13Q

Cheers.

In Detroit: "We invented cars, and the Japanese took the technology away from us. Well, we're going to get back our rightful place as number one. Detroit's going to be the automobile center of the world again!"

Cheers.

At college campuses, it was federally guaranteed student loans.

In speeches at army bases around the country, it was preparedness.

In the beginning, when Oliver was relatively unknown, the odds were stacked against him. As the campaign went on, the polls showed him moving up.

The first week in July, more than four thousand delegates and alternates, along with hundreds of party officials and candidates, gathered at the convention in Cleveland and turned the city upside down with parades and floats and parties. Television cameras from all over the world recorded the spectacle. Peter Tager and Sime Lombardo saw to it that Governor Oliver Russell was always in front of the lenses.

There were half a dozen possible nominees in Oliver's party, but Senator Todd Davis had worked behind the scenes to assure that, one by one, they were eliminated. He ruthlessly called in favors owed, some as old as twenty years.

"Toby, it's Todd. How are Emma and Suzy?... Good. I want to talk to you about your boy, Andrew. I'm worried about him, Toby. You know, in my opinion, he's too liberal. The South will never accept him. Here's what I suggest...."

"Alfred, it's Todd. How's Roy doing?... No need to thank me. I was happy to help him out. I want to talk to you about your candidate, Jerry. In my opinion, he's too right-wing. If we go with him, we'll lose the North. Now, here's what I would suggest...."

"Kenneth Todd. I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad that real estate deal worked out for you. We all did pretty well, didn't we? By the way, I think we ought to have a little talk about Slater. He's weak. He's a loser. We can't afford to back a loser, can we?..."

And so it went, until practically the only viable candidate left to the party was Governor Oliver Russell.

The nomination process went smoothly. On the first ballot, Oliver Russell had seven hundred votes: more than two hundred from six northeastern industrial states, one hundred and fifty from six New England states, forty from four southern states, another one hundred and eighty from two farm states, and the balance from three Pacific states. Peter Tager was working frantically to make sure the publicity train kept rolling. When the final tally was counted, Oliver Russell was the winner. And with the excitement of the circus atmosphere that had carefully been created, Oliver Russell was nominated by acclamation. The next step was to choose a vice president. Melvin Wicks was a perfect choice. He was a politically correct Californian a wealthy entrepreneur, and a personable congressman.

"They'll complement each other," Tager said. "Now the real work begins. We're going after the magic number two hundred and seventy.

The number of electoral votes needed to win the presidency.

Tager told Oliver, "The people want a young leader.... Good-looking, a little humor and a vision.... They want you to tell them how great they are and they want to believe it.... Let them know you're smart, but don't be too smart.... If you attack your opponent, keep it impersonal.... Never look down on a reporter. Treat them as friends, and they'll be your friends.... Try to avoid any show of pettiness Remember you're a statesman."

The campaign was nonstop. Senator Davis's jet carried Oliver to Texas for three days, California for a day, Michigan for half a day, Massachusetts for six hours. Every minute was accounted for. Some days Oliver would visit as many as ten towns and deliver ten speeches There was a different hotel every night, the Drake in Chicago, the St Regis in Detroit, the Carlyle in New York City, the Place dAmes in New Orleans, until, finally, they all seemed to blend into one. Wherever Oliver went, there were police cars leading the procession, large crowds, and cheering voters.

Jan accompanied Oliver on most of the trips, and he had to admit that she was a great asset. She was attractive and intelligent, and the reporters liked her. From time to time, Oliver read about Leslie's latest acquisitions: a newspaper in Madrid, a television station in Mexico, a radio station in Kansas. He was happy for her success. It made him feel less guilty about what he had done to her.

Everywhere Oliver went, the reporters photographed him, interviewed him, and quoted him. There were more than a hundred correspondents covering his campaign, some of them from countries at the far ends of the earth. As the campaign neared its climax, the polls showed that Oliver Russell was the front-runner. But unexpectedly, his opponent, Vice President Cannon, began overtaking him. Peter Tager became worried. "Cannon's moving up in the polls. We've got to stop him.

Two television debates between Vice President Cannon and Oliver had been agreed upon. "Cannon is going to discuss the economy," Tager told Oliver, "and he'll do a good job. We have to fake him out. Here's my plan...."

The night of the first debate, in front of the television cameras, Vice President Cannon talked about the economy. "America has never been more economically sound. Business is flourishing." He spent the next ten minutes elaborating on his theme, proving his points with facts and figures. When it was Oliver Russell's turn at the microphone, he said, "That was very impressive. I'm sure we're all pleased that big business is doing so well and that corporate profits have never been higher." He turned to his opponent. "But you forgot to mention that one of the reasons corporations are doing so well is because of what is euphemistically termed 'downsizing." To put it bluntly, downsizing simply means that people are being fired to make way for machines. More people are out of work than ever before. It's the human side of the picture we should be examining. I don't happen to share your view that corporate financial success is more important than people...." And so it went. Where Vice President Cannon had talked about business, Oliver Russell took a humanitarian approach and talked about emotions and opportunities. By the time he was through, Russell had managed to make Cannon sound like a coldblooded politician who cared nothing about the American people. The morning after the debate, the polls shifted, putting Oliver Russell within three points of the vice president. There was to be one more national debate.

Arthur Cannon had learned his lesson. At the final debate, he stood before the microphone and said, "Ours is a land where all people must have equal opportunities. America has been blessed with freedom, but that alone is not enough. Our people must have the freedom to work, and earn a decent living...."

He stole Oliver Russell's thunder by concentrating on all the wonderful plans he had in mind for the welfare of the people. But Peter Tager had anticipated that. When Cannon was finished, Oliver Russell stepped to the microphone.

"That was very touching. I'm sure we were all very moved by what you had to say about the plight of the unemployed, and, as you called him, the 'forgotten man." What disturbs me is that you forgot to say how you are going to do all those wonderful things for those people." And from then on, where Vice President Cannon had dealt in emotions, Oliver Russell talked about issues and his economic plans, leaving the vice president hanging high and dry.

Oliver, Jan, and Senator Davis were having dinner at the senator's mansion in Georgetown. The senator smiled at Jan. "I've just seen the latest polls. I think you can begin redecorating the White House.

Her face lit up. "Do you really think we're going to win, Father?

"I'm wrong about a lot of things, honey, but never about politics That's my life's blood. In November, we're going to have a new president, and he's sitting right next to you."

Ten.

Fasten your seat belts, please." Here we go! Dana thought excitedly She looked over at Benn Albertson and Wally Newman. Benn Al-bert son Dana's producer, was a hyperkinetic bearded man in his forties. He had produced some of the top-rated news shows in television and was highly respected. Wally Newman, the cameraman, was in his early fifties. He was talented and enthusiastic, and eagerly looking forward to his new assignment. Dana thought about the adventure that lay ahead. They would land in Paris and then fly to Zagreb, Croatia, and finally to Sarajevo.

During her last week in Washington, Dana had been briefed by Shelley McGuire, the foreign editor. "You'll need a truck in Sarajevo to transmit your stories to the satellite," McGuire told her. "We don't own one there so we'll rent a truck and buy time from the Yugoslav company that owns the satellite. If things go well, we'll get our own truck later. You'll be operating on two different levels. Some stories you'll cover live, but most of them will be taped. Benn Albertson will tell you what he wants, and you'll shoot the footage and then do a sound track in a local studio. I've given you the best producer and cameraman in the business. You shouldn't have any problem." Dana was to remember those optimistic words later.

"The day before Dana left, Matt Baker had telephoned. "Get over to my office." His voice was gruff.

"I'll be right there." Dana had hung up with a feeling of Apprehension. He's changed his mind about approving my transfer ctnd he's not going to let me go. How could he do this to me? Well, she thought determinedly, I'm going to fight him.

Ten minutes later, Dana was marching into Matt Baker's office. "I know what you're going to say," she began, "but it "Won't do you any good I'm going! I've dreamed about this since I was a little girl. I think I can do some good over there. you've got to give me a chance to try.

She took a deep breath. "All right," Dana said defiantly. "What did you want to say?"

Matt Baker looked at her and said mildly, "Bon voyage."

Dana blinked. "What?"

"Bon voyage. It means 'good journey." "

"I know what it means. I didn't you send for me to ?"

"I sent for you because I've spoken to a few of our foreign correspondents. They gave me some advice to pass on to you."

This gruff bear of a man had taken the time and trouble to talk to some foreign correspondents so that he could help her! "I I don't know how to "

"Then don't," he grunted. "You're going into a shooting war. There's no guarantee you can protect yourself a hundred percent, because bullets don't give a damn who they kill. But when you're in the middle of action, the adrenaline starts to flow. It can make you reckless, and you do stupid things you wouldn't ordinarily do. You have to control that. Always play it safe. Don't wander around the streets alone. No news story is worth your life. Another thing ..."

The lecture had gone on for almost an hour. Finally, he said, "Well, that's it. Take care of yourself. If you let anything happen to you, I'm going to be damned mad."

Dana had leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"Don't ever do that again," he snapped. He stood up. "It's going to be rough over there, Dana. If you should change your mind when you get there and want to come home, just let me know, and I'll arrange it."

"I won't change my mind," Dana said confidently.

As it turned out, she was wrong.

The flight to Paris was uneventful. They landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport and the trio took an airport minibus to Croatia Airlines. There was a three-hour delay.

At ten o'clock that night, the Croatia Airlines plane landed at Butmir Airport in Sarajevo. The passengers were herded into a security building, where their passports were checked by uniformed guards and they were waved on. As Dana moved toward the exit, a short, unpleasant-looking man in civilian clothes stepped in front of her, blocking her way. "Passport."

"I showed them my "

"I am Colonel Gordan Divjak. Your passport."

Dana handed her passport to him, along with her press credentials.

He flipped through it. "A journalist?" He looked at her sharply "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm not on anyone's side," Dana said evenly.

"Just be careful what you report," Colonel Divjak warned. "We do not treat espionage lightly."

Welcome to Sarajevo.

A bulletproof Land Rover was at the airport to meet them. The driver was a swarthy-looking man in his early twenties. "I am Jovan Tolj, for your pleasure. I will be your driver in Sarajevo." Jovan drove fast, swerving around corners and racing through deserted streets as though they were being pursued. "Excuse me," Dana said nervously. "Is there any special hurry?" "Yes, if you want to get there alive." "But " In the distance, Dana heard the sound of rumbling thunder, and it seemed to be coming closer. What she was hearing was not thunder. In the darkness, Dana could make out buildings with shattered fronts, apartments without roofs, stores without windows. Ahead, she could see the Holiday Inn, where they were staying. The front of the hotel was badly pockmarked, and a deep hole had been gouged in the driveway. The car sped past it. "Wait! This is our hotel," Dana cried. "Where are you going?" "The front entrance is too dangerous." Jovan said. He turned the corner and raced into an alley. "Everyone uses the back entrance." Dana's mouth was suddenly dry. "Oh." The lobby of the Holiday Inn was filled with people milling about and chatting. An attractive young Frenchman approached Dana. "Ah, we have been expecting you. You are Dana Evans?" "Yes." "Jean Paul Hubert, M6, Metropole Television." "I'm happy to meet you. This is Benn Albertson and Wally Newman." The men shook hands. "Welcome to what's left of our rapidly disappearing city."

Others were approaching the group to welcome them. One by one, they stepped up and introduced themselves. "Steffan Mueller, Kabel Network." "Roderick Munn, BBC 2." "Marco Benelli, Italia I." "Akihiro Ishihara, TV Tokyo." "Juan Santos, Channel 6, Guadalajara." "Chun Qian, Shanghai Television." It seemed to Dana that every country in the world had a journalist there. The introductions seemed to go on forever. The last one was a burly Russian with a gleaming gold front tooth. "Nikolai Petrovich, Gorizont 22." "How many reporters are here?" Dana asked Jean Paul. "Over two hundred and fifty. We don't see many wars as colorful as this one. Is this your first?" He made it sound as though it were some kind of tennis match. "Yes." Jean Paul said, "If I can be of any help, please let me know." "Thank you.

She hesitated. "Who is Colonel Gordan Div-jak?" "You don't want to know. We all think he is with the Serbian equivalent of the Gestapo, but we're not sure. I would suggest you stay out of his way." "I'll remember."

Later, as Dana got into her bed, there was a sudden loud explosion from across the street, and then another, and the room began to shake. It was terrifying, and at the same time exhilarating. It seemed unreal, something out of a movie. Dana lay awake all night, listening to the sounds of the terrible killing machines and watching the flashes of light reflected in the grimy hotel windows.

In the morning, Dana got dressed jeans, boots, flak jacket. She felt self-conscious, and yet: "Always play it safe.... No news story is worth your life."

Dana, Benn, and Wally were in the lobby restaurant, talking about their families.

"I forgot to tell you the good news," Wally said. "I'm going to have a grandson next month."

"That's great!" And Dana thought: Will I ever have a child and a grandchild? Que sera sera.

"I have an idea," Benn said. "Let's do a general story first on what's happening here and how the people's lives have been affected. I'll go with Wally and scout locations. Why don't you get us some satellite time, Dana?"

"Fine."

Jovan Tolj was in the alley, in the Land Rover. "Dobrojutro. Good morning."

"Good morning, Jovan. I want to go to the place where they rent satellite time."

As they drove, Dana was able to get a clear look at Sarajevo for the first time. It seemed to her that there was not a building that had been untouched. The sound of gunfire was continuous.

"Don't they ever stop?" Dana asked.

