

# THE FIRST LADY

## Betrayal, Lust, Bloodshed

### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image: Mark Winfrey

CHAPTER ONE

They called him Señor Gringo and he was often drunk. But he wasn't a troublesome drunk. Generally when he had a beer or two too many, he made his way to his efficiency apartment in the Santa Rosa Hotel with its thick adobe walls and pleasant courtyard.

Señor Gringo had come to the village, just outside of Hermosillo, Mexico, seeking a type of drunken anonymity. It was his plan and it had worked out rather well for him. But now it was becoming tiresome and, besides, he thought he might have a skin cancer developing on the left side of his forehead. He was tanned like a native.

"You like a beer, Señor Gringo?"

Gringo smiled. Juanita liked to use her English. Years ago she had lived in L.A. He pushed away his breakfast plate and motioned toward his empty cup. "Coffee, Juanita. No malt beverages before noon."

"As you wish." She turned to fetch the coffee pot, swinging her ample hips. She would flirt, corpulent and forty, although her husband who was also the proprietor, kept a gentle eye on her.

She returned and poured coffee, all the time her dark eyes locked with the Gringo's, a smirking, teasing set to her lips. "I'm going on a trip," he announced.

"You will bring me something nice from Hermosillo," she said.

"I will bring you something nice, perhaps. Perhaps a whip for your husband to flog you with. To make you a better wife. I am going to the States."

"For why?"

"I don't know why. Why do we do anything?"

"For love. For money."

"I go for love."

"There are women here. Some very pretty. Some available. Then there's the ugly one you paid last Saturday night."

Perhaps that was why he was leaving. He was losing his anonymity. People noticed things. This is a community and he was becoming a member. "Maybe I had too much beer."

"It would take a quantity of beer to love such a person."

"Love is a relative word."

Juanita smiled and cocked her head to one side. "Passion, Gringo. I am a passionate person."

"I enjoy our conversations and am pleased your husband speaks little English. But, still I must make a trip. There are a few things I have accumulated. I cannot carry the world around in a handbag. I will put them in a box and ask you to keep them for me."

"An honor."

"I'm certain. When does the bus go to Hermosillo?"

"At ten. You can never make it."

"Tomorrow. I am a patient man."

"I like a patient man. My husband naps after lunch. Shall we say goodbye then?"

"No. I would not tamper with your virtue."

"I wasn't thinking of your bothering my virtue. It was something else."

"You are something else. Your husband would beat you if he knew you had such a tongue."

"Such a tongue," she repeated slowly. "Yes, such a tongue you might enjoy. And if he beats me, then we make up."

"I too lay down after lunch. Usually if the weather is hot my door is unlocked."

"You are a prize, Gringo. It is always hot in Mexico." Juanita placed her hand on her breast and cast her eyes heavenward. "My heart, such pounding, like ten thousand drums. In Hermosillo the people hear the sound and fear an earthquake, a volcano. There is panic in the streets."

Dan Reeves, because his name was Dan Reeves, not Señor Gringo, sipped his coffee and shot a furtive glance toward Juanita's husband, who, as usual, was hunched over the bar, sometimes thumbing through a newspaper, sometimes swatting at flies and sometimes sweeping the room with his soft brown eyes.

The following morning, Dan paid his bill and handed a shopping bag full of odd clothing and shoes to Juanita. He looked at her solemnly. "If you will store these for me."

She smiled. "Something to remember you by."

"While I'm away." He fervently hoped that she hadn't given him anything to remember her by. Then he picked up his one cloth bag and walked into the dusty square to board the bus for Hermosillo.

At the airport, Dan hesitated before approaching the ticketing counter. He had serious self doubts and often regretted things he had done on impulse. This time he had been drinking beer before he called to reserve a ticket to L.A. That had been on impulse too. But he had given his name as Dan Gringo, the one he had been using at the hotel.

"I made a reservation for L.A. for today."

"There might be a delay." A young woman, attractive in her uniform with silver wings pinned to the lapel, seemed apologetic. "There was a fire in a maintenance area last night. But there will be a flight. Your name?"

"Dan Gringo." He deadpanned.

An immediate smile lit her face, she did a double take. "I saw that name on the list."

"Yes, it's my name. I called for a reservation." He was poker faced. His white hair and fringe of white beard carried the day. Old people don't joke.

"Of course, Dan Gringo." All business, she completed the ticket and handed it to him with a grin.

"There you are, Mr. Gringo. Any check on luggage?"

He nodded no. "You have a credit card?"

He paid cash and was thankful she didn't ask for ID. In Mexico, U.S. citizens need no passport, but she could have asked for ID. Perhaps she was preoccupied with whatever delay the flight was facing.

After buying an English language paper, he headed for the boarding area but pulled up abruptly when a voice behind him growled, "Where do you think you're going, old man?"

The term "old man" didn't really bother him, few things did. Dan was 56-years-old and looked every year of it. His face was tan, too tan, there was this spot on his forehead the size of three postage stamps that he thought might be skin cancer. But he loved the sun. Old age and its penalties.

He stopped and turned to face a man in his mid-thirties. Obviously, from his voice and appearance an American, and a neatly dressed one in crisp dark summer suit despite the heat, white shirt, diagonally striped tie. "I'm going to L.A."

The man eyed him coolly. Dan noted a pair of uniformed Mexican police officers standing casually a few yards back, obviously in support of the man who had stopped him. "You know who's on this flight?"

"I don't have a passenger list," Dan said. There was no sarcasm in his voice, but he thought to add, "I'm just a tourist."

The man cracked a faint smile. "We're all tourists, aren't we?"

"I think the word might be sojourner."

"Whatever. If you don't know, the First Lady's taking this flight. Air Force Two was damaged last night. We don't want to disrupt your vacation, but we've got to screen passengers." He pulled a sheet from his pocket. "What is your name?"

"You mean Mrs. Keen, the president's wife?" Dan asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Keen, and you?"

"Dan Gringo."

The man looked up in surprise. "You must be the man they don't like down here. When Mrs. Keen spoke yesterday there was a man outside with a sign that said 'Gringo Go Home.' Is that you?"

"No that's not me." He hesitated, then added, "And my name's not Gringo. It's a joke. I was drinking. You know how vacations are. I checked in at the hotel as Dan Gringo. Big Joke. So when I called for a ticket home, I gave the name Dan Gringo. My name's Dan Reeves. I've got ID." He produced his wallet and passed it to the man holding the passenger list.

"This is irregular," the man finally said.

"I suppose," Dan agreed. "It's my ass, not yours. I didn't know Ramona Keen would be on this plane. If I have to miss it, I will. I said I was on vacation, but really I'm retired. I've got nowhere to go and nothing to do."

"Your ID looks OK. Drivers license, three credit cards, membership cards. I'm Secret Service, not Mexican law. You can board as far as I'm concerned. But do let me have a look in your bag."

Dan exchanged his wallet for his bag. The only thing in the bag remotely the size of a gun was a Spanish-English dictionary. His Swiss Army knife was in his pocket.

"Thanks for the favor. What's your name." Dan extended his hand.

"Bob Rose, Washington D.C."

"Glad to make your acquaintance. They told me at the check in counter there might be some delay."

"Only slight. We have to get out of here soon. There's a storm brewing over the Pacific. Mexican security and our own flight crew's going over the plane. Normally we'd wait for a backup from the States, but Mrs. Keen has a speech set in San Francisco tonight. She does not like excuses."

"So I've heard."

"Incidentally, you'll be sitting near the front. We've preempted the rear block of seats."

"How many of you are there?"

"Just the two of us," Bob Rose laughed. "She's in the back of the block punching up her speech, I'm in the front of the block, riding shotgun."

Dan continued to the boarding area, while Rose waylaid a pair of Mexican nationals. Dan could hear him spouting a steady stream of fluent Spanish as he moved down the long corridor.

Apparently, the Mexican police were backing him, but taking a hands off attitude. Relations between the two countries had not been the best in recent years. NAFTA had not quite lived up to its billing. There had been charges and counter charges over union matters, wages and tariffs. Immigration remained a raw nerve.

CHAPTER TWO

The plane was a small one with only one flight attendant, a youthful stewardess with dark hair running to deep red and a no nonsense matter. The flight was short and she would have to hustle to serve coffee, juice, alcoholic beverages for a price and the ubiquitous packets of airplane peanuts.

Each weekday morning the flight would lift into the air on a northward heading, then turned almost due west. Hermosillo lies east of the Gulf of California and to the west of the imposing Sierra Madre Occidental. Just beyond the gulf to the west is the largely barren Baja California and beyond that the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The flight to Los Angeles would zero on Isla de Guadalupe, a dot in the Pacific owned by Mexico. Once over the ocean, the flight plan called for an abrupt course change that would carry it north to Los Angeles.

Dan had not gotten any look at the first lady as she boarded the plane. Ramona Keen and Bob Rose had been taken from a VIP lounge to a small van and driven to planeside.

When the few other passengers walked from the boarding gate the short distance to the plane the air was already alive with turbulence. Clouds scudded from west to east and the smell of rain was in the weighted air. The top blew off a metal trash container and skipped across the tarmac with the clang, clang, clang of metal on hard surface as it gathered speed, finally banging against a brick wall with one last resounding clattering clank.

Those who had hats clung to them. Dan did not have a hat, although he had toyed with the idea more than once. He found if he stayed out of the sun for a day or two the rough spot on his forehead would begin to vanish. Once, years before, he had developed a small skin cancer on his cheek and a doctor had removed it by burning it off with dry ice. But this rough spot on his forehead, the size of three postage stamps, at least that's how it felt to his fingers, too big for dry ice. A hat, sun block, but not dry ice. Ramona Keen was standing when Dan entered the passenger compartment and walked about halfway back to his seat. Her hair was not light, or dark, a nondescript between blond and brunette, certainly not the natural tone. He guessed her height at about five-six and her weight at maybe 125, slim, healthy, a country club type.

She was too far away for Dan to see her eye color, but they seemed alert and intelligent. The face was more elongated than round, her nose classic in the Greek sense of the word, maybe a little too long, but attractive. It went with her face.

About her, Dan perceived a brusque sense of authority, a blunt, breathless quality. But perhaps that was an impression he had already formed from reading profiles in national magazines. Ramona had been around the White House for some time.

As Dan studied her face, the configuration of her body and its movements, she looked up. Their eyes locked and she held his gaze. It seemed a long moment, but it was no more than three or four seconds. He smiled and raised his right hand in greeting. She nodded back and went on arranging material from her attaché case. The mood was broken.

Dropping into aisle seat, he pondered her age. No doubt early forties, had to be. Her husband, Dennis Keen, was mid to late forties.

"I'm Bernie Bate," a deep voice came from the next seat.

Dan shook the powerful outstretched hand and said only, "Dan."

"You do business with the Mexicans?" Bate asked. He was a big man, a burly man, with curly black hair and bushy eyebrows to match. His eyes were blue steel, his nose aquiline.

"Tourist," Dan replied, then added, "retired. Spent a few weeks near Hermosillo. Nice country, a little hot."

"But the beers good."

"Right. And I drank plenty of that. Stayed away from the tequila. You a businessman?"

"Earth movers. Bulldozers. Backhoes. Forklifts. I sell 'em."

Dan nodded. "I suppose someone in Mexico has money."

"Damn right. You may not see it, but it's there. Take Mexico City. Hell of a place. Women. You bet."

"I can imagine. Mexico your territory

"Mexico. Central America. I grew up down yonder. My folks were missionaries. I could speak Spanish before I learned English." He poked a finger at Dan.

"That's the secret. The language and the culture. I know them both."

Dan didn't really feel like talking, particularly about bulldozers. He fiddled with his seat control and eased the back lower, just as the stewardess told everyone to move their seats to the upright position and prepare for takeoff.

The plane rolled slowly to the runway, wheeled toward the long concrete strip, then, engines racing, began its powerful move forward, gaining speed as it went until it was in the air and climbing sharply toward the dull lead of the sky, lightning dancing on the western horizon.

Even as the plane struggled to reach cruising level there were signs of trouble. The aircraft rocked and pitched in the troubled air, like a boxer feinting first to the left, then the right. It was as if Mother Nature might be annoyed that such an alien craft should invade her air space.

The stewardess asked the passengers to please remain in their seats with belts fastened, then hurried along the aisle to insure her suggestion was carried out. Dan heard her a few seats behind him chide Bob Rose for standing in the aisle.

Rose was disturbed. He didn't like the small plane and he didn't like the weather. If it had been up to him they would turn back instantly and make a safe landing at Hermosillo. It was this position that he was emphatically placing before the first lady when the stewardess told him to sit down and strap in.

He shrugged and did as he was told. Ramona had told him simply that she must make the speech in San Francisco and fulfill the evening commitments -- a reception, a dinner, then a late reception -- all fund raisers, all would be filled to capacity by West Coast party dignitaries and moneyed angels.

The stewardess moved to the extreme rear of the aisle and strapped herself into a seat. She too, was not pleased with the weather. Young as she was, she had been flying this route for more than two years and knew its every peril.

In the cockpit up front, the co-pilot shot an anxious glance toward the pilot, but even as he did he knew there was no chance of turning back. Waiting for the pilot in L.A. was one of the prettiest girls west of the Rocky Mountains. More than pretty, she was exotically seductive and the pilot had shown the co-pilot her picture just before taking off. With a grim look at the weather ahead, the co-pilot made the sign of the cross.

Dan lowered his seat back and rubbed his hand across his face and yawned.

"You prayin', old buddy?" his seatmate asked. "The weather ain't that bad. I tell you I've flown in every sort of climate there is. I've seen lightning skip across the wings. This ain't much of a storm."

Dan glanced out the window and suddenly realized what the salesman was talking about. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little tired. I don't really worry much about flying. My status as passenger doesn't give me even a little control over the plane. It's like, uh, out of my hands."

"And in the hands of the Almighty."

"And the pilot." The plane had reached altitude and was still in the storm. Suddenly it dropped a good hundred feet, like a plunge in a fast elevator. "I suppose we won't get any snacks on this trip."

"If this keeps up, we won't even get to keep our breakfast," Bernie Bate said, a trifle more pale than he was a minute before. He looked anxiously out the window at the seething clouds, now slate gray, now white with lightning. "We should fly out of this in a matter of minutes. It comes from the west and we're headed west."

Dan nodded and dug a lemon drop from the pocket of his safari jacket. He offered one to Bernie who refused. Dan at first thought the jacket was an affectation, something a white hunter might wear. But the four big patch pockets with their copious storage appealed to him. He usually wore it when he traveled. In fact, he had to wear it. It was the only jacket he owned.

A resounding clash, like giant cymbals an inch from the ear drum, shuddered and wrenched the fuselage of the plane. It was as if the world had ended. The cabin lights went out. No one screamed, or cried out, everyone was struck dumb by the horrific noise and the trembling of the aircraft. The lights returned and the plane seemed to right itself and an audible sigh of relief came from the passengers.

In the rear of the plane, the stewardess sat in fear, knowing that she should do something to comfort the passengers, but not knowing what to do. She knew the plane could not have sustained such a shock without suffering some damage.

In her seat, Ramona Keen wished she had heeded Bob Rose's warning and asked the pilot to turn back. She was certain it was too late now. Dan, who had almost swallowed his lemon drop, was aware that even though the initial shock was over, there was a different timbre to the aircraft, a subtle change in tone. The speed had decreased and they were slowly losing altitude.

In the cabin the pilot was tense, staring into the storm. He repeatedly asked the co-pilot what had happened as the co-pilot, with a tight control on panic, checked out each system. For a plane to be seriously struck by lightning was unusual.

"Our electronic gear took a wallop," the co-pilot said. "Does the plane respond?"

"About half," the pilot said tersely. "What can we do?"

"Reach the coast. Flop down on the beach, wheels up."

"No. Too much damage to the plane. Wheels down."

"You can't make a wheels down landing on the beach," the co-pilot insisted. "We're really losing altitude. I hope to hell we can make the beach. You can't see shit in this weather."

The plane was just passing from the Gulf of California to the Baja peninsula when it dipped under the clouds. Now the weather was clearing to the west as the crippled plane limped toward the Pacific shore.

After a hurried conference in the cockpit, the frightened stewardess patrolled the aisle, quickly and as quietly as possible telling every passenger that the plane had sustained damage, apparently from lightning, and a forced landing was imminent. She instructed them on the proper procedure -- remove glasses, seat belt snugged, pillow on the lap.

"Ever been in a plane crash before?" Dan asked his seatmate.

"Oh, shit," Bate replied. "I hate these small planes."

Dan looked beyond his seatmate and through the small window. The sky was clearing rapidly now and the rough terrain of Baja could be seen getting closer. The aircraft seemed to be under control.

But it mattered little to Dan. Ever since his wife died of cancer and he opted for early retirement, he had felt that his life was somehow at an end. That his time span on earth was in fact over, but he lingered on, something like a poltergeist, watching everything from outside his own body, mildly amused at the bizarre antics of the human race. Here was Bernie Bate for example, all bravado a few minutes ago, now about to jump out of his skin. But there was no place to jump, no where to go. In the game of anticipating a crash landing one remained in their seat, strapped in. It certainly was an object lesson in patience. It would feel so much better to be tearing madly up and down the aisle, shrieking and screaming.

But Dan was not entirely nonchalant. He let his eyelids droop shut and began quietly going over his life, the good and the bad. The excellent parts -- the giddy highs when he and Jane were first married, those days of back yard barbecues, parties with friends, evenings at the movies, nights of love making \-- a time when he was certain, positive, he could conquer the world.

And now here he was, headed for a jolting collision with Baja turf, the same person as before. He felt the same, maybe a little older, quite a bit older, but where were the dreams of yesterday? Where was the urge to conquer? To triumph over the grime of everyday life? To rise above the mundane and take pride in accomplishments. He searched his soul for that one noble accomplishment, but hit a blank wall. He had begun life with a blank canvas and that was how it would end.

"Wheels down," the pilot said. They had reached the coast and were in sight of the Pacific.

"I don't think we should put the wheels down," the co-pilot said. But he knew the wheels would go down.

The pilot cautiously began nosing the plane north, attempting to head it along the beach, just over from the long line of surf that stretched in an endless chain to the horizon.

Bob Rose was busy. He had sacked every overhead compartment for blankets and pillows and was attempting to encase the first lady in a soft cocoon. She protested at first, then acceded to his wishes. It gave them both something to think about in the final airborne moments.

Now a rough line of brown hills, just inland, was at their right wingtip. Now the vast blanket of the Pacific faded off to the left.

The plane trembled as the pilot abruptly dropped the flaps, drastically reducing airspeed and bringing the nose up. Now the left wheel made sharp contact with earth, banging into a large boulder on the beach and bouncing the plane until the right wing tip dug sand. Too late the pilot realized his error in lowering the wheels. He had not anticipated a beach strewn with large rocks!

Again the plane and earth collided with a sickening scream of metal against stone, this time both wheels met boulders, flipping the plane forward on its nose, smashing the cockpit and snuffing the lives of both pilots as easily as if you turned off a light.

The plane careered down the beach, digging furrows, finally catching a giant boulder with its right wing and spinning a quarter turn before coming to rest in a cloud of dust.

Dan, crouched in his seat, had the swift impression of a large body tumbling down the aisle and smashing against the forward bulkhead. Bob Rose, the secret service agent, so intent on protecting the first lady, had not bothered to strap himself in. His broken body lay at the front of the aircraft, not far from the shattered cockpit.

CHAPTER THREE

There had been few passengers on the plane. Bob Rose had convinced the airline to put those that even seemed vaguely suspicious on another later flight. The few survivors stood in a dazed circle on the beach. There was no fire.

Dan was the last living person off the plane. He had been in no hurry. When the plane ground to a halt he had taken time to look out the windows at the remote section of the Baja and it did not put him entirely at ease. He knew a little about Mexico.

Walking forward to the body of Bob Rose, a little fumbling through the dead man's clothing gave him what he was looking for. A .38 revolver and a few extra rounds of ammunition. He dropped both into the large side pocket of his tan safari jacket.

He stood on the outside of the circle of the small group of survivors and listened to the stewardess, almost in tears, talk about the dead pilot and co-pilot, then make assurances that help would soon arrive.

"How do you know help will arrive? Where's it coming from?" a young man dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt questioned.

"The pilot must have radioed our position before we crashed. I'm sure the police have been alerted. The airline will send transportation."

"But was the radio working?" another man asked.

"Hey, we've just got to sit here and wait for help," Bernie Bate said. His self-assurance had returned and he was ready to be the take-charge guy. "There's a dead man in there. We better get him out here and wrap him up in something."

"That's Bob Rose. He was with me." It was a subdued Ramona Keen who spoke. "He was trying to help me. I suppose he did. I don't know about moving his body."

"We should at least cover him," the stewardess said. "Then I could get some drinks and things. I know nobody's hungry, but maybe you should drink something. It'll be getting hot now."

Dan drifted away from the group and circled the wrecked plane. Its final resting place was at right angles with the ocean, its nose pointing east, back to Hermosillo. He then walked to the shore and watched the waves roll listlessly onto the beach. Not much of a surf.

To the north and the south he could see no signs of life, only the brown of the beach and just inland a line of ragged low hills, also brown, but with scruffy growth here and there.

Even if the radio was out, the missing plane would be noted and help would be on the way probably sooner than later. Particularly when word was flashed that the first lady was missing. He touched the pocket that held the revolver. When help came he would slip the weapon back into the plane. But 'til then, it gave him some assurance.

The distressful cry of a lone sea bird drew his attention. The bird, a white gull with black markings, hovered just above the sullen line of surf. The wind was rising, freshening. Out to sea he could see a squall line moving toward shore.

Dan returned to the survivors, some sitting on rocks or drift wood near the wreck. Three in a row on a silver wing, like birds on a wire. He counted ten people including himself. Three dead. Unlucky thirteen.

The stewardess had brought canned drinks and packets of peanuts from the plane. Dan grabbed a can of soda and walked off toward the nearby bluffs. Perhaps from a promontory he would see something, a village, or a ship at sea. At least it would be a diversion. When the weather moved in from the sea, visibility would be sharply reduced.

***

Even before the plane loaded in Hermosillo, seven men, five in an ancient Jeep and two on a motorcycle, were leaving the village of Garrucha on the Baja Pacific coast and heading south.

All of the men were armed with an assortment of old and new weapons, mostly bolt action rifles. One, the youngest, Julio Olmedo, wore a bandoleer half filled with cartridges and an outsized hat in the fashion of an old-line Mexican bandit.

The oldest of the seven was Juan Juarez who was the mayor of Garrucha. Two of the others were Miguel and Pedro Morelos, a pair of hot-tempered brothers in their early twenties who would play disastrous and tragic roles as the events of the day unfolded.

The seven were seeking a hermit, a man who was known to the villagers as One Ear. This man had been deprived of his left ear when he fell into a pig sty as a youth. The pig that attacked him had also provided him with an ugly scar on the left side of his face and left his right hand mangled and deformed.

One Ear came into the village on infrequent occasions. During these visits he was usually harmless, spending his time sorting through the meager trash piles. But after his last visit he had been suspected of molesting a four-year-old child, the son of Pedro Morelos.

The old hermit had no fixed place of residence, but moved from rock to gully south of the village, sometimes near the ocean, sometimes inland. He was known to use a tattered tent and anything else he could find for shelter. How he lived, no one knew. Some said he ate lizards and insects.

The village of Garrucha was small, but much like any other village. Rumors and gossip spread quickly and the villagers were quick to believe the worst about One Ear. Pedro Morelos had blood in his eye. He and his brother, Miguel, were of one mind, intent on finding the old man and killing him on the spot.

Before leaving the village the brothers and others in the party had fortified themselves with mescal, the common intoxicant of the peasantry, distilled from the agave cactus. They had also been careful to bring along an additional supply.

***

Dan was beyond the ridge above the crash when he heard the sound of engines, not a steady purr, but the racing and halting and grinding sounds of ill tuned vehicles laboring over rough terrain.

He went to the ridge and peered over at the approaching vehicles, two men on a motorcycle leading the way with a Jeep bringing up the rear. He could see either four or five men in the Jeep. The jutting barrels of weapons drew his attention. These were armed men, perhaps some kind of coastal patrol. At any rate, rescue was at hand.

But he did not run to the beach. The opposite was true. He hunkered down between two boulders and watched the new arrivals through the scrub brush.

At the wreck site, Bernie Bate, the old Latin hand, was also wary. He caught site of the two vehicles, the ill clad occupants and jutting firepower and ducked inside the wrecked fuselage.

As Dan watched the production unfold below him, a voice behind him said softly, "We'd better get down there."

Thinking he had been completely alone, he twisted in surprise. A solemn faced Ramona Keen was standing behind him. For the first time he noticed what she was wearing, a simple suntan skirt that reached below the knees, comfortable sandals and a short sleeved white blouse. Small silver earrings, plus a gold wedding band made up her jewelry.

"Please get down." Dan said.

"Why should I?" she questioned.

"We don't know who these people are," Dan replied, then turned and resumed his position. Ramona thought for a second, then squatted beside him. She said nothing.

On the beach, the two vehicles wheeled to a stop and the seven men dismounted and approached the band of survivors. The stewardess pushed her way to the front of the group and addressed the men. "Did the airline send you?"

"No. We are seeking a criminal," Juan Juarez replied. "He is an old man with one ear. What's happened here?"

The stewardess shrugged. It was fairly obvious. "Plane crashed. Three people were killed. The rest of us are all right, but there are bruises. Do you have a radio?"

"No radio."

"We need help."

The newcomers walked around the downed plane, kicking at it, examining the twisted metal. They eyed the survivors suspiciously. Most of the eight survivors were Caucasians.

The mayor, Juan Juarez, did not join the others in their inspection tour. He remained and discussed the situation with the stewardess, the Caucasians for the most part ignorant of the rapid exchange of Spanish.

As the mayor discussed the situation with the stewardess, the men of Garrucha gathered in a knot and passed a flask of mescal. They were discussing the possibility of valuables on the airplane and the price they might charge to take the stranded passengers to civilization.

At this point on the Baja the main road that runs from the north all the way to the south tip at Cabo San Lucas is far inland. It follows the west coast fairly closely south from Tijuana as far as El Rosario, then swings east, actually at many points lying closer to the Gulf of California than the Pacific. Then it comes back to the Pacific briefly at Guerrero Negro, then arcs east again to the eastern coastal town of Santa Rosalia where there is ferry service that touches the mainland at Guaymas.

Led by the Morelos brothers and fired up with mescal, the six armed Mexicans approached the stewardess as a body and Miguel demanded, "How much can you pay for us to get you out of here?"

"Pay?" she questioned. "We have been in a plane crash. Three men are dead in that airplane. Surely you will help us. But the airline might pay you something later on."

"Later on isn't good enough," Miguel shouted, his anger fueled by alcohol. "You're a pretty girl." He grabbed the stewardess and kissed her hard on the lips. She struggled in his grip and the young American in blue jeans dashed forward and managed to push himself between them, wrestling Miguel free of the girl.

Miguel's brother, Pedro, excitedly swung his rifle like a club, sending the American sprawling on the ground. The American was quick, rolling over and regaining his feet. He made a move to go after Pedro. A fatal mistake. Pedro leveled the rifle and fired, striking the man in the bridge of the nose. He fell like a slab of dead meat.

An older Mexican woman in the group of survivors screamed and loosed a stream of Spanish invective at the villagers. Miguel pulled a pistol and cut her down with two shots.

The rest of the passengers and the stewardess, sensing that they would be slaughtered began to flee in terror. At the urging of the Morelos brothers the other villagers began shooting them down like so many rabbits.

Dan and Ramona watched in horror from their hidden vantage point. Ramona covered her face and slumped to the ground, turning her back to the beach. The shooting subsided and she heard a piercing scream rise from the beach below.

"What's happening now?" she asked, her voice tremulous.

"They're stripping and raping the stewardess. Everyone else dead. Everyone except Bernie, the guy I was sitting next to. I don't know what happened to him."

"We've got to stop them," Ramona said.

"That's sort of a knee jerk reaction, I think. Especially when you say 'we.' You mean you and I are going to go down there and take on seven armed Mexicans?"

"I'm sorry. What can we do?"

"Save ourselves. That's about it. They don't want witnesses. That's why they're killing everyone. They'll kill the stewardess when they're through with her. It may take some time."

"Oh, God. I think I'm going to throw up."

"Go ahead. Get it over with. They're almost certain to look around up here."

"Then we better run," Ramona said. "We can hide in the hills."

"Maybe," Dan said. "Maybe. Maybe, Maybe. But these are their hills and there's seven of them. Now if they didn't suspect we were here, that'd be fine. But one of them might have sense enough to question the stewardess."

"But she won't talk."

"Huh," Dan laughed. "If seven guys had torn every stitch of clothing from your body and were abusing you in every way they could think of, would you talk?"

"I think so."

"I think so, too. We have a couple of high cards."

"What?"

"I saw them, you saw them, drinking. They might be half drunk. Then I have a gun, a revolver. I took it from Rose."

"You took Bob Rose's gun? Why?" She seemed almost angry.

"Something like this. You aren't mad at me are you?"

Ramona thought a moment. "No, of course not. Can you use it?"

"Yeah. Point it, pull the trigger. Hope for the best."

"What's going on down there now?" She still wouldn't look.

"They're still taking turns on the stewardess. She hasn't much fight in her. Some of them are looting the plane, going through the passenger's pockets."

"Oh, Christ," Ramona said. "How did I get into this?"

"Sort of face to face with reality, isn't it?"

"Yes. But this sort of thing happens every day within a mile of the White House. You think we're civilized?"

"It's a rich-poor thing."

"What's your name?"

"Dan."

"Last name?"

"In Mexico, they call me Dan Gringo, or Señor Gringo. That's good enough."

"You're a criminal?"

"No. Just a poor retired slob trying to get through life the easiest way possible. If I live through this, I don't want attention. So call me Dan, or call me Señor Gringo. Your choice."

"I'll take Dan. Gringos aren't too popular near this beach."

"You know who I am?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I wish."

"You hungry. I have some lemon drops." He reached into his pocket and produced several. She took one and carefully unwrapped it.

"I thought I was going to throw up. Now I'm eating a lemon drop."

"The human body adjusts. Maybe they'll go away."

"The bandits."

"Whoever they are. Maybe they'll just go away."

"They are bandits. Killer bandits." Her face contorted with hatred. "Rapists. That cute stewardess. Don't tell me what's happening now." She still couldn't bring herself to look over the broken ridge.

"They might be just villagers. Family people like you and me, but dirt poor. And they saw an opportunity."

"An opportunity to kill, rob and rape. Not the kind of family I'd like to join."

"Dirt poor. No hope. They kill everybody, nobody knows. So they rape the stewardess first. Then maybe they drag all the bodies aboard the plane and see if they can burn it."

"That won't work."

"Of course it won't. But it might if you weren't aboard. But because you were aboard there'll be an inch-by-inch investigation, whether you live or die. It won't play, but the villagers might not be implicated. They're capable of a dumb silence. If nobody talks, nobody knows."

"But they'll make a slip," Ramona said. "Flaunt their new wealth. Buy things."

"That's true. But who knows. On the beach with a bottle and a pretty stewardess, they're doing something. In their own minds they're making a statement. They're getting something they never had and would never have a chance for. Live or die, they're bucking the system."

CHAPTER FOUR

Shortly before she stopped moving entirely, Dan thought he saw the stewardess raise a faint hand and point towards the ridgeline where the two of them were concealed. Shortly after that he saw four of the Mexicans studying the ridge with great interest.

The next thing he knew, the young man with the big hat and bandoleer set out for the ridge, trudging unsteadily up the hill. The others watched him go and laughed. Dan knew he would have to kill him and he told Ramona.

"Couldn't we just knock him out and tie him up? Killing seems so, so, permanent. I know that sounds odd, but killing."

"There is an option. Let him kill us. He has a rifle and a bandoleer of ammunition. He's coming up here to kill anyone he sees who's alive. You and I fall into that category."

"How are we going to kill him?"

"I don't want to shoot him. There's an obvious way onto this between the two big rocks. I'll try to waylay him. You stay out of sight. If anything happens to me, get lost and hide. It's only a matter of time before some help arrives."

Dan crouched and ran to the side of a projecting rock. Bracing himself, his legs ready to spring, he waited and tried to control his breathing. The weather from the Pacific had moved in and with it a low cloud cover. Chances of an air search for the downed plane were almost zero.

Before he saw the Mexican, he heard his labored steps and even his hard gasps for air. The man was either very tired, or he had had far too much mescal. Then he lurched from between the rocks, rifle at the ready in both of his hands.

Weapon in hand, Dan sprang at the slender back, slashing downward with a pistol blow to the head. The body crumbled beneath him and Dan pushed the man's hat aside and whacked him two more times on the bare skull.

The Mexican appeared to be only a boy. He had the rifle and plus a sheath knife on his belt. As quickly as he could, Dan drew the knife and carefully stabbed the youth through the heart. He had no stomach for this gory business, but he had set his course and now followed it.

Tossing the knife, rifle and bandoleer aside, he dragged the body of Julio Olmedo behind a rock, then returned to the lookout spot where Ramona squatted in hiding.

Out of breath, heart beating like a tom tom, he dropped down beside her. "That's too personal for me. Like slaughtering a cow."

"Is he dead? Dead for certain?"

"I think so. Let's not talk about it. Let's think of the others on the beach." He jockeyed around until he could see the beach again and took a head count. All six were still in sight, one of them still on top of the stewardess. The others loading loot from the plane into the Jeep.

Dan then turned his attention to examining the rifle and the ammunition. It carried an eight cartridge clip and appeared to be in good working order. He removed the cartridge from the chamber and squeezed the trigger a couple of times. Everything seemed to work and there was no time for a practice shot. "Do you mind if I call you Ramona," he said, looking at the woman.

"That's my name."

He handed her the .38 revolver and the extra shells. "You know how to shoot this?"

"Sure."

"And load it?"

"Yes. Do I have to shoot somebody?"

"Maybe. Probably. What I'm hoping for is some kind of ambush. There's a clearing here with rocks on each side. If you're on one side and I'm on the other, we can have a type of crossfire."

"But against six men?"

"That's a problem. I'm thinking they won't all come up at once." Three quick shots were heard from the beach below. Dan wheeled and looked over the ridge to see one of the men standing over the stewardess, pistol in hand. "They just shot the stewardess. They must be getting ready to go. We won't have long to wait." He took a deep breath. Ramona clenched her teeth and shook her head violently as if to ward off evil thoughts. A shudder racked her body.

Dan resumed his vigil over the beach. Two of the men started toward the obvious path up to the ridge, then paused. He prayed they would continue, that they wouldn't come as a skirmish line, the six of them taking different routes. If they did, he and Ramona would have no other choice than to run as far and as fast as possible.

The two were joined by a third man and the three of them continued toward the ridge.

"Three of them," he said, then pointed to a large rock on one side of the clearing. "You get behind that rock. When the men are well into the clearing, stand up, shout something, anything and fire a shot or two at them, then duck down before they can return fire. Then I'll take over."

"I don't know if I can hit them."

"You probably can't. Just don't hit me. Come on, they'll be here too soon." He crouched and ran across the clearing, clutching the deer rifle. Then he was behind his rock, heart pounding, almost gasping for breath. He was in rotten physical condition. If I live, he vowed, I will began taking long morning walks and maybe even join a fitness club.

Dan could hear the men talking as they came up the path, but he knew only a few words of Spanish and those only if they were spoken slowly. Then he saw them come into the clearing, alert, each with a rifle, warily looking around.

They paused momentarily. Dan half expected them to call out for their young friend, but they didn't. They, too, were hoping for the element of surprise over whatever forces might be on the ridge.

They moved on for only a few feet when Ramona stood up in clear view. The men stopped, stunned at the sight of an attractive woman. Not one of them moved to aim his rifle toward the figure by the rock. Dan admired her nerve and poised while he drew a bead on the man in the middle and squeezed the trigger.

As he did, Ramona shouted, "You murdering bastards" and snapped off one shot before diving for cover.

The middle man was down and dead before the other two were aware that there were two people against them on the ridge, both armed. Dan easily brought the second man down, then got the third as he was frantically running for the cover of the rocks.

Then he began gathering up their arms. It would take the others on the beach a few minutes to get to the ridge, unless they had already started. He called for Ramona to return to the edge of the ridge and resume the vigil.

A few minutes later, he brought the three additional rifles to where she was hidden. "Good going. I was just as surprised as they were to see you totally in the open."

"I thought it might shock them to see a woman up here."

"It worked perfectly. What's doing down below?"

"All three still in sight, still loading the Jeep. They probably figured their friends can take care of themselves."

"Okay. I'll drag the bodies out of the clearing."

"Are they all dead?" she asked.

"Two are, I'm pretty certain. The third, maybe not. I'll take care of it."

She shook her head in pain. "This is horrible stuff, nightmare alley. I'll keep a lookout." The clouds were lower and spitting rain, but the ocean remained calm. With resignation, and a drawn knife, Dan went about his grisly task.

They were both watching when the three men below seemed to finish their work and knot together, talking and watching the ridge. "I wonder if they'd abandon their friends?" Ramona asked.

"I don't think so. That would mean they'd return to their village with four men missing. It would be hard to explain." As he talked the men split up and began climbing the ridge using different paths.

"Here's trouble," Dan said. "They know something's not kosher."

"I'm not surprised. But we've cut the odds."

"Considerably. We might as well stay right here and wait." He picked one of the three extra rifles and handed it to Ramona. "You want to try that?"

"Okay. I'll keep the pistol, too."

Dan smiled. "You want maximum firepower."

"I'm not going to surrender. I know what would be in store for me."

Dan nodded. "One way to keep the troops loyal."

"Object lessons." They were whispering now, watching the clearing. There was no way any of the men could surprise them from the rear, a sharp escarpment was at their back.

After ten minutes time, a man moved into the clearing to their right, an older man with a black mustache and an intelligent look about him. It was Juan Juarez, the mayor of Garrucha, a man who had already cursed this day.

He had watched the Morelos brothers stir the group into a drunken killing frenzy, watched while the pretty young stewardess was ruthlessly violated. But once the killing had started he had known the only solution was to kill everyone and try to cover their tracks the best they could. He had regained control of the mob by becoming part of it.

After all, Juan Juarez too had known a lifetime of poverty, he too had watched with anticipation as the money taken from the dead passengers made a neat stack. But still he had cursed the day. Better to lead a quiet life in his village and die as he had lived with his soul at rest than take a hand in this mindless butchery. But here he was.

As he drew abreast of the two in hiding, Ramona, who was the closest to him, aimed and fired. Juan Juarez died in his tracks, thumping to the ground in the misting rain.

Dan was surprised that Ramona had taken the initiative, but she had made the right decision. Now they were two against two and they remained in their cover.

What they had not realized was that a second man was standing just out of their view to the left. When the mayor fell he came charging into their protective thicket and was on top of them before they knew it. In fact he was too close to get off an effective shot.

As he fired, Dan grabbed his rifle barrel and stood up. The shot went wild and the two of them went down, rolling across the ground, struggling, grappling and cursing. Dan could smell the man's foul breath as they struggled, the stench of mescal mingled with tobacco.

Dan found himself battling with a strapping young Mexican in the prime of life. He gave his all, but it was not enough. Soon he found himself on his back in the dirt, his opponent straddling him, holding his throat with his left hand while he drew an evil looking knife with his right.

The man's arm seemed to move slowly upward with the firmly in his grip. It is a quirk of the mind that split seconds sometimes seem an eternity. Dan's eyes were on the blade, transfixed, like a deer in the headlights. He could see every nick, every imperfection in the long hunting blade. He had no idea of his opponent's features so intent was he on watching the long metal edge that was destined for his heart.

And as slowly, like slow motion through infinity, the hand, the arm and the blade began its downward plunge. As it did, the man spat a curse in Spanish and a pistol cracked not three feet away.

The assailant's corpse slumped onto Dan, then rolled on its back, a neat hole in the back of the skull. Ramona stood over him with a smoking revolver.

"We'd better get moving," she said. "There's one to go." She was already looking warily around the clearing.

"Go back to the ridge," Dan shouted as he struggled to his feet. "Take a look at the beach below." Quickly he grabbed a rifle and joined her. Below them, in a mad dash for the Jeep, was the seventh villager. "Shoot him," Dan shouted, raising his rifle.

Both of them blazed away as the last of the Mexicans climbed aboard the Jeep and attempted to get it started. Dan exhausted the cartridges in one rifle and picked up another. Which one scored the fatal shot, or shots, would be hard to determine. But the Mexican slumped in the seat, his arms and upper body lolling over the side of the vehicle.

"By God," Ramona exclaimed, "I think we've done it."

"Damned if we didn't," Dan said. He allowed himself a faint smile. "We'd better get down there."

Dead bodies strewn around a dead plane, a sorrowfully dismal sight set off by dreary clouds overhead and the occasional mist of rain. "Hell can't be worse than this," Ramona said. "Maybe this is hell."

"It was hell for the stewardess," Dan remarked. He found a blanket someone had removed from the plan and covered her body after carefully arranging her legs and arms. Her sightless eyes, still terror-filled stared at the sky, gently he closed both eyelids and then, before covering her face, knelt and tenderly kissed her on the forehead.

It was one of the most touching sights Ramona had ever witnessed and tears streamed down her face. Her tough mental fiber was strained near the snapping point after the bloody carnage of the day.

Something moved inside the airplane. Dan grabbed his rifle and Ramona leveled her revolver at the open door.

"Come out of there," Dan shouted.

"I'm coming," came an American voice from inside. A scuffling and a banging, then Bernie Bate emerged.

"What the hell happened," he asked, surveying the devastation.

"You know damned well what happened," Dan said. "Where in hell were you?"

"There's a storage area. I crawled through the access door and then held it shut. They thought it was jammed. They didn't suspect anyone was in there."

"You might have helped," Ramona said. "A big man like you, you might have saved a few lives."

"Shit," Bernie said. "I saw them coming, guns everywhere. I know these country people. I slipped inside the plane and was lucky to find a hiding spot. I'd be just as dead as the rest of them. God, that girl screaming. It was awful."

A look of revulsion crossed Ramona's face. She let her pistol arm drop to her side.

Bernie looked around, almost frantic. Let's get in the Jeep and get the hell on out of here. Another batch might come along any time now." He took a few steps toward the Jeep, but was stopped by Dan's voice.

"It's ruined."

"Ruined?" Ramona questioned. She was as surprised as Bernie.

"Tire shot flat. No spare. Gas tank punctured. We shot the hell out of it."

"Then the motorcycle," Bernie said. "I'll take Mrs. Keen and you can wait with the plane."

"The hell you will," Ramona said. "If anybody should use the motorcycle, it's me and Dan. You can't hide like a coward then expect royal treatment."

"I speak Spanish. I can bring help. It's not myself I'm thinking of."

Dan smiled at Bernie's last statement. He wondered if the big man ever thought of anybody but himself.

"No soap," Ramona insisted. "You watch the plane, Dan and I take the bike." She was adamant.

Bernie shot angry glances at the two of them. He wasn't dealing with seven armed Mexicans now. He faced a woman and an aging man with a scruff of white beard. He focused his gaze on Ramona. "Stay if you like, but I'm taking the cycle." To emphasize his words he strode boldly and purposefully toward the two wheeled vehicle.

Just as boldly, Ramona, in a fit if hot anger, raised her revolver and fired, the bullet striking Bernie's shoulder, spinning him around and laying him on the ground.

"Holy shit," Dan exclaimed, leaping for Ramona and wresting the gun from her. "There's been enough shooting."

"But that son of a bitch, he was going..."

"You bitch," Bernie shouted from the ground, clutching himself. "You dirty bitch."

"Keep your mouth shut, Bernie," Dan shouted, pointing the revolver at him. "I suppose one more death wouldn't hurt. Who's to know? Who's to care?"

"Don't shoot." Bernie's voice had a pleading tone. He had obviously overplayed his hand. The day had been full of death and blood for these two. He struggled to his feet.

"Anything broken?" Dan asked.

Bernie moved his arms. He seemed to have full mobility. "It just burns a little. The bullet must still be in there."

"Then you can ride the bike?"

He looked furtively, first at one, then the other. Were they going to offer him the bike, then shoot him. Maybe let him ride a few yards, then, pow, in the back. The full impact struck him. These two had killed seven armed Mexicans and he had just defied them, tried to loud mouth them. They could kill him and no one would question them.

"I think I can ride," he finally said.

"Then get on and go," Dan said coldly. Ramona looked at Dan, but said nothing. Bernie kicked the bike to life and roared up the beach, heading north. Sweating profusely, he knew he would soon be out of range.

"You're fairly liberal with someone else's motorcycle, Sir Bountiful."

Dan glanced at the sky, then took a long look at the ocean. "Our Bernie's riding a motorcycle taken from a dead Mexican and he's riding it directly into that Mexican's village. There will be some questions when he gets there. His Spanish better be a little better than fluent. Anyway, I have a plan."

"A plan? Let me see. We build a fortress and hoist a flag. Good old loyal Bernie will probably tell the villagers where we are, who we are and what we've done. They'll be down here en mass."

"Could be. So we work fast." He pointed toward the aircraft. "This plane regularly flew over water."

"Now there's a revelation for you."

"Sarcasm is unbecoming the first lady."

"Oh shit, tell me your plan."

"There's a large raft on board. I saw the compartment. We inflate the raft, load up with canned soda and peanuts, plus a few blankets and put out to sea. There's probably a sail. We head north keeping the coast in sight. How's that?"

"Marvelous." She was sincerely enthusiastic. "What do I do?"

"Get all the canned pop and snacks you can find. After that check the bandits for cash. We may need some."

"I'll get the food and drink. You can rob the corpses." She hurried off toward the plane. Dan followed to get the raft. It was heavy, but he managed to drag it to the waterline and pull the inflation handles. Then he went back for the money.

