"In that case," Lucas said, "it might be wise to hold the meeting someplace besides the Situation Room. The press constantly monitor the White House. They'd be on us like locusts if the heads of state suddenly converged there at this time of morning.

Sound thinking," Greenwald replied. He paused a moment, then said, "Make it the Observatory."

"The Vice President's residence?"

"Press cars are almost never in evidence there."

"I'll have everyone on the premises as soon as possible."

"Oscar?"

"Yes."

"Very briefly, what happened?"

There was a slight hesitation and then Lucas said, "They all vanished from the presidential yacht."

"I see," said Greenwald heavily, but it was clear he didn't.

Greenwald wasted no more time on talk. He hung up and hurriedly dressed. On the drive to the Observatory his stomach twisted into knots, a delayed reaction to the catastrophic news. His vision blurred and he fought off an overwhelming urge to vomit.

He drove in a mental haze through the deserted streets of the capital. Except for an occasional delivery truck, traffic was nearly nonexistent and most of the traffic signals were simply blinking on a cautious yellow.

Too late he saw a city streetsweeper make a sudden U-turn from the right-hand gutter. His windshield was abruptly filled with the bulky white-painted vehicle. In the cab the driver jumped sideways at the protesting scream of tires, his eyes wine in the glare of Greenwald's headlights.

There was a metal-tearing crunch and the splash of flying glass.

The hood bent double, flew up, and the steering wheel rammed into Greenwald's chest, crushing his rib cage.

Greenwald sat pinned to the seat as the water from the mangled radiator hissed and steamed over the car's engine. His eyes were open as though staring in vague iindifference at the abstract cracks on the shattered windshield.

Oscar Lucas stood in front of the corner fireplace in the living room of the Vice President's mansion and described the presidential kidnapping. Every few seconds he glanced nervously at his watch, wondering what was keeping Greenwald. The five Men seated around the room listened to him in undisguised astonishment.

Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons clamped his teeth on the stem of an unlit meerschaum pipe. He was dressed casually in a summer sportcoat and slacks, as was Dan Fawcett and National Security Adviser Alan Mercier. Army General Clayton Metcalf was in uniform, while Douglas Oates, the Secretary of State, sat fastiniously groomed in a dark suit and necktie.

Lucas came to the end of his briefing and waited for the barrage of questions he was certain would be fired. Instead, there was a prolonged hush. They just sat there, numb and immobile.

Oates was the first to break the stunned silence. "Good Lord!" he gasped. "How could such a thing happen? How could everyone on the yacht simply evaporate into thin air?"

"We don't know," Lucas answered helplessly. "I haven't ordered an investigating team to the site yet for obvious security reasons.