"They will stop when they run out of ammunition," Jovan said bitterly "And they will never run out of ammunition."

The streets were deserted, except for a few pedestrians, and all the cafes were closed. Pavements were pockmarked with shell craters. They passed the Oslobodjenje building.

"That is our newspaper," Jovan said proudly. "The Serbs keep trying to destroy it, but they cannot."

A few minutes later, they reached the satellite offices. "I will wait for you," Jovan said.

Behind a desk in the lobby, there was a receptionist who appeared to be in his eighties. "Do you speak English?" Dana asked. He looked at her wearily. "I speak nine languages, madam. What do you wish?" "I'm with WTE. I want to book some satellite time and arrange " "Third floor."

The sign on the door read: YUGOSLAVIA SATELLITE DIVISION. The reception room was filled with men seated on wooden benches lined against the walls.

Dana introduced herself to the young woman at the reception desk. "I'm Dana Evans, with WTE. I want to book some satellite time."

"Take a seat, please, and wait your turn."

Dana looked around the room. "Are all these people here to book satellite time?"

The woman looked up at her and said, "Of course."

Almost two hours later, Dana was ushered into the office of the manager, a short, squat man with a cigar in his mouth; he looked like the old cliche prototype of a Hollywood producer. He had a heavy accent. "How can I help you?" "I'm Dana Evans, with WTE. I'd like to rent one of your trucks and book the satellite for half an hour. Six o'clock in Washington would be a good time. And I'll want that same time every day indefinitely." She looked at his expression. "Any problem?" "One. There are no satellite trucks available. They have all been booked. I will give you a call if someone cancels." Dana looked at him in dismay. "No ? But I need some satellite time," she said. "I'm " "So does everybody else, madam. Except for those who have their own trucks, of course."

When Dana returned to the reception room, it was full. I have to do something about this, she thought.

When Dana left the satellite office, she said to Jovan, "I'd like you to drive me around the city."

He turned to look at her, then shrugged. "As you wish." He started the car and began to race through the streets.

"A little slower, please. I need to get a feel of this place."

Sarajevo was a city under siege. There was no running water or electricity, and more houses were being bombed every hour. The air raid alarm went on so frequently that people ignored it. A miasma of fatalism seemed to hang over the city. If the bullet had your name on it, there was nowhere to hide.

On almost every street corner, men, women, and children were peddling the few possessions they had left.

"They are refugees from Bosnia and Croatia," Jovan explained, "trying to get enough money to buy food."

Fires were raging everywhere. There were no firemen in sight.

"Isn't there a fire department?" Dana asked.

He shrugged. "Yes, but they don't dare come. They make too good a target for Serb snipers."

In the beginning, the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina had made little sense to Dana. It was not until she had been in Sarajevo for a week that she realized that it made no sense at all. No one could explain it. Someone had mentioned a professor from the university, who was a well-known historian. He had been wounded and was confined to his home. Dana decided to have a talk with him. Jovan drove her to one of the old neighborhoods in the city, where the professor lived. Professor Mladic Staka was a small, gray-haired man, almost ethereal in appearance. A bullet had shattered his spine and paralyzed him "Thank you for coming," he said. "I do not get many visitors these days. You said you needed to talk to me." "Yes. I'm supposed to be covering this war," Dana told him. "But to tell the truth, I'm having trouble understanding it." "The reason is very simple, my dear. This war in Bosnia and Herzegovina is beyond understanding. For decades, the Serbs, Croats, Bosnians, and Muslims lived together in peace, under Tito. They were friends and neighbors. They grew up together, worked together, went to the same schools, intermarried." "And now?" "These same friends are torturing and murdering one another. Their hatred has made them do things so disgusting that I cannot even speak about them.

"I've heard some of the stories," Dana said. The stories she had heard were almost beyond belief: a well filled with bloody human testicles, babies raped and slaughtered, innocent villagers locked in churches that were then set on fire. "Who started this?" Dana asked. He shook his head. "It depends on whom you ask. During the Second World War, hundreds of thousand of Serbs, who were on the side of the Allies, were wiped out by the Croats, who were on the side of the Nazis. Now the Serbs are taking their bloody revenge. They are holding the country hostage, and they are merciless. More than two hundred thousand shells have fallen on Sarajevo alone. At least ten thousand people have been killed and more than sixty thousand injured. The Bosnians and Muslims must bear the responsibility for their share of the torture and killing. Those who do not want war are being forced into it. No one can trust anyone. The only thing they have left is hate. What we have is a conflagration that keeps feeding on itself, and what fuels the fires is the bodies of the innocent."

When Dana returned to her hotel that afternoon, Benn Albert-son was waiting there to tell her that he had received a message that a truck and satellite time would be available to them the following day at 6:00 P. M. "I found the ideal place for us to shoot," Wally Newman told her "There's a square with a Catholic church, a mosque, a Protestant church, and a synagogue, all within a block of one another. They've all been bombed out. You can write a story about equal-opportunity hatred, and what it has done to the people who live here, who don't want anything to do with the war but are forced to be a part of it.

Dana nodded, excited. "Great. I'll see you at dinner. I'm going to work." She headed for her room.

At six o'clock the following evening, Dana and Wally and Benn were gathered in front of the square where the bombed-out churches and synagogue were located. Wally's television camera had been set up on a tripod, and Benn was waiting for confirmation from Washington that the satellite signal was good. Dana could hear sniper fire in the near background. She was suddenly glad she was wearing her flak jacket There's nothing to be afraid of. They're not shooting at us. They're shooting at one another. They need us to tell the world their story Dana saw Wally signal. She took a deep breath, looked into the camera lens, and began. "The bombed-out churches you see behind me are a symbol of what is happening in this country. There are no walls for people to hide behind anymore, no place that is safe. In earlier times, people could find sanctuary in their churches. But here, the past and the present and the future have all blended together and " At that second, she heard a shrill approaching whistle, looked up, and saw Wally's head explode into a red melon. It's a trick of the light, was Dana's first thought. And then she watched, aghast, as Wally's body slammed to the pavement. Dana stood there, frozen, unbelieving. People around her were screaming. The sound of rapid sniper fire came closer, and Dana began to tremble uncontrollably. Hands grabbed her and rushed her down the street. She was fighting them, trying to free herself.

No! We have to go back. We haven't used up our ten minutes. Waste not, want not... it was wrong to waste things. "Finish your soup, darling. Children in China are starving." You think you're some kind of God up there, sitting on a white cloud? Well, let me tell you something. You're a fake. A real God would never, never, never let Watty's head be blown off. Wally was expecting his first grandson. Are you listening to me? Are you? Are you?

She was in a state of shock, unaware that she was being led through a back street to the car.

When Dana opened her eyes, she was in her bed. Benn Al-bert son and Jean Paul Hubert were standing over her.

Dana looked up into their faces. "It happened, didn't it?" She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

"I'm so sorry," Jean Paul said. "It's an awful thing to see. You're lucky you weren't killed."

The telephone jarred the stillness of the room. Benn picked it up "Hello." He listened a moment "Yes. Hold on." He turned to Dana "It's Matt Baker. Are you able to talk to him?"

"Yes." Dana sat up. After a moment, she rose and walked over to the telephone. "Hello." Her throat was dry, and it was difficult to speak.

Matt Baker's voice boomed over the line. "I want you to come home, Dana."

Her voice was a whisper. "Yes. I want to come home."

"I'll arrange for you to be on the first plane out of there."

"Thank you." She dropped the telephone.

Jean Paul and Benn helped her back into bed. "I'm sorry," Jean Paul said, again. "There's there's nothing anyone can say." Tears were running down her cheeks. "Why did they kill him? He never harmed anyone. What's happening? People are being slaughtered like animals and no one cares. No one cares!" Benn said, "Dana, there's nothing we can do about " "There has to be!" Dana's voice was filled with fury "We have to make them care. This war isn't about bombed-out churches or buildings or streets. It's about people innocent people getting their heads blown off. Those are the stories we should be doing That's the only way to make this war real." She turned to Benn and took a deep breath. "I'm staying, Benn. I'm not going to let them scare me away." He was watching her, concerned. "Dana, are you sure you ?" "I'm sure. I know what I have to do now. Will you call Matt and tell him?" He said reluctantly, "If that's what you really want.

Dana nodded. "It's what I really want." She watched Benn leave the room. Jean Paul said, "Well, I had better go and let you " "No." For an instant, Dana's mind was filled with a vision of Wally's head exploding, and his body falling to the ground. "No," Dana said. She looked up at Jean Paul. "Please stay. I need you." Jean Paul sat down on the bed. And Dana took him in her arms and held him close to her.

The following morning, Dana said to Benn Albertson, "Can you get hold of a cameraman? Jean Paul told me about an orphanage in Kosovo that's just been bombed. I want to go there and cover it."

"I'll round up someone."

"Thanks, Benn. I'll go on ahead and meet you there."

"Be careful."

"Don't worry."

Jovan was waiting for Dana in the alley.

"We're going to Kosovo," Dana told him.

Jovan turned to look at her. "That is dangerous, madam. The only road there is through the woods, and "

"We've already had our share of bad luck, Jovan. We'll be all right."

"As you wish."

They sped through the city, and fifteen minutes later were driving through a heavily forested area. "How much farther?" Dana asked "Not far. We should be there in " And at that moment, the Land Rover struck a land mine.

Eleven.

As election day approached, the presidential race became too close to call. "We've got to win Ohio," Peter Tager said. "That's twenty-one electoral votes. We're all right with Alabama that's nine votes and we have Florida's twenty-five votes." He held up a chart. "Illinois, twenty-two votes ... New York, thirty-three, and California, forty-four. It's just too damned early to call it."

Everyone was concerned except Senator Davis. "I've got a nose," he said. "I can smell victory."

In a Frankfort hospital, Miriam Friedland was still in a coma.

On election day, the first Tuesday in November, Leslie stayed home to watch the returns on television. Oliver Russell won by more than two million popular votes and a huge majority of electoral votes. Oliver Russell was the president now, the biggest target in the world. No one had followed the election campaign more closely than Leslie Stewart Chambers. She had been busily expanding her empire and had acquired a chain of newspapers and television and radio stations across the United States, as well as in England, Australia, and Brazil. "When are you going to have enough?" her chief editor, Darin Solana, asked. "Soon, Leslie said. "Soon." There was one more step she had to take, and the last piece fell into place at a dinner party in Scortsdale. A guest said, "I heard confidentially that Margaret Port-man is getting a divorce." Margaret Portman was the owner of the Washington Tribune, in the nation's capital. Leslie had no comment, but early the following morning, she was on the telephone with Chad Morton, one of her attorneys. "I want you to find out if the Washington Tribune is for sale." The answer came back later that day. "I don't know how you heard about it, Mrs. Chambers, but it looks as though you could be right. Mrs. Portman and her husband are quietly getting a divorce, and they're dividing up their property. I think Washington Tribune Enterprises is going up for sale."

"I want to buy it."

"You're talking about a mega deal Washington Tribune Enterprises owns a newspaper chain, a magazine, a television network, and "

"I want it."

That afternoon, Leslie and Chad Morton were on their way to Washington, D. C.

Leslie telephoned Margaret Portman, whom she had met casually a few years earlier. "I'm in Washington," Leslie said, "and I " "I know.

Word gets around fast, Leslie thought. "I heard that you might be interested in selling Tribune Enterprises." "Possibly." "I wonder if you would arrange a tour of the paper for me?" "Are you interested in buying it, Leslie?" "Possibly." Margaret Portman sent for Matt Baker "Do you know who Leslie Chambers is?" "The Ice Princess. Sure.

"She'll be here in a few minutes. I'd like you to take her on a tour of the plant."

Everyone at the Tribune was aware of the impending sale.

"It would be a mistake to sell the Tribune to Leslie Chambers," Matt Baker said flatly.

"What makes you say that?"

"First of all, I doubt if she really knows a damn thing about the newspaper business. Have you looked at what she's done to the other papers she bought? She's turned respectable newspapers into cheap tabloids. She'll destroy the Tribune. She's " He looked up. Leslie Chambers was standing in the doorway, listening.

Margaret Portman spoke up. "Leslie! How nice to see you. This is Matt Baker, our editor in chief of Tribune Enterprises."

They exchanged cool greetings.

"Matt is going to show you around."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Matt Baker took a deep breath. "Right. Let's get started."

At the beginning of the tour, Matt Baker said condescendingly, "The structure is like this: At the top is the editor in chief " "That would be you, Mr. Baker." "Right. And under me, the managing editor and the editorial staff. That includes Metro, National, Foreign, Sports, Business, Life and Style, People, Calendar, Books, Real Estate, Travel, Food.... I'm probably leaving a few out." "Amazing. How many employees does Washington Tribune Enterprises have, Mr. Baker?" "Over five thousand."

They passed a copy desk. "Here's where the news editor lays out the pages. He's the one who decides where the photos are going to go and which stories appear on which pages. The copy desk writes the headlines, edits the stories, and then puts them together in the composing room." "Fascinating." "Are you interested in seeing the printing plants?" "Oh, yes. I'd like to see everything." He mumbled something under his breath. "I'm sorry?" "I said, "Fine." " They took the elevator down and walked over to the next building. The printing plant was four stories high and the size of four football fields. Everything in the huge space was automated. There were thirty robot carts in the building, carrying enormous rolls of paper that they dropped off at various stations. Baker explained, "Each roll of paper weighs about twenty-five hundred pounds. If you unrolled one, it would be eight miles long. The paper goes through the presses at twenty-one miles an hour. Some of the bigger carts can carry sixteen rolls at once." There were six presses, three on each side of the room. Leslie and Matt Baker stood there and watched as the newspapers were automatically assembled, cut, folded, put into bales, and delivered to the trucks waiting to carry them off. "In the old days it took about thirty men to do what one man can do today," Matt Baker said. "The age of technology."

