The senators limousine stopped at the South Gate of the White House; his name was checked off on a list, and he was smartly saluted by the marine guard. In seconds, as prearranged, the driver sped right toward the main entrance rather than left toward the West Wing, where the Oval Office was located. Once at the curb, in front of the short flight of steps, Nesbitt ushered the countess and her nephew out, had short, polite words with the guards flanking the door, and brought them inside.

"This is my colleague from Michigan," he said rapidly. "The other senator from our state." Handshakes were exchanged, names lost in the obvious haste as a photographer emerged from a doorway, his camera at the ready. "As I mentioned to you, Countess, my colleague is from the Presidents party and was extremely influential in arranging this meeting."

"Yes, I recall," said Bajaratt. "You wished a photograph with yourself, your colleague, and Dante Paolo, all together."

"You too, of course, if youd like."

"No, signore, my nephew is your catalyst, not I. But please hurry."

Four successive photographs were taken as another figure appeared walking swiftly down the corridor. "I apologize!" cried the man in a dark suit as he approached them. "The instructions were somehow off the track. You were to come to the West Wing entrance."

"Off the track, my a.s.s," whispered the junior senator from Michigan to his legislative a.s.sociate. "Can you imagine the Chief of Staff allowing us in a picture?"

"Shh!" mumbled Nesbitt. "Accept the mistake, Josh."

"Sure.... Of course."

"If the guard hadnt radioed us, youd be standing here for quite some time," said the escort, making light of yet another White House error. "Come along now, Ill bring you to the West Wing."

Forty-six seconds later, the short journey traversed quickly through the hallways, the quartet reached the Oval Office and all were introduced-two reintroduced-to the Presidents Chief of Staff. He was a slender man, not large, and with a pale face, perpetually creased, as if he expected a sudden a.s.sault from an area his eyes could not see. Yet, withal, his demeanor was pleasant, nonthreatening, and he spoke in the frank, weary voice of a man overworked.

"Its a pleasure to meet you both," he said, shaking hands with the Baj and Nicolo. "The Presidents on his way down now, but I hope you will understand, Countess, the meeting will necessarily be brief."

"We asked no more, signore. Only a photograph for my brother, the barone di Ravello."

"Well, the President wanted you to know-h.e.l.l probably tell you himself-he wishes that grave matters of state caused the brevity, but the truth is that his very large family, including eleven grandchildren, are visiting him this week, and the First Lady has a very definite schedule."

"What mother, or especially a grandmother, doesnt? We Italians are not famous for small families or the chaos that results."

"Thats very kind of you. Come, sit down."

"What a magnificent room, is it not, Dante Paolo?"

"Non ho capito."

"La stanza. Magnifica!"

"Ah, si, zietta."

"It houses the power of the universe ... we are so honored!"

"I dont know about the universe, Countess, but certainly a large part of the world.... Senators, would you care to sit down?"

"Thanks, Fred, I dont think so," replied the younger senator. "Were all sort of in a hurry, arent we?"

"Young man ...? Mr. Baron ...?"

"My nephew is too nervous to sit, signore."

"Ah, bene," said Nicolo as if he had only vaguely understood his aunts words.

Suddenly, from the corridor outside the Oval Office came a booming voice, the figure speaking blocked by the two senators. "Jesus, if one more kid punches me in the stomach, or slathers my face, or puts me in a hammerlock, Ill make commercials for birth control!"

President Donald Bartlett briefly, automatically, shook hands with the senators and walked into the room. He was a man in his late sixties, short of six feet, with straight gray hair and the lined, clean-cut features of an aging actor holding on to the enthusiasms of years past. In essence an accomplished politician capable of summoning the required energy and humor for a host of situations. He was a presence that would not be denied.

"The Countess Cabrini and her nephew, the baron of ... the baron, Mr. President," choked the Chief of Staff.

"Good Lord, Im terribly sorry!" exclaimed Bartlett sincerely. "I thought I was early.... Scusi, Confessa. Non lho vista! Mi perdoni."

"Parlare Italiano, Signor Presidente?" asked the astonished Bajaratt, rising from her chair.

