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And, of course, Brogan of CIA must be called in to check out the international conspiracy angle."
"You've just touched on an ungodly thought, General," said Simmons.
"Sir?"
"Suppose the President and the rest have already been spirited out of the country?"
Simmons' speculation brought no immediate response. It was a grim possibility none of them had dared consider. With the President beyond reach of their vast internal resources, their investigative effectiveness would be cut by 80 percent.
"They could also be dead," Oates said in a controlled voice. "But we'll operate on the premise they're alive and held somewhere in the United States."
"Lucas and I will brief Emmett and Brogan," Fawcett volunteered.
There was a knock on the door. A Secret Service agent entered, walked over to Lucas and spoke softly in his ear. Lucas' eyebrows arched upward and he paled slightly. Then the agent retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.
Oates stared at Lucas questioningly. "A new development, Oscar?"
"Ben Greenwald," Lucas answered vacantly. "He wa
s killed thirty minutes ago. His car struck a city maintenance vehicle."
Oates wasted no words of sympathy. "With the powers temporarily vested in me, I name you as the new Director of the Secret Service."
Lucas visibly recoiled. "No, please, I don't think I can-"
"Doesn't make sense to select somebody else," Oates interrupted him.
"Like it or not, Oscar, you're the only man who can be named for the job."
"Somehow it doesn't seem right to be promoted for losing the men I'm sworn to protect," said Lucas dejectedly.
"Blame me," said Fawcett. "I forced the yacht cruise on you before your people were fully prepared."
"There's no time for self-recrimination," Oates said sharply. "We each have our jobs cut out for us. I suggest we get to work."
"When should we meet again?" Simmons asked.
Oates looked at his watch. "Four hours from now," he replied.
"The White House Situation Room."
"We're flirting with exposure if everyone shows up at the same time," said Fawcett.
"There's an underground utility tunnel running from the basement of the Treasury building beneath the street to the White House," Lucas explained. "Perhaps some of you gentlemen could enter unseen from that direction."
"Good idea," Metcalf agreed. "We can arrive at the Treasury building in unmarked government cars, cross under the street through the tunnel and take the elevator to the Situation Room."
"That settles it then," Oates said, rising from his chair. "If any of you ever dreamed of going on the stage, this is your big chance.
And I don't have to tell you, if the show's a flop, we just may bring down the whole country along with the curtain."
AFTER the brisk weather OF ALASKA, the hot, humin atmosphere of South Carolina felt like the inside of a sauna. Pitt made a phone call and then rented a car at the Charleston airport. He drove south on Highway 52 toward the city and took the turnoff for the sprawling naval base.
About a mile after turning right on Spruill Avenue, he came to a large red brick building with an ancient rusting sign perched on the roof advertising the Alhambra Iron and Boiler Company.
He parked the car and walked under a high iron archway with the date 1861 suspended on a panel. The reception area took him by surprise. The furnishings were ultramodern. Chrome was everywhere.
He felt as though he'd walked onto a photo layout from Architectural Digest.