Leslie looked at him a moment. "The age of downsizing." "I don't know if you're interested in the economics of the operation?" Matt Baker asked dryly. "Perhaps you'd prefer your lawyer or accountant to " "I'm very interested, Mr. Baker. Your editorial budget is fifteen million dollars. Your daily circulation is eight hundred and sixteen thousand, four hundred and seventy-four, and one million, one hundred and forty thousand, four hundred and ninety-eight on Sunday, and your advertising is sixty-eight point two." Matt looked at her and blinked. "With the ownership of all your newspapers, your daily circulation is over two million, with two million four Sunday circulation. Of course, that's not the largest paper in the world, is it, Mr. Baker? Two of the largest newspapers in the world are printed in London. The Sun is the biggest, with a circulation of four million daily. The Daily Mirror sells over three million." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you " "In Japan, there are over two hundred dailies, including Asahi Shimbun, Mainchi Shimbun, and Yomiuri Shimbun. Do you follow me?" "Yes. I apologize if I seemed patronizing." "Accepted, Mr. Baker. Let's go back to Mrs. Portman's office."

The next morning, Leslie was in the executive conference room of the Washington Tribune, facing Mrs. Portman and half a dozen attorneys.

"Let's talk about price," Leslie said. The discussion lasted four hours, and when it was over, Leslie Stewart Chambers was the owner of Washington Tribune Enterprises.

It was more expensive than Leslie had anticipated. It did not matter.

There was something more important.

The day the deal was finalized, Leslie sent for Matt Baker. "What are your plans?" Leslie asked. "I'm leaving." She looked at him curiously. "Why?" "You have quite a reputation. People don't like working for you. I think the word they use most is 'ruthless." I don't need that. This is a good newspaper, and I hate to leave it, but I have more job offers than I can handle." "How long have you worked here?" "Fifteen years." "And you're going to just throw that away?

"I'm not throwing anything away, I'm " She looked him in the eye "Listen to me. I think the Tribune is a good newspaper, too, but I want it to be a great newspaper. I want you to help me." "No. I don't "

"Six months. Try it for six months. We'll start by doubling your salary." He studied her for a long moment. Young and beautiful and intelligent. And yet... He had an uneasy feeling about her. "Who will be in charge here?" She smiled. "You're the editor in chief of Washington Tribune Enterprises. You will be." And he believed her.

Twelve.

It had been six months since Dana's Land Rover had been blown up. She escaped with nothing worse than a concussion, a cracked rib, a broken wrist, and painful bruises. Jovan suffered a fractured leg and scrapes and bruises. Matt Baker had telephoned Dana that night and ordered her to return to Washington, but the incident had made Dana more determined than ever to stay. "These people are desperate," Dana told him. "I can't just walk away from this. If you order me home, then I quit.

"Are you blackmailing me?" "Yes." "That's what I thought," Matt snapped. "I don't let anyone blackmail me. Do you understand?" Dana waited.

"What about a leave of absence?" he asked.

"I don't need a leave of absence." She could hear his sigh over the phone.

"All right. Stay there. But, Dana "

"Yes?"

"Promise me that you'll be careful."

From outside the hotel, Dana could hear the sound of machine-gun fire "Right."

The city had been under heavy attack all night. Dana had been unable to sleep. Each explosion of a mortar landing meant another building destroyed, another family homeless, or worse, dead. Early in the morning, Dana and her crew were out on the street, ready to shoot. Benn Albertson waited for the thunder of a mortar to fade away, then nodded to Dana. "Ten seconds." "Ready," Dana said. Benn pointed a finger, and Dana turned away from the ruins behind her and faced the television camera. "This is a city that is slowly disappearing from the face of the earth. With its electricity cut off, its eyes have been put out.... Its television and radio stations have been shut down, and it has no ears.... All public transportation has come to a halt, so it has lost its legs...." The camera panned to show a deserted, bombed-out playground, with the rusty skeletons of swings and slides.

"In another life, children played here, and the sound of their laughter filled the air." Mortar fire could be heard again in the near distance. An air raid alarm suddenly sounded. The people walking the streets behind Dana continued as though they had heard nothing. "The sound you're hearing is another air raid alarm. It's the signal for people to run and hide. But the citizens of Sarajevo have found that there is no place to hide, so they walk on in their own silence. Those who can, flee the country, and give up their apartments and all their possessions. Too many who stay, die. It's a cruel choice. There are rumors of peace. Too many rumors, too little peace. Will it come? And when? Will the children come out of their cellars and use this playground again one day? Nobody knows. They can only hope. This is Dana Evans reporting from Sarajevo for WTE." The red light on the camera blinked off. "Let's get out of here," Benn said. Andy Casarez, the new cameraman, hurriedly started to pack up his gear. A young boy was standing on the sidewalk, watching Dana. He was a street urchin, dressed in filthy, ragged clothes and torn shoes. Intense brown eyes flashed out of a face streaked with dirt. His right arm was missing Dana watched the boy studying her. Dana smiled. "Hello." There was no reply. Dana shrugged and turned to Benn. "Let's go."

A few minutes later, they were on their way back to the Holiday Inn.

The Holiday Inn was filled with newspaper, radio, and television reporters, and they formed a disparate family. They were rivals, but because of the dangerous circumstances they found themselves in, they were always ready to help one another. They covered breaking stories together:

There was a riot in Montenegro.... There was a bombing in Vukovar.... A hospital had been shelled in Petrovo Selo.... Jean Paul Hubert was gone. He had been given another assignment, and Dana missed him terribly.

As Dana was leaving the hotel one morning, the little boy she had seen on the street was standing in the alley. Jovan opened the door of the replacement Land Rover for Dana. "Good morning, madam." "Good morning." The boy stood there, staring at Dana. She walked over to him. "Good morning." There was no reply. Dana said to Jovan, "How do you say 'good morning' in Slovene?" The little boy answered, "Dobro jutro." Dana turned to him. "So you understand English." "Maybe.

"What's your name?"

"Kemal."

"How old are you, Kemal?"

He turned and walked away.

"He's frightened of strangers," Jovan said.

Dana looked after the boy. "I don't blame him. So am I."

Four hours later, when the Land Rover returned to the alley in back of the Holiday Inn, Kemal was waiting near the entrance.

As Dana got out of the car, Kemal said, "Twelve."

"What?" Then Dana remembered. "Oh." He was small for his age. She looked at his empty right shirtsleeve and started to ask him a question, then stopped herself. "Where do you live, Kemal? Can we take you home?" She watched him turn and walk away.

Jovan said, "He has no manners."

Dana said quietly, "Maybe he lost them when he lost his arm."

That evening in the hotel dining room, the reporters were talking about the new rumors of an imminent peace. "The UN has finally gotten involved," Gabriella Orsi declared. "It's about time." "If you ask me, it's too late." "It's never too late," Dana said quietly. The following morning, two news stories came over the wires. The first one was about a peace agreement brokered by the United States and the United Nations. The second story was that Oslobodjenje, Sarajevo's newspaper, had been bombed out of existence.

"Our Washington bureaus are covering the peace agreement," Dana told Benn. "Let's do a story on Oslobodjenje."

Dana was standing in front of the demolished building that had once housed Oslobodjenje. The camera's red light was on. "People die here every day," Dana said into the lens, "and buildings are destroyed. But this building was murdered. It housed the only free newspaper in Sarajevo, Oslobodjenje. It was a newspaper that dared to tell the truth. When it was bombed out of its headquarters, it was moved into the basement, to keep the presses alive. When there were no more newsstands to sell the papers from, its reporters went out on the streets to peddle them themselves. They were selling more than newspapers. They were selling freedom. With the death of Oslobodjenje, another piece of freedom has died here."

In his office, Matt Baker was watching the news broadcast. "Dammit, she's good!" He turned to his assistant. "I want her to have her own satellite truck. Move on it." "Yes, sir."

When Dana returned to her room, there was a visitor waiting for her Colonel Gordan Divjak was lounging in a chair when Dana walked in. She stopped, startled. "They didn't tell me I had a visitor." "This is not a social visit." His beady black eyes focused on her. "I watched your broadcast about Oslobodjenje." Dana studied him warily. "Yes?

"You were permitted to come into our country to report, not to make judgments." "I didn't make any " "Do not interrupt me. Your idea of freedom is not necessarily our idea of freedom. Do you understand me?

"No. I'm afraid I " "Then let me explain it to you, Miss Evans. You are a guest in my country. Perhaps you are a spy for your government.

"I am not a " "Do not interrupt me. I warned you at the airport. We are not playing games. We are at war. Anyone involved in espionage will be executed." His words were all the more chilling because they were spoken softly. He got to his feet. "This is your last warning.

Dana watched him leave. I'm not going to kt him frighten me, she thought defiantly. She was frightened.

A care package arrived from Matt Baker. It was an enormous box filled with candy, granola bars, canned foods, and a dozen other nonperishable items. Dana took it into the lobby to share it with the other reporters. They were delighted.

"Now, that's what I call a boss," Satomi Asaka said.

"How do I get a job with the Washington Tribune?" Juan Santos joked.

Kemal was waiting in the alley again. The frayed, thin jacket he had on looked as though it was about to fall apart.

"Good morning, Kemal."

He stood there, silent, watching her from under half-closed lids.

"I'm going shopping. Would you like to go with me?"

No answer.

"Let me put it another way," Dana said, exasperated. She opened the back door of the vehicle. "Get in the car. Now!"

The boy stood there a moment, shocked, then slowly moved toward the car.

Dana and Jovan watched him climb into the backseat.

Dana said to Jovan, "Can you find a department store or clothing shop that's open?"

"I know one."

"Let's go there."

They rode in silence for the first few minutes.

"Do you have a mother or father, Kemal?"

He shook his head.

"Where do you live?" He shrugged.

Dana felt him move closer to her as though to absorb the warmth of her body.

The clothing store was in the Bascarsija, the old market of Sarajevo The front had been bombed out, but the store was open. Dana took Kemal's left hand and led him into the store. A clerk said, "Can I help you?" "Yes. I want to buy a jacket for a friend of mine." She looked at Kemal. "He's about his size." "This way, please." In the boy's section there was a rack of jackets. Dana turned to Kemal "Which one do you like?" Kemal stood there, saying nothing. Dana said to the clerk, "We'll take the brown one." She looked at Kemal's trousers. "And I think we need a pair of trousers and some new shoes.

When they left the store half an hour later, Kemal was dressed in his new outfit. He slid into the backseat of the car without a word "Don't you know how to say thank you?" Jovan demanded angrily. Kemal burst into tears. Dana put her arms around him. "It's all right," she said. "It's all right." What kind of a world does this to children?

When they returned to the hotel, Dana watched Kemal turn and walk away without a word.

"Where does someone like that live?" Dana asked Jovan.

"On the streets, madam. There are hundreds of orphans in Sarajevo like him. They have no homes, no families...."

"How do they survive?"

He shrugged. "I do not know."

The next day, when Dana walked out of the hotel, Kemal was waiting for her, dressed in his new outfit. He had washed his face.

The big news at the luncheon table was the peace treaty and whether it would work. Dana decided to go back to visit Professor Mladic Staka and ask what he thought about it. He looked even more frail than the last time she had seen him. "I am happy to see you, Miss Evans. I hear you are doing wonderful broadcasts, but " He shrugged "Unfortunately, I have no electricity for my television set. What can I do for you?" "I wanted to get your opinion of the new peace treaty, Professor." He leaned back in his chair and said thoughtfully, "It is interesting to me that in Dayton, Ohio, they made a decision about what is going to happen to the future of Sarajevo."

"They've agreed to a troika, a three-person presidency, composed of a Muslim, a Croat, and a Serb. Do you think it can work, Professor?"

"Only if you believe in miracles." He frowned. "There will be eighteen national legislative bodies and another hundred and nine different local governments. It is a Tower of political Babel. It is what you Americans call a 'shotgun marriage." None of them wants to give up their autonomy. They insist on having their own flags, their own license plates, their own currency." He shook his head. "It is a morning peace. Beware of the night."

Dana Evans had gone beyond being a mere reporter and was becoming an international legend. What came through in her television broadcasts was an intelligent human being filled with passion. And because Dana cared, her viewers cared, and shared her feelings.

Matt Baker began getting calls from other news outlets saying that they wanted to syndicate Dana Evans's broadcasts. He was delighted for her She went over there to do good, he thought, and she's going to wind up doing well.

With her own new satellite truck, Dana was busier than ever. She was no longer at the mercy of the Yugoslav satellite company She and Benn decided what stories they wanted to do, and Dana would write them and broadcast them. Some of the stories were broadcast live, and others were taped. Dana and Benn and Andy would go out on the streets and photograph whatever background was needed, then Dana would tape her commentary in an editing room and send it back on the line to Washington.

At lunchtime, in the hotel dining room, large platters of sandwiches were placed in the center of the table. Journalists were busily helping themselves. Roderick Munn, from the BBC, walked into the room with an AP clipping in his hand. "Listen to this, everybody." He read the clipping aloud. " "Dana Evans, a foreign correspondent for WTE, is now being syndicated by a dozen news stations. Miss Evans has been nominated for the coveted Peabody Award...." " The story went on from there. "Aren't we lucky to be associated with somebody so famous? one of the reporters said sarcastically. At that moment, Dana walked into the dining room. "Hi, everybody. I don't have time for lunch today. I'm going to take some sandwiches with me." She scooped up several sandwiches and covered them with paper napkins. "See you later." They watched in silence as she left. When Dana got outside, Kemal was there, waiting. "Good afternoon, Kemal." No response.

