"More importantly, he wants to go."

"Can the decision wait for twenty minutes?"

"Not too much longer than that. Our advance teams are on the way to Baltimore just in case we get the green light from you, but there are some other logistical problems that need to be worked out."

Gabe glanced down at his wrists, half-expecting to see the strings of a marionette.

"In that case," he said, "give me time for a quick shower and I'll be right over. I'll decide for certain after I have seen him."

"That's all we can ask for. You're in charge, Doc. You're always in charge."

"Yeah, thanks, that's good to be reminded of."

"A car will be waiting for you outside the main entrance."

"Magnus, tell me something."

"Yes?"

"That car—where is it right now?"

There was just enough hesitation so that Gabe knew the chief of staff was deciding if there was anything to lose by telling the truth.

"The car. . . . Yes. . . . Well, actually, the car is waiting out in front of the Watergate right now."

"Thanks. It looks like I'm going to have to work at being a little less predictable," Gabe said.

He set down the receiver wondering if any of those ill-fated cows being herded down the chute in his dream had looked like him.

"Three sets of forty, Gabe. That's a hundred and twenty push-ups. Do you think the President of North Korea can do a hundred and twenty pushups?"

"How old is he?"

"I don't know, maybe eighty."

"I think you've probably got him. Drew, believe me, I'd be the happiest man alive if all the world's political problems could be solved by which country's leader could do the most push-ups. I'm going to look inside your eyes again. Pick a spot over there on the wall and just stare at it."

"Dilates the pupils, right?"

"You got it. Good. Looks fine in there. Now, touch my finger with your right index finger, then touch your nose. Do it five times fast. Okay, now the left index finger. . . . Good. . . ."

The president, sitting beside his bed, looking boyish and utterly fit, submitted to a physical and neurological examination. Nothing amiss. Absolutely nothing. Gabe tried once again to match the frightening display he had witnessed here thirty-six hours ago with any specific diagnoses—a frantic, manic, disoriented, hallucinating, hyperactive episode with cardiovascular acceleration that had come about with little warning and resolved after a couple of hours without apparent residual effects. MRI negative, CT scan normal—at least according to the coded records at Bethesda Naval. Blood work normal, although the samples were drawn eight weeks ago during his brief hospitalization, hours after his attack.

Most recent bloods, drawn by Gabe during an attack . . . missing.

It seemed logical that Jim Ferendelli had also drawn blood work during one of the episodes he observed, but neither the president nor Magnus Lattimore could recall any tubes being obtained until Gabe drew them.