The raft was large, probably big enough for at least twelve people. The light was fading when he got back with the sack of cash and coins. "It was in the Jeep, not on the bodies. There's plenty here."

"I don't see where we'll need any. There'll be rescue planes when the sky clears," Ramona said.

"Yes, and I didn't think I'd need Bob Rose's revolver when I took it. Let's be sure to put a few guns on board, in fact all we can find. We can always dump them at sea."

Fifteen minutes later, with Ramona in the bow, Dan tossed his shoes and socks aboard and then pushed the raft into the Pacific. Then they both paddled furiously to get clear of the mild surf.

They were floating on the calm Pacific just at nightfall. Ramona busied herself arranging the supplies while Dan read the directions and assembled the sail apparatus. Both felt safer than they had since the first shots were fired.

The night was balmy and a soft wind bent the sail. Using the raft's flashlight and compass, Dan steered a north course, well away from land. As he leaned against the side of the vessel, holding the tiller, Ramona crawled back beside him and pressed something into his hand.

He squeezed it in his hand. It felt like a small bottle. "Is it booze?" he whispered.

Ramona giggled. He could see her white face in the darkness. "I loaded the plane's liquor supply on board. It's brandy."

"Great. You know as bad as this day's been. I feel more alive than I have in years. The old blood's really coursing through the veins. Brandy's just the stuff."

Ramona seemed to move closer. He could feel the curves of her body. "I feel the same. Let's get high and crazy. They say violence is one hell of an aphrodisiac."

He unscrewed the lid of the miniature bottle, drank half and passed it to her. "Do you think we're alone now?"

She tossed the empty into the ocean. "Screw recycling."

CHAPTER FIVE

President Keen was distraught. "What the fuck happened," he screamed at Carolyn Kendrick, his chief of staff. Then he spoke slowly and deliberately. "How did my wife, who was supposed to be on Air Force Two, get on a Mexican shuttle flight during an electrical storm?"

"It was her choice, Sir. I understand Bob Rose tried to dissuade her. But she is strong willed."

"Strong willed, my ass. Suicidal's a better word for it. A Mexican shuttle flight going through an electrical storm. I'm told the weather was bad when they took off."

"Yes, Sir. That was the pilot's option. They have quite a bit of latitude down there."

"Fucking kamikaze," the president muttered. "Are there mountains? Could they have crashed in the mountains?"

"No substantial mountains, Sir." Kendrick had endured these maniacal spurts of temper before and had learned to endure until they passed. "The Sierra Madre Occidentals were behind them."

"At least that's what you think," he said. "They could have been going in the wrong direction."

"No, Sir, radar had tracked them and we think we're getting a satellite fix. There are some mountains on Baja, the Sierra San Pedro Martir, rugged but not high."

"And the ocean. They could be in the water."

"Yes, Sir, if the plane got that far. It is equipped with life saving equipment. At least one large raft and life vests. I wondered if you wanted to fly out there, Sir."

"Out where?" the president asked in amazement.

"To the West Coast. To L.A., or maybe San Diego. I guess you could go to Hermosillo if you liked. That's where Air Force Two is."

He shook his head. "I don't know what good that would do, Carolyn. I can't find Ramona."

"It would show concern, Sir. Grief."

"I don't need to show concern, or grief. I am concerned and grieved. And, too, I am president. I have a transcending concern for this country. It surpasses one's personal life."

"I know it does, Sir. Would you like a drink?"

Dennis Keen glanced at his watch. It was getting late in the day, but on the west coast it would be three hours earlier. Still plenty of time for the search. "If it's such a short route, why haven't they located the plane yet?" he demanded.

"The weather, Sir. Visibility is about nil. About all they can use is very low flying helicopters and their field of vision is small."

"I see. Yes, I want a drink. Cancel everything. Have the Pentagon stay on this, keep the necessary people here at the White House. Have Air Force One standby in case something does break. And get me that drink."

The president sat at his desk, scotch and water in front of him. Carolyn Kendrick in a comfortable chair against the wall with a glass of iced tea. He had asked her not to leave. She was his trusted friend, someone to lean on in time of need, strong hand in the political fray, a ruthless decision maker in times of stress.

"She's the strong one, Carolyn. She has always been the strong one."

"I know, Sir." Somehow, since he was elected president, she could no longer call him Dennis. Although when he was a member of the state legislature, then the U.S. Senate, she had always used his first name.

"She could have dumped me years ago. Probably should have."

"You're the president, Sir."

"I know it, but I don't feel it, don't really feel it in my gut. Roosevelt, both Roosevelts, they were presidents. Washington and Lincoln and Jefferson, there's some presidents for you."

Keen got up and walked to a familiar portrait of Washington that he had recently placed on the wall. "To be a good president, you've gotta be dead. To be a great president, you've gotta been dead for at least a hundred years. The president must be dead and all the people who knew the president.

"All the favor seekers, hypocrites, petty pols, political hacks, detractors, talk show hosts, columnists, shysters and assorted well wishers -- all dead. Then the greatness has a chance to germinate."

"But isn't there always some young mudslinger riding into town trying to make a name for himself?" Carolyn said. "Some political historian who claims that Lincoln had two heads, but people were too polite to mention it?"

Dennis took a long drink of scotch and gave her a look. "God, where could she be? Where could that plane be? You say you talked to the Mexican president?"

"Yes, Sir. He wanted to speak with you personally, assure you they had turned out land, sea and ground forces. But I told him you were, uh, bereaved."

Keen finished his drink. "Don't say bereaved, it sounds like she's dead. I know she's not."

"You do, Sir?"

"Of course. Who could kill Ramona." He was beginning to feel the whisky. "Could you get the chaplain in here? And get me another drink and get him a drink."

Towards midnight, Carolyn Kendrick was in her office having her first drink of the day. Across from her was Bill Ellison, Keen's chief political advisor. A bottle of chilled vodka stood between them.

"So he got over his tantrum and then what happened?" Ellison asked.

"The chaplain. He told me to get the chaplain and to get them both a drink. I had some trouble locating the chaplain. But he has an emergency number, apparently has a mistress in an apartment in the Watergate.

"I will say Dennis is trying to pace himself on the drinking. Anyway, he and the chaplain both had a stiff one, then they decided to pray and I decided to leave them alone. When I left they were kneeling on the floor over straight chairs, you know, leaning against the chair seats. The chaplain was praying and Dennis kept adding things to the prayer. Personal things about Ramona. He really loves that woman."

"Sure he does. And she's not the only one."

"Oh, come off it, Bill, this is no time to bring that up. How do you read this whole thing politically?"

"If she's dead," Ellison said. There was some excitement in his voice. "We're talking about a fairly young president, a tragic figure and a very eligible bachelor. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut and his stock would rise. No contest."

"And if she survives?"

"Depending on what happened, good press. News shows, talk shows, headlines, total impact for at least two weeks. By tomorrow morning the nation will be watchful and partly in mourning. Then if she comes through an ordeal. Wow? It looks like a win-win situation."

"I figured." Carolyn reached for the vodka bottle and refilled her glass. "The tide of sympathy is already flowing. There've already been phone calls, telegrams and faxes from across the country offering everything from prayers to psychic intervention. I've got a cot, guess I'll sack out in here tonight. It's full dark even on the west coast now."

"I'll be standing by. In the morning, if she's still missing, it might be a good idea to have the chaplain meet the press. Just a brief visit to the pressroom to let it drop that he and the president have been united in prayer. You might even have him ask the press to offer their prayers for Ramona's safety and the safety of the nation."

Carolyn's face creased into a broad grin. "That is absolute genius. I'll see he has a fresh collar."

"It might be better if he looks haggard."

"You mean hung, and he will."

***

Bernie Bate was in the heart of the village of Garrucha before he knew it. Coming from the south, one passed only a handful of adobe buildings before reaching the shabby town square. A crowd of idlers who had been waiting the return of the search party immediately surrounded the motorcycle.

"That bike belongs to the Morelos brothers. Where did you get it?"

The crowd was surprised to hear an obvious gringo answer in fluent Spanish. "They were hurt, I've come for help," Bate lied.

"How were they hurt?" a man at the front of the crowd asked suspiciously. "And where are the others? Why didn't they come?"

Bate hesitated, then said lamely. "They asked me to come. So where are the authorities?"

"Authorities," someone scoffed. "The mayor was with them. Juan Juarez, he is our authority. And you are a liar." The crowd closed in on Bate, someone clobbering him on the head with a heavy stick, another pummeling his ribs with their fist. Soon he was on the ground and stunned and being kicked around by the angry crowd.

"Don't kill him," a woman shouted. It was the wife of Juan Juarez. "We will never know what happened if you kill him. If he is a thief, we can make him talk."

The crowd backed off and Bate moaned slightly. "He is near death now," the mayor's wife said. "Some of you old men take him to the witch, the old woman in the next village. She will know what to do. Anyone else who can, take the road to the south and look for our men. Take lanterns and food, but no mescal."

Bate barely knew whether he was alive or dead as old men tugged and pulled him onto a low cart, then hitched up a burro and took him over a rock strewn path to a nameless village three miles away that was even smaller than Garrucha. There was a burning in the shoulder where the bullet was lodged and the entire area was beginning to throb with pain.

That night, the woman they called the witch stripped him of his clothing and built a small fire near his fevered body. During the night she occasionally chanted and cast small amounts of powder into the flames.

The powder, dried herbs from the desert mixed with gunpowder, burst into multicolored flame. The three old men who had brought the injured stranger sat on a log near the fire and watched, sometimes sipping mescal, sometimes offering a flask to the witch woman.

Bernie Bate had ridden for help and he had found it, at least he was not alone. As dawn broke, the witch woman asked the old men to wrap Bernie in a blanket and carry him inside her hut.

"I will ask my niece to watch over him during the day. She lives nearby." Then the old men returned to Garrucha to sleep the day away.

An hour after dawn under still sullen skies, pandemonium had broken out at the crash site. During the night half the village had come down to mourn and claim their dead. A contingent of the Mexican army had arrived and were setting up their cook tent and making breakfast while awaiting orders.

A pair of large U.S. Navy helicopters had landed on the beach, one with a platoon of Marines, who likewise were setting up a makeshift headquarters. After the Marine helicopters landed, a chopper from a San Diego TV station set down, its news crew prowled the area and set up a camera to interview officials.

The problem was, no one seemed to be in charge. Everyone awaited orders.

CHAPTER SIX

Becky Canter-Dalton, President Keen's secretary, was the first to tell him the news. The time was after nine in Washington, but still early morning on Baja. Keen had had a few hours sleep assisted by scotch and sleeping pills administered by his personal physician. He was shaved and at his desk drinking coffee and reading the Washington Post. The scream headline read simply: RAMONA VANISHES There was no need to tell America who Ramona was. Becky broke policy and entered the Oval office without knocking. "Sir, they've found the crash site."

He was suddenly alert, his eyes widened. "What? Where?"

"On Baja, by the ocean." She hesitated.

"Well, go on." Why didn't she continue?

"There's been an outrage, Sir."

"An outrage, what kind of talk is that?"

"It's a San Diego news report. A TV station there. It says there's been an outrage on the beach at the crash site."

"We're getting our news from a TV station?"

"Yes, Sir, we are. Apparently there are U.S. Marines there. And the Mexican army. But there's no command officer. There's been no report. I've called the Pentagon and they're checking on it."

"Checking on it?" Keen almost screamed. "Checking on it! Get me the head of the joint chiefs on the phone. I've got their checking on it." He paused for breath. "Did the report mention Ramona? Were there survivors?"

"I don't know. There are dead people, Mexicans and Americans. The TV reports that Mexican villagers are removing bodies."

"I can't believe it," Keen gasped. "This is a crash site. It hasn't been secured and someone's letting Mexican villagers carry away bodies?"

"Yes, Sir. The TV station used the word pandemonium."

"Get me the joint chiefs and get them quick. Get Carolyn. Get Marsha Bell. Get everybody. And for God's sake get me some decent information."

Minutes later Keen was shouting at Gen. Doug Bostic, head of the joint chiefs, then slamming down the phone. Carolyn Kendrick came into the office trailed by Marsha Bell, his press secretary. He looked at both coldly and asked haughtily, "Do either of you have any information you'd like to share with the president?"

Marsha came forward and laid a wire story on his desk. It was an AP story, but it quoted a San Diego TV reporter as saying it appeared everyone at the crash site had been killed, but not in the crash. Most appeared to have been shot.

The second paragraph read: "First Lady Ramona Keen's body did not appear to be among the victims, but it was difficult if not impossible to get an accurate picture of what had happened."

The story continued: "Even though contingents of both the Mexican army and the U.S. Marines were setting up camp nearby, Mexican villagers were prowling the crash site. Some were carrying off bodies and others appeared to be looting."

Keen looked up from the story in wonder as his Pentagon hot line rang.

"Sir," the voice came from the Pentagon, "General Bostic. We've ordered the Marines to secure the area and detain any Mexican villagers who might have bodies, or loot in their possession. We're attempting to clear this now with the Mexican army. Of course there's the issue of national sovereignty."

"Sovereignty-poverty, where's my wife you pompous asshole?"

"We're sorting through the bodies, Sir. At least the on site commander has orders to check every body."

"You're saying no one survived the crash?"

"I'm not saying that, Sir. It seems quite a few people survived the crash. That's the impression. But there was shooting after the crash. We've yet to find a live person who was actually on the airplane."

"But you're certain Ramona's body is not there."

"I don't know, Mr. President. It's a mess down there. What I know is no one's reported finding her body. There were some awful things happened there, Sir."

Keen paused to reflect on what the general meant. Of course death is awful, but there must be something else. "What do you mean some awful things happened?"

"A young woman appears to have been brutally raped, then shot."

The words sent a chill through Keen's body. "My God, general, get me all the facts on this as quickly as you can." Slowly, he replaced the phone in its cradle.

He looked at the two women in his office. "Something crazy has happened down there. And so far, we've thoroughly mishandled the investigation. Carolyn, I want you to get our aviation people down there, forensic experts, Mexican specialists from State, everyone. I want a good report by mid afternoon. You have complete carte blanche. Which means you also have complete responsibility. Now get at it."

She wheeled and left the room and Marsha Bell began to follow. "Marsha, you stay here. The press will want to know how I'm taking this. So tell them I'm confused by early reports. That I'm determined to get to the bottom of whatever happened and that I'm praying for Ramona's safety and for the safety of her secret service contingent and anyone else who was on the plane."

Marsha nodded and took rapid notes, then she looked up and reluctantly said, He's dead."

"Who's dead?"

"Bob Rose. The agent. There was only one man with her, the others stayed with Air Force Two. He was found dead in the airplane, at least they think it's him. His wallet and gun were missing. There's been substantial looting."

"How do you know this?"

"I talked to the station in San Diego. They pieced me through to the helicopter at the site."

"Well, what else do you know?"

"I really don't know anything for sure. It's all conjecture."

"Tell me what you think you know."

"I think, that is the TV people think, that the plane made a crash landing on the beach and most of the people survived. The pilot and the co-pilot were killed instantly and maybe Bob Rose. That's because his body is still in the main cabin of the plane."

"And the others?"

"It gets screwy. That's why I thought it best to wait. But here it is. They may have been attacked by bandits. But at some point the bandits were themselves attacked and many or all of them were killed."

"How do they know this?"

"They don't know, but they do speak Spanish. They talked to people from a small village called Garrucha, which is not far north of the crash location. It seems that seven men from that village were out looking for a child molester called One Ear. These men were all fully armed."

"And they were the bandits?"

"Not to the villagers. To the villagers they were husbands, sons and fathers. But if they came upon the crashed plane and a fairly affluent looking bunch of survivors they might have become bandits."

"And where are these bandits now?"

"Dead."

"All of them?"

Marsha Bell shrugged. "I don't know for certain, but the TV crew questioned the villagers and they said all of their men were killed. They were busy carrying the bodies back to the village for burial."

"That's incredible. Did they say how many men there were?"

"They said seven. And the mayor of the village was among them."

"Damn," Keen said. "I guess all we can do now is wait. Still, tell the press what I said. Tell them I'm sequestered and will remain so. The vice president will take over whatever duties he can, but he will not be the president. I'm not stepping aside. Make that clear."

"Yes, Sir." Marsha left the office and went directly to the pressroom. It always seemed so much better if she could tell the assembled press -- milling in the room like cattle in a feedlot -- that she had just come from the president.

***

Three miles from Garrucha in the hut of the witch woman a pretty young girl was trying to make Bernie Bate drink a steaming native tea. He was delirious, but was having one of his lucid moments.

"What is that stuff?" he barely whispered in Spanish.

"Good for you. Drink." She smiled at him through the haze. He tried another sip. It was bitter and burned his throat.

"I've been shot," he said. "I need help."

"My aunt is watching over you."

"Your aunt. Who is she?"

"The people say she is a witch, but she is very nice."

Bate knew about Mexican witches. He knew he must get out of this hut and into a hospital. "Is there a phone nearby?"

The girl laughed. "No phone. No electricity. No toilets. No nothing."

"What village is this?"

"There is no name. Garrucha is three miles away, but there is nothing there."

He could tell the girl was intelligent, but he also knew she could do little to help him. "You know there is a bullet in my shoulder?"

"I didn't know. But you are very sick. The people from Garrucha beat you. You had a stolen motorcycle. Now they find their men are dead. They are angry, but they will not harm you further."

"Why? Why won't they?"

"Because of the witch. She can make spells."

"I want to tell you something. If I die I want you to tell anyone who asks that I was shot by Ramona Keen, the wife of the American president."

"That is foolish talk. Why would the wife of the president shoot you? You are very sick, but my aunt will help you."

"No. It is not foolish. Please tell the Americans that the wife of the president fired the bullet into my shoulder and..." At this point his mind began to wander and he thought of his youth in Central America and the pretty young girls and the small wooden church near their home, then he snapped back to the wretched hut. "And she might have killed some of the men of Garrucha. Do you understand?"

"I understand your words, Gringo. But they are difficult to believe."

"I know. But this may be my deathbed. So I want you to make a solemn promise to a man on his deathbed that you will repeat what I have told you. Do you promise?"

"Yes."

Bate looked at her and he knew he had made his point. Such a promise would be sacred to her. "What is your name?"

"Rita. Rita Buenaventura."

"Thank you, Rita." Bernie paused and tried to focus on the dim roof of the hut. "You know, Rita, just a few days ago, just last week, I was a big man. I had money, people respected me. Women. I know some said that I exploited a fragile economy." The girl made a slight face. She didn't know exactly what that meant, but she admired his Spanish. It was perfect, even elegant, she had they heard they spoke such Spanish in Spain and maybe other places.

"Now I am dying in this wretched hut. On a dirt floor with smells of chicken shit. I think I heard a hog rooting outside. To die the death of a Mexican peasant, surrounded by chicken shit. Why me."

"Death is death," Rita said. "And this place isn't so bad. The roof is good. Good metal. No rain comes through. The floor is firm and we sweep it. The smells are a part of life. When we cook a chicken, it smells like heaven. And in the morning when there is a new fire and hot food. We have corn meal and beans and sometimes beef."

Bernie nodded, but said nothing.

"On my saint's day, I had ice cream. It was cold and sweet and so smooth, like silk. Do you like ice cream, Gringo?"

He smiled slightly and managed to say, "Yes, I do."

"You see we are much alike. We both enjoy the pleasures of life. Ice cream. I wish I could give you some now. That would be so nice and we could both share. Perhaps tomorrow when you are stronger I will tell you of my dreams. Then maybe we can play a game. The two of us will have fun together."

She noticed his eyes were closed, but his lips carried a faint smile.

He had drifted back into the dream of his youth, teenagers swimming in the buff in a crystal pool below a waterfall. What a wonderful dream it was, so much better than the demons that often prowled the avenues of his mind and brought torment to his late night hours.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ramona and Dan were near exhaustion at dawn. Love making on a rubber raft was as much acrobatic as it was romantic. They did it across the thwarts, in the bow, in the stern and hanging half over the side, all the while Dan attempted to keep the lumbering craft headed generally north and a distance from shore.

Throughout the night they had nibbled on peanuts and sipped white wine from the plane's stock between bouts. With dawn they switched to soda water and lay naked and sprawled on the raft's bottom.

"Do you think we'll be rescued today?" Ramona asked.

"Christ, I hope so," Dan replied. "One more night like that and I'll be ready for the repair shop." They both laughed.

"You don't really mean it," she pouted.

"Of course I don't really mean it. But it would be nice to have a big bed."

"Well, maybe sometime. We'll have to play it by ear."

"And any other body part you might mention."

"Please. Do you think we should dress? We could get sunburned."

Dan eyed the murky skies. "I've heard you can get it through the clouds, but these look mighty thick." Through the night and now with the dawn they had been hearing air traffic. The sounds were like helicopters flying low, but none had come into view. Now they were just out of sight of land and another chopper sound came from the east.

"It's like they're flying along the beach," Ramona said. "They've probably found the wreck."

"Probably."

"If we went to the beach, we'd probably be spotted."

"Very likely that's true. I wonder what they make of the wreck."

"Dead bodies?"

"Yes, passengers, villagers, everyone dead."

"Maybe what's his name, Bernie, brought help."

"Could be," Dan said. "Then he could tell them what happened, but he didn't see anything. I thought we might want to get our story together."

"We did nothing wrong."

Dan hesitated. "I used to work for a small college, do fund raising, you might say public relations. In that game the perception counts, what you have seemed to have done. You did shoot Bernie Bate."

"I know." Ramona was pensive. "Yesterday seems like a century ago, last night was like a dream, a wonderful dream. I felt free and unrestricted, like an eagle in the air, soaring. Maybe it's because I shot Bernie."

"That set you free?"

"In a way it could. You know me, you've heard the rumors, Dennis is president now, maybe I run for president. Maybe this, maybe that."

"But you stumbled."

"Yes, I stumbled. I shot Bernie. It was a split second lapse of judgment. Raw rage took over. The gun was in my hand and I used it. It was like Kennedy at the bridge. A lapse of judgment that might have changed the course of history."

"But no one knows."

"No one knows yet, as far as we know. But there you have it, my friend, my Señor Gringo. And I'm not sure but what I'd do it again. So we go ashore and face the music."

"Not so fast. There is such a thing as damage control. And I do know something about it."

"You can't put the bullet back in the gun."

A gust of wind from the sea tilted the boat and set it turning end for end. The sail flapped uselessly. Dan set about to right the small vessel and set it back on its northward course. Then he rigged a half shelter over the bow, a shelter from sudden squalls or the sun. The squalls were a reality, the sun was up there somewhere but blocked by massive clouds.

He dug out two more packets of salted nuts and tossed one to Ramona. She missed the catch and it smacked against her bare stomach, just below the navel.

"I am the fall guy," he announced. "I killed most of the Mexicans, so I might as well say I killed them all. So why not say I fired the shot into Bernie's shoulder. His back was turned as you recall."

"But he knows it was me."

"What does he know? He heard the crack of the pistol. He felt the bullet sting into his flesh, punch his body. He was stunned. So he says it was you. It wasn't. You say it was me. I think he'll change his story."

She tore open the nuts and dumped some into her mouth. Two gulls swooped near the raft and on impulse, Ramona tossed a few nuts in the air. One gull grabbed a nut in the air and the second plunged into the water after the strays. Then they were up and wheeling, mewing for more nuts.

"You could be right. But what about you? Shooting a person like that, it's not such a good thing." She stopped short of saying, criminal.

"I've got a plan. For one thing, I'm retired, I'm an over age drifter and I don't want to get involved. I'll drop out of sight, but I'll surface if you need me."

"That's fascinating," Ramona said. "Maybe this is the time for you to tell me your real name."

"And maybe it's just the time not to. I said, if you need me, I'd surface with my name and credentials. The truth is, in Mexico I was actually registered as Dan Gringo. You can believe the Dan. But I'm a private person and I don't want to be the top dog in a media circus if I can avoid it. In fact you can bet I'll go out of my way to avoid it."

"Media circus is probably putting it mild. Dead passengers, dead Mexicans, Bernie what's his name shot, then riding off on a stolen motorcycle. Us with a bag full of cash. We killed the Mexicans and made off with the loot. We're better bandits than they are."

"Than they were. What about it?"

"We go ashore and you race off into the hills?"

"No way," Dan said. "Steady hand on the tiller until we reach a sizeable city. Then we go ashore by stealth and reach a parting of the ways."

Ramona smiled. "On a big hotel bed."

"If at all possible."

During the long daylight hours they kept a steady pace to the north. The weather was much the same, low clouds and a few drops of rain hissing on the quiet water. More than once they heard helicopters skirting the beach. There was apparently no sea search.

They ate peanuts and snack crackers and drank club soda, orange and tomato juice. They wore the minimum amount of clothing in case a surprise helicopter would come whirring out of a cloudbank. Toward sunset they broke out the brandy and began unbuttoning their clothing.

***

As dusk fell on the vast Pacific, President Keen was in his office about to receive a full-scale briefing on the crash from none other than General Doug Bostic himself. He had brought four junior officers and a stack of maps along. Carolyn Kendrick, Bill Ellison and Marsha Bell were also on hand.

All during the day reports had come in at least once an hour, but now they were about to get the full picture.

An aide put the first map in place and General Bostic, using a pointer, said, "The plane went down on the beach, about this spot. It's electronic gear and hydraulic system may have been damaged by a lightning strike. It may take weeks to determine that."

President Keen listened impatiently. He wasn't interested in mechanical details that might take weeks of study. He was interested in the whereabouts and condition of his wife.

"As far as we can tell," the general continued, "only three people were killed in the crash -- both pilots and the secret service man, Bob Rose. The rest died of gunshot wounds."

"Inflicted by who?" Keen asked.

"Mexican bandits, or Mexican villagers, whatever you want to call them. unfortunately the crash site was a mess when it was finally secured. All of the Mexican bodies had been removed, looting was still in progress. The passengers wallets and identities were gone, some of their shoes and other personal clothing had even be stolen."

"By the villagers?" the president questioned.

"Yes, we think so. This may have happened in two stages. One the bandits shot the passengers, first raping the stewardess, and looted the valuables. Then the bandits themselves were killed by an agent, or agents unknown. After that the villagers came on the scene, claimed the bodies and also took any loot they could carry off."

"And has that been recovered?"

"No, Sir. Not as far as I know. This is a ticklish operation on Mexican soil. The plane and its crew were Mexican, the territory is Mexico. We are permitted to join the operation by special dispensation from the Mexican president himself, but we must not interfere with Mexican justice."

"And what is Mexican justice?" the president asked.

"I'm not certain, Sir. Perhaps the State Department could answer that question. We're all soldiers here."

"And, finally, although there seems to be many questions unanswered, where is my wife?"

The general wiped his hand across his forehead and watched while an aide removed the map and put in its place a montage of photographs of the crash scene. "The only answer we can come up with, and this is the purest conjecture, is that she's been kidnapped."

There was a moment of silence. The thought had not crossed the president's mind, although a newsman had asked Marsha Bell about the possibility in mid-afternoon.

At first the president said nothing, but the wheels were turning in his head. He realized this solution was one born of desperation and from all he had heard during the day there wasn't a shred of evidence to support it.

"Okay," he finally said, "give me the scenario. Tell me how it might have happened."

"Two other passengers are missing. We know they boarded the plane in Hermosillo, so we know they were on it when it crashed. First I'll deal with one named Bernie Bate. We know who he is, an earth moving equipment salesman who speaks fluent Spanish and has Mexico and Central America as his territory. He's a big man with black hair and a big nose, a jutting nose. Probably about forty, maybe two hundred pounds, but I'm not certain."

"Any criminal record, or financial problems?"

"No, Sir, not that we can find. Has a hefty bank account and a nice home in El Cajon. But he is single."

"I don't believe that's a crime."

"No, Sir. The odd part of it is, the seven Mexicans who were killed, and these are the ones I've called the bandits, although that's strictly off the record, set out from a village just north of the crash site called Garrucha. They were looking for a suspected child molester everyone knew as One Ear."

"And they were armed to the teeth."

"Yes, Mr. President. If they would have found One Ear, which they didn't, they would have likely killed him. Now you might call that Mexican justice. But five of them were in an old War Two Jeep and two of them were on a motorcycle. The Jeep we found at the crash site, put out of action by small arms fire. We have a report from a villager that the motorcycle was ridden back to Garrucha by a man answering the description of Bernie Bate."

The president held his hands up in wonder. "So you have a survivor. Where is he?"

"We don't have a survivor, Sir. No one else would confirm the story and when we question the same villager the second time he recanted."

"He's probably told the truth the first time."

"Exactly. Now we have a wall of silence. It could be that they killed Bate because he had a hand in killing the villagers. That seems very likely."

Bill Ellison laughed spontaneously and then swallowed hard to choke it off. The president eyed him coldly.

"I'm sorry, Sir," he apologized. "I just couldn't imagine a man who had just killed seven men from the same village, taking one of their motorcycles and riding into that village. If that's the story, he must have been incredibly stupid."

"I tend to agree, but we're not here to discuss this Bate's IQ. His disappearance is something we should take up with the Mexican government. Perhaps they can get some action."

"We have put in such a request, Sir," the general said. "So we come to the second unaccounted for man, a Dan Gringo."

Ellison stifled a second laugh and drew another look from Keen. "It is an odd last name, Sir," Ellison said.

"Granted. Continued, general."

"Gringo is probably a sobriquet. We're backtracking from Hermosillo in an attempt to find where he came from. But he was not seen on a motorcycle, yet he is gone and your wife is gone. So, if there's been a kidnapping, he may be the miscreant."

"You're saying that someone who planned a kidnapping would risk using the last name 'Gringo' in Mexico in the hopes of being ignored?"

"I'm saying he may have seen the opportunity to kidnap an important person and seized it, spur of the moment type thing."

"Then it was he, possibly with this Bate's assistance, who killed the seven bandits, then headed Bate's north on a stolen motorcycle, then spirited my wife off somewhere. And where is that somewhere?"

"Either inland, on foot, or the ocean by boat."

"Or a confederate landed a light plane on the beach. This Gringo had a radio in his shoe."

"Well, there isn't an airtight solution, Sir. We are just speculating here. The crash site was so torn up when it was secured that a great deal of evidence has been destroyed. But there is a boat."

"A boat?" Keen questioned.

"Yes, a rubber raft from the plane is missing. Gringo could have taken it and put to sea."

"Or it could have been looted by the villagers along with everything else."

"Yes, Sir. We've asked the Mexican government specifically to look for a rubber raft among the loot."

Keen rubbed his eyes. He was tired, very tired. At least he didn't know that Ramona was dead. "If they don't find a raft, I suppose you'll launch a sea search."

"That would be in order."

"Well, why not pretend this Gringo is some sort of pirate and carried Ramona aboard a rubber raft and set out to sea. Why not start a sea search just for the hell of it?"

"We do have helicopters patrolling the beach, Sir. It's a dicey business, the weather's terrible."

"You don't habitually keep your soldiers and sailors indoors during bad weather, do you, General?"

"No, Sir, we'll heighten the sea search immediately." He turned to one of his aides and nodded and the man left the room.

"You are searching all points of the compass, aren't you, General?"

"Yes, I guess, but we've been concentrating on the coastal area to the north."

"What about inland?"

"It's barren country, Sir. Not a fit escape route."

"Your marines, would it be a great hardship for them to give this barren country a going over?"

"No, Sir. We could do that."

"I hope that tomorrow noon when we meet again that you will be able to report a total land, air and sea search in every direction.

"Yes, Sir."

"If there's nothing else of importance, that'll be all."

Left alone with Carolyn, Marsha Bell and Bill Ellison, Keen asked if any of the three had any theories of their own.

There were none. Marsha said that one reporter did ask about the possibility of kidnapping. It would probably be floated in several papers tomorrow and certainly mentioned on the electronic media.

"We're getting a lot of requests for Mrs. Keen's biography," Marsha added.

"Obituary material," Keen said. "Let's have a drink, shall we? I think I could eat part of a pizza."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sometime after two a.m. Dan roused from a pleasant slumber to find the sky had cleared and the temperature had dropped several degrees. He dug out a blanket and covered the two of them.

"Hmmmmmm, that feels good," Ramona said. "Look at those stars, would you?" The deep pool of the sky was ablaze with them.

"No artificial lights anywhere," Dan said. "This is why the ancients spent so much time star gazing."

"And learned to worship night."

"I suppose. Makes you feel small."

"Like you're standing, or prone as we are, before the great altar of the universe." She pulled the blanket snug against her chin and snuggled against Dan's bare body.

"What is your political philosophy, I've often wondered?" Dan said.

Ramona giggled. "Political philosophy at a time like this. Well, certainly. We do have a lot of time right now, time for everything. There was a governor of Louisiana, his name was Long, a well known political character. They crank 'em out wholesale in Louisiana. One of his slogans was 'Everyman a King.'"

"You liked that?"

"Yes, but I'd add, 'Every Woman a Queen.' Of course I can't because people really wouldn't understand it. Long was sharp and his constituents understood what he meant. I don't think I could sell that slogan today, yet it sums up my feelings to a T."

Dan had an idea what she was getting at, but he kept quiet and waited for her to continue.

"Someone said what Long meant was that everyman should own at least two shirts. Those were poor times in Louisiana."

"Look, there's a shooting star." Dan pointed in the dark. "See it, over to the right."

"I missed it, but if I watch I'll see one, won't I?"

"Yes you will."

"You know when I was ten, my only dream was to be a ballerina. I wanted to go to the Royal Ballet School in London."

"I thought Moscow was the holy land of the ballet."

"Get real. I've always been practical, so much so people fault me for it."

"I guess we're just two practical people," Dan said, "drifting around in the Pacific in a rubber boat drinking and..."

"Romancing. I starred in The Sleeping Beauty at my little ballet school. I always wanted to do the ballet version of Mayerling. That's what made me think of it just now, the two of us on a boat. You know Mayerling?"

"I think, long ago, Vienna comes to mind."

"Exactly. Star crossed lovers. The Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria and Marie Vetsera, his mistress. A torrid affair that ended in a double suicide."

"Yikes."

"Exactly. And he was the sole heir to the throne."

Dan laughed. "And you may be the sole heir to something or other."

"Maybe a political firing squad. They'd pepper me with bogus ballots."

"The ballot and the ballet seem far removed, when did you make the switch."

"I drifted. I was going to major in the humanities in college, then I met Dennis. I switched to political science."

"And the rest is history."

"So far it is. If we can keep the ship of state on an even keel. I've never told anybody this but Dennis, of course everyone's guessed. But I would like a crack at the top job. I have my agenda and Dennis has his."

"They're not at odds?"

"No, not at odds. One complements the other. He's doing the building blocks. Fine tuning welfare, of course we'd all like to eliminate it all together. Working on universal health, containing crime, bolstering education, maintaining the appearance of world leadership. It's a handful."

"And your agenda?"

"More spiritual."

"But you're practical."

"Yes, I'm practical. That's why my leadership has to be spiritual. I would like to create a certain ambience in America. The larger we get, the more we need a small town ambience. I suppose you can call it community spirit, or you can call it trust. But whatever it is, we don't got it now."

They were silent for some minutes and Ramona saw a shooting star. Then Dan said he thought he understood what she was talking about and her method of achieving it.

"If every man was a king and every woman was a queen, then each person would be respected. And people respect those who respect them. So you would have your perfect society."

Ramona rolled over and hugged him. "I think I know why I fell for you. It wasn't just because you shot those Mexicans. Of course that did help."

"Thanks, I got your drift, but I'd be lost working out a program that might accomplish it, and implementing it would be perplexing at best. Running such a beast through the gauntlet of Congress."

"Politics is like working a sailing ship in the old days. The sailors had a saying -- one hand for the ship, one hand for yourself. It was a good one. Those who got caught up in their work and used both hands for the ship often fell from aloft to an early grave. So, you've got to get elected and you've got to keep the voters at least pacified before you can do good for your country. Too many congressmen do well for themselves, both hands for themselves."

"Some of those hands are in the taxpayers pockets."

"All of those hands are in the taxpayer's pockets. But we do have elections from time to time. And anyway, I'm sick of it all. This is reality."

"Bored with being first lady?"

"There was a time when Josephine and Napoleon grew weary of each other. So what did they do? They worked on their image, built a dynasty based on pragmatism. So, I'm half a team, always careful not to devour my hubby's masculinity. The first lady shouldn't have brass balls."

"I'm with you there."

"Maybe I could be Delilah, but where would it get me. Back to the image thing. Eleanor Roosevelt broke all manner of new ground, but she remained an outsider."

"I've read the book."

"Books. I know this woman. She traveled the nation, listened carefully then communicated with Franklin in odd ways. She had a little basket she dropped notes into, she made outrageous statements at dinner parties, she was, in fact, his conscience. But always, an outsider."

"And you're an insider."

"That's correct as far as it goes. I'm perceived as an insider because I've carried the fight from the White House to the Hill. I've stormed the gates of the Citadel. Ramona the Hun!"

"But a sweet Hun. Maybe a hunny bun."

"Please. Now take Jacqueline, a grand lady with superb self-confidence. She could change her hair style, change her wardrobe with impunity."

"That's important?"

"Of course. We are defined in shorthand. Issues are reduced to personalities, haircuts, hemlines and neckties. In ancient France the masses hated the queen and dismissed the King as a forgetful grandfather. I'm certain the modern version isn't lost on you."

"Do you feel you've been demonized, Ramona?"

"Not more than I deserve. I still have strengths and a diverse constituency. They say I lack confidence and a sense of humor. I think I have a little of both and I wonder who they are. But whoever they are, they're right. We all cast shadows, dark and bright. How did we ever get started on this conversation?"

Her voice seemed far away and wistful for a moment. "For me, the bloom on that political rose on Pennsylvania Avenue is fading. I've just now noticed it. Let me tell you I'm a victim and cry on your shoulder. Then we can do what the two of us do very well together."

"Do you want another drink?" Dan asked.

"No, I'd rather cuddle."

Just before dawn, Dan heard the noises of a large vessel underway. On the seaward side he could see the running lights of a ship. He touched Ramona's shoulder and pointed her head toward the lights.

"I think it's a destroyer, or a destroyer escort," he whispered. They were so close that you could actually hear some noises from the deck. Once a man shouted.

Quietly Dan took down the sail and mast. The two of them lay in the bottom of the raft, holding hands. Another muffled cry came from the ship, then silence. After ten minutes, Dan propped himself on his elbow and peered over the side of the raft. Nothing. The vessel had moved on south.

Fortunately, clouds were moving in again. So they could take their chances with the day. He was certain in his mind that they should be reaching coastal towns soon, not that there were many. Perhaps they had been too far from shore and had been lax in keeping a watch. Tonight, he vowed, they would steer close in and keep a look out.

***

In Garrucha they buried their dead and the mayor's wife forbid anyone to talk about the Gringo they had given to the witch woman.

"He is a big man, a strong man, he will recover from the beating we gave him, then we will learn what happened at the place of that airplane. If we give him to the soldiers we will never learn what happened," she told the village.

And she would have been right under normal circumstances. But no one knew that Bernie Bate carried a bullet in his shoulder. Of course he had told Rita Buenaventura, but she said nothing. She didn't know whether to believe him or not. Anyway, he was in the hands of her aunt, the witch.

The flesh around the bullet was festering and the poison was spreading through his body. Bernie Bate would soon be dead. He would be laid to rest in an unmarked grave among the Mexican dead.

***

When his advisors were gone and the last of the pizza had been eaten, President Keen decided it was time he got back to work. A faint knock sounded on his office door as he was writing notes on a long yellow legal pad. "Come in," he shouted loudly. He knew it was difficult to hear through that heavy hardwood door.

His secretary, Becky Canter-Dalton quietly pushed the door open and came in. "I thought you might need something." She was a beautiful woman, some said incredibly beautiful with wide-set cornflower blue eyes, clear complexion and heavy bodied blond hair.

"Sit down, Becky. It's awfully late."

"I know, but with Ramona gone and all, well, it just seemed to me you might need something."

Keen often wondered what was behind those wide-set eyes. Very little gray matter, he was almost certain. But she was the best secretary he had ever had and seemed intensely loyal. He had instructed her not only to speak of nothing that happened, or that she heard in the office, but not even to mention his name outside of the White House. He knew she followed his instructions like a fanatic.

"Because Ramona is gone, I've decided to be celibate for a time." He regretted that he had said that as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Why should he be celibate? He was the president and there were certain animal needs, creature comforts.

"That means no sex, doesn't it?" She was sympathetic.

"Maybe for a little while." Dennis liked talking with Becky. She never questioned anything he said, in fact she seldom spoke unless he asked her a direct question. Talking to her was much like thinking out loud and gave him a chance to get things straight in his mind. Holding up the yellow pad, he said, "I've got a new plan for the military."

She looked at the pad and wondered what was on it. Becky was good at reading his scribbled notes and putting them into straightforward sentences. She was a first rate grammarian and an excellent speller. "Do you want me to type that?"

"No, I've just begun. You see the military sops up too much of our national budget. If I can find a way to actually improve the military and cut costs, I'd be a hero."

"A military hero," she said.

"No. Not a military hero. I'd be more like a military goat. They like to do things their own way. Also, they have a powerful lobby. So I'd have to find a way to sell my program, to convince congress that they could vote for the plan and e reelected. It's kind of a big project."

"I'll take notes if you want."

"I'd like to talk about the plan. You see the military needs a core of very intelligent, highly trained technicians. Often these are not the type of people who graduate from places like the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. We need those too, a professional officer corps. We don't really need so many of them, though.

"So you have trained officers and skilled technicians. Beyond that you have a legion of semi-trained combat troops, people you could probably bring up to fighting peak in six months. Hence my plan. The officer corps is already over paid. Do nothing with that, but try to trim their numbers. Make it a little more elite, a little tougher to get through these academies. Do you know how many military officers we have on active service?"

"No, I don't."

"Neither do I, but too many and they retire too young. So keep them in longer, no more twenty years and out. Also trim the fat from the technicians, but pay them a little more. Make the jobs even more desirable. Have I saved any money yet?"

Becky smiled. "I don't think so. You've gotten rid of a few people, but you've increased wages. Might be a wash."

"Probably is. So we go to universal conscription. They do it in Switzerland, they do it in Slovakia, they do it in other countries. Why not here?"

"Everyone in the military?" Her eyes grew even wider. She didn't know a whole lot about politics, but she could recognize a political suicide when she saw one.

"The operative word is everyone. No exemptions. Even cripples. There'd be alternative service in hospitals or forestry. Everyone serves a year and everyone then goes into the reserves for a period of time, maybe six years. And they do it as a duty with little pay. That's the nut of the plan. Can you remember it? It's quite simple."

"I think so. Why?"

"I'd like you to write it down."

"You mean right now?"

"Yes, just take a minute and dash it off. Then show it to me. I'll fix us coffee."

"Okay." Becky retreated to the outer office and her word processor. By the time Dennis had the coffee ready she was back with a single sheet of paper, double spaced, half filled. She gave it to the president and took the empty cups from his hands. "I'll do that."

Dennis flopped down on his couch and read what Becky had written. It was excellent, exactly as he had outlined it, but in better English. She handed him his coffee and sat down beside him. Her perfume mingled with the smell of coffee and her hair almost brushed his face.

"There's a dinner tomorrow night for some British MPs. There'll be all sorts of people there, including press. I'd like you to go. Can you?"

"Well, certainly," she beamed. "You'll be there?"

"No. I can't. Because of Ramona. I won't make a public appearance until this thing is resolved."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Becky was genuinely concerned. "Do you have any idea what might have happened to her? Those people being killed, and that stewardess, it's frightening."

"I don't know, Becky. I've been, well, tense. Haven't really been able to sleep well. Everyone's looking for her, something's bound to break, soon I hope."

She touched his shoulder with her hand. "I could help you relax. If you really didn't mean that celibate thing."

"I guess I really didn't," Keen conceded.

"Before we do it, let me tell you one thing. At the party tomorrow night, the vice president will be the host. Pretend to drink a little more than you should, then lay out this military plan to two or three people. It doesn't matter who, but someone from the press would be nice. Although it will spread like wildfire."

"Yes." Becky was pleased. He had never trusted her with a trial balloon before and she would show him that she could handle it with discretion. "I know just what to say. I'll hint that it came from your office, but I'll never really say that. I'll just say that it's the goofiest thing to think of universal conscription. And those conscripts would be paid next to nothing, giving up a year of their life."

Keen smiled and finished his coffee. Be sure and shred that paper you typed. He got up and turned off the lights. They could do it on the couch unless they rolled off on the floor.

***

Dawn over the Pacific came up like a dull glow on a lackluster morning. Dan's eyes were open and he realized he was staring upwards into a fog bank.

Something bumped the side of the raft and a friendly Mexican face looked down on him. "Señor, are you lost?"

Dan stared at the dark eyes, tanned features and black mustache for seconds before he replied. He pushed his left arm out to see if Ramona was there and quickly pulled the blanket up over her head.

"We've been drifting," Dan said, trying to crawl to his knees, protect his nudity and keep Ramona covered at the same time. "I suppose we're lost. How far did we drift?"

The Mexican laughed. He was a corpulent, middle-aged man with deep smile marks around his eyes. "That depends on where you began your journey."

"Well, at the city," Dan said lamely.

"Ah, then you have come quite a few miles south."

"We were drinking and fell asleep," Dan admitted. It was true and he thought the Mexican would understand.

"Of course." He nodded solemnly and then added, "I have a motorboat."

Still on his knees, Dan raised himself until he could see an old wooden boat painted blue with faded red trim. "It is a nice boat."

"It serves me well," the Mexican said. "I could tow you."

"That would be good." The fog was lifting and Dan saw the ghostly outline of other boats in the area, including what appeared to be a large naval vessel. "What are all these boats?" Ramona was stirring in the blanket and Dan kept a hand on her shoulder to quiet her.