"Get into the car."

Kemal slid into the backseat. Dana handed him a sandwich and sat there, watching him silently wolf it down. She handed him another sandwich, and he started to eat it.

"Slowly," Dana said.

"Where to?" Jovan asked.

Dana turned to Kemal. "Where to?" He looked at her uncomprehendingly "We're taking you home, Kemal. Where do you live?"

He shook his head.

"I need to know. Where do you live?"

Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a large vacant lot near the banks of the Miljacka. Dozens of big cardboard boxes were scattered around, and the lot was littered with debris of all kinds Dana got out of the car and turned to Kemal. "Is this where you live?

He reluctantly nodded. "And other boys live here, too?" He nodded again. "I want to do a story about this, Kemal." He shook his head "No." "Why not?" "The police will come and take us away. Don't.

Dana studied him a moment. "All right. I promise."

The next morning, Dana moved out of her room at the Holiday Inn. When she did not appear at breakfast, Gabriella Orsi from the Altre Station in Italy asked, "Where's Dana?"

Roderick Munn replied, "She's gone. She's rented a farmhouse to live in. She said she wanted to be by herself."

Nikolai Petrovich, the Russian from Gorizont 22, said, "We would all like to be by ourselves. So we are not good enough for her?"

There was a general feeling of disapproval.

The following afternoon, another large care package arrived for Dana.

Nikolai Petrovich said, "Since she is not here, we might as well enjoy it, eh?"

The hotel clerk said, "I'm sorry. Miss Evans is having it picked up."

A few minutes later, Kemal arrived. The reporters watched him take the package and leave.

"She doesn't even share with us anymore," Juan Santos grumbled. "I think her publicity has gone to her head."

During the next week, Dana filed her stories, but she did not appear at the hotel again. The resentment against her was growing.

Dana and her ego were becoming the main topic of conversation. A few days later, when another huge care package was delivered to the hotel, Nikolai Petrovich went to the hotel clerk. "Is Miss Evans having this package picked up?" "Yes, sir." The Russian hurried back into the dining room. "There is another package," he said. "Someone is going to pick it up. Why don't we follow him and tell Miss Evans our opinion of reporters who think they're too good for everyone else?" There was a chorus of approval. When Kemal arrived to pick up the package, Nikolai said to him, "Are you taking that to Miss Evans?" Kemal nodded. "She asked to see us. We'll go along with you." Kemal looked at him a moment, then shrugged. "We'll take you in one of our cars, Nikolai Petrovich said. "You tell us where to go." Ten minutes later, a caravan of cars was making its way along deserted side streets. On the outskirts of the city, Kemal pointed to an old bombed-out farmhouse. The cars came to a stop. "You go ahead and bring her the package," Nikolai said. "We're going to surprise her." They watched Kemal walk into the farmhouse. They waited a moment, then moved toward the farmhouse and burst in through the front door. They stopped, in shock. The room was filled with children of all ages, sizes, and colors. Most of them were crippled. A dozen army cots had been set up along the walls. Dana was parceling out the contents of the care package to the children when the door flew open. She looked up in astonishment as the group charged in. "What what are you doing here?

Roderick Munn looked around, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Dana. We made a a mistake. We thought " Dana turned to face the group. "I see They're orphans. They have nowhere to go and no one to take care of them. Most of them were in a hospital when it was bombed. If the police find them, they'll be put in what passes for an orphanage, and they'll die there. If they stay here, they'll die. I've been trying to figure out a way to get them out of the country, but so far, nothing has worked." She looked at the group pleadingly. "Do you have any ideas?" Roderick Munn said slowly, "I think I have. There's a Red Cross plane leaving for Paris tonight. The pilot is a friend of mine.

Dana asked hopefully, "Would you talk to him?" Munn nodded. "Yes.

Nikolai Petrovich said, "Wait! We can't get involved in anything like that. They'll throw us all out of the country." "You don't have to be involved," Munn told him. "We'll handle it." "I'm against it, Nikolai said stubbornly. "It will place us all in danger." "What about the children?" Dana asked. "We're talking about their lives."

Late in the afternoon, Roderick Munn came to see Dana. "I talked to my friend. He said he would be happy to take the children to Paris, where they'll be safe. He has two boys of his own."

Dana was thrilled. "That's wonderful. Thank you so much."

Munn looked at her. "It is we who should thank you."

At eight o'clock that evening, a van with the Red Cross insignia on its sides pulled up in front of the farmhouse. The driver blinked the lights, and under the cover of darkness, Dana and the children hurried into the van. Fifteen minutes later, it was rolling toward Butmir Airport. The airport had been temporarily closed except to the Red Cross planes that delivered supplies and took away the seriously wounded. The drive was the longest ride of Dana's life. It seemed to take forever. When she saw the lights of the airport ahead, she said to the children, "We're almost there." Kemal was squeezing her hand "You'll be fine," Dana assured him. "All of you will be taken care of." And she thought, I'm going to miss you. At the airport, a guard waved the van through, and it drove up to a waiting cargo plane with the Red Cross markings painted on the fuselage. The pilot was standing next to the plane.

He hurried up to Dana. "For God's sake, you're late! Get them aboard, fast. We were due to take off twenty minutes ago." Dana herded the children up the ramp into the plane. Kemal was the last. He turned to Dana, his lips trembling. "Will I see you again?" "You bet you will, Dana said. She hugged him and held him close for a moment, saying a silent prayer. "Get aboard now." Moments later, the door closed There was a roar of the engines, and the plane began to taxi down the runway. Dana and Munn stood there, watching. At the end of the runway, the plane soared into the air and speared into the eastern sky, banking north toward Paris. "That was a wonderful thing you did," the driver said. "I want you to know " A car screeched to a stop behind them, and they turned. Colonel Gordan Divjak jumped out of the car and glared up at the sky where the plane was disappearing. At his side was Nikolai Petrovich, the Russian journalist. Colonel Divjak turned to Dana. "You are under arrest. I warned you that the punishment for espionage is death." Dana took a deep breath. "Colonel, if you're going to put me on trial for espionage " He looked into Dana's eyes and said softly, "Who said anything about a trial?"

Thirteen.

The inaugural celebrations, the parades, and the swearing-in ceremonies were over, and Oliver was eager to begin his presidency. Washington, D. C." was probably the only city anywhere completely devoted to and obsessed with politics. It was the power hub of the world, and Oliver Russell was the center of that hub. It seemed that everyone was connected in one way or another to the federal government. In the metropolitan area of Washington, there were fifteen thousand lobbyists and more than five thousand journalists, all of them nursing at the mother's milk of government. Oliver Russell remembered John Kennedy's sly put-down: "Washington, D. C." is a city of southern efficiency and northern charm."

On the first day of his presidency, Oliver wandered around the White House with Jan. They were familiar with its statistics: 132 rooms, 32 bathrooms, 29 fireplaces, 3 elevators, a swimming pool, putting green, tennis court, jogging track, exercise room, horseshoe pit, bowling alley, and movie theater, and eighteen acres of beautifully tended grounds. But actually living in it, being a part of it, was overwhelming.

"It's like a dream, isn't it?" Jan sighed.

Oliver took her hand. "I'm glad we're sharing it, darling." And he meant it. Jan had become a wonderful companion. She was always there for him, supportive and caring. More and more, he found that he enjoyed being with her.

When Oliver returned to the Oval Office, Peter Tager was waiting to see him. Oliver's first appointment had been to make Tager his chief of staff.

Oliver said, "I still can't believe this, Peter." Peter Tager smiled "The people believe it. They voted you in, Mr. President."

Oliver looked up at him. "It's still Oliver." "All right. When we're alone. But you have to realize that from this moment on, anything you do can affect the entire world. Anything you say could shake up the economy or have an impact on a hundred other countries around the globe. You have more power than any other person in the world."

The intercom buzzed. "Mr. President, Senator Davis is here."

"Send him in, Heather." Tager sighed. "I'd better get started. My desk looks like a paper mountain." The door opened and Todd Davis walked in. "Peter ..." "Senator ..." The two men shook hands. Tager said, "I'll see you later, Mr. President." Senator Davis walked over to Oliver's desk and nodded. "That desk fits you just fine, Oliver. I can't tell you what a real thrill it is for me to see you sitting there." "Thank you, Todd. I'm still trying to get used to it. I mean Adams sat here ... and Lincoln ... and Roosevelt..." Senator Davis laughed. "Don't let that scare you. Before they became legends, they were men just like you, sitting there trying to do the right thing Putting their asses in that chair terrified them all, in the beginning I just left Jan. She's in seventh heaven. She's going to make a great First Lady." "I know she is." "By the way, I have a little list here I'd like to discuss with you, Mr. President." The emphasis on "Mr President" was jovial. "Of course, Todd." Senator Davis slid the list across the desk. "What is this?" "Just a few suggestions I have for your cabinet." "Oh. Well, I've already decided " "I thought you might want to look these over." "But there's no point in " "Look them over, Oliver." The senator's voice had cooled.

Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Todd ..."

Senator Davis held up a hand. "Oliver, I don't want you to think for one minute that I'm trying to impose my will or my wishes on you. You would be wrong. I put together that list because I think they're the best men who can help you serve your country. I'm a patriot, Oliver, and I'm not ashamed of it. This country means everything to me." There was a catch in his voice. "Everything. If you think I helped put you in this office just because you're my son-in-law, you're gravely mistaken. I fought to make sure you got here because I firmly believe you're the man best suited for the job. That's what I care most about." He tapped a finger on the piece of paper. "And these men can help you do that job."

Oliver sat there, silent.

"I've been in this town for a lot of years, Oliver. And do you know what I've learned? That there's nothing sadder than a one-term president. And do you know why? Because during the first four years, he's just beginning to get an idea of what he can do to make this country better. He has all those dreams to fulfill. And just when he's ready to do that just when he's ready to really make a difference he glanced around the office "someone else moves in here, and those dreams just vanish. Sad to think about, isn't it? All those men with grand dreams who serve only one term. Did you know that since McKinley took office in 1897, more than half the presidents who followed him were one-term presidents? But you, Oliver I'm going to see to it that you're a two-term president. I want you to be able to fulfill all your dreams. I'm going to see to it that you're reelected."

Senator Davis looked at his watch and rose. "I have to go. We have a quorum call at the Senate. I'll see you at dinner tonight." He walked out the door.

Oliver looked after him for a long time. Then he reached down and picked up the list Senator Todd Davis had left.

In his dream, Miriam Friedland awakened and sat up in bed. A policeman was at her bedside. He looked down at her and said, "Now you can tell us who did this to you."

"Yes."

He woke up, soaked in perspiration.

Early the following morning, Oliver telephoned the hospital where Miriam was. "I'm afraid there's no change, Mr. President," the chief of staff told him. "Frankly, it doesn't look good." Oliver said hesitantly, "She has no family. If you don't think she's going to make it, would it be more humane to take her off the life-support systems?

"I think we should wait a little while longer and see what happens, the doctor said. "Sometimes there's a miracle."

Jay Perkins, chief of protocol, was briefing the president. "There are one hundred and forty-seven diplomatic missions in Washington, Mr President. The blue book the Diplomatic List lists the name of every representative of a foreign government and spouse. The green book the Social List names the top diplomats, Washington residents, and members of Congress."

He handed Oliver several sheets of paper. "This is a list of the potential foreign ambassadors you will receive."

Oliver looked down the list and found the Italian ambassador and his wife: Atilio Picone and Sylva. Sylva. Oliver asked innocently, "Will they bring their wives with them?"

"No. The wives will be introduced later. I would suggest that you begin seeing the candidates as quickly as possible."

"Fine."

Perkins said, "I'll try to arrange it so that by next Saturday, all the foreign ambassadors will be accredited. You might want to consider having a White House dinner to honor them."

"Good idea." OliVer glanced again at the list on his desk. Atilio and Sylva Picone.

Saturday evening, the State Dining Room was decorated with flags from the various countries represented by the foreign ambassadors. Oliver had spoken with Atilio Picone two days earlier when he had presented his credence papers. "How is Mrs. Picone?" Oliver had asked. There was a small pause. "My wife is fine. Thank you, Mr. President."

The dinner was going beautifully. Oliver went from table to table, chatting with his guests and charming them all. Some of the most important people in the world were gathered in that room.

Oliver Russell approached three ladies who were socially prominent and married to important men. But they were movers and shakers in their own right. "Leonore ... Delores .. . Carol..."

As Oliver was making his way across the room, Sylva Pi-cone went up to him and held out her hand. "This is a moment I've been looking forward to." Her eyes were sparkling.

"I, too," Oliver murmured.

"I knew you were going to be elected." It was almost a whisper.

"Can we talk later?"

There was no hesitation. "Of course."

After dinner, there was dancing in the grand ballroom to the music of the Marine Band. Oliver watched Jan dancing, and he thought: What a beautiful woman. What a great body. The evening was a huge success.

The following week, on the front page of the Washington Tribune, the headline blazed out: PRESIDENT ACCUSED OF CAMPAIGN FRAUD.

Oliver stared at it in disbelief. It was the worst timing possible How could this have happened? And then he suddenly realized how it had happened. The answer was in front of him on the masthead of the newspaper: "Publisher, Leslie Stewart."

