Rolling his eyes for the director's benefit, the President repeated, "Deal with this as quietly as possible."
"That will be difficult, sir. He tried to bite us. Snapped at our heels like a junkyard dog."
"Now you know how the First Lady and I feel," said the President. "Come on. Maybe I can talk sense into him."
"I don't recommend this. It could be a trick to lure you out into the open."
"If the Republicans want me out of office that badly, they're welcome to take their best shot."
The director turned green as he followed the President to the narrow White House elevator.
"GILA, IS THAT You?" the President called uneasily as he approached the fountain gingerly.
From the vantage point on the second floor, the House minority whip had looked absurd. Now, face-to-face, the President found himself shivering under the baleful, unwinking glare of one of his chief political adversaries.
"Gila, whatever's troubling you, I think we can talk it out, just you and me."
The green eyes continued their unnerving unwinking staring.
"Whatever our differences, we both want what's best for this country. Why don't you come out before you catch your death?"
The half-submerged head dropped lower in the cold water until only the eyes peered out from the wet white mop. Slow bubbles formed.
"Better step back, sir," warned the Secret Service director. "Last time he bubbled like that, he took a run at us."
"Good idea," said the President, taking a step backward.
The green eyes narrowed suddenly.
With a ferocious flailing, the white-haired man surged up out of the water. On all fours, he cleared the space between the pool and the Chief Executive too fast for anyone to react.
Strong white teeth clamped over the President's right ankle. He let out a howl of pain.
"Shoot him! Shoot him!" the director cried, hoarse voiced.
"Don't you shoot anyone!" the President, recognizing through his pain that he was in the line of fire.
Secret Service agents staggered back, trying to get a clear shot, their faces going ghost white.
On the dry grass, the President and the minority whip were threshing and struggling madly. The President slapped at his tormentor's hair with no effect.
"Shoot to wound!" the director ordered.
"Stay still! Stay still, Mr. President," Jack Murtha pleaded.
"Get him off me!" the President howled, eyes wide with horror.
Up above, the First Lady was snapping pictures with a flash camera as fast as she could press the shutter release.
Fingers tightened on triggers, but before a hammer could fall, the agents suddenly felt their spines fill with ice. They thought it was a symptom of their own horror. But their weapons fell to the ground a half beat apart.
The director demanded, "What's wrong with you two?"
"I am," a squeaky voice said from behind the two agents.
And while the director's attention was distracted, Remo Williams swept down the darkened lawn and brought the side of his hand down on the back of the minority whip's threshing neck.
Gila Gingold relaxed immediately.
Pulling the President out from under his dead weight, Remo whispered, "Smith sent us."
"Thank God. I thought he was going to tear my foot off."
"Who spoke? Who said that?" the director said, trying to see past his frozen agents.
"I did," said the President.
The director whirled. He saw the President getting to his feet unsteadily and the minority whip out cold on the lawn. No one else.
"What happened?"
"Never mind," the President bit out. "I have a movie to catch."
"At a time like this?"
''Definitely at a time like this. Have Gila sent to St. Elizabeth's, and for God's sake keep this quiet."
"Sir, I wouldn't know how to explain to anyone what just happened here."
"Best thing I've heard all day," said the President, limping back into the executive mansion.
While he was doing that, the director walked around his paralyzed agents and demanded, "What got into you two?"
The two agents just keeled over, seemingly under the force of their boss's shouting.
From the East Gate the press corps called out pleading questions that were met by a cold silence.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States found no one on post at the entrance to the White House theater.
He hesitated. Then a Secret Service agent came hurrying down the hall. It was Special Agent Vince Capezzi, much to the President's relief.
"Sorry, sir. I was called away to look for you."
"I'm going to watch this movie," he told Capezzi, "and I don't want to be disturbed by anything short of a nuclear alert."
"Yes, sir," Capezzi said.
The President entered the theater, which was so small that during state dinners it sometimes doubled as a cloakroom. The lights were already down. And down in the tiny first row a man sat. He didn't turn around when the President entered.
The President hesitated. He felt a sudden chill. Straightening his coat, he advanced.
The man simply sat there like a tailor's dummy.
Taking the seat beside him, the President undertoned, "Smith?"
"Of course, Mr. President," said the familiar lemony voice.
Only then did the President truly relax. "How did you get in?" he asked.
"The Treasury tunnel."
"You know about that?"
"Unimportant. You wished to see me?"
The screen turned white, and the film began to roll. Over the opening credits, they spoke in clipped sentences, the President stealing the occasional sideways glance at Harold Smith's patrician profile. The man looked utterly ordinary, the President thought.
"What happened to the hot line?" he asked Smith.
"The mind behind the banking crisis of last Labor Day apparently severed the line. I have been unable to locate the break and repair it."
"Then we have no direct line of communication?"
"A minor inconvenience at a time like this."
"I need your help. We just had an incident on the White House lawn."
"I notice your ankle is bleeding."
The President looked down at his right shoe. His sock was mangled.
"The House minority whip bit me on the ankle."
Harold Smith seemed not to have a response to that, so the President went on. "I think one of your people saved me."
"He saved you from the rabid cat, as well."
"The cat tested clean for rabies, according to the FBI testing lab."
"Strange."
"Someone is trying to kill me, or embarrass me, or both."
"I agree with that assessment," said Smith as the film continued rolling. Both men watched every frame, but none of it registered.
Smith said, "I assume you wish the organization to continue, at least through the present crisis."
The President sighed. "I know we've had our differences. But your handling of the banking crisis was exemplary. The economy had a near miss the nation might not have survived."
"The other problems have been dealt with," said Smith. "We have recovered the lost operating funds and are fully funded once again."
"Good. You can assume a clean bill of health from me, and sanction to continue operating."
"I accept that," said Smith.
The President turned. "You don't sound very happy about it."
"It is duty we are talking about, Mr. President, not pleasure. I have served seven Chief Executives before you. None of it involved pleasure."
"I hear you."
"My people will be stationed here for the duration of the crisis. Meanwhile, I must have access to all Secret Service findings."
"I'll arrange a briefing."
"My identity must be held in the strictest confidence."
"We'll work out the details," said the President.
The film continued rolling. After a while the President asked, "The President I most strive to emulate was the one who started all this, wasn't he?"