His face wore a chalky pallor and his voice was cold with fury.

"Twenty-one murders. And for what purpose? Where is the motive?

Is the President dead or alive? If this is a grand extortion scheme, why haven't we received a ransom demand?"

Metcalf, Dan Fawcett and Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons sat in silence in front of Oates's desk.

"We can't sit on this thing much longer," Oates continued. "Any minute now the news media will become suspicious and stampede into an investigation. Already they're grousing because no presidential interviews have been granted. Press Secretary Thompson has run out of excuses."

"Why not have the President face the press?" Fawcett suggested.

Oates looked dubious. "That actor-what's his name-Sutton?

He would never get away with it."

"Not up close on a podium under a battery of lights, but in a setting under shadows at a distance of a hundred feet . . . Well, it might work."

"You got something in mind?" Oates asked.

"We stage a photo opportunity to enhance the President's image.

It's done all the time."

"Like Carter playing softball and Reagan chopping wood," said Oates thoughtfully. "I think I see a down-home scene on the President's farm."

"Complete with crowing roosters and bleating sheep," allowed Fawcett.

"And Vice President Margolin? Our double for him can't be faked in shadows at a hundred feet."

"A few references by Sutton and a friendly wave by the double at a distance should suffice," Fawcett answered, becoming more enthusiastic over his brainstorm.

Simmons gazed steadily at Fawcett. "How soon can you have everyone ready?"

"First thing in the morning. Dawn, as a matter of fact.

Reporters are night owls. They hang around waiting for late news to break, They're not at their best before sun up."

Oates looked at Metcalf and Simmons. "well, what do you think?"

We've got to throw the reporters a bone before they become hored and start snooping," answered Simmons. "I vote yes."

Metcalf nodded. "The only stalling tactic we've got.

Fawcett came to his feet and peered at his watch. "If I leave for Andrews Air Force Base now, I should arrive at the farm in four hours.

Plenty of time to arrange the details with Thompson and make an announcement to the press corps."

Fawcett's hand froze on the doorknob as Oates's voice cut across the room like a bayonet.

"Don't bungle it, Dan. For God's sake, don't bungle it."

VLADIMIR POLEVOI CAUGHT up with Antonov as the Soviet leader strolled beneath the outer Kremlin wall with his bodyguards. They were moving past the burial area where heroes of the Soviet Union were interred. The weather was unusually warm and Antonov carried his coat over one arm.

"Taking advantage of the fine summer day?" ?" Polevoi asked conversationally as he approached. Antonov turned. He was young for a Russian head of state, sixty-two, and he walked with a brisk step.

"Too pleasant to waste behind a desk," he said with a curt nod.