“Through your treatment?” Uncle Bob wheezed up at her.

  The paramedic turned to Alex. “He’s okay if he makes lame jokes. And that was lame, Uncle Bob, real lame. But you’re going to owe me a souffle, at least.”

  “At least. Have ‘em check the cake.” Uncle Bob closed his eyes and exhaled.

  “He’s resting easy, don’t worry,” said the paramedic. “He’s saying silly things, but his vitals are stable. He’s lost a lot of blood, but we’re getting it replaced as fast as we can. Get him to Bethesda and he’ll be fine. And Mr. President, you’re pretty lucky, yourself. It looks like Uncle Bob here forced himself to stay conscious, just so he could warn you.”

  Alex nodded. “It does, at that. I hope he lives so I can give him a medal.”

  They had the unconscious man on the gurney now. The President, John, Cap, and what Alex thought of as the original cast of World War Two followed the paramedics out to where they could watch Uncle Bob being loaded onto Marine One and whisked away. There was nothing in the world, Alex realized again, like the high-pitched keening of a helicopter’s turbines, and the pounding of the rotors through the night air were like the beating of a giant’s heart.

  They went back to the kitchen—Cap excused himself to make some investigative phonecalls—to watch the forensic people going over the room. The body would remain here for a little while longer. City police had been notified and their detectives were going through security now.

  November 5, 2010, Alex thought. Twenty-three months in office. And this was the third—no, make that the fourth—violent assault on his household in two and a half years, counting what Chip had done to Dana, later to Alex himself, and then the banquet attempt in June. Alex meant to get to the bottom of it.

  “He wasn’t saying silly things—look at that.” John pointed to a worktable in the corner. On a plate lay a small chocolate torte of a kind that Alex liked very much, and which Uncle Bob occasionally made for him. Apparently it had just been iced, because a bowl of frosting and the used tools were still lying there. There was also a glass or plastic vial about the size of an AA battery, filled with an oily-looking yellow fluid.

  “My guess?” John answered the unasked question. “Uncle Bob got done and stepped away for a minute. This guy tried to poison the cake and got caught.”

  Alex nodded, suppressing a cold internal chill and a shudder. “Doesn’t rycin look like that?”

  John raised his eyebrows. “The stuff the commies used to kill that Bulgarian freedom broadcaster in London in the 60s? If it is rycin, there’s enough in there to wipe out the whole District of Columbia!”

  “Let me know what’s in the vial, and what fingerprints are on the outside.”

  “You got it, Boss,” said John. He paused and glanced down at the PDA he held in his left hand. “It’s Cap. We have some information on the dead cook, now. He was one of several extra hands the White House took on when the you were originally inaugurated, and was cleared by the FBI and the Secret Service. He worked out so well that they kept him on after that. According to Bob Anson’s wife, he liked the new kid very much and even took him home to Thanksgiving dinner with my family.”

  Alex shuddered.

  “Unfortunately,” John went on, the person he said he was—and a copy of whose birth certificate he used to get a Social Security number—actually died 25 years ago at the age of 18 months and was buried in El Paso, Texas.”

  “Makes sense,” said the President.

  John wasn’t through. “You do realize that every ounce of food in this place is going to be thrown out and the kitchen scoured for poisons, don’t you? Until it’s done, we’re all going to end up eating Scottish food.”

  Alex blinked. “Scottish food? Like haggis? Why?”

  “No, Scottish food, like McDonald’s. I could use a Big Mac right now.”

  Alex nodded. So could he.

  ***

  Elsewhere in the city, the Democratic leader of the Senate sat up in his bed, pointed the remote control at the TV set across the room, and turned it off. So that was why his Republican counterpart had refused to have anything to do with the most recent attempt to impeach the President. Why bother, when you have a method in mind that’s much more direct?

  Of course they were Republicans. They’d bungled it again, getting their own agent killed in the process and injuring some kind of White House menial, but then you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, he quoted Mussolini (or whoever it was) to himself, and it’s the thought that counts.

  The Senator grinned, settled into his pillows, and turned off the light.