"Not all that well," said the President, shaking her hand. "Per favore, si sieda." The Baj sat down. "I had to learn some in the war. I was a supply officer in the invasion of Italy, and let me tell you, we had a lot of help from some of your great families. You know, people who werent too fond of Mussolini."

"Il Duce, the pig!"

"Heard a lot of that, Countess. Before the landings we flew in drops of supplies at night in case things went screwy-pazzo-and our troops were cut off heading north. We called em distribution points. In fact, I mentioned to the judge here-the senator-that I think I met your brother in Ravello."

"I believe it was our father, Mr. President. A man of honor who could not tolerate the fascisti."

"Youre probably right. Scuzzi di nuovo. Im getting so old that decades seem like years! Of course it was your father. You were a mere child, if you were around at all."

"In many ways I am still a child, sir, a child who remembers many things."

"Oh?"

"Non importa. May I present my nephew, the barone-cadetto di Ravello." Bajaratt again rose to her feet as Bartlett turned and shook hands with Nicolo, who was appropriately dignified as well as awed. "My brother, who is ready to make substantial commitments to American industry, asks only for a photograph with you and his son."

"Its no problem, Countess. However, Ive got to tell you, this young fella may be the next baron, but from where I stand, he could be a wide receiver for the Washington Redskins.... Hey, boys, maybe I should stand on a box, this kid dwarfs me!"

"I did my homework, Mr. President," said the White House photographer. "I suggest you both be seated in two chairs behind your desk. Shaking hands, naturally."

As the photographer and the Chief of Staff arranged the chairs, Bajaratt slid her small pearl-beaded evening purse into the cushions of the chair, and as the flashes of the camera erupted, she pressed it farther, completely out of sight.

"That is wonderful, Mr. President! My brother will be so enthusiastic, so grateful!"

"Ill be grateful if Ravello Industries sees fit to-shall we say-seek an industrial base or two in this country."

"Be a.s.sured, sir. Why not discuss the specifics with your two senators? Ive made my brothers position clear, and it will not disappoint you, Mr. President."

"I intend to, Countess," said Bartlett, smiling and nodding pleasantly as he and Nicolo got out of their chairs. "At least as long as it takes to have a cool drink and stay away from those hooligans upstairs for a few peaceful minutes."

"You are a brigante, signore!" said Bajaratt, laughing, accepting the Presidents hand. "But I know you love your family."

"I do indeed. Give my regards to your brother."

"Ma guardi," said the Baj, looking at her diamond-encrusted wrist watch; it was shortly past eight oclock. "My brother. I really should call him on our special telephone in less than a half hour."

"My car will take you back to the hotel," said Nesbitt.

"Ill show you to the portico, Countess," added the White House escort. "Ive already arranged for the senators limousine to be there."

"Weve taken up enough of your time, Mr. President. And the baron will be so disappointed if I dont reach him."

"Special phones, special times, special frequencies, even satellites now," said the President. "I dont think Ill ever get used to all that electronic stuff."

"You beat the fascisti, Tenente Bartlett! You won on human terms, what greater triumph is there?"

"You know, Countess, Ive been called a lot of things, good and bad, and it goes with the office. But thats one of the nicest things anyones ever said about someone like me."

"Ponder it, Mr. President. On this earth we must all win on human terms. Otherwise, there is nothing.... Come, Paolo, we must think of your father."

8:02 P.M.

Hawthorne drove the State Department car through the South Gate of the White House, having been cleared by red line highest authority, no identifications asked for, the car noted by instant radar the moment it turned into the drive. Phyllis Stevens had done her job, and then some. Tyrell swung right toward the West Wing entrance, screeching to a stop in front of the steps. He got out and raced up the marble stairs to a marine captain who stood in front of a four-man unit of White House security guards. "The Oval Office," said Hawthorne, no equivocation in his order.

"I hope to h.e.l.l you have credentials, Commander," said the marine officer, his hand on his unlatched holster. "They say you do, but nothing like this has ever happened, and its my a.s.s if youre a freak!"

"Freaks dont get through that gate, Captain. Lets go."

"Hold it! Why the Oval?"

"Im going to interrupt a meeting. Which way?"