The following week, a front-page item in the Washington Tribune read:

PRESIDENT TO BE QUESTIONED ABOUT FALSIFIED

KENTUCKY STATE INCOME TAX RETURNS.

Two weeks later, another story appeared on the front page of the Tribune: FORMER ASSISTANT TO PRESIDENT RUSSELL PLANS

TO FILE LAWSUIT CHARGING SEXUAL HARASSMENT.

The door to the Oval Office flew open and Jan walked in. "Have you seen the morning paper?"

"Yes, I "

"How could you do this to us, Oliver? You "

"Wait a minute! Don't you see what's happening, Jan? Leslie Stewart is behind it. I'm sure she bribed that woman to do this. She's trying to get her revenge because I jilted her for you. All right. She got it. It's over."

Senator Davis was on the telephone. "Oliver. I would like to see you in one hour." "I'll be here, Todd." Oliver was in the small library when Todd Davis arrived. Oliver rose to greet him. "Good morning.

"Like hell it's a good morning." Senator Davis's voice was filled with fury. "That woman is going to destroy us."

"No, she's not. She just " "Everyone reads that damned gossip rag, and people believe what they read." "Todd, this is going to blow over and " "It's not going to blow over. Did you hear the editorial on WTE this morning? It was about who our next president is going to be. You were at the bottom of the list. Leslie Stewart is out to get you. You must stop her. What's the line 'hell hath no fury ..."?" "There's another adage, Todd, about freedom of the press. There's nothing we can do about this." Senator Davis looked at Oliver speculatively. "But there is." "What are you talking about?" "Sit down." The two men sat "The woman is obviously still in love with you, Oliver. This is her way of punishing you for what you did to her. Never argue with someone who buys ink by the ton. My advice is to make peace." "How do I do that?" Senator Davis looked at Oliver's groin. "Use your head." "Wait a minute, Todd! Are you suggesting that I ?" "What I'm suggesting is that you cool her down. Let her know that you're sorry. I'm telling you she still loves you. If she didn't, she wouldn't be doing this.

"What exactly do you expect me to do?" "Charm her, my boy. You did it once, you can do it again. You've got to win her over. You're having a State Department dinner here Friday evening. Invite her. You must persuade her to stop what she's doing."

"I don't know how I can "

"I don't care how you do it. Perhaps you could take her away somewhere, where you can have a quiet chat. I have a country house in Virginia. It's very private. I'm going to Florida for the weekend, and I've arranged for Jan to go with me." He took out a slip of paper and some keys and handed them to Oliver. "Here are the directions and the keys to the house."

Oliver was staring at him. "Jesus! You had this all planned? What if Leslie won't what if she's not interested? If she refuses to go?"

Senator Davis rose. "She's interested. She'll go. I'll see you Monday, Oliver. Good luck."

Oliver sat there for a long time. And he thought: No. I can't do this to her again. I won't.

That evening as they were getting dressed for dinner, Jan said, "Oliver, Father asked me to go to Florida with him for the weekend He's getting some kind of award, and I think he wants to show off the president's wife. Would you mind very much if I went? I know there's a State Department dinner here Friday, so if you want me to stay ...

"No, no. You go ahead. I'll miss you." And I am going to miss her, he thought. As soon as I solve this problem with Leslie, I'm going to start spending more time with Jan.

Leslie was on the telephone when her secretary came hurrying in. "Miss Stewart "

"Can't you see I'm "

"President Russell is on line three."

Leslie looked at her a moment, then smiled. "Right." She said into the phone, "I'll call you back."

She pressed the button on line three. "Hello."

"Leslie?"

"Hello, Oliver. Or should I call you Mr. President?"

"You can call me anything you like." He added lightly, "And have.

There was a silence. "Leslie, I want to see you."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I'm very sure."

"You're the president. I can't say no to you, can I?"

"Not if you're a patriotic American. There's a State Department dinner at the White House Friday night. Please come."

"What time?"

"Eight o'clock."

"All right. I'll be there."

She looked stunning in a long, clinging black knit Mandarin-necked St John gown fastened in front with buttons over-coated in twenty-two-karat gold. There was a revealing fourteen-inch slit on the left side of the dress.

The instant Oliver looked at her, memories came flooding back. "Leslie ..." i on "Mr. President."

He took her hand, and it was moist. It's a sign, Oliver thought. But of what? Nervousness? Anger? Old memories? "I'm so glad you came, Leslie." "Yes. I am, too." "We'll talk later." Her smile warmed him. "Yes."

Two tables away from where Oliver was seated was a group of Arab diplomats. One of them, a swarthy man with sharply etched features and dark eyes, seemed to be staring intently at Oliver.

Oliver leaned over to Peter Tager and nodded toward the Arab. "Who's that?"

Tager took a quick look. "Ali al-Fulani. He's the secretary at one of the United Arab Emirates. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Oliver looked again. The man's eyes were still focused on him.

Oliver spent the evening working the room, making his guests feel comfortable. Sylva was at one table, Leslie at another. It was not until the evening was almost over that Oliver managed to get Leslie alone for a moment. "We need to talk. I have a lot to tell you. Can we meet somewhere?"

There was the faintest hesitation in her voice. "Oliver, perhaps it would be better if we didn't "

"I have a house in Manassas, Virginia, about an hour out of Washington Will you meet me there?"

She looked into his eyes. This time there was no hesitation. "If you want me to."

Oliver described the location of the house. "Tomorrow night at eight?"

Leslie's voice was husky. "I'll be there."

At a National Security Council meeting the following morning, Director of Central Intelligence James Frisch dropped a bombshell. "Mr President, we received word this morning that Libya is buying a variety of atomic weapons from Iran and China. There's a strong rumor that they're going to be used to attack Israel. It will take a day or two to get a confirmation." Lou Werner, the secretary of state, said, "I don't think we should wait. Let's protest now, in the strongest possible terms." Oliver said to Werner, "See what additional information you can get." The meeting lasted all morning. From time to time, Oliver found himself thinking about the rendezvous with Leslie. "Charm her, my boy.... You've got to win her over."

On Saturday evening, Oliver was in one of the White House staff cars, driven by a trusted Secret Service agent, heading for Manassas, Virginia. He was strongly tempted to cancel the rendezvous, but it was too late. I'm worrying for no reason. She probably won't even show up.

At eight o'clock, Oliver looked out the window and saw Leslie's car pull into the driveway of the senator's house. He watched her get out of the car and move toward the entrance. Oliver opened the front door The two of them stood there, silently staring at each other, and time disappeared and somehow it was as though they had never been apart Oliver was the first to find his voice. "My God! Last night when I saw you ... I had almost forgotten how beautiful you are." Oliver took Leslie's hand, and they walked into the living room. "What would you like to drink?" "I don't need anything. Thank you." Oliver sat down next to her on the couch. "I have to ask you something, Leslie. Do you hate me?" She shook her head slowly. "No. I thought I hated you." She smiled wryly. "In a way, I suppose that's the reason for my success." "I don't understand." "I wanted to get back at you, Oliver I bought newspapers and television stations so that I could attack you You're the only man I've ever loved. And when you when you deserted me, I I didn't think I could stand it." She was fighting back tears Oliver put his arm around her. "Leslie " And then his lips were on hers, and they were kissing passionately. "Oh, my God," she said. "I didn't expect this to happen." And they were in a fierce embrace, and he took her hand and led her into the bedroom. They began undressing each other. "Hurry, my darling," Leslie said. "Hurry..." And they were in bed, holding each other, their bodies touching, remembering Their lovemaking was gentle and fierce, as it had been in the beginning. And this was a new beginning. The two of them lay there, happy, spent. "It's so funny," Leslie said. "What?" "All those terrible things I published about you. I did it to get your attention." She snuggled closer. "And I did, didn't I?" He grinned "I'll say." Leslie sat up and looked at him. "I'm so proud of you, Oliver. The President of the United States." "I'm trying to be a damn good one. That's what's really important to me. I want to make a difference." Oliver looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I have to get back." "Of course. I'll let you leave first." "When am I going to see you again, Leslie?" "Anytime you want to." "We're going to have to be careful." "I know. We will be."

Leslie lay there, dreamily watching Oliver as he dressed.

When Oliver was ready to leave, he leaned over and said, "You're my miracle."

"And you're mine. You always have been."

He kissed her. "I'll call you tomorrow."

Oliver hurried out to the car and was driven back to Washington. The more things change, the more they stay the same, Oliver thought. I have to be careful never to hurt her again. He picked up the car telephone and dialed the number in Florida that Senator Davis had given him.

The senator answered the phone himself. "Hello."

"It's Oliver."

"Where are you?"

"On my way back to Washington. I just called to tell you some good news. We don't have to worry about that problem anymore. Everything is under control."

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that." There was a note of deep relief in Senator Davis's voice.

"I knew you would be, Todd."

The following morning, as Oliver was getting dressed, he picked up a copy of the Washington Tribune. On the front page was a photograph of Senator Davis's country home in Manassas The caption under it read:

PRESIDENT RUSSELL'S SECRET LOVE NEST.

Fourteen.

Oliver stared at the paper unbelievingly. How could she have done that? He thought about how passionate she had been in bed. And he had completely misread it. It was a passion filled with hate, not love There's no way I can ever stop her, Oliver thought despairingly.

Senator Todd Davis looked at the front-page story and was aghast. He understood the power of the press, and he knew how much this vendetta could cost him. I'll have to stop her myself, Senator Davis decided When he got to his Senate office, he telephoned Leslie. "It's been a long time," Senator Davis said warmly. "Too long. I think about you a lot, Miss Stewart."

"I think about you, too, Senator Davis. In a way, everything I have I owe to you." He chuckled. "Not at all. When you had a problem, I was happy to be able to assist you." "Is there something I can do for you, Senator?" "No, Miss Stewart. But there's something I'd like to do for you. I'm one of your faithful readers, you know, and I think the Tribune is a truly fine paper. I just realized that we haven't been doing any advertising in it, and I want to correct that. I'm involved in several large companies, and they do a lot of advertising. I mean a lot of advertising. I think that a good portion of that should go to a fine paper like the Tribune." "I'm delighted to hear that, Senator We can always use more advertising. Whom shall I have my advertising manager talk to?" "Well, before he talks to anyone, I think you and I should settle a little problem between us." "What's that?" Leslie asked. "It concerns President Russell." "Yes?" "This is a rather delicate matter, Miss Stewart. You said a few moments ago that you owed everything you have to me. Now I'm asking you to do me a little favor." "I'll be happy to, if I can." "In my own small way, I helped the president get elected to office." "I know."

"And he's doing a fine job. Of course, it makes it more difficult for him when he's attacked by a powerful newspaper like the Tribune every time he turns around."

"What are you asking me to do, Senator?"

"Well, I would greatly appreciate it if those attacks would stop."

"And in exchange for that, I can count on getting advertising from some of your companies."

"A great deal of advertising, Miss Stewart."

"Thank you, Senator. Why don't you call me back when you have something more to offer?"

And the line went dead.

In his office at the Washington Tribune, Matt Baker was reading the story about President Russell's secret love nest. "Who the hell authorized this?" he snapped at his assistant. "It came from the White Tower." "Goddammit. She's not running this paper, I am." Why the hell do I put up with her? he wondered, not for the first time Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year plus bonuses and stock options, he told himself wryly. Every time he was ready to quit, she seduced him with more money and more power. Besides, he had to admit to himself that it was fascinating working for one of the most powerful women in the world. There were things about her that he would never understand.

When she had first bought the Tribune, Leslie had said to Matt, "There's an astrologer I want you to hire. His name is Zoltaire."

"He's syndicated by our competition."

"I don't care. Hire him."

Later that day, Matt Baker told her, "I checked on Zoltaire. It would be too expensive to buy out his contract."

"Buy it."

The following week, Zoltaire, whose real name Matt learned was David Hayworth, came to work for the Washington Tribune. He was in his fifties, small and dark and intense.

Matt was puzzled. Leslie did not seem like the kind of woman who would have any interest in astrology. As far as he could see, there was no contact between Leslie and David Hay-worth.

What he did not know was that Hayworth went to visit Leslie at her home whenever she had an important decision to make.

On the first day, Matt had had Leslie's name put on the masthead: "Leslie Chambers, Publisher." She had glanced at it and said, "Change it. It's Leslie Stewart." The lady is on an ego trip, Matt had thought. But he was wrong. Leslie had decided to revert to her maiden name because she wanted Oliver Russell to know exactly who was responsible for what was going to happen to him.

The day after Leslie took over the newspaper, she said, "We're going to buy a health magazine." Matt looked at her curiously. "Why?

"Because the health field is exploding." She had proved to be right The magazine was an instant success. "We're going to start expanding, Leslie told Baker. "Let's get some people looking for publications overseas." "All right." "And there's too much fat around here. Get rid of the reporters who aren't pulling their weight." "Leslie " "I want young reporters who are hungry." When an executive position became open, Leslie insisted on being there for the interview. She would listen to the applicant, and then would ask one question: "What's your golf score?" The job would often depend on the answer. "What the hell kind of question is that?" Matt Baker asked the first time he heard it. "What difference does a golf score make?" "I don't want people here who are dedicated to golf. If they work here, they're going to be dedicated to the Washington Tribune."