  ***

  Meanwhile, in rural Maryland, the Republican leader of the United States Senate turned to his wife, beside him in bed, reading a romance novel. “Well, my dear,” he said, “I guess the Democrats gave up on that impeachment idea of theirs, after all, and cut straight to the chase. Very messy.”

  “Is that so?” his wife said, ignoring him.

  “It sure is. I’d feel responsible—for turning ‘em down, you see—but they’re such blithering incompetents, it’s almost fun to watch ‘em work!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: NORAH YASSER

  “The perfect is the enemy of the good”, you say? I say that if nobody ever insisted on the perfect, there’d never be any good.—Alexander Hope.Looking Forward

  Relax, Forrey,” said the President. “I didn’t ask you here to chew you

  out. You’re doing such a swell job as this Administration’s ambassador

  of good will, I have a new and challenging assignment for you.”

  Standing at a sort of parade-rest in front of the large, circular table, Nadalindov gulped back his anger and humiliation. “New and challenging?”

  Dressed in t-shirt and jeans and a faded levi jacket that he hadn’t worn since before the 2008 FLPA convention, Alex leaned back against the fake leather upholstery in the booth he occupied, one eye on a TV monitor hanging from the ceiling nearby. Somewhere in the world they were playing baseball tonight, instead of politics. He didn’t care who it was or where they were, he just wanted to get this over with and watch.

  “That’s right, Forrey,” he informed the Vice President. “New. And challenging.”

  Handmade stained glass lamps hung low on chains over every table. There were ski poles, baseball bats, and tennis rackets along the walls, up near the ceiling, pictures of sports and movie celebrities, and a cheerful young woman was going from table to table making balloon animals for the children. The Muzak was playing eviscerated renditions of Bob Dylan protest songs. The Vice President looked about desperately for a chair to drag up to the table, but the loose chairs all seemed to be taken by Secret Service agents in shockingly informal attire—for them.

  They’d taken their ties off.

  He couldn’t sit in the booth with the President. One end of the big circular bench was occupied by Agent Smith, wearing Dockers, Hush Puppies, and a crisp blue buttoned-down office shirt—no tie—under a sportscoat at least a decade out of style. Looking very uncomfortable while he did it, he was pretending to be sipping at a glass of iced tea.

  The other end was taken up by John Pondoro who looked natural and comfortable in his worn bluejeans, cowboy boots, and colorful western shirt. The tall amber beer before him on the table hadn’t been touched yet. Nadalindov noticed he had a big hand inside his African-style bush jacket. The whole thing felt horribly to Nadalindov like a scene from The Godfather.

  Cap Pondoro sat away from everybody else in the Presidential party, at the oval bar in the center of the room, pretending to be a civilian. He wore a Hawaiian shirt. In front of him was a drink with a little paper parasol in itt.

  He stood, instead. “Mr. President, I’ve been to the Isle of Skye as your representative, and every other postage stamp-sized island in the world. I’ve been to every village within a stone’s throw of the Arctic Circle and milked reindeer with Laplanders, Samoyeds, and Siberians. I’ve climbed Mount Kenya and Mount Kilimanjaro, visited Madagascar, toured ancient ruins on Sri Lanka, Edmund Hillary’s base camp near Everest, and the Krakatoa crater. I’ve had 589 inoculations since I was sworn in—589!—and had to take long, painful cures anyway, for at least three dozen diseases there aren’t any innoculations for! I’ve been to Borneo! What American Vice President has ever been to Borneo?”

  Alex grinned and nodded reassuringly at the man. Dinner hadn’t been ordered yet. He had a tall Coca-Cola in front of him, but wished it was one of the wonderful “Perfect Margaritas” the restaurant chain was famous for.

  “You’re certainly the first, as far as I know, Forrey, and let me tell you, you’re doing a great job! But as I say, now you can relax. All I want you to do now is go down and pay our American scientific research stations in Antarctica a visit. Spend a few weeks there, and let our lonely scientists know what a great job I think they’re doing, too.”

