Now the gray man was towing her out a side door with the modest but irresistible authority of an East River tug. The security toughs got caught up in the back eddies of delegates and reporters shouting questions at each other. Her last view of the function room was Jack Braun staring after her with his face rumpled up into a look of Sonny Tufts's bemusement, Tachyon beside him gazing about with neurasthenic dismay, like an underfed Regency buck whose man's man just farted in the wardrobe.

Her rescuer-or whatever the hell he was-dragged her down a corridor past incurious idlers, into a side service passageway. He used the momentum he'd imported to spin her around, back to a wall. A pack of reporters charged by, down the corridor, baying on the wrong trail.

"Is not the way to go about it," he said. He had the kind of gruff avuncular face only TV character actors have. His accent was… Russian?

Sara lost it. This was simply too strange. She yanked her hand away, panicked more by the fact of contact than any ramification.

He pressed in on her. "No! You must listen. You are in very great danger-"

You're telling me, buster. She squirmed past him and raced away, throwing a high heel in the process, toppling into the wall, scraping along, supporting herself with her hands while she kicked frantically to free herself of the other.

"Little fool!" the man yelled after her. "The truth you have can kill!"

The shoe finally came away, cartwheeling into the far wall. She ran.

10:00 A.M.

Gregg didn't remember sleeping at all during the night. At six, Amy called to give him the early morning schedule and remind him of a seven o'clock breakfast meeting with Andrew Young at Pompano's. By seven-forty-five he was in conference with Tachyon, Braun, and other key lobbyists and delegates about the joker's Rights plank and the party platform. At eight-ten, it was minor difficulties with the Ohio delegation, which seemed to consider Gregg a favorite-son candidate since he'd been born in their state, and felt they deserved privileged access to him; eight-thirty was a discussion with Ted Kennedy and Jimmy Carter concerning tomorrow's nomination speeches. Amy and John Werthen huddled with him to confirm the rest of the morning's schedule, then Gregg spoke briefly with Tony Calderone about the progress of his acceptance speech.

Around nine-thirty, Tachyon came storming up complaining that Sara Morgenstern had finally gone too far. He informed Gregg of her outburst downstairs. "She's entirely insane," the alien raged. "Paranoid, delusions of persecution. We have to do something about her."

Gregg agreed with that more than Tachyon could know. She'd become unpredictable and dangerous, and he didn't dare use Puppetman to neutralize her. There was too much danger of Gimli's interference. With the problems he'd had with Puppetman in the last few weeks, he couldn't afford the chance. A public scene would ruin everything.

A little after ten, he was finally able to retreat to his room for a few minutes. Ellen was away handshaking with delegates and campaigning outside; their rooms were blessedly deserted. A headache was pounding against his temples, and it had Gimli's voice.

Why worry about Morgenstern? Sure, she's a fucking loose cannon, but she's not the problem I am, is she? You could handle her if you dared let Puppetman out. Can you feel him yet, Greggie? Can you hear him howling for his fix? I can. You will too, any time now.

"Shut up, damn you!" He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he heard the faint echo of his voice.

Gimli laughed. Sure. I'll be quiet for a little while. After all, I've already got you talking to yourself. Just remember that I'm still here, still waiting. But then, I doubt you'll forget that, will you? You can't.

The voice went away, leaving Gregg moaning and holding his head. One problem at a time, he told himself. Sara first. He composed himself, reaching for the phone and dialing. There was the slight hiss of a long-distance connection, and then the phone at the other end rang. "Hartmann in '88," a voice said with a strong Harlem accent. "New York office, Matt Wilhelm speaking."

"Furs, how are things up north?"

There was a laugh from the other end of the line. Wilhelm-also known in Jokertown as Furs-preferred his joker name, as Gregg knew. "Senator, it's good to hear from you. I should have known it was you coming in on this line. Everything's going smoothly, if a little slow. We're waiting for the official announcement that you're our nominee, then we'll move into overdrive. How's Atlanta?"

"Hot and steamy, and awfully warm down on the floor, from what I understand."

"Lots of resistance to the plank," Furs said. Gregg could imagine the joker's leonine features set in a scowl. "I expected as much."

"I'm afraid so. But we're going to keep hammering away at it."

"You do that, Senator. In the meantime, what can Furs do for you?"

"I'd like you to make a few phone calls. I could do it myself but I've a meeting in a few minutes and Amy and John are tied up with this platform business. You or someone on our staff got the time to give me a hand?"

"Absolutely. Go ahead."

"Good. First, check with Cuomo's office-be sure to relay thanks for his help yesterday with File and Shroud and find out exactly when he's expected to arrive in Atlanta tomorrow. I want to know what arrangements have been made, and be sure one of our people picks him up at the airport. Then call our headquarters in Albany and have someone there confirm my reservation for the first week in August; Amy says she's never heard back from them. I also need you to call and make certain the New York apartment's ready for Ellen on Monday time into Tomlin, by the way, but John will be calling you with those details."

"Got it, Senator. Anything else?"

Gregg closed his eyes, sinking back into the padded embrace of the couch. "One more thing. There's another call." He recited the number he'd memorized before leaving New York. "You won't get anything but an answering machine there," he told Furs. "Don't worry about it. All you need to do is leave a short message on the machine. Just say to book a flight to Atlanta soonest. They'll know what that means."

"Book a flight ASAP. No problem. That all?"

"That's all. Thanks, Furs. I'll be seeing you soon."

"Just get us jokers a platform we can stand on. "

"We'll do our damndest. Take care. Give my regards to your staff. We couldn't do anything without their help." Gregg placed the receiver carefully in its cradle.

It was done. Mackie would be coming. Gregg hadn't wanted the volatile ace in Atlanta, but he had to do something. Mackie should have disposed of Downs already; now he could take care of Sara.

Very faintly, a sardonic voice answered him from beneath. But what about me? What about me?

"A KGB man hanging out at the Democratic Convention?" Ricky Barnes shook his long trim head. "Evervbodv already thinks you're in cahoots with Barnett, but maybe you should think about going to work for Robertson. Sounds like something his people would come up with, along with raising the dead and knowing where the hostages from Flight 737 were being kept in Calcutta."

"That isn't funny, Ricky." She sat on the edge of his tautly made bed, methodically tearing a Kleenex into shreds. She spoke without heat. Ricky was maybe the first person she'd met in her life who could tease her without causing real pain. "Well, I mean, first you pitch your little scene in the midst of the Tach'n'Jack love feast. Then you say you're hauled out of the pot you set boiling by some old dude in a Mickey Mouse shirt. Who ever heard of a KGB man in a Mickey Mouse shirt?"

"What do KGB men wear, Ricky?"

"Rumpled suits and phony Rolexes. I've met KGB men, Sara. So have you."