"The first thing you need to do is show us the complete layout here, Congressman," Cindy Caswell said, nodding her head in the direction of the short hallway.

"Follow me," Schaumberg said, and turned his back on Henry Bowman.

"You get a lot of your hot tips from fruits, Brad?" the policeman asked with a chuckle as the five of them climbed the stairs. "You their favorite reporter?" The man from the New York Post ignored the question and asked one of his own.

"You got a phobia about elevators or something, Jack? Afraid the cable's going to snap?"

"Hey, we're not rich like all the New York swells you write about. No high-dollar health clubs with a Stairmaster room on our expense accounts. Besides, cops learn fast that the scrotes think it's fun to chop the power and leave you stuck."

"It's this floor here," the superintendent said, breathing hard. "Down the hall on the right." Brad motioned the press photographer to go ahead of him, right after the two police officers and the building super. He could already detect the faint odor, which became stronger as they made their way toward the apartment. He was in no great hurry to see what he felt fairly sure was waiting for them.

"Okay, now don't touch anything," the second cop said to the photographer as he wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah," the first cop agreed. "And as soon as you get your pictures, get the hell out of here. I'm going to have enough explaining to do to the Captain as it is. Unless your 'hot tip' turns out to be a waste of time." The reporter laughed.

"Come on, Jack. You'll think of a good story to tell him. I didn't drive all the way here with one of our photographers just to enjoy the beauty of this city."

"There we go, gentlemen," the super said as he pulled out his key and pushed the door open. "All yours." The smell of death hit all five men at the same time. The D.C. police officers led the way in, followed by the two men from the New York Post.

"Looks like he had a party, and somebody cleaned up real quick," the second policeman said as he scanned the living room with a practiced eye.

"Bingo," the Post photographer said from the bedroom doorway. "Looks like your tip was good, Brad." The policemen shouldered him aside, and then all five men stared at the tableau in front of them.

The king-size bed, which took up a good part of the bedroom, looked like a cyclone had hit it. The covers were bunched at the footboard, and the bottom sheet was pulled away from one corner, exposing the mattress pad. Various leather restraints lay on the floor, and a ball gag poked out from under the tangled bedspread.

Congressman Schaumberg's body lay facedown across the stained sheet. The corpse was nude. A framed photo of Schaumberg with the former President lay a few inches from his face. Traces of white powder dusted the glass, and a single-edged razor blade lay in the corner of the frame. White powder was also visible at the edges of Schaumberg's nostrils. A pound can of Crisco stood on the nightstand, next to a white candle that was burned down to a two-inch stub.

"DNA boys will love this one," the first policeman said. He spotted something on the bed. "Looks like the Congressman had himself some decent cuffs." He was referring to the pair of stainless steel Smith & Wesson handcuffs which lay next to Schaumberg's left knee. The Post photographer was busy snapping pictures of the body from various angles. "Don't touch anything," the policeman admonished him once more.

"You think I'm out of my goddamned mind?" the man shot back. "I'll use up a whole bar of soap when I get out of here. You couldn't pay me enough to work the forensic team on this case," he said as he reloaded the film back with deft fingers. He was nodding to a molded latex object about fifteen inches long which lay in between Schaumberg's feet. It was a replica of a child's forearm, with the hand clenched into a fist. The sex toy glistened with what all five men fervently wished was just vegetable shortening.

"I haven't seen that trick before," the second cop said. "With the candle, I mean." Hardened wax lay in the cleft in Schaumberg's buttocks.

"Stay on the force and it won't be the last time." He shook his head. "Poppers 'n' coke. Hell on the old heart," he said reflectively as he used the clip on the cap of his pen to scrape up a tiny amount of the white powder from the glass. He touched the clip with the tip of his tongue. "Damn. I doubt the Mayor gets stuff this good," he said as his eyes grew wide. "You better go call this in. Brad, your guy got his pictures? Two of you better shove off now."

"Thanks, Jack. You're a good guy to work with."

"Right. Just don't tell that to the Captain."

"Looks like your buddy decided to make a splash on his way out," the FBI Chief-of-Station said to Alex Neumann as the visiting agent walked towards him. "The New York Post is showing its typical restrained sensitivity." He handed Alex Neumann a FAX copy of the paper's front page that had been sent down from New York. It was a little after 7:00 a.m. Eastern time, and hard copies would not be available in D.C. for several more hours. Neumann stared at the reduced-size image. The headline was still huge.

WHAT A WAY TO GO!.

SCHAUMBERG DIES IN GAY SEX-AND-DRUG ORGY.

"He was no buddy of mine," Neumann muttered unnecessarily as he scanned the article. "Hmmm... 'An autopsy confirmed that shortly prior to his death by a cocaine overdose, the late Congressman had had sexual relations several times.' How do they know that? His balls were empty, or something?"

"You haven't heard? Semen samples from multiple partners in both his stomach and rectum." "What did you say?" Neumann asked softly. He felt his blood turn to ice as he remembered the cryptic wording Jones had given to Judge Potter. Both ends? What a player!

