"Okay. I'll call'the White House." It was the least he could do. And what would it hurt? "But it may take me a while to get an answer.

Those guys aren't just sitting around waiting for calls. If the president's out somewhere, they'll be with him."

"It's still early.

Maybe you can catch somebody."

"I'll try."

"Thanks. That's almost more than I could hope for." She sounded not only frightened, but lost. Not a friend in the world.

"Where will you be? Home? " "God, no. He's coming for me. I've got to get moving. I'll call you back in a little while. When I get to a safe place." Oh, Gin.

"Do you want to stay at my place? " he said. "Martha will be in school.

You could stay here till I hear from the Secret Service guys." He wanted her safe. What should he do with her? He had to get some help.

Maybe get in touch with her parents, let them know she was having a breakdown.

"Maybe later. After we get this thing out of my leg, I'll need a place to rest up. Right now I'd better keep on the move." Gerry chewed his lip. He didn't want to push her, not in her mental state.

"Okay. Do what you have to do. But stay in touch. Keep calling in.

' "You can count on that." She paused, then, "And you will call, won't you? You're not just humoring me? " "I'll call. I promise. " "Thanks, Gerry." Her voice softened. "Thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt here. After last Friday, that can't be too easy.

" "It's okay." After he hung up, Gerry sat and stared at his phone.

He didn't want to sound like a jerk calling up Bob Decker and asking if the president was having plastic surgery tgmorrow. He'd yet to live down the Marsden debacle. Guys were still coming up and offering to sell him the Brooklyn Bridge.

He looked up Decker's extension at the White House and made the call. Years ago he and Decker had become casual friends after an FBI racketeering case turned out to involve counterfeiting as well and the Secret Service was called in. Every so often they got together for a drink.

He was surprised how relieved he felt when he was told that Decker wasn't in. Gerry left his office number for the return call.

Decker's call came in shortly after Gerry got to his desk. After the standard how's-it-going' preliminaries, Gerry took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet.

"Listen, Bob. The reason I called is that I heard a rumor that the president's getting a face-lift or something tomorrow. Any truth to that? " Decker cleared his throat. "A face-lift? Tomorrow? That's a good one.

Where'd you hear something like that? " "The usual roundabout way.

Somebody heard from somebody whose second cousin's mother overheard it at the Laundromat, and so on. I thought I'd check it out with you and lay it to rest. Or if it is true, I figure you'd want to know that the word is out and spreading."

"Thanks, Gerry. I appreciate that." ' Well? " '-Well what? " "Is it true? ' -, .

. s , 0 "The president's heading for Camp David tomorrow morning for a long weekend, and I'm going with him." He chuckled. "Christ, he's going to be pissed when he hears about this. I know he doesn't want anyone to think he's having a face-lift. How do these crazy stories get started? " '"Crazy people, I guess, " Gerry said glumly.

"Well, thanks for thinking of me. You can put the kibosh on this one, but let me know if you hear any others "Will do." Just great, Gerry thought as he hung up. The president's not even going to be in town.

At least according to Bob Decker. But Decker could be covering for the president. If he'd been instructed to tell no one, he'd do just that, even if the FBI was asking.

Who to believe? A week ago there'd be no contest. But after the Marsden mess . . .

Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup as Gerry pounded his fist on the desk.

Damn it, what was he going to tell Gin?

And where was she now? Racing around the city in her car? Or hunched over a cup of coffee at the rear table of some diner?

He had to get her help. And fast.

Gin sipped a cup of cappuccino and watched the street. She'd found a Moroccan coffee shop on Columbia Road with a booth that offered a view of the eastern corner of Kalorama, half a block uphill from her apartment. If Duncan or an ambulance arrived, they'd turn that corner.

So far, no ambulance, no black Mercedes. But Duncan was tricky. He'd certainly proven that in the past week. Who said he had to come in his Mercedes?

Rather than run all over the city with no definite destination, she'd left her car parked in front of her building and walked up here to sit watch. Was Duncan really calling an ambulance, or coming himself?

God, she wished she knew. The only thing she knew for ceXtain right now was that she had to stay as far as possible from Duncan Lathram.

She glanced at her watch. Time to give Gerry a call. Another good thing about this little coffee shop was the location of the phone, right inside the front door. She could call and still keep watch on the corner.

Gerry sounded tired when he said hello.

"Did you call the Secret Service? " '"Yes."

" And? " His sigh was full of angst. "They say he's not having surgery tomorrow or any other day. As a matter of fact, he's leaving in the morning for Camp David for a long weekend." '"To recover from the surgery! " "According to the Secret Service, there's no surgery, Gin."

"But how . . . ? " Oh, God, why hadn't she thought of that? "Gerry, of course they're going to deny it. It's all hushhush. He doesn't want anyone to know it's being done."

"I already thought of that. Look, Gin, you can't keep doing this.

You're a doctor. Don't you see a pattern here? There's no surgery on the president, just like there was no implant in Senator Marsden's leg.

" "Well, there's one in mine! I can show you! " '"Gin, you need help." She heard real pain in his voice now. "Let me get you in touch with someone we use at the Bureau. Maybe he can, " Tears of frustration welled in Gin's eyes. "I'm not paranoid, Gerry.

Duncan has done a beautiful job of manipulating events to make me look that way, but I'm not. And I've got the implant in my leg to prove it.

" "Gin, ' was all he said.

t .

, . T . S , , "All right. That does it. ' She was angry now. "You don't believe me, so I'll show you. I'm coming down there right now and I'll prove to you that there's an implant in my leg. And you leave word at the desk that I'm coming."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Gin."

"Maybe not, but it seems to be my only option now. So get ready, Gerry.

I'm on my way. ' "Gina, " She hung up on him and stood inside the door trembling with anger and fright. What if she couldn't get anyone to believe her? She realized how she must have sounded. She had to stay calm and sound rational. She wasn't going to convince anyone if she kept flying off the handle.

But I'm scared, dammit.

And worse than the fear was the question that had begun tapping with increasing insistence on the back door of her consciousness.

g everybody thinks you're crazy, maybe you shogldn't completely dismiss the possibility they might be right.

Feeling utterly miserable, she leaned against the door and pressed her right temple against the cool glass. The caffeine and a couple of Tylenol had helped, but her head still throbbed. And the doubts only intensified the pain.

Am I sane?

Could all this be simply the fabrication of a mind sent off course because her brain had begun synthesizing faulty neurochemicals or producing the right ones in the wrong proportions? How many paranoids had she seen in her psych rounds who were utterly convinced of the veracity of their absurd claims? They'd heard with their own ears, seen with their own eyes. If you can't trust your senses and your own ability to interpret their input, who or what can you trust?