"Fishermen. Then there is a search underway for a woman, the wife of the president of the United States. But she was lost far south of here."

"Look, I'll pay you to tow us. How far is it?"

"To Ensenada is quite far. I would charge you..." he hesitated as he thought of a price, "twenty American dollars."

"That's fair," Dan shot back, then thinking of the boats around them, asked, "Is there a closer place?"

"There is a large resort nearby, but what would you do with your raft?"

"We bought it in Ensenada, but we don't like it. It's too big and it's clumsy. If you towed us in, you could have it."

"You want to give me the raft instead of the money?" It was a question. The Mexican seemed to be considering such a proposition.

Dan wanted to avoid the impression that he was giving money away, although most Americans were considered extravagant. "Because the resort is nearby, I will give you ten dollars and the raft if you tow us there."

The Mexican smiled. "You have an agreement."

"I am pleased," Dan said. "But you might have noticed the two of us have been sleeping and are not entirely dressed. If you could take your boat off a ways, then I'll call you when we're ready."

"Agreed." The Mexican took an oar from the bottom of his boat and quietly paddled away, no doubt the way he had approached, also in silence.

Dan pushed Ramona's shoulder. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"We have to get rid of the guns and other airplane stuff. We can ease it over the side away from his boat."

"Okay, but I think I'll get dressed first."

"Wrap something around your head."

"What do you mean?"

"Like a turban. Hide your hair."

"Oh, I see, a disguise, like a spy."

"Yes," Dan said, "like a spy." He was already almost dressed. One by one he eased the rifles and other supplies into the water and let them drop. The .38 revolver he dropped into the pocket of his safari jacket. There still might be a need.

Lastly, he examined the large stack of Mexican and U.S. money he'd had taken from the bandits. It was stored in an airline barf bag. He removed fifty dollars in tens and pushed them into his trouser pocket. The rest in put in a safari jacket pocket and carefully buttoned it.

Ramona was dressed and had torn a long strip from a flannel blanket and fashioned it into a turban. It worked well, lending an exotic look, a touristy look. And what were they if they were not tourists?

"We would like to ride with you in your boat," Dan told the Mexican after he had summoned him.

"Climb aboard, you are welcome." They clamored across and found a seat on the thwart that would have been used by the oarsman if there had been one. They had saved three cans of club soda and offered one of them to the Mexican.

"Thanks, I have had my breakfast." He pulled the outboard to life and they started across the water at a good pace, even with the clunky raft trailing on a line behind them. Empty, it skimmed the surface of the water. As they headed for shore they passed near a gray U.S. Navy vessel. "What is that ship?" Ramona asked Dan.

He shrugged. "Not a war vessel, more support." He looked at the Mexican and pointed toward the ship as if to ask what it was.

"A repair ship," the Mexican shouted over the sound of the engine. "Many American Navy ships have moved south looking for the lost woman. Her disappearance was very curious."

"I heard about it on TV," Dan said. Ramona smiled.

Very soon they were close offshore what appeared to be a large resort complex, a beach with stacks of chairs and colorful sun umbrellas, a glass and stone hotel beyond reminiscent of an Aztec pyramid. Dan wondered if there was the occasional sacrifice of a vestal virgin.

"It's beautiful," Ramona said.

"There is a dock, but it is around back. We must use a long canal and pass a security guard," the Mexican shouted over the engine noise.

"Just take us close in shore," Dan shouted back. "We'll wade." He dug in his pants pocket for a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the boatman. "It's been a nice rise, thanks."

"Thank you, Señor," the man said pocketing the ten and gesturing toward the raft.

The water was scarcely more than a foot deep. They held their shoes and clambered over the side, waved goodbye to the boatman who immediately gunned the engine toward the open water.

"Do you think it's safe to get a room here?" Ramona asked as they walked across the wide beach.

"There were no markings on the raft that I saw, nothing to identify it as coming from the plane. I think we just look like a couple of scruffy tourists. I'll tell 'em our luggage was stolen."

"That won't be hard to believe. I could use a shower and a change of clothes."

"I've got the cash. How about calling ourselves Jack and Jill Goose?"

Ramona laughed. "Goose? Why Goose?"

"Like Mother Goose, easy to remember."

"That's for sure. Okay. Should I be Jack or Jill?"

He shot her a surly glance and they continued across a strip of grass, then through a pair of glass doors and into the lobby. Ramona dropped into a plastic chair and put on her shoes. Dan had sandals and simply stepped into them and continued to check in.

There was no problem. With cash on the desk, they were soon in a $250 a night room with a balcony to the ocean and a bowl of fresh flowers on the coffee table. No sooner were they in the room than Ramona hit the bathroom, not to emerge again for just over half an hour.

Dan waited impatiently for his turn, thumbing through a travel magazine. Women, he thought, this was something like being married.

She emerged showered and glowing, clad in a hotel robe.

"You look wonderful," he said, rising.

"Don't even think of getting near me until you've showered. I'll order something from room service while you're laundering your frame."

With a Niagara of warm water flooding down on him in the shower and the rich lather of soap dismissing the cares of the last few days, he thought of the immense chance Ramona was taking in sharing a hotel room with a dude like him. But then, what else could the two of them do? Well, they would have to do something.

When he emerged in his hotel robe, blue terry cloth with a white sea gull on the back, ham sandwiches, potato chips, pickles and a pot of hot coffee was waiting.

"I did wait for you, but I will wait no longer."

She picked up a sandwich and took a large bite. They were both famished for real food. "What's our next move?"

Dan had been on the brink of asking her the same question, but he had a plan. "Catch a few Zs so we can think straight. There must be some secret number at the White House that you know." She nodded agreement while devouring the first half of her sandwich. He moved his plate to the arm of his chair, fearful that she might finish her sandwich and go after his. "I'll call and ask your husband to send a couple of people, I guess secret service, to discreetly and quietly pick you up and whisk you back to Washington."

"Sounds Okay," she said, poking a handful of chips into her mouth. "You're right. Sleep first, think later. Good logic."

CHAPTER NINE

Becky Canter-Dalton wore a simple white cotton dress to the White House party. Small mostly white earrings, enamel on star shaped copper, her only adornment. Her appearance was striking, fresh, young, vivaciously dynamic.

For a time she wandered around with a mild glass of scotch and water in her hand nibbling on a napkin full of spiced shrimp.

It wasn't long until she picked up company, an aging U.S. senator, a reporter from the Post and a staffer from Capitol Hill.

"I've seen you more than once when I visited the president," the senator said. "Let me say, young lady, you are unforgettable."

"Thank you senator. Don't think you went unnoticed." Her reply was almost shy.

"I've often wondered," the Post reporter said. "Do you keep the same hours as the president?"

"My, no. The president's always on duty, isn't he?"

"You don't live in the White House?" This time it was the staffer. Everyone seemed to be interested in her.

"No I have a little apartment." She finished her drink. "My that tasted strong. Scotch is a regular whisky, isn't it?"

"It's a form of whisky," the senator said. "Would you care for another?"

"Why yes, I guess so. It makes me feel good." She flashed a radiant smile.

The senator took her glass and handed it to the staffer. "Scotch and water, wasn't it?" She nodded and the staffer trotted off toward the bar doing a silent slow burn.

"How do you use your spare time, Miss...?" the Post asked.

"Becky. Becky Canter-Dalton. Please, call me Becky. When I was young, I didn't like the name Becky. Two syllables you see. But I thought Canter-Dalton was fine as a last name, four syllables."

After talking about names for a good ten minutes, she let drop that she liked to read articles on skin care and often watching the home shopping channel brought her some joy, but she seldom made a purchase. She was walking a fine line and she knew it, she wanted to appear fairly dumb, but not mindlessly stupid.

The Post reporter finally got her on the right track while the staffer was off getting her yet another drink. Her three companions were like magnets to her steel. The senator wouldn't have cared if she had been reading names from a road map. He had to swallow hard to keep from drooling.

"What are they talking about around the Oval Office these days? I suppose nothing but the disappearance. The presidency is in some sort of paralysis."

"Oh, heaven's no," Becky said. She did so relish scotch and water. "The work of the country goes on, everything from awards in the Rose Garden to all that flurry about universal conscription." She paused, smiled and moved toward the buffet. "Don't you just love those little mushrooms stuffed with crab meat?"

The Post reporter almost reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder to stop her, but he instantly decided on a more subtle approach. "I'll get you a few. I can push through the crowd."

She watched him go and then turned to the senator. "I'm dying to hear your views on prayer in school. Christianity is so, so sacred."

"Yes. I couldn't agree more. I believe everyone should be permitted to say a simple prayer in school. Incidentally, I could show you around Capitol Hill sometime. All the action isn't at this end of Pennsylvania Avenue."

"I'm so flattered." The Post shoved a paper plate of stuffed mushrooms in her face. The smell of garlic was redolent. The staffer patted her on the forearm. He was a little drunk.

The reporter, regaining his poise, observed that, "Universal conscription would seem to be overdoing a bit in these days." He was all studied nonchalance.

"Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it," Becky said. "You know I'm forbidden to quote any names, to mention any of the people working on this."

"Why would such a thing even be talked about?" the senator asked. Defense was one of his specialties and he at once became all business.

"For the money, of course," Becky said. She then proceeded to outline the program the president had laid out for her.

After several more questions, it was the staffer who came up with the zinger. "That would put too many people under arms at one time. Regardless of how low their pay might be, the country has millions of 18-year-olds at any one time. You just wouldn't need that many."

"You men and your sharp minds," Becky said. "We probably shouldn't even be talking about this, but that was a sticker. So they devised this thing, it's something like a lottery."

"A draft lottery," the Post said.

"No." Before she knew Becky was crafting her own universal conscription plan, making national policy off the top of her head, scotch in one hand, stuffed mushroom in another.

"First, no one is exempt. That's going in. Of course there would be exceptions to that in drastic cases. But every young man and woman would be expected to fall into line as a duty to their country. Sounds a little old fashioned, doesn't it?"

"I should say so, but I'm an old fashioned kind of guy," the senator said.

"Second, a lot of these people wouldn't be engaged in military service. So there would be no legal draft objectors. Now the lottery part and you gentlemen must excuse me if I don't know all the details. I'm just a secretary after all. Some people would be released after two or three months, a brief but adequate training period. Others would only serve five to six months. And others, maybe even a minority, would go a full year."

"Who can I talk to who knows more about this?" the Post asked.

"We're just talking here at a party," Becky said. "I hope you aren't going to get me into trouble."

"Of course not. I'll forget I even met you, well maybe not that. But I won't mention your name."

She beamed and said. "I think the vice president is about to make some sort of awards speech. We should probably cluster around the podium." She moved toward the gathering crowd and the three men moved with her, like ships in tow."

It was dusk when they woke. They were refreshed and they made love under clean sheets in the air-conditioned room. It was good love, good sex and they both felt good.

Afterwards, Dan sat on the side of the big bed and almost wished he still smoked. It had been years since he quit. But a cigarette would taste good, right now.

It was full dark and through the sliding door to the balcony he could see a moon in a clear sky. "Too late to call Washington now, it must be the middle of the night there."

"Agreed," came the voice from the sheets. "I could use a drink, maybe at poolside, a good dinner, maybe a little dancing, then back to bed. Sound like a plan."

"A good plan, but our clothes are a mess. I'm surprised they rented us this room."

"Money talks. Anyway, I got up about noon, put our clothes in a laundry bag, called room service and they promised quick service."

"My God, you'd be a great little housewife."

"Thanks for nothing."

"What about the .38 and the sack of money?"

"In the drawer by the bed. You really want to keep that thing?"

"No. Just 'til we got ashore, back among the polite people who want your money, not your life. I'll drop it off somewhere. You suppose our clothes are in the hall."

"Probably not. Somebody probably wants a tip when they return them. Call room service, I'll dash to the john."

"Just keep it fairly short this time. Take turns." Dan picked up the phone and punched the room service number.

Downstairs, off the lobby, the boutiques were still open, tourist heaven. "Let's shop a little," Ramona said. "I could use a new chapeau and you need a shirt."

Dan immediately picked out a T-shirt that was emblazoned "Baja Beast." For Ramona, it was a straw sun hat with a white cotton piece that covered the hair and ears and tied under the chin. She also found a blouse, like a painter's palette splashed with color, very tropical, very non-first lady. Dan picked out a fiery crimson lipstick for her. Her normal color was almost flesh.

Back in the room they dressed in their costumes, admired themselves in the mirror, then looked at each other and laughed.

"It looks like my lips are bleeding," Ramona said.

"Quiet good taste, just like your blouse. But the hat caps off that perennial tourist look. No one would ever suspect."

"Now for the night life, my Baja Beast." On the elevator they smiled and held hands.

In the bar they drank something called a Baja Blast that came in tall terra cotta glasses shaped like Mexican folk characters.

"I think I've got Poncho Villa," Ramona said, holding the vessel up in the half light.

"You folks from the States?" the male half of a couple to Ramona's left asked.

Ramona wondered what tourists in the room weren't from the States, but she replied with a cheery, "Yes, we're the Geese." The man looked puzzled and she quickly added, "That's a joke. Our name is Goose. I'm Jill and he's Jack. Jack and Jill Goose, like Mother Goose."

"That's funny," the man's companion said. She was brunette and heavily made up. Her body was tanned and she wore a revealing sundress. "We're from Cincinnati."

"Yeah," the man said. "Jim and Martha." He shook hands with both of them. Martha smiled and nodded.

From what he could see of Martha's body, and he could see a great deal, she wore nothing under the dress, the woman liked to sunbathe in the nude, an accepted practice among tourists in Mexico. "Hey, what about these Baja Blast's," Dan said in a labored effort to make conversation.

"Good way to unlax," Jim said with a grin. "We're swingers, down here with the group, just wondered if you two were members?"

Dan was stunned into silence and a Ramona's face froze into something between a leer and a grimace. "Did I shock you?" Jim asked. "It's not a bad life style, chases the blues." Martha smiled in Dan's direction and took another sip from her Blast.

"The fact is," Dan began, not knowing where he was headed, "we're here for our twentieth wedding anniversary. Usually we're a fairly liberal couple, but you know wedding anniversaries, sentimentality and all that."

"I understand perfectly," Jim said. Martha looked disappointed, but managed a stiff smile. "We're having a mixer after a bit. There'll be refreshments. You can come anyway if you like, even if you don't participate. Everyone's broad-minded. You know, it swings both ways."

"Thanks anyway," Ramona said. "But we're planning a romantic dinner and then, you know."

"I sure know about that."

When they were seated near a window overlooking the pool, the beach and the ocean beyond, Ramona looked around to see if there was anyone nearby, then whispered, "Swingers from Cincinnati. They do mean spouse swapping, don't they?"

"I think so," Dan said. "I think it was the Cincinnati that shocked me more than the proposition. She was, I mean, something else. We've certainly had an odd anniversary trip. You hungry?"

"Famished."

They ordered pepper and goat cheese timbales with lentil vinaigrette for starters. Dan felt slightly guilty about all the money -- both in Mexican and U.S. currency -- he had confiscated from the late Mexicans. To show remorse he would try to spend it as rapidly as possible. Then it was a type of tortilla soup served with diced avocado and sour cream, then on to the main course -- broiled salmon with mustard dill sauce.

They ended with caramel sorbet and a pony of brandy, deciding to skip the coffee and head right for the sack. They remained not far from exhaustion after the long ordeal and needed all the sleep they could reasonably get.

Despite their weariness, after a round of lovemaking, they were both wakeful. Dan called room service and asked for a bottle of champagne. "Appropriate, I think for an anniversary," he told Ramona.

They sat in chairs on the balcony, watched the night sky, and drank from tall narrow glasses. "It's been all political tunnel vision since I met Dennis. Eat, sleep and total immersion. He finds time for recreational sex. That's well known, but I'm Caesar's wife."

"In appearance," Dan said.

"I was Caesar's wife, now I hope to keep up the appearance. If we're lucky. If not, the hell with it. It's been fun, Dan. It's been a frightening, romantic roller coaster with more thrills than most people pack into two lifetimes. I didn't think there'd be anything comparable to climbing out of the pit of local politics to the top of the heap. But a free for all with Mexican bandits followed by wild sex in a life raft. It's enough to buckle your swash."

"Your childhood was a..."

"My childhood was like the Bobbsy Twins, or Nancy Drew, or whatever those stories were that I never read. Suburban life at its blandest. Brownies, Girl Scouts, ballet lessons, and attempt to master the clarinet. The door to our big, boxy frame house was left open most of the time in the summer, unlocked almost all the time. Once we lost the front door key for two years."

"Untouched by crime."

"Insulated against life, against the world, some might say. But it was my life, my family's life. A lot of those people I grew up with are still there, still firing up the old barbecue after church on Sunday, still mowing their lawns, still wondering why the tulips don't do well the second year. I missed the drug culture, never got into rebellion. If I had become a dancer, they could have called me Goody Goody Two Shoes."

"Nothing wrong with that." Dan poured them both more champagne and wondered if he should order a second bottle. This would be their last night together. Of course he would prefer death by sex rather than death by champagne. Both prospects were interesting to him.

"Damn right, there's nothing wrong with that," Ramona said. She was a little drunk and a little emotional. "I wish it for every person living in this world today."

"Of course we'd have too many ballerinas."

In the darkness, she smiled. "And too many second rate clarinet players. Tell me your life story now that I've blabbed mine."

"A quiet upbringing on the streets of Chicago, a smattering of ignorance at Racine, drinking beer and watching the snow drift, then enlistment as a bona fide member of the greed generation. Junk bonds and selling short, Chablis and veggie quiche, marriage and some jejune affluence."

"You mean moneyed, but not very much?" She was enjoying the conversation on this magic night, but she was also feeling pleasantly tired. At last.

"Something like that. When I burnt out with the rest of the greed heads I had piled up enough investments to carry me through. So I took a slow paced job on a slow gaited campus. PR fund raising, pandering to the alums, watching the leaves turn in autumn, listening to the ivy grow and the tenured profs drop by the wayside."

"And where might that have been, oh my beloved?"

"That would be telling. You know my pledge. Stay anonymous until the very last dog is dead."

"You won't betray me," Ramona asked, knowing he wouldn't. If he did, then life as she knew it now would have betrayed her.

"I'll stand by you." A sudden sadness swept over him. Dan knew what he had gained and what he was about to lose. And he knew that long lonely road that lay ahead, too well, he knew.

"Will you lay by me? Or with me? I feel like dragging off to that sand man place."

They would go to bed now and neither would state their true feelings. And that was their unspoken pact.

CHAPTER TEN

At 6 a.m., Dan was staring at the ceiling, knowing it was nine in the east. He touched Ramona's arm, then slipped from bed, quietly got dressed and left the hotel to look for a pay phone. He guessed his call could be readily traced and he wanted to give himself time to be far away when whoever it was would come to collect the first lady.

There was a small shopping mall, a place that owed its existence to the tourist trade, not more than two hundred yards from the hotel. Beyond that were a couple of lesser hotels.

There was an international phone, the type you pumped full of money that computed how much time you had. You could watch it drain away on read out as the seconds passed.

A cafeteria-souvenir shop-money exchange had opened early and Dan gathered enough change for a five-minute call. Then he dialed the access number Ramona had given him.

A voice answered, "White House."

"I need to talk with the president. It's about his wife."

"Your name, Sir?"

"No name. This is the special access number, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then please put me through."

Silence. Then a moment later a man's voice said, "President Keen."

"Mr. President, I have a message from your wife. First I'd like to tell you she's Okay. Good health and..."

"Who is this," Keen broke in.

"No need for names," Dan said.

Keen immediately assumed that Dan was a kidnaper. They always said the victim's in good shape, even if the victim was dead and buried in a dump heap. And, of course, there would be no names. His anger flared.

"This is the President of the United States you're talking to. Now you tell me your name and you tell me just where my wife is if you know." The thought of a hoax sent him into a deeper rage.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, I'll have to do this my way." Dan's voice was calm, so calm that it infuriated Keen.

"My wife's life's at stake here and you're telling me your way. You know the power I have, the men I can mobilize? You'd better give me a little straight talk and be quick about it."

"I'm trying to help," Dan said. He certainly had not expected this type of abuse. And he wasn't about to cave in to Keen's demands, whatever they might be. He was surprised at the man's temper. And he had voted for this man. "What I'll do is call you back in a day or two, let you calm down a little."

Dan could hear almost a primal scream from the other end of the line as he hung up. The day was not starting out well.

But the weather was warm and the breeze soft as he walked back to the hotel. Gulls were circling and mewing over land and sea. Sleepy workmen were going to their jobs.

Ramona stretched and yawned as he entered the room. "Been out on a prowl?"

"Been talking with the first gentleman, attempting to arrange a prisoner exchange."

She was suddenly alert. "And how is Dennis this fine morning."

"Mad as a wet hen. He almost bellowed at me."

"I think his temper's gotten worse since the election. He can get away with it now. He cows people. Did he cow you?"

Dan chuckled. "I don't know about cow. I think he tried to bull me. Wanted me to lay out all the particulars."

"And did you?"

"I respectfully declined. Told him I'd call him back in a day or two when he calmed down."

"I'll bet that had a soothing effect on him."

"I think he hit high C as I was hanging up. We'd better get out of here in case they can trace the call. Thought we'd take a cab up to Ensenada, then lay plans to slip back into the States. If I've got to leave you on your own, I'd rather do in the land of the free."

Ramona studied his face as he sat beside her on the bed. An aging middle class American, white bearded, wrinkles, suntanned, someone to trust. Yes, they would go together and risk a border crossing. She would let Dennis stew in his own wrath for a day or so. Perhaps it would bring him some degree of humility.

"But I don't have a thing to wear," she said. Then she laughed and pulled him down beside her. She felt the joy of release, the time was extended, open ended.

***

President Keen was angry with himself. He had acted like a child on the phone and he knew it. What he said would have offended a saint.

He called Carolyn Kendrick to his office and told her the story.

"Did you have the call traced?" his chief of staff asked.

"No, I didn't do anything. I felt like a shit after he hung up. Maybe you see if you can find out where the call came from. I think the guy will call back, but I also think he'll make me wait."

"You think it's legitimate?"

"After he hung up, yes. He had the number. Access to the President. A few people have it, but none of those would try to hoax me. Ramona must have given it to him."

"Then he's holding her prisoner," Carolyn said.

"I don't know. I don't know anything. I made such an ass of myself. I should have let him do the talking."

"Should we let this thing out?"

"Tell the press, you mean?"

"Yes. Would that help?"

Keen was thoughtful. "No. For one thing they'd want to know about the conversation. Who would believe that someone called with information about my wife and that I was such an ass that they hung up on me?"

"Oh, I think someone might believe that."

Keen gave her a sour look. "I suppose. Anyone who's been around me much. Well, I'll try to do better in the future. Meanwhile, you try to trace the call, but don't tell another soul what's happened. And life goes on."

"Like universal conscription," Carolyn said.

"What about it?"

"It's on the front page of the paper this morning, supposedly coming directly from the White House, the Oval office. Senator Blicher told a few reporters yesterday that he too is studying such a program as a military cost-cutter."

"That's in the paper too?"

"Oh yes. It was also on the tube last night. Some sort of national sacrifice for our nation, equally shared among rich and poor. No exemptions for anything."

"I'll be damned," the president said quietly. "We'll have to see how it plays."

"I thought you might take that posture," the chief of staff said. Then she left the office to see if she could find where the call originated.

Despite the bizarre telephone call and his regrets over his reaction, Keen felt fairly good. He felt Ramona probably was safe somewhere and that he would indeed receive another call.

The president picked up the morning paper from his desk and read every word of the story about universal conscription. Then he read the story on the same topic quoting Senator Will Blicher. It was an important story because Blicher was a key man on the Armed Services Committee.

Keen rang for his secretary, who promptly entered his office. She was dressed in soft and clinging powder blue one-piece dress that did wonders for her already marvelous figure. The effect was almost breathtaking.

"Have a seat, Becky. I've been reading the conscription story."

"Universal draft," she said.

"Yes. Was Senator Blicher one of the people you talked with."

"Yes. He and a reporter and a staffer from some committee. They all seemed quite interested."

"You added some things, didn't you?"

"Yes, Sir. Things got a little out of hand in the heat of the discussion. Maybe it was the scotch. I'm sorry."

"No problem. I think you improved the program. Certainly if we drafted every man and woman in this country when they reached eighteen, we'd have our hands full. The lottery thing, the early release, that's good. In fact it's very good. Americans like games of chance. There's always be hope of spending maybe two months, then out. What's two months? Everyone would be trying to pull a few strings. Makes the game more interesting."

"Do you think it will fly, Sir?"

"Please, don't call me sir when we're alone. You know what you mean to me."

Becky did know what she meant to him -- sex on demand. That's why she dressed the way she did. The Marine guard almost had a heart attack when she walked in this morning. When Bill Ellison met her in the hall he made her come in and have a cup of coffee with him. She left when he sexualized the conversation by telling off color jokes. From now on she'd have to wear a raincoat if she did this again. But she loved the attention of the president and the power it brought her. That reporter would trot after her like a dog from now on.

With all these thoughts kicking around in the back of her head and the set of explicit notes she was keeping on her hard drive and disks in her apartment, Becky smiled sweetly in assent.

"We'll have to wait a few days to get the reaction to the draft story and then get the reaction to the reaction. The news magazines, the columnists; some of these birds think slow and wait for some sort of consensus before vectoring off with what they pass off as their own gratuitous advice. You look very lovely today."

"Thank you, Dennis." She made the leap to the first name. "I think it's because of well, us. I feel so good. You know, glowing."

He didn't like being called sir by Becky, but he didn't know about Dennis. But he let it pass. He certainly didn't want to interrupt the relationship. She was probably a very human and sensitive person. But that outfit. Maybe he should caution her about it. He didn't.

"I guess I'll have lunch in the office again today. Because of Ramona. Could you get a couple of sandwiches and join me?"

"I'll take care of it, Dennis. I'm so sorry about Ramona. Do you have any idea where she might be?"

"I do," he said. She had begun to rise from her chair and his words stunned her. Slowly, she reseated herself. "I have a line on her. There's a good chance she's alright and will be returned, say within three days."

"Have you told the press?"

"I've told no one except Carolyn. And you keep your mouth shut about it. But I thought it only fair to you to keep you informed." He was thinking it was also only fair to bring her down to earth in case she was getting any big ideas.

Becky rose and left the room. Perhaps during lunch when they were having sex she could wheedle a little more information out of him. It would be a good addition to her notes. Naturally, she had no intention of ever using the things she entered into her computer. It was a personal diary that she might read and reread in her twilight years -- sexpot to the president. But it might be a good idea to start storing the backup disks in a safe box in an obscure bank. It would be nice to get a few photographs.

***

Dan sat rubbing the condensate from a bottle of Corona with his thumb. The label said: La Cerveza Mas Fina, which meant good beer. And it was good. Good and cold. Ramona was finishing up a roast beef sandwich washed down with iced tea. She was in good appetite.

They had taken a room in a small hotel in Ensenada. Tomorrow the plan was to take the bus to Tijuana and then cross the border to San Diego. There was no hurry, no rush. Both of them were savoring the hours together.

Dan still wore his Baja Beast shirt and Ramona's hair was covered with her odd tourist hat.

He looked up tentatively from his beer and said, "If we were to stay together and I know we won't, but if we were, the feelings we have toward one another now, they wouldn't last, would they?"

Ramona thought a moment, then said, "Of course not. This is like a honeymoon period. But they would be replaced by something, a structure that would be difficult to envision in total, but I think it would be good."

Dan shrugged. "Sorry I brought it up, we shouldn't talk of such things."

"I know. What shall we do this afternoon?"

"There's the town. Walk around, check out the shops, get ready for the evening."

"Sounds great. Let's take a nap first."

"Okay."

In late afternoon they found a newsstand in the lobby of an upscale hotel and bought a San Diego paper. Then they went into the bar and ordered gin and tonics. When the barkeep brought them, a cool looking twist of lime in each, he said, "I am Gregor. If you wish to be married I will assist you."

"We weren't really thinking about it," Ramona said. "Is Gregor a Spanish name?"

"I don't think so. Last week I was Derek. I change my name once a month. Usually I try to find something romantic, something that will appeal to the young ladies, the touristas looking for fun."

"You'll soon run out of names," Dan said.

"Perhaps, but not out of young ladies. But think of marriage, or remarriage, renew your vows. See there is a place, like a flower bower, set there for the very purpose."

He pointed and they looked across the dimly lit barroom. It was a white trellis with fake ivy and a few artificial blossoms. "We can get a cake, a padre, chilled champagne, everything to meet your nuptial needs."

Dan nodded and sipped his drink. Gregor moved on down the bar to chat with the cocktail waitress. "Look at this, Dennis has leaked a story on a universal draft. That was one of my ideas, the spiritual side of life, dedication, devotion to one's country. Bring back the ancient ideals."

"Like Sparta?"

"No." She laughed. "It would be military conscription, but it would also be civilian conscription. Working in national parks, doing transportation research, even Peace Corps activities. I envisioned the Peace Corps being absorbed into this system. Death of another bureaucracy. Overseas we could save a wad of dough by administering the Peace Corps through our embassies. And, a little more self-sacrificing than what the Peace Corps has become. It's kind of a haven for half educated disenchanted youth. We've dumped our problem kids on doorsteps of needy nations."

"So, he stole your idea."

"Of course not. This is for the country. That's selfless. This one will take a long time in coming. I wonder how he leaked it."

"Aren't there a lot of White House staffers who could do it?"

"I suppose. But it's tricky. You need deniability. So it can't be anyone too high. Like, he couldn't use a cabinet member, or his chief of staff. Someone like that. It needs to be a lower level person who will still be believed."

"And they would tell a reporter, or someone, that this comes right from the president."

"That's it. No. They wouldn't say that. They would let something slip, maybe at a dinner party. They might even then clap their hand over their mouth and say, oh my, I shouldn't have said that. Please don't tell anyone. I could lose my job."

"I see," Dan said. "Then if the balloon doesn't float, the president can assume a posture of astonishment and wonder where that peculiar idea came from."

"Hmmmm." Ramona finished her drink. The sun was hot and they had taken a longish walk. The gin and tonics went down quickly. They ordered another.

"I wonder if they have a honeymoon suite here," she asked.

Dan signaled to Gregor and asked if there was a honeymoon suite. He told them there was a superb honeymoon suite and he happened to know that it was available. Then he left them to their thoughts.

"We could stay there if you like," Dan said. "I've still got a bundle of this money left. I'd like to get rid of it."

"Do you suppose you have enough for a wedding?" Ramona asked.

"You mean, like a wedding, like dearly beloved?"

"Yeah, I thought it might be fun to get married. You could be Dan Gringo and I'd be someone like, uh, Heather Montgomery. It wouldn't mean anything after tonight. But tonight it would mean a lot to me."

"It would mean something to me, too. And it might be fun. Hey, Gregor," he called. "The two us, we're thinking marriage if it can be arranged. I mean there's not much time."

Gregor's grin was broad. "That, Sir, is our specialty. You give me five hundred U.S. dollars. Then the two of you go out of the hotel, turn right and walk to that tan stone building. You can get a license in there in five minutes. Then show up here in one hour, I'll have everything, including the keys to the bridal suite."

"Sounds great," Ramona said.

Dan peeled off five hundred dollars and handed the money to Gregor. "This day is getting more interesting as it goes along. What did you put in that drink?"

"My secret."

Gregor was as good as his word. The packaged wedding had been perfected over the years and even included a guitar player who sang a lengthy Spanish ballad that seemed to be about romance, marriage and enduring happiness.

It surprised them both that the priest from the nearby parish church had an Irish accent. He explained that one of Ireland's major exports is priests and they can be found in poorer countries around the globe.

After the ceremony they were in for even a bigger surprise. The priest produced an inkpad and asked them each for a print of their right thumb and forefinger for the marriage records.

"Is this a church record?" Dan asked.

"No. It's civil and it's proved of some value. You see many Mexican peasants cannot read or write, but this sort of a record requires no literary skills. And it's almost indestructible."

The act of being fingerprinted sobered them a bit, but they submitted cheerfully and the bride was kissed and the champagne corks popped. Everyone in the room was a member of the wedding party and the wedded couple remained to mingle with the well wishers for almost an hour before retiring to the luxury of their bridal suite.

"I'm glad to get this damned hat off," Ramona said after the door had been carefully locked. "I told everyone who asked that I had a scalp disease. Some of them actually shrunk away from me."

"It's been quite a day," Dan said. He sat on the side of the bed and removed his shoes. "Mr. and Mrs. Gringo."

"The former Heather Montgomery, now Mrs. Gringo. When I was a child I liked the name Heather. It was a girl in my class and she was pretty and had long blond hair. She had a boy friend, maybe two of them, when she was like ten years old."

"What were you doing at the time?"

"Reading mostly. Curled up in a chair somewhere, reading. That's how I spent my childhood. That's how I expect to spend my old age."

"But not curled up in a chair," Dan said.

"More likely lashed to a walker." She looked up and laughed. "You want to get ready for bed?"

Dan laughed too. "Oh, yes. Your trousseau. Also called skin. The French say that marriage marks the end of romance. Is it true?"

"Not on the first night."

The trip to Tijuana the following day was pleasant enough. They arrived in mid-morning and walked across the border to San Diego. They had prepared a story to tell the border guard, but there was no challenge. Just one of many tourists walking to and fro between the U.S. and old Mexico.

They found the nearest phone booth and Dan dialed the access number. The president was on the line almost immediately.

"I talked with you before," he said.

"And I acted like a fool," Keen said. "I'm sorry. I was upset about Ramona. You can understand. You tell me what to do."

"She'll be in San Diego at say four o'clock. I don't know where yet. What she'd like is for you to have a plane ready. There'll be a call at say 3:30. Have somebody come get her quietly, take her to the airplane. And make no announcement until she is safely back in the White House. That's it."

"Sounds good," Keen said. "What about you?"

"I've got my own plans. I don't want media attention. I've nothing to hide, but I just don't want the turmoil. I'll be in touch and at some point I will tell my story. But I'll do it my way."

"I understand. I'll make the plans and wait for the phone call."

"Fine. Goodbye." He hung up and turned to Ramona. "It's set."

"Did he ask to talk to me?"

"No. I think he wanted to cooperate as much as possible."

"Yes, some time has passed. It might be difficult for us to explain." As they talked, they walked, found a bus and headed north, looking for landmarks, restaurants, someplace where Ramona might meet whoever would be sent.

Dan had given some thought to the passage of time, too much time. "I thought we might exaggerate the raft trip. Say we got too far out to sea, say it took a day longer, say it was really hell."

"I don't think we have to say it was hell," Ramona said. "They may have found the raft. It might be best to stonewall."

"Let's leave it at that then. You tell the sketchiest of stories. Tell them that I killed the bandits, we took the raft and so on. Then in a few days, less than a week, I'll call the access number and if need be I'll talk to the media."

She put her hand on his and said, "Dan Gringo, slayer of Mexican bandits, gallant raft skipper, media star."

"I have dealt with the media, so I know something about that."

"You can control the media," she said.

"I cannot control the media. No one can control the media. The media is like a glob of wriggling worms in an open weave basket. They're crawling everywhere, at all levels, scavenging, searching for odd bits of information, often manufacturing it into even odder bits of information. A full-blown media offensive is like being lost in a swamp under mosquito attack. Naked."

"Naked. You paint an authentic picture. When Dennis first started, he had the idea that he could control the media."

"And he found?"

"He failed miserably. If he had lunch with one reporter, he alienated half a dozen others. If he gathered them as a group, there would be at least a couple of disgraceful questions, then a type of esoteric war dance would begin."

"The feeding frenzy."

"Something like that," she agreed.

They shared a pepperoni pizza for lunch and then found a McDonald's with an outside patio. They agreed that would be the pick up place.

Dan made his call and gave Keen the location of the restaurant. "She'll be wearing a bright blouse and a sun hat that ties under the chin."

"I'm sure a secret service agent can recognize the first lady."

"Maybe," Dan said. "Nobody else has. She seems to be healthy and in good spirits."

"I must thank you for your help. I assume you're the one they call Dan Gringo?"

"That's correct. I am Dan Gringo and I will be calling the access number in a few days."

"And why would that be, Mr. Gringo?"

"Your wife thought that perhaps I should give my story to the media. That it might, uh, supplement hers."

"I see. I think that might be a good idea. But we can discuss it at a later date. If we knew where to reach you..."

"I'd like to make myself scarce. You and your wife are public figures, I'm a private figure. I'd like to keep it that way."

"I understand. Tell Ramona I'll be waiting for her."

They sat on a park bench for a few minutes, not talking for the most part. Then a peck on the lips and they went their separate ways.

She watched as he walked away, a face in the crowd, not an unusual face, an aging face, his hair matured by the years. Here she stood, past forty, and he a hop ahead of fifty-five. What a pair of lovers.

She thought the words: What a pair of lovers. Then she said one word aloud -- "Bittersweet."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"I simply don't know all the details. I simply can't remember," Ramona was saying. Dennis had been questioning her for more than an hour and both their nerves were wearing thin.

"I've issued a simple statement to the press through Marsha. They will want some details. For one thing they'll want to see you, photograph you."

"You think I've lost weight?"

"I don't know. You look about the same. In fact in roaring good health for a woman who has been through a scrape with blood thirsty Mexican bandits, then drifting in despair on the ocean."

"I didn't say I was in despair. There was never a loss of hope. I simply said we were further out than we thought and it took some time to find a place to come ashore."

"And where was that place?" Dennis asked.

"I don't know. I'm not a Mexican geographer. Somewhere on Baja. Look, I'll go into the pressroom for exactly one minute, announce that I'm glad to be back, let them click away with the cameras, then retire. I'm a little sleepy."

"Okay." He rang Marsha and told her the first lady would make a brief stop in the pressroom in five minutes. She would make a brief statement, but there would be no questions.

The pressroom was a babble of voices, quickly hushed when Ramona began to speak. "I'm in good health. I'm safe because of a man who calls himself Dan Gringo. I don't think that's his real name. He's an older man, a retiree, and he shuns the limelight. That's about all I have to say right now. I need a good night's sleep."

"Did you kill any Mexicans?" someone shouted as she was walking away. She shook her head in the negative and then was gone.

"What's this about killing Mexicans," she asked Dennis when they were in their own small kitchen in their own section of the family area of the White House. She was opening a bottle of red wine.

"You shouldn't drink that stuff," Dennis said. "Bad for your brain cells."

"It clears the arteries. Particularly if you take it with garlic."

"There's no garlic."

"Then I'll double up on the wine. About the dead Mexicans?"

"Someone killed a few Mexicans at the crash sight. The Mexican president has filed a protest. As a survivor, of course, you're suspect. As the first lady, the opposition is waiting the chance to nail you to the wall as a bloodthirsty murderess."

"That's putting it fairly bluntly."

"We can have plain talk here with just the two of us present. Did you fuck that man?"

"Dennis, for Christ's sakes. What a question. For one thing we're talking about a white-haired retiree, for another, have I ever asked you such a question?"

"Yes. But not in so many words."

"You mean the press, or someone, thinks I've been out on a romantic interlude? Do you know what the word terror means? How about panic? How about running like a rabbit to escape death? What in hell are you talking about?"

"I just had to ask?"

"Yes you just had to ask." Ramona said. She downed her red wine and poured a second glass. "How about you and Becky Canter-Dalton? How are you making out?"

"You mean my secretary?" He sounded indignant.

Ramona laughed. "Oh, please, Dennis, let's return to polite conversation. If there's political damage, let's get at the damage control. I didn't kill any Mexicans. So how do we prove it? Or else, how do I justify it? They were bandits?"

"The president of Mexico claims they were villagers who came to help."

"And then?"

"They were shot and killed, of course."

"There was no shortage of dead people at that crash site," Ramona said. "You could hardly walk for stumbling over them."

"But not you, you weren't dead."

"Really, Dennis. Would you have preferred that I had been killed. Could you pick a better first lady?"

"Maybe we could have a contest."

"And what would the rules be? Starting with someone who looks like Becky Canter-Dalton, toss in a high IQ and a supersonic libido."

"I'd rather not hear anymore about Becky," Dennis sighed. "She happens to be a damned good secretary."

"Did she float that universal draft balloon?"

"How would you know that?"

Ramona smiled and poured herself a third glass of wine. She was pleasantly drunk and pleasantly tired and intended to sleep alone. "I can read you pretty good. What's the reaction?"

"Mixed. It's at least two years off, maybe more."

"Okay, now my posture. What do you suggest?"

"We need the man, what's his name. I'll be polite. Dan Gringo. We need him to tell the story."

"So he says he will. He will call in a few days. He will call the access number and he's willing to meet the press and tell them who he is and what he did."

"He'll come here?" Dennis asked.

"I don't know. Here's a person who really doesn't want to get embroiled with the media. He says he'll do it his way. But just how, I don't know. But he killed the Mexicans before they killed him and he'll say that."

"Will he turn himself in to Mexican authorities, run the risk of standing trial?"

"Jesus, Dennis. Have you taken leave of your senses? I didn't say he'd throw himself to the wolves. I said he'd get his story out to the press. No one in their right mind would believe that innocent Mexican peasants were slaughtered down there. They were bandits and rapists, animals." Ramona picked up the wine bottle and noticed it was almost empty. Where do the good times go? "I'm getting sleepy."

"We can talk tomorrow," the president said. "There's one more thing. You were with Dan Gringo, but where is Bernie Bate? There's a missing passenger."

"Still missing?" Ramona asked. She had forgotten about Bernie for the moment, but the news that he hadn't surfaced cheered her immensely. He was the one fly in her ointment. Even though Dan would swear that he shot Bernie, it might not wash if Bernie denied it.

"Missing."

"Well." She pushed both hands up in the air in a signal of who knows. "I returned. Maybe he will too." But in her heart she believed that Bernie was dead. And if it were true, it would seem that she had touched every base and slid into home triumphantly. Of course the game hadn't ended, nor would it. She lived for the game. Bless the game. And bless her mysterious hiatus. It might just give her a new dimension. In fact it might give her the one embellishment she had always desired -- from now on she would be known as the melancholy political genius who never smiles. Perhaps she should make that seldom smiles, but never laughs. Or perhaps...

Anyway, she finished the last of the wine and struggled off to bed and slept like a sodden log.

Dennis was already gone. Back to the Oval Office no doubt. As she fell asleep fully dressed on top of the blanket she hoped that Dennis and Becky were as happy as some couples she could name, some married couples that she would refrain from naming.

Ramona was able to tarry in the White House for a full day without meeting the press en masse. Her brief appearance satisfied the ravening wolves for a news cycle, or two. Her picture on front pages and TV screens around the world. Her return, viewed as almost miraculous by some and with deep suspicion and cynicism by others.

After the initial story soaked in, a rising clamor quickly changing to a great hue and cry was raised by the public through their self-anointed spokespersons -- the press.

This situation caused Ramona to remark during a White House staff meeting, "I'm not the president, I'm simply the president's wife, why this great interest in me?"

For the most part her remark was met with amused silence, but some had to stifle laughter.

After her day of rest, Ramona agreed to a press conference, but pleaded fatigue and placed an uncertain time limit on the proceedings.

She and her personal press secretary, Polly Buie, struggled for some time over what she should wear. "Something worn, perhaps tattered, that looks like you've just waded ashore after days of hell on a life raft," Polly said.

"I know you're joking," Ramona said. Polly was one of the few White House people who didn't tread lightly around the first lady. "But the severe apparel does appeal to me. Nothing fluffy, nothing too dressy, no bows. But what?"

They finally decided on a calf length tan poplin suit with a masculine cut, pale blue shirt with a button down collar. A narrow black ribbon would form the bow of a string tie at the neck. Sensible shoes. Just enough makeup to highlight the eyes on television and clear lipstick.

"Mrs. Keen, I understand you've limited the length of this press conference. Why?" It was the first question, asked by the senile senior reporter.

Ramona smiled slightly. It was the type of question she loved. It was the thief of time, eating up the clock in a limited time press conference. There was in fact no set time. Polly Buie, standing on one side of the small raised platform, would cut off the conference when she felt either it was over, or if things were going badly.

"Good question, Ray." Ramona had gone to school on the personalities of the press people. She knew the first names of even one-man operations from somewhere in Texas. "The fact is, I'm tired. I'm still upset. I can't believe it's all over. Have you ever been through an ordeal where people were slaughtered and you were lucky to escape with your life?"

"No Ma'am."

"Yes, Ben." She pointed and called first names.

"I'd like to know what you were doing on that plane in the first place."

Incredible, Ramona thought. By the time we get to the tough questions, time will be running out. "I had been making what you might call a goodwill mission to Mexico. I had gone with instructions from the president. As you all know there have been disagreements over immigration, NAFTA and other issues over the years. Many of these can be resolved by simple discussion, talking things over. I had hoped to lay the groundwork for more important meetings. As everyone knows, I have no official status. I can make no agreements, no policy decisions.

"At Hermosillo, Air Force Two developed mechanical problems. I had commitments in California. Why not fly a Mexican airline to California? They have a good safety record. That's what I did."

"You inconvenienced Mexican citizens by taking over a block of seats." Ray followed up.

Ramona thought, what a stupid line of questioning. "I may have inconvenienced certain would-be passengers, but if I did, I also may have saved their lives. If anyone is angry over my taking that particular flight, I apologize. I also promise never to make the same mistake again."

Her remark drew laughter.

"Yes, Margaret."

"Mrs. Keen, where were you when the shooting took place and did you participate in shooting anyone, Mexican national, or others?"

At last, the key question, Ramona thought. This is what she had prepared for. "If you like, rather than answer this specific question, I'll simply tell the story of what happened. Now, I know that wasn't your question, Margaret, but if you agree, I'll use that format."

