“That’s a damned pretty dress,” he said, making a feeble attempt at looking attentive.

“Yes, I think the red material goes well with my blond hair.”

“A nice match,” he came back vaguely.

“You’re hopeless, Jim Sandecker,” she said, shaking her head. “You’d say the same thing if I were sitting here naked.”

“Hmmmm?”

“For your information, the dress is brown, and so is my hair.”

He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. “I’m sorry, but I warned you I’d be poor company.”

“Your mind is seeing something a thousand miles away.”

He reached across the table almost shyly and held her hand. “For the rest of the evening, I’ll focus my thoughts entirely on you. I promise.”

“Women are suckers for little boys who need mothering. And you are the most pathetic little boy I’ve ever seen.”

“Mind your language, woman. Admirals do not take kindly to being referred to as pathetic little boys.”

“All right, John Paul Jones, then how about a bite for a starving deckhand?”

“Anything to prevent a mutiny,” he said, smiling for the first time that evening.

He recklessly ordered champagne and the most expensive seafood delicacies on the menu, as though it might be his last opportunity. He asked Bonnie about the cases she was involved with and masked his lack of interest as she relayed the latest gossip about the Supreme Court and legal maneuverings of Congress. They finished the entree and were attacking the pears poached in red wine when a man with the build of a Denver Bronco linebacker entered the foyer, stared around and, recognizing Sandecker, made his way over to the table.

He flashed a smile at Bonnie. “My apologies, ma’am, for the intrusion.” Then he spoke softly into Sandecker’s ear.

The admiral nodded and looked sadly across the table. “Please forgive me, but I must go.”

“Government business?”

He nodded silently.

“Oh, well,” she said resignedly. “At least I had you all to myself until dessert.”

He came over and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. “We’ll do it again.”

Then he paid the bill, asked the maître d’ to call Bonnie a cab and left the restaurant.

The admiral’s car rolled to a stop at the special tunnel entrance to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. The door was opened by a sober-faced man wearing a formal black suit.

“If you will please follow me, sir.”

“Secret Service?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sandecker asked no more questions. He stepped out of the car and trailed the agent down a carpeted corridor to an elevator. When the doors parted, he was led along the tier level behind the box seats of the opera house to a small meeting room.

Daniel Fawcett, his expression the consistency of marble, simply waved an offhand greeting.

“Sorry to break up your date, Admiral.”

“The message emphasized ‘urgent.’ “

“I’ve just received another report from Kodiak. The situation has worsened.”

“Does the President know?”

“Not yet,” answered Fawcett. “Best to wait until the intermission. If he suddenly left his box during the second act of Rigoletto, it might fuel too many suspicious minds.”

A Kennedy Center staff member entered the room carrying a tray of coffee. Sandecker helped himself while Fawcett idly paced the floor. The admiral fought off an overwhelming desire to light a cigar.

After a wait of eight minutes, the President appeared. The audience applause at the end of the act was heard in the brief interval between the opening and closing of the door. He was dressed in black evening wear with a blue handkerchief nattily tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I wish I could say it was good seeing you again, Admiral, but every time we meet we’re up to our butts in a crisis.”

“Seems that way,” Sandecker answered.

The President turned to Fawcett. “What’s the bad news, Dan?”

“The captain of an auto ferry disregarded Coast Guard orders and took his ship on its normal run from Seward on the mainland to Kodiak. The ferry was found a few hours ago grounded on Marmot Island. All the passengers and crew were dead.”

“Christ!” the President blurted. “What was the body count?”

“Three hundred and twelve.”

“That tears it,” said Sandecker. “All hell will break loose when the news media get the scent.”

“Nothing we can do,” Fawcett said helplessly. “Word is already coming over the wire services.”

The President sank into a chair. He seemed a tall man on the TV screens. He carried himself like a tall man but he was only two inches over Sandecker. His hairline was recessed and graying, and his narrow face wore a set and solemn expression, a look rarely revealed to the public. He enjoyed tremendous popularity, helped immensely by a warm personality and an infectious smile that could melt the most hostile audience. His successful negotiations to merge Canada and the United States into one nation had served to establish an image that was immune to partisan criticism.

“We can’t delay another minute,” he said. “The entire Gulf of Alaska has got to be quarantined and everyone within twenty miles of the coast evacuated.”

“I must disagree,” Sandecker said quietly.

“I’d like to hear why.”

“As far as we know the contamination has kept to open waters. No trace has shown up on the mainland. Evacuation of the population would mean a time-consuming and massive operation. Alaskans are a tough breed, especially the fishermen who, live in the region. I doubt if they’d willingly leave under any circumstances, least of all when ordered to by the federal government.”

“A hardheaded lot.”

“Yes, but not stupid. The fishermen’s associations have all agreed to restrict their vessels to port, and the canneries have begun burying all catches brought in during the past ten days.”

“They’ll need economic assistance.”

“I expect so.”

“What do you recommend?”

“The Coast Guard lacks the men and ships to patrol the entire gulf. The Navy will have to back them up.”

“That,” mused the President, “presents a problem. Throwing more men and ships in there increases the threat of a higher death toll.”

“Not necessarily,” said Sandecker. “The crew of the Coast Guard cutter that made the first discovery of the contamination received no ill effects, because the fishing boat had drifted out of the death area.”

“What about the boarding crew, the doctor? They died.”

“The contamination had already covered the decks, the railings, almost anything they touched on the exterior of the vessel. In the case of the ferry, its entire center section was open to accommodate automobiles. The passengers and crew had no protection. Modern naval ships are constructed to be buttoned up in case of radioactivity from nuclear attack. They can patrol the contaminated currents with a very small, acceptable degree of risk.”

The President nodded his consent. “Okay, I’ll order an assist from the Navy Department, but I’m not sold on dropping an evacuation plan. Stubborn Alaskans or not, there are still women and children to consider.”

“My other suggestion, Mr. President, or request if you will, is a delay of forty-eight hours before you initiate the operation. That might give my response team time to find the source.”

The President fell silent. He stared at Sandecker with deepening interest. “Who are the people in charge?”

“The on-scene coordinator and chairman of the Regional Emergency Response Team is Dr. Julie Mendoza, a senior biochemical engineer for the EPA.”

“I’m not familiar with the name.”

“She’s recognized as the best in the country on assessment and control of hazardous contamination in water,” Sandecker said without hesitation. “The underwater search for the shipwreck we believe contains the nerve agent will be headed by my special projects director, Dirk Pitt.”