The ringing persisted.

At some point during the hours since he had returned to the room, he had managed to pull the room-darkening drapes. A scant amount of sunlight from between them made it possible to find the bedside lamp, which he turned on, and a half-empty glass of water, which he finished before picking up the receiver.

"H'lo?"

"Dr. Singleton?" a woman's voice asked.

"Yes. Who's calling?"

"Doctor, please hold for Mr. LeMar Stoddard."

Gabe reflected that if he were worth 10 billion or more, he probably wouldn't be making his own calls, either. Hopefully the First Father wasn't calling to take his Buick back.

"Gabe? LeMar Stoddard here."

Gabe pictured the surpassingly handsome man in a penthouse office somewhere, seated at a desk the size of his bed, gazing out across the city.

"It's me, sir."

"Drop the 'sir' stuff, cowboy. We've all grown up now. It's LeMar."

"I'll try."

"Everything okay? The place? The car?"

"Everything's fine. I'm very grateful to you for all this."

"Good. I like having people feel grateful to me. It'll go that much better for me when my damn high blood pressure or bad cholesterol or whatever catches up with me and I have to check into the great office building in the sky."

His laugh was hearty and self-deprecating, but Gabe had little doubt that the remark about having people beholding to him was serious. For a multibillionaire, LeMar had always seemed to Gabe to be reasonably right sized, although Drew, of course, had other thoughts about that. Whatever negotiations had landed Gabe the Watergate suite and the Riviera had been between the First Father and his son. The last time Gabe had met the man face-to-face had been early in the campaign when the Stoddards flew into Salt Lake City on LeMar's jet and Gabe drove down from Tyler. LeMar, a year or two short of seventy then, with dark hair graying at the temples and electric gray-blue eyes, was as fit and dashing as any Hollywood swashbuckler.

"Well," Gabe said, "all that this incredible place and the car have done is dig me deeper and deeper in the gratitude hole."

"Nonsense. You're a good guy, Gabe-a good guy who had a lousy break and has had the character to overcome it. Having you up here taking care of Drew makes us more than even. In fact, not to toot my own horn, but it was me who originally put the bee in his bonnet about bringing you on board."

"Well, thank you for that. I'll be here as long as he needs me."

Gabe stopped himself at the last instant from adding sir.

"Excellent. So, I was wondering if you might have a little time today for me, say lunch?"

"Provided my patient doesn't need me, I can do that."

"Wonderful. We're moored at the Capital Yacht Club downriver from you. I'll send a driver to pick you up at noon. Once you get a look at Aphrodite, I don't think you'll feel too guilty about nudging me out of the Watergate."

Given how much everyone in D.C. seemed to know everyone else's business, Gabe half-expected the tycoon to mention the shattered rear window in his Buick.

"I'll be waiting in front," Gabe said.

"Perfect. Bring your appetite."

Gabe set the receiver down and then pushed open the drapes, flooding LeMar's wondrous apartment with morning light. Four stories below, the Potomac sparkled. Somewhere downriver, the apartment's owner was probably sitting on the deck of the boat named for the Greek goddess of love and beauty, sipping some exotic blend of Arabian coffees, while his companies continued churning away, adding to his net worth at a rate far faster than he could ever spend.

Nice life, sir… except for a little problem with your son.

Gabe chose some Kenyan beans from the wide variety in the freezer and spooned them into the built-in Coffee Master. The single push of a button took the selection from beans to brew. Not surprisingly, the result was perfect.

Nice life.

Cup in hand, he retrieved his address book from the desk, opened it to the Bs, and set it by the phone.

He had made his decision regarding Drew Stoddard. Now it was time to put this aspect of his plan in motion. He dialed and listened to the ringing of Kyle Blackthorn's private line, picturing the small office fifteen hundred miles away, warmly decorated with Indian weavings and artifacts, mostly Arapaho, Blackthorn's tribe.

"Dr. Blackthorn."

"Kyle, it's Gabe."

"Hey, brother. I feel like I should break into a rendition of 'Hail to the Chief.' But I really only use that one at tribal councils."

"Hey, that's pretty funny. And here I thought you guys had no sense of humor at all."

"You doing okay in the big city?"

"Pretty much. I miss everyone back there, but they allow cowboy boots in the White House, so I'm managing."

"What can I do for you, my friend?"

"You can let me send you first-class tickets and fly out here to do what you do."

"The patient?"

"I'd rather brief you when you get here."

"Does it have to be soon?"

"Very. Can you juggle your schedule?"

"I know you wouldn't be calling like this if it wasn't important, and you know that after you saved my mother's life there's nothing that I wouldn't do for you."

"Someone will call you later today with travel details."

"It will be good to see you, my friend."

"Don't forget to bring your testing stuff."

"I never leave home without it."

The windowless white van had B &D DRYWALL painted on the side along with a D.C. number that, had anyone dialed it, would have routed their call to an answering machine that had never been checked. Inside, Carl Porter adjusted his headphones and continued to listen to a conversation between Dr. Gabe Singleton and another doctor named Blackthorn.

Despite less than three hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, Porter was completely alert. He had always responded to anger and frustration that way and at the moment he was consumed by both. For the second time, he had come within just a minute or two of completing his mission, but somehow Dr. James Ferendelli had managed to elude him.

When he took the contract, Porter had expected to have his mark in a few days-a week at the most. Crackowski had hired a small army of PIs and had sent word out of a fifty-grand reward for anyone who fingered the man. But after Porter had just missed him at his Georgetown place, Ferendelli had proven wily and resourceful, and as one lead after another had dried up, Porter's frustration had begun to mount. Now there had been another near miss.

Singleton's conversation ended, and Porter set the headphones aside. He knew very little of the man who was paying him, but what was clear was that Crackowski had unlimited resources and access to professionals who knew how to use them. The surveillance equipment he had gotten installed in Singleton's apartment was sophisticated and top-of-the-line. In addition, a Starcraft GPS tracking system had been clamped onto the chassis of Singleton's car and wired for power into the electrical system.

Porter was stretching away some of the stiffness from his neck and back when there were knocks on the rear door-three, then two. Crack-owski.

With his silenced pistol drawn and the interior lights cut, Porter undid the lock.

Steve Crackowski pulled open the doors and quickly climbed inside. He was at least as tall as Porter, with broader shoulders, a narrower waist, and a large, perfectly shaved head. Wire-rimmed glasses helped make his overall appearance something of a cross between a college professor and a stevedore.

"Anything?" he asked, with no more greeting than that.

"The president's daddy invited Singleton to lunch. Then there 'uz just a guy named Blackthorn, Kyle or Lyle I think he said. Singleton made the call. They just finished talkin'. Singleton asked him to fly out here as soon as possible and to bring his testing stuff."