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"So the situation boils down to the four of us devising a way to neutralize the President," Oates mused.
"Have you driven past the White House today?" Mercier asked.
Oates shook his head. "No. Why?"
"Looks like an armed camp. The military is crawling over every inch of the grounds. Word has it the President can't be reached by anybody. I doubt even you, Mr. Secretary, could walk past the front door."
Brogan thought a moment. "Dan Fawcett is still on the inside."
"I talked to him over the phone," Mercier said. "He presented his opposition to the President's actions a bit too strongly. I gather he's now persona non grata in the Oval Office."
"We need someone who has the President's trust."
"Oscar Lucas," Emmett said.
"Good thinking," Oates snapped, looking up. "As head of the Secret Service, he's got the run of the place."
"Someone will have to brief Dan and Oscar face to face," Emmett advised.
"I'll handle it," Brogan volunteered.
'You have a plan?" asked Oates.
,: Not off the top of my head, but my people will come up with something."
"Better be good," said Emmett seriously, "if we're to avoid the worst fear of our Founding Fathers."
'And what was that?" asked Oates.
"The unthinkable," replied Emmett. "A dictator in the White House."
LOREN WAS SWEATING. She had never sweated so much in her life.
Her evening gown was damp and plastered against her body like a second skin. The little windowless cell felt like a sauna and it was an effort just to breathe. A toilet and a bunk were her only creature comforts, and a dim bulb attached to the ceiling in a small cage glowed continuously. The ventilators, she was certain, were turned off to increase her discomfort.
When she was brought to the ship's brig, she had seen no sign of the man she thought might be Alan Moran. No food or water had been given to her since the crew locked her up, and hunger pangs were gnawing at her stomach. No one had even visited her, and she began to wonder if Captain Pokofsky meant to keep her in solitary confinement until she wasted away.
At last she decided to abandon her attempt at vanity and removed her clinging dress. She began to do stretching exercises to pass the time.
Suddenly she heard the muted sound of footsteps outside in the passageway. Muffled voices spoke in a brief conversation, and then the door was unlatched and swung open.
Loren snatched her dress off the bunk and held it in front of her, shrinking back into a corner of the cell.
A man ducked his head as he passed through the small doorway.
He was turned out in a cheap business suit that looked to her several decades out of fashion.
"Congresswoman Smith, please forgive the condition I was forced to put you in."
"No, I don't think I will," she said defiantly. "Who are you?"
"My name is Paul Suvorov. I represent the Soviet government."
Contempt flooded into Loren's voice. "Is this an example of the way Communists treat visiting American VIPs?"
"Not under ordinary circumstances, but you gave us no choice."
"Please explain," she demanded, glaring at him.