"Yeah. One of the other dick-smokers that was there when it happened called it in. To a reporter, not the cops."

"A reporter?" Neumann demanded.

"Am I not talking loud enough? You sound like a parrot. Yeah, a reporter. Guy rings up some fella at the Post, who comes down and tells some District cop he knows, on the condition the Post guy and his photographer can tag along when they open up his apartment."

"Locals here consider that it might be premeditated murder?" Neumann asked.

"No sign of forced entry, so the cops presume he knew whoever it was, and Schaumberg was coked to the gills. You figure the Congressman might have had a few people over for a little suck-and-fuck party, but his blowjob technique was so bad they forced enough coke up his nose to kill him?"

"Well, what I-"

"Or maybe it was somebody planning to whack him all along, some guy runs a company that's getting fucked over by the government. Say a boat company that's going out of business 'cause of that new higher luxury tax Schaumberg's been yelling for. 'Stead of sticking a knife in him on the street, the Chairman and the rest of the Board of Directors go up to the Congressman's digs, fuck him and make him blow them before they OD him on coke. So's it won't look like murder. That your idea, hotshot?" Neumann said nothing. This jerk's still mad the Director tagged me to be on the Presidential Task Force instead of him he thought with the part of his brain that wasn't focused on the murder. As if reading his mind, the Chief-ofStation spoke again.

"Hey, that was shitty of me, Alex. Fact of the matter is, locals don't know what to make of it. Nobody saw anyone unusual go in or out of the building. Whoever was with him cleaned the place up pretty good before they left, which isn't too surprising. I did hear they had enough residue lying around to do a good work-up on the coke, though. Good stuff, apparently. 'Better than the Mayor gets' was how B.C. forensics put it. And it won't be the first time one of our esteemed elected officials has stepped on his dick. Had one last month, as a matter of fact, 'cept Congressman Abel liked ghetto hookers, and he liked to pitch instead of catch." Neumann nodded. So Abel's death may be part of this, too.

"If bad things come in threes, I wonder who's the next Congressman we'll find dead with his pecker hanging out," Neumann said.

"We'll see."

"Yeah." Might as well get used to it the FBI man told himself. Things can't get that much worse. Alex Neumann was wrong.

"Good to see you again," the President said, shaking hands. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope it was not a burden for you."

"As one grows old, new tasks become the food of life. Old people with nothing to do wither and die, Mr. President. I am sure you have seen it." He smiled. "I intend to live to be one hundred."

"If I'm still around then, Mr. Mann, I hope you will invite me to the celebration. Please, have a seat." Irwin Mann sat down in a straight-backed chair and waited for the Chief Executive to tell him why he had been summoned.

"As I'm sure you are aware, Mr. Mann, Jewish legislators make up a very small fraction of our legislative body in Washington. One night last month, Congressman Aaron Siteman of New Jersey was beaten to death on a street in Georgetown. There are no suspects in the case, and the motive is unknown. However, in light of the current national situation, it is entirely possible that he was killed because of his voting record on gun legislation."

"He favored more restrictions?"

"Yes. We have checked his record back to the time when he was first elected a State Representative in New Jersey. The only piece of gun control legislation he had ever voted against was eight years ago, when he opposed a measure to institute an instant-check system on gun purchases."

"I see."

"Then, one week later, Arnold Katzenbaum, the retired U.S. Senator from Ohio, was murdered outside his home. Thrown out of a vehicle traveling at high speed. We know for a fact that this killing was related to his record of supporting gun legislation.

"Immediately after Katzenbaum's murder, Congressman Schaumberg very vocally stated that we were facing a Holocaust, that someone or some group was systematically killing off Jewish federal legislators. I insisted he leave Washington for three weeks, to take himself out of the danger zone, and to give the FBI time to solve the murders. I did not, however, follow another suggestion another congressman on the task force made, and solicit your input. And I should have." The President looked pained, but continued.

"Congressman Schaumberg returned to Washington four days ago. Yesterday, his body was found in his apartment. I assume you have seen the newspapers?"

"Yes, I have."

"A month ago, the White House was given a message that made no sense at the time. Now it is obvious that it was a reference to the Congressman's death. We now know beyond doubt that Carl Schaumberg was murdered by the same people who killed Arnold Katzenbaum. Mr. Mann, I want you on the task force."

"Mr. President, I don't know what help I can be to you. And I do not hold the same strong political views as the men who were killed."

"Mr. Mann, that doesn't matter. I'm not supposed to say things like that, but you're too old and I'm too tired for me to use a bunch of Washington doublespeak on you. It's something that would be obvious to anyone who's been around the Capitol for any length of time, so I'll say it straight out: I need to cover my ass.

"I don't expect you or anyone else besides Alex Neumann and his men to solve these killings, that's an FBI matter. But it would be political suicide to announce that there's not a damn thing we can do about these killings of Jewish legislators, beyond what the FBI is already doing. However, if I announce that in response to these horrible murders I have asked the Presidential liaison to the Center f or Holocaust Studies to join the task force, then I look all right." The President smiled.