"Okay," Margaret said.

From the rear of the room someone shouted, "That's not what a press conference is about. It's not story hour. We should get to ask the questions and you should answer them."

Other people in the room attempted to shout the man down. They wanted to hear the story and they knew time was running out. They were being manipulated by the stupidity of a few.

Ramona was delighted. The press had taken to fighting among itself in public. She waited until the noise subsided, then deliberately ate up more time by defending both points of view.

"The gentleman in the back of the room, I believe it's Randy Holcomb, is perfectly correct. You press people have been invited here to ask questions and I've agreed, for the moment, to answer them. I suggested a change in format that would take a little longer than answering a simple question. Margaret agreed to hear my story, but Randy has raised a legitimate objection. How to resolve this, I don't know. I suppose we should go back to the normal question and answer format.

"Now, as I recall the question, it was, 'Where were you when the shooting took place and did you shoot anyone?' Is that right, Margaret?"

"More or less."

"More or less," Ramona repeated. "If I've misstated the question, please, ask the question again."

Ninety percent of the people in the room now realized that time was slipping away and that they themselves were responsible. "For God's sake, let her tell her story," someone shouted out in frustration. Ramona couldn't tell where the shout had come from. With difficulty, she managed to keep a grim look on her face. For the sake of the cameras, she was doing her best to look like Joan of Arc about to be burned at the stake.

"You've got the question right," Margaret said.

"Okay. Once again, where was I and did I shoot anyone. The answer is, I was on a ridge in back of the beach when I heard the shooting and I didn't participate."

Polly Buie glanced at her watch. "We'll take just one more question." A sigh of disgust came from the room, but they were as much disgusted with their own performance as they were with the shortness of the conference. And the first lady had offered to tell her story, but had been turned down. Once again, Randy Holcomb, the pride of a struggling network, had made a horse's ass of himself.

"Murray," Ramona said, pointing to a West Coast newsman.

"Did you witness the shootings?"

"I suppose you mean, did I see the shootings. I've already said that I heard the shootings and I did. It would have been hard not to. What had happened is that after the crash I was upset by the death of Bob Rose, the secret service man killed in the crash. I felt a little responsible. He had been looking out for me and had failed to strap himself in. Incidentally, I've already talked to Mrs. Rose on the phone and I intend to visit her in person very soon.

"So, the survivors were milling around the beach waiting for help which we all felt would arrive very soon. I took a walk. I climbed these low bluffs in back of the beach and walked inland. It was from there I heard the shooting. And it was from there that it was impossible to see the shooting. So, I suppose the answer is no. I did not witness the shooting or shootings, whichever."

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen," Polly shouted. On cue, Ramona stood up and walked out of the room.

When she was gone, several reportorial eyes turned on Randy Holcomb. A reporter from Boston said, "For the love of Christ, Randy, why didn't you let her tell her story?"

Randy tried to look important. "We have to let her know who's running these press conferences."

"But, Randy," Margaret said. "She isn't an elected official. She's the president's wife. The president has no obligation to hold press conferences. She has even less. You denied the opportunity for everyone in this room to hear her own account of what happened."

"Right is right," Randy said. "She's gotta know who she's dealing with."

"I believe she does," the Boston reporter said. "We didn't even get to this Dan Gringo thing."

Ramona and Dennis both were delighted with the outcome of the press conference. Her modest suit, free from adornment, set just the right tone. Her answers, made in a straightforward manner, were enough to satisfy the mildly curious who knew by this time that the press would be elaborating on this story for at least days to come.

And, if they were lucky, there might even be congressional hearings and a special prosecutor in the bread and circuses atmosphere of Washington.

But Ramona was thinking ahead. She was certain that Dan would come forward, but she was also certain that she needed to tell her story to a sympathetic audience. Margaret Hall, who was a one-woman national news staff for several mid-western papers, had been willing to hear her story during the press conference. Margaret had always treated her fairly.

"What I think I'll do," she told Dennis, "is invite Margaret and two others to lunch, or maybe breakfast. We can talk informally and I can tell them the entire story in an unhurried manner. What do you think?"

"Good. Sounds like a good way to get it out. You tried at the press conference with some success. At least it looked good on TV."

"It's odd, isn't it? My sitting there in that suit was ninety percent of the TV coverage. No one wants to listen to an involved story on the evening news." She was getting back into the routine. Already, the novelty of her disappearance and return was wearing off for the public. Of course the media was still digging for details that the public would welcome.

The breakfast went as well as could be expected. There were questions that gave Ramona cause for pause and answers that stretched the imagination.

There was the pretense of a private meeting among private folks made by holding it in a private room of a hotel not too far from the White House. Margaret Hall was host and actually paid the bill.

The Washington bureau chief of one of the TV networks, Gladys Luther represented the inside-the-beltway establishment and the electronic media, and Potter Jefferson, a black New York reporter, was symbolic of men, minorities and the rest of the nation.

They talked over croissants, blackberry preserves and coffee. No one really ate much in Washington anymore. Ramona told her story as complete and as sketchy as she could make it.

"It's difficult to believe that you were there and yet removed from the slaughter," Gladys said.

"It's difficult to believe that I boarded a shuttle flight from Hermosillo that crashed, that three people were killed in the crash, that the survivors were attacked by bandits and that the bandits were killed in some sort of shoot out. The story's hard to take, but there you have it. The major facts jut out like the Rocky Mountains. It's difficult to dispute them."

"Agreed," Potter said. "But the idea of taking a raft to sea. Is that logical?"

Ramona poured herself another half cup of coffee. "It seemed so at the time and it still does to me. The raft represented isolation, safety. The bandits, or villagers turned bandit, they had slaughtered every passenger they could find, had raped the stewardess. There's compelling medical evidence to that. So, the original bandits were dead. And there were two of us left. We faced uncertainty. Would more bandits appear? If so, they wouldn't be kindly disposed toward us. You agree?"

"Well, yeah. Seven villagers, or bandits were dead," Potter conceded. "If more arrived, there'd be questions."

"I know the Mexican government's calling these people innocent villagers, but really, can anyone in the world swallow that statement?"

"We don't know all the facts," Potter said.

"I see, objective journalism a little late in the day, quite a change of pace from the pack mentality. What do you think, Margaret?"

"Bandits, of course. Potter's just acting up."

"And you, Gladys?"

"They were villagers who had become bandits. No one thinks the surviving passengers started the fight. Nor does anyone think that poor stewardess somehow provoked the bandits into gang banging here, then shooting her." She took a hard look at Potter. "I think its odious and sickening even to suggest such a thing."

Potter fidgeted in his seat. "Reporters must play the devil's advocate. I think the basic facts are clear. So what about this Bernie Bate? What happened to him?"

"Apparently, two of the bandits had arrived on a motorcycle. The Jeep was disabled by gunfire. Bernie, I didn't know his name at the time, made a dash for it, headed north on the motorcycle."

"And, what happened to him?"

"How should I know?" Ramona protested. "I saw him go. That was it. He rode out of sight up the coast. I might ask you, where is he? You have funds. Why aren't you down on Baja doing a little investigative work. You sit here in this grand hotel room eating croissants and drinking coffee. Get off your duff and do some real reporting. Go to Baja!"

Margaret smiled. "Is that the equivalent of going to hell?"

"Mrs. Keen has a point," Potter said. "We do sit around here waiting to be fed breakfast and fed news. Then we complain when we get it that we're not getting the whole story."

"The press has taken its share of battle casualties," Gladys said. "But more to the point, what about the raft trip. You seemed to be out there a while and after you got back, you didn't exactly race to the telephone."

"There were a couple of reasons for that. One, we simply got too far out to sea and had a hard time getting back. We heard helicopters from time to time, even saw a ship once, but were unable to signal successfully." A waiter entered the room to ask if anything was needed.

Margaret checked her watch. She had engaged the room for a limited amount of time and her finances, even for a story like this, would only stretch so far.

"We don't have to cut this short, do we?" Gladys asked.

"Not as far as I'm concerned," Ramona said. "I've come here with the intention of giving you the full story. I have a luncheon, but it's not until twelve thirty."

"I'll help pay for the room," Potter said. "My shop can afford it."

Gladys also offered to chip in and said she had a camera crew waiting in the lobby. She'd been promised a full minute on the evening news.

"Okay," Ramona said. "So, the usual hardships at sea, then we come to Dan Gringo, and that's the only name I know him by, did not want to be at the center of attention. You've heard this before I know, but he knew there'd be questions about the dead Mexicans. He wanted to get out of Mexico."

"But what about you?" Margaret asked.

"As far as I was concerned, this guy had saved my life. I owed him at least the courtesy of getting out of Mexico. So, we were tired. We went to a second rate hotel and got a good night's sleep before heading for the States."

"Could we reconstruct this day by day, night by night?" Gladys asked.

"I've tried and failed," Ramona said. "I don't know how long we were on the raft. We lived on mostly peanuts, club soda and juice taken from the airplane. But after that traumatic experience, time simply went. I mean, I lost track. I was one happy camper to be in that raft and safely away from shore, out of harm's way."

"You say 'mostly peanuts.' Was there something else, did you catch fish?" It was Potter concerned with diet.

"No fish. We had some cookies and crackers, also stuff they'd serve on a short flight. That's all."

"I'm interested in Dan Gringo and the Mexicans. How did one man kill six Mexicans?"

Ramona looked serious and thought for a moment. "Dan did one thing right. He saw we were in an isolated situation after the plane crashed and he took the gun from Bob Rose's holster. That made all the difference."

"He used Rose's pistol for a standup shootout with seven armed men?" Margaret asked.

"No, but he was lucky. He too was away from the plane when the bandits arrived. He managed to ambush them in twos and threes, confiscating weapons."

"Were the two of you together at that point?" Margaret questioned.

"No. There's a low ridge, or bluff just inland from the sea. As I've already said, I climbed that, but I went further inland. Broken country, rocks, shrubs and so forth. He was actually on the ridge so he had a clear view of the beach. I was much farther inland."

"I think Dan Gringo is the key to this whole thing," Gladys said. "If we could talk with him the picture would come into sharper focus."

"And he will contact the press," Ramona said.

"When and where?" Potter asked.

"That's up to him. But he did promise me and I think he will deliver. In fact, it's in his best interest. Retired, whatever, someone will guess who he is, that is, that it was this individual who is Dan Gringo. This Gringo thing started as a joke in Mexico and it became serious to him when he saw his anonymity was threatened. He simply doesn't want the media harassing him. He's retired and craves peace and quiet. It's as simple as that."

On request, Ramona gave them a sketchy idea of Dan's appearance, but declined to give them even the details of his life that had been revealed to her.

The conversation became desultory and they went as a group to the lobby where Ramona condensed her story into sixty seconds of prime news time. Then they shook hands and said goodbye, each reporter pleased with the private interview with the first lady.

Maybe that will hold them until Dan surfaces, she thought as she stepped into the waiting car and was driven back to the White House, a pair of secret service agents following close behind.

That evening the exclusive interview led one network's news. A leather-faced anchorman announced an exclusive report by Gladys Luther, our White House correspondent.

The next morning a string of newspapers represented by two reporters carried details stories of the Baja disaster.

Later in the morning, Randy Holcomb complained to anyone who would listen in the White House press room: "She gives the story to three of her little darlings and leaves us hard nosed types out in the cold."

The bureau chief from Baltimore shook his head in wonder: "Randy, you jerk, she tried to tell us her story but you shot off your stupid mouth. If anyone's to blame for this situation, it's you."

"I should flatten your nose," Randy shot back.

"You try it." The Baltimore reporter stuck a large hard fist six inches from his nose.

"We're not animals here," Randy muttered, then stalked off.

"Going back to his lair," a young lady from the Times quipped. "Maybe if I grovel, Ramona will invite me to breakfast."

"You'd have better luck with Dennis," Baltimore said. "But he doesn't want you groveling on your stomach, he'd prefer you on your back."

"Hey, where'd that balloon about a national draft come from?" someone asked. And the patter went on as the White House press corps waited to be fed.

Becky-Canter Dalton had a copy of a photo of Ramona taken at the press conference in her desk drawer. It fascinated her and from time to time she would take it out and study it.

Almost no makeup, a mannish suit, masculine shirt and even a string tie. Small earrings, but even some men wear them. The thought haunted her that maybe Ramona favors women, maybe that's why Dennis is so passionate on the couch. She considered the possibility of hitting on the first lady. What if she could sleep with both the president and the first lady? Not at the same time, of course, That would be asking too much.

But both of them. What a chapter for her diary. Sexpot to the first family. It would be nice to have pictures, but of course that was out of the question. But there were photo opportunities and she could be standing near both of them. And all three of them would be smiling. She thought of being in bed with another woman, nude, skin to skin. It gave her a certain thrill.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dan Reeves had taken Amtrack up the coast to San Francisco and then flown to Philadelphia after leaving Ramona. He did a little indifferent sight seeing, took a peek at the Liberty Bell, toured an historic shrine and read a couple of mysteries.

Almost a week had passed when he punched in the access number one morning and asked the White House operator to put him through to Mrs. Keen.

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Dan Gringo."

He was put through to her secretary who said, "She's talking to a group, Mr. Gringo. Can I take a number?"

"No. I'm in a phone booth. I think she wants to talk with me."

"Just a moment. I'll ask her."

Ramona was on the line in less than a minute. "Dan." There was a certain delight in her voice and it made him feel good. "Long time between raft trips."

"Too long. Where are you?"

"Up the coast. Was thinking of you and thought I'd call."

"Glad you did." She waited, not wanting to ask him about anything.

"I thought I might contact the press if you think it's best."

"I do. It would help. There are some questions floating around. You've seen the papers?"

"Yes, and television. You looked great."

"I do my best."

"I thought maybe, we should meet. I know generally what you've told the press and I know generally what I'll say. But there might be some detail."

"What did you have in mind?" She was cautious. It would be impossible to shake secret service for a private meeting after what had happened, also dangerous in the extreme.

"I thought you and I and your husband could get together privately. Secretly, if you will."

"Why should it be secret?"

"It wouldn't be secret after the meeting. I simply don't want to walk in the front door of the White House with a flourish of trumpets, then walk out with half the press corps in my wake. After our meeting, if we can agree on one, you can tell the press that we met and the three of us talked. That I briefed your husband."

"I think that might work. Yes, it's good. But it is hard to get in and out of the White House secretly, although there are ways."

"I'm sure. I've heard of ways used by presidents past. But I thought if the two of you could come to me. I'd already be there."

"Sure, the Lincoln Memorial at midnight. I think Nixon used to do that when he was in his cups."

"No, Camp David."

"I see. You are clever. Of course. You go up Friday night, we arrive Saturday morning for a relaxing week end. There's a million ways to slip out of Camp David. Yeah, sounds good to me. I'll bounce it off Dennis."

"One thing more, Ramona."

"Yes."

"Well, you know what I would like to say, but I can't."

"I could guess."

"So, I'll ask your husband for a favor."

"What sort of favor."

"I don't know. But whatever it is, it will make me look like a petty favor seeker if you know what I mean."

"Someone interested in a quick buck?"

"Something like that."

"What if he grants it?"

"I'm guessing he won't," Dan said.

"You're probably right. Can you call me tomorrow morning?"

"Ten o'clock."

"Fine, Take care of yourself, Dan Gringo."

It was just at dusk the next Friday that Dan pulled up to the outer gate of Camp David and told the marine guard, "The president's expecting me."

"Your name, Sir?"

"Dan Gringo."

"Do you have identification?"

"No."

"I'm afraid, Sir, I can't admit you."

"You'd better check with your boss."

"I have my orders, Sir."

Dan pondered the situation for a few seconds, then asked again. "You won't check with your boss?"

"No, Sir. I have strict orders. No ID, no admittance."

"Isn't there a list, or something? Do you admit anyone with identification."

"Of course not. There's a list."

"Then why don't you check your list. See if my name's on it."

"I can do that." The marine signaled a companion from inside the gatehouse, then shouted, "See if a Dan Gringo's on the visitor's list."

The sergeant inside called back almost immediately. "Yes. Let him pass."

"I can't. He has no ID."

"Let him pass, corporal."

The marine turned to Dan. "Okay, Sir. The sergeant says it's alright."

"Thanks."

At the second gate, Dan was instructed to park his rented car. A marine lieutenant drove him to a small cabin. "You'll be staying here, Mr. Gringo. There's food in the refrigerator, also a small bar. As far as I know, you'll be the only one here tonight."

"Any beer in there."

"I'm sure there is, Sir. But if you run out, pick up the phone and punch zero."

The door to the cabin was unlocked. Hardly any fear of burglars here, Dan thought. He tossed his canvas bag on the bed, pulled out his toothbrush and paste and inspected the bathroom.

Then he found a beer in the refrigerator, popped it open and plopped down in front of the television set. Every cable service was available.

After ten minutes of grazing through the channels, he switched off the tube and made himself a lunchmeat sandwich. He didn't feel right. It was an alien sort of place and he felt as if he had checked himself into prison. He did have a simple plan and he was anxious to get on with it.

The sandwich gone, he opened a second beer and took a long hot shower, delighting in the luxury of the steam. He guessed that there was a hot tub somewhere around and probably a fitness center, although he did recall various presidents jogging around Camp David.

The shower had a soothing effect. So, tomorrow he would be face to face with President Keen, his lover's husband. And she would be here too. It was not a prospect that he anticipated with relish. But it was necessary and it would be an engrossing experiment in human, or animal behavior.

There were several possibilities. The first being that Keen didn't even consider the possibility that his wife could have an affair. The worst scenario might be that he definitely thought she had and that he had goaded her into a true confession. More likely was the prospect that he did suspect what had happened, but simply didn't care. He had read and Ramona had hinted that Keen was not immune to romantic liaisons.

At a much earlier time in his life, tomorrow's meeting might have played on his nerves. He wasn't looking forward to much of a future one way or the other. He found the small bar and poured himself two fingers of scotch. Then he dropped in two cubes of ice, splashed in a little water, opened his front door and sat on the doorstep as he sipped the smoky liquid.

It was full dark now, but there were lights here and there filtering through the heavy growth of trees and shrubs. As he sat and watched a fat possum on its nightly outing shuffled by not ten feet away.

The possum gone, the incessant cry of a whippoorwill rose from beyond the trees. If there were guards, and he was certain the marines were on watch, they were very discreet. Dan finished his drink and went to bed.

He had gotten up just after dawn and walked around the compound. No one challenged him. It was mostly freestanding cottages with a few joined double bungalows and other buildings. When he reached the tennis courts he turned and went back to his cottage.

There were frozen onion bagels in the freezer and some jelly in the cupboard. He drank instant coffee and munched a bagel with grape jelly. Saturday morning, nothing much but cartoons on the telly. He flipped to CNN and was about to take a nap when a knock came on the door.

This time it was a marine captain. "The president and his wife would like you to join them for breakfast, Sir."

"Let me wash my hands."

There was no vehicle outside, the two of them walked over the crunch of gravel in the early morning light. There had been fog, but it was lifting, a crow called from high in a white oak. "Do you live here, Captain?" he asked the marine.

"No, Sir. I came with the president's chopper. I'm part of the White House contingent." His voice was a honey baritone.

"I'd guess you're from Alabama."

"Close. West Georgia. You're not a southerner." It was a statement.

"No. Midwest."

They reached the door of a low stone building and the captain stepped forward and opened it. It's down the hall and to your right. Small dining room. Bon appetite.

Ramona was seated at a round table with a snow-white cloth. Crystal glasses of water and a heavy deep sculptured silver pattern. The table was set for three. "Dan, so good to see you again." She didn't rise.

He dropped into the chair across from her. "Good to see you." He looked around. No one else in the room. She seemed composed, but he sensed a nervousness. No makeup at all as far as he could tell. Khaki pants and a gray sweatshirt flecked with paint spots and torn at the neck.

"Dennis will join us in a few minutes. There's coffee." She motioned to a silver urn. "How've you been?"

"Fine, considering." He knew he shouldn't have said considering, but they were alone. "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

"Oh, I'm usually in the same spot. Right smack on Pennsylvania Avenue. You're the nomad."

"I'll go public by Wednesday. I'll simply tell the truth. I was on the ridge. You were far back beyond the ridge. You came down to the beach after the shooting, but in time to see Bernie Bate ride off on the motorcycle. He was headed north and his intention was to get help. We never saw him again."

"No problem."

"We were alone among the victims. We took the safest way out. Found the raft, laid on supplies and..."

"Well, well, well, sorry I'm late." Dennis Keen strode into the room. He looked fit, almost rugged, in blue jeans, plaid cotton shirt and tooled leather belt.

Dan rose and received a hardy handshake. "Dan Gringo, I believe," the president said.

"Yes, Sir."

The president busied himself with coffee, then asked, "Have you all ordered?" No one spoke. He glanced at Dan.

"I had a bagel earlier."

"And you?"

"Not too hungry. I drank some juice. We've been talking about what happened on Baja. Do you want us to go over it with you?"

"Just briefly."

Dan told his story again, adding a few embellishments that weren't needed with Ramona. Then he got to the raft.

"We were well equipped. There was a sail. Plenty of provisions. We didn't want to be too close in, anyone with a motor could have come out and easily overtaken us."

The president leaned forward toward Dan and said with a trace or irony in his voice, "Of course, you could have shot them."

"Yes, that's a possibility. We did have firepower. But there's only so many people I care to shoot in any given week. I already had seven to my credit. Going for eight, or a dozen would have been pushing it. We decided to play it safe." He kept a poker face and held the president's stare. Dennis looked away.

"Well, go on with your story."

Score one for Dan, Ramona thought. Dennis won't have him for breakfast.

"In the dark, rain, it's hard to tell just where you are going. It's unpleasant out there, but it was safe. Calm water. I know I've seen your wife on TV and she said she didn't know just how long we were on the raft. That's right. I don't know either. We waited, coming in sight of land, then retreating to sea. We waited until we saw what appeared to be civilization."

"And was it?"

"Yes, it was."

"What I'd like to know, and this doesn't concern you, Dan," the president said. "If you heard the shooting, Ramona, and were aware people were being shot and killed. Why didn't you simply continue going inland and wait for rescue."

"I think you'd have to go to the Baja to understand that, Dennis. There's no water back there, no food. I suspect there are rattlesnakes and maybe things like scorpions. I thought I could return to the coast and see what was going on. That option was open to me. Of course, when all else fails, run."

"Well, I wasn't there," Keen conceded. "And I'm sorry we had that spat on the telephone, Dan. What is your last name, anyway?"

"Not to be offensive, Sir. But we all know a secret is no longer a secret when the cat's out of the bag. What I intend to do is tell the press everything in the next couple of days, then make myself scarce. I just don't want to be badgered."

"I understand. Ramona's impressed that on my mind. But this is important. Do you have anything to hide? Does this reluctance to identify yourself have anything to do with something unpleasant in your background?"

"This line of questioning serves no purpose," Ramona began.

"It's Okay," Dan said. "If it came to light that I was a child molester, or an embezzler, or had fooled the taxpayers in some way, it might put a different spin on the story. The answer is, no. I have nothing to be ashamed of."

"And you have nothing to gain by coming forward?" the president said.

"That's true enough. I do so with some hesitation. That is, if you don't think it's necessary, I'll pass."

"It is necessary," Ramona said. "Necessary to Dennis and my future. And I hope if we have a good future that we will be able to do something for the country. I don't mean to wave the flag, nor do I mean he and I are saviors of the republic. But we've started certain things that we'd like to see through. Your coming forward simply clears one of the clouds from the horizon."

"One out of many," Keen agreed. He seemed preoccupied for a moment, then with a penetrating look at Dan, said, "And you ask nothing in return."

"No, not really." This was the opening Dan had wanted, yet he was not certain he was making the right move. He despised asking favors of anyone. "But you know, I am just past fifty-five. I'm a typical early retiree. I could use a job. Not in Washington. But if there was something at some embassy, maybe in South America, or Asia. It would give me something to do."

Ramona's ears perked up. So this was it. Dan putting Dennis on the spot. Quid pro quo. Dennis had to make a decision and whichever it was, he would be faulted. The meeting would end with Dennis either caving in to a request from a man who was in a position to help his office, or playing the ingrate to the man who had doubtless saved his wife's life.

Dennis hesitated. "I'd like to take that one under advisement," he finally said.

"I probably won't see you again, Mr. President. Just give me a straight up or down answer and it will be forgotten."

"Then I'd have to say no." He turned to Ramona. "You understand, don't you?"

"Of course, dear." Dan had won.

"That's settled. Think no more about it." He rose and dropped his napkin on the table. "After I meet the press, I'll wait a few days, then call the access number. Just in case there's a need for me to say something further. You know how things get jumbled up from one mouth to another."

"I've experienced it," Keen said.

Dan shook the president's hand, then Ramona's. "I suppose if I go outside a marine will come along and see that I get back to my car."

"That will definitely happen."

He turned and left. As he left the room they had both seated themselves and Ramona was pouring coffee. He was still hungry, but he would wait until he was well away from this place to get breakfast.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dan felt strangely free as he drove away from Camp David. Meeting President

Keen had been a hurdle. He wasn't overwhelmed by the man, not even excessively impressed. We are all human he told himself, some of us have different drives than others. There have been some very pitiful ex-presidents.

As he drove his rented car, he hummed a tune and smiled. He had been delighted to see Ramona again and he came away with the feeling that nothing had changed between them. Also, now, he was his own man again. No longer Dan Gringo, but Dan Reeves, a footloose retiree. Of course being footloose could mean a miserable lonely trek.

At the airport he turned the car in and caught the Metro to downtown Washington where he tried to find a reasonably priced hotel, but couldn't. He ended up calling around and finally taking a cab across the Potomac to Northern Virginia where he did check into an affordable motel.

Saturday afternoon and he hadn't planned to do anything until at least Monday morning. But he could change his plans. First, he checked through the metropolitan phone book and found the name he was seeking – John Heaton, an old college friend who was Washington bureau chief for a St. Louis paper.

He punched the number and a woman answered. "Mrs. Heaton?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Dan Reeves. I went to college with John. I think I met you once at a class reunion a few years back."

"Oh, yes, Dan." It was obvious from her tone that she didn't remember him. "John's doing yard work. I suppose you want to talk with him."

"Not if he's busy. I'm in a Northern Virginia motel. Could you have him call me when he takes a break?"

"Of course, you're..."

"Dan Reeves." He gave her the number then hung up. Then he immediately begin calling airlines to find a cheap flight to London. His plan was to lie low in Europe for a few weeks, or months. There were at least three places he had read about over the years that he wanted to visit. He could stay busy. Dan was certain people would forget about him and the Mexican incident in a matter of two or three months.

Booking a single economy flight to London for Sunday night was no problem. The room was hot and he kicked up the air conditioner. Later he would get some beer.

Taking stock of his few possessions, he began making a list of his needs.

Underwear, socks, at least one shirt, cotton trousers, shoes, probably sneakers, a belt. Most of the things he could pick up in Europe, but if there was a discount store nearby, he could take a cab. He would also need a suitcase, something soft and flexible, good for a pillow in a pinch.

John Heaton called. "Dan Reeves, a name out of the past."

"The ghost of the ivied halls. You still with the fourth estate?"

"For now. I'm thinking retirement. I'm thinking of getting out of the Washington rat race. Can you believe it, I can clear a couple hundred thousand when I sell my house and it's not all that great. Sometimes I think it was built by the three little pigs. What are you up to, Dan?"

"Doing a bit of traveling. My wife died sometime back. I took early retirement. I'm kind of a free agent."

"I'm sorry to hear about your wife, Dan. But you're still a young man. I should know. We're the same age."

"Sometimes I feel young. Sometimes no. I'd like to see you, John."

"No problem with that. You could come for dinner tonight. We have a remarkably slow social schedule."

"I'd like that, but I have some errands." He was thinking of shopping. "Frankly, I have a story for you."

"Oh, really." John's voice seemed to drop. People, sometimes his friends, sometimes lobbyists, frequently tried to push stories off on him. "What sort of story?"

"It's a good story. And I think you'll agree. If you don't like the story, I'd rather you not use it."

"That's a given. I don't do publicity. You know that."

"Exactly," Dan said. "I spent the last part of my career as something of a PR man for a small college. So I know the game. Thankfully, it was no key. Not even low key. No one really cared one way or another."

"Do you want to meet Monday?"

"I have something I must do Monday. So this is a favor I'll be asking. Could you meet with me sometime today?"

"Sunday?"

"Yes."

"What kind of story is this, Dan?"

"That's another favor. It's a good story. It has everything. Conflict, redemption and so forth. But I'd rather not talk about it right now."

"OK"

"Fine. Shall we have lunch?"

"No, not on Sunday. Grace usually fixes dinner. We eat about five or so, just after cocktails. You can come if you like."

"I'd better pass on that. Can you come here, to the motel?"

"Sure, no problem."

"I'll see you then. Come right to my room. I'll have beer for us."

John Heaton drove in from Falls Church on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. He had gained weight. He wore bifocals, but what hair he had left was still dark. He didn't look like the dashing foreign correspondent they had kidded about in college.

The fact is that he had been a foreign correspondent for eight years, about five years longer than he wanted to be. He was lucky to have gotten the bureau job in Washington. It carried some prestige and he had two reporters and a secretary on his staff.

"You look great," Dan said. They exchanged compliments and Dan popped open a couple of cans of beer he had under ice in the wash basin.

They lived in two different worlds and had very little to say to each other in small talk. But then Dan crossed over into John's world when he asked if he had been following the Ramona Keen thing in Mexico.

"I was at her press conference. There's a lot of that story that hasn't come out The Mexican government's raising hell and for good reason."

"But most of the passengers were killed by Mexicans and some of those were Mexican. Don't you think it's just so much window dressing?"

"Consider this, Dan. How in the hell did Ramona get out of Mexico? There must have been some sort of conspiracy."

"Conspiracy to do what?" Dan almost laughed. "She was damned lucky to escape death. You Washington types have conspiracy on the brain."

"That's our job."

"No, it's not your job," Dan insisted. "Your job is to tell the public the truth and once you've done it, move on. Quit beating dead horses. Don't look for a squad of conspirators behind every bush."

John gulped his beer down. He was tired and thirsty after eighteen holes of golf. "Well, you haven't changed since college. Still argumentative as hell."

"I've mellowed," Dan said. "What do you think of this Dan Gringo character?"

"If there is such a character," John countered. "Gringo might be a figment of someone's fruitful imagination."

"I'm astounded you're so cynical, John. Don't you ever believe anyone?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Can you lay out a conspiracy theory about this whole thing, give me a rational story, a reasonable scenario. Did Mrs. Keen sabotage the plane, massacre Mexican villagers then ride a magic carpet to San Diego to confound the press?"

"Oh, shit, Dan. I don't know what happened. But we're way off track. Tell me about this story you've cooked up for me."

Dan took a deep breath and opened two more beers. He passed one to John and as he did, he said, "I'm Dan Gringo."

John took a drink slowly and nodded. It was a strange put on, but it must be a put on.

Dan continued. "I am actually Dan Gringo. I met with the President and his wife briefly yesterday morning. The meeting was at Camp David. They'll confirm this. We met so I could brief the President before going public. Now I'm going public. You get the story."

He walked across the room and sat down in an easy chair. John followed and sat on the bed. "You didn't lie to me, Dan. This is quite a story. In fact Washington may sound like the glamour spot for reporters, but we seldom get a really first-rate story. And then, almost never exclusively. I am having a hard time believing this."

"And that is exactly why I called you, John. If you're having a hard time believing someone you've known since college, what the hell do you think the other press mongrels would say?"

"I understand, Dan." He smiled and said, "Dan Gringo. The description Ramona gave fits. So you and she drifted around the Pacific in a raft together and later shared a hotel room?"

"That's exactly what I want to avoid. The tabloid shit. If you're going to tell my story, I want you to tell it as I tell it. No steamy innuendos, or poetic license."

"We'll need a picture of you, Dan." John had leaped from disbelief to intense fervor. You could almost hear the presses rumbling and shouts of deadline.

"Fuck the picture. No dice. You're the first person who knows both of my identities. I wouldn't tell the Keens. They'll find out from your paper. But I don't want my face plastered from Toledo to Tokyo. I give you this story, then I'm out of here."

"You can't just leave," Heaton said. "They'll be other questions. Maybe an investigation."

Dan laughed. "Screw your investigations. I'm here and you can ask questions. It's a one on one situation. Can't you handle it?"

"You're damned right I can handle it. You got any paper around here?"

"You didn't come prepared?"

"I thought you had some kind of hand out."

Dan went to the desk and dug out several sheets of motel stationary. "You do have a pen, don't you?"

He told his story and John took notes and asked questions. Over and over again, John asked about the deaths of the seven Mexicans. It was difficult to believe that one man had killed seven. Dan stuck to his story. He had killed the bulk of them and Bernie Bate was hiding. And he stubbornly refused to tell John his future plans and would not agree even to call him for a follow up. "This is your one-shot," he said. "Your chance for fifteen minutes of fame. Handle it right and you can retire with a splash of glory. Screw it up and you'll be the goat."

"How could I screw it up?" John questioned.

"Go mouthing around about it before your paper comes out. Tell the wire services, tell television. Drop the ball."

"I'll be damned if I'll do that."

"But someone on your paper might," Dan warned. He was not unfamiliar with the way stories found their way into print. "Some young yahoo might tip off the networks in advance. This is your story now, but the minute you move it to your paper, maybe fifty people will know. I'd play it close to the vest. Wait until near deadline and then call the editor or publisher. Don't take chances."

"Good point. It is a good story. Certainly the best I've had in ten years. But what about the White House? Shouldn't I confirm it, that they did talk with you at Camp David?"

"I might be able to help you with that. You're a morning paper. What's your deadline tonight?"

"Very late, of course. There's a time lag. The problem is there won't be anybody around the White House."

"The Keens live there," Dan said. I can call them. Have them call you, or they'll have a press secretary call you."

"Marsha Bell? She'll call me?" He was incredulous. This woman calls network anchormen, or national columnists, but not reporters from unfriendly papers.

"Would you recognize her voice?"

"I think so I could call her back, but how can you arrange that?"

"I told you I was at Camp David. You've got to start believing me. The Keens are just a nice married couple trying to do the best job they can for the country."

"I've never quite looked at it that way," John said. "To my paper the Keens are something less than human."

"They won't cook the story, will they?"

John reached out and touched Dan on the arm. "They'll run it the way I write it and I'll write it straight. If they don't, then I'll be holding a press conference."

"I believe you would, John. There was always an idealistic germ buried in that bonehead of yours. What're you going to do when you retire?"

"I'm thinking of trying to learn something. They let older people audit some college courses for almost nothing. When I think of all the stuff I didn't learn in J-school." He was on his feet, holding the odd sheets of paper and scribbled notes in his hand. He didn't look much like a newshound in his faded wash pants, pullover shirt and worn canvas shoes – an overgrown boy playing at life.

"One thing I didn't ask," John said. "Why this name? Why Dan Gringo?"

Dan shrugged. "I walked into the lobby of this flea bag hotel, not far from Hermosillo, and I heard someone sitting there use the word gringo. I knew they were talking about me, I'd had a couple beers, so I registered as Dan Gringo. That's it."

"But you didn't have to show a passport, or something?"

"Not in Mexico." He shook John's hand. "I will be back to visit you sometime.

If you're not here, I guess the paper will know where you're living. Got any ideas for a retirement home?"

"Not a clue. Anyplace but Florida."

When Heaton was gone, Dan checked the time. It was not too early to start for

Dulles airport. He could sit out there and read the Sunday Post, check in early for his flight. He would make that call to the White House in plenty of time. By morning, he would be in London.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The flight was as bad, or as good, as any he had taken, strapped into a narrow seat on the aisle, babies crying, a mounting accumulation of litter as the hours passed, flight attendants who wished they were somewhere else, an Oriental woman across the aisle and one seat up, who filled an air sickness bag, then started on a second. There was no joy in this sort of travel. A covered wagon or a clipper ship would have been more engaging. But it was fast.

Touchdown in London and a stroll through immigration and customs, then a train to Victoria Station and a brief walk led Dan to a bed and breakfast where he could lick his wounds, recover from jet lag and read the latest reports on the American first family. He had no intention of staying long in London, or for that matter in the United Kingdom. It was not on his short list.

His landlady at the B&B was a Mrs. Hollack who showed him where to bathe, how to start the gas heater and informed him of the breakfast hours.

"And you are welcome to have afternoon tea," she added, glaring at him through thick lenses. Her eyes were pale blue and her skin white, almost transparent. He could see a blue vein in her forehead.

"Tea and crumpets," he said.

"Scones, Mr. Reeves, scones. With jelly."

"Super. I like jelly. You know, I love marmalade."

"You can have marmalade if you agree to take the room for one week."

Dan considered. "I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment."

"Of course, you could have your own marmalade."

"Where would I get it?"

"I shop. I could pick up a jar."

"That would work perfectly," Dan said. He was looking for a way out. "You could add it to my bill."

"But things could take an ugly turn," she said. Her gaze never faltered.

Dan wondered what could be ugly about a jar of marmalade. "How so?" The flight had sapped him physically and robbed him of some zest.

"There are other guests. They would see you with your marmalade and they would have only jelly."

He wondered if the jelly was that bad. "If you would, Mrs. Hollack. Please buy a jar of marmalade, put the cost on my bill and place the jar out for all the guests. It's my treat."

"That's truly kind of you. Do you have any other topics you'd care to discuss?"

"Thank you, no. I'm very tired from the trip over. I'll likely sleep most of the day. I have no agenda."

"It's a quiet room. A good place to rest." She bustled out of the room. He stood there for a moment holding his cloth bag, looking out the window at the rear of a brick townhouse. Then he carefully locked the door, undressed completely and crawled into the comfortable three-quarter bed. His right leg jumped a little, but he was asleep in ten minutes.

"Dan Gringo, or Dan Reeves, whatever his name is has a unique way of going to the press," the President was saying. He had just finished reading a wire story his political advisor had handed him.

"A very effective way," Bill Ellison replied. "He went to a sympathetic member of the press with faultless credentials. He told the entire story, then he dropped out of sight."

"And where might he have dropped to?" Keen asked.

"I don't know, but now that we know who he is, we can find him."

"The Man's no fool. He's clever. He's come forward and told his story. If he hadn't, the Mexican government would continue its tantrum."

"They still can," Ellison said.

"Yes, but not as effectively. Ramona's story and Reeves' story seem to agree. Who's to challenge them with Reeves gone?"

"Don't I wish. This thing won't die for a while. It has a few legs. You buy their stories?"

"Why not?"

"The time thing for one. Too much time."

"There's something I haven't told you, something I wouldn't want you to repeat. I talked to this Reeves when the two of them were still in Mexico. He called to arrange for someone to pick up Ramona. I jumped at the conclusion that he was a kidnapper, made an ass of myself. He hung up."

"You didn't tell anyone?"

"Hardly anyone. After the call I realized he was probably legitimate. I decided not to stir up the animals. It was an unusual situation. They made their way to California and he called again. This time I apologized and sent someone for Ramona. No problem."

"So that's one thing people don't know. There might be more. If so, we could have a full blown situation on our hands."

"But we don't," Keen said. "Reeves wants privacy. I sincerely believe that. He's happily retired. The press in general probably won't get to him for months, if at all. Although he may make another press contact in a few days."

"Here is Washington?"

"I don't know. Ramona said he would call and if he needed to clear up any points, he would make another contact, probably a final one. The man is astute. You know when he was at Camp David he asked me for a job, maybe something abroad in an embassy."

Ellison showed obvious surprise. "So that was the deal. He came forward for a federal plum. I don't like it, Dennis."

"He said it didn't matter, that he would go to the press anyway. The job thing was after the fact. And, get this, I think he already knew I'd refuse him. He wanted to put me on the spot. Make me turn him down." The President rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. If Reeves had tried to be disconcerting he had succeeded.

"He was playing poker with you?"

"Whatever it was, he took the hand, but not all the chips. Anyway, I feel he can handle himself and he won't cause any problem. He seems to think a great deal of Ramona."

Ellison let that one pass. "I've asked the St. Louis paper to fax us a copy of the entire story. This wire thing is lengthy, but very likely a condensation. This reporter, John Heaton, he'll make the rounds of the news shows. Reeves has made him a celebrity – the only link to Dan Gringo, the Mexican pistolero."

"Yes, but every reporter in this town will be digging into Reeves' background."

"Our boys sure will be. This man draws a pension from some place, probably Social Security too, although he probably isn't that old. But he does have a bank account and maybe children. I'd like to run him down before the opposition does just to keep tabs on him."

"Maybe I should have given him a job," the President said.

"From what you say, he probably wouldn't have taken it. You probably should have made an offer and let him refuse. The ball would have been back in his court."

"We weren't playing one-upmanship. There's nothing at stake here but this plane disaster, the shooting and so forth. And he's come forward and told his story. It has the ring of truth."

Ellison stood up. "Politics. The name of the game. Incidentally, this universal draft thing is getting a lot of positive comment. A lot of people would like to see everyone sacrifice a little for the country. And, the beauty part, that group of young people affected don't vote all that much."

The President nodded. He could always count on Ellison to be cynical.

"It was Ramona's idea and there's a lot more to it than meets the eye. For one thing, a lot of those eighteen-year-olds from a certain segment of society are virtually illiterate. Their year will be spent in an intensive basic education program."

"You can't force people to learn," Ellison said.

"The military can do a lot of things. With constant testing to measure information intake, slackers can be identified on a daily basis and given suitable alternatives."

"Suitable alternatives," Ellison laughed. "Like flogging?"

The President shrugged. "Something distasteful enough to make study a pleasing option. One thing most people have grown to accept is discipline in the military."

"Something short of mutilation, I hope."

"Whatever works. I'd like to see the entire St. Louis story and give me your input on that topic and if this Reeves should talk with another member of the press."

"Will do." Bill Ellison strolled out of the Oval Office feeling good. The day had had an interesting beginning. He loved political intrigue and he could almost sniff it in the air. There was something unwholesome about this entire Mexican thing. The time element wasn't right. And what about this Bernie Bate? What had happened to him?

***

Dan Reeves woke at dusk. He knew he had done the wrong thing to defeat jet lag. The exact rules he had forgotten, but it was something like stay up and drink coffee, or don't drink coffee.

He had also read that there were thousands of pubs in London. So he set out to find one and succeeded almost immediately. Polished wood, cushioned benches around the walls, elaborate levers to draw the beer. He ordered a pint, pointing to what looked like a good lever. Then he looked over the pub grub. Meat pies and other unwholesome snacks. He chose a Scotch egg, possibly the worst thing devised for human consumption – a hard-boiled egg coated with breading and sausage, then deep fried. And now consumed cold by Dan as he knocked back his first pint of the day and ordered another.

He was out of step with global time and a few drops of amber would again get him marching with the beat. He munched the congealed egg, downed the second pint then took a look around the pub. An old man rolling a cigarette at a table for one, a young couple holding hands in a corner, engaged in earnest nose to nose conversation; two old women chatting away and occasionally glancing his way. Well, why shouldn't they be? He was an older man with silver hair.

Ordering a third pint from the bartender, who he supposed should be called the publican in London. After all, he had read Kipling. He recalled a man being asked if he liked Kipling. The reply: I don't know, I've never kippled. Although his thoughts wandered, he felt fine, the evening was going well and he was not far from his B&B. It would be a short day.

After three days in London, Dan took the Chunnel route to France and thence to Paris. He found the train a pleasure. Years before he and his wife had traveled from London to Paris by boat train. Late in the evening and they were already worn out when the train departed and quite late when they reached the coast and boarded the inhospitable vessel on a cold, drizzly night, harsh wind sweeping across the dark channel chop.

The word miserable came to mind when he remembered that trip, other passengers bleary eyed, some clutching bottles of beer, some half green with seasickness on the pitching vessel. A short walk on the deck greeted by a blustery wind, then lurching deck and the harsh and ragged waves not far below, the yawning jaws of death. Then finally, back on a train; sluggish and irritable when the train finally pulled into Paris.

This time he moved into Paris as if in a dream, knowing the city is half illusion, half real...Vous desirez, Monsieur...he had decided not to consort with prostitutes. He was feeling noble and his emotions were strangely mixed. Of course, later, he did stumble into a type of sexual liaison in Provence that he would later view as an educational experience.

He purchased a map at the train station and for economy purposes sought to avoid the beaux quartiers. The Metro took him to a stop on the left bank where a shoestring guidebook led him to an inexpensive hotel that was also a public bath.

Savory smells of the kitchen, garlic, herbs and stewing chicken, drifted into the tiny lobby from behind the small reception desk where he signed the book and handed over his passport. His room was quite large and contained the boxy matrimonial bed, had wooden shutters opening onto the street three stories below. There was a washbasin and a bidet, the toilet was down the hall. The shower was also down the hall, but to use it a certain fee had to be paid in advance to the proprietor.

From his window he could see a small sidewalk café across the street. To the left was a pastry shop and to the right a wine merchant. There is a certain style, a heartbeat to Paris, elegance, sometimes tawdry and worn, but still a smiling elegance. Despite the noise and the pollution, the sarcasm and snap negative judgments of some of the citizens, despite the drop-of-the-hat protest marches, despite every criticism that could be heaped on that city of rooftops, the city has an abiding sophistication and style, a cheery romantic quality that rises from the cobblestones.

Dan hated to be there alone. He would not stay long. It was not one of the three places on his mental list. Paris now, in his solitary status, was painful to him. He would call Ramona at the White House and she would tell him if he should again meet the press. Then he would take the train south, south to Provence.

At the wine store across the way, he bought a bottle of red wine. Gazing in the window of the pastry shop, he saw mostly cakes and sweets. Down the street there was a bakery where he bought a long, crusty loaf of bread. Then he retired to his room to tear off chunks of bread and wash them down with the dry red wine. He believed that such a meal would be more wholesome than Scotch eggs. From what he had seen, heard and read of France and Paris, there was likely no bad food or drink.

