Now on the cabin bunk he felt the rise of a moderate sea beneath his spine and watched Abdul’s unreadable features and wondered where God was.

10:10 A.M. EST In a Boston hotel room with snowflakes drifting against the panes three men worked at revolution. Kavanagh and the Harrison youth molded their ten satchel charges while Raoul Riva worked over a map of Washington with a felt-tip pen and a District of Columbia federal directory.

The Establishment had been stung twice; it was alerted and that was supposed to make it difficult to move freely. But the Americans were suicidally and hysterically incompetent: they had no long-range plans for countering insurgency, they had a genius for preparing to meet the last attack rather than the next one.

Their Capitol had been bombed. Now it was surrounded by armed guards while workmen ripped out its damaged insides and prepared to rebuild. Federal buildings everywhere had been reinforced by sentries and checkpoints. The temporary House and Senate chambers that had been set up in the Cannon and Rayburn buildings were protected by platoons of soldiers. The Government in its stupidity had cordoned off federal office buildings in every major city and thrown guards around everything from post offices to city halls.

And in the meantime every Congressman and Senator went home each night to a serene unguarded house or apartment.

They were so stupid it was hardly worth picking a fight with them. Riva turned a directory page and ran his finger down the center column until he found the home address of Senator Wendell Hollander.

10:45 A.M. EST Satterthwaite’s war room had been set up in the NSC boardroom because communications were already laid into the building. The long table was a tangle of teletapes and phones and transceivers. A situation map covered one wall. Information was being fed into the pool of typists one floor below, where it was collated on update sheets and sent in to the analysis table in the war room. Senior executives of all the government security agencies sifted the data sheets, seeking not only information but inspiration.

They sat, winnowed, talked, in some cases complained. Satterthwaite had insisted on this bulky arrangement; he wanted instant liaison with all agencies and had insisted they assign men whose rank empowered them to make instant decisions and commit their agencies without needing to waste time in consultations outside this room.

The big chair at the center—ordinarily the President’s seat—was Satterthwaite’s now and he was in it when the Presidential summons came. He left the room without excusing himself and strode rapidly on his short legs to the eastern exit from the building.

The previous night’s feathery snowfall had left a crisp crust. It was a clear cold morning and reporters in topcoats and overshoes were besieging both buildings in the largest concentration Satterthwaite had seen since the night of the presidential election. It took four EPS patrolmen and a Secret Service agent at point to elbow a path through the crush for Satterthwaite’s passage.

Inside the White House even the press lobby was empty; the White House had been closed to reporters indefinitely. The President’s announcements were delivered to the press by Perry Hearn on the mud of the trampled lawn.

On his way up to the President’s office he found Halroyd, the Special Agent in charge of the White House Detail; Satterthwaite wheeled off his course to speak to him.

“Find David Lime, will you? Ask him to report to me in the NSC boardroom. He may still be at NSA—check there first.”

“Yes sir.”

Halroyd went, and Satterthwaite was admitted to the presidential presence.

The President had with him Dexter Ethridge and the press secretary. Hearn was on his way out. He nodded to Satterthwaite, picked up his briefcase and detoured past Satterthwaite toward the door. “They’ll want more, I’m afraid,” he said over his shoulder.

“It’s all I’m giving them. Make them accept it, Perry—embellish it all you can, try to satisfy them.”

Hearn had stopped at the door. “I’m afraid they’re not going to be satisfied with anything less than hard news, Mr. President. ‘We’re doing all we can, we expect an early solution’—no matter how you word that it comes out sounding like something they’ve heard too often before.”

“Damn it, I can’t help it.” The President was flushed; he looked very tired, his eyes were bloodshot.

Perry Hearn left quietly. Ethridge nodded to Satterthwaite without rising from his seat. Ethridge didn’t look well. Drawn; loose bags under the eyes; the appearance of sickbed slackness. It was hardly surprising. He had been hit hard.

Satterthwaite was as tired as anyone; too tired for formalities. He spoke to the President with the acerbic intimacy he ordinarily withheld from public view: “I hope you didn’t drag me over here for a progress report. When we’ve got something I’ll let you know.”

“Gentle down, Bill.”

Mild shock in Ethridge’s eyes; Satterthwaite grimaced and nodded to indicate his apology.

The President said, “I’ve got a policy decision to make.”

“What to tell the press?”

“No. Nothing like that.” The President put a cigar in his mouth but did not light it. It made his voice more gutteral. “It’s that damn fool press conference they held last night.”

“What press conference?”

“You didn’t hear about it?”

“I’ve been up to here, Mr. President, you know that.”

From his chair Dexter Ethridge spoke evenly. “Some congressional leaders held a joint press conference last night.” He sounded very dry, disapproving. “Woody Guest, Fitz Grant, Wendy Hollander, a few others. Both houses and both parties were represented.”

The President pushed a copy of the New York Times across his desk. “You’d better read it.”

Satterthwaite had seen a copy of the Times earlier in the day but had not had time to read it. The headline at the top of the front page was probably the largest point type the Times used—FAIRLIE KIDNAPPED. Each of the two words ran the width of the page in high boldface.

It was near the bottom of the page under a two-column group photo of a dozen well-known faces.

CONGRESSIONAL LEADERS CALL FOR “GET TOUGH” POLICY—INSIST GOV’T REJECT RANSOM DEMANDS

The President was talking while Satterthwaite read. “I’ve had calls from every one of them. And the telegrams are a mile high.”

“How do the telegrams split?”

“About six to four.”

“For or against the hard line?”

“For.” The President spoke the word slowly and let it hang in the air. Finally he added, “The public sentiment seems to be let’s not just sit around and bleed about it.” He removed the cigar; his voice hardened. “I can hear the mob, Bill. They’re gathering out there with picks and torches.”

Satterthwaite, grunting to indicate he had heard, turned the page.

Dexter Ethridge said, “We decided this morning, Mr. President. We’ve already made the decision.”

“I know that Dex. But we didn’t make it public.”

“You’re saying we can still change our minds.”

“We didn’t anticipate the reaction would come down this hard on one side, did we?”

“Mr. President,” Ethridge said. The tone made Satterthwaite look up at him. Ethridge stirred slowly in his chair. A deep breath, a reluctant voice: “You’ve never been the kind of man who makes his decisions on the basis of who talked to him last. You’ve never needed public consensus to confirm your judgment. I find it hard to believe you’re going to let the unreasoning panic of a mob affect your——”

“The country could split apart on this issue.” The President was harsh. “I’m not playing politics for God’s sake. I’m trying to hold this country together!”