The field remained deserted. There was no movement that Gabe could discern anywhere underneath the bridge. He wondered what he would do if Ferendelli failed to show. Perhaps he would pay a visit to Lily Sexton and offer to set her broken shoulder without anesthesia should she hold out on him anymore.

It seemed as if Ferendelli had carefully chosen the photograph in the medical office to ensure that Gabe would know with certainty that the meeting was with him. Still, Gabe was regrettably learning not to trust anything or anybody when it came to the president.

Careful to keep the interior light from going on and wondering if he had been unwise not to bring along a blunt weapon of some sort, Gabe locked the Buick, left it, and headed across the field toward the blackness beneath the bridge. Overhead, the whoosh of passing cars grew louder as he approached. Headlights flashed by. From his left, the scent of the river grew stronger.

As he neared the bridge, he suddenly found himself picturing the desert, and Condor at a full gallop, bearing him effortlessly across the parched ground, toward a burnt orange setting sun.

Soon, he thought. Soon it will be over.

The field itself seemed to be in excellent shape and reasonably free of debris, but the underside of the Benning Street Bridge smelled of stale beer, river muck, and urine. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. Gabe stepped into the dense shadow just under the edge of the bridge. Then he turned toward the field and waited for the man he had succeeded in the White House—the Renaissance man who many felt was dead.

"I have a gun," a soft, cultured voice said from behind him. "Lift your hands where I can see them. Don't turn around. What's your name?"

"Singleton. Dr. Gabe Singleton."

"How do you get up to the residence from the office?"

"The elevator across the hall."

"Could you have been followed?"

"I didn't see anyone, but I didn't take any special evasive precautions, either."

"You should have."

"I'm sorry."

"Walk over there to that support. Keep your hands up."

Gabe did as he was ordered.

"Turn around slowly with your hands up."

Again, Gabe did as he was asked. The gaunt, unshaven man confronting him carried no gun. Instead, he extended his bony hand and gripped Gabe's with surprising force. His hair was unkempt, and at that moment he looked considerably older than fifty-six—the age Gabe had read in his personnel file. What Gabe could discern of his expression was grim. He was jittery and badly in need of a shower. His tension was nearly palpable.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to find that you are alive, Dr. Ferendelli," he said.

"We are in a crisis of immense proportions, Dr. Singleton. Our president is under attack. His life is in danger every day."

"Then his psychiatric breaks are—"