The next morning he got to thinking about the difference in time and decided to wait until late in the day before calling Washington. He had coffee and a roll at the café across the way, strong coffee with cream. Then he strolled the streets of Paris until early afternoon when he lunched at yet another sidewalk café, far removed from the first. He found himself in Montmartre, not far from the Sacre-Coeur basilica.

The basilica was deep and dim and imbued with a feeling of restful peace. A former life, perhaps he was a monk. Almost like a shadow, picturing himself in robes, he moved toward the flickering lights and lit a candle. Then into the streets again where he moved among painters and would be painters, offering their works on the sidewalks. He had heard that the major art colony had moved elsewhere.

Dan enjoyed the French word, flaneur, and he felt he had achieved that status – to stroll, to observe, to do nothing. He saw an old man in a dark beret feeding sparrows and children crumbling cracker-like cakes for the pigeons.

That morning he had sauntered along the Seine and then viewed the magnificence of Notre Dame Cathedral with its grotesque and humorous gargoyles that watch over the city from their island fastness. He saw the rich, some walking their finely trimmed dogs, he saw the poor, sleeping in doorways or on benches. And he saw the bridges – Pont Alexandre III, Pont Marie...

The city is a flower, sometimes soiled, but always a flower. A rose, a daisy, a delicate orchid. The sweep of the Tuileries and the grandeur of the Champs-Elysees. The restaurants and their spotless windows and unblemished displays of shellfish, meats, fruits, desserts and cheeses.

He thought it only polite to begin lunch with a bowl of onion soup before moving on to a baked lamb shank. He had a half bottle of white wine, actually a pitcher, and finished the meal with an apricot compote. The size of the check surprised him. But last night's dinner and today's breakfast had been frugal enough. And he was at a touristy café in a touristy area. From this moment on he would live the life of a thrifty Frenchman.

Dan was also a long way from his hotel on the other side of the Seine. Rather than struggle with the Metro, he walked and arrived in his room weary and utterly ready for a nap.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ramona Keen was taking a break in the sitting room off her office when her secretary announced that Mr. Reeves had called in on the special access line and wished to speak with her.

"Dan, where've you been?" Her voice was bright and joyful, and the sound of it boosted Dan's spirits.

"Here and there. I've been wondering if this line is secure, if that's the word you use."

"That's the word all right." Ramona looked around her office. She was alone, but you could never quite be certain. She often thought that a Ukrainian peasant had tenfold more freedom than she did. "The line is secure, but my office, I don't know. So no one can hear you."

"There was one question that's been almost haunting me, a time for honesty. Did you, or do you, regret anything that happened in Mexico?"

Ramona replied in an instant, "No. And I never will."

"Good. Now that that's out of the way, how did my story play inside and outside of the Beltway?"

"It cleared the air, Dan. I even think that most people understand that you're a private citizen and don't want to put up with all the glare, digging into your background and so forth. Of course it won't stop them from digging. I'm certain there are reporters talking with your old neighbors and fellow workers, maybe even teachers, at this moment."

"I expected that, Ramona. It doesn't bother me because I haven't read a paper recently. I'm in Paris."

"You dog. You'd go there without me?" She was jesting, but she wasn't.

"I'm sorry. I share your feelings." He wanted to say more, but didn't. "I'll be moving on soon. Maybe I could write to you. I don't mean often, just an occasional postcard, something like that."

"Yes, that would be good. There's an address we use for personal mail, a post office box." She gave him the number and zip. "I'd like to know where you are now and then, when and where maybe I could be in touch. You won't forget me?"

"Oh, come on. Tell me about the press reaction and what I should do." There was no need to worry about the elapsed phone time. He had used a credit card. Things were so simple these days if you had money, and so bad if you didn't.

"You've created a celebrity. John Heaton. He's going from news show to news show, even a couple of talk shows. He's like the surrogate you. There are a couple of questions constantly asked. One is, how did you manage to outwit seven armed Mexicans. And wouldn't I have been fairly close? Then they ask about Bernie Bate. Where was he, what was his role, what happened to him?" She paused a moment. "Personally, I think he must be dead."

"I tend to agree," Dan said. "He probably rode right smack into that village on a well known bike. Anyway, I can answer those questions with no hitch. Is there anything else?"

"The time element. Dennis has kept that first call a great secret. If he hadn't, we could easily explain the time lag. But then there was a spat. So you wanted to get out of Mexico quietly. But the raft, you know the bit, hell on the ocean waves, our ordeal, losing track of time, menaced by the cruel sea." He could tell she was smiling.

"Damn, I hate to end this call. It's been a pleasure."

"And getting a card from you will be a pleasure, Dan."

"So, goodbye."

That evening, Ramona told her husband that Dan had called and that he might again seek out the press.

"Where is he?" Dennis asked.

Ramona hesitated. She didn't want to lie. "I don't think he wanted me to tell anyone, and I think I should respect his wishes."

"But I'm your husband," Dennis shot back.

"You're also the President of the United States. But the man still has wishes and they should be respected if possible."

Dennis shrugged. "Will he just do the single reporter again?"

"I don't know. I suppose. It seemed to work the last time. Remarkably well."

"He seems to be a man of his word." He put down the report he had been reading and started for the door. "I've got a few things to clean up in the office." He glanced at the clock. It was just after seven. "Remember, we have dinner at nine with the Spanish ambassador."

Ramona frowned. She hated these late dinners, although she realized the Spanish probably thought nine was early.

When he was gone she fixed herself a plate of snack crackers and cheese and realized her relationship with Dennis had changed since she had returned from Mexico. It had been headed in that direction for some time, but the encounter with Dan had hastened it.

She had always been a political partner and advisor. Now it seemed that was becoming her sole role. That and the thought that she might some day seek the presidency. What would Dennis do then? She knew exactly what he would do. Even though he would be an ex-President with a library to fool with, he would still be trying to run the country through her. And that would please many people. But she couldn't have it. No, she couldn't have that.

***

The proprietor at the sidewalk café across the way brought coffee and a roll to Dan's small table the following morning without the ordeal of hand gestures and broken French. It was very civilized.

After breakfast Dan walked to a building just off the Champs-Elysee and found the offices of The New York Times. The receptionist-secretary was drinking coffee and finishing up her nails. "I'm looking for a reporter," he said.

She looked up and smiled. "We here often do the identical thing." Her English was good and she had a delightful French accent. "Any special one?"

"No. I have what I think will be a story. Just anyone who isn't busy."

She looked at him with big brown eyes as she picked up the phone and pushed a button, then spoke in rapid French. He guessed that she could have easily used English, but he also guessed that she was saying that an American tourist had just wandered into the office with some sort of story idea. He suspected this had happened before.

Before long, a well turned out middle-aged man emerged from an office with a sullen looking young lady in tow.

"Mr.... uh, she didn't tell me your name."

"Reeves."

"Mr. Reeves. This is Judy." He motioned to the glum-looking girl standing beside him. "She's here as a summer intern, but I can assure you she's a sharp newspaperwoman. She'll take good care of you." With that the man turned on his heel and was gone.

Judy appeared to have had a rough night and seemed less than eager to even open her mouth. She stood scowling at him. Dan tried to be cheerful. "Where shall we talk?"

"I don't know. They don't even give me an office around here. I'll bet you're here on some kind of convention."

"I'm not. We could get a cup of coffee. I passed an open-air café just around the corner."

"That'd be good." She motioned for him to lead the way.

When they were seated at the café, she stared off into space and said, "I had a good story lined up on the Eiffel Tower today."

"And I suppose I ruined it," Dan said.

"That's right, but what the hell." She looked around for a waiter. There was none.

"What's happening with the tower?" Dan asked.

"It may fall down. I've learned it's being held together with chains, cables, bits of wire. It creaks in the wind. I met this engineer last night. He said he'd meet me there this morning."

"Didn't you tell your boss?"

"I tried to, but he wants me to do what he wants me to do. You know how that is, older men. That's what's wrong with journalism."

"Older men?"

"I don't mean you," she said. "But you know how they are. You should. You are one."

Dan supposed that Judy would like newspapers to be run by young women, but he didn't air this view. She wasn't particularly attractive, so he didn't think she could be talking about sexual harassment. The fact was, he didn't know for sure what she was talking about, except she would like to go to the Eiffel Tower.

"My story isn't much. You can tell your boss anything you like. So why not go on to the Eiffel Tower. I know it's still there. I passed it a few minutes ago." Dan smiled, Judy didn't.

She rose, nodded in a dismal manner and walked off in the general direction of the Eiffel Tower. Seeing her go, a waiter came to the table, apparently hoping to catch the tail end of a quarrel.

"I'd like coffee," Dan said. The waiter shuffled away.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," a man at the next table said. "That was the intern for The Times, wasn't it? Girl named Judy. She's given them fits."

"She seemed a little depressed," Dan said. "Hot on the trail of the Eiffel Tower near collapse."

The man laughed. "It's been like that for years. It's an annual story for a slow news day. Held together with chewing gum, the symbol of Paris topples into the Seine. Hey, I'm with The Herald Tribune, and this is a slow news day. If you have a story, I'd like to listen."

Dan invited him to join him and learned his name was August Major. He asked him if he had been following Ramona Keen's Mexican escapade and if he had heard the name Dan Gringo.

When Major replied in the positive, Dan said, "I am Dan Gringo, also known as Dan Reeves. I talked to a St. Louis reporter in Washington and am now on vacation. Last night I talked with the White House and it was suggested that the press might have a few more questions. So here I am."

Major looked at him and shook his head up and down in wonder. "So you've been put down by a college intern, a mere strip of a girl, and I was lucky enough to strike up a conversation."

"If that's your idea of luck."

"Do you mind if I get a picture of you?"

"Yes, I do. You may paint a word picture, however, an aging white-bearded tourist hobbling through the streets of Paris."

"It's a deal. No picture. There are a few other reporters around this building. Let's take a walk. I'll even buy you lunch if the interview lasts that long."

"I enjoy good company," Dan said. August Major hailed a cab and whisked him away into the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter where they could talk with ease and without fear of interruption from other newsmen.

This time Dan hung around long enough to see the story in print. August Major had done a craftsman-like job, no distortions, just the facts. He wondered how The New York Times Paris staff was taking the whole thing and if Judy was still sulking around the office, or was dangling from the nearest lamppost. Major was not one to keep his mouth shut and spoil a good joke.

Shortly after reading the story in The Herald Tribune, a headline in a French newspaper caught his eye as he passed a news kiosk. Reading further, he saw his name, both his names, and Ramona Keen's name. Although he knew little French, it was obvious that the story said that he was in Paris!

Of course, why hadn't it crossed his mind? For all their sophistication, the French were interested in American affairs, particularly if there was a suspicion of intrigue. He was fair game on the streets of Paris, and three or four people in this pleasure dome had met him face to face.

Well, what if they did run him down? It didn't matter much now, one way or the other. But someone might take his picture. Maybe he was exaggerating his own celebrity, but he definitely felt hunted.

After examining his map, he made his way to the Gare de Lyon, the railroad station that he guessed would serve Provence. With some difficulty he found someone who was willing to speak English and bought a ticket to Aix-en-Provence on a train leaving early the next morning.

With that done, he returned to his own street and purchased the usual bread and wine, plus a large slice of cheese and holed up in his room for the night. Tomorrow he would be on the train and truly free.

It wasn't Dan's intention to spend much time in Aix-en-Provence, even though he had read remarkable things about it with its 17th and 18th Century architecture, the boyhood home of Paul Cezanne and the broad avenue, Cours Mirabeau and its famed brasseries, cafes, confectioners and bookshops.

It was the more rural Provence Dan was seeking. Villages with names like Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, or Roquemaure, or Vaison-la-Romaine. Names that lingered on the tongue, if you could get them off the tongue at all. And the food. From stuffed artichokes, to beef in onion sauce, to guinea fowl with cabbage.

Things he had read in magazines and books through the years. He had wanted to stay in Paris for at least one more day and eat at a place where it was said, "the duck didn't die for nothing." But on the street, after reading the French headlines, he felt prying eyes, although in his heart he knew the Parisians didn't give a hoot in hell about him and his small troubled world.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"He's clever. He's damn clever." Jamie Kelly sat at his desk drumming his right forefinger on a faxed copy of The Herald Tribune story. Kelly, executive director of the Fighting Moral Right, had called the FMR counsel, Jason Ambrose, into his office to discuss the situation. "I'd like to see a picture of this guy, this Gringo, or Reeves, or whatever his name is. Why isn't there a picture?"

"We do have a picture," Ambrose said, pulling a five by seven from a manila envelope and flipping it onto Kelly's desk.

Kelly studied it for a moment. "When was this taken? His first communion?"

"Probably fifteen years ago. He would have been about forty. It's the publicity shot from Iowa A&E where he was the all-round promotional man, alumni affairs, fund raiser and so forth. It's in a town called College Corners, not much of a town."

"Not much of a citizen. Lying devil!" Kelly balled his hand into a fist and actually shook it at the picture, made to tear it in two, then tossed it aside. "This the best you can do?" He was almost fuming.

"So far." In contrast to Kelly, Ambrose was a picture of tranquility. His large gray eyes were smoky lakes of peace. "He had a house in this little burg, nice family place, white frame, two-car garage and so forth. It's rented, a property management firm handles it. The cash goes directly into the local bank. But Reeves hasn't cashed a check on that account for months."

Kelly screwed his face into a dark scowl. "But he has family?"

"Just the dead wife, only one close, anyway. After she died he put all his personal stuff into storage. Maybe that's when he headed for Mexico. We could break into the storage warehouse, but probably come up empty."

"I agree. Not worth the risk. But he's surfaced twice since coming out of Mexico. Once right here in Washington, now in Paris. Will he bob up again?"

"I very much doubt it," Ambrose said. "This last story about covers the waterfront. It would seem to be aimed at doing just that, tying up loose ends. This August Major did a thorough job, must have spent hours with Reeves."

"In some Paris bistro," Kelly said. "What a slimy pair they must have made. A fugitive and a liar and a punk-headed journalist, scooping up every bit of sludge like a diseased slug, then coating what truth their might be with garbage rot about how that bitch Ramona is the second coming of Joan of Arc. I'd like to kick both their asses into a French faggot stew. We're going to nail this Reeves and nail him good. I mean to nail his ass to the shithouse door with bitch Ramona right beside him." Kelly slammed a massive fist on his hardwood desk, then fumbled in a leather box for a cigar.

Ambrose leaned back in his chair, denied himself a long sigh, and studied the ceiling.

After lighting up, Kelly settled down and flashed a broad smile. Ambrose had wondered before about the man's rapid mood changes, at one time suspecting drugs, at another simple theatrics.

"There's more than one way of sticking a frog," Kelly said. He buzzed his secretary and asked her to bring them coffee, then glanced at Ambrose. "You want a cigar?" The lawyer declined, but he was ready for a cup of coffee.

"We'll nail that mother. He'll sing like a scalded parrot. You ever been inside a high-security Mexican lockup, Ambrose?"

The lawyer shook his head no.

"Not a pretty sight. If they want something out of you, they whip your ass ten times a day, fifteen on Sunday. Toss you into a hole with the spiders and the rats. They could make old King Kong sing like a blue jay and dance like Bojangles." Kelly gazed out the window and laughed aloud. "Then there's that little thing old Ben Franklin come up with called electricity." He laughed again.

An elderly lady with blue-silver hair brought a tray of coffee and snacks. Ambrose watched in surprise as Kelly dropped six cubes of sugar, depth-charge fashion, into his cup, then splashed in rich cream. He looked up and saw Ambrose watching. "Fuck them doctors and their fancy advice. They change their tune twice a day. A man should eat what he eats."

Kelly stirred and downed half the cup in a gulp. Ambrose could imagine a sweet sludge on the bottom. He could also imagine teeth dropping from one's mouth one by one. He wondered if those two fine rows of ivories that Kelly was fond of flashing were real.

"You a sports fan, Ambrose?"

"I suppose. In season. Tennis is my game."

Kelly almost smirked. "I'm not talking about country club people dressing up and prancing around a net with a couple of designer rackets. I mean sports. Out there on a grassy field, man to man."

Ambrose was mildly amused. More play-acting? He decided to hold up his end. "I have a nephew who plays soccer."

"Soccer," Kelly scoffed. "Sissies in shorts kicking a ball around, or butting it like Billy goats. They tell me the Germans always win. Krauts. Haven't we had enough of them? I'm talking sports, like football, like the Steelers, or the Packers, or the Cowboys, for God's sake. Sports, Ambrose. Football."

"How about baseball?"

"That's okay too. Real men out there on that diamond. Tobacco-chewing, ass-kicking men, if you ask me. You want to talk sports, I'll talk sports with you." Kelly poked himself in the chest several times with his forefinger as he said the words.

Ambrose fished for a reply and finally came up with, "Sports builds character."

"Damn right it does." Then added, "The right sports. And every game needs the right player and that means there's a coach. A coach. Do you know what that entails?"

"A leader. A strategist. A man who knows the game and knows the opposition. Knows his limitations, knows the strengths and weaknesses of his players, knows their endurance." Ambrose wondered why he was sitting here sipping coffee and talking sports. Just moments before Kelly had been on the brink of hysteria about this man Reeves.

"That's a damned good summation, Ambrose. Damned good. So let's look at it this way." He leaned forward and spoke in a low, dramatic voice. "We're in the fourth quarter, trailing by two, it's third and long. We've taken some hard knocks. Some of the boys are demoralized. They're tired, thirsty, they ache all over." Kelly sat back in the big leather chair and laced his fingers together, then announced, "We're sending you in."

Ambrose smiled slightly. He was not unfamiliar with football. "Am I the quarterback or the wide receiver? Certainly we aren't going to kick on third, are we?"

"Never," Kelly almost shouted. "Not on third, not on fourth. We won't punt. We're going to win, Ambrose. You take the ball, you carry the ball, carry it to the ends of the earth. Find this duckshit Reeves and squeeze the truth out of him. This man will talk and you can make him talk!"

Instantly, Ambrose sensed that the fun was over. Kelly was serious about sending him after Reeves. "I never considered myself a persuasive speaker. Someone once told me that I couldn't sell ass on a troopship, and I believe they were right. I do however have a couple of young hotshot attorneys working for me that might be up to the job. We could send them as a team."

Kelly raised his hand as if to reject the idea. "This is that last final yard, Ambrose. Big time. Inches don't count. We've sniped at Ramona and that husband of hers. We've dug through attics looking for financial scandal, rattled skeletons in search of back-street romances, paid off ex-associates. Nothing sticks. But now opportunity knocks. So we send in the first team. You're it."

"But I am chief counsel. In a way, I'm a coach and I have young players under me. I can call the shots from the sidelines. Young hands can carry the ball. The Fighting Moral Right has been in trouble more than once. We do have a caveman element in the membership, albeit a rich caveman element. I've pulled us out of a jam more than once, and I can do it again. But I'm not some daredevil jock to go racing around Europe with a club and a net."

"That's just it, Ambrose, despite the rhetoric the FMR must play by the rules. We've lost some credibility in the past and now we stand to gain it back. We'll spike this fish with a silver harpoon. No rough stuff, but we go balls out. We offer Reeves an immense amount of money. And you are our man!"

***

There were gypsies on the train. Women in long skirts with bright multi-colored blouses and clattering strings of beads. Small men, dark and swarthy, black mustached. Unruly children, darting here and there, sometimes colliding with passengers attempting to make their way through the narrow corridor outside the compartments. They walked through the cars, talking loudly, and later walked back again.

Dan wondered why they were so restless. At the train station in Paris, he had picked up a copy of an English language paper called The European and had read about a government crisis in Italy, the foibles of English nobility and an array of soccer scores.

There were only three other people in his six-seat compartment – a young American woman with a French-English dictionary who kept whispering words to herself, and a young Italian couple who were asleep in a loose embrace.

They had passed through Burgundy and were passing through a slice of the Rhone Alps as they drew closer to Avignon, known for the palace of popes during much of the 14th Century, and the Cote d'Azur.

Dan leaned his head against the window and began to drift off to sleep. "I'll stay awake," the young American said.

Dan sat upright. "Okay. If you want to."

"You saw the gypsies."

"Sure."

"If we all fall asleep, they could be in and out of this compartment in a flash."

"Uh huh." Dan was taken aback that such a seemingly racist statement would come from this young lady, probably a college student.

"It's true," she said. "I didn't want to believe it either. Maybe it's not their fault."

"That they steal?"

"Yes. They can't get jobs. So they steal. If someone would hire them, maybe they wouldn't steal."

"I see. I'm certain they're not all thieves. Everyone is good and bad."

"Sure, but I'll stay awake. Catch some Z's. I'll sleep later."

"Okay. Thanks." Dan rested his head again, but didn't drift off easily. What sort of a world was it anyway?

It must have been age overtaking him, or just a listless feeling triggered by being on his own with few prospects. He kept telling himself that he was fortunate to be able to travel and live comfortably, but it did little good.

At any rate, he was beat when the train pulled into Aix-en-Provence. He grabbed a cab and let the driver take him to a top-of-the-line hotel, the Augustins on the rue de la Masse. The room was small, but there were two windows that reached almost from the floor to the high ceiling and looked over a pleasant courtyard set with tables and chairs.

After undressing and struggling for sleep, he stared at the ceiling, studying the cracks, and decided alcohol was the answer.

A young lady manned the lobby desk, very young, probably the teen-aged daughter of the manager. Dan asked if there was a place that he might get a drink nearby.

The girl told him that he could be served wine or beer in the courtyard, but tourists in Aix-en-Provence always went to the Deux Garcons café and had at least one pastis. She explained that it was alcoholic and had the taste of aniseed.

Following her instructions, he walked along avenues under great old plane trees and passed a stone fountain layered with a heavy covering of rich green moss. The streets were alive with people and there was a sense of joy in the air.

At the Deux Garcons, Dan had not one, but three of the anise-flavored drinks, enough to build a glowing sense of warmth in his viscera that said sleep will come quickly and softly. The ritual complete, he returned to the hotel and slept the sleep of a sated kitten.

***

Ramona Keen wore a sea green, calf-length silk chiffon party dress that seemed to have a life of its own. It was feminine. She had been talking with the Italian foreign minister at a Sunday afternoon Kennedy Center reception where a new portrait of James Monroe was to be unveiled.

She was dying for a drink, but protocol insisted she first make the rounds of dignitaries, a handshake, a kind word, discreet flattery.

She wondered what had happened to Dennis. Then she came face to face with Vance Stovall and she knew.

"Dennis couldn't make it, could he?" she said.

"No. I'm certain he has some important affairs of state to tend to," Stovall said. "He called me at the last minute, said to let you know."

"How kind of him." Ramona was certain the word "affair" was the right one. She wondered where and how Becky Canter-Dalton spent her Sunday afternoons. And in what position.

"Well, it was nice of you to join us, Vance. I see too little of you."

"Always a pleasure to come to the Kennedy and munch boiled shrimp and sip Chablis. What if I did have to cancel a golf game and what if the missus does have to host a barbecue at the place by herself."

Ramona chuckled. "Why that's absolutely disheartening. I suppose if it wasn't for the money, you would never have given up your body and soul for politics, and for the people, of course." It was common knowledge Stovall's father had left him a bundle and his wife controlled a tidy fortune.

"It is unusual, you might say bizarre, the things one will do for one's country. Your sojourn in Mexico might be used as a textbook example. It seems to have given you a few clicks in the polls."

"I can't imagine why," Ramona said, "something like that. But I suppose there is some sympathy for a helpless woman surviving certain hazards." She knew Vance was jealous of her popularity and she knew why. They were direct rivals, natural enemies, and on the best of terms.

She glanced around at the gathering. Congressmen, cabinet members, sub-cabinet members, their wives and so on.

A dark-haired woman with a body like ivory, bursting out of an off-the-shoulders gown. A big-bosomed woman with ripe cornhusk hair and sky-blue eyes, not long from the Ohio farmlands. A tall, thin thing from Mississippi with a look of wanton longing that would make a preacher lay his Bible down. Any of these would have given up their virtue for a five-minute chat with Ramona, to be seen in animated conversation with the First Lady.

There was a woman she knew fairly well, the wife of a Dakota congressman, her face tomato red from too much drink, tortured in a snake-like silver gown, now singing a little song, her body swaying almost trance-like and moving her feet in time for three elder statesmen. Would the trade-offs never end? She made a note to see the red-faced woman safely into a cab.

"Yes, you helpless women," the Vice President acknowledged. "You have a way of capturing the hearts of the people. They want to protect you."

"That may be true, but how sad it is. I'm sure many of us would prefer a leadership role. But I suppose such is not to be." A waiter passed and she grabbed his arm and lifted a martini from his tray. He bristled, then saw who it was.

"May I fetch you anything else, Mrs. Keen?"

"Yes, please, I'd like a glass of Chablis."

"You don't have to drink the martini," Stovall said.

"I need to catch up." She gulped half of it down. "You men can do as you please. I'm not supposed to drink until I've greeted everyone and his second cousin. And you will never see me stuffing my face with food unless I'm behind a post."

"You must have worked up quite an appetite on that life raft."

"You know it was hell, Vance. You should try it sometime. Drifting around out there. But you're a reasonable man, you understand these things."

A woman in a shopworn business suit poked her head between them. "Well, you two. Are you flipping a coin for the head of the ticket?" It was Liza Price, The Post's political columnist.

"You think we'd make a good team?" Ramona asked.

"Unbeatable, all other things being equal. But who gets the top of the ticket?"

Stovall stiffened and said nothing. It had crossed his mind that Ramona might settle for the vice presidency, but he didn't think so.

Ramona smiled broadly. "We're just talking here and I wouldn't want to see anything like this in print, but can you imagine Dennis as husband of the Vice President?"

That did it. Vance was certain there was no chance. He had never considered it in that light. Dennis Keen would be out of the power loop completely. If Ramona was President he would have power, or he would be perceived as having power, both situations were much the same. And Ramona, something had changed her, she seemed just not to give a damn.

The Veep's job was a dead end, unless...

Ramona said something polite and drifted off, leaving the two of them in conversation. She moved over to where the silver-skinned woman and her three companions still stood in a group and slopped the rest of her martini on an assistant secretary of state.

He jumped back in indignant surprise, brushing himself off. "I am sorry, Clifford. Clumsy me." Ramona cooed.

Very quickly Clifford regained his composure. "Think nothing of it, Ramona. I was hoping to see the President here. Where is Dennis?"

"Busy." The waiter finally found her with her glass of Chablis. She took it from the tray and took a small sip, then turned to the dancer. Staring into slightly glazed eyes, she said, "Suzette, darling, I'm just leaving. I'll drop you off."

"But the painting, it hasn't been unveiled yet," Clifford said. "What about Monroe? Or is it Madison?"

Ramona winked at him and the other two men. "I got a sneak preview. Anyway, Vance Stovall's here. The situation's in good hands." She handed Clifford her glass of wine, then she took Suzette's arm and led her off toward the door.

In the family quarters of the White House, Dennis Keen was reading the Sunday comics and drinking a glass of buttermilk when Ramona came in and dropped her purse in a chair and flopped herself into another. "You don't drink enough alcohol to keep a bird alive."

"I'm the head of the free world. Clear-eyed, resolute. How was the painting?"

"Who cares? Why weren't you there?"

"Not the reason you think. We may have a major predicament brewing."

"The Chinese are refusing to buy our cigarettes?"

"Seriously. Your friend Dan Reeves. The opposition's trying to track him down. I huddled with Bill Ellison, Carolyn Kendrick, the party chairman and a couple of others this afternoon. We've got to get some kind of damage control scraped together – better to do it on take-off than to wait for the crash landing."

Ramona shrugged. "What's the problem?"

"The problem is the Fighting Moral Right has big bucks, and if they find Reeves, which they're bound to do, they'll pay him a small fortune to talk."

"But he's already talked."

The President sighed. "Ramona, there are lots and lots of people in this town and beyond the Beltway who believe the entire story has never been told. Truth to tell, it doesn't matter. If they pay Reeves enough, they can write the script. It doesn't have to be true. You know that."

"Well, he won't go beyond the story he's already told, the one he told you at Camp David, the one he's told to the press twice."

"You certainly have faith. This strikes a little closer to home than you might think. Vince Stovall has formed a little cabal for the identical purpose – find Reeves."

"I understand," Ramona said. "He wants to eliminate me as a contender, but he must use extreme care. If he slashes too deeply, he cuts himself. I was just talking to him. Liza Price asked us which one would head the ticket."

"She did?" Keen asked in surprise. "I'll be damned. What did you say?"

"I said, can you imagine Dennis being married to the Vice President."

He nodded. "I'll bet that knocked Vance on his ass."

"He was strangely quiet."

"Ramona, do you have any idea where Reeves might be at this moment? We need to get to him first."

She wondered why. What would the party people do if they got to Dan? Try to buy his silence, or silence him in some other way, or what? She really hadn't thought it through.

"I don't know, Dennis. We both know he was in Paris. I had the impression that he planned to travel for a time, maybe two months, maybe six, indefinite. By that time everyone would have forgotten him and he would go back to town in Iowa and tend his garden, or whatever it is retired people do."

"I see."

"You should have given him a job. Then you could have kept tabs on him."

Dennis nodded. "He would have been a sitting duck for anyone who wanted to get to him."

"There's places. The embassy in Nepal, Katmandu. A research station at the South Pole. There's places where he would be hard to get to.

"That would have been so obvious."

"So, what isn't obvious?"

"As usual, you're right. One step ahead of me. Maybe if we find him now."

Ramona wondered. She suspected the party and the bureaucracy had different ideas. She was thirsty and she went to the refrigerator and got herself a can of beer.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was at a small settlement near Greoux, not far from the confluence of the Durance and Verdon Rivers, that Dan found a country inn called Le Banon and decided to settle in among the meadows, woodlots and farm animals.

He had traveled from Aix-en-Provence by bus and had actually planned to go farther north near a larger town called Castellane, when he saw the inn at a time when the bus was stopped to unload a large package.

Le Banon, which it seems was named after a local goat cheese that is spiced with herbs, was run by a woman in her mid-thirties named Joan Montagne. A cheerful woman and a skilled cook, she kept her red hair close cropped above cat-green eyes.

That first night there were two other guests, a British couple intensely interested in architecture, who would be on their way early the next morning. That evening at dinner, Dan largely listened as the ratatouille was served by the proprietor, followed by the bouillabaisse borgne, which can be translated as one-eyed bouillabaisse because of the single poached egg staring up from the soup plate like a mindless Cyclops.

Spurred on by the fact that Dan was not only an American, but a newcomer to Provence, the two Brits talked of the artists and writers who had been attracted through the years to this particular section of southern France. Names like Marcel Pagnol, Collette, Zola, Jean Giono, Henri Matisse, Dufy, Signac, Picasso and Cezanne.

And they held forth on the architecture of tomorrow's destination – Saint-Maximin-la-Saint-Baume – the small town that includes the Basilica of Ste. Madeleine with its lovely organ and gold embroidered cope of St. Louis of Anjou. They talked tirelessly about the cloister, the concerts and recitals, and a fourth and fifth century Gallo-Roman burial vault.

It was all Dan could do to keep from dropping off to sleep. Finally, after brandy-laced coffee, he excused himself and tottered up to his room, opened the window to the still night air and was asleep within minutes.

He woke to the noise of a car starting in the yard below his window. The British couple were true to their vow to make an early start. He heard the engine rev slightly and the car pull away, the sound swallowed up in the distance.

Dan stared at the ceiling, wondering if there were set breakfast hours. Breakfast, he knew, was included in the price of a room. Lunch and dinner were optional and each item would be added to his bill, or was it a check? The British couple pointed out last night that Americans used one term, the British the other. But he couldn't remember which was which.

But they were gone, and the day outside the window appeared to be of gem quality. A soft breeze fluttered the curtains. A bird sang in the distance.

A soft rap at his door was followed by Joan Montagne entering quietly and taking a seat next to him on the bed. She appeared to be wearing only a thin cotton T-shirt and panties.

She said a few words in French that he didn't understand, although the tone conveyed a certain meaning, and soon she was under the bedclothes with him and they were in the throes of making love. It was not an unpleasant experience, and he had no time to consider the consequences, or the moral or ethical implications.

He was aware of her leaving the room just before he drifted back into the peaceful world of dreams. Just before noon, he rose, took a bath down the hall, dressed and started down the stairs.

Two young men were just coming up, new arrivals who had driven down from Lyon. They were both Americans, fastidiously dressed and carried expensive luggage. He could hear their lively chatter before they passed. The two fell silent when they saw Dan, and all three made stiff attempts at cordial greetings. Like many of travelers abroad, the two young men seemed disappointed to find a fellow countryman at their inn, doubtless seeking a totally foreign experience.

Dan lingered in the sitting room a moment, then moved into the dining room and took a seat at the large table. Joan popped in from the kitchen and asked, "Would you like lunch, or breakfast, Mr. Reeves?"

"Lunch, I think, and could you call me Dan?" It seemed very formal to use mister to a man you had just romped with in a bedstead for the better part of an hour.

"Of course, Dan. And please call me, Joan. We can be informal here at Le Banon."

"I've experienced that," Dan said. Then he thought to add a compliment. "To my joy."

"I'm glad the inn pleases you. We have brochettes of mixed meats today."

Dan nodded his approval. He would have approved of road kill, such was his hunger. As it turned out, he found by questioning Joan that the mixed meats included lamb hearts and veal kidneys. They were delicious served on a bed of rice with a small tumbler of red Gigondas wine on the side.

When the meal was complete, Joan brought coffee and they sat and talked for the better part of two hours. She talked about the inn and he learned that she had no husband, although she did not say why. She talked about the region, Provence, the food, the agriculture.

She told him that the two young men who just moved in were gay, although he had no idea how she had found that out. She even told him intimate things about herself, like her childhood nickname was Sweet Nose and some people still used that sobriquet.

It seemed that as a youngster she had a habit of dipping her nose into red wine and then dipping it into the sugar bowl. She would then take the sweet mixture from her nose with her finger and eat it little by little. Joan's nose was a trifle large for her face, but it was an agreeable nose and suited her very well.

Dan filled his small tumbler once more with Gigondas and asked her to demonstrate. She was happy to comply, and he rubbed his forefinger on her nose and licked the sugary substance from his finger.

During the days that followed, when they were alone, he occasionally called her Sweet Nose, and she often used words of endearment when they were rolling in the bed, sometimes in French, sometimes in English.

It did trouble Dan to some extent why he had been targeted for her affections. Most of all, he fretted over what she would expect of him. Ultimately marriage? A new life in America? A child? And he thought of his capricious relationship with Ramona who was often in his thoughts.

He asked himself what Ramona would say if she knew he had slipped into such an informal affair. But hadn't the two of them gotten into just such a situation? His answer to this was always, no. He and Ramona shared a depth of feeling, at least he did. And he tried to sort the thing out in his mind, but always there was a tinge of guilt. But why should that be?

When he had been there a week and several guests had come and gone, two things happened. First, she asked him to settle his account. She explained that it was customary for long-term guests to pay at least once a week.

Secondly, she said that her boyfriend would be arriving the day after tomorrow so they might have to curtail their sexual activities, but the damper would certainly be on that particular action.

"Where is he coming from?" Dan asked.

"Marseille. He is a sailor, or a fisherman, depending on what is available. His name is Pierre and he's a lot of fun. You will like him."

Dan could hardly believe the casual tone of her conversation. Gone were his worries and fears. It became crystal clear just what his arrangement with Sweet Nose was and would be – recreational sex, a physical outlet for the two of them, nothing less, nothing more.

He wondered how long the sailor from Marseille would stay and thought he had better be thinking about packing up and moving on. Dan gave himself the choice of remaining in France and exploring more of Provence, or moving on to the second name on his wish list – Tuscany.

The following morning there were no guests, but Dan rode with Joan in her car to Greoux to buy staple foods and wine. Not finding everything on Joan's list, they continued heading north to Valensole where they lunched on a dish called Harvester Calves' Livers – actually foie de veau a la moissonneuse, in French.

With it they drank a chilled dry white local wine. Years ago in the States, Dan had given up eating all animal organs because of their supposed cholesterol content. Now he found them a diet fixture, and a very palatable fixture. Thought of untimely death induced by French food made up the least of his concerns.

On impulse, or perhaps it was the wine, he bought a bottle of aged cognac before they returned to their home base.

The day was one of the best he had spent in France, a dream of summer serenity in a countryside of storybook stone cottages, ancient farms and lush meadows. He and Joan were physical lovers only and beyond that the best of friends. They could discuss any subject and say anything that popped into their heads because there was not the slightest attempt toward sensitivity or tenderness.

In the evening he opened the cognac and they tore off chunks of crusty bread as they sat at a small table in back of the inn and watched an approaching storm.

Half a bottle down, and Dan felt the need for true confessions. "There is a woman in the States I hold in some esteem."

Joan gave him a puzzled look, then smiled. These older Americans, their speech was less than fluent. "You love a woman and she lives in the States."

"That is correct."

"Of course."

"But she is married." Dan refilled their glasses. High above their heads several swallows were darting in all directions as dusk and the storm approached, insect feeders.

"That is wonderful. Marriage accommodates such affairs, it is the perfect condition."

"It is?"

"Of course, silly. Arrangements can always be made. And one can enter and leave such arrangements with no questions about the future, no bitterness. You are a fortunate man."

Dan drank more cognac and decided to elaborate. "The woman I mention is the wife of the President, she is our First Lady."

Joan's smile broadened. "And I am in love with Charles de Gaulle."

Dan hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Why de Gaulle? He is long dead. Why not Napoleon? You could make pilgrimages to his tomb in Paris."

"De Gaulle also has a burial place. And Napoleon was not really French. That's common knowledge. Also, he was short, a small man."

"You should not judge a man by his physical stature."

"There are certain physical characteristics that are important. He was a small man and had a small..." She struggled for the English word, but could not grasp it. She reached for a French-English dictionary she kept nearby, thumbed through it, then said the word, "penis." Then she burst out laughing, her cat-green eyes narrowing to slits below the thatch of red hair.

Dan laughed too. She had not believed a word he said. And why should she? His story was preposterous.

Dan stayed just a day after her boyfriend arrived from Marseille. He was a jolly man and easygoing. The three of them got along famously for the few hours they were together. The thought came to Dan that his Sweet Nose might be thinking of a ménage a trois.

It also came out that Joan had a husband who lived at Bayonne, near the Bay of Biscay and the Spanish border. It seemed he occasionally wrote to her asking for money since the inn had been half his. She never sent him any. Her life contained endless complications that bothered her not a whit.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Carolyn Kendrick, the White House Chief of Staff, had asked the party chairman, Foley Slattery, to meet her in a Prince Georges County, Maryland, crab house.

Now they sat across from one another at a rough, newspaper covered table with a water view. Each had a large mug of frosty beer.

"You're taking up the better part of my day," Slattery was saying.

"Don't give me that shit," Kendrick replied. "This is important. And it's private. Anyone in here you know?"

Slattery glanced around. A weekday, mid-afternoon, an old man drinking beer at the bar. A couple of teenagers with soft drinks near an open window. As he looked, the waitress came and dumped a dozen boiled crabs on the table between them.

Steam rose from the red mass of legs, shells and claws. Kendrick dragged a crab toward her, touching the hot shell gingerly, twisting off the claws and cracking each deftly with the small wooden mallet. A sharp knife, a mallet, vinegar, crab dip and a roll of paper towels. No plates. Typical of the many hard crab eateries that dot the Chesapeake.

Slattery looked with disgust at the pile of crustacean bodies. Their dark, round protruding eyes seemed to be watching him. He was not a fan.

"No one here knows you or me or cares. What is it you want?"

"This Mexican thing. You know, Ramona. We've got to take care of it, but we've got to keep it far away from the White House."

"And the party," Slattery said. He was the head of the party.

"Of course the party," Kendrick said. "But first the White House. So you keep it away from the party."

"But what's to be done?" Slattery had followed the situation, even had serious talks with Bill Ellison and Vance Stovall, but nothing had come out of them. Different factions had different ideas.

"This Dan Reeves is the problem. He's low profiling it somewhere in Europe. You know as well as I do. He could say something, the truth, a lie, it doesn't matter. He was there and it could be damaging. He's number one. Number two is to find out what happened to Bernie Bate."

"The plane crash survivor who vanished?"

"Correct. If he's alive we should talk to him. If not, what happened to him. But first, Dan Reeves."

"The White House wants me to find him?"

Kendrick had been concentrating on the skilled job of extracting crab meat from the main body of a crab. She worked quickly and skillfully, first with the mallet, then with the sharp knife blade. Now she looked up at Slattery. "The White House wants you to do nothing. But it would be best if Reeves' extended vacation simply extended. You've heard of the endless vacation, or whatever."

"But..." Slattery began.

"But nothing," Kendrick said. She was a tough old turkey, the kind of toughness it took to boss the White House staff. "You take care of Reeves and let's not talk about it."

"And just how do I do this?"

She wiped the mess from her hands with three paper towels and extracted a piece of paper from her purse. Then she paused to gulp beer.

"I had the names of three ex-CIA men, men you might call rogues. You know what I mean. Rebels. No rules, no laws, but experienced, globally. This morning I found out one's dead, one's in a psychiatric hospital in Philadelphia and the third is in Utah State prison.

Slattery smiled. "Three strikes and you're out."

"If you play by the rules," Kendrick said. "This man in prison, his name's John Lusk Agrella. He blew up an ATM machine, hoped for a fountain of twenty-dollar bills. But he parked too close to the explosion, was almost incinerated in his car. Anyway, he's in state prison." She tossed the paper with his name on it across the table.

Slattery picked it up and studied it, then he looked across at Carolyn Kendrick. "So?"

"So let him out, fund him, brief him, turn him loose. He's a good man, one of the best in his line of work."

"I can't believe you're telling me this."

"It is tough," she agreed. "You obviously don't like steamed crabs, so why don't you be on your way. It's best not to linger." She stared at him, but he just sat there, right hand on the handle of his beer mug. "Go on, Foley. Time flies like an arrow."

He got up wordlessly and slowly walked out into the bright Maryland sunlight and to his car in the lot. The White House had instructed him, but for all practical purposes he was on his own. The only record of the meeting was a scrap of paper in his pocket with the name John Lusk Agrella penciled on it in block letters.

***

It took Jason Ambrose several days in Paris to get a line on Dan Reeves. His first move was to hire a pair of bilingual detectives. Then he sought out The Herald Tribune reporter August Major and talked to him at length over lunch.

Major was totally cooperative, telling him every detail he could remember of their meeting. It wasn't much. He did recall Reeves saying that he was staying in a cheap hotel not far from where they had lunch. That would be in the Latin Quarter. He gave Ambrose the name and address of the restaurant.

He also looked at the old photograph Ambrose had brought of Reeves and told him what changes in appearance he could remember. "A bit thinner, hair about the same, but mostly white, a short white beard, well trimmed. Crow's feet around the eyes, a healthy outdoorsy look, suntanned."

That night he huddled with the two detectives and passed on the information. A day later they located the hotel and pinned down his exact checkout time, early morning.

Reeves had mentioned Provence more than once to the concierge and asked pointed questions. They turned up the information that he had purchased a train ticket for Aix-en-Provence. The three of them flew to Aix-en-Provence and resumed the search for the white-bearded retiree with the healthy tan.

***

One of his last acts before moving on to Tuscany was to mail a postcard to Ramona from Greoux. Joan and Pierre had driven him into the small town and left him to wait for the bus. They had parted as cheerful friends.

The card said only, "Enjoying countryside. All is well. More later. D."

The bus from Greoux generally followed the Durance River north, then struck out for Gap, which is the capital of Montgenevre, in the Cottian Alps, thence into Italy and on to Turin where he lingered for two idle days, resisting a guide's entreaties to accompany him north through the Stura Valley where medieval Lanzo Torinese has little changed over the centuries and to the famous Ponte del Diavolo, the Devil's Bridge, dating from 1378.

One bridge to Dan was much like another, one twisting cobble-stoned street through an archaic settlement like any other, if there was no one with whom to share the joy.

When he found a stopping place in Tuscany, he would send another card, or maybe a brief letter, this time enclosing an address, perhaps a postal box. Yes, he would rent a postal box in some city. This would allow him to travel at will.

Or perhaps there would be an American Express office where one could receive mail. Maybe in Florence. Was he dreaming? Would she care, or even dare to write him? He dismissed it from his mind, but at the same time decided to go on to Tuscany with deliberate speed.

In Turin, Dan was in the flared top of the Italian boot. There were two ways to get to that large region called Tuscany, either along the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea, thus down through Genoa, home of that great sailor Columbus, and then on to Pisa. Or he could go down the center of the boot, directly to Florence.

He picked the Florence route, a relatively short daytrip with the cheap Italian rail fares. Further to the south would be Siena, the major city in the southern half of the region.

The afternoon he arrived, even before finding lodgings, he sought out the central post office and, after considerable language difficulties, managed to rent a postal box.

Tourists were a drug on the market in this city that had been home to Michelangelo, Machiavelli and the Medici, and many of the natives disliked speaking any foreign tongue, much preferring even fractured Italian.

Dan had a map and found himself standing on the edge of the Piazza della Republica when he emerged from the post office. A short walk down the Via Roma brought him to the Piazza San Giovanni, which seemed to be the heart of the city.

He turned to the east and walked the length of the huge cathedral, known both as il Duomo and Santa Maria del Fiore. Retreating back toward the post office he found a small hotel at number 11 borgo degli Albizi in the Old City.

It was called the Locanda Orchidea and was an authentic 12th Century palazzo, the original tower somehow surviving the ages.

