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"No way I'm going to take a fall for a bunch of politicians."
Sutton's eyes began to take on a greedy gleam. "A guy could make thousands, maybe a few million out of this."
Thompson looked at him. "How?"
"Interviews, articles, and there's book rights royalties-the possibilities for making a bundle are endless."
"And you think you're going to walk out of here and tell all."
"Why not?" said Sutton. "Who's going to stop me?"
It was Thompson's turn to smile. "You haven't been told the reasons behind your employment. You have no idea how vital your little act is to our country's interests."
"So who cares?" Sutton said indifferently.
"You may not believe it, Mr. Sutton, but there are many decent people in our government who are genuinely concerned about its welfare.
They will never allow you to endanger it by speaking your piece for profit."
"How can those egomaniacs who run the fun house in Washington hurt me? Slap my hand? Draft me into a volunteer army at age sixty-two?
Turn me over to the Internal Revenue Service? No sweat on that score.
I get audited every year anyway."
"Nothing so mundane," said Thompson. "You will simply be taken out."
'What do you mean, taken out?" demanded Sutton.
"Perhaps I should have said 'disappear,"' Thompson replied, delighting in the realization that grew in Sutton's eyes. "It goes without saying your body will never be recovered."
Fawcett FELT NO ENTHUSIASM for the day ahead. As he scraped the beard from his chin, he occasionally glanced at the stack of newspapers spilling off the bathroom sink. Mayo's story made front page news across every morning edition in the nation. Suddenly the press began to ask why the President hadn't been reachable for ten days. Half the editorial columns demanded he step forward and make a statement. The other half asked the question "Where is the real President?"
Wiping the remaining lather away with a towel and slapping his face with a mild after-shave lotion, Fawcett decided his best approach was to play the Washington enigma game and remain silent. He would cover his personal territory, slide artfully into the background and gracefully permit Secretary Oates to carry the brunt of the media onslaught.
Time had slipped from days to a few hours. Soon only minutes would be left. The inner sanctum could stall no longer.
Fawcett couldn't begin to predict the complications that would arise from the announcement of the abduction. No crime against the government had ever approached this magnitude.
His only conviction was that the great perpetuating bureaucracy would continue to somehow function. The power elite were the ones who were swept in and swept out by the whim of the voters.
But the institution endured.
He was determined to do everything within his shrinking realm of influence to make the next President transition as painless as possible. With luck, he might even save his job.
He put on a dark suit, left the house and drove to his office, dreading every mile. Oscar Lucas and Alan Mercier were waiting for him as he entered the West Wing.
"Looks grim" was all Lucas said.
"Someone has to make a statement," said Mercier, whose face looked like it belonged in a coffin.
"Anybody I know draw the short straw?" asked Fawcett.
"Doug Oates thought you'd be the best man to hold a press conference and announce the kidnapping."
"What about the rest of the Cabinet?" Fawcett asked incredulously.
"They concurred."
