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Armbruster said he would wait. He was escorted into the Oval Office and offered coffee. He had almost finished his second cup when David Merritt strode in, looking as fit as always but somewhat irritable.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Clete. What's so urgent? Thanks," he said to the secretary who'd passed him a cup of coffee. "You can leave us alone now."

Clete was impatient by nature. He'd been up since four. He'd dressed and read the Post, killing time until he could call on the President at what he considered a reasonable hour. The long wait had given him time to work up a full head of steam.

He wasted no time. "I want to see my daughter. Today."

"I was told you went to Highpoint yesterday."

"I'm sure you were also told by that quack who passes himself off as a doctor that he refused to let me see her."

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"At her request, Clete. Are you taking your blood pressure medicine? Your face is beet red."

His son-in-law's unflappability raised his blood pressure even higher.

"Listen here, David, I want to know what's wrong with Vanessa. Why the isolation? Why the full-time nurse? If she's that sick, she should be in a hospital."

"Calm down, Clete, before I have to take you to the hospital." Merritt led the senator to a sofa, then sat down beside him. "Vanessa's been drinking.

Alcohol and her medication don't mix well. George and I confronted her about it, and she agreed to get treatment for her dependency."

"Dependency? It's gotten so bad as to classify it as that?"

"Clinically, I doubt it. That was Vanessa's term. But she realized that a few glasses of wine every day could develop into a more serious problem if she didn't stop it now."

"Why didn't she confide in me? Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to tell you," David said. "I wanted to ask your advice, but Vanessa insisted that you not be told."

"Why not?"

"She was ashamed, Clete." Merritt got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. "She didn't want you to be disappointed in her. She thinks the sun rises and sets in you."

"And vice versa. She's always come to me with her problems, and I've fixed them for her."

Vanessa had been only thirteen when her mother died, but Clete hadn't panicked at being left alone to raise his teenage daughter. Vanessa had always been Daddy's girl. He'd doted on her from the day she was born and had wielded more influence over her childhood than had his wife.

Maybe he had spoiled her a little, but he excused his excesses. Some people seemed naturally entitled to pamper-158 Sandra Brown

ing, and Vanessa had always been one of them. In early adulthood, when her disorder was diagnosed, Clete regarded it as even more reason to coddle and protect her.

"Perhaps she felt it was time to start solving her problems herself,"

David said. "Or maybe she didn't want to worry you. In any event, she begged me not to tell you any more than we're telling the public, which of course is the truth. She's dealing with her bereavement in seclusion."

"For how long?"

"For as long as it takes George to get her stabilized. Vanessa feels the same. She wants to be the First Lady she was before she had the baby. Once her medication is regulated, there's no reason she can't be. Hold the thought," he said, forestalling Clete's next comment.

Merritt picked up the remote for the large-screen TV, which had been muted. During their conversation, Clete had noticed that David's attention was divided between him and the screen. He turned to see what had piqued the President's interest.

A reporter, standing against a backdrop of scorched trees, smoking rubble, and working firemen, announced, "The quick response of firefighters prevented the flames from spreading to other residences on this street near Dupont Circle. The fire was confined to only one townhouse." The camera panned the black, smoking remains of a building. "This morning, ATF agents and local fire officials are raking through the smoldering rubble, searching for clues as to the cause of the explosion."

He referred to his notes. "The townhouse was owned by Barrie Travis, a reporter for WVUE, a local, independent television station. Ms. Travis recently won acclaim for producing a feature series on SIDS. It's believed that Ms. Travis survived the explosion, but thus far she's been unavailable for comment."

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He signed off and the anchorman in the studio came on. David muted the TV

as his father-in-law stood up. "I intend to keep hounding her until she sees me."

"Barrie Travis?" David asked sharply.

"Why in hell would I want to see her? Shame about her house, but she's a pain in the butt. Been pestering my office for a statement about Vanessa's seclusion." He made a swatting motion with his hand, signaling his dismissal of the reporter.

"I want to see Vanessa," he stressed. "She should know I'm not going to scold her over a few glasses of wine. She can't help being sick."

"My sentiments exactly, Clete. I pleaded with her not to blame herself for any of this, but you know how Vanessa strives for perfection. She hates catering to the limitations that the manic-depression imposes on her."

Merritt clapped him on the shoulder and ushered him to the door. "I wish we could visit longer, but I've got a slew of appointments this morning.

I'll be speaking with Vanessa by phone this afternoon. I'll give her your love."

"You do that."

The senator had allowed himself to be patted on the back and to be led like a child to the door. But if David Merritt, President of the United States, thought he could placate him with a few banal comments and then ease him out of the Oval Office with his glib talk and guileless smile, he was wrong.

A smiling David Merritt opened the door.

An unsmiling Clete Armbruster shut it.

Merritt looked at him, perplexed. "What is it, Clete?"

"You and me go back a long way, David. I recognize talent and potential when I see it, and in you I saw plenty of both. I didn't want to be president but I wanted to create one. You had the raw material necessary.

You took coaching

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well. You were a fast study in politics. My instincts about you were right, and I couldn't be prouder of you."

"Thanks."

"But I remember one night eighteen years ago when you came to me, scared shitless and whimpering like a pup because you'd fucked up so bad. You remember that night, David my boy?"

"What's your point?" Merritt said tightly.

"The point is," Armbruster said, moving in closer, "that the incident to which I refer bears enough of a resemblance to this one to make me mighty uncomfortable."

"My God, Clete, you can't compare-"

The senator stopped the earnest appeal by thumping his fist into Merritt's chest. "I know your marriage to my daughter isn't perfect. No marriage is.