"No way!" shouted the marine, stepping back, slapping his .45 Colt out of his holster and nodding at his unit, all of whom did the same.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" yelled Hawthorne, furious, as five weapons were leveled at him. "You have your orders!"

"Theyre voided when you deliver an outright lie."

"What?"

"There is no meeting!" said the marine officer menacingly. "We got that call fifteen minutes ago, and we checked it out-I personally checked it out."

"What call?"

"The same one that cleared you with the emergency watch codes. Ill be d.a.m.ned if I know how you did it, but this is as far as you go-"

"For Christs sake, what are you talking about?"

" 'Locate Zeus, the man-on-high says. 'Get him out of his meeting and secure him in the cellars- "

"So far youve got it right-"

"Wrong! There is no meeting! We high-tailed it down the hallway here to the O.O., and who do we find but the Chief of Staff. He told us-me to my face-that we should check our logs, that the President hadnt scheduled anything for tonight; and if we wanted to take him anywhere, wed have to go up to the private quarters and convince the First Lady, because the whole family was there, including a pa.s.sel of grandchildren!"

"Thats not the information I have, Captain."

"Well, you can add this to whatever youve got, Commander. Since were a roving patrol, the Chief of Staff made it clear that if the press had screwed around with us for a little snooping, tabloid style, we could kiss goodbye to the sweetest jobs wed ever see in the Corps."

"Thats stupid-"

"I put it a different way, but he got the point in respectful military terms. Now youre going to get the point too, freak. Youre lockstepping it over to security-"

"Get off it, you idiot!" roared Tyrell. "I dont know what games are being played around here, but I know what the stakes are! Now, Im running as fast as I can down that hallway, Captain, and you can open fire if you want to, but all Im trying to do is prevent someone from killing the President!"

"What did you say?" The stunned marine officer was suddenly frozen in place, his words barely heard.

"The part you got right, Captain. Get him out of that meeting."

"There is no meeting! The Chief of Staff said-"

"Maybe he doesnt want you to know about it, maybe thats why it isnt on the schedule-maybe, since Im cleared to get in here-you ought to find out!... Lets go!"

Hawthorne raced ahead, down the long, wide hallway as the leader of the roving guard unit looked at his men and nodded. In seconds the four marines were flanking Tyrell, the captain beside him.

"What are we looking for?" the marine officer whispered breathlessly.

"A woman and a kid-"

"A kid ... a little kid?"

"A big kid, a young guy in his late teens."

"What do they look like?"

"It doesnt matter, well know them.... How much farther?"

"Right around the corner, a large door on the left," answered the captain, gesturing toward a T-shaped cul-de-sac twenty feet ahead.

Tyrell held up his hand, instructing the others to stop and walk slowly as they approached the end of the hallway. Suddenly, there were voices, a cacophony of "adios" "arrivedercis," and "good-byes," followed by the appearance of three men in the opposite east corridor; two were dressed in dark business suits, the third in a chauffeurs gray uniform and visored cap, all with plastic clearance tags attached to their lapels.

"Ashkelon!" cried the chauffeur, addressing someone on the other side.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" asked the stunned marine captain.

"FBI, a.s.signed to the State Department for diplomatic security," said the startled man next to the chauffeur, his eyes switching back and forth between the officer and the unseen figures emerging from the Oval Office. "Were escorting the countess to her hotel. Didnt the dispatcher alert you?"

"What dispatcher? Bureau or no Bureau, where the Oval is concerned, our security calls me with a minimum P.M. lead time of an hour, its standard!"

"Hes lying!" mumbled Hawthorne, moving himself partially behind the marine as he pulled the automatic from his belt. "They used the name Ashkelon, and that means only one thing.... Bajaratt!" yelled Tyrell suddenly, whipping around and firing into the ceiling, instantly realizing how foolish the warning shot was. Staccato gunfire erupted, the marine captain hit first, the blood spilling out of his stomach as the other marines spun into the hallway walls. The Ashkelons lunged backward, shooting wildly and shouting, intent only on pulling someone to them for cover while they minimized the crossfire. A marine pivoted around the east corner and shot five rounds, felling the two men who claimed to be federal agents, one of whom kept firing from the fetal position as a woman dashed across the T-shaped cul-de-sac, screaming.