After turning in his passport at the desk and checking in – it seems there were only seven rooms – Dan took a walk and found airmail stationery and paper. At a sidewalk café, he ordered a glass of beer and then jotted off a short note to Ramona, carefully noting his address.

After that he returned to the Locanda Orchidea and settled down on a bench in the carefully tended garden with a map of Florence and a guidebook. His plan was to take a quick look around the city the next day and on the following day head for Siena as a home base for a tour of southern Tuscany.

***

It took Jason Ambrose and his two French detectives several days to trace Reeves to Aix-en-Provence and four more days to find that he had left a northbound bus prematurely in Greoux.

In Greoux the two Frenchmen spent less than an hour making inquiries and determining that the white-bearded American (an attractive older man, one woman said) had spent at least a week at a nearby inn called Le Banon.

"It is a cheese," one of the Frenchmen told Ambrose as they rode in a taxicab to the inn.

"The inn is a cheese?" Ambrose asked.

"The name of a goat cheese, flavored with herbs. It is considered to be a delicious regional product, particularly with red Gigondas wine, which is plentiful in the region."

"I see," Ambrose replied. His thoughts were not on cheese, but on Reeves.

He wished this job was at an end and he could enjoy this wonderful countryside. Every other day he telephoned Jamie Kelly at the Fighting Moral Right headquarters in Washington. He could report he was on Reeves' tail, but days behind.

During the pursuit, he felt he had gotten to know Reeves. He seemed exactly as advertised, a decent sort of person who did some sightseeing, traveling and enjoying food.

His hope was that there would be some break from the Washington end, that Kelly would have learned that Reeves had contacted Ramona, or perhaps called his old friend John Heaton, the reporter. Kelly maintained a network of spies.

Kelly did update him on the probe into what had happened in Mexico, particularly as it involved the disappearance of Bernie Bate.

Joan Montagne was delighted to see a cab stop in front of Le Banon and three healthy looking men emerge. She wasn't so pleased when the cab driver also got out, strolled around to a bench where he seated himself and lit a strong cigarette. Obviously he planned to wait for the three.

"We are looking for a man, an American, an older man with a white beard," one of the detectives said in French.

"A wanted man? An outlaw?" Joan asked.

"No." The Frenchman shrugged. "No. We are not the law. We simply want to ask him something about a friend of his. It is of no official importance. You know this man?"

"What is his name?"

"His name is Dan Reeves."

"Yes, his name is on my register. He was here."

"Please, if you could tell us something about him. You spoke English with him?"

"Yes, I speak English, also some Italian and German. Who doesn't?"

One person who didn't was Jason Ambrose. The detective told him what the woman had said and suggested the four of them speak English.

"I'm eager to talk to Mr. Reeves," Ambrose said.

"Of course, and I can tell you about him and perhaps where he might have gone. You mean him no harm?"

"No. I'm an American, working in Washington D.C. for a political group. Just interested in talking to Dan. He's been traveling and he's out of touch."

"Out of touch, yes," Joan said. "So, come to the desk, check in and we will talk after dinner."

"We're in something of a hurry," Ambrose said. He wondered if he should offer her money, but decided not to. It might offend her and she'd clam up for certain.

"The world is in a hurry. I am in a hurry. But after dinner there will be time to talk." And she would talk with them, but a bribe would be unacceptable. She would not sell out her friend and lover, but she would talk freely about him over cognac with three handsome paying guests. Pierre had gone back to the seacoast.

Ambrose turned to one of the detectives. "What do you think?"

"I think it is getting late in the day. I could use a shower, a good Provencal meal and a night's rest."

"I suppose we'd better take three rooms," Ambrose told Joan.

"That would be more comfortable. And you would have your privacy. Will the cab driver be staying over too?" She knew he wouldn't. She recognized him from Greoux. Three people, three rooms, what a windfall, she thought. Dan has brought me luck and he said nothing about my keeping quiet.

"No, but we'll need to get back to Greoux in the morning. We left our rented car there. It was less trouble to find your place by cab."

She smiled. "Tomorrow I will drive you to Greoux. It will be on the house." She loved American idioms.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Vice President Vance Stovall had flown to La Jolla, California, to address a thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner organized by his close supporters. It was an ideal time to get in high gear on the Ramona Keen investigation. He would meet with a very small number of immensely wealthy men after the dinner.

During his speech he referred to himself as a post neo-Democrat liberal once and as a deficit-cutting neo-liberal on another occasion. He condemned big-spending liberalism and took a stand for free trade and against paleo-liberal economics.

Stovall stated that the people distrust government and if he ever had the chance to take the tiller, he would give them less and less of it. This drew rollicking good applause and a standing ovation from the moneyed gentry.

He also pictured himself as a "deficit slayer" and a "pragmatic populist," which also went over well. In fact everything went over well. Those attending the dinner knew that the dark-eyed, Bible-quoting southerner was their boy. And anything they could do to advance their boy would pay off handsomely. Of course they also had other boys.

At the small late night meeting after the dinner there was good brandy and Havana cigars. "Gentlemen," Stovall began, "very simply, we have a chance to nail Ramona Keen. And if we do, she will never run for president, and that leaves the top spot open for you-know-who."

"Here, here," a motion picture mogul cheered.

"Yes, it is a once in a lifetime opportunity," Stovall said. "But to seize this particular opportunity, we must be bold, we must act audaciously and quickly."

"Give us the details."

"It's the Mexican fiasco." The Vice President proceeded to fill the small gathering in on stories the Washington rumor mill had cranked out, his personal suspicions and the key to the entire puzzle – Dan Reeves. "He's somewhere in Europe. I know of at least one group that's looking for him, a conservative group. What I fear is if they get to him first they might torpedo the entire party. If we get to him first, we can use some delicacy and cut Ramona out of contention and leave our base intact. It's a matter of spin."

"This man Reeves has met the press, he's talked. What more could he add?" a high-tech defense plant owner asked.

"What he's said is what Dennis and Ramona Keen asked him to say," Stovall said. "If you recall, he met with both of them in secret at Camp David before his first press interview. And he contacted another reporter in Paris and simply reinforced his earlier statement – I'm sure at Ramona's request. There's more to this. Ramona probably helped kill a few of those Mexicans, then lied about it. A cover-up."

"Yes, the old cover-up," someone said. "But how do we find this Reeves and what do we do after we find him?"

"Couple of things," Stovall said. "First, we could hire detectives and track him down. He has bank contacts and so forth. But I think he will make periodic contact with Ramona. They're thick, those two. And when he does, I should know it.

"But what to do? Well, obviously, I can't be even indirectly involved. You men represent some high-powered industries, you have international contacts, most of you have expert security teams. How best to get the information from Reeves and how best to use it, frankly I'd like to leave that to someone I don't know."

"That's the right approach, Vance. You shouldn't have to know about it," the movie mogul said. "We can handle this, two or three of us. We may have to pass the hat, but it won't be a conspicuous tin-cup operation. Just some quiet money that can talk big when the time comes. Are we agreed, gentlemen?"

There was general assent and the deed was done.

Vance Stovall shook hands all around and was taken to his plane and whisked back to Washington. He knew who to call if and when he found out where Reeves was holed up. In the meantime a search operation would be mounted, a very professional search operation.

***

Dan Reeves reached Siena in the evening and quickly found a room at a small hotel on the via di Fontebranda not far from the Duomo, a great cathedral that was begun about 1150 and completed about two hundred years later.

Upon unpacking his few belongings, he found he had left his toothbrush and toothpaste in Florence. He had also been planning to buy a small pair of scissors to trim his beard. The last barber had butchered it, and he had decided to take over totally the task of beard trimmer.

After shopping for the three items, he wandered into a delightful restaurant called Osteria Le Logge and at the waiter's insistence ordered coniglio (rabbit) with artichokes. The meal was delicious, but he was becoming concerned with his weight. Since arriving in Paris, Dan guessed he had gained at least five pounds. He would either have to start eating less, or begin a jogging regime.

The following day he explored the city, which was said to lie in the shadow of its old rival, Florence. He knew one thing about Siena, that it was well known for producing that pigment that furnishes the world with burnt sienna. And he spent more than an hour on a huge plaza called Piazzo del Campo that fronts the ponderous city hall with its great square tower. The city's architecture was something to behold.

But Dan's initial interest in Tuscany had been the general landscape and small villages. Siena was built on three hills in an area rich with olive groves and vineyards. It is arguably the most well preserved medieval town in Tuscany with its surrounding walls and building-lined twisting streets.

As luck would have it, during his meandering inspection of the great square, Dan fell in with a sightseeing group of British schoolteachers. He asked the tour guide if he might join in for whatever fee was being charged, and his offer was promptly accepted. His appearance was that of a mature schoolteacher and he fell right in like one of so many peas in a pod.

During the next four days he stuck with the group and was exposed to former Etruscan culture, more than one ruined town and even the islands of Elba and Capraia, the latter containing a farm-oriented prison colony and a good deal of volcanic rock.

When he left the tour he had viewed enough Etruscan and Roman ruins to last half a lifetime. He bid goodbye to his newfound Brit companions and sought out the same hotel where he had spent the first night. Fed up with touring, he spent the next few days reading on the hotel patio, napping in his room, taking long walks in the morning and early evenings and attempting to control his appetite, although it was a challenge among the gourmet splendor of Italian cuisine.

The better part of two weeks had elapsed when he returned to Florence. Dan was delighted to find a letter in his post office box. There was no return address, but it was from the States.

The message seemed urgent and boiled down to "Call me. Ramona."

Credit card in hand, he went immediately to an international phone and dialed the White House access number. The operator switched him to Ramona's office and she was on the line almost instantly, a note of gloom in her voice.

There was no warm greeting. Her first words were, "They're after you, Dan, and there's nothing I can do to help."

"Who's after me?"

"I can't say. I don't know. I'll try to tell you the situation, but even this call might be monitored. If we're cut off for any reason, get the hell on away from wherever you are and cover your tracks."

"Really, Ramona. You act like someone's trying to kill me."

"That could be. Washington is a big zoo, full of factions. Everyone has spies, moles. Sometimes we know them, sometimes we don't. I hope this doesn't sound too crazy."

"Not so far," Dan said. "Keep going."

"The administration is a big machine. It's bigger than Dennis or me or the Congress or anybody. There are hundreds of people involved, really thousands, but hundreds of key people. The opposition is much the same, but they're out and want in. You see what I'm aiming at?"

"Not really."

"Well." She paused a moment to gather her thoughts. "High stakes. Immensely high stakes. No one person can control what's happening. I can't. Dennis can't. No one can. It's like a sea tide that sweeps everything away. And right now you're in its way."

"I don't understand," Dan said. But he was beginning to understand.

"Not everyone ever really bought our entire story. Certainly not the whole cloth. They think you know something that might damage the administration. Whether you do or not, doesn't matter. I'm afraid they might come after you, Dan. It's so, so damned maddening. There's nothing I can do. I'm like a prisoner here. I don't mean really a prisoner. It's just that I'm not free to do what I'd like to do. And think you know what that is. Even at this very moment."

"I understand, Ramona. You're going way out on a limb to tell me all this. And I appreciate it. I suppose I shouldn't write to you anymore?"

"That might be best." Her voice sounded stiff. "And the access number. They change it occasionally. When too many people get to know what it is. It gets passed around."

"No more contact."

"I hate this, Dan."

"So do I."

Ramona found it difficult to breathe, a stifling sensation not unlike standing on the brink of a cliff with no guardrail, a thin silver stream threading through jagged rocks a mile below. Politics, the dash for the main chance, the round-the-clock struggle that had days ago been her life had turned to ashes in her mouth. But there was nothing more for her to say. Of course she would go on.

Dan wanted to say more, but he too could find no words. The situation seemed hopeless, at least from his end. And it wasn't fear of death that troubled him. He was in an Italian backwater that occasionally flooded with tourists. No one knew he was in Florence, or even cared. But he might think of moving on.

He had not done a good job on Tuscany. He hadn't even been to Pisa. And he had wanted to go to Terme di Saturnia, a spa center within the ruins of an Etruscan walled city.

But why not heed Ramona's advice, move carefully. At his next destination, he hoped to rent an apartment or a small house and do some day-to-day living. Funny, he thought, how he could blot out his conversation with Ramona and continue on according to plan.

He managed to book a room in the hotel where he had stayed before. That night he skipped dinner because he had been troubled by recurring stomach pangs for the last two days. Anti-acids didn't seem to help. He blamed it on the rich food and spent a troubled night tossing in his bed.

The following day he had meant to leave Florence, but his stomach continued to bother him and he simply didn't feel well. He was depressed, perhaps from the conversation with Ramona. Once he ventured out into the city to buy a bottle of sherry.

In the courtyard of the hotel the proprietor kept a lovely garden. There were several old wooden rockers and small tables on a flagstone area covered by an arbor overgrown with vines. It was here that Dan sat rocking and reading, now and then taking a sip of the mellow dry sherry. It seemed to soothe him, but the pangs continued.

On that day his only solid intake was a few pieces of fruit and a bowl of soup provided by the landlord who was concerned over his condition. "Perhaps it is the gall bladder," he told Dan.

"I've thought of that," Dan replied. "Tomorrow I may look for a doctor."

"There is the Misericordia at the Piazza del Duomo. They will even send an ambulance for you."

Dan smiled at the concerned Italian. "I'm not ready for that yet. But tomorrow, if I'm still not feeling well."

The next day he was no better and the pain was sometimes more intense. He took a short walk to a sidewalk café where he ordered coffee. He had taken one sip when a middle-aged man sat down in the chair across from him and identified himself as Jason Ambrose.

Between the pain and Ramona's warning, Dan must have looked alarmed. "I mean you no harm," Ambrose said. "In fact, I'm going to make you a rich man."

Dan smiled faintly. He sensed a scam coming on. "Tell me more."

"I'm employed by the Fighting Moral Right. You may have heard of the organization."

"I have," Dan said. "A little to the right of Attila the Hun."

"A fair characterization. I'm not a fanatic, but I'm well paid, as you will be."

"This is a job interview?"

"No," Ambrose said. "But the FMR is willing to pay half a million dollars for the true story of what happened in Mexico."

"What happened in Mexico, when?"

"I think they would like to zero in on the Baja peninsula from the time of the plane crash until Ramona Keen walked away from you in San Diego. I think they want a true confession and they're willing to hand you five hundred thousand dollars in cash."

"What if I didn't tell the truth?"

Ambrose grinned. "I really don't think they care. What they want is a good story, an interesting story. Something that might appeal to that crowd that reads the supermarket tabloids."

"I really wish I could comply," Dan said. "But I'm not much of a yarn spinner and I've told my story to the press, twice."

"And Ramona swears every word is true," Ambrose said. "But there are those in Washington who think the facts have been cooked. Let me ask you this. Have you ever heard of Rita Buenaventura?"

"I can't say that I have. Who is she?"

"A village girl in Mexico. Her aunt is considered a witch, which also makes her a healer. Anyway, this Rita, she helped take care of Bernie Bate. He died incidentally."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I wondered what had happened to him."

"The villagers beat the shit out of him and then someone suggested they better keep him alive to hear his story. Anyway, he was turned over to this witch woman who lived a few miles away, and the entire village kept its mouth shut. So Bernie died and was buried in an unmarked grave near the seven villagers you claim you disposed of."

Dan nodded. It was a good story and he enjoyed the change of pace.

"But before Bernie died," Ambrose continued. "he told Rita Buenaventura that he had been shot by the First Lady of the United States, in other words, Ramona Keen. Now he was raving at this time, and no one suspected he had been shot. They figured he would recover from the beating. But he didn't, he died."

"And now this Rita is telling a story. Maybe she has been paid, maybe she talks fiction."

"Maybe she does," Ambrose said. "But investigators that the FMR sent to Mexico got this story from her. They found Bate's grave and managed to get the Mexican authorities to exhume the body. Bingo, a bullet in the shoulder, fired from behind. Very likely it festered and resulted in Bernie's death."

"So you have your story, or a story. Why bother me?" It crossed his mind that if the true story got out and if he had nothing to do with putting it out, he could once again talk with Ramona. There was a spark of hope.

"One problem," Ambrose said. "No Rita Buenaventura." She's gone."

"Murdered?" He felt his blood run cold.

"No. Just gone. Maybe murdered. Maybe transported to Mexico City, or Honduras. Who in the hell knows. She was spirited away and only one investigator ever talked to her. He speaks only Spanish, as if it mattered. Well, the FMR cannot simply accuse Ramona of gunning this Bate without proof. I mean, they could, but there is such a thing as credibility."

"The far right has gotten a bad case of ethics?"

"You know how they are as well as I do. If they thought they could make it stick, they'd make the charge. But it sounds like something from la la land. But you were there. You can confirm it, you can add to it, you can tell the truth if it's ethics you're seeking."

"I've told my story. Anyway, I'm not feeling too good. I don't feel much like talking about anything today."

"Are you up for just one more little story?"

"Sure, why not." Dan had finished only half of his coffee and decided to leave the rest. The sharp pangs were digging away at the base of his stomach.

"There is a western state in the United States where something odd happened a few days ago. A man named John Lusk Agrella, who had been in a state prison there for five or six years serving a life term, escaped. He is presumed to be dead. The officer with him, the one who watched him escape and then chased him, claims he fell over a steep embankment and into a river and doubtless drowned."

"That's a story all right. Was it page one news?"

"No, hardly a ripple, just like it was planned. This John Lusk Agrella had worked for the CIA, is an accomplished spy and a born killer. He is as mean as a snake and loyal to his master."

"The story is becoming more appealing by the minute."

"The FMR wants your story, Dan. We want you alive. See those two men sitting at a table near the potted shrub?" He motioned toward the street.

Dan saw a pair of well-dressed, professional looking men, fairly obviously Europeans. Each gave him a quick glance.

"They're private detectives, one French, one Italian. They helped me find you. And they'll protect you if you string along. You're in danger, Dan."

"And why would that be?" It was the second warning and he took it seriously.

"Because those who don't want the story out, those who don't want anything further said about what happened in Mexico, want you out of the way. You're the missing link. If you die quietly and accidentally, or if you simply drop out of sight, the more the better. This John Lusk Agrella is a bilingual killer, he's at home anywhere in the world, he was let loose for a purpose. One will get you ten that you're his target."

Dan was about to reply when Ambrose pulled a folded paper from his inside coat pocket and passed it to him. This picture was faxed to me yesterday.

After unfolding it, Dan's mouth must have dropped. He had seen this man. When he walked from his hotel yesterday to purchase a bottle of sherry, this man had actually approached him and asked him for a match.

Ambrose looked at him sharply. "You know this man?"

"I might as well tell you. I saw him yesterday. He asked me for a light."

Ambrose frowned. "This is trouble. He probably wanted to make doubly certain that you were an American. Agrella's bold and cunning. You're very lucky to still be alive. He's just waiting for his chance."

"You may be right," Dan conceded. Could he trust this Jason Ambrose, or was he weaving tales? He could have planted Agrella, put up a straw man, a devil. He may have three men working for him, not two. Dan couldn't be certain. "How did you find out about Agrella's escape, or what passed as an escape?"

"It's political. We're political. State government. Strings were pulled. Heavy duty strings to spring a killer from prison. We have deep moles everywhere. So do they. I couldn't begin to count the political factions in America and the factions of factions. It's the same old story, just like ancient Italy. Look around you. Niccolo Machiavelli is buried not a mile from where we sit at Santa Croce. This game called politics has been played for keeps since the beginning of time."

"It's hard to believe," Dan said, getting to his feet.

"We can and will protect you, Dan. Once your story is out, you'll be safe. I think I know what you're doing. You're trying to protect Ramona. But why, for Christ's sake. She's a conniving politician like the rest of them. Do you think Dennis Keen got to be President by himself? He stepped on a lot of people along the way, and Ramona was right beside him, grinding her high heels into their ears. Wake up. There's a lunatic in this town right now sizing up your scalp!" Jason Ambrose was on his feet making a final pitch.

"What you're saying makes some sense, I'll agree. But frankly, I'm just not up to talking about anything. Let me get a good night's sleep. I may see a doctor tomorrow. It's some kind of stomach bug."

"Okay, Dan." He nodded toward the two detectives. "The boys and I will keep our eyes open. And I will be looking for you in the morning."

Dan walked away, a hollow feeling in his chest and a sharp pain in his gut. Back at the hotel, he went to his room and undressed, preparing for a nap. As he did, he looked out the window and saw a man loitering across the street. He was almost certain it was John Lusk Agrella, the man in the picture Ambrose had shown him. If it was a set up, just who was setting him up?

He locked his door, closed and bolted the shutters and lay down in the half-light.

CHAPTER TWENTY

That hour just after midnight when most people are in the heavy first sleep of the night is the one John Lusk Agrella chose for his crime. To him it was not a crime. It was a job he had been trained for and it was a mission that sprung him from a loathsome stay in a foul state prison. They had nailed him as an habitual criminal. What gall! He had been a skilled professional until an over-sensitive superior turned him out.

But this job would be so easy. A simple tool, an ice pick. Plunge it quickly into the proper spot, directly into the heart, and the job is complete. There is little or no blood if the task is correctly performed. In fact, it takes a keen eye to note the wound. In an older man, death might be attributed to five other natural causes.

And his victim, what a patsy! Agrella had even asked him for a light. And Dan Reeves had said, "No, I don't smoke" in that Midwestern American accent. Well, maybe he thinks smoking is bad for his health. He will soon find something else that will cause him a much greater problem, like a sudden arrest of the heart.

What an easy assignment. Agrella had even walked through the Locanda Orchidea hotel, had actually examined the lock on Reeves' door and found a large shuttered window off the lobby that was always left open.

And what fools his employers were. They were powerful men. Oh yes, he knew that. And if he carried out the assignment they would bother him no more. He was certain of that. If he fucked up, someone would be certain to track him down. But they had told him, get this, come to Paris and call a certain number after the job is done and someone will meet you with a large sum of money.

Oh yes, a large sum of money! Agrella had been in the business too long to fall for that end of the trail story. Someone would meet him all right, but the money would be an automatic equipped with a silencer. A small wire story would say, "escaped convict shot and killed in Paris." Justice is served.

But he would do his job, discharge his duty to those who set him free, then disappear into that great mass of humanity in South America.

Agrella checked his watch. The time was just past midnight and only a few merrymakers were on the ancient streets of Florence. He had been watching the Locanda Orchidea from the safety of a doorway down the street. All room lights appeared to be off, a faint glow came from a night-light in the lobby.

Moving casually, Agrella crossed the street and made his way to the hotel's garden wall where a passage was sealed by an old wooden door he had examined during the day.

A good shove opened the door almost noiselessly. Quickly, he was in the garden and pulled the door shut behind him. Then he made his way to the wide loggia and to the shuttered window that he knew was open. A flick of his knife flipped open the shutter catch and he was in the hotel.

Moving like a stalking cat, he glided up the stairs and down the hall to the big wooden door that separated him from his prey. A moment, just ten seconds, and the old lock was open. What a piece of Italian pastry. Agrella quietly tried the door. No bolt! What luck!

He was in the room, standing by the bed, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He listened for the sound of steady breathing, a sound he would soon silence.

But there was no sound. Agrella blinked. The bed was empty! Somehow he had been fooled.

***

The pain that had been flirting with Dan's stomach for at least three days became more intense as the evening wore on. He had tried to think of a plan to block the man he knew was watching the hotel, but the pain grew worse. He should have at least asked Jason Ambrose for protection, but no, he had been pigheaded.

Now he wondered if whatever was in his stomach might cancel his life before John Lusk Agrella got to him. At eight o'clock he was able to stumble to the lobby and tell the landlord he needed help.

The ambulance arrived within minutes. Then he was wheeled from station to station in the hospital for various tests – blood, heart, lungs and so forth.

An earnest looking man with large brown liquid eyes leaned over the gurney and said in halting English, "We have to operate. There is no other way."

Dan exhaled. He looked into the man's eyes and said one word. "Appendix."

"Yes."

Masked figures, phantom figures in hospital green robes and tight hats, clean crisp linen surrounded him under the light of the operating room. The anesthesiologist knew a little English and had a pixie sense of humor. "Good night," she said, as she pushed the mask over Dan's face.

The next few hours were purely hellish. That is, after he woke. The pain in his lower right side was intense and he needed to urinate. A nurse produced a urine bottle and he filled it. She took it away, then returned with another.

She sat by the bed and held his hand, his face contorted in pain. "Is there a pill, or a shot?"

His meaning was clear to her. She was a young woman with a narrow face and wide lips, dark eyes with a slight red cast to her dark hair. She checked her watch. "No pill."

He motioned for her to put the urine bottle in place again. Once more he filled it almost to capacity. Where was all the water coming from? Throughout the night, she was in and out of the recovery room frequently. The area was well illuminated and there was never a lack of patients, or attendants.

A man in the next bed groaned softly at least once a minute. Dan occasionally cried out in pain. He attempted to hold the place where the incision was made, then he would try to relax. And then back to the urine flask with the nurse assisting him.

Toward dawn, he drifted off to sleep.

But the usual hospital routine would not permit him to sleep at will. Blood was taken, he was placed on an IV, antibiotics were injected into the fleshy area of his hip. Breakfast was offered and refused.

In the early afternoon he was placed in a four-bed ward, and a few minutes later the doctor who had spoken to him the night before entered the room trailed by two nurses and three interns.

The nurse removed the bandage and the doctor poked at the incision. He looked at Dan and said, "First class." Then he pointed a finger at him and said, "You are very lucky."

That was about the extent of the conversation.

Toward evening, Dan thought he saw John Lusk Agrella pass down the corridor outside his door. If it was Agrella, he didn't look in the room, but the threat was there.

The pain had subsided somewhat and Dan liked the hospital. The animation, the hustle and bustle, people scurrying up and down the corridors, occasionally coming into the room.

He learned the man across from him, a man about his own age with a thatch of white hair, was dying of cancer. A third bed was filled by an ancient cadaver-like figure, a man who must have been at least ninety-five years old. He slept almost all the time. The fourth bed was empty.

An odd thing happened in the late afternoon. A florist had delivered a small bouquet of red carnations for Dan and the nurse put them on his bedside table. They were brilliant red, the reddest Dan had ever seen, fiery. A note with them read, "Hang in there." No signature. Dan puzzled over the note, then he stared at the flowers. Who could have sent them?

At dinnertime, Dan was actually hungry. Holding his incision, he struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, the pain stabbing like a knife as he moved.

Despite everything, he enjoyed the meal – a small plate of pasta with white sauce, a salad, a thick slice of bread and a glass of white wine. Wine! Would an American hospital serve wine? He supposed so. The world was changing, maybe passing him by.

After dinner he got his feet on the floor and maneuvered himself out the door and a few steps down the hall to the toilet. There was none in the room. That was one thing they would have had in America.

He walked slowly, almost at a shuffle, watching the green stripe that ran the length of the blue-tiled corridor. Other patients were out taking a stroll, one using a walker, another two canes. There was fellowship here, a community of invalids.

He wondered if he would see his angel of mercy again, the nurse that had treated him with such tender care in the recovery room. Probably not. She was probably glad to get rid of him. Dan felt guilty about his behavior. Crying out in pain, almost whining for a pain pill or shot.

As the night wore on, the tempo of the ward slowed until no patients moved around, and attendants seldom were seen in the hall. If that had been Agrella, he would know by this time where Dan was. And he would wait for a certain time, the low point of the night, but not too low. He would have to move around. But what defense did Dan have? Weak, in pain, hardly able to walk.

The old man, the ancient one with the face of a thousand creases, was asleep as usual. The man across from him had dropped off and his steady breathing could be heard, although he kicked a foot periodically, and now and then cried out in his sleep.

A dim light shone from the corridor. Dan supposed the door would be left open throughout the night. As silently as possible, Dan worked his way out of bed, holding the incision as best he could. The pain was still severe, but not as excruciating as it had been earlier.

Slowly he moved around to the end of his bed and saw the chart slipped into a metal frame. In large letters it read: Daniel Reeves. Below that in smaller type was the pertinent medical information.

Dan removed the chart, carried it to the bed of the man dying of cancer and exchanged one chart for the other. When he was finished, the chart at the end of his bed was printed in large letters: Lorenzo Ambrogio.

Then he took the bouquet of dazzling red carnations and placed them on Ambrogio's bedside table. The flowers fairly shouted, "I'm here! Dan Reeves. Come murder me, poison me, choke me, smother me, slit my throat."

It was all he could do, all he could think of. He tried to stay awake, but he was exhausted. He drifted off into a deep dreamless sleep.

It must have been the sound of kitchen utensils that awakened him. Someone down the hall was getting things ready to serve breakfast. Dan yawned and flinched with pain and quickly clutched his lower abdomen. The activity of the night returned to him.

He squirmed out of bed again, trying to ignore the pain and shuffled around and plucked the Ambrogio chart from his bed and made the exchange. Then he sat breathing heavily on the edge of his bed, listening to the early hospital sounds and listening for the real Ambrogio's breathing. No noise. He watched the bed to see if the chest was heaving as the air was inhaled and discharged. No movement.

In a final effort he moved back across the floor and picked up the vase of carnations. He placed them on the bedside table of the old one.

Dan crawled into bed and wondered if he had been an accomplice to a murder. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep. Minutes passed. It seemed forever until an attendant pushed the breakfast cart into the room and switched on the lights and called a cheery greeting.

Dan stirred and his breakfast was placed on the bedside stand. The ancient one, the old man with the care-creased face, slept on, but was obviously breathing.

Ambrogio was another matter. The attendant stared at him for several seconds before leaving the room, headed for the nurses' station.

Moments later three nurses, followed by the attendant, were clustered around Ambrogio's bed. Sometime during the night the man's life had ended. That was obvious.

"What happened?" Dan asked.

A nurse who spoke little English turned to him. "This man is dead. He had cancer." She hesitated, then said, "No operation. Only a matter of time. His death, uh, merciful."

"I understand," Dan said somberly. And maybe it was natural and maybe it wasn't. He doubted that there would be an autopsy. Why bother?

Dan passed a pleasant enough morning reading a paperback and taking a stab at talking with the doctor on his rounds. He was healing fine, the incision showed no signs of infection. And he felt better and was almost giddy as he walked to the toilet.

Just before lunch, Jason Ambrose paid him a visit.

"I know now why you were feeling so poorly during our last meeting. How you doin'?"

"You tracked me down. I guess okay. I waited a bit too long, but they caught the thing in time. So I'm still kicking."

Ambrose pulled up a chair and sat near the bed. "One of my gumshoes tells me a man died in this room last night."

"Yes. Right over there." Dan pointed to the empty bed across the way. "Not so unusual in hospitals, eh?"

"Not if it's a natural death."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"The detective, the Italian one, got to talking with a nurse. The man had cancer, terminal. But there's a standard profile. Usually they wheel them into some sort of death room a few days before that time comes, usually there's a lot of pain, the family wringing their hands and so forth. Italians are emotional. They enjoy a big death scene. Lots of food, people coming and going. Mama dressed in black."

"Jeez. I hope his untimely demise didn't spoil anything."

"Mistakes happen."

"Yes, they do. You don't have a great interest in seeing me dead, do you, Jason?"

The FMR attorney said, "No, I don't. Exactly the opposite. I'd like to keep you around. Maybe you'll change your mind and say a few words, each worth a few thousand dollars."

"What hotel are you staying in?"

"Baglioni."

"Expensive."

"All expenses paid. Yours could be too."

"The detectives staying there too?"

"Yes. We make quite a trio."

"I'd like to get out of here this afternoon, Jason. I'm okay. I mean I can function. They've stopped giving me shots. If you had your Italian guy tell them I'd be taken care of at the Baglioni, there'd be no hassle."

"You coming over to our side?"

"No. But I will live another day. Dead men don't talk much. I'll be happy to talk to you about numerous topics, anything but those few days in Mexico."

Jason got to his feet. "I'll get my man on it now." He left the room but returned in five minutes. "He's started what looks like a long discussion with the powers that be. If nothing else, we'll just leave. Will you need a wheel chair?"

"No, I can walk. I thank you for this favor, Jason. It does ease my mind. I am taking your warning seriously."

"Yes, well, do you have any things here?"

"Everything. My hotel collected everything and had it sent over. But they've got it locked up somewhere. Look, I don't mind abandoning it. It isn't much."

Ambrose stared out the window. Large green trees, the dome of a centuries old church, the sky was almost cobalt blue. He had never seen a sky like that. "No sweat. We might as well enjoy Italy. I'm no salesman, so I'm not going to make a pitch to you. I thought the money would do it. Half a million dollars would be almost an overpowering sum to the average Joe."

"If we get out of here, and I know we will, I'll tell you abut that over dinner, unless you have other plans." Dan held his side and struggled to a sitting position, dangled his feet over the side of the bed, then gingerly let himself down to the floor. "There's still a little pain, but it's subsiding."

Ambrose had been staying in one room at the Baglioni and the two detectives in another. He was able to move the four of them into a two-bedroom suite with a living room, a wet bar, and a large balcony with an excellent view of the city.

For the traveler and tourist, the Baglioni was well situated between the railroad station and the cathedral.

Dan dozed away the afternoon in his large bed, then with some exertion managed to take a shower. He and Jason shared a table at the hotel's roof restaurant, while the two detectives sat nearby.

"This may be the most expensive restaurant in Florence," Dan remarked as he looked at the elaborate menu.

"Perhaps. It certainly has the best view of any restaurant in Florence. That's a given." He looked out over the rooftops. "Just look at that city. It's something else. The history that's gone on here. This is the birthplace of the Renaissance. An explosion of art and creativity in the 15th Century. And long before that a Roman provincial capital. It boggles my mind at least. I am glad you led me here. But you said you'd tell me how you can so easily resist half a million smackers."

"What the heck, we have time. I'll give you the long version." A waiter approached the table and Jason asked for a few more minutes. He concentrated on the menu, first noting the name at the top: Terrazza Brunelleschi. He guessed terrazza meant terrace, a roof terrace, but had no idea about the Brunelleschi. Probably someone's name.

The waiter returned and Jason suggested that they order steak. He had heard that Florence is a good steak town, one of the best in Italy. They left the choice of vegetables up to the waiter who seemed pleased with his responsibility.

Then they asked if he would bring them a bottle of Chianti right off the bat. Dan hadn't tasted Chianti for years, but Jason, who must have been cramming on guidebooks, said Tuscany and Florence in particular were famous for Chianti.

What else could the city be famous for, Dan wondered. When the wine came, almost instantly, Jason was pleased because there was a black rooster on the label. He had read somewhere that that was the best available.

They didn't talk for a while. Dusk was falling over the city and it was beautiful. Lights were coming on and the restaurant came to life – tourists in the usual tacky outfits and Italian couples dressed in such style comporting themselves with such grace that they might have walked off the page of a fashion magazine.

When they did begin to talk, with the contents of the bottle dwindling, it was Jason who told Dan his story.

It seemed he had been having trouble with his wife. They were childless and she had actually gone to stay with her mother more than once, although her mother was over eighty and lived alone in a condo in a suburb of Phoenix.

"She's accused me of all sorts of things," Jason said. "You know, very few people like lawyers. You think it's a joke, but it's real. They actually don't like lawyers. I've never sued anybody."

"Have you taken her to a marriage counselor?"

"I am a counselor. I mean that's another name for lawyers. So why should I seek counsel. She's suggested it more than once."

"Then do it," Dan said. "You know a lot of those things she talks about are probably her fault. She'll realize that when the two of you get before a serious neutral party. You'll learn a lot about her you didn't know and you'll learn a lot about yourself. You're probably a better person than you think."

"I wish I had been an artist. If I'd come to Tuscany when I was twenty-years old. I feel something here, something strong, an anchor to the past, a tug across the ages."

"Maybe you had a previous life here. Maybe you were an artist, a stone carver, or maybe a Roman soldier." The steaks came and they ordered another bottle of wine.

During the meal, Jason drew Dan out. He learned that Dan had been an athlete in college, a quarterback on the football team.

"Of course it wasn't a very large college and there were two of us, me and Quince, both about equal. We never knew which one of us the coach would start. And the coach didn't know either. He tried to psych out how we were feeling, which one was hung, maybe injured."

"What if you were both injured, or hung?"

"There was a third man. Buck, big guy, six-five and weighed about 230. He should have been a tackle. Clumsy as hell, but durable."

"You still do sports?"

"Oh yeah. I let it go the last couple of years, but I still jog now and then, exercise. I think I'd have had a harder time with this appendix if I was all flab and out of it. I'll get back into it. I let down in Mexico. I was drinking too much, layin' around, depressed, feeling sorry for myself. Just stupid."

"Half a million would cheer you up."

"That's what I wanted to tell you. Right out of college I got onto the ground floor of this greed thing on Wall Street. I mean my office was right on Wall Street. Big firm, anything went. Ten years and it was like money was falling from the sky."

"You squirreled it away."

"I spent like a mad man. It was a party every night. I almost OD'd on greed, and my wife almost bought the farm with drugs. I was making so much that I couldn't help but save, not a conscious decision. Oddly enough, the two of us bailed out to keep our sanity, but we bailed out at that right moment. Bingo. The well went dry."

"A market crash?"

"Not so loud you could hear it, but a gradual nosedive. When we decided to put Manhattan behind us, I converted everything to cash and utilities. Seemed dumb at the time, but it was the smartest move I ever made."

"So now you're rich, beyond the reach of generous offers."

"Not rich, comfortable, and really and truly not interested. I've been doing some traveling and moving around, but I came over here to find a little cottage, maybe an old peasant house, you know the dream, and just settle in."

"That's why you were leaving Mexico?"

"No. My compass was spinning. I had some business to take care of, stuff that's hard to do from Mexico, but no plan. That crash woke me up. I think I'll make it."

"Okay," Jason said. "I've done my thing. I was sent to find you and make the offer. They highballed it. Someone suggested fifty thousand, or a hundred might do it. My boss, Jamie Kelly, he insisted on the best shot out front. I'll tell him we've come up against a strange character, a man somehow shielded from the siren call of the big bucks."

"I appreciate your attitude, Jason. And tell this Jamie that I'm sorry I caused him so much trouble. Tell him to start believing the story I told the press."

"And if he should start believing that story," Jason said, "how do we explain John Lusk Agrella?"

Dan shrugged and refilled their glasses. The steak was delicious.

***

The following evening, Dennis Keen and Ramona were eating a frozen meal she had zapped in the microwave when he remarked, "I heard some bad news today, or I think it's bad. It involves Dan Reeves, the man you were with in Mexico."

"I know who Dan Reeves is," Ramona replied.

"He's met some sort of mishap or sudden illness or something. In Italy, Florence, I think." He studied her face to see how she would react, but saw no change.

"Do tell me more."

"I don't know more. The information was sketchy. I suppose it came from the spooks, the CIA. Those guys filter hundred of scraps of information a day. They pass a few things along to the White House."

"You could have asked for more details. Dan did save my life."

"I know he did, but we're not responsible for him. The spooks, they have a lot of part-time people, people who give them bits and pieces in hopes of a reward. This was one of those bits. There might be no way to backtrack on it."

"So we'll never know." Ramona jabbed her fork into the last segments of macaroni and cheese.

"Not true. You can check easily enough. Florence is a madhouse of American tourists. I'm sure we have consular services there. Give them a ring tomorrow. They'll respond to a call from the White House. If they don't, let me know."

"I'll see."

Two days later, when Ramona hadn't mentioned Reeves, the President asked if she had attempted to get more information. She said that she did.

"And what did you find out?"

"I called the consulate," Ramona said, not answering the question. She wondered how deeply Dennis had been involved in whatever had happened.

"And what did he say?"

"It was a woman. The consular is a woman. A Mrs. Magnolia. She really didn't have much information."

"But surely she told you something?" Dennis' voice rose slightly. He was anxious to learn what Ramona had found out, even apprehensive.

"Well, what you said was true," Ramona said cryptically. "There was some kind of incident, or happening. Dan Reeves was involved but, as you said, it was sketchy."

"Sketchy my ass." The President's temper flared. "The Florence consular can surely provide the White House better information than that. Sketchy."

"You said sketchy when you told me. It didn't seem to concern you at the time. And you may think you're the White House, but I'm not. I'm just the President's wife. I'm just trailing along for the ride. The consular doesn't have to reveal anything special to me."

"You didn't tell her who you are?"

"Why should I? We're all citizens here."

"I'll find out for you," Dennis insisted.

"Don't bother. I'm not really interested." She had found out what she wanted to know. Dennis was intensely interested in where Reeves was and what he was doing. In fact, he had been under the impression that something very distasteful had happened to the man.

Ramona was glad that she hadn't brought up the topic. She had waited Dennis out. Made him ask. Given Dan more time. She felt Dan was safe, at least for the moment. He knew there was danger, storm warnings, and he had ample time to cover his trail. But she did wonder just where he was and what he was doing at that very moment.

Dennis did not return to his office after his chat with Ramona. He went directly to Carolyn Kendrick's office and passed her a sheet of paper with a question scrawled on it. "What's happened to Dan Reeves? I want a precise answer. And ASAP."

When she had finished reading, he took the paper back and tore it into as many small pieces as he could.

"That matter you mentioned," Carolyn began, "I think it was taken care of."

"Yes, I understood that. But we don't know for certain, do we? I'd like to get some third-party assurances, and I think the matter might best be handled quietly."

"I couldn't agree more."

***

A couple of strange musings were passing through the head of Dan Reeves as he lay in the narrow bunk. The first were words from a Kipling poem:

"And the stokers yelped in their delight as they rolled in the waist and heard the fight."

The second one was the old Kipling joke. "Do you like Kipling?" Followed by the answer, "I don't know, I've never Kipled."

Dan had been slightly queasy and had uncorked a bottle of the strong and cheap Italian hooch called Grappa that he had purchased at the ship's store.

He had been sipping it for some time in the dull light of the small cabin of a large passenger and vehicle ferry that plied the Mediterranean. The cabin, a small steel box below the waterline in the waist of the old tub, was a step up from the deckchair available for the cheapest fare.

The trip from Genoa to Barcelona would take almost exactly twenty-four hours. Dan had slipped quietly out of Florence by bus, had lingered in Pisa long enough to catch a train for Genoa, but not long enough to see if the leaning tower was still standing. In Genoa he had tinkered with the idea of taking a train to the Iberian peninsula, then had heard that the French rail lines were on strike.

That same day he had boarded the ferry, a vessel on the White Kangaroo line. In his bunk, with the Grappa keeping him in the twilight zone, the seasickness never quite taking over his body, it was a pleasant enough journey.

And this time he had taken pains not only to see if he were being followed, but not to let slip where he might be headed. His destination remained the third spot on his original agenda – the Algarve.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Carolyn Kendrick had scrawled her own two-word message on a sheet of typing paper and now presented it to President Keen.

"Reeves lives."

Keen looked up with distaste. He had guessed that was the situation. And he had also guessed that Ramona had figured out the game that was being played. She could not influence it, but he could certainly not expect her cooperation, nor could he take her into his confidence.

"The situation you mentioned, it should be corrected," Keen said.

"I think so," Kendrick agreed. "I've already taken the first step. I think we should do it sooner than later."

"By all means," Keen said. There was deep disappointment in his voice. Why were things always so difficult? Here he was, head of the richest nation on Earth...

***

The huge jet put down at Recife, the passengers tired and disheveled. First they filed through Brazilian immigration and then on to pick up their luggage, expensive suitcases with combination locks, backpacks strapped to their frames, zipped canvas bags, blue plastic shopping bags held together with twine and cardboard boxes fastened with duct tape.

Somewhere between these two points a single man carrying a nylon sports bag was cut out of the crowd and herded into a small windowless room. It was in fact an interrogation room. He was advised to sit quietly, which he did.

Ten minutes later a short heavy-set man with a thin brown mustache and piercing eyes entered the room and took a seat. The man who had been there waiting nodded.

"Your passport says your name is Arrigo Masegne and that you are an Italian. Is that true?"

"Of course."

The heavy man laughed, but there was no need to press the point. He knew the man that just stepped off the plane from Rome was John Lusk Agrella. "I have trouble with Italian names, so if you don't mind, I'll just call you John. Is that all right?"

"Of course."

"John, you had a job to do. Did you do it?"

"Of course."

"Let me in on the details, would you please?"

"I don't know who you are. Why should I talk to you?"

"Let's just say I'm the man who could get you a one-way ticket to Utah, or a one-way ticket to another place. I'm the man you should be talking to."

Agrella considered this for a moment, then decided that this was the man, or one of the men, who represented that large, faceless organization. "In a hospital in Florence, a man died. His name was Dan Reeves."

"His name was Lorenzo Ambrogio," the fat man corrected. "He had terminal cancer and you shortened his life cycle."

"I don't believe you," Agrella said, his voice rising in anger. He took pride in his work. "I had ways of checking and double checking. The chart, the name chart, and then there were flowers. I myself sent a bunch of bright red flowers. They were right there by the bed. How could I make such a mistake?"

"Perhaps you were fooled," the fat man said. "Flowers can be moved, charts can be moved. I don't know for certain. But I do know that this man Ambrogio was found with a small puncture would in his heart and that Dan Reeves walked out of that hospital after a nasty bout with his appendix."

Agrella was a pragmatic man. He accepted the facts as presented. "It was too easy." He wondered how they had tracked him. He was supposed to have presented himself in Paris, very likely to be slaughtered.

"Perhaps. We might consider one second chance."

"And then?" He wondered if there would be another Paris rendezvous. These men could track him, and they could help him track Reeves.

"And then, John, we would let you walk away as you had planned to do this time. No Paris."

Agrella considered. He wanted to do the job he had been assigned and he was angry with himself at his failure. And he had no choice but to believe this man. If he didn't believe him, there was that one-way ticket, and he knew it wasn't to Utah.

"I'll do it. I admit my mistake, although I still don't see how it happened. That man, that Reeves, was a patsy."

"Perhaps he had help."

"That must be it."

