She saw the orange flame-tip when he fired.

4:39 A.M.North African Time Lime had a stitch in his ribs. He stood soaked in his own juices.

Sturka had six wounds, caliber .38 inches and any one of them might have killed him. Lime had fired with deliberation, knowing there was time to get the others out, knowing Sturka was the one he had to kill.

Sturka died at Lime’s feet. Lime saw his face crumple in death but there was no recognition in Sturka’s eyes and no sign he realized anything: Sturka died in sulky silence without last words. He lay seeping blood into the stone floor and when the blood stopped flowing Lime went across the floor to where Clifford Fairlie lay.

Fatigue was gritty in his eyes. He could smell already the sickening pungency of death in the room. Sturka was dead and Corby had killed one of the Early Birds. The Astin girl lay in a crumpled heap, stunned by the force of the dart that had struck her in the chest; the tranquilizer would keep her unconscious for a bit.

And Fairlie. Orr had a flashlight, he was shaking it to strengthen its beam. Perhaps it was the quality of that light, but Fairlie had the pallor of death. Lime dropped to his knees beside the President-elect. He heard Orr say, “Get the doctor, Wilkes,” and one of the sharpshooters ran out front to signal the caravan.

When the doctor arrived Fairlie had stopped breathing.

“We’ll need an autopsy to be sure.”

Lime was too drained to reply. He only stared at the doctor out of a dulled agony.

“Probably they had him doped up to keep him docile,” the doctor said.

“And that killed him?”

“No. Your tranquilizer bullet killed him. On top of what was already in his system it became an overdose. Look, you had no way to anticipate this. I’ll testify to that.”

Lime had no interest in trying to shift the blame. It was beside the point. There was only one point. He had made a mistake and it had cost Fairlie’s life.

“You did everything right,” Orr was saying inaccurately. “None of them touched Fairlie with so much as a finger. We took them all out before they had a chance at him. Look it wasn’t your fault.…”

But Lime was walking away. One of the men was on the walkie-talkie summoning the convoy and Lime went outside to meet it and waited in the night repressing all feelings and all thought.

“I’m sorry. I’m so Goddamned sorry sir.”

Lime accepted Chad Hill’s sorrow with a vague nod of his head. “I’ll have to talk to somebody on that scrambler. See if you can raise Washington for me.”

“The President?”

“Whoever you can get.”

“You want me to do it sir?”

He felt remote gratitude and he touched Chad Hill’s arm. “Thank you. I guess it’s up to me.”

“I mean I could——”

“Go on Chad.”

“Yes sir.”

He watched the youth lope down the hillside to the Land Rover. He followed more slowly, moving like a somnambulist, tripping over things.

Eighteen or twenty riflemen stood around watching him with aggrieved compassion. He walked through their little knot and they made way for him. He reached the Land Rover and wasn’t sure he could stay on his feet; he pulled the tailgate down and sat on it. Chad Hill handed him the telephone-style handset. “It’s Mr. Satterthwaite in the war room.”

There was a lot of racket. Static, or the scrambler operating imperfectly, or perhaps just the busy noise of the war room.

“Lime here.”

“David? Where are you?”

“I’m in the desert.”

“Well?”

“… He’s dead.”

“What? Who’s dead?”

“Clifford Fairlie.”

Silence against the background noise.

Finally: “Dear sweet God.” A voice so weak Lime hardly caught it.

“We got them all if it matters. Sturka and Renaldo bought the farm.” My God. Bought the farm. An expression he hadn’t heard or used in fifteen years.

Satterthwaite was saying something. Lime didn’t catch it. “What?”

“I said that puts President Brewster back in office for four more years. The Senate voted cloture on Hollander’s filibuster a couple of hours ago. They’ve amended the Act. It’s on the President’s desk for signature.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not sure I care.”

“I think,” and Satterthwaite’s voice was very low and very slowly distinct, “I have to know how and why Fairlie died, David.”

“He died of an overdose of tranquilizers. I suppose you could say I killed him. I suppose you could say that.”

“Go on. Tell me all of it.”

Lime told him. And then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see. Don’t say anything to anyone just yet. Keep all your people together, bring them all home. You’ll fly Fairlie’s body into Andrews—I’ll meet you or have someone meet you. There’ll have to be a debriefing—make sure you keep all your people incommunicado.”

“No announcement at all?”

“Not from you. We’ll have to release the news at this end. Actually I suppose it’s up to the President to make the announcement.”

Lime fumbled for a cigarette. “You may as well recall those seven prisoners. There won’t be any exchange now.”

“I will. All right, David, I’ll see you,” Satterthwaite said lamely and broke the connection.

Lime tossed the handset into the bed of the Land Rover and began jabbing his pockets to find his cigarette lighter.

12:20 A.M. EST It looked like snow again. Satterthwaite stood in a small bare room on the top floor of the Executive Office Building. He hadn’t switched any lights on. The city beyond the window threw in a little light. He had been standing alone in the dimness for some time. Just standing there.

Everybody had gone home. The war room had been dismantled. He had sat in it alone until the clean-up crews had come to clear up the mess; then he had come up here to think.

The Southern bloc had fought for Hollander but it had been no real contest. Brewster’s supporters had played on the senility issue; nothing overt had been said on the Senate floor about Hollander’s political leanings. That would have been too raw. In fact very little had been said about Hollander at all, except by his supporters. The issue—the pretended issue—was experience and qualifications. Mr. President, I gladly avail myself of the privilege of offering my support to the able and distinguished Senator from Montana in affirming that in national crises when time is of the essence, the laws of succession to the Presidency of the United States must take into account the realities of today’s complex administrative problems. We cannot and should not expect anyone to have to assume the burdens of this office without adequate preparation and introduction—that is to say briefings—on the multitude of critical ongoing problems which inevitably hang in the balance between changing administrations. Under the present circumstances where there is quite obviously no time at all to hand over the reins of government to a newcomer in an orderly fashion, is it not clear that we have but one intelligent course to follow? …

Of course it was all poppycock, everyone knew it: Brewster could easily stay on as a guest in a White House wing for long enough to brief the new President if that were the only difficulty. Hollander’s supporters had pointed out such things with biting scorn and thundering anger but there had been no stemming the pressure for Brewster. Everyone remembered how close the popular election had been. The accusations against Los Angeles and other cities, the recounts, the solid Democratic majority in both houses which secretly applauded Brewster’s move because it vindicated the party.

But all these were minor; there was only one real issue and that was Wendell Hollander. His senile paranoia, his political dementia. Hollander had the unique ability to terrify almost everyone in Congress. And those who knew him best were those whom he terrified most.