I know you screw around. Hell, I've even covered for you, because I accept that you are a man first and my son-in-law second. I've tolerated your dalliances because, basically, you've made Vanessa happy." He lowered his voice to a deep growl. "But if you ever make her unhappy, I'm going to be pissed, David. You hear me, boy?"

"Careful, Clete. It sounds as though you're threatening the President of the United States."

"You're goddamn right I am," Armbruster said angrily. "You better remember who put you in this office. I made you, I can break you. I'm not afraid of that slick little shit Spence Martin or his secret army of thugs or anybody else. I have power in this town that you can't imagine. I've cultivated a lot of friends and an equal number of enemies, and I'm holding markers for every one of them."

He paused to give that time to sink in. "Now, son, I want you to tell me that Vanessa is going to be as right as rain when Dr. Allan gets finished with her up there in Highpoint."

"I swear it."

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The senator gave him a long, level look. "You'd better not be lying to me, David. Or you can kiss your pecker and your presidency bye-bye."

Merritt saw his father-in-law out, then wasted no time in booting up his computer and typing in the security code that accessed Spence's laptop.

Nothing. Nothing! Spence's unit was not responding. It had been programmed with several fail-safe backups. There was no explanation for a complete shutdown, unless the laptop had been destroyed. If that was the case, their private communiques would have been destroyed with it, because such a contingency had been built into the program.

But Merritt's chief concern wasn't the computer system. Its inaccessibility was. It was a signal that something had gone drastically wrong. Spence wouldn't have let anything happen to their link-up unless he was out of commission, too. And the only way that was possible was if Gray-

"Gray."

Merritt spoke the name like a epithet. Saint Gray, the one mistake the President owned up to. He'd brought him on board because he'd mistaken Gray's reserve for ruthlessness. Who could have guessed that the man trained to kill instantly with his bare hands would turn out to be valorous? Gray and his code of ethics had been a squeaky cog in an otherwise well-greased wheel.

Gray Bondurant wasn't, however, without flaw. He'd loved another man's wife. His wife.

The probability that Gray was to blame for Spence's failure to report in filled Merritt with dread and rage. Furiously, he typed in a code that accessed a terminal in an innocuous office across town. When he received clearance, he typed a single entry: Bondurant.

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The man on the other end, one of Spence's best secret soldiers, would know what to do. He would go immediately to check out the situation in Wyoming.

There was nothing left for Merritt to do but sit back and wait for word.

No, actually there was more he could do. He asked his secretary to place a call to the office of the director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

After exchanging pleasantries, Merritt asked, "What have your boys uncovered about that explosion in Dupont Circle last night?"

He could tell that the director was puzzled by his interest, but the man answered directly. "We've just begun our investigation, Mr. President. At this point, the cause is anybody's guess."

"Barrie Travis is a close friend of Mrs. Merritt's. This explosion has my wife feeling very anxious, and frankly, the First Lady doesn't need any more stress. I promised I would call and inquire. I hate to bother you, but you know how it is."

Sounding less guarded, the director said, "Of course, Mr. President, I understand. Please assure Mrs. Merritt that we're on top of the situation."

"And you'll have closure on it as soon as possible?"

"I'll make it a priority, Mr. President."

"Mrs. Merritt and I will appreciate that. By the way, has anyone spoken to Miss Travis this morning? What's her state of mind?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. No one's seen her since the explosion.

Witnesses who saw her immediately afterward said she was extremely upset.

Her dog was killed in the blast."

"Hmm. Terrible. Well, keep me posted."

"Of course, Mr. President."

Merritt hung up, but his mind was no more at ease than it had been before the call. Spence would have made certain

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that the explosion couldn't be traced to the White House. Even so, it would be best if the investigation was limited to a perfunctory level.

This was indeed a vexing morning.

Merritt wasn't worried about his father-in-law's threats. The senator wasn't nearly as fearsome as he prided himself on being. Most of the friends and enemies he'd boasted of were either retired, dead, or too deep into their dotage to rain destruction on a popular president.

Besides, the senator couldn't create a shit storm around the President without getting plenty slung onto himself. Clete shared the skeleton in his closet. Regardless of his threats, he wasn't about to open the door of that closet and start rattling bones.

But he would continue pestering him about Vanessa until he was satisfied that she was doing well. Something had to be done to assuage his concern.

Later today, he would consult Spence-

He swore out loud. There were several items demanding Spence's attention.

Where the hell is he?

Although in his gut he knew, David couldn't bring himself to accept the obvious.

".7've never been thrilled with the guy, but I'm still having trouble believing he could do that."

"He could do it. Easily."

"Who could do what easily?" Barrie asked, entering Daily's kitchen, where he and Gray Bondurant were having coffee. She poured herself a cup and joined them at the table. She avoided looking Bondurant in the eye. As he'd predicted, she had slept well.

After exchanging good mornings, Daily answered, "Gray was convincing me that our president is capable of committing murder."

"I have no proof of what I'm about to tell you," Gray said. "You might think I'm delusional, or paranoid, or a downright liar."

"Or we might believe you," Barrie said. He turned his head and, for the first time that morning, their eyes met. Her tummy went weightless.

Quickly, she returned her attention to stirring creamer into her coffee.

"Well, let's hear it," Daily said.

"David appointed me to organize and command the recons that rescued those hostages. There was a reason."

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"You were eminently qualified?"

"So were a lot of other men. But he sent me over there to die."

"Because of the gossip linking Vanessa and you?" Barrie asked.

"Yes."

He paused for a few moments, as if collecting his memories. "I chose thirty men. The best recons the Marines had to offer. These young guys could creep up on you and pluck out an eyelash and you'd never know they were there.

"We were flown in by helicopter from a carrier in the Persian Gulf. A squadron of F-16s created a diversion and took heat so we could be dropped in. We walked three miles into the city. I can't describe the stench.