"There are forces, those who have an interest in keeping him alive. You would be wise to stay alert."

"You bet your ass I'll stay alert this time. You have any ideas?"

The fat man pulled an envelope from his pocket. "At this time we know that he took a bus to Pisa. Before that he met someone in Florence, someone who may have helped him, but that's unimportant. When he took the bus to Pisa he was alone."

He tossed the envelope across to Agrella. "That's a ticket to Rome." He looked at his watch. "You've got about enough time to use the toilet. Welcome to Brazil." He got up and started out of the room. "There's a telephone number in that envelope and a name. Call when you get to Pisa. If there's any more information, it's yours."

"If you knew where he was, why didn't you kill him, or have him killed?" Agrella demanded.

"John, John," the fat man said. "Discretion. Discretion. Killing is barbaric. I even brake for animals."

Agrella gave him a surly nod and tore open the envelope. He had better get to that departure gate. Christ, how he hated flying. And here he was getting on the same type of airplane with the same plastic attendants and the same stinking passengers and little meals with their tiny silverware, miniature salt and pepper and napkin encased in plastic, a shabby pass at elegance.

When he opened the envelope, he had the most pleasant surprise. It was a first-class ticket. Now there was style and grace in first class.

Agrella settled down in a large comfortable armchair in the forward cabin of the plane, and a lovely stewardess, who did seem to take a personal interest in him, asked, "Did you enjoy your stay in Brazil, Mr. Masegne?"

"I was only there a few minutes," he replied. She looked startled. He added, "I'm a frequent flyer."

The woman smiled, took his drink order and said she'd return in just a minute. Agrella knew that in the rear of the plane the great unwashed mass of passengers were struggling to stow their luggage, falling over one another, squeezing into narrow seats, wrestling with seat belts, hoping to find a magazine, giving up looking for a pillow, listening to babies squall and wondering if the air conditioning was on the blink. Otherwise sound marriages were being strained to the breaking point.

***

When Dan stepped off the boat in Barcelona, he found he was not far from the island of Mallorca, but he resisted the temptation to head out for the storied Mecca of the world-weary.

His third goal had always been the Algarve and he remained true to it. He had told no one and, although touristy and larded with retired Brits and Germans, it was a little out of the way.

The region is generally the southernmost portion of Portugal and includes parts of the Monchique and Calderao mountains. Not far south of it is the island of Madeira and, to the west, the Azores.

But the main attraction was the hundred miles of sunny beaches, sprinkled with Moorish villages, secluded coves, high cliffs, golden sand, scented flowers and orange groves – figs, grapes and camellias, and in the winter a carpet of white almond blossoms.

Tourists and retirees discovered the Algarve so many years ago that the first grand assaults on real estate had worn off, land speculators had grown old and retired to their white-stucco cement block houses, and certain aspects of the area had kicked back to pigs and chickens roaming the gardens, donkeys toting basket loads of produce and women washing clothing in the river.

Dan used caution in case there were watchful eyes, proceeding to Madrid by night train, then holing up in a cheap hotel room to rest and recuperate for a couple of days. There was till some pain from the operation and the scar felt like a hard bar of flesh. He did not wish to travel by bus over what might be rough roads.

From Madrid he took a day train to the city of Badajoz, near the Portugal border. An obvious next stop would be Lisbon. He was feeling rested and getting back to normal.

His gambit, which he thought oh so clever, was to buy a ticket for Lisbon and then step off the train somewhere along the way. This he did, then traveled directly southward to the substantial city of Faro, almost 300 kilometers south of Lisbon and in the heart of the Algarve.

His first idea, when he stepped off the train, was to get a cold beer, then find a room. Traveling tired him. He found a bar called the Caravel, looked through the door at the darkened interior, then slowly entered, blinking after making the transition from dazzling sunshine to what seemed like cool midnight.

He made his way to the dimly lit bar and slid onto a stool. A voice not far away said, "You're not from here, are you, Myte?" Clearly Australian.

"No. Just rolled into town. Looking for a cold one."

"Barmaid's name is Ninny. She'll be back in a sec. Call of nature. You a yank?"

"Yeah, yank tourist. Quite a novelty."

"Right." The Aussie smiled. Dan could see him now, a big man with big arms protruding from a tank top, a tangle of blond hair on his head, skin burned almost black by the southern sun. "Haven't seen the like. This town, capital of the Algarve, nice place. Damned good beer."

Ninny returned and brought Dan a mug of cold draught, bubbles rising, condensation forming on the glass. He took a tentative swallow, then knocked back half the mug.

"You have a healthy thirst," the Aussie said. "That's good. The drink of wholesome moderation. Here's to it." He drained his mug.

Dan said, "I'll shout one." The Aussie laughed. It was slang from down under. Shouting up a round in a school of drinkers. They say some people wouldn't shout if they were being bitten by a shark.

"You been to the land of Oz?"

"Once," Dan said. "Sydney, Brisbane, the Gold Coast. Month's vacation."

"It'd take a lifetime, triple lifetime to see Oz." They drank in silence, savoring the beer in the coolness of the Caravel. Ninny sat on a stool in the corner, behind the bar, smoking a cigarette, drinking a glass of cola.

"You've seen it, now you're seeing Portugal," Dan said idly.

"I've seen things under that Southern Cross that would curl your hair. I've seen plenty." Dan guessed the Aussie had been in the Caravel for some time. Ninny was smiling, expecting a story. The man from Oz ordered two more.

"Thanks. That'll hold me. I've gotta find a place to stay."

"Plenty of places right here in town. Just what're you after, Myte?"

"Maybe a beach. Somewhere to relax."

"Then you want the Praia de Faro, the beach. There's a ferry, or you can grab a cab." He looked around for Ninny, then asked, "What's the name of that hotel on the beach?"

"Estalagem Aeromar."

"That's it," the Aussie said. "Tell the cabby. Christ's blood. You can rest all you want to out there. There's bars and restaurants out there. Damn nice. You gonna stay a bit?"

"I guess," Dan said. "But I had in mind something more remote, a little more country. You know, peasant stuff."

"Sure. And it's here too. Sagres is the place for you, Myte. Way the hell to the west. That's a place where a man can be a man. Life in the raw." The big Aussie banged his hard-knotted fist on the bar and a look of desperation crossed Ninny's usually calm face. "Like north Australia."

"I see," Dan said. "I'm not a pioneer, just a tired old man."

The Aussie laughed again. "You look in pretty good shape to me, at least for the condition you're in."

Dan finished his drink and said goodbye to both of them. He promised to drop by again for a drink. Outside, the sun was blinding, but he put his arm in the air and a cab appeared from nowhere. He told the driver he wanted to go to the hotel on the beach and expected that he would not be understood.

To his surprise, the driver nodded and said, "Okay."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Vice-President Vance Stovall had just returned from lunch and was thinking about knocking off early for a game of golf when a member of the California group, the far west military-industrial-entertainment complex, dropped by his office.

"I wanted to assure you that that matter we talked about in La Jolla is being taken care of," Wally Scroll said.

Scroll, a pudgy, balding man in his mid-sixties had pink skin and an angelic smile. He looked like a clean old man, someone you might find leading a Boy Scout fund drive.

"I'm glad to hear that," Stovall said. Both of them were smart enough not to mention Dan Reeves' name. "If worked right, it could pay off handsomely."

"I know, and our friends know," Scroll smiled. "I've been reading polling figures. Ramona Keen is near her peak in popularity. That woman could fall in a vat of shit and come up smelling like a rose."

Stovall nodded grimly. "You mean the universal conscription thing. It's her baby and it's got that big grassroots appeal, a sleeper."

"But how'd it happen?" Scroll asked. "The President floated the idea. It should have been his baby."

Stovall smiled and said two words, "Early reaction." He paused a moment as if to consider the situation. "Dennis jumped the gun. He didn't realize the potential. A couple of big-gun Republican senators made fun of the idea, did the next thing to calling Dennis a prime fool for even considering such a proposal. So, during the next day or two, Dennis made a great point to say the universal draft and all its modern implications – job training, education, motivation, defense, patriotism – came right out of Ramona's head."

Scroll nodded. "And then the groundswell set in."

"Right. Mail started flooding in, e-mail, fax, phone calls. Talk shows were snowed under. Universal conscription as put forward by Ramona, and it was her idea, is the greatest thing since the electric guitar. Universal appeal is more like it. A painless way to sacrifice for your country. Let Uncle Sam babysit the older kids during that last fling before maturation."

"So if Ramona doesn't make a wrong step, she'd be hard to stop."

"You bet," Stovall agreed. "That's why this project must succeed."

Scroll put a reassuring hand in the air. "If we can do it, and we can, it will be done. Just you keep polishing your image. Keep a good schedule. Leave no hand unshaken, no mail unanswered, hew to the line, and you know what line."

Stovall smiled and half rose. He extended a muscular hand and caught Scroll's small pink one in a firm handshake. "Tell the boys they can count on me."

After Scroll had gone, he wondered just who they were sending to intercept Reeves and just how far the project had advanced. Timing was important.

Stovall had long known that ambition had shaped him into a strange creature, a figurehead for several interest groups. He was not his own man, nor could he be. That would require entirely too much thinking. He could put up a showy front and he could take order. And if there were problems, he could appeal to one or more of the interest groups.

And Ramona Keen was a problem, directly blocking his next step up the ladder, his next step to the top of the ladder. Yes, something had to be done about Ramona, one way or another.

***

In the hotel, on the island off Faro, Dan spent a week resting, reading, lying on the golden sand by the indigo sea. The view from the island – Praia de Faro – toward the land, the gleaming white houses, turrets and belfries rising from their midst, was like a dream.

For a day he rented a car and drove west to the cliffs of Barlvento, the cliffs etched by the sea and dotted with sandy coves. Everywhere there were signs of development, but still the coast retained much of its charm.

The village of Albufeira, twisty narrow streets, rising from sea, white-washed houses dazzling in the sun, overlapping one another as they marched up to the promontory, Moorish cupolas peeking out from church tops here and there. The village charm of a gathering of humanity no longer a village. Each morning the fish market would open, and on Saturday the country people would bring in their produce and create a market.

Dan enjoyed driving the narrow roads, exploring the coves, having a glass of the local concoction – Medronho – at a café, even looking at the strange wildflowers and exotic birds. For the Algarve is a world apart, even apart from Portugal. Bordered to the north by high hills that stretch from the ocean to the River Guadiana, the region is much warmer than the rest of Portugal. Swimming and water sports were superb.

But still, Dan was restless. He had been relatively happy in Mexico, just drifting, sometimes in a beer-induced haze. But now something was missing, some zest, some excitement. No longer was he willing to laze the days away, then hit the bar of an evening.

Day by day the hard scar on his right abdomen drew softer, and he felt this full strength returning. He began taking long walks along the beach, then jogging at the water's edge. Then one day he decided to take the Aussie's advice and head out for the wilds of Sagres. But how wild could it be? It was just a few kilometers to the west.

And what was so special about the Sagres area? It was where the Mediterranean reached the Atlantic, a place of wild squalls and dark supernatural phenomenon to the ancients, a place where to go farther was to risk joyless desperation and certain torment of the damned. It was indeed a less developed area, with wild winds and the tallest cliff on the Algarve coast, the Torre de Aspa. There was a harsh grandeur to the area swept by blustery winds, where only the hardiest plants – asphodels, saber-leafed aloes and sturdy geraniums that can overcome both drought and fog – cling to the thin, often rocky soil.

But in Sagres there is a sunny, calm bay and comforts offered by hotels and guesthouses. Dan was able to find a small apartment a little out of town toward the sea, and it was there he intended to settle in for a longish stay, although he had no real plan.

During the first couple of days he made numerous trips to the nearby market to stock his bare kitchen. Condiments and flour and cooking oil and vinegar and beer and canned goods and the good local cheese and bread. And each day he would visit the fish market. Some of the items were quite heavy when added together and, traveling only by foot, he often went to the store twice a day, sometimes three times.

Less than a week after he moved in, an attractive young woman, he guessed in her late twenties, took the apartment just above him. Her name was Kate Kinder and she was both pretty and vivacious.

She seemed to take an instant and lively liking to Dan. At first he guessed the attention might be because they were the only two Americans living in that general neighborhood, that she was young and needed an older person to rely on. But then a germ of suspicion crept into his thoughts. The warnings from Ramona and also from Jason Ambrose. Could she be an outrider for something more sinister?

He would be on his guard, but he would also accept her friendship. She had some money, an inheritance from her grandmother, so she said, and she wanted to be an artist, but she wasn't certain just what kind.

"So I'm waiting," Kate said.

They had walked into Sagres together and were having a small glass of Medronho. She had explained to him that it was made from the yellow and red berries of the arbutus.

"Waiting for what?" Dan asked. He loved to talk to her. She had long dark hair that curled slightly and fell beneath her shoulders, mostly in back, but some in front. Her eyes, he thought were hazel, and she had full lips and a sparkling smile that revealed slightly uneven teeth.

She smiled and threw her head back. "A sign from heaven, I suppose. All things come to those who wait."

"I guess I'm waiting too," Dan said. "How long are you going to wait?"

"Until I get bored."

"That's good. I mean, that's a realistic goal. Something like until the spirit moves you. Whatever spirit it might be." He sipped a little of his drink and thought of the yellow and red berries and wondered whoever thought of squeezing them, or fermenting them, or whatever it took to produce this pleasant liquid. "I thought I might get some really good fish from the market tomorrow morning. Want to come to dinner at my place?"

"Why not? What should I bring?"

"I don't know. I'll do a vegetable and maybe rice. Surprise me."

Kate beamed. "I love surprises. Afterwards, we can watch the sunset." Impulsively she added, "It's too bad you're so old. If you were younger, I think we would have made great lovers."

Dan attempted not to look hurt. It was a fact, his age. Maybe Sweet Nose hadn't noticed, or maybe she was more... more French. But this young American woman, she wanted somebody in designer jeans who could balance a beer bottle on his nose. At least that's what passed through Dan's head.

"Have you seen the Nossa Senhora de Guadalupe?" Dan asked, trying desperately to get onto another topic.

"No, what is it?" Kate asked.

"A little Romanesque chapel. It's not far away. It's where Prince Henry the Navigator used to pray for victory, or achievement, for his various projects. He was known as the Infante of Sagres. There's centuries of fascinating history here."

"I'd like to see it all, Dan. Can we go?"

He realized that she was talking to him as she would talk to her father, asking him to take her on a special trip. "Of course we can. I can get a car for day trips."

Walking back to their apartments, they passed a whitewashed cottage where classical music flowed like a stream from the windows.

"An old British couple," Kate said, nodding toward the small home. "They're retirees. Just move in. Apparently doing some home repair." They could hear the rat-tat-tat of a hammer from within. A big angular woman with snow-white hair emerged from the house and picked up a heavy board from the front yard, waved cheerily to the two of them, then reentered the house.

"I suspect you can pick up a fixer-upper on the cheap," Dan said.

"I've thought of it. My own place." She danced a few steps down the dusty road, then spun around and faced Dan. "My own dishes, my own quilts, my own everything. Maybe even a cat named Calliope. Can you feature me in a rocking chair with one of those white fringy hats on? A tea kettle whistling on the stove?"

Dan shook his head. "I can't."

"I can't either. I think I'll go to Tibet and live in a monastery, or maybe Nepal. Which would you choose?"

"Neither. Too cold. Also, the air's too thin. I'd get giddy. Build your own monastery here. Make your own rules. Sleep till noon."

They reached their small apartment building and went their separate ways.

Dan went to the fish market early the next day. It was wet underfoot and a light fog was lifting when he reached the outside stalls where the treasures of the sea had been abducted from their watery haunts and spread on rough boards and ice for the cook pot and the broiler's flames.

There were fish he had never seen before, great round fish, long thin fish, flat fish, fat fish, many with one great staring eye looking toward heaven. There were shellfish, oysters and mussels. Also squid and octopus with their many limbs and eerie visage. What a cache of riches for the accomplished seafood chef.

But Dan was not a skilled cook. He was a fryer of eggs, a maker of barbecue chicken and ribs, a broiler of hamburgers. But he did know one method of cooking fish. He selected a nice fat looking fish that looked to him like a grouper, but he didn't recognize the name the fishmonger called it when she wrapped it in newspaper.

His apartment was equipped with a small refrigerator and a small stove, the oven not large enough for a whole fish. This was okay, the recipe he knew called for the fish to be cut into at least four pieces.

Dan stowed the fish away in the reefer, checked to see that he had a sack of rice, then went off to town to purchase a vegetable and wine. He lunched at a small café within sight of an odd looking whitewashed bell tower that held two bells, one slightly larger than the other, neither had a true tone, just a discordant jumble of sound when they were rung, which was frequently. But their unique music was steadfast in its ability to call the faithful to worship.

Following an extended afternoon nap, Dan got up and began puttering around his small kitchen. This, he thought, was retirement at its finest.

Kate was welcomed with a glass of Madeira, the fortified wine that came from the island not far to the south. It had a good rich, nutty taste and the two of them sipped, then refilled their glasses.

They chatted and listened to a tape Kate had brought with her. She had also brought the small tape player along. Dan was fascinated by one of the songs. To him it sounded like folk song and seemed in the form of a letter a lonely young woman had written to her wandering lover.

It was a plaintive thing. The woman seemed to think the man, maybe in love with his travels, had little interest in her. Almost as an afterthought, she asked him to bring her a gift, a pair of Spanish boots, made with Spanish leather. He thought it rather strange, but it seemed to fit the place and the mood, in fact, of the evening.

"And now the fish," Kate said, emptying her glass. She had brought a wide-mouthed stone jug of local wine, a great battered cork inserted in the opening.

"I love that jug," Dan had said when she set it on the table. "I hope the contents justify the packaging." Kate had smiled and taken a seat. She was in a smiling mood, kittenish.

"You have a secret recipe?"

"Not so secret." Dan brought the fish from the reefer. He had already skinned it and cut it into four pieces. With some effort he tugged and yanked the cork from the stone jug and poured them each a glass of dark wine. It was glorious, not too sweet, not too dry, a robust wine to fit the wild Sagres coast.

He had found an earthenware baking dish in the cupboard and now he slathered it with olive oil, then dipped the fish in flour and placed the pieces on the hard clay surface.

"Now for the secret," he announced. He broke three eggs and poured off the whites, then used a whisk to beat the whites stiff. After that he spooned in some mayonnaise, slopped in a little mustard and spread the mixture over the fish. A little chopped goat cheese was sprinkled over the entire dish before he popped it into the oven. "Now we wait."

They went outside and sat on the steps, sipping wine, watching the sun descend. "The ancients," Dan said, "thought if you went to the end of the land, just a few miles away, that you could hear the sun hiss as it settled into the ocean."

"We've learned too much since then," Kate said, "and traveled too far. What wild thoughts the ancients had and what incredible and fanciful dreams they dreamed."

"We still have our dreams."

"But tied more closely to reality. We know about the tides and we know about computer chips."

"I don't know anything about computer chips," Dan admitted, "but somebody must – probably the Japanese." Kate looked lovely. Perhaps the sunset, or the wine, gave her a golden glow. This was a lady he would like to bring a pair of Spanish boots, made of Spanish leather. But they were generations apart, too much so to ever be spiritually close. And, looking at her, he knew he shouldn't be thinking such things. The father-daughter relationship was the best.

"What are you thinking about?" Kate asked. Her eyes were clear and bright, they seemed to sparkle. He thought, you know damned well what I was thinking about, but he lied. "I'd better check the fish."

Oddly enough, dinner was great. Dan had anticipated failure, but the fish was fat and fresh and left in the oven just the right length of time. The rice wasn't sticky and the green beans were almost crisp.

They finished, and Dan insisted that he would clean up the dishes in the morning. It was quite dark, and a candle glowed and flickered on the table between them. He had planned to make coffee, but instead they stuck to the wine from the heavy stone jug.

Shadows danced on the wall, and Dan wondered why he had ever thought that a romantic interlude here on the Algarve coast would be wrong. What did it matter anyway? Kate leaned forward, as if to blow the candle out. She was sorry she had mentioned how old Dan was the other day, but it would be easy to make amends.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Days slipped by, and Dan continued to have a restless feeling. What he needed, he decided, was a goal, a plan. So he decided he would return to the States next year. The decision, and he felt happy with it, made him think of a Japanese proverb: next year is the devil's joke. But the plan pleased him anyway.

And he decided to get on with what he was doing. He would do some fishing and he would rent a car and see more of the Algarve. To go east to Lagos, where the broken coast is relentlessly battered by the surf, the wet rocks a purple hue and the sun sends its rays deep into the sea. Grottos lively with seaweed and churning water can be found near magnificent beaches.

Lagos is rich in history and drama. Once, long ago in the Manueline window in the church of Santa Maria, the young King Sebastiao stood and inspired the troops that would perish with him at Alcacer Quebir.

Back from the seastrand, orange and fig groves swallow acres of land. Giant chestnut trees stand like hardy knights near the smaller mimosa trees.

Yes, Dan decided he would take a car and tour the Algarve. Perhaps he would ask the pretty Kate Kinder if she cared to accompany him.

It was on this mission that Dan set out for the heart of Sagres on a Friday afternoon. He had just passed the small house of the British newcomers when a voice cried out to him. "Have you ever done remodeling?" The accent was definitely that of the United Kingdom. He turned to see the silver-haired woman standing just outside the cottage door.

"I've tinkered and dabbled. No major construction. Why do you ask?" He wondered if he was about to receive a job offer.

"We've been working on this confounded place and have run into one problem after another. I just wonder if you'd take a look at it."

"You mean inside?" Dan asked.

"Yes. Just step in for a moment." The woman was quite cordial. Perhaps Dan could get a cup of tea for his effort and certainly he would make a couple of new friends. English speakers were common enough further east, but the Sagres area's growth was slow. He walked to the door and the woman stepped aside to let him in.

In the small living room a man was seated by a window reading The Herald Tribune. He got up when Dan entered.

"Dear, this is the man from down the lane. I've invited him in to look at our building problem."

"Delighted," the man said, extending his hand. "I'm Hadrian Gay. You've met my wife, Rose?"

"Not really," Dan said, shaking hands. "I'm Dan Reeves."

"An American," Hadrian said.

"Yes." He stood wondering what to do next. Hadrian seemed at a loss, but Rose took over.

"I'll show Mr. Reeves the room we're doing. Why don't you put on the tea kettle, dear?"

Hadrian nodded and moved toward the small kitchen. Dan followed Rose down a short hall. She directed him through a doorway. Dan stepped inside and found himself looking at four bare walls, a small washbasin on one wall, a cot and, oddly enough, a toilet with no seat.

He started to turn to ask Rose what the room was to be used for when the door slammed behind him. Instantly he jumped to push the door open, but found there was no doorknob on his side of the door. Just as quick he realized he was trapped in a room not unlike a prison cell.

A sick feeling passed over him. He had been trapped like a rabbit in a box. This nice English couple. Killers? Maybe not. They obviously wanted to keep him for some reason. Dan did not immediately attempt to escape.

He was almost certain that there was no escape. He sat on the side of the cot, then lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. There was no noise from outside the cell. A single light bulb burned in the ceiling. There was no light switch in the small room.

Almost an hour passed before a small window in the door slid open. "Mr. Reeves, I'm sorry we had to detain you. But you have some information we need. You've likely guessed it's about the Mexican thing." It was Hadrian's voice. Very likely his name was not Hadrian.

"I've told my story to the press," Dan replied. He did not move from the cot.

"I'm aware of that. But there are those who don't believe the story has been told in full. We want details, details of your involvement in the shootings of the seven Mexicans and of the American, Bernie Bate. He was shot, you know. Bullet in the shoulder, likely killed him."

"There was shooting everywhere down there. Bad scene. Bad day at the beach."

"I'd say so. Incidentally, we wish you no harm. It's our intention to take the best care of you. And we don't want to turn you over to the Mexican authorities, even though they're wild to get their hands on you."

"That makes my day, Hadrian. I hadn't really thought much about the Mexicans, but since you mentioned it, I'd rather stay in Portugal. It's a big ocean."

"Indeed, a large ocean, a great expanse of water, but made small by jet aircraft. You see, if we have to, we will give you to the Mexicans. They've an embassy in Lisbon, as you might have guessed."

"I would guess that. What purpose would it serve to hand me over to Mexico?" The very thought sickened him even more. The Mexicans would make a circus out of an investigation and trial of an American who admitted to shooting and killing seven of their nations, men who up until that time had been peaceful villagers.

"It would not serve our purpose well. That is why, if we can get your statement in writing and on videotape, and it has the ring of authenticity, you'll be free to go on your way. Incidentally, that's a lovely young lady who lives in your building."

"Yes, she is lovely." Dan did not want to go to Mexico and he did not want to betray Ramona. He supposed he would rather go to Mexico. "I don't think I can add to my story. I've told it to the press not once, but twice."

"Look at it this way, Dan. If I may be informal. If we notify the Mexican embassy that we've got you and they send the Portuguese police and they go through the relatively simple extradition proceedings for an accused mass murderer, Ramona would likely come to your aid, if indeed she is not blameless and if indeed there is something between you."

"You're bluffing, Hadrian. Playing poker. There is no more to the story."

"Fine. But if there is and if, as you say, we're playing poker, Ramona will probably expose her hand once you are in a Mexican jail. She'll try to make a deal, which probably means she'll take some of the blame for the slaughter down there. She might even incriminate herself and you too. Who knows."

"Well, we'll just have to wait and see," Dan said.

"And we will wait and see," Hadrian said. "It's Friday night. The embassy's probably closed. So you'll have until Monday to think about it. At that time we go to the Mexicans and you will be transported, like a prized piece of beef, to Mexico City and thence to the bar of justice. Mexican style."

Dan said nothing. He lay looking at the ceiling and wondered what it was made of. It had a new coat of rough plaster. The walls, he knew, were concrete block, the floor, concrete over hard-packed earth. The ceiling was the only possibility.

First he would sleep.

There was no window, so he didn't immediately know how long he had slept. But the overhead light was still on and he glance at his watch. Twelve thirty. Just after midnight. Silently, he lay on the cot and listened. No sounds. Not even night sounds. The room was insulated against the outer world.

Again he considered the top pick of escape routes and again he settled on the ceiling. In his pocket were a Swiss army knife, a half roll of anti-acid tablets and a few Portuguese coins.

Quietly Dan pulled the cot to the center of the room, climbed on it and unscrewed the light bulb. He could easily touch the ceiling. For several minutes he gouged at the ceiling with his knife with little result. The plaster or stucco coating seemed to be applied to a hardwood surface.

He considered turning the light bulb back into its socket. There was really no reason to work in the dark.

"Dan," a voice from the darkness said. "You can't escape." It was Hadrian. Dan said nothing. "We assumed you may have had a knife in your pocket. People do carry them, usually for the corkscrew. Incidentally, I can push a bottle of wine in for you. Would you like that?"

Dan thought a moment. "Yes, I'd like that. Then we could talk."

"Good," Hadrian said. "It's good to talk. You'll find just how hopeless your situation is. I will say, you sleep well. Not the nervous sort."

"I have a pure heart."

Hadrian chuckled. He was back in five minutes with a bottle of red wine. Dan had screwed the light back and sat on his cot with the opened bottle and a paper cup Hadrian had given him. "Not a very elegant way to drink wine."

"We can't bother with crystal, dear boy. Now, you have something to say?"

"Yes, a question. What or who do you represent?"

"No fair, Dan. You're our prisoner, not the other way around. We get to ask the questions. Maybe next year you can take us prisoner, then you can ask. You could even be mean to us, don't you see, but we're kind to you. Wine. And in the morning fried chicken."

"It is the morning."

"Just after midnight. Fried chicken after the sun is up. I will tell you some things, though. The ceiling is made of oak planks screwed into the beams. If you have a knife, you might cut through after six months or so. But you'll be off to Mexico on Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest, unless you decide to help us. You'll be in Mexico for a long time, Dan."

"This isn't bad wine."

"It's local." Hadrian was silent for a full minute. "If you do escape, Dan, one of the two of us will shoot you in the leg. So painful. If we should happen to miss, which is unlikely, we'd notify the local constabulary. They'd definitely hold you for the Mexican authorities. So drink the wine, have a nice sleep and forget about escape."

"I'd still like to know who you're working for. You know you're not the only one with an interest in my welfare."

"We know that. Or the organization does. But we want to keep you alive and you know why."

"Dead men tell no tales."

"I couldn't have worded it in more concise English. After you talk, you'll be safe."

"What if I have nothing to say?"

"Dan, dear boy. How you do go on. Use your imagination. If you want, I'll brief out a scenario."

"No thanks. I'm a sphinx."

"If you maintain that line you will have years and years filled with regrets. You'll be kicking the wall in a dirty Mexican jail cell, wondering why every friend you ever had has deserted you, wondering after your precious Ramona."

"Oh, cut the shit. I'm sleepy." Dan punched the cork back into the wine bottle.

"One other thing before your nap. We have the ability to fill your room with tear gas. That would be very uncomfortable. So try to remain calm."

"Calm? I'm going to sleep, Hadrian. This wine is great stuff. Please, order me another bottle with breakfast."

Dan didn't drift instantly into sleep. Hadrian was right. His plight seemed hopeless. There was no escape and if they ever got him into Mexico and directly into a high-security prison, his life could be a living hell. He would be marked as the man who shot down seven villagers in cold blood.

But the option? Let the whole story out? Never. Of course if they tortured him. But who would do that Not even the Mexican prison authorities would risk that.

But there might be a chance. A slim chance. Mistakes were made, agendas bungled. Patience. His best bet was to hold his cool and wait for that split second chance. Watch and wait. And in the meantime, enjoy what pleasures he could. He pulled the cork from the wine and took a long swallow directly from the bottle.

In the morning, with Hadrian apparently grabbing a few winks, Rose Gay brought him a breakfast of fried chicken and fried potatoes.

"Finger food," she said in her broad accent. She was quite cheerful, probably sensing that payday was near. "We can't have you playing with knives and forks now, can we?"

"I'd like to play with a cup of coffee, and some salt for this heap of fried food might be good."

"This isn't a public house, you know, but that seems a simple enough request. I had planned on tea, but I do have coffee on hand. But no complaints, mind you."

Both the chicken and potatoes were well cooked, which was more than one would normally expect from an English kitchen. With the salt, it was a nice meal. An odd breakfast, but a nice meal.

"I suppose you don't care if I get my green vegetables," Dan said when she returned with the coffee.

"My, no. You won't be here long. You'll be eating tortillas and beans before you know it. Comprende?"

"Yo, mama. You're selling me into slavery. For shame."

"The farthest thing from our wishes. We're gentle people, really. Nice old chaps from jolly old, don't you know. If you'd just tell the truth. All we ask is a modicum of honesty. Not too much to ask. We might even arrange a modest financial reward for you."

"I've already been offered a king's ransom. Turned it down."

Rose perked up. "Really, by whom?"

"No one you know, but I suppose someone closely allied with whomever it is who is paying you." Could it be the same group, Dan wondered. "Maybe it is the same group. The person who made the offer to me in Italy had the identical objective in mind."

"What happened when you turned him down?"

"Nothing. In fact, he and a couple of his friends gave me a helping hand. It's a long story and I won't bore you."

"You wouldn't be boring me," Rose said. She and Hadrian had spent a lifetime as part of the intelligence community, working for whoever would pay the highest price. She knew that any scrap of information might be of some value.

"That's about the story. Apparently, whatever organization it is felt they were making an open and aboveboard offer. They must have some ethics."

"You mean unlike us," Rose said.

"Yes, unlike you. If you know anything about the Mexican incident, you know I had no choice but to kill those bandits. They were murderers and brutal rapists. And I was next on their list. Then Mrs. Keen."

"They were also husbands and fathers," Rose said.

"I imagine Jack the Ripper liked to listen to the merry village chime and occasionally go a courting."

"Well, I am sorry. So is Hadrian. But it's not like you don't have a choice."

Dan got up and walked around his cot. He wished there was a window in the room. Confinement would be a problem. "If I concoct some sort of a story it could be the political finish for Ramona Keen. She seems well positioned to follow her husband into the presidency, meaning she would be the first woman leader of the free world. Think of your gender! What you and Hadrian may be doing is attempting to change the course of American politics and indirectly the course of global democracy, if there is such a thing. Who are you to assume such a responsibility? Who appointed you to such a sensitive position?"

"We work for money. We've been hired to do a rather simple job. Snare you, give you a choice. That's it."

"You're tampering with something you don't fully understand. It could backfire. There are people who would silence their servants because the servants might be too gabby. Loose lips kill Brits."

"We don't talk. We're pros."

Dan thought he might be getting someplace. "It's not what you do, it's what they perceive that you might do. If you could find who it is that is paying you. If you could at some future date expose them as the group that captured Dan Reeves and sent him to a Mexican prison, you would do mortal damage to a very powerful group of people."

"How do you know they're powerful?" Rose questioned.

"Because they were smart enough to find you and hire you, because they were powerful enough to put you on my trail. I'm not in the phone book."

"Of course, it's true. They are powerful. But suppose they have need for us in the future?"

"And suppose pigs fly. Two bullets would put the two of you away. You could be shot down like a rabbit on a ride and no one would care – a couple of over-aged spies who should have retired years ago."

"There's no joy in retirement, Mr. Reeves. We'll stick to our guns and play the cards we're dealt."

"You'll also mix metaphors until hell won't have it. What's for lunch?"

"No lunch. Two meals a day. But dinner will be scrumptious and served with a bottle of wine."

"Dandy."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sunday afternoon and Dan was bored to tears staring at the ceiling. Hadrian and Rose Gay sat in their small living room reading paperbacks. Tomorrow they would discharge their obligation, be rid of their charge, collect the remainder of their fee and be off to parts unknown.

Unknown even to them. They had no plan. But Rose had talked seriously to Hadrian over the possibility of an assassin being sent to silence them. Hadrian had already considered that possibility on his own.

There was a tapping at the front door. Both glanced toward the door, then looked at one another. "Shall I get the revolver?" Rose asked.

"No. It's probably nothing nefarious. Maybe a peasant selling vegetables, or figs, or whatever peasants sell. There are quite a lot of figs, you know."

The tapping sounded again and Hadrian rose and went to the door. It was not a peasant. It appeared to be a tourist. Hadrian guessed American. "May I come in?" the man asked with a smile.

"May I ask your purpose, sir?"

"I'm looking for a man. A fellow American named Dan Reeves. A young lady down the way, Kate, I believe her name is, said she saw him enter this cottage a couple of days ago. She hasn't seen him since. It's quite puzzling."

"I should say so. By all means, step inside. But I'm afraid we can't help you." Hadrian didn't like the looks of this. There was something sinister, almost cat-like, about this American. He wished Rose had gotten the revolver. They kept it in a drawer by their bed.

"You don't know where he is then?"

"No." Hadrian turned to Rose. Even though she had heard the entire conversation, he said, "This young man is looking for that Mr. Reeves who dropped by here on Friday. He asked direction to a type of hotel. I believe it's called the Residencia Dom Henrique."

"He was looking to move out of his apartment?"

"No, I don't think so. This Dom Henrique has a good sea view and you can walk from there to the beach. I think that's what he had in mind. Poor devil, perhaps he drowned."

"Perhaps he did." The tourist smiled a predatory smile. "Do you mind if I look around your cottage in case he got lost somewhere in here?"

Hadrian was taken aback. What gall this man had. Brass balls. But he didn't know which way to jump. If they could just get to the revolver. This man might be as dangerous as he looked. "Of course we mind. Don't you believe us?"

"Not really," the man said calmly. "I've checked around the village. It seems that no one has seen Mr. Reeves since he entered this cottage. I know it sounds odd, but I'd like to help a fellow American if he's in trouble. I happen to have a small pistol in my pocket." As he spoke, the pistol, a small caliber revolver, was no longer in his pocket but in his hand.

"Should we put our hands up?" Hadrian asked.

"No need. Just take me to Mr. Reeves. If I have to find him myself, I just might get angry and do something untoward."

"I understand." Rose was about to enter the conversation, but Hadrian stopped her with a glance. "Let me ask you first, what shall I call you?"

"You can call me John."

"Well, John, we have a situation here. You see this Dan Reeves, and he is an American tourist and poses as such, just as you say. You see, he is a killer wanted by the Mexican authorities."

"Oh, a thousand pardons," John said apologetically. "I didn't realize the two of you are Mexican police. You sound almost British."

"Yes." Hadrian smiled. He enjoyed a good joke as much as the next man. "We aren't Mexican nationals or police. We are good citizens and intend to call the Mexican police. We do have Mr. Reeves confined on the premises."

"Then you're running a small jail here, something of a private prison to incarcerate the odd miscreant who happens along. Am I right? Have I hit it?"

Rose also smiled. She loved dark humor and sensed the three of them might be in the same line of work.

"No, John," Hadrian said. "We recognized this man as being wanted by the authorities, and hastily fixed up a room with a stout door. He's in there now, but well taken care of. We've given him humane treatment and I'm certain the Mexicans will see that he is well cared for and receives the justice he deserves."

"A very pretty speech. Now, if you'll take me to Mr. Reeves, we'll broaden the conversation from a trio to a quartet. It might be fun to hear him talk for a few minutes." He lifted the gun, gesturing toward it with his head. "This weapon can go off. I assume you also have one somewhere around the premises. I suggest you stay far away from it if you value your good health and the few years on earth you might have remaining."

"I understand perfectly," Hadrian said. He nodded to Rose and they both marched ahead of John, now well aware of his abilities. He was an accomplished brigand.

At the blank door they paused. There was no lock, only the handle and a couple of bolts. Hadrian threw the bolts and opened the door.

Dan was standing in the center of the room, looking at the three of them. He saw Hadrian and Rose first. Then he recognized the man behind them, the man holding the gun. It was John Lusk Agrella. If he had been in the frying pan before, he seemed about to hop into the fire.

"This American, this fellow American, his name is John," Hadrian said lamely. "He's concerned about your welfare."

"I always try to be of help to fellow countrymen," John said. He didn't think that Dan knew his identity. How could he? But some odd things had happened in Italy. He didn't want to shoot the three of them on the spot. There was the girl down the lane. He would have to do her too.

"Come out of there, Reeves." He backed up down the short hall. When Dan was out, John ordered the Gays into the room and he slammed the door and threw the bolts back into place. "The hunters become the prisoners," he said, pocketing the gun, but keeping a close eye on Dan. "Let's get out of here."

They walked through the cottage and out onto the dusty road. "You might wonder who I am and what I'm doing," John said. "Well, I'm just a traveler who likes to carry his own protection. The girl up the lane tipped me off that something odd might be happening. She said an American was involved, so I came to help."

"Like the cavalry," Dan said, forcing a smile. He attempted to carry on the charade with an explanation. "Those two, I don't know who they are, maybe bounty hunters of some kind. The Mexican government wants me on a trumped up charge. I'll explain it to you over a beer if you've got the time. You certainly have my gratitude."

John appeared thoughtful. "I've got a car and I'm just passing through. I'll be happy to drive you out of the Algarve. I'm driving up to Toledo to see the sights." He paused and winked. "Maybe we could find us a couple of sweet señoritas."

In a split second Dan said, "I'm game. Someone will find those two and they'll make a nuisance of themselves again. Give me a couple of minutes to get my stuff together. I travel light."

John nodded and fell in beside him. When they reached the apartment, Kate came out and shouted to Dan. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I was tied up for the weekend," he called back. "I've got to get some stuff from my apartment. I'll be right back out."

John stuck to him like glue. He was just behind him in the kitchen with Kate following. "Just a minute," she almost shouted, "tell me what's going on?"

Dan turned to say something, and as he did John had also turned to face the angry young woman. Dan's opportunity had come. He seized the large earthenware vessel he had used for the fish, hefted it and smashed it down on the back of John's head. The man crumpled like a house of cards.

"Oh, shit," Kate said. She drew back in horror. "What's going on?"

Dan grinned slightly as he rifled John's clothing and found the pistol. "The two people in the cottage kidnapped me. This man wants to kill me." He paused to examine the weapon, check the cylinder for shells. "You don't mean me harm, do you, Kate?"

"I think the paranoids are after you." She fumed for a moment. "Dan, this man was your friend. He came looking for you to help you!"

Dan stood up and faced Kate. "This man said he was my friend. This man is John Lusk Agrella, an escaped lifer and probably a homicidal maniac. He's been given his freedom and paid handsomely to kill me. He tried before in Florence and almost succeeded." He jammed the pistol in his pocket.

"Could you please tell me exactly what's going on? You aren't the jaded retiree, the tourist, you seem to be."

"But I am. Just a tired old man."

"You didn't seem so tired and old the other night."

He wondered if he could fully trust Kate. She was right. Paranoia was setting in, and for good reason. "Help me get this man stashed away and I'll fill you in. I think there's a wheelbarrow around back. If you'll get it, I'll tie John up and drag him outside."

"We're going to take him someplace in a wheelbarrow?"

"Would you rather carry him? Hurry, Kate, before he comes around."

She was out the door. Dan did a more careful examination of his pockets and found car keys, wallet, plus passport and extra cash in a pouch around his neck. He took everything. Then he ripped up a kitchen towel and tied the unconscious man's hands and feet.

Kate pushed the door open and shouted, "Your wheelbarrow's arrived, sir."

Dan smiled. There was nothing so reassuring as the good cheer of the young. He half dragged, half carried John out the door and dumped him into the barrow. Then he darted back inside and collected a throw from the couch, returned to the barrow and placed it over the body draped in the barrow.

Then the two of them started up the dusty lane, Dan balancing and pushing the heavy vehicle, Kate trailing along behind. They met no one.

At the Brit's cottage, Kate held the door while Dan lugged the body back to the locked door of the hastily assembled cell. He carefully pulled the revolver from his pants pocket.

"Unlock the door, open it and jump back." He looked at Kate. She didn't move. "Please."

"That's better." She moved to the door and did as she was told.

When the door was open, Dan called. "Hadrian, come on out here." No sound. He could not see fully into the room, just the end of the cot. "Come on, Hadrian. Remember, I can fill the room with tear gas if I take a notion."

Slowly the old spy walked into the doorway. There was an instant flare of surprise in his eyes when he saw the supine body and Kate standing nearby. He looked at Dan and said, "You've been busy."

"Yes. Drag him into your room."

Hadrian gave him a questioning look and said, "Me. Drag him into this room?"

"That's correct." He motioned with the pistol and the old man complied.

"He's bloody heavy."

When he had pulled the body through the doorway, Dan said, "That's far enough. Now carefully, remove your wallet from your pocket and toss it into the hall." Hadrian did as he was told. Rose cautiously peeked around the corner of the doorway to see what was going on.

"We've no food, you know." She was the practical one.

"We'll pass a few things in," Dan said. Then he slammed the door tight and bolted it. He handed Kate Hadrian's wallet and said, "Let's raid the kitchen. They may be in there for a couple of days."

"What's in there?" Kate questioned.

"A cot, a toilet, a wash basin. They fixed up a cell for me."

"I don't understand it."

"I'll explain." They found an assortment of food and three bottles of wine and passed them in to Rose and Hadrian through the small opening. As an afterthought, Dan said, "By the way, John's an escaped convict and a professional killer. You'll find him lively company." Then he shoved the small pocket door to the opening shut and latched it.

As they hustled from the cottage, Kate asked, "Will they be all right in there?"

"I'm sure. There's plenty of water, enough food and sanitary facilities."

"But an odd trio."

"Yes. Where's John's car?"

"Parked in back of our apartment. Are you going to steal it?"

"I'm going to use it, Kate. I'm getting out of the Algarve. John is a killer and he will know that you know he's a killer. So you can come with me if you like."

"It does sound like an adventure. Is there time to pack?"

"A little. I'm going to get my things. What do you say?" He had decided to trust Kate.

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Fine."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

They drove north on the local road through Vilado Bispo on the quiet Sunday evening. At Alfambra they hit the main highway just as the deep shades of dusk were flowing into the stream of night. Despite the curious activities of the day, it was a pleasant drive, the two of them moving together through ancient Portugal, each with their own thoughts, but somehow joined, if only for a moment, by the sweep of events.

As they drove, Dan explained what had happened, and Kate asked an occasional question. She was discreet enough not to ask what had happened in Mexico.

Dan had decided that it would not be next year, it would not be the devil's joke. He must return to America and face whatever it was that had to be faced. Now he had no plan except to drive into Lisbon, park the car somewhere and then get himself ticketed for the States.

"Do you have any idea what you're going to do?" he asked Kate.

She feigned shock. "You mean you'd leave me?"

"Well, yes. I mean, why would you think otherwise?"

"After what's passed between us?" It was entirely dark, only the glow from the instrument panel, but Dan could tell she had barely stifled a laugh.

"You women," he said. "You're just like Sweet Nose."

"Sweet Nose," Kate said in surprise. This time she did laugh. "Who, might I ask, is Sweet Nose?"

"Oh, a woman I met in France, in Provence. She was, is, an innkeeper."

"Dan, you mean there've been others?" Again, she was acting.

"Yes, others, my sweet virgin girl."

"And one with the dreadfully romantic name of Sweet Nose."

The car purred north, passing near Santiago do Cacem, where there was a castle. Originally, the settlement was created by the Arabs and then rebuilt by Christians in the thirteenth century. Dan was pleased with the car, a VW. His first thought had been to abandon it in Lisbon, but now he considered driving it to the airport and turning it in to the agency. He did have all the papers.

Kate was quiet. Dan suspected she had dozed off. Then as they neared the large city of Setubal, she stirred and asked, "Where are we?"

He told her and added that there was a drowned Roman city not far away. "It's called Cetobriga. It was engulfed by the sea in the year 412."

"How do they know?" she asked.

"How do they know what?"

"When it was engulfed, or drowned, or sunk, whatever."

"Several ways to tell. Coins for one thing. The most recent date. They probably found one marked 412."