  Nadalindov blanched. “A few weeks—“

  “Play baseball, Forrey.” the President told him, gesturing toward a bat and ball and fielder’s glove that had been stapled to the wall. “I hear that baseball’s very big down there. When the weather’s warm enough and the sun is shining—24 hours a day, right now, seven days a week—and there’s no wind, they play shirts and skins, right out there on the ice. I saw it myself once, Forrey, in a Walt Disney documentary.”

  The Vice President stood silently for a moment, breathing, with his eyes closed, and his fists lightly clenched at his sides. Then: “Mr. President, on my left ankle I have scars from a snakebite I got in South Africa. A black mamba. Or a krait—opinions vary. They tell me I’m lucky to be alive, in any case; another eight seconds and I wouldn’t be. I had surgery last September on my right elbow where a crocodile bit it in Mali—that’s in Africa, too. I have fingernail scars down the back of my neck from an overly affectionate chimpanzee—more shots! And I was very nearly mauled by a big yellow tiger in Vietnam!”

  “Well, then, there you are,” said the President. “I said you could relax. There isn’t any dangerous wildlife in Antarctica. There isn’t any wildlife at all—the men complain about it—excepting for the odd penguin.”

  The Vice President crossed his arms stiffly and took a rebellious stance. Alex could see that the man’s elbow and neck still hurt him. “And you know what, Mr. President? There isn’t any Forrey Nadalindov in Antarctica, either, and there never will be! Because I’m not going!”

  Alex looked to Agent Smith, and then to John, who gravely winked an eye at him. “That’s fine, Forrey, just fine. Of course I’ll expect your letter of resignation on my desk, the very first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “What?” Nadalindov was taken aback.

  “You heard me, Forrey, you’re through. You could have had a part in accomplishing everything that you’ve ever claimed you’ve wanted to accomplish all of your adult life. Number two position in the first libertarian Presidential administration? You might have wound up being President, yourself—although I personally doubt it. Instead, you wasted my precious time, and your own, trying to sabotage my efforts and backstabbing me in the media. Now you’ve refused a direct order from your Commander-in-Chief, and it’s over at last. Get out of my sight.”

  Nadalindov’s face was raw with anger. “I warn you, the FLPA won’t be happy about—“

  Alex chuckled. John grinned ruefully, looked down at the table, and shook his head. Even Agent Smith surprised himself, emitting a tiny snicker and then covering his mouth. “I guess that’s just a chance I’ll have to take. Goodbye, Forrey.”

  The man turned on his heel, stamped past a dozen “undercover” Secret Service agents, and out of the restaurant. Dana, Faith-Anne, and Linda returned from the ladies’ room, where they’d gone for tactical reasons, rather than biological ones, when the Vice President had arrived. They were just in time to see Nadalindov push the door at the entry out of his way and step through it.

  John and Agent Smith got up politely to let the ladies into the booth, Faith-Anne and Linda to the President’s right, Dana to his left. She loved this restaurant chain, she’d confessed, mostly because many of them had carousel ponies built into arches that partitioned it. She took Alex’s arm, cuddled close, and laid her face on his shoulder.

  “He didn’t want to go to Antarctica?” She asked with imitation cuteness.

  Alex shook his head grimly, but said nothing.

  “He’s going to resign?” Faith-Anne asked, batting her eyelashes.

  Alex nodded the affirmative grimly, but said nothing.

  Linda began, “So—“

  Alex held a hand up, stopping her. “Congresswoman Alvarez, if you have no objection, I’m going to appoint you Vice President in his place.”

  A smile flashed on her face, switched off suddenly by a thought. “I’m sorry, Alex, the Senate will never agree. Don’t you remember in 2001, when I—“

  Dana reached across the table, past Alex and Faith-Anne, and put her graceful, gentle hand on Linda’s. “But this time, Madame Future Vice President—and unlike last time—you’ll have a President behind you who actually has measurable testosterone in his endocrine system.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Alex. “Somebody get Cap over here. Shall we order dinner? I’m starving!”

  ***

  Meanwhile, as far away as they could be from the President and his companions—and still be in the restaurant—a well-dressed and highly attractive couple sat together in a small, dimly-lit booth for two.

