“I'm pleased to learn that I know something that you don't,” Laird said cryptically.

“If I took a wrong turn, please set me straight.”

“Andrews Air Force Base is too widely known for departure and arrival of aircraft carrying high-level personnel,” said Laird. “You were quite correct about a facility for housing a B-2 modified as an airborne command post. But the plane is based underground at a secret site southeast of the city in Maryland.”

“If you'll forgive me,” said Gunn, “I don't doubt what you're saying, but it does have a ring of fantasy about it.”

Laird cleared his throat and spoke directly to Gunn as if he was lecturing a schoolboy. “The American public would be knocked out of their socks if they had the slightest glimpse of the devious and circuitous maneuvers that take place around the nation's capital in the name of good government. I know I certainly was when I came here. I still am.”

The bus slowed and came to a stop beside the entrance of a short passageway that led toward a steel door standing beneath two video cameras. The forbidding starkness was heightened by recessed fluorescent lighting that illuminated the narrow chamber with an intense brilliance. To Gunn it appeared as “the last mile” walked by condemned murderers on their way to the gas chamber. He remained in his chair, his eyes straying into the passageway when the driver came around and opened the side panel on the bus.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but one more question.” Gunn shifted his gaze to Laird. “I'd be grateful to learn just where it is we're meeting with the President.”

Laird looked speculatively at Gunn for a moment. Then at Sandecker. “How say you, Admiral?”

Sandecker shrugged. “In this circumstance I can only rely on speculation and rumor. I'm curious myself.”

“Secrets are meant to be kept,” said Laird seriously, “but since you've come this far and your history of honor in the service of your country goes unquestioned, I believe I can take it upon myself to induct you into what is a very exclusive fraternity.” He paused and then continued tolerantly. “Our short journey has taken us to Fort McNair and directly beneath what was once the base hospital until it was abandoned after World War H.”

“Why Fort McNair?” Gunn persisted. “It seems more convenient for the President to have met us at the White House.”

“Unlike former chief executives, President Wallace almost never goes near the place at night.” He said it as if it were a comment on the weather.

Gunn looked confused. “I don't understand.”

“It's painfully simple, Commander. We live in a Machiavellian world. Leaders of unfriendly countries—enemies of the United States, if you will—armies of highly trained and skilled terrorists or just plain crazies, they all dream of destroying the White House and its live-in residents. Many have tried. We all remember the car that crashed through the gate, the lunatic who fired an automatic weapon through the fence on Pennsylvania Avenue, and the suicidal maniac who flew his plane onto the South Lawn. Any athlete with a good throwing arm could heave a rock from the street against the Oval Office windows. The sad fact is the White House is a tough target to miss—”

“That goes without saying,” added Sandecker. “The number of attempts that were nipped in the bud by our intelligence services remains a deep secret.”

“Admiral Sandecker is correct. The professionals who planned to assault the Executive Mansion were apprehended before their operation could get off the ground.” Laird finished off his vodka and set the glass in a small sink before exiting the bus. “It is too dangerous for the First Family to eat and sleep in the White House. Except for public tours, occasional press conferences, social functions for visiting dignitaries and photo opportunities of the President meeting in the Rose Garden with the public, the First Family is seldom at home.”

Gunn found it difficult to accept the revelation. “You're saying the executive branch of the government conducts business someplace other than the White House?”

“Ninety-five feet above us, to be precise.”

“How long has this facade been going on?” asked Sandecker.

“Since the Clinton administration,” answered Laird.

Gunn stared thoughtfully at the steel door. “When you consider the current situation at home and abroad, I guess now you see him, now you don't, does seem a practical solution.”

“It seems a shame,” said Sandecker solemnly, “to learn that what was once the revered home of our presidents has now been reduced to little more than a reception facility.”

Sandecker and Gunn followed Laird out of the elevator across a circular reception room guarded by a Secret Service agent and into a library whose four walls were packed from floor to ceiling with over a thousand books. As the door was closed behind him, Sandecker saw the President standing in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on the admiral but showing no trace of recognition. There were three other men in the room. One Sandecker knew, the other two were unfamiliar. The President held a coffee cup in his left hand as Laird made the introductions.

“Mr. President, Admiral James Sandecker and Commander Rudi Gunn.”

The President gave the impression of being older than he was. He looked sixty-five but was still in his late fifties. The premature gray hair, red veins streaming through his facial skin, the beady eyes that always seemed reddened, inspired political cartoonists often to caricature him as a wino, when in fact he rarely drank anything more than an occasional glass of beer. He was an intense man with a round face and low forehead and thin eyebrows. He was the consummate politician. Within days of replacing his ailing boss, no decision regarding his lifestyle or the state of the union was made without considering the potential for gathering votes for his run for office in the next election.

Dean Cooper Wallace would not become one of Sandecker's favorite presidents. It was no secret that Wallace detested Washington and refused to play the required social games. He and the Congress pulled in harness together like a lion and a bear, both wanting to eat the other. He was not an intellectual, but was adept at cutting deals and acting on intuition. Since replacing the man who had been duly elected, he had quickly surrounded himself with aides and advisers who shared his distrust of the entrenched bureaucracy and were always looking for innovative ways to circumvent tradition.

The President extended his free hand while still holding the coffee cup. “Admiral Sandecker, a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Sandecker involuntarily blinked. The President's grip was anything but hardy, not what he expected from a politician who pressed flesh year in and year out. “Mr. President. I hope this will be only the first of many times we meet face-to-face.”

“I expect so, since the prognosis for my predecessor is not good for a full recovery.”

“I'm sorry to hear it. He is a good man.” Wallace did not reply. He merely nodded at Gunn, acknowledging his presence, as Laird continued playing host. The chief of staff took the admiral by the arm and led him over to the three men standing in front of a gas fire that burned in a stone fireplace.

“Duncan Monroe, commissioner of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and his executive associate commissioner for field operations, Peter Harper.” Monroe had a tough, no-nonsense look about him. Harper seemed as if he melted into the bookcase behind him. Laird turned to the third man. “Admiral Dale Ferguson, commandant of the Coast Guard.” “Dale and I are old friends,” said Sandecker. A large ruddy man with a ready smile, Ferguson gripped Sandecker by the shoulder. “Good to see you, Jim.”

“How are Sally and the kids? I haven't seen them since we took that cruise together around Indonesia.”