"What are the other ways?"

"Cultural things. Pottery and other artifacts. They compare them with other settlements, other dates. They're pretty precise these days."

"But we'll never really know, will we?"

"Nor care, I imagine. What does it matter?"

"How true," she said dreamily. "All that matters is the two of us, together in our own universe, clinging to this spaceship earth forever." She edged over toward him and cuddled up and ran her hand over his chest. "Do you think as much of me as you do of Sweet Nose?"

"I suspect I do. After all, you're here and she's somewhere else."

"Pining away for her Señor Gringo."

"I shouldn't have told you that."

"I remember reading it now. But tell me, how can you stand to break the heart of Sweet Nose?"

"She has a lover who lives in Marseille. He's a sailor. She also has a husband somewhere. He apparently ran away. Writes to her now and then asking for money. She never sends him any."

"The sponger."

"Well, technically, he owns half the inn. There is some legitimacy to his appeals."

"You know, Dan, I think you have a thing going with Ramona."

"Don't be childish."

So I'm being childish. Well ha, ha, ha. I'm certain of it now."

"Now you're being juvenile."

She pressed herself against him as much as she could in the front seat of a VW. "And I suppose you're the man who loves juveniles. We're just playthings for you, aren't we? Something to be toyed with."

"I've got your toy."

"Can we get a hot tub suite in Lisbon? I'd like to strip naked and sit in a hot tub with you and drink wine. Does that sound degenerate enough for your mature tastes?"

"Sure, why not. We can afford a hot tub. Hell, I've got John's wallet and the Brit's wallet in my bag. They must have some money. I've also got John's passport and an extra wad of his cash. We'll get champagne."

"Will room service bring things to naked people in a hot tub?" She massaged his body with her hand.

"Please, kitten, just a few more miles."

"Ten kilometers to be exact. I just saw a sign. Let's get a room at the first big motel we see. I like 'kitten.' It sounds more romantic than Sweet Nose. You won't treat me like you treated her, will you Dan?" A pleading note in her voice as she buried her head in his chest and shoulder. She was grinning like a chessy cat, enjoying the game. "I mean do it to me and then abandon me to the cruel world."

"Not to worry, kitten," Dan purred. "I thought we'd spend at least two days together."

"Oh, yummy. My prince has arrived."

***

President Keen had just come in from the Rose Garden. He had been out there congratulating a group of athletes on winning some sort of an international prize. He still wasn't certain just what the prize was, or what sport they played. But they had all left in high spirits, off to have lunch with the Vice President in the Old Executive Office Building.

Carolyn Kendrick was waiting for him in the Oval Office. She came close to his ear and spoke in a low voice. "Dan Reeves has returned to the States."

"How is that possible?" Keen whispered.

"It's possible all right. Our lad missed him in Portugal, actually confronted him. It's not a pretty story."

"If he's here, where is he? This should make it easy. Home turf and all."

Carolyn rubbed the back of her head. This whole affair had gone awry. It was to be so easy. Reeves was just not an easy man to kill. "The plane landed in Atlanta and he skedaddled. One thing is against us. Americans don't use passports. Reeves can change his name. He looks like a thousand other men his age. And he could shave his beard, shave his head, dye his hair."

"You're being negative, Carolyn. But tell me, why is he here? Why would he come back?"

"We've got him on the run, we've spooked him. Maybe he's seeking cover, or maybe not."

"And what is this 'maybe not'?" Keen was aware that Reeves was a man to reckoned with. He had proved it at least twice in Europe.

"If he doesn't intend to hide, he could be a very dangerous man. He's unpredictable."

"Then get him. That's the bottom line. Get him. Nail his ass. One man, one fugitive. It shouldn't be so hard. Bring me good news next time, Carolyn. I like good news."

Quite often in recent months Carolyn had thought of pitching it and getting away from the White House, away from the encircling beltway and away from odious politics. She was still young. Young enough, anyway. Her husband had left her in disgust a month after Keen was elected.

She could still see him standing in the doorway of their Watergate apartment, bags in hand. "You're married to your job, kid. I'm shaking the dust of this Punch and Judy town." He was somewhere in the north Georgia mountains, writing poetry, learning to be a potter and brewing his own beer.

Carolyn had always thought she would like to bake bread, but right now she had a man to kill. It wasn't like she had a choice. Reeves was a threat to the administration. And, hey, he had gunned down the Mexicans, hadn't he? So she got at it.

Ramona had almost bumped into Carolyn as she was leaving the President's office. She said a quick "Hi" as they passed just outside the door.

Dennis looked up from his desk as he wife entered and said, "You might at least knock."

Ramona lifted her eyebrows in mock shock. "Your secretary's at her desk, so I didn't think I'd be interrupting anything."

"Snide remarks aside, I am the President. There is the business of the state."

"I'd like to ask a favor, Dennis." She slumped into a big leather chair near his desk. "Dan Reeves was nearly assassinated in Florence. He did escape, and I'm assuming he's still alive, but I've given it some thought and the only person or group of persons that might benefit from his absolute and continuing silence are you and me. And I'm not trying to kill him."

"You're inferring that I am?"

"I don't know, Dennis. It could be someone in the party, or it could be some higher-ups in the administration. Someone sent a professional killer to knock him off. I have this on the best authority."

"I'm sure," Dennis said coldly. "I'd like to hear about that authority."

"There's enough intrigue going on in this town without adding to it. You hear things, I hear things. Someone's trying to kill him."

"Well, I hope you don't think I'm involved."

"I'm not accusing you, Dennis. But if he is killed, and I find out that you were involved, you'd better kill me too. Because that would be the final straw."

"What are you saying, Ramona?" Dennis had become deadly serious. He had seldom seen Ramona in such a mood.

"If you have nothing to do with this plot, or whatever it is, you at least should be able to stop it. You are the head of the administration and the titular head of the party. So call off the dogs."

"There's something maybe you don't know. A village girl in Mexico was with this Bernie Bate just before he died. He told her that the wife of the American President shot him. Can you believe that?"

"I've heard stories and rumors of stories. Anybody can make up a story." Ramona wondered what was next to come.

"There was a reason to exhume Bate's body and do a thorough autopsy. A bullet was found in his shoulder, probably fired from the rear. The bullet was duly sent to Washington. It's ninety-nine percent certain that it came from the gun carried by your secret service man, Bob Rose." Dennis talked quietly, seldom looking in Ramona's direction.

"And this bullet struck some vital organ?"

"No," Dennis said quickly. "Not at all. It was a minor wound, but Bate was kept in this village. They gave him to some witch woman and the wound festered. It may have caused his death. It might have been the water or the food. He did die, but there's this story from the village girl. What do you make of it?"

Ramona made plenty of it. Dennis was making a pitch for her to turn coat and join the sullen assembly that wanted to see Dan Reeves put to death. "Where is this village girl?"

"Fortunately, she dropped out of sight."

Ramona almost gasped. "Murdered?" she demanded.

"Certainly not," Dennis insisted. "She took a trip, maybe for good. I mean you know what those villages are – poverty. There are cities in Chile, or Argentina, or other South American countries. Wherever she is, she has probably improved herself."

"I suppose you think being sold to a Bolivian bordello would be an improvement?"

"Of course not," the President fumed. "She's okay, wherever she is. What do you have to say?"

"I say call of the dogs. Reeves doesn't deserve to die. He saved my life and I have the right to do what I can to have his spared."

"I'll look into it and do what I can." As he said this he was staring at his desk, not looking at his wife. She knew he was playacting, but she had tried. And she had meant every word of the threat she had made earlier.

"Look, Ramona, we have other things to talk about. Bill Ellison has suggested a four-region tour for the two of us, promoting this universal draft thing. It's catching on like wildfire, but the flames need a little fanning. We want to make sure the administration's brand is on it. It's our baby."

"Fine, it's your baby. You're the President. You go on tour."

"But it's not just my baby, Ramona. Everyone knows it was your idea. The two of us would be on the tour, so would Stovall and his wife."

"The famous bubble-headed hostess."

"She's not such a bad person. You should cultivate her. Stovall might be your running mate someday."

"And chickens might lay golden eggs."

"Well, anyway, I told Ellison the first rally should be in the south."

"Atlanta?" Ramona asked.

"No. Too big. Too much hustle. We'd be lost there. A smaller place."

"Like Birmingham?"

"I don't think so. Too Alabama. Too red neck. What I was thinking of is a place where three or four states come together. We could draw from them all, have congressmen on board from all these states. We want congress to get the idea that it absolutely must enact the Keen draft program. How does that sound?"

"You're suggesting northern Georgia."

"There's nothing in northern Georgia. But Asheville, North Carolina, would be perfect. It's a mountain city, good mix. Retired people, tourists, locals. And there's South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee and Virginia not far away."

"That's five states."

"I can count," Dennis scowled. "The more the merrier. All southern cities have some sort of a big square. We'll have a band. Maybe two or three bands. Bunting. Cheer leaders, refreshments. An old-time political rally. You'll be the queen of the mountains."

"And you'll transport the White House press corps?"

Dennis leaned forward, excitement in his eyes. "That's the beautiful part, Ramona. It's not that far from Washington. Maybe ten hours, maybe a little more. We'll invite not only the White House press corps, but every reporter in Washington, plus the locals from the five-state area. We'll even toss in Alabama and Florida. What the hell, Louisiana too."

Ramona laughed. "Everyone's going to drive to Asheville?"

"No. We'll charter busses at the party's expense. Not a dime of taxpayer money will be spent. We can assess the press a small fee, maybe fifty dollars per person to make it look good."

"A real dog and pony show. At least it's something different. When will this big event take place?"

"In exactly two weeks. And if it's a hit, we'll do it in the west, northwest and northeast. Bang, bang, bang, bang. Universal conscription. Everyone climbs aboard Uncle Sam's bandwagon. It will make this country come to life again. The heart will throb. Things will get moving PDQ."

"Okay, I'll go. Do I have to ride in a bus?"

"Yes. You, me and the Stovalls, one of us on each of four busses. We might switch busses halfway, or get on other busses."

"Dennis, you're crazy. You're talking ten hours on a bus, and we're supposed to entertain the press for the entire time?"

Dennis shrugged. "We'll have a few seats reserved and a time for sleep. We'll start the night before. Roll through the night, a convoy of busses headed for Asheville, headed for the great universal conscription roundup. It's theater, Ramona, high drama. This will dig deep into the consciousness of the American people, whip them into a patriotic frenzy. I believe I've found my place in history."

"It sounds more like Mickey Mouse time. But I'll go. Just don't make me plan it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

After Dan's plane touched down in Atlanta, he was wary of renting a car and he was also hesitant about remaining in Atlanta, even overnight. The power and reach of his enemies had been demonstrated to him three times over. Four, really, if both encounters with John Lusk Agrella were counted.

He took a limousine to downtown Atlanta, found the bus station and bought a ticket to Chattanooga, arriving there just before dark and checking into a comfortable but cheap hotel in the downtown area.

His first concern was a good night's sleep, and the next day he prowled the small downtown area for a good newsstand. Purchasing as many news magazines and out-of-town newspapers as he could, he returned to his hotel and caught up on the events he had missed in recent weeks.

Not much had happened in the States. As usual, he was appalled by the crime stories. But who wasn't? And bestial wars and growing religious unrest.

That evening he had chicken fried steak, greasy potatoes, breaded okra, overly sweetened iced tea and a stale roll served on a plastic plate atop a Formica counter at a nearby café. He ate with a bent fork that had been made in Japan. Dan then carried six cans of beer up to his room, drank three, squashed a bug that was crawling across the threadbare carpet, watched TV for a few minutes and went to sleep with a red and blue neon sign flashing just outside his window and part of the mattress sticking into his ribs.

His final recollection of the evening was of a police siren screaming by in the street below followed by the heavier bellow of a fire engine. Was this the life of a bon vivant?

The following morning he brooded around his hotel room for an hour before deciding to make the plunge. He found a comfortable phone booth in a large office building, used a credit card and punched in the White House number, his access to the President.

A recorded voice told him the number was no longer in service.

No more access. He was out in the cold.

He bought a morning paper and holed up at a back booth of a good hotel coffee shop. He would drink coffee, read the paper and think about his next move, think about staying alive. He had a clear view of the door, expecting that any minute John Lusk Agrella, or Hadrian and Rose Gay, might come strolling in with a gun in their pockets and blood in their eyes.

The headline jumped out at him: WHITE HOUSE PLANS ASHEVILLE GALA.

It suddenly came clear. He would not have to go to the White House. The White House would come to him. Asheville was just over the mountain wall.

The wheels were turning rapidly in his head. There was no time to lose.

***

Chuck Pederson had his coat off, thrown over a nearby chair, and his diagonally striped tie loosened. A paddle fan turned lazily overhead. Several people, mostly older women, were busy stuffing envelopes at four long folding tables, the type often used by restaurants for banquets. Outside the large storefront in red, white and blue letters was a large sign on which was printed: Buncombe County Democratic HQ.

Buncombe County was in eight-inch high letters, while the remainder of the sign was in huge letters that could be read from the far side of Pack Square, the place where the Asheville rally was to be held.

Pederson, the county Democratic chairman, had taken a full week off from his law practice to coordinate the rally. There were hotel reservations to deal with, the advance party of secret servicemen, caterers, fundraising, press credentials, a very expensive wooden platform and sound system, and a million other details.

The state party, the boys from Raleigh, had sent a coordinator, and a five-person delegation was on hand from the national party. Yet all the details and headaches seemed to end up in Pederson's lap.

An hour ago, he had finished lunching with national and state party people just across the street from Pack Square with its bronze turkey and pig statues. He had come away with a substantial list of requests.

At the moment the white haired man with the fringe of white beard entered the storefront, Pederson was thinking of tossing the list in the wastebasket and going out for a scotch and whatever. He watched the man, a stranger, as he questioned one of the volunteers, then made his way toward his desk. Everything was referred to the chairman, and this might mean another problem.

"Presley Largebush," the white haired man said, pausing in front of his desk.

Pederson assumed this was the man's way of introducing himself. He guessed the mid-fifties, a fairly powerful man, but slightly overweight. Tanned features, intelligent eyes, neatly dressed in casual clothing.

Always the politician, the chairman half rose and shook the newcomer's hand. "Chuck Pederson, county chairman. We haven't met before, have we?"

"No, I'm new in town. Retired. Lifelong Democrat. Thought I might help out with the rally." Dan Reeves looked around him. "Maybe stuff envelopes, or something." Standing there, he wondered if he had been a bit too flamboyant in picking the name Largebush. It certainly had a ring to it.

"We need all the help we can get, Mr. Largebush. Have a chair."

Dan dropped into a much-used captain's chair. "Please, call me Press. I'm just another retiree in a city of retirees."

"Some of us still work," Pederson replied. "What did you do before retiring?"

"Public relations mostly." It was true, but if he named the college he had worked for, there might be problems, so he lied. "I had my own small firm in Chicago."

"Chicago," Pederson said, his eyes showing a spark. "A hotbed of Democratic politics. I'll bet you were involved in some of that, Press."

"Oh, yes. I've been through the wars." He was feeling right at home. Public relations, politics, fundraising, they had been his bread and butter. There were no politics quite as fierce as faculty politics.

"I can spot a professional when I see one, Press. You may be just the man I'm looking for. You see, I'm bogged down in a sea of demands from the state party, the national party, the media, party moguls from throughout the south. You are looking at a man who should have been galvanized into action, but actually I'm suffering from overload paralysis. In other words, I need help. And no competent local has yet come forth."

"If I can do something?"

These were the words Pederson wanted to hear. "Where do you live, Press?"

"I'm at a B and B out off Merrimon. Looking for a house. Think I may have spotted one up on Town Mountain Road."

"Good spot," Pederson said, knowing full well in a good snow he might be stuck up on that mountain for a few days. "Natural air conditioning up there."

"I thought so."

"So you have no pressing problems?"

"No. Not for at least a month. My wife's still in Florida." In chatting with the owners of the B and B, Dan had learned the typical profile of a retiree was to move to Florida from some northern state, then grow tired of the heat and flat boredom and make the move to the mountains.

"I see. You're as free as a bird."

"Right."

"Then why not take over as my public relations deputy. You're a professional. That's what I need. I've had a couple of offers from people who would do the job for a price, but you can't believe the price. I mean, we're a small party organization in the mountains of western North Carolina. This is a fascinating area, but it's not all that big and there aren't that many Democrats. I mean the fat cats put their money where their bank accounts are."

"I understand," Dan said. He was trying to keep from showing his immense joy at this entrée, while at the same time assessing the danger of exposure. Sure it would be lower profile to stuff envelopes, but with this he would regain access to the roots of power, even access to the President and the First Lady. "I'd like to do it. As I understand it, the main event's just over a week away. I can give it full time."

"Full time might mean fourteen hours a day," Pederson said.

"I know. But it will give me a crash course in area politics, who's who and so forth. It's worth something to me."

"You can pay me," Pederson laughed. He got up from his seat and insisted that Dan move around the desk and sit down. Then he gave him the stack of requests he had accumulated and called to a woman who was talking to a group across the room. "Kristen, come over here please."

The middle-aged woman approached and Chuck Pederson introduced her as his personal secretary, Kristen Hilton. "The two of us have given up the practice of law until this shindig's over. If people just knew what I'm giving up. They think I'm some kind of political boss with my hand in the cash box." He turned to Kristen. "This here's Press Largebush. He's a genuine PR man from up Chicago way. He'll be handling the shit from now on."

Kristen frowned at the S-word, then gave Dan a large smile. "Glad to have you on board." He extended his hand and she shook it. "When do you start?"

"He already has," Pederson said. "And I'm out of here."

The two watched him go and then turned to each other. "So, I've stepped into a hornet's nest," Dan said.

"I'm afraid so. Shall I call you Press? We will be working very closely together."

"By all means. I hope I can handle this job's demands. I suppose we can begin by just letting people know that I'm Chuck's deputy in charge of shit, as he so quaintly put it, and route anything that falls under that heading to me. I'll learn by doing."

At six that night, Kristen brought Dan a hamburger, a pouch of fries and a paper cup of coffee. At nine they shooed the hangers-on out of the storefront headquarters and promised to reopen at eight the next morning.

"I don't suppose the weekend's going to mean a day of rest?" Dan asked as he watched Kristen lock the door.

"Not hardly. Can I drop you someplace?"

No. I'm at a B and B out off Merrimon. I'm gonna grab a beer and a ham sandwich somewhere then toddle out there and hit the sack. I have a feeling I'll need my rest."

Three days later Dan had become a fixture in the office, an office where most of the volunteers were strangers to one another. He was in fact the man who talked with the secret service advance chief about credentials. Everyone would be carefully screened. Of course, Chuck Pederson, Kristen Hilton and himself, Presley Largebush, would each have plastic badges clipped to their pockets that would permit them the run of Pack Square.

Chuck Pederson was in his glory. He dropped into headquarters now and then, slapped people on the back, gossiped, then moved on to other venues of entertainment.

"He's really a good man," Kristen Hilton told Dan. "Slow as molasses in January, but extremely thorough. The mill grinds slow."

"I like his suspenders," Dan said.

"Oh those." They were red and three inches wide and printed with donkeys in various positions, usually kicking up their heels. "He got those on convention in Atlantic City. Dropped almost two Gs at the gambling tables and came home happy as a possum eating pears with those awful suspenders. He's a good lawyer though. I swear I've never seen a man who could delay a case with such refinement."

"I like him," Dan said. "And I'm learning a bunch about local politics and Buncombe County. Also how to dress up the square for a party. You think everything's going okay, Kristen?"

"Since you got here. You and Chuck make a good team. He's the glad-hander and you do the work. The word around here now is, if you want something done, see Press Largebush. I think you could run for office when this thing's finished."

"If I run for anything," Dan quipped, "it'll be the county line."

"Whatever you like," Kristen said. "But be certain of this, Chuck Pederson won't forget you. He always pays his debts to his friends. And he never broke a promise."

Dan chuckled to himself over this. Very soon, when that bus caravan rolled into town, the waste matter was going to splatter into the ventilation system. And when it did, he knew he would be the talk of the town.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

John Lusk Agrella wheeled rented car along Interstate 40 heading west. At Marion he could see the line of the mountains in the western sky. At Old Fort they loomed ahead of him like the backs of huge blue-gray buffalo, crouched in the dusk. The road turned slightly, and one peak thrust up ahead of him like the great mother breast.

Then he was on the five-mile strip of highway that climbed the mountain to reach the level of Asheville. On the ascent he passed more than one truck escape ramp that offered silent deposition to the dangers of the lovely Smokies. This was the mountain that east-bound truckers called "Killer." Once on top the, the mountains stood in silhouette, layered in grays, blues and purple hazes leading off into infinity.

The car purred on past the trendy town of Black Mountain and then put Swannanoa behind, named for the stream that gives Asheville its water supply. The wide, shallow French Broad River that flows over a rocky bed through the heart of the city had been deemed too polluted.

And now the car turned right on I-240, the link that travels the massive highway cut through Beaucatcher Mountain and skirts the hub of the mountain city.

Agrella was intense. His professionalism had been challenged, almost shattered. He had screwed up miserably in Florence, actually killing the wrong man – not only that but doing the murdered man a favor by sparing him a painful death.

Then in Portugal he had actually become his target's victim. He had faced the humiliation of being locked away with a couple of geriatric Brits who had kept him tied hand and foot until the three of them were freed by the local constabulary.

Then they had to endure a police grilling over what had happened and how they got into such a peculiar predicament. And just who had altered the room? And for what purpose? The stories they had made up, the word traps they had fallen into, the bizarre lies they had told. The police knew that none of their stories had been soiled by the truth, but finally released them because, if there had been a crime, there seemed to be no victim. Just three very stupid people playing at some sort of weird diversion. Possibly perverts. Yes! The police were certain they were perverts. But what kind of perverts? The fact that they were foreigners saved their collective asses. If they had been locals, the police would have admitted them with alacrity to the nearest lunatic asylum.

The humiliation tormented him.

But now he would have his revenge. The third time was charmed, and Agrella was a great believer in fate. Hadn't it sprung him from that pest hole in Utah? But time was short. He had his orders. Reeves had definitely gone to Asheville. And he must be taken care of before the big conscription rally, just twenty-four hours away. His contact was certain that whatever embarrassing move Reeves was planning to make would be made at that rally.

***

Cruising along on the highway in a big diesel bus, Vice President Vance Stovall was sick at heart. It was getting along toward dawn, and he was bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, half nauseated from the box lunch that had been served just after midnight and weary of the taunts from a score of drunken newsmen, both electronic and print.

If there was a hard core of elderly, hard drinking, cynical, scornful and virulent media people, they had all been gathered on Stovall's bus. Each seemed to have a personal vendetta against him and the office of Vice President.

And now he had to use the toilet again, as much as he despised such a move. He had a seat near the front of the bus, and the toilet was at the rear.

Most of the news people seemed to be half tight even as they boarded the bus, mouthing thinly veiled insults as they passed his seat on the way to the rear where they had a large cache of beer and whisky. Before two hours had passed, their activities had become uproarious. Chaos ruled the back of the bus. Tumultuous sounds and hilarious laughter, bordering on the hysterical, almost never ceased.

Stovall had used the toilet once before and found it to be a foul, stinking little room. Someone had vomited in the small washbasin, the filth spilling over onto the floor. Sticky urine was on the toilet seat and coated the floor. And to each even that repugnant cell, he was forced to suffer the indignity of a gauntlet of coarse news people with their gauche ways and rude remarks.

He had overheard one epitomizing him as a great whore, charging that he had rolled over for every special interest inside and outside the Beltway.

Even as he sat, desperately needing to use the john, they had found a new way of insulting him. A deep voice was raised in a parody of Gilbert and Sullivan:

"When I was a lad I took a turn as chief ass kisser for an attorney's firm."

Sidesplitting laughter and drunken shouts.

Then the songster's voice again, one that would be easily recognized by watchers of network news:

"I kissed the asses with such accuracy that now I am in waiting for the presidency."

Then the group took up the chorus: "That now I am in waiting for the press-eye-dense-see!"

Stovall cringed at the words. He couldn't and wouldn't go back to that john again, but he was desperate. He shouldn't have drunk those two beers. Glancing around, no one was near. He decided to relieve himself in an empty beer can.

Halfway finished with the delicate act, a network newswoman lurched up the aisle and plopped down into the seat next to him. Then she looked over and saw what Stovall was doing.

Her face, haggard with booze and shopworn from a zillion deadlines, lit up like a jack-o-lantern. She screamed out, "Hey, gang. Stovall's pissing in a beer can!"

There was a rush of feet to the front of the bus. Derisive howls and drunken shouts. The Vice President gritted his teeth and wondered if the nightmare would ever end. Who had assigned him to this bus? There was some malicious and evil intent afoot.

And why hadn't his West Coast friends come through on their promise to get the goods on Ramona and thus exterminate her as a presidential contender?

Meanwhile, Dennis Keen was having a pleasant ride with several reporters from public broadcasting. About midnight they had consumed a slice of cold quiche and hummus sandwiches on whole grain bread. Now those still awake sipped coffee or spiced tea and discussed next season's agenda at the Kennedy Center.

The bus given over to food writers was the one Ramona had boarded. They had been invited along on her initiative and promised at least one great meal at the renowned Grove Park Inn, plus a leisurely interview with the First Lady, her innermost thoughts on nourishment.

Catered snacks had been brought on board courtesy of several Washington restaurants. There was also chilled champagne, three kinds of Snapple, plus four varieties of mineral water. The talk was mainly of great meals they had consumed in Lyon, which all agreed was the gastronomic heart of the universe.

Ramona held the delicate flute of a champagne glass in her hand, watched the bubbles slowly rise in the pale liquid and remarked to the delight of her audience, "I think bacon is wonderful if eaten in moderation."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The big day dawned fair over Asheville, blue skies with a few clouds making their way eastward from Tennessee, high above the Smokies, wandering across the big sky in the general direction of the piedmont and the coastal plain beyond.

Dan sat in a big wooden rocker on the wide porch of the B and B with a cup of coffee in his hand. He could see the ridges of the mountains just across the way. A few hours from now there would be a type of showdown. At least that was his plan. He had decided that his only hope of remaining alive and free was to confront President Keen. In one way or another, the President had to be the key to all the strange things that had happened to him. Better a foolish action than no action at all. Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven, if that made any sense.

But he had responsibilities. A hoard of volunteers who were depending on him to direct their activities, plus the responsibility to coordinate local security and the movement of VIPs. One thing was certain, everyone in Asheville involved in this Pack Square extravaganza knew Press Largebush, at least by sight. In a very few days, he had made a name for himself. He liked these people and this town, this mountain paradise, as some called it, and freak city as others called it.

George, the co-owner of the B and B came along the spacious porch in search of the newspaper. "Press, I didn't think you were still here. There was a man looking for you just a few minutes ago. I told him you could probably be found on Pack Square, at the headquarters. It's a wonder you don't sleep there."

"I'll be there in a few minutes, George. It was probably one of the volunteers wondering what he was supposed to be doing. Today everyone works."

"I don't know. I'd never seen the guy before. There was something a little strange about him, can't put my finger on it."

Dan felt a chill pass through his body. "What'd he look like?"

George gave a reasonable description of John Lusk Agrella.

Dan swallowed hard and cast an eye up and down the porch. This time Agrella wouldn't wait for the niceties. He would strike fast and quick like a lethal snake and then be gone. "Are you certain he went on?"

"Absolutely. I saw him get out of his car, a small-sized Honda. Might have been a rental. Then I saw him get back in his car and drive off. You know him?"

Dan fumbled for words, then said, "I might." A weapon, if he only had a weapon. Then an idea came to mind. "George, I hate to ask this, but I am a little late and there will be a load of volunteers at headquarters. Could you drop me off?"

"Why, sure thing, Press. That's what B and Bs are all about. That personal touch."

Sitting in the passenger seat in George's truck as they sped down Merrimon and passed under Interstate 240, Dan said, "Just let me out at the police station. I need to double check security."

"Anything you want." The station, as well as the fire department, also edged Pack Square. So did the classical art deco city hall and its ugly neighbor, the county courthouse.

With a word of farewell, Dan was out of the truck and bounded into the police station, heading directly for the chief's office. He bumped into a police captain in the corridor.

"Chief in yet?" he asked. Dan and the captain had attended three or four security gatherings together in the last few days.

"No, he's not, Press. Anything I can do for you?"

"Yes, there is. I've got a lot of checking to do, a lot of assignments to make for the volunteers. I'll make the rounds around the square. There might things, situations that come up. I wonder if I could have a policeman with me, someone who could handle problems."

"Every Asheville policeman can handle problems," the captain grinned. "But some better than others. You know Sergeant Twaddle? Rossi Twaddle?"

"Big guy with red hair?"

"That's him. Wait right here. I'll get him for you."

Five minutes later, Twaddle appeared in the hall, almost filling it, his pale eyes looking from a face laced with brownish freckles. "The captain sez I'm to stick with you like glue."

"That's good enough for me." The two men shook hands and they were off to the headquarters a few doors away. Dan thought he caught sight of Agrella loitering near the door of headquarters, on the fringes of the crowd of volunteers. But, quick as a spooked cat, if it had been Agrella, he was gone around a corner, probably near panicked at the sight of Twaddle. Here was a police officer to be reckoned with.

Dan was aware that he was playing a dangerous game and playing it to the wire. Agrella would be wild to fulfill whatever type of contract or agreement he had struck with his masters. He might take a desperate chance.

In spite of all his preparations and computer print-outs, there was still an air of disarray around the office. Dan huddled with Kristen, issued last-minute instructions, introduced Twaddle to the head of the secret service advance party, brought the chief sheriff's deputy into the circle, and the four of them set out for a quick walk around the large square. It encompassed several blocks from the Vance monument to city hall, most of it sloping.

When they reached a point across from NationsBank, Twaddle's belt radio crackled. The convoy of busses was arriving at the Radisson, a few blocks away. Fortunately, that wasn't in Dan's bailiwick. The party was in charge of the festivities on the square only.

But the secret service chief pulled out his radio and ordered his forces on the alert. A second contingent of secret service was traveling with the convoy and together the combined units would present a substantial array of firepower, supplemented by Asheville police and Buncombe County sheriff's deputies. The square would be bristling with weapons.

Dan did not catch another glimpse of anyone he thought might be the killer Agrella. If he was there, and Dad had a feeling he was, he was skillful at remaining undercover.

The men returned to party headquarters and the deputy and secret service man went their way, while Twaddle stuck by Dan's side, as he had said, like glue.

The crowd was gathering outside, and a group of country and western singers had taken to the stage. Several groups of costumed cloggers stood by, a mountain tradition, waiting to go into their clattering routines.

"What do you think about this total conscription thing?" Dan asked Twaddle.

"Every cop's got to like it," the sergeant said. He spoke without hesitation or reservation. His straightforward answer surprised Dan. Lawmen were often skeptical of ideas put forth by politicians.

"Why do you say that?"

"For one thing, I trust Ramona Keen, and she's spelled it out to a T. For one thing there are no exceptions. Even felons will have to serve one year. They'll come in contact with a strong role model and some hard-fisted discipline that might knock a few kinks out of their warped minds. Then everyone is run through a complete medical routine, which means we get blood charts, DNA, fingerprints, descriptions and every other type of identification on every living soul in America who is lucky enough to reach the age of eighteen."

"That's in the bill?" Dan asked. It smacked a little of big brother.

"Damn right it is, and its got grassroots support from every town in this country and from every cop that I know of. I'd like to find the cop to go against it." Twaddle doubled up his big right paw and shook it menacingly a couple of times.

"Sounds only fair," Dan said. He decided to drop the subject, but golly, Ramona was really riding high with the people. And it was Ramona, not Dennis.

***

John Lusk Agrella was steamed. Early this morning he had screwed the silencer on his long-barreled pistol and stuck it inside the special pocket in his jacket. By this time he should have dispatched Dan Reeves and ducked out of town. He still couldn't figure out how he had missed him at that B and B.

Agrella had gotten onto the identity of Pressley Largebush just after noon the day before, but had decided to strike in early morning. He had in fact staked out the B and B from half a block away, picked his time and moved in.

Then, to his amazement, the owner himself had told him that Dan had left for Pack Square just moments before. He must have taken some sort of back route. Then Agrella had spotted him on the Square in the company of one of the biggest cops that had ever worn a badge, a huge redhead with a hard looking face. Instinctively, he had dodged out of sight.

But now, as he stood toward the rear of the ever larger crowd and watched the short-skirted cloggers and their blue-jeaned partners cavort on stage, he wished he had blasted them both on the spot and dashed to freedom. He was certain he could have made it in the surprise and confusion of the moment. But now he was certain to be swimming in a mob of humanity, faced with firing from a crowd. If he had a rifle with a scope sight, it would be different.

But he did have his standby ice pick. If he could just get close enough behind Dan to plant that stem of steel in his heart, he might just pull it off. Strike, drop back, and get lost in the crowd. But how? Dan knew his face!

Concessionaires were opening on the square. The smell of hot grease for the fries, burgers and dogs hitting the grills, barbecued ribs and chicken, drifted here and there. And there were T-shirt vendors and whole racks of pins and party buttons.

John Lusk Agrella bought a white plastic hat that looked like a straw skimmer. A red, white and blue paper band gave it a festive air. He jammed it on his head, cocking it down in front, thus hiding most of his face. It might work.

He guessed Dan would be somewhere between party headquarters and the main stage where the President's party was to appear. So he drifted off in that general direction, vowing not to lose yet another opportunity to carry out his obligation. He would strike and strike quickly.

A high school band struck up "Stars and Stripes Forever," and a bevy of buxom flag twirlers took the stage with their feathered hats and glitzy silver boots. A few red, white and blue toy balloons floated over the square and off in the general direction of Beaucatcher Mountain.

The hours crawled by and entertainment followed entertainment. The dignitaries and press refreshed themselves, some zonking out for a couple of hours at the hotel. Then the VIPs were seated on the platform and Dan and Twaddle moved from headquarters to a spot just in front of the low platform.

The mayor made a short speech, then introduced the governor. Dan twisted his head, searching the crowd for Agrella, but saw nothing. Just a sea of faces, political signs and the traditional white plastic skimmers. But where was the President and Ramona? They should be on deck.

Then a flurry of excitement to one side of the platform and three limousines slowed to a stop. Out popped the Keens and the Stovalls, along with their contingent of wary secret service.

Dan nodded his head in satisfaction. Just on schedule. Another quick look around, but nothing. Ten feet behind him, perhaps three people away, Agrella eyed his victim's back and gripped the ice pick with its deadly sharp point, concealed in his coat pocket. He kept his head lowered with the white plastic brim covering his eyes.

The band was playing "Hail to the Chief" and the President and the Vice President stepped onto the platform, followed by their wives. The governor said, "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States," and the crowd went wild. Then Keen stepped forward and grabbed Ramona's hand, raising it in a sign of victory and solidarity. Frenzied applause and shouts from the partisan crowd.

Keen did the same with the mayor and the governor. Finally, with the crowd still cheering, he pulled Chuck Pederson forward and lifted his hand in a salute to the crowd.

At that moment, Agrella began to move swiftly toward Dan Reeves. The tumult of the crowd made an ideal cover. And at the same instant, Pederson spotted his friend and ally, Press Largebush near the front of the crowd and signaled him forward.

After all, it was Largebush, or Reeves, who had put the puzzle together and permitted Pederson to play jovial politician.

"Come up here," he shouted, and signaled Twaddle to bring him forward. Agrella was at Dan's back, the ice pick in his hand ready for the death plunge, when the big cop swept Dan forward, forward to the edge of the platform, then virtually lifted him onto the low platform.

Agrella at first couldn't understand what had happened. A split second ago he was ready to plunge the pick. Now his victim was gone. He blinked and saw him standing with Pederson, the President and his wife.

Ramona's mouth fell open and all she could manage was the word, "Dan." The noise of the crowd was too much for Pederson to hear her. He shouted to introduce Press Largebush, the man responsible for all the arrangements. Keen too recognized Dan and a look of extreme distaste crossed his face.

Agrella, cheated once more, was almost insane with rage. Swiftly he pocketed the ice pick and pulled out the pistol from the deep pocket inside his jacket. With a practiced eye and steady hand he aimed at Dan's chest and squeezed the trigger.

Dan leaned forward to take Ramona's outstretched hands, and as he did, the snicker of the silenced weapon cut through the crowd noise, and the impact of the fatal slug tearing into Dennis Keen's neck was not to be missed by those on the platform.

Keen slumped to the platform dead, not even a look of surprise on his face. An amazed Sergeant Twaddle turned and slammed a massive fist into Agrella's face. The man fell like a sack of flour.

Dan and Ramona and the others on the platform stood in a stupefied circle looking down on the fallen President. "He's dead," Dan said.

Ramona nodded. There was no question about it. His throat half torn away, the grotesque position, not a sign of life. It took the secret service only seconds to mobilize, to sweep Ramona and the Stovalls from the platform, bundle them inside of the waiting limousines and then speed off toward the hotel. They thought of conspiracy, of other gunmen, the only thing they could salvage from the rotten day at Asheville.

Other secret servicemen stood by as a pair of emergency medical teams swarmed over the President, loading him onto a stretcher, whisking him off to their nearby ambulance and thence to Mission Memorial Hospital. They knew he was dead, but still they hustled. This was the President.

That evening, Dan sat in a half-darkened hotel room just a few feet from Ramona. The two of them were alone. It had taken some doing for the two of them to meet. The First Lady had arranged it and now a secret serviceman stood outside the hotel door and three others were discreetly placed inside and outside of the hotel.

"I'll have to go back to Washington for the funeral, Dan."

Dan nodded. Then wondered what she would do next.

"I know Dennis would want to be buried at Arlington. So that's where it will be. With the horses and the caisson, the Old Guard, the whole nine yards. His papers, archives, whatever, I'll let his mother worry about. She was always rather possessive."

Dan finally worked up the nerve to ask, "Then what?"

"Then what?" She had been staring at the rug, but now she looked up. "Well, I thought maybe Spain, or the south of France. You'll have to tell me what you were doing in Europe."

"How about Sweden or the Greek isles?"

"I think I'd pick the Greek isles for a little relaxation. What were you doing in Europe, anyway?"

"Hiding out. What were you doing in Washington?"

"The same thing. But now I'm nobody. Not a candidate, not the First Lady, just private Ramona. Nobody."

"You'll never be nobody," Dan said.

"Want to help me try?"

"Sure."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Six weeks later, Dan and Ramona were sitting on the beach of a small Greek island near the larger island of Naxos. Dan was reading an account of the Peloponnesian War, and Ramona was switching off between a murder mystery, rubbing herself with suntan lotion and sipping iced tea. They both sat in canvas sling chairs, a small table between them.

"There's someone coming from the hotel," Dan said, glancing over the top of his book. The day was beautiful, a few clouds of white fluff, a lazy soft breeze that hardly ruffled the overhead greenery.

Ramona craned around toward the hotel, a good football field away. "Three someones. Two I think I might know."

"Nothing evil about their intent, I hope. How can people find us here?"

Ramona shrugged. "I did send postcards last week. We aren't hiding out, you know."

"I'm hiding out."

"Then crawl under the sand because you're discovered. Found out. You did get rid of all those guns, didn't you?"

"Ya, ya. All evidence destroyed, Mein Oberfuerer. Not even a bomb left to drop on der Englishers."

Ramona smiled and brushed her hands together. They were oily and half covered with sand. Her iced tea glass was slippery and her mystery novel was splotched with suntan lotion. How did she get herself into such a mess? She was sublimely happy.

Of the three newcomers, dressed smartly in linens and khakis, like well-heeled tourists, one was Carolyn Kendrick, who had been the White House chief of staff; the second, Bill Ellison, former political advisor; and the third a frail young woman and total stranger.

"Hello, you two," Ellison said. Everyone exchanged greetings, and the young woman was introduced as Courtney Dive-Jamp.

"Where's your secret service?" Kendrick asked. "We walked right up here."

"Got rid of all but one," Ramona said. "They really got to be a nuisance. They were getting rock happy too. We didn't want to fire them, but they were reassigned."

Ellison looked around, searching the landscape. "Where's the one man? Up in a tree?"

"It's a she," Dan said. "Today she's out fishing. Sometimes she scubas, sometimes she works on her book."

"You see, she does the cooking," Ramona said, "but only the evening meal. We've got an apartment here in the hotel."

"How in the world did you ever find this place, it's so, so... remote," Kendrick said.

"We tried Corfu, you know, the Ionian isles where all that Odysseus stuff came down. But it was just too touristy, not that this isn't, but it's peaceful." Dan guessed that the trio must be tired from their trip. It took quite a ferry ride to reach their little island, although they might have stayed nearby last night. "I'm sorry we can't offer you three a chair. We lug these down from the hotel."

"That's all right," Ellison said. "We just wanted to check in with you. We'd like to chat at the hotel later, under better circumstances."

"You mean seated," Ramona said. "Were you both fired?"

"Stovall fired us, then a month later he had screwed up the White House to the point that he rehired us. This incidentally, is your secretary, Courtney."

"Why do I need a secretary?"

"A perk congress gave you. For up to five years after your widowhood you get a secretary and an office allowance. So we brought one along. Saves you hiring a local. Courtney speaks English, don't you Courtney?"

Courtney smiled nervously. "I'm from Philadelphia."

Ramona looked her up and down. Short, maybe five-two. Thin, really skinny, about one hundred pounds soaked and wearing a blanket. "Can you cook?"

"Pasta. I love to make pasta. And I'm crazy about baking. My mother's a Hungarian and she taught me."

Dan's face lit up. "Sounds like a winner," he said to Ramona.

"We'll give it a try," Ramona agreed. "Courtney, why don't you go up to the hotel and get settled. Tell them you're part of our party and, if they must, they'll bunk you in with secret service."

"She's like a cop?" Courtney asked.

"Uh, no," Ramona said. "You two are fellow cooks. You can plan menus together and visit the market. Take a nap. You must be tired."

Courtney looked at her two traveling companions and then walked off toward the hotel. Ellison shrugged. "She said she wanted to live abroad."

Kendrick went right to the point of the visit. "Stovall wants you to run as his vice president. His popularity couldn't be worse. The press is on him like a pack of wolves, and the convention is coming right up. So you're still the chosen one."

"I'm a tourist, a nobody. I've never run for office, never held office. I don't need it."

"Congress passed the conscription thing, almost by acclaim. It's got your mark on it. Stovall made some off-hand remark to a friend that he might veto it if his nephew had to serve. He's got some fifteen-year-old wimp of a nephew in some New England prep school. I don't know if he meant it, or not, but the press got hold of it. You can imagine."

"We don't get the papers," Dan said. "The hotel has a stack of dog-eared paperbacks."

Ramona grinned. "Old Vance is really in the soup. Where'd he get the idea I'd take the second spot?"

"You will, won't you?" Ellison asked.

"No." It was flat rejection. "For one thing I'm living in sin here. So's Dan, for that matter." She reached over and patted him on the leg. "What would the people think?"

"They're used to adult situations," Kendrick said. "They know you're in a period of mourning and are with a close companion. When the mourning period ends, you'll likely seek a suitable mate."

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" Dan inquired.

Kendrick ignored the remark. "You could probably stay here and let it be known you'll take the spot. Then come home for the campaign." She was certain that Ramona would get swept up in the dynamics of the campaign, the celebrity of being a star and forget all this beach and loafing stuff.

Ramona looked thoughtful. "I suppose Vance is waiting for a decision."

"He is," Ellison said, "but I don't think that he thinks there's any question about it." Ellison could have added that Stovall had the gleeful intention of treating Ramona just as Dennis has treated him, shut him off from any meaningful dialogue or decision.

"He's desperate, isn't he?" Dan asked. During his brief stint in Asheville, Dan had learned who was doing what in national politics.

"Of course not," Kendrick said. "There are many outstanding people in the senate and other places who would jump at the chance to fill the second spot."

"Then let them," Ramona said.

"Let them what" Kendrick asked.

"Jump. Let them jump at the chance. I'm not interested."

Kendrick looked at Ellison. The two of them had been hired to set things straight at the White House, and one of the major issues was getting Ramona on board for the second spot.

"Dan's right," Ellison said. "Stovall's desperate and the party's desperate. If they don't have you on the ticket they could face disaster in November. Certainly, Stovall's career depends on it."

Kendrick attempted to form her hard features into a smile. "You see, we're being honest."

Ramona was tempted to say, "And for the first time." But she didn't. Instead she said, "Tell Stovall I'll run. But not as vice president. I want the number one spot. If the party wants him, I'll permit him to be my vice president. Then maybe in four years, maybe in eight, he can have a shot at it, if he earns it."

Neither Kendrick nor Ellison spoke for a minute. Then Ellison said, "You're joking, aren't you, Ramona?"

"No. Now run along you two. Deliver the message to Vance and his masters. Dinner's at seven. I'll tell secret service there'll be two more at table. She and Courtney will have to take care of themselves."

"But we should straighten this thing out," Kendrick said.

"We already have," Ramona snapped. "Now get going. You're lousing up my afternoon." She had never had any real affection for either of the two.

Dan watched them as they plodded back toward the hotel, talking like magpies, Kendrick waving her arms. "You really want to run for president?"

"Certainly not. But I want them to ask me. I want the world to know I've been asked. Then after a day or three, I want the pleasure of turning them down."

"That's very political," Dan said.

"I supposed." Ramona was thoughtful. "I suppose it's a political move. It's hard to get deprogrammed."

"Stovall would look like a world class ass."

Ramona smiled. "You're not so dumb. You know I'm happy, don't you, Dan."

"I know." Dan also knew that if Ramona was asked, their island would be invaded by the media. And he was keenly aware that a lady can change her mind.

###

About the Author

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

His first novel was "Murder on the French Broad," published in 2010.

Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.