  He was a senior columnist for the Washingtom Post. She was an anchorwoman for CNN’s Washington Bureau. Both of them were married—but not to each other. Nevertheless they sat together holding hands, sipping their Perfect Margaritas, and greatly enjoying each other’s company.

  They’d chosen this particular restaurant in an out-of-the way Virginia suburb, because they’d calculated that no one important enough to do them any damage could possibly see them here, in this aggressively middle-class establishment. Of course they’d known that the President and all of his senior staffers would be eating out of the White House for a couple of days, but they’d never dreamed that it would be here, instead of at some elegant downtown DC hotel dining room.

  Now, despite their romantic (if illicit) assignation, all their instincts as news people—and political animals—had been piqued. They’d seen the Vice President come and go, and now they saw Linda Alvarez.

  What did it all mean?

  They looked at each other, their eyes meeting in a predatory flash that they were both astonished—and delighted—to discover was vastly more stimulating than alcohol, candlelight, and flowers. Both of them wondered what they should do about seeing the President. If they reported it, gave it the weight they should, it would end their marriages.

  They each whipped out a cell phone. “Let’s do it!” she said. “I think the angle I’m going to take is to praise Hope for his common touch.”

  “You’re right. We’ll share the by-line,” he agreed.

  “My name first,” she insisted.

  ***

  The setting was a small convention meeting room in one of the less expensive Washington hotels, decorated in a gray-green pastel plastic wall covering and ropy indoor-outdoor carpet on the floor. Hanging on the wall behind the speaker were an American flag and the stylized figure of the Statue of Liberty, silkscreened in yellow on a Navy blue banner.

  Not surprisingly, given the circumstances, many more than just the usual NetPlanetNews.com, DrudgeReport, and WorldNetDaily cameras had shown up. FoxNews was present, as well as CNN, MSNBC, NBC, CBS, and ABC. They’d been told more or less what was coming and many of them relished it.

  The speaker, the same thin, middle-aged woman who had criticized the President for moving too fast—to implement the policies and principles it was assumed by everyone she agreed with—stood behind a cheap folding table covered with a coarse white tablecloth supplied by the hotel. The portable lectern before her was emblazoned with the same Statue of Liberty graphic as the one displayed on the banner behind her.

  “My name is Norah Yasser,” she told the microphones and cameras pointed at her. Her voice was nervous. Still camera shutters clicked, as well, and automatic winders whirred. “It’s possible you remember that I’m the National Chairperson of The Free Libertarian Party of America.”

  She took up a condensation-beaded plastic carafe of ice water beside the lectern, poured herself a glass, drank a little, and set it down.

  “I’m speaking with you today because, responding to the forced resignation of Vice President Forrey Nadalindov late last night, at his request, the National Committee of the Free Libertarian Party of America met this morning in an emergency session at their headquarters in the Watergate office complex, to formally withdraw the 2008 Free Libertarian Party of America’s presidential nomination of Alexander Hope.”

  There was a small stir in the room, but no reaction of any kind of astonishment.

  “That nomination was, of course, Hope’s first step on the way to the White House. Without it, he never would have become President. We of the Free Libertarian Party of America believe that because that nomination has now been withdrawn, Hope has a real and absolute moral obligation to step down in favor, not of Congresswoman Linda Alvarez, whom he has illegally named as his “interim Vice President”, but of the duly-elected genuine people’s choice as Vice President, Forrey Nadalindov.”

  “Ms. Yasser!”

  “Ms. Yasser!”

  “Ms. Yasser!”

  A dozen voices shouted at once. The Chairperson let them shout, took another badly-needed drink of water, and then indicated one of them.

  “Pritchard Evans-Evans, Ms. Yasser, London Daily Telescope. Isn’t it fair to say that President Hope has accomplished nearly everything any libertarian would want him to accomplish in his first term?”

  “Yes, but—“

  “Hasn’t he established presidential commissions to terminate what he terms ‘the unconstitutional campaign of terror’ waged by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, for example, which he says should never have existed in a country with a Second, Ninth, and Tenth Amendment?”