Michael Palmer - The First Patient

Could Griswold possibly have figured out the switch she and Lester had pulled off, or was he just being thorough-looking for anything she might have uncovered?

At first, Alison battled back tears as if Griswold were watching and she didn't want to give him any satisfaction. Then, shuffling to the bathroom to shower, she finally allowed herself a thorough, cleansing cry. The condition of her place didn't matter, she decided as she toweled off. From now until her war with Treat Griswold was over, she would not be staying here-not for a minute.

She found a clean pair of jeans and a navy long-sleeved T. Then she set about looking for the only two things she needed from the place. The first, a spare set of keys to her car, she found on the kitchen floor beneath a bowl. The second was right where she had hidden it-a short, efficient, 9mm Glock 26, tucked neatly in front of a knee-length nylon in one of a pair of four-inch spiked heels that she never wore for fear of breaking her ankles. Tucked in the other shoe, also behind a rolled-up stocking, were two full magazines of ammunition.

Finally, she remembered that she was now in range and turned on her radio. The first voice she heard was one she was listening for.

"Attention, all posts," Griswold was saying, "this is Special Agent in Charge Griswold. Prepare for Maverick departure on Marine One. Wheels up in two hours. Repeat, two hours before departure."

Marine One.

Griswold had said nothing about their destination. Andrews Air Force Base? Camp David? A speech somewhere?

No matter. When she was ready, she would find them. First, though, she needed to contact Gabe. The apartment phone was still working. Standing amid the wreckage, she took up the receiver and dialed the White House medical clinic.

Rotors.

Just a couple of weeks had passed since the president had dropped in at his ranch for a visit. Gabe had been on horseback then, and he was on horseback now, helping Joe Rizzo, the stable master, and Joe's ten-year-old son, Pete, lead four horses from the stable to the rear entrance of Camp David for the president's early evening ride with his physician. The difference between this ride and the many others that various presidents had taken along this trail over the years since 1942, when Camp David-or Shangri-la, as it was called before President Eisenhower renamed it after his grandson-officially became a presidential retreat, was that this time the president would not be coming back.

In just an hour or so, President Andrew Stoddard, among the true visionaries who had ever held the office, would confirm those rumors that he was mentally unstable by escaping his Secret Service protectors.

Totally pleased with the horse, Gabe had asked permission to ride Grendel again. Pete, with whom Gabe instantly connected, especially after he taught the boy a couple of neat rope tricks with the lariat he had brought in the backpack, promised he could make that happen with a rub-down, a cooling sponge bath, and an extra helping of oats.

Joe Rizzo, too, clearly enjoyed having a man around who was both a doctor and a cowboy. When Gabe checked out the horses and suggested the president might like a ride on a dapple gray thoroughbred named Mr. Please, the stable master readily agreed. The horse, Gabe saw, was long in the neck and legs-a mover if ever there was one. It was good money that Grendel and Mr. Please could beat the Secret Service horses in a straight-up race, to say nothing of a contest where their three opponents were floating on clouds of Nembutal, ketamine, and fentanyl.

"They've landed!" Rizzo exclaimed in his charming accent, as the distant thrumming slowed, then stopped. "It should be a very beautiful ride, Dr. Gabe. A little breeze, not too many bugs."

"They wouldn't dare to bite the President of the United States anyway," Gabe said.

There was a hitching post near the rear gate to the compound. Gabe helped tie the horses up and then made preparations for what would be the daunting task of slipping drug-soaked gauze pads beneath the saddle blanket of each one without being seen and without having even the slightest bit of white showing.

From his backpack he took a pair of riding gloves-something he would never wear if he weren't trying to keep himself from absorbing enough mixture through his palms to topple from his own saddle. While rummaging through the backpack, he eased the top off the Tupperware container, separated out three packets of soaked gauze-two pads in each-and replaced the top. At that instant, his radio crackled to life, actually startling him.

"Doc, this is Griswold. Are you there? Over."

"Griz, g'day, mate. I'm here at the rear gate. Got some mighty fine mounts for you. Over."

"We'll be there in five minutes, just as soon as the nurse and corpsman finish loading up the van. Over and out."

Gabe felt himself go cold.

"Joe, what kind of van is he talking about?"

"The medical van, of course. The president never goes out on the trail without three or four Secret Service agents and the medical van. Hey, wait a minute, aren't you the doctor?"

"The new doctor," Gabe corrected, his mind swirling. "I've never been out on the trail before."

So much for carefully contrived scientific formulas. How in the hell could Drew not have mentioned that there was going to be a van tagging along?

Gabe began rapidly flipping through what little he knew about disabling cars. The best he could come up with on the spot was dropping the sugar lumps he was carrying into the gas tank and hoping for the best. Ludicrous.

"Joe, what happens with the van if we go on a narrower trail?" he asked.

"The van waits where it can. A couple of years ago, one of the horses threw a guest and the man broke his leg. The agents had to carry him back down the trail to the van."

No help.

What a mess!

Gabe glanced at his watch. Even if he and Drew managed to disable the horses and take off, the van would be able to haul the agents back to camp in a matter of minutes. The two of them might not even be in the Impala before a massive pursuit began, with the Secret Service prominently represented in Marine One.

Why in the hell did he ever think he could pull this off?

"Doc, Griswold here. The van's all set. We're on our way. Over and out."

Damn!

"Joe," he said, handing over the two apples, "could you give these to Grendel and Mr. Please? I'm going to check the saddles one last time. I'm in no mood to play doctor out there."

Moving quickly, he crossed behind the horses, feigning a check of the blankets, stirrups, and cinches, while at the same time sliding the gauze as far up under the saddle blankets as possible. He was just easing the third pack into place when the president's entourage appeared and approached the guardhouse.

Gabe glanced at his watch and mentally started timing absorption of the drugs. Thirty minutes.

Trailing behind the three agents and the president as they reached the guardhouse was a small van-a Mitsubishi, with a nurse and corpsman inside. He had met each in the White House clinic.

The thirty minutes were down to twenty-nine, maybe even twenty-eight.

Stay cool, Gabe urged himself. Just stay cool and think.

He approached the president and shook his hand warmly.

"Why didn't you tell me about the van?" he whispered through nearly clenched teeth.

It took several precious seconds for the significance of the vehicle to register.

"In the heat of all that planning, I just never thought of it," Stoddard said. "Are we dead?"

Gabe glanced over at the van. From where he stood he could see the spare that was mounted on the rear.

"I need a minute alone by the van," he whispered suddenly. "Can you get me that?"