"First of all, it's neither hard-line nor control, and second of all, it's more Carol's concerns than Drew's. The administration is not opposed to research and development in any field of science, but they want the people to have the right to know what's going on, and to monitor if any particular product or line of research has the potential to do harm or to cost the taxpayer in some as yet unseen way."

"It sounds like they've picked the perfect person for the job."

"That's very kind of you to say. Oh, Dr. Singleton, I'm sorry to be monopolizing you so. As a guest of distinction, you must have many more important people to meet than me."

No, actually I have no one more important to meet than you.

"The truth is, I was grateful to you for protecting me from the masses. The last thing I remember clearly was riding one of my horses through the desert. Then the president showed up at my doorstep, and now this. I feel like Alice floating down the rabbit's hole."

He gestured to the room.

"That's right!" Lily exclaimed. "You're a high plains drifter. Wyoming, yes?" She took a thin silver case from her jacket pocket and removed a pale lavender business card. "I can do without a gown or even an evening bag, but a rule of survival in this town is never, ever go out without your business cards."

"Magnus had mine waiting in my desk drawer when I arrived. Now I know why. Alas, they're still there."

LILY PAD STABLES, the card read simply, along with an address in Virginia and an ornate LPS in one corner.

"I'm West Texas born and bred, " she said, "and where I come from, people say that the number-one reason for making piles of money is to have horses."

"In Wyoming we like to say that a horse is nothing more, or less, than a four-legged shrink."

"Same thing, really." Her laugh was unforced and totally appealing. "Well, at Lily Pad we have some of the finest saddle horses anyplace, unless you like to jump. We've got those, too."

"Jumping things on a horse makes no more sense to me than jumping things not on a horse. When in doubt, go around. That's my motto."

"In that case, give me a call. I'll show you some of my adopted state from a western saddle."

"I'd be happy to. I'm already having saddle soap withdrawal."

"In that case, the sooner the better."

Her enigmatic expression at that moment would, he knew, stay with him until they hit the trail together-whenever that was.

No sooner had he and Lily moved apart when the admiral, Ellis Wright, stepped in to introduce Gabe to a general as "my man in the White House." There was no hint whatsoever of the rancor that had so recently marked Wright's visit to Gabe's office.

The outer face, the inner face, Gabe mused as the general and the admiral turned to greet Calvyn Berriman. Did anyone in this town actually say what they meant, or mean what they said?

It was at that instant Gabe noticed Lattimore, standing by the doorway to the hall, motioning him over with his eyes and a minute shake of his head, even as he smiled and nodded at various passing guests. His expression, at least to Gabe's reckoning, was grim.

Slowly, deliberately, feeling very much like the other guests as he masked his purpose with a cheerful expression, he worked his way across to the chief of staff, joining him in acknowledging the Secretary of Defense and his wife, then the chief of the National Security Council.

"Is there a problem?" Gabe asked softly, taking pains not to look directly at Lattimore.

"Perhaps. Wait two minutes, then make your way to your office and get your medical bag. The president's Secret Service man, Treat Griswold, will be waiting to take you upstairs to the residence."

"Do I need to bring anything special?" Gabe asked.

"Just an open mind," was the reply.

Battling to look nonchalant, Gabe retrieved his medical bag from the floor by his desk.

"An open mind."

What in the hell had Lattimore meant by that?

By the time Gabe reentered his office reception area, Treat Griswold was waiting, motioning with an upraised hand for him to stay quiet and stay where he was. Cautiously, the Secret Service agent checked the corridor, then beckoned Gabe across to the elevator, which another waiting agent keyed electronically.

"Is the president in trouble?" Gabe asked as they rode.

"I guess that's for you to determine, sir," Griswold said.

A floor above, the elevator opened into a small anteroom, with double doors to the broad, elegantly furnished foyer of the First Family's residence. Griswold motioned Gabe down the hall to the master bedroom, then retreated to a position not far from the elevator.

"Just call if you need me, sir," he said, his expression severe.

Magnus Lattimore stepped into the foyer.

"Anyone see you?" he asked Griswold.

"No one."

"Good. I've sent for the mil aide with The Football. Keep him right there in the landing."

"Will do."

The Football!

During his orientation, Gabe had been told that "The Football" was the name given to the communications case containing the codes and other necessary equipment for the quarterback, the president, to trigger a retaliatory or preemptive nuclear strike anywhere in the world-quite possibly the prelude to Armageddon. Whenever the chief executive was traveling away from the White House, the case was brought along by a military aide rotating from one of the five services. Also contained in The Football, Lattimore had told Gabe, were the papers of presidential succession.

Now the chief of staff turned to him, his intensity threatening to burn a hole between Gabe's eyes.

"Go on in, Doctor," he said.

He followed Gabe into the bedroom, stepped inside, and quietly closed the door behind them.

Legs out straight, the President of the United States sat bolt upright, his back pressed against the massive brass headboard. His eyes were wide and feral, his gaze darting-an expression of absolute fear. His fingers were in constant motion, like waving fronds of kelp. The corners of his mouth pulled back repetitively, then relaxed. To his left, standing close by the bed, was the First Lady, stunning in a simple black strapless gown. Her expression was an odd mixture of concern and embarrassment.

"He's been like this for twenty minutes now," she said, eschewing any greeting.

"I know about his asthma and his migraines," Gabe said. "Are the meds he takes up here?"

"Yes. Plus some Tylenol sometimes and ibuprofen for some back pain."

"See if you can find those bottles, Carol. Bring me any pills you come across. Anything at all. Also the inhaler he uses."

The First Lady hurried into the bathroom.

Suddenly Stoddard began rocking forward and back like an Orthodox Jew reciting his prayers. After a minute or two, he seemed to notice Gabe for the first time.

"Gabe, Gabe, my old friend, what in the Sam Hill are you doing here?" he asked, still rocking. His voice was strained and higher pitched than usual, his speech pressured. "You've got work to do, work to do, my man, my man. People to meet and greet and work to do."

"Mr. President, I'm here because you suddenly aren't acting like yourself."

"Mr. President, Mr. President… they all call me that. Mr. Frigging President. But not you, Gabe Singleton, not you my old friend. My roomie. You must call me Drew. Call me Drew and I'll trust you. Hey, a rhyme. Call me Drew and I'll trust you. Not like the others. I don't trust any of the others. Just my lovely Carol. Isn't she lovely? Hey, where is she? Where'd she go? And of course sweet Magnus. Sweet, think-of-everything Magnus. How could anyone not trust him? But Tom Frigging Vice President Cooper the Frigging Third-him I don't trust any farther than I can throw him. And Bradford Frigging Dunleavy can't be trusted. He wants to beat my ass in the next election and take this house away from us. Have us evicted. And the frigging Chinese. When it comes to trust, they are just the worst of all… I can't stop rocking, Dr. Gabe… back and forth… forth and back. Help me stop rocking and I'll double your salary. You know who you really can't trust? It's the Arabs you really can't trust, that's who. The A-R-A-B-S… Maybe we should just take a little old nuclear device-that's what we call them, devices-and waste the whole lot of them. That'd solve the frigging Middle East crisis once and for all. Might as well take out Israel while we're at it and start all over again…"