Leslie Stewart's private life was a subject of endless discussions at the Tribune. She was a beautiful woman, unattached, and as far as anyone knew, she was not involved with any man and had no personal life. She was one of the capital's preeminent hostesses, and important people vied for an invitation to her dinner parties. But people speculated about what she did when all the guests had left and she was alone. There were rumors that she was an insomniac who spent the nights working, planning new projects for the Stewart empire.

There were other rumors, more titillating, but there was no way of proving them.

Leslie involved herself in everything: editorials, news stories, advertising. One day, she said to the head of the advertising department, "Why aren't we getting any ads from Glea-son's?" an upscale store in Georgetown.

"I've tried, but "

"I know the owner. I'll give him a call."

She called him and said, "Allan, you're not giving the Tribune any ads Why?"

He had laughed and said, "Leslie, your readers are our shoplifters."

Before Leslie went into a conference, she read up on everyone who would be there. She knew everyone's weaknesses and strengths, and she was a tough negotiator.

"Sometimes you can be too tough," Matt Baker warned her. "You have to leave them something, Leslie."

"Forget it. I believe in the scorched-earth policy."

In the course of the next year, Washington Tribune Enterprises acquired a newspaper and radio station in Australia, a television station in Denver, and a newspaper in Hammond, Indiana. Whenever there was a new acquisition, its employees were terrified of what was coming. Leslie's reputation for being ruthless was growing.

Leslie Stewart was intensely jealous of Katharine Graham.

"She's just lucky," Leslie said. "And she has the reputation of being a bitch."

Matt Baker was tempted to ask Leslie what she thought her own reputation was, but he decided not to.

One morning when Leslie arrived at her office, she found that someone had placed a small wooden block with two brass balls on her desk.

Matt Baker was upset. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll take "

"No. Leave it."

"But "

"Leave it."

Matt Baker was having a conference in his office when Leslie's voice came on over the intercom. "Matt, come up here."

No "please," no "good morning." Jt's going to be a bad-hair day, Matt Baker thought grimly. The Ice Princess was in one of her moods "That's it for now," Matt said. He left his office and walked through the corridors, where hundreds of employees were busily at work. He took the elevator up to the White Tower and entered the sumptuous publisher's office. Half a dozen editors were already gathered in the room. Behind an enormous desk sat Leslie Stewart. She looked up as Matt Baker entered. "Let's get started." She had called an editorial meeting. Matt Baker remembered her saying, "You'll be running the newspaper. I'll keep my hands off." He should have known better. She had no business calling meetings like this. That was his job. On the other hand, she was the publisher and owner of the Washington Tribune, and she could damn well do anything she pleased. Matt Baker said, "I want to talk to you about the story about President Russell's love nest in Virginia." "There's nothing to talk about," Leslie said. She held up a copy of The Washington Post, their rival. "Have you seen this?

Matt had seen it. "Yes, it's just " "In the old days it was called a scoop, Matt. Where were you and your reporters when the Post was getting the news?" The headline in The Washington Post read: SECOND

LOBBYIST TO BE INDICTED FOR GIVING ILLEGAL GIFTS TO SECRETARY OF

DEFENSE.

"Why didn't we get that story?" "Because it isn't official yet. I checked on it. It's just " "I don't like being scooped." Matt Baker sighed and sat back in his chair. It was going to be a stormy session "We're number one, or we're nothing," Leslie Stewart announced to the group. "And if we're nothing, there won't be any jobs here for anyone, will there?" Leslie turned to Arnie Cohn, the editor of the Sunday magazine section. "When people wake up Sunday morning, we want them to read the magazine section. We don't want to put our readers back to sleep. The stories we ran last Sunday were boring." He was thinking, If you were a man, I'd "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'll try to do better next time." Leslie turned to Jeff Connors, the sports editor. Connors was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties, tall, with an athletic build, blond hair, intelligent gray eyes. He had the easy manner of someone who knew that he was good at what he did. Matt had heard that Leslie had made a play for him, and he had turned her down. "You wrote that Fielding was going to be traded to the Pirates." "I was told "

"You were told wrong! The Tribune is guilty of printing a story that never happened." "I got it from his manager," Jeff Connors said, unperturbed. "He told me that " "Next time check out your stories, and then check them out again." Leslie turned and pointed to a framed, yellowed newspaper article hanging on the wall. It was the front page of the Chicago Tribune, dated November 3,1948. The banner headline read: DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN. "The worst thing a newspaper can do, Leslie said, "is to get the facts wrong. We're in a business where you always have to get it right." She glanced at her watch. "That's it for now. I'll expect you all to do a lot better." As they rose to leave, Leslie said to Matt Baker, "I want you to stay." "Right." He sank back into his chair and watched the others depart. "Was I rough on them?" she asked. "You got what you wanted. They're all suicidal.

"We're not here to make friends, we're here to put out a newspaper.

She looked up again at the framed front page on the wall. "Can you imagine what the publisher of that paper must have felt after that story hit the streets and Truman was president? I never want to have that feeling, Matt. Never." "Speaking of getting it wrong," Matt said, "that story on page one about President Russell was more suitable for a cheap tabloid publication. Why do you keep riding him? Give him a chance."

Leslie said enigmatically, "I gave him his chance." She stood up and began to pace. "I got a tip that Russell is going to veto the new communications bill. That means we'll have to call off the deal for the San Diego station and the Omaha station."

"There's nothing we can do about that."

"Oh, yes, there is. I want him out of office, Matt. We'll help put someone else in the White House, someone who knows what he's doing."

Matt had no intention of getting into another argument with Leslie Stewart about the president. She was fanatic on the subject.

"He's not fit to be in that office, and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure that he's defeated in the next election."

Philip Cole, chief of correspondents for WTE, hurried into Matt Baker's office as Matt was ready to leave. There was a worried expression on his face. "We have a problem, Matt." "Can it wait until tomorrow I'm late for a " "It's about Dana Evans." Matt said sharply, "What about her?" "She's been arrested."

"Arrested?" Matt asked incredulously. "What for?" "Espionage. Do you want me to ?" "No. I'll handle this." Matt Baker hurried back to his desk and dialed the State Department. Fifteen.

She was being dragged, naked, out of her cell into a cold, dark courtyard. She struggled wildly against the two men holding her, but she was no match for them. There were six soldiers with rifles outside, waiting for her as she was carried, screaming, to a wooden post hammered into the ground. Colonel Gordan Divjak watched his men tie her to the post. "You can't do this to me! I'm not a spy!" she yelled. But she could not make her voice heard above the sounds of mortar fire in the near distance. Colonel Divjak stepped away from her and nodded toward the firing squad. "Ready, aim " "Stop that screaming!" Rough hands were shaking her. Dana opened her eyes, her heart pounding. She was lying on the cot in her small, dark cell Colonel Divjak was standing over her.

Dana sat up, panicky, trying to blink away the nightmare. "What what are you going to do to me?"

Colonel Divjak said coldly, "If there were justice, you would be shot Unfortunately, I have been given orders to release you."

Dana's heart skipped a beat.

"You will be put on the first plane out of here." Colonel Divjak looked into her eyes and said, "Don't ever come back."

It had taken all the pressure that the State Department and the president could muster to get Dana Evans released. When Peter Tager heard about the arrest, he had gone in to see the president. "I just got a call from the State Department. Dana Evans has been arrested on charges of espionage. They're threatening to execute her." "Jesus! That's terrible. We can't let that happen." "Right. I'd like permission to use your name." "You've got it. Do whatever has to be done." "I'll work with the State Department. If we can pull this off, maybe the Tribune will go a little easier on you." Oliver shook his head. "I wouldn't count on it. Let's just get her the hell out of there."

Dozens of frantic telephone calls later, with pressure from the Oval Office, the secretary of state, and the secretary-general of the United Nations, Dana's captors reluctantly agreed to release her.

When the news came, Peter Tager hurried in to tell Oliver. "She's free. She's on her way home."

"Great."

He thought about Dana Evans on his way to a meeting that morning. I'm glad we were able to save her.

He had no idea that that action was going to cost him his life.

When Dana's plane landed at Dulles International Airport, Mart Baker and two dozen reporters from newspapers and television and radio stations were waiting to greet her. Dana looked at the crowd in disbelief. "What's ?" "This way, Dana. Smile!" "How were you treated? Was there any brutality?" "How does it feel to be back home?

"Let's have a picture." "Do you have any plans to go back?" They were all talking at once. Dana stood there, overwhelmed. Matt Baker hustled Dana into a waiting limousine, and they sped away.

"What's what's going on?" Dana asked.

"You're a celebrity."

She shook her head. "I don't need this, Matt." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Thanks for getting me out."

"You can thank the president and Peter Tager. They pushed all the buttons. You also have Leslie Stewart to thank."

When Matt told Leslie the news, she had said, "Those bastards! They can't do that to the Tribune. I want you to see that they free her Pull every string you can and get her out of there."

Dana looked out the window of the limousine. People were walking along the street, talking and laughing. There was no sound of gunfire or mortar shells. It was eerie.

"Our real estate editor found an apartment for you. I'm taking you there now. I want you to have some time off as much as you like. When you're ready, we'll put you back to work." He took a closer look at Dana. "Are you feeling all right? If you want to see a doctor, I'll arrange "

"I'm fine. Our bureau took me to a doctor in Paris."

The apartment was on Calvert Street, an attractively furnished place with one bedroom, living room, kitchen, bath, and small study.

"Will this do?" Matt asked.

"This is perfect. Thank you, Matt."

"I've had the refrigerator stocked for you. You'll probably OTA want to go shopping for clothes tomorrow, after you get some rest Charge everything to the paper."

"Thanks, Matt. Thank you for everything."

"You're going to be debriefed later. I'll set it up for you."

She was on a bridge, listening to the gunfire and watching bloated bodies float by, and she woke up, sobbing. It had been so real. It was a dream, but it was happening. At that moment, innocent victims men, women, and children were being senselessly and brutally slaughtered. She thought of Professor Staka's words. "This war in Bosnia and Herzegovina is beyond understanding." What was incredible to her was that the rest of the world didn't seem to care. She was afraid to go back to sleep, afraid of the nightmares that filled her brain. She got up and walked over to the window and looked out at the city. It was quiet no guns, no people running down the street, screaming. It seemed unnatural. She wondered how Kemal was, and whether she would ever see him again. He's probably forgotten me by now.

Dana spent part of the morning shopping for clothes. Wherever she went, people stopped to stare at her. She heard whispers: "That's Dana Evans!" The sales clerks all recognized her. She was famous. She hated it.

Dana had had no breakfast and no lunch. She was hungry, but she was unable to eat. She was too tense. It was as though she were waiting for some disaster to strike. When she walked down the street, she avoided the eyes of strangers. She was suspicious of everyone. She kept listening for the sound of gunfire. I can't go on like this, Dana thought.

At noon, she walked into Matt Baker's office.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on vacation."

"I need to go back to work, Matt."

He looked at her and thought about the young girl who had come to him a few years earlier. "I'm here for a job. Of course, I already have a job here. It's more like a transfer, isn't it? ... I can start right away...." And she had more than fulfilled her promise. If I ever had a daughter... "Your boss wants to meet you," Matt told Dana.

They headed for Leslie Stewart's office.

The two women stood there appraising each other. "Welcome back, Dana."

"Thank you."

"Sit down." Dana and Matt took chairs opposite Leslie's desk.

"I want to thank you for getting me out of there," Dana said.

"It must have been hell. I'm sorry." Leslie looked at Matt. "What are we going to do with her now, Matt?"

He looked at Dana. "We're about to reassign our White House correspondent. Would you like the job?" It was one of the most prestigious television assignments in the country.

Dana's face lit up. "Yes. I would."

Leslie nodded. "You've got it."

Dana rose. "Well thank you, again."

"Good luck."

Dana and Matt left the office. "Let's get you settled," Matt said. He walked her over to the television building, where the whole staff was waiting to greet her. It took Dana fifteen minutes to work her way through the crowd of well-wishers.

"Meet your new White House correspondent," Matt said to Philip Cole.

"That's great. I'll show you to your office."

"Have you had lunch yet?" Matt asked Dana.

"No, I "

"Why don't we get a bite to eat?"

The executive dining room was on the fifth floor, a spacious, airy room with two dozen tables. Matt led Dana to a table in the corner, and they sat down. "Miss Stewart seemed very nice," Dana said. Matt started to say something. "Yeah. Let's order." "I'm not hungry.

"You haven't had lunch?" "No."

"Did you have breakfast?"

"No."

"Dana when did you eat last?"

She shook her head. "I don't remember. It's not important."

"Wrong. I can't have our new White House correspondent starving herself to death."

The waiter came over to the table. "Are you ready to order, Mr Baker?"

"Yes." He scanned the menu. "We'll start you off light. Miss Evans will have a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich." He looked over at Dana. "Pastry or ice cream?"

"Noth "

"Pie a la mode. And I'll have a roast beef sandwich."

"Yes, sir."

Dana looked around. "All this seems so unreal. Life is what's happening over there, Matt. It's horrible. No one here cares."

"Don't say that. Of course we care. But we can't run the world, and we can't control it. We do the best we can."

"It's not good enough," Dana said fiercely.

"Dana..." He stopped. She was far away, listening to distant sounds that he could not hear, seeing grisly sights that he could not see They sat in silence until the waiter arrived with their food.

"Here we are."

