ETA five minutes.

The faint vibration at his hip produced no physical response. His heart rate did not accelerate, his blood pressure did not elevate, his finger did not move even a fraction of a millimeter on the trigger. Once again, without moving his face from its resting place against the rifle stock, he lifted the pager to eye level.

1556 16Aug01

Abort sequence two

He inched his head upward and watched emotionlessly as the armored ambulance rolled slowly down the lane toward the main street and wended through the haphazardly parked news vans until it disappeared from sight around the corner. Then he rested back on his heels and dispassionately disassembled his weapon. With careful precision, he repacked the main assembly into the bottom of his toolbox and stowed the various smaller mechanisms in his pockets in exactly the same order in which he had withdrawn them almost four hours earlier. Task completed, he turned his back to the wall and sat down on the roof, his legs stretched out in front of him.

He would wait three hours before making his way down the stairwell and out of the building. Then he would return to his two-room apartment, resume his unassuming life, and await further instructions. His orders might come that night or the next day or the next week. He could only hope that he would be given another critical role in the complex plan to send notice to the world that even the mightiest of superpowers was vulnerable to those with a clear and certain calling, and that the righteous would ultimately prevail. The sweat running into his eyes brought tears swimming to their surface, but he did not blink.

God Bless America.

CHAPTER NINE

" O ne in every eight women will develop breast cancer." Blair stood at the front of a large, well-appointed auditorium. It was designed to accommodate several hundred people in individual plush fabric chairs arranged in traditional tiered, semicircular rows, and it was full. Her audience consisted primarily of potential benefactors, with a smattering of hospital personnel. After touring the research and clinical wings, she'd spent the last twenty-five minutes discussing the disease that had killed her mother. "One woman dies of breast cancer every twelve minutes."

Cam stood eight feet away, slightly behind and to Blair's right. Stark occupied a similar post on the opposite side of the raised stage, near the entrance from the rear hallway. Mac and Felicia were at the back of the lecture hall flanking the main entrance. Two more agents stood guard in the lobby and others were posted outside at the hospital entrance and with the motorcade.

"We can do better with those numbers," Blair said with certainty, speaking without notes as she leaned toward the audience, her forearms stretched out on either side of the streamlined lectern, her fingers curled loosely over the forward edge. "With better diagnostic tools and more tumor-specific treatments, fewer women will die and more will live longer and more productively."

She stepped out from behind the podium and strode confidently to the center of the stage. Seeing this, Cam subtly shifted her position, concerned about Blair's exposure in the densely crowded room. Although everyone had been prescreened and IDs had been scrupulously checked, there had been no reasonable way to scan for weapons. That level of security, requiring portable metal detectors and handheld wands and a hell of a lot more people than she had at her disposal, was usually only feasible for the president and vice president. Blair was always vulnerable when in public, and that was the simple reality that Cam lived with and was forced to deal with. The only true protection for the first daughter was ensuring that those who guarded her were able to physically shield her in the event of an attack. That demanded that her security agents be close enough to position themselves between her and danger.

"The researchers here at the Institut Gustave-Roussy and those at similar institutions worldwide need our support—our financial support." Blair's voice was steady and strong as her eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on different individuals, making fleeting but powerful contact. "My mother was thirty-two years old when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was thirty-three when she died. It's heartbreaking that one so young should die, but death at any age from a disease that we might prevent is the true tragedy. Please, let's work together to eliminate breast cancer from the list of killers. Thank you."

Amidst applause and murmurs of assent, the president of the Institut approached with his hand extended and a deep smile. Blair turned to him with a gracious smile of her own. Her head throbbed and her throat was dry, but she needed to keep up the public facade just a few minutes longer.

"Thank you, Ms. Powell," he said as he shook her hand warmly. "We are honored by your presence here today and appreciate your support on behalf of our endeavors."

Cam listened with half a mind as the final speeches wound down. The greater part of her attention, however, was occupied with the details of her exit strategy, Blair had been extremely unhappy with the earlier diversion to the side entrance of the hospital. Cam knew her lover well enough to know that she would not consent to leave that way.

As the audience began to disperse and a crowd of attendees surged toward the stage for a private word with Blair, Cam moved closer still until she was only a few feet away. Stark mirrored her movements. Only someone watching very closely would have appreciated their actions. Blair spoke with members of the staff and potential donors for an additional twenty minutes, her smile never wavering, her words warm and engaging.

Cam had seen her at many public functions and knew her to be supremely adept at the social and political nuances required when interacting with everyone from heads of state to inner-city residents. Despite Blair's reluctance to engage in the politics of the White House, when called upon to represent her father's administration she was not only good at it, but she excelled. Cam also knew that these functions took a toll on Blair, particularly when they involved talking about something as personal and difficult as her mother's illness and death.

At 1730, Cam leaned near and murmured, "It's time, Ms. Powell."

Without turning in Cam's direction, Blair nodded and cordially greeted another smiling individual. Five minutes later, she thanked the president of the Institut and started up the aisle toward the exit.

"It would be less complicated if we used the side exit," Cam advised as they walked.

Eyes straight ahead, Blair's smile never wavered. "I'm sure. But I'm going out the front door."

Cam sighed. In the time since their arrival on-site, she'd had time to adjust for the greater-than-anticipated crowds in front of the hospital and reposition the team. In all likelihood, some of the eager reporters would have left for other assignments in the interim, diminishing the problem further. Although she wasn't happy about Blair's unanticipated exposure under less than ideal circumstances, she allowed that the margin of safety had been augmented to the point that objecting would only anger Blair for little gain.

"As you wish."

"Thank you, Commander."

They stepped into the lobby and four more Secret Service agents converged on them. Seemingly oblivious to the close proximity of the bodies keeping time with her, Blair moved steadily toward the large double doors and the sunlit sidewalk beyond. Cam advised the outside team of their approach with a few terse orders issued into her wrist mic. Then they were outside and the questions began.

"Is it true you're sleeping with several of the women on your detail?" a sharp female voice called out immediately.

"How do you feel about having your lover take a bullet for you?"

Blair stiffened perceptibly but her step did not falter, nor did her expression change.

"How do you think your announcement will affect your upcoming gallery exhibit in New York?"

"Is this just a publicity stunt to promote your artwork?"

When Blair slowed, Cam slid a hand behind her right elbow. "Please keep walking."

"What do you think this will do to your father's reelection possibilities?"

"Does the White House approve of your affair?"

"Ms. Powell," a burly redhead in a short-sleeved white shirt and creased trousers called, leaning far over the rope barricade with a microphone extended. "Why didn't your father run on a gay rights platform, considering that you're a lesbian? Was he hoping to keep that a secret?"

"My father demands equal rights for everyone," Blair answered sharply as she glanced in his direction.

Stark opened the rear door of the Peugeot when Blair was five feet away.

"I want to make a statement," Blair said urgently as she attempted to withdraw her arm from Cam's grip.

"I'm sorry," Cam replied, continuing to move forward while firmly directing Blair toward the interior of the vehicle. "Not here."

And then Blair was inside and Cam was sliding in next to her, blocking her view of the crowd outside. Still, the sound of cameras clicking and shouted questions rang in her ears even after they pulled away from the curb.

With a sigh, Blair closed her eyes. "Well, that was fun."

Cam didn't answer. She checked in with the lead vehicle and follow car to ascertain that the exit route was clear. She didn't intend to have a high-speed chase through the streets of Paris with a pack of overeager paparazzi hoping for another shot at Blair. When she was satisfied that everything was in order, she turned to her lover. "Are you okay?"