Gabe was still somewhat disconcerted over the odd exchange during which the First Lady had intimated she might be just as happy if her husband dropped out of the race. He would be more at ease at the moment if she weren't with them. As it was, he had been looking forward to his first trip with the chief executive, but the session with Tom Cooper had severely dampened his enthusiasm. More and more he was feeling like a man sitting on a keg of dynamite while passersby kept flipping lit matches at him.

"That's a negative," an agent other than Griswold said. "Moondance will be staying here. Liberty, too. Over."

"Roger that. I'll be waiting for you. Over."

Gabe double-checked that he had turned off his radio, then glanced outside to where the motorcade had formed. From his vantage point, he could see two black limousines parked by the steps leading up to the North Portico. Beyond them, on Pennsylvania Avenue, he could make out two of what he knew would be many vans. Communications . . . counterassault . . . press corps . . . White House staffers . . . medical unit . . . photographers . . . military aides . . . Secret Service. He remembered some of the groups Lattimore had told him the fleet of vans would be carrying, but not all.

"Attention all posts, Maverick moving toward West Wing exit. Maverick moving. Over."

Staccato footsteps echoed down the corridor toward Gabe just before the first two of the president's Secret Service men appeared, one of them expertly cradling a submachine gun. Seconds later, Drew came into view, surrounded by four more agents, each one looking as if he took his job very seriously. From the moment the entourage appeared, Gabe's attention became fixed on his patient—not without reason.

Though smiling and waving to those White House employees standing back against the wall, Drew Stoddard looked strained and slightly gray. Gabe moved toward him, but almost on cue, a petite makeup artist materialized and, with the skill of a master conjurer, performed a remarkable thirty-second makeover.

And just like that, Drew was the rosy-cheeked picture of health. As he moved to Gabe, the Secret Service agents fell away to give them space and something approaching privacy.

"Hey, cowboy," Drew said cheerily, "ready to join the Donner party for a little wagon train ride?"

"Don't even joke about that. You okay?"

"You examined me this morning. You tell me."

"Actually, I thought you looked a little gray around the gills just now, but your makeup girl fixed that problem right up."

"Amazing, huh? When she goes home and washes off her own makeup, she's actually a three-hundred-pound Samoan football player."

"Having seen her work, that's not so surprising. How about your breathing? You seem to be going a little faster than I would expect."

"I've had a little cough for about an hour or so, but it's almost gone now. Maybe I'm getting a cold."

"Not on my watch."