News that a commercial airliner carrying a former President of the United States had been reported hijacked in Athens, Greece, arrived almost simultaneously at the Federal Aviation Administration’s command post in Washington and the Central Intelligence Agency just across the Potomac in Langley, Virginia. In another five minutes, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the FBI, and the National Reconnaissance Office had also independently received the same report.

The routine intramural scramble to be first to notify the White House with the most correct information sent staff members scurrying in each agency, but the first call received in the White House Situation Room came from Langley – a fact that the CIA staffer duly noted with both pride and premeditated intent to brag.

The President’s daily briefing had been printed and sent from Langley to the White House overnight, so the late-breaking report was quickly reduced to a couple of paragraphs and hand-delivered to the Chief of Staff’s secretary, who brought it into the Oval Office during the first few minutes of the President’s 8 A.M. meeting with the Chief of Staff and the Press Secretary.

“What’s that, Jack?” the President asked, noting the sudden silence.

Jack Rollins, the Chief of Staff and a former senator from Maine, had put down his coffee mug, scanned the paper with rising eyebrows, and whistled under his breath before handing it to his boss.

“It appears that John Harris, in the process of running around Europe and giving speeches, has gotten himself hijacked.”

“Hijacked?” The President took the report and read it before handing it to Diane Beecher, the Press Secretary. “What do you think, Diane?” the President asked.

“I think…,” she began, “that this will divert a lot of attention from the Vice President’s little problem this morning. This will be the lead on all the networks tonight, especially if it goes on for a while.”

“And what do we think?” the President prodded.

“Well, sir,” Diane said, “I think that we think that we’re monitoring the situation very closely and with great concern…”

“Right. And?”

“And…,” she continued, “we’re standing by to provide the appropriate authorities any necessary assistance to get our former President back safely.”

“Guarded alarm, in other words?”

“Yes, sir, but ‘guarded alarm’ is your pet phrase. Sir.”

“I like my pet phrase. I’ll let you use it.”

“Frankly, Mr. President, I don’t want it,” she said, with a smile. “And I know you’re pulling my chain, but I do pray quietly every evening that you will never, ever use it in a press conference.”

The President smiled easily and turned to Rollins. “And privately, Jack? What do you think?”

The Chief of Staff shook his head. “Well, fact is, we do owe that overgrown Boy Scout a lot. Like, for instance, your election.”

“Wait a darn second!” the President said with mock indignation. “That’s an excessive statement. The fact that the Republican Party couldn’t find a better candidate in time doesn’t mean I won by default, which is what you’re trying to say.”

“Well, Mr. President, somewhere along the way we need to acknowledge the fact that if John Harris had not screwed his own party by refusing to run for a second term on the strange concept of principle, we wouldn’t be sitting here. Do I have to remind you he was twenty-eight points ahead in the polls?”

The President scowled. “I don’t have to acknowledge that.”

“That’s true, sir,” the Chief of Staff replied with a grin. “You don’t have to. History will do it for you.”

The President laughed and flipped to the next page in his briefing book.

“No kidding, Jack. Keep me informed on Harris’s flight. I see in this note that the hijacking hasn’t been confirmed. Let’s pray it’s a false alarm.”

Sherry could feel the time ticking away and her stomach contracting with every wasted second.

“Hello?” she said again into the receiver, wondering when the White House operator was going to come back on the line. There were certain phrases she was supposed to use to get the operator’s immediate cooperation. Sherry had all the direct numbers to the White House staffers she needed to contact from time to time, but she hadn’t located the list and the wrong words had tumbled out of her mouth. She was struggling to bring up the right page in her Palm Pilot as she balanced the receiver against her ear.

“White House Comment Office.”

“Comments? Jesus! She gave me the wrong extension. Can you connect me to someone in the Situation Room?”

“Who’s speaking, please?”

“This is Sherry Lincoln. I’m assistant to former President John B. Harris. Hurry.”

“Well, Ms. Lincoln… first, if you insist on cursing, I’ll break the connection. Second, we cannot connect just anyone to the Situation Room. Now, what would you like to tell the President?”

Sherry was rubbing her forehead frantically. “Okay. Please, just reconnect me to the White House operator. Can you do that? They gave me the wrong extension.”

The sound of a dial tone filled the earpiece and a long list of expletives raced through her mind.

For the second time she dialed the lengthy combination of numbers and waited for the White House operator to come on the line.

“All right, please listen. This is a staff-related emergency, a Signal Zulu. I have a call from former President John B. Harris for… Jack Rollins, Chief of Staff. Please put me through to his office immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am. Please hold.”

Over a minute passed before a suspicious female voice filled the other end of the phone.

“Mr. Rollins’s office.”

Quickly and carefully she explained who and where she was, and her immediate need to speak to the Chief of Staff. At the same moment she found the listing of code names she could never remember.

“And, for authentication, President Harris’s Secret Service designation is ‘Deacon.’ Mine is… um… ‘Magpie.’ ”

Within thirty seconds Jack Rollins came on the line. He listened intently to her before asking a few quick questions.

“So you’re not hijacked?”

“No. The captain just let them believe that to get us out of Dodge. Athens, to be precise.”

“Understood. And you’re headed for Rome?”

“Affirmative. And the key question, Mr. Rollins, is this: can we land safely in Rome, or do we run the risk of encountering this same arrest attempt there? And, naturally, the other question is, who is trying to nab him, and why?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out. They called it an arrest warrant?”

“Yes, Mr. Rollins. I have no details other than that. The Greek government will know.”

“You mean a warrant such as a criminal warrant?”

“I suppose. Why else would we have heard the word ‘arrest’?”

“That leaves me completely puzzled. He wasn’t visiting in Greece, was he?”

“No. Just passing through from Istanbul. We weren’t even going to leave the aircraft.”

“Which means this is definitely something international. Okay. How do I call you back?”

“I’ll have to call you,” Sherry said. “Is there a direct number?”

He passed two private lines and a cell phone number. “Call me back in ten, no more than fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Absolutely. And on behalf of President Harris, thank you.”

“No thanks needed.”

More than 4,200 miles distant in his compact office in the West Wing, Jack Rollins replaced the receiver and hesitated for a few seconds, thinking through the irony of his comments to the President a half hour before. The fog cleared and he bellowed for his secretary at the same moment he snatched up the receiver and pressed a memory dial button.