"Mart, I'm not really hung "

O '1 A

"You're going to eat," Matt commanded. Jeff Connors was making his way over to the table. "Hi, Matt." "Jeff." Jeff Connors looked at Dana "Hello." Mart said, "Dana, this is Jeff Connors. He's the Tribune's sports editor." Dana nodded. "I'm a big fan of yours, Miss Evans I'm glad you got out safely." Dana nodded again. Matt said, "Would you like to join us, Jeff?" "Love to." He took a chair and said to Dana, "I tried never to miss any of your broadcasts. I thought they were brilliant." Dana mumbled, "Thank you." "Jeff here is one of our great athletes. He's in the Baseball Hall of Fame." Another small nod. "If you happen to be free," Jeff said, "on Friday, the Orioles are playing the Yankees in Baltimore. It's " Dana turned to look at him for the first time. "That sounds really exciting. The object of the game is to hit the ball and then run around the field while the other side tries to stop you?" He looked at her warily. "Well " Dana got to her feet, her voice trembling. "I've seen people running around a field but they were running for their lives because someone was shooting at them and killing them!" She was near hysteria. "It wasn't a game, and it it wasn't about a stupid baseball."

The other people in the room were turning to stare at her.

"You can go to hell," Dana sobbed. And she fled from the room.

Jeff turned to Matt. "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to "

"It wasn't your fault. She hasn't come home yet. And God knows she's entitled to a bad case of nerves."

Dana hurried into her office and slammed the door. She went to her desk and sat down, fighting hysteria. Oh, Cod. I've made a complete fool of myself. They'll fire me, and I deserve it. Why did I attack that man? How could I have done anything so awful? I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere anymore. She sat there with her head on the desk, sobbing. A few minutes later, the door opened and someone came in. Dana looked up. It was Jeff Connors, carrying a tray with a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and a slice of pie a la mode. "You forgot your lunch," Jeff said mildly. Dana wiped away her tears, mortified. "I I want to apologize. I'm so sorry. I had no right to "You had every right," he said quietly. "Anyway, who needs to watch a dumb old baseball game?" Jeff put the tray on the desk. "May I join you for lunch?" He sat down. "I'm not hungry. Thank you."

He sighed. "You're putting me in a very difficult position, Miss Evans. Mart says you have to eat. You don't want to get me fired, do you?"

Dana managed a smile. "No." She picked up half of the sandwich and took a small bite.

"Bigger."

Dana took another small bite.

"Bigger."

She looked up at him. "You're really going to make me eat this, aren't you?"

"You bet I am." He watched her take a larger bite of the sandwich "That's better. By the way, if you're not doing anything Friday night, I don't know if I mentioned it, but there's a game between the Orioles and the Yankees. Would you like to go?"

She looked at him and nodded. "Yes."

At three o'clock that afternoon, when Dana walked into the White House entrance, the guard said, "Mr. Tager would like to see you, Miss Evans. I'll have someone take you to his office." A few minutes later, one of the guides led Dana down a long corridor to Peter Tager's office. He was waiting for her. "Mr. Tager ..." "I didn't expect to see you so soon, Miss Evans. Won't your station give you any time off?" "I didn't want any," Dana said. "I I need to work."

"Please sit down." She sat across from him. "Can I offer you anything?" "No, thanks. I just had lunch." She smiled to herself at the recollection of Jeff Connors. "Mr. Tager, I want to thank you and President Russell so much for rescuing me." She hesitated. "I know the Tribune hasn't been too kind to the president, and I " Peter Tager raised a hand. "This was something above politics. There was no chance that the president was going to let them get away with this. You know the story of Helen of Troy?" "Yes." He smiled. "Well, we might have started a war over you. You're a very important person." "I don't feel very important." "I want you to know how pleased both the president and I are that you've been assigned to cover the White House." "Thank you." He paused for a moment. "It's unfortunate that the Tribune doesn't like President Russell, and there's nothing you can do about it. But in spite of that, on a very personal level, if there's anything the president or I can do to help ... we both have an enormous regard for you." "Thank you. I appreciate that." The door opened and Oliver walked in. Dana and Peter Tager stood up. "Sit down," Oliver said. He walked over to Dana. "Welcome home."

"Thank you, Mr. President," Dana said. "And I do mean thank you."

Oliver smiled. "If you can't save someone's life, what's the point of being president? I want to be frank with you, Miss Evans. None of us here is a fan of your newspaper. All of us are your fans."

"Thank you."

"Peter is going to give you a tour of the White House. If you have any problems, we're here to help you."

"You're very kind."

"If you don't mind, I want you to meet with Mr. Werner, the secretary of state. I'd like to have him get a firsthand briefing from you on the situation in Herzegovina."

"I'd be happy to do that," Dana said.

There were a dozen men seated in the secretary of state's private conference room, listening to Dana describe her experiences. "Most of the buildings in Sarajevo have been damaged or destroyed.... There's no electricity, and the people there who still have cars unhook the car batteries at night to run their television sets.... "The streets of the city are obstructed by the wreckage of bombed automobiles, carts, and bicycles. The main form of transportation is walking.... "When there's a storm, people catch the water from the street gutters and put it into buckets.... "There's no respect for the Red Cross or for the journalists there. More than forty correspondents have been killed covering the Bosnian war, and dozens have been wounded.... Whether the present revolt against Slobodan Milosevic is successful or not, the feeling is that because of the popular uprising, his regime has been badly damaged...."

The meeting went on for two hours. For Dana it was both traumatic and cathartic, because as she described what happened, she found herself living the terrible scenes all over again; and at the same time, she found it a. relief to be able to talk about it. When she was finished, she felt drained.

The secretary of state said, "I want to thank you, Miss Evans. This has been very informative." He smiled. "I'm glad you got back here safely."

"So am I, Mr. Secretary."

Friday night, Dana was seated next to Jeff Connors in the press box at Camden Yards, watching the baseball game. And for the first time since she had returned, she was able to think about something other than the war. As Dana watched the players on the field, she listened to the announcer reporting the game. "... it's the top of the sixth inning and Nelson is pitching. Alomar hits a line drive down the left-field line for a double. Palmeiro is approaching the plate. The count is two and one. Nelson throws a fastball down the middle and Palmeiro is going for it. What a hit! It looks like it's going to clear the right 9-30 field wall. It's over! Palmeiro is rounding the bases with a two-run homer that puts the Orioles in the lead...."

At the seventh-inning stretch, Jeff stood up and looked at Dana. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Dana looked at him and nodded. "Yes."

Back in D. C. after the game, they had supper at Bistro Twenty Fifteen.

"I want to apologize again for the way I behaved the other day," Dana said. "It's just that I've been living in a world where " She stopped, not sure how to phrase it. "Where everything is a matter of life and death. Everything. It's awful. Because unless someone stops the war, those people have no hope."

Jeff said gently, "Dana, you can't put your life on hold because of what's happening over there. You have to begin living again. Here."

"I know. It's just... not easy."

"Of course it isn't. I'd like to help you. Would you let me?"

Dana looked at him for a long time. "Please."

The next day, Dana had a luncheon date with Jeff Connors. "Can you pick me up?" he asked. He gave her the address. "Right." Dana wondered what Jeff was doing there. It was in a very troubled inner-city neighborhood. When Dana arrived, she found the answer.

Jeff was surrounded by two teams of baseball players, ranging in age from nine to thirteen, dressed in a creative variety of baseball uniforms. Dana parked at the curb to watch.

"And remember," Jeff was saying, "don't rush. When the pitcher throws the ball, imagine that it's coming at you very slowly, so that you have plenty of time to hit it. Feel your bat smacking the ball. Let your mind help guide your hands so "

Jeff looked over and saw Dana. He waved. "All right, fellows. That's it for now."

One of the boys asked, "Is that your girl, Jeff?"

"Only if I'm lucky." Jeff smiled. "See you later." He walked over to Dana's car.

"That's quite a ball club," Dana said.

"They're good boys. I coach them once a week."

She smiled. "I like that." And she wondered how Kemal was and what he was doing.

As the days went on, Dana found herself coming to like Jeff Connors more and more. He was sensitive, intelligent, and amusing. She enjoyed being with him. Slowly, the horrible memories of Sarajevo were beginning to fade. The morning came when she woke up without having had nightmares. When she told Jeff about it, he took her hand and said, "That's my girl."

And Dana wondered whether she should read a deeper meaning into it.

There was a hand-printed letter waiting for Dana at the office. It read: "miss evans, don't worry about me. i'm happy, i am not lonely, i don't miss anybody, and i am going to send you back the clothes you bought me because i don't need them, i have my own clothes, goodbye.

It was signed "kemal." The letter was postmarked Paris, and the letterhead read "Xavier's Home for Boys." Dana read the letter twice and then picked up the phone. It took her four hours to reach Kemal She heard his voice, a tentative "Hello ..." "Kemal, this is Dana Evans." There was no response. "I got your letter." Silence. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad you're so happy, and that you're having such a good time." She waited a moment, then went on, "I wish I were as happy as you are. Do you know why I'm not? Because I miss you. I think about you a lot." "No, you don't," Kemal said. "You don't care about me." "You're wrong. How would you like to come to Washington and live with me?" There was a long silence. "Do you do you mean that?" "You bet I do. Would you like that?" "I " He began to cry. "Would you, Kemal?" "Yes yes, ma'am." "I'll make the arrangements."

"Miss Evans?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Dana and Jeff Connors were walking in West Potomac Park. "I think I'm going to have a roommate," Dana said. "He should be here in the next few weeks." Jeff looked at her in surprise. "He?" Dana found herself pleased at his reaction. "Yes. His name is Kemal. He's twelve years old." She told him the story. "He sounds like a great kid." "He is He's been through hell, Jeff. I want to help him forget." He looked at Dana and said, "I'd like to help, too." That night they made love for the first time.

Sixteen.

There are two Washington, D. C."s. One is a city of inordinate beauty: imposing architecture, world-class museums, statues, monuments to the giants of the past: Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington... a city of verdant parks, cherry blossoms, and velvet air.

The other Washington, D. C." is a citadel of the homeless, a city with one of the highest crime rates in the nation, a labyrinth of muggings and murders.

The Monroe Arms is an elegant boutique hotel discreetly tucked away not far from the corner of ayth and K streets. It does no advertising and caters mainly to its regular clientele.

The hotel was built a number of years ago by an enterprising young real estate entrepreneur named Lara Cameron. Jeremy Robinson, the hotel's general manager, had just arrived on his evening shift and was studying the guest register with a perplexed expression on his face. He checked the names of the occupants of the elite Terrace Suites once again to make certain someone had not made a mistake. In Suite 325, a faded actress was rehearsing for a play opening at the National Theater According to a story in The Washington Post, she was hoping to make a comeback. In 425, the suite above hers, was a well-known arms dealer who visited Washington regularly. The name on the guest register was J. L. Smith, but his looks suggested one of the Middle East countries Mr. Smith was an extraordinarily generous tipper. Suite 525 was registered to William Quint, a congressman who headed the powerful drug oversight committee. Above, Suite 625 was occupied by a computer software salesman who visited Washington once a month. Registered in Suite 725 was Pat Murphy, an international lobbyist. So far, so good, Jeremy Robinson thought. The guests were all well known to him. It was Suite 825, the Imperial Suite on the top floor, that was the enigma. It was the most elegant suite in the hotel, and it was always held in reserve for the most important VIPs. It occupied the entire floor and was exquisitely decorated with valuable paintings and antiques. It had its own private elevator leading to the basement garage, so that its guests who wished to be anonymous could arrive and depart in privacy.

What puzzled Jeremy Robinson was the name on the hotel register: Eugene Gant. Was there actually a person by that name, or had someone who enjoyed reading Thomas Wolfe selected it as an alias?

Carl Gorman, the day clerk who had registered the eponymous Mr. Gant, had left on his vacation a few hours earlier, and was unreachable Robinson hated mysteries. Who was Eugene Gant and why had he been given the Imperial Suite?

In Suite 325, on the third floor, Dame Gisella Barrett was rehearsing for a play. She was a distinguished-looking woman in her late sixties, an actress who had once mesmerized audiences and critics from London's West End to Manhattan's Broadway. There were still faint traces of beauty in her face, but they were overlaid with bitterness. She had read the article in The Washington Post that said she had come to Washington to make a comeback. A comeback! Dame Barrett thought indignantly. How dare they! I've never been away. True, it had been more than twenty years since she had last appeared onstage, but that was only because a great actress needed a great part, a brilliant director, and an understanding producer. The directors today were too young to cope with the grandeur of real Theater, and the great English producers H. M. Tenant, Binkie Beaumont, C. B. Cochran were all gone Even the reasonably competent American producers, Helburn, Belasco, and Golden, were no longer around. There was no question about it: The current theater was controlled by know-nothing parvenus with no background. The old days had been so wonderful. There were playwrights back then whose pens were dipped in lightning. Dame Barrett had starred in the part of Ellie Dunn in Shaw's Heartbreak House. How the critics raved about me. Poor George. He hated to be called George. He preferred Bernard. People thought of him as acerbic and bitter, but underneath it all, he was really a romantic Irishman He used to send me red roses. I think he was too shy to go beyond that. Perhaps he was afraid I would reject him. She was about to make her return in one of the most powerful roles ever written Lady Macbeth It was the perfect choice for her. Dame Barrett placed a chair in front of a blank wall, so that she would not be distracted by the view outside. She sat down, took a deep breath, and began to get into the character Shakespeare had created. "Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts! Unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep the peace between The effect and it!"

".. . For God's sake, how can they be so stupid? After all the years I have been staying in this hotel, you would think that..."

The voice was booming through the open window, from the suite above.

In Suite 425, J. L. Smith, the arms dealer, was loudly berating a waiter from room service. "... they would know by now that I order only Beluga caviar. Beluga!" He pointed to a plate of caviar on the room-service table. "That is a dish fit for peasants!"

