, spoke a few final words to the young woman—an aide no doubt—then started toward John.

“Welcome to the funhouse,” Tom said, shaking hands.

“I warned you.”

“That you did, good buddy. You and a lot of other people.” He turned and nodded to the young woman he’d just left. “See that angel-faced young thing over there? That’s Heather Brent. She’s going to be our designated mass-media spokesperson on the decriminalization issue.”

“She looks about twelve.” John was exaggerating, but she did look awfully young.

“She’s twenty-eight and the happily married mother of two. She’s also a world-class debater who firmly believes in decriminalization. She can verbally slice and dice you without losing one iota of that fresh-faced charm. She’s going to be a potent weapon in this war.” He glanced around. “Let’s go upstairs so you can check me out in peace and quiet. It’s a little crazy down here.”

7

Poppy cracked up when she saw Paulie.

She’d been working out to her Buns of Steel video when he walked through the door. One look at his short, blow-dried hair and she started laughing so hard she collapsed on the floor. She could barely breathe.

“I don’t look that bad,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Do I?”

Poppy managed to stifle her laughter. Gasping, she stared up at him. He’d been looking weird anyway, letting his hair go back to its natural red, but now, with it trimmed all around the ears and off the collar, and his beard clipped down to a quarter inch and neatly edged along his cheeks and throat, she like barely recognized him.

“You look so totally… straight. Like you should be running a bookstore or something.” She got up off the floor and gave him a hug. As her arms went around him she touched the back of his collar where his ponytail had been. She started laughing again.

“Ooh, look! Your neck! I never seen your neck before!”

He pushed her away—gently, but she could tell he was beginning to get pissed. He went to the cracked mirror over the sagging sofa and examined himself.

“Christ, you’re right. I could be a fucking bookworm!”

“But one who’s into leather.”

“Yeah, well, not for long. I better get changed.” Poppy brushed off the crud her black body suit had picked up from the rug. This place Mac had rented for the job was a dump. The only good thing was they wouldn’t like be here that long.

She sobered as she realized what the haircut meant: The snatch was a go, and Paulie was definitely doing the deed.

A fleeting spasm gripped her stomach then let go. The whole thing had seemed like such a lark the first time she’d helped Paulie baby-sit one of Mac’s “packages” three years ago. They’d hung out, listened to music, eaten fast-food take-out, and taken turns keeping an eye on the handcuffed, blindfolded guy in the next room. When the ransom got paid, they drove him to a deserted spot in the woods off one of the freeways and let him go. Easy. No pain, no strain, and lots of gain when Mac paid Paulie his share.

But good as it was, the money never like lasted that long. When they had it, they spent it—mostly on high living. And she did mean high. Poppy had been like heavy into speed back then—oh, she’d do a little toot now and again, and grass for sure, but speed was her favorite. And so whenever Mac called and said he had another baby-sitting job—like maybe a couple, three times a year—they always said yes.

She was amazed how none of their “packages” was ever reported missing. Paulie said Mac had told him you wouldn’t believe how many people got snatched every year. Kidnapping was a growth industry and Mac a major player. But growth industry or not, the last job had like turned her off to the whole thing.