"If by psychiatric you mean a disease of some sort—a spontaneous malfunction in his brain—his problems are not psychiatric at all."

"But—"

Even through the gloom, Gabe could see the intensity glowing in Ferendelli's eyes.

"President Stoddard is not insane," Ferendelli said. "He's being poisoned, dosed with a psychoactive drug—no, no, make that a number of psychoactive drugs."

"I wondered about that when I witnessed one of his episodes," Gabe said, "so I drew some blood for analysis. But the tubes were stolen from the refrigerator in our office."

"Stolen? Do you know by whom?"

"No. Do you?"

"I have some ideas."

"Dr. Ferendelli—Jim—are you all right right now? I mean are you ill?"

"I have not slept for more than two hours at a time in weeks. I'm in as much danger as the president is. They could kill me just as they could kill him, with . . . with the push of a button." Ferendelli looked furtively about. "Are you sure you weren't followed?"

Something about the question was bothersome to Gabe, but he could not discern precisely what.

"No, I'm not sure that I wasn't followed," he said. "I told you that. Listen, I have a car right over there. Let me take you to a hospital or . . . or to my place."

"Just talk to me," Ferendelli said. "Talk to me and listen to me. They've poisoned me, Doctor. Just like the president, they've poisoned me. I haven't come in because I don't know precisely who they are, and I haven't run because I owe it to my president and the country not to."

"Is your daughter all right?"

"Yes. She's fine as far as I know. When all of this began to happen, I feared they might use her to get at me, so I had her go away to stay with friends. So long as she stays where she is, no one will find her. Now please, listen to me."

"I'll listen, Dr. Ferendelli, but try to stay focused. Who're they? Is one of them Lily Sexton?"

Mention of the woman's name hit Ferendelli like a sucker punch. For some time he said nothing. When he finally did speak, there was a noticeable tremor in his voice.

"I pray, sir, that you have had no contact with that woman."

"I'll tell you of my connection with her when you finish. Please, Jim, please. From the beginning?"

"Oh, this is bad," Ferendelli said. "Very bad. You've seen her, haven't you—been with her?"

"I have. But please, compose yourself and tell me what's been going on."

Inventor, physician, artist, intellectual. The Renaissance man Gabe had heard so much about was a nervous shell.

As if reading Gabe's thoughts, Ferendelli took a calming breath.