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Smith. I'll go down to the kitchen and "

"Never mind." J. L. Smith looked at his diamond-studded Rolex. "I have no time. I have an important appointment." He rose and started toward the door. He was due at his attorney's office. A day earlier, a federal grand jury had indicted him on fifteen counts of giving illegal gifts to the secretary of defense. If found guilty, he was facing three years in prison and a million-dollar fine.

In Suite 525, Congressman William Quint, a member of a prominent third-generation Washington family, was in conference with three members of his investigating staff. "The drug problem in this city is getting completely out of hand," Quint said. "We have to get it back under control He turned to Dalton Isaak. "What's your take on it?"

"It's the street gangs. The Brentwood Crew is undercutting the Fourteenth Street Crew and the Simple City Crew. That's led to four killings in the last month."

"We can't let this go on," Quint said. "It's bad for business. I've been getting calls from the DEA and the chief of police asking what we're planning to do about it."

"What did you tell them?"

"The usual. That we're investigating." He turned to his assistant "Set up a meeting with the Brentwood Crew. Tell them if they want protection from us, they're going to have to get their prices in line with the others." He turned to another of his assistants. "How much did we take in last month?"

"Ten million here, ten million offshore."

"Let's bump that up. This city is getting too damned expensive."

In 625, the suite above, Norman Haff lay naked in the dark in bed, watching a porno film on the hotel's closed-circuit channel. He was a pale-skinned man with an enormous beer belly and a flabby body. He reached over and stroked the breast of his bed mate. "Look what they're doing, Irma." His voice was a strangled whisper. "Would you like me to do that to you?" He circled his fingers around her belly, his eyes fastened to the screen where a woman was making passionate love to a man. "Does that excite you, baby? It sure gets me hot."

He slipped two fingers between Irma's legs. "I'm ready," he groaned He grabbed the inflated doll, rolled over, and pushed himself into her The vagina of the battery-operated doll opened and closed on him, squeezing him tighter and tighter.

"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed. He gave a satisfied groan. "Yes! Yes!"

He switched off the battery and lay there panting. He felt wonderful He would use Irma again in the morning before he deflated her and put her in a suitcase.

Norman was a salesman, and he was on the road most of the time in strange towns where he had no companionship. He had discovered Irma years ago, and she was all the female company he needed. His stupid salesmen friends traveled around the country picking up sluts and professional whores, but Norman had the last laugh.

Irma would never give him a disease.

On the floor above, in Suite 725, Pat Murphy's family had just come back from dinner. Tim Murphy, twelve, was standing on the balcony overlooking the park. "Tomorrow can we climb up to the top of the monument, Daddy?" he begged. "Please?" His younger brother said, "No. I want to go to the Smithsonian Institute." "Institution," his father corrected him.

"Whatever. I want to go." It was the first time the children had been in the nation's capital, although their father spent more than half of every year there. Pat Murphy was a successful lobbyist and had access to some of the most important people in Washington. His father had been the mayor of a small town in Ohio, and Pat had grown up fascinated by politics. His best friend had been a boy named Joey. They had gone through school together, had gone to the same summer camps, and had shared everything. They were best friends in the truest sense of the phrase. That had all changed one holiday when Joey's parents were away and Joey was staying with the Murphys. In the middle of the night, Joey had come to Pat's room and climbed into his bed. "Pat," he whispered. "Wake up." Pat's eyes had flown open. "What? What's the matter?" "I'm lonely," Joey whispered. "I need you." Pat Murphy was confused. "What for?" "Don't you understand? I love you. I want you." And he had kissed Pat on the lips. And the horrible realization had dawned that Joey was a homosexual. Pat was sickened by it. He refused ever to speak to Jney again. Pat Murphy loathed homosexuals They were freaks, faggots, fairies, cursed by God, trying to seduce innocent children. He turned his hatred and disgust into a lifelong campaign, voting for anti homosexual candidates and lecturing about the evils and dangers of homosexuality. In the past, he had always come to Washington alone, but this time his wife had stubbornly insisted that he bring her and the children.

"We want to see what your life here is like," she said. And Pat had finally given in.

He looked at his wife and children now and thought, It's one of the last times I'll ever see them. How could I have ever made such a stupid mistake? Well, it's almost over now. His family had such grand plans for tomorrow. But there would be no tomorrow. In the morning, before they were awake, he would be on his way to Brazil.

Alan was waiting for him.

In Suite 825, the Imperial Suite, there was total silence. Breathe, he told himself. You must breathe ... slower, slower.... He was at the edge of panic. He looked at the slim, naked body of the young girl on the floor and thought, It wasn't my fault. She slipped. Her head had split open where she had fallen against the sharp edge of the wrought-iron table, and blood was oozing from her forehead. He had felt her wrist. There was no pulse. It was incredible. One moment she had been so alive, and the next moment... I've got to get out of here. Now! He turned away from the body and hurriedly began to dress This would not be just another scandal. This would be a scandal that rocked the world. They must never trace me to this suite. When he finished dressing, he went into the bathroom, moistened a towel, and began polishing the surfaces of every place he might have touched.

When he was finally sure he had left no fingerprints to mark his presence, he took one last look around. Her purse! He picked up the girl's purse from the couch, and walked to the far end of the apartment, where the private elevator waited.

He stepped inside, trying hard to control his breathing. He pressed G, and a few seconds later, the elevator door opened and he was in the garage. It was deserted. He started toward his car, then, suddenly remembering, hurried back to the elevator. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingerprints from the elevator buttons. He stood in the shadows, looking around again to make sure he was still alone. Finally satisfied, he walked over to his car, opened the door, and sat behind the wheel. After a moment, he turned on the ignition and drove out of the garage.

It was a Filipina maid who found the dead girl's body sprawled on the floor. "O Dios ko, kawawa naman iyong babae!" She made the sign of the cross and hurried out of the room, screaming for help. Three minutes later, Jeremy Robinson and Thorn Peters, the hotel's head of security, were in the Imperial Suite staring down at the naked body of the girl. "Jesus," Thorn said. "She can't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old." He turned to the manager. "We'd better call the police."

"Wait!" Police. Newspapers. Publicity. For one wild moment, Robinson wondered whether it would be possible to spirit the girl's body out of the hotel. "I suppose so," he finally said reluctantly.

Thorn Peters took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up the telephone.

"What are you doing?" Robinson demanded. "This isn't a crime scene It was an accident."

"We don't know that yet, do we?" Peters said.

He dialed a number and waited. "Homicide."

Detective Nick Reese looked like the paperback version of a street-smart cop. He was tall and brawny, with a broken nose that was a memento from an early boxing career. He had paid his dues by starting as an officer in Washington's Metropolitan Police Department and had slowly worked his way through the ranks: Master Patrol Officer, Sergeant, Lieutenant. He had been promoted from Detective Da to Detective Di, and in the past ten years had solved more cases than anyone else in the department. Detective Reese stood there quietly studying the scene. In the suite with him were half a dozen men. "Has anyone touched her?" Robinson shuddered. "No." "Who is she?" "I don't know."

Reese turned to look at the hotel manager. "A young girl is found dead in your Imperial Suite, and you don't have any idea who she is? Doesn't this hotel have a guest register?" "Of course, Detective, but in this case " He hesitated. "In this case ... ?" "The suite is registered to a Eugene Gant." "Who's Eugene Gant?" "I have no idea." Detective Reese was getting impatient. "Look. If someone booked this suite, he had to have paid for it... cash, credit card sheep whatever. Whoever checked this Gant in must have gotten a look at him. Who checked him in?" "Our day clerk, Gorman." "I want to talk to him." "I I'm afraid that's impossible." "Oh? Why?" "He left on his vacation today.

"Call him." Robinson sighed. "He didn't say where he was going.

"When will he be back?" "In two weeks." "I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm not planning to wait two weeks. I want some information now. Somebody must have seen someone entering or leaving this suite.

"Not necessarily," Robinson said apologetically. "Besides the regular exit, this suite has a private elevator that goes directly to the basement garage.... I don't know what the fuss is all about. It it was obviously an accident. She was probably on drugs and took an overdose and tripped and fell." Another detective approached Detective Reese "I checked the closets. Her dress is from the Gap, shoes from the Wild Pair. No help there." "There's nothing to identify her at all?" "No If she had a purse, it's gone." Detective Reese studied the body again. He turned to a police officer standing there. "Get me some soap. Wet it." The police officer was staring at him. "I'm sorry?

"Wet soap." "Yes, sir." He hurried off. Detective Reese knelt down beside the body of the girl and studied the ring on her finger. "It looks like a school ring." A minute later, the police officer returned and handed Reese a bar of wet soap. Reese gently rubbed the soap along the girl's finger and carefully removed the ring. He turned it from side to side, examining it. "It's a class ring from Denver High There are initials on it, P. Y." He turned to his partner. "Check it out. Call the school and find out who she is. Let's get an ID on her as fast as we can." Detective Ed Nelson, one of the fingerprint men, came up to Detective Reese. "Something damned weird is going on, Nick We're picking up prints all over the place, and yet someone took the trouble to wipe the fingerprints off all the doorknobs." "So someone was here with her when she died. Why didn't he call a doctor? Why did he bother wiping out his fingerprints? And what the hell is a young kid doing in an expensive suite like this?" He turned to Robinson "How was this suite paid for?" "Our records show that it was paid for in cash. A messenger delivered the envelope. The reservation was made over the phone." The coroner spoke up. "Can we move the body now, Nick?" "Just hold it a minute. Did you find any marks of violence?

"Only the trauma to the forehead. But of course we'll do an autopsy.

"Any track marks?" "No. Her arms and legs are clean." "Does it look like she's been raped?" "We'll have to check that out." Detective Reese sighed. "So what we have here is a schoolgirl from Denver who comes to Washington and gets herself killed in one of the most expensive hotels in the city. Someone wipes out his fingerprints and disappears. The whole thing stinks. I want to know who rented this suite." He turned to the coroner. "You can take her out now." He looked at Detective Nelson. "Did you check the fingerprints in the private elevator?" "Yes. The elevator goes from this suite directly to the basement. There are only two buttons. Both buttons have been wiped clean."

"You checked the garage?" "Right. Nothing unusual down there.

"Whoever did this went to a hell of a lot of trouble to cover his tracks. He's either someone with a record, or a V. I. P who's been playing games out of school." He turned to Robinson. "Who usually rents this suite?" Robinson said reluctantly, "It's reserved for our most important guests. Kings, prime ministers ..." He hesitated "... Presidents." "Have any telephone calls been placed from this phone in the last twenty-four hours?" "I don't know." Detective Reese was getting irritated. "But you would have a record if there was?

"Of course." Detective Reese picked up the telephone. "Operator, this is Detective Nick Reese. I want to know if any calls were made from the Imperial Suite within the last twenty-four hours.... I'll wait.

He watched as the white-coated coroner's men covered the naked girl with a sheet and placed her on a gurney. Jesus Christ, Reese thought She hadn't even begun to live yet. He heard the operator's voice "Detective Reese?" "Yes." "There was one call placed from the suite yesterday. It was a local call." Reese took out a notepad and pencil "What was the number? ... Four-five-six-seven-zero-four-one?..." Reese started to write the numbers down, then suddenly stopped. He was staring at the notepad. "Oh, shit!" "What's the matter?" Detective Nelson asked. Reese looked up. "That's the number of the White House."

Seventeen.

The next morning at breakfast, Jan asked, "Where were you last night, Oliver?" Oliver's heart skipped a beat. But she could not possibly have known what happened. No one could. No one. "I was meeting with " Jan cut him short. "The meeting was called off. But you didn't get home until three o'clock in the morning. I tried to reach you. Where were you?" "Well, something came up. Why? Did you need ? Was something wrong?" "It doesn't matter now," Jan said wearily. "Oliver, you're not just hurting me, you're hurting yourself. You've come so far. I don't want to see you lose it all because because you can't Her eyes filled with tears.

Oliver stood up and walked over to her. He put his arms around her "It's all right, Jan. Everything's fine. I love you very much."

And I do, Oliver thought, in my own way. What happened last night wasn't my fault. She was the one who called. I never should have gone to meet her. He had taken every possible precaution not to be seen I'm in the clear, Oliver decided.

Peter Tager was worried about Oliver. He had learned that it was impossible to control Oliver Russell's libido, and he had finally worked out an arrangement with him. On certain nights, Peter Tager set up fictitious meetings for the president to attend, away from the White House, and arranged for the Secret Service escort to disappear for a few hours.

When Peter Tager had gone to Senator Davis to complain about what was happening, the senator had said calmly, "Well, after all, Oliver is a very hot-blooded man, Peter. Sometimes it's impossible to control passions like that. I deeply admire your morals, Peter. I know how much your family means to you, and how distasteful the president's behavior must seem to you. But let's not be too judgmental. You just keep on seeing that everything is handled as discreetly as possible."

Detective Nick Reese hated going into the forbidding, white-walled autopsy room. It smelled of formaldehyde and death.

When he walked in the door, the coroner, Helen Chuan, a petite, attractive woman, was waiting for him. "Morning," Reese said. "Have you finished with the autopsy?" "I have a preliminary report for you, Nick. Jane Doe didn't die from her head injury. Her heart stopped before she hit the table. She died of an overdose of methylenedioxymethamphe-tami. He sighed. "Don't do this to me, Helen." "Sorry. On the streets, it's called Ecstasy." She handed him a coroner's report. "Here's what we have so far."