"This cynical decision is made much easier by the fact that I admire you, Mr. Mann, and I actually think it is possible you will offer some insight that all the others have missed." Irwin Mann sat a tiny bit straighter in his chair.

"I would be proud to accept your offer, Mr. President. I promise I will do everything I can to help this country."

"Now that you have all had a chance to introduce yourselves to Mr. Mann," the President said, "let's get down to business." He scanned the faces of the people on the task force. "Alex, you were talking to me yesterday, and I recall you said that your people do not believe the person behind this is really Wilson Blair. Is that right?"

"That's correct, Mr. President. Too many things have happened which would be virtually impossible for Blair to have arranged."

"Is there anyone at the FBI who disagrees with that assessment?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir."

"Is there any person or any agency represented here who has reason to believe that Wilson Blair is actually the one leading these terrorist attacks?" The President scanned the room, but saw nothing but shaking heads. "All right, then. Dwight, your agency may issue that statement you've been asking for." Best news that guy's had all month Neumann thought.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Greenwell said with feeling. "I would like to call a press conference tomorrow, if I may."

"That will be fine. Now," he said, addressing the rest of the group, "let's review the latest bad news." The President glanced at his notes and started the meeting in earnest.

"Put your bathrobe on. You're about to give me an erection."

"So why are you complaining?" Cindy asked as she sipped the orange juice that Room Service had delivered.

"Bad things have been happening to guys who get erections around you." Cindy began to choke as she unsuccessfully tried to stop laughing.

"It's...it's...not really funny," she gasped, "but...I can't help it. I'm...punchy, I guess." She regained her composure, then stared out the large window that surveyed downtown Atlanta. Finally she looked Henry straight in the eyes. "I'm really horny, too."

"You mentioned that once before, about a week ago, and I pretended not to hear you. I changed the subject. I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing for me to do." He lowered his eyes, slightly abashed. "It's a life affirmation. It happens when you see people die." Henry chewed his toast thoughtfully as he remembered something.

"Back when I was in school in the 'seventies, and parachuting a lot, one weekend I was at the drop zone up in Orange, Massachusetts. Late April, I think it was. It was a beautiful Saturday, sunny and about seventyfive degrees, and there were tons of people there. Must've been a couple hundred. One of the guys had planned a big clambake, and had maybe fifty pounds of clams he'd bought, and they'd been cooking all day. Everybody was invited.

"Well, about three o'clock, one of the instructors, a little Italian guy, he puts out a load of students on static line, and after they're all open okay, he jumps out last. His main 'chute streamers, 'cause he had just bought it and wasn't up on how to pack it right. You're supposed to release your main when something's wrong, and go back into freefall. He didn't. His reserve 'chute had been packed by a licensed rigger, but this instructor had second-guessed the manufacturer and jury-rigged the reserve container with a 'last hope rope', which he had hand sewn to the flap. Supposedly, this was the thing you pulled if your reserve didn't come out. And last of all, the kid had tied the last hope rope to his reserve ripcord, so it would get pulled automatically when he pulled the reserve.

"You can probably guess where this is leading. The reserve release handle snagged a line as the 'chute was coming out, which would have been no problem, except the last hope rope was tied to it, and so it held the whole mess right on top of his pack instead of letting it fly up in the air and open. If all that sounds confusing and unlikely, I agree with you, but it's what the FAA report that came out a couple months later said had happened.

"Anyway, this guy hit the ground at maybe 80 MPH and bounced about four feet in the air, and I know that's true because I saw it. Bill got to him first, in about thirty seconds, after almost running over a couple people with his station wagon, but the kid was obviously dead. So the ambulance came, and Bill got on the loudspeaker and announced there had been a fatality, which everyone already knew, and he closed the airport for the rest of the day. A bunch of the women and a couple of the men there were crying, and no one really knew what to do."

"And all those clams were cooking."

"Yep, all those clams were cooking, and maybe a couple people blew it off and went home, but not very many. The clambake went on as scheduled, and there were a whole lot of people there. And a fair amount of liquor was consumed, but I don't think it was much more than it would have been if nobody had died.

"The weird thing was that people couldn't keep their hands off each other.

Everybody was necking, and feeling each other up, and going off with someone they'd just met. George Goveia would usually end up with someone when he went to a party, but that night he had three different girls. And I'm sure it's true, 'cause it was the three women that told me about it, not George. He always kept his mouth shut, which was one reason he got laid a lot.

"Anyway, Cindy, the point is I think it's some kind of instinctive thing, left over from when there was always the possibility of the race dying off. You're not kinky," Henry assured her. "Well, not that way, at least," he amended.

"That's good to know, because since the two yesterday, sex is all I can think of."

"Then let's go find a titty bar somewhere. That's the breeding ground for foxy bisexuals." "Oh, so you have the same condition?"

"I didn't say that," Henry told her, trying to keep a straight face. "But I'd feel terrible if I let you out of my sight, and something happened to you." Then he grinned.

"We'll see how it goes," Cindy said as she, too, tried to hide her smile. "What's in the newspapers?" "Here's USA Today," Henry said, tossing it to her and turning serious.