An extremely junior member of the White House protocol staff, a young woman who looked as if she had graduated from Sweet Briar about ten minutes ago, had given Kate instructions on what to expect during the address. According to official protocol, guests were divided into three categories. There were invitees who were attending because they had given money to the president’s campaign or because they fit into some visible and demographically attractive category—a Hispanic Medal of Honor winner, or a white female cop. Next up the ladder were people like Kate, who were staffers or members (present, former, and future) of the administration. Above that were members of Congress. And above them were the House and Senate leadership, a handful of important cabinet members, the Joint Chiefs, the Supreme Court, and finally the speaker of the house, the vice president, and then the president himself.

The lower on the list of importance you were, the earlier you had to get to the Capitol. Mere billionaires and war heroes and Olympic gold medalists had to reach the assembly point in the Russell Building four hours in advance. Kate, being one step up the ladder, was required to come three hours in advance.

But the limo barely moved in the DC traffic. She could see the dome of the Capitol in the distance. Was there an invisible bull’s-eye painted on it? She felt her leg jiggling nervously.

She wished Gideon would call.

45

TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA

Doctor, I’ve found some medical supplies if you could take a look?” Tillman said, nodding toward the adjoining kitchen.

The man narrowed his eyes. “We don’t keep medical supplies in the kitchen.”

Verhoven looked up suspiciously. “What did you find?”

“There’s bandages I think you overlooked.” He pointed his gun toward the kitchen. “Let’s go, Doctor.”

“I’m not leaving the girls.”

“Let’s not get into a pissing contest,” Tillman said softly. Then he gave Klotz a hard stare.

Klotz looked for a moment as though he was making a decision. Then he nodded curtly and walked quickly toward the kitchen.

Tillman hurried after him, but still he was unable to get there before Klotz disappeared behind the wall. When he entered the room, Klotz was leaning against the counter, his face blank, hands behind his back.

Tillman walked in and stood by the door for a moment. It was a nice modern kitchen—granite countertops, an island in the center of the room. Everything was spotless and neatly organized, pans hanging from the ceiling, knives stored in a wooden block. A pan for every hook on the ceiling, a knife for every slot in the block. Except one.

Tillman stood on the far side of the island, keeping his distance from Shanelle Klotz’s husband. He leaned forward and spoke as softly as he e kkkkkkkkkk, hacould. “The man in the other room is very upset right now. He believes deeply in the cause that has brought him into your home. He wants very much to succeed. But he also loves his wife. He’s in a very agitated state right now. It’s important that we all stay calm.”

Klotz glared at him.

Tillman walked around the island so that he was close enough to Klotz that he could speak without any chance of being heard by Verhoven.

“As you’ve probably figured out,” he whispered, “an attack is planned on the State of the Union address today. I am here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Klotz closed his eyes, relief visibly flooding across his face. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered. “You’re a federal agent?”

“I wish it were that simple,” Tillman said. “Suffice it to say, I’m working for the good guys.”

“You’re a cop?”

“Let’s just stick to the important things here. First, we need you to play nice. Whatever I tell you to do, just do it. No smart remarks, no knives hidden up your sleeves.” He reached out and clamped his fingers around Klotz’s left arm. With the other hand he pulled a seven-inch boning knife out of the doctor’s sleeve, slid it back into the empty spot on the knife block.

“Shit,” Klotz said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for defending your family,” Tillman said. “Second thing, we need to reach the people who are doing the operation. We don’t know who they are, or where they are. But they’re going to be in touch with us here. So whatever happens, just go along with it.”

Klotz narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any proof of what you’re saying? You could just be feeding me a line so I won’t fight you.”

Tillman looked at him directly and said, “Sir, to be blunt, you don’t really have a choice. I’m your only chance of getting out of here. Now, I need to know what detail your wife is working.”

“I don’t know.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Look around. You see what kind of security my wife is into. That information is classified, and she doesn’t tell anyone, especially her family.”

Tillman looked closely at the doctor and realized he believed the man. “Okay. Then we’re just going to have to sit tight. But we can’t have Lorene dying on us here while we’re waiting. You need to think of something to help her survive.”

“I can’t do surgery here! Even if I had good imaging so I knew where the fragments were, I’m not a renal specialist. I mean you’re talking about very tricky vascular surgery.”

“Then you need to think of something. The healthier that woman is, the safer your little girls are. I’ve got two used IV bags in the car, but I’ve already run two units of saline and two units of plasma through her. I’m out of fluids.”

Klotz looked thougkay tiohtful. “I think I’ve got a few bottles of sterile saline up in the safe room. It’s just for irrigating wounds, but . . .” Klotz rubbed his face. “I mean in theory we could mix in some sugar and put it in the IV bag, push the fluids, kick her energy up and get her stabilized temporarily. But we’re likely to contaminate the saline. If we do that we could give her a systemic infection that might kill her.”

“We need her alive today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

“I take my oath as a physician seriously. First do no harm. I can’t risk—”

Tillman whispered through clenched teeth. “Those pieces of shit in there are trying to kill a whole lot of people. Including your two daughters. To hell with her. If I have my way, that woman will be dead by the end of the day anyway.”

Klotz’s face went stiff. “All right,” he said finally, “go get the IV bags out of your car. I’ll see what I can jury-rig.”

Tillman poked him with his gun. “Back in the living room.”

Verhoven looked up expectantly when both men returned to the room.

“Nope, I was wrong about the bandages, Colonel,” Tillman said. “But I think the good doctor and I have worked out a solution . . .”

Gideon asked the cop if he was hungry.

“I’m fine,” Officer Millwood said.

“I’ve got a couple granola bars in my jacket.”

“I’m fine,” the cop repeated.

“Look, I know you’re not happy waiting here with me, but I think things would go a lot better if you just trusted me and had something to eat.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You heard what’s going on in that house. Do you think I made it up?”

“I haven’t heard anything except a couple people holding an innocent family hostage.”

Gideon sighed. He had been sitting with the cop for nearly six hours, and in that time very little had happened. Around him the neighborhood had come alive, as kids and parents came out for the school bus, and then, with the kids gone, moms and dogs came out for their walks, then the cleaning ladies arrived. Luckily, Officer Millwood still had another two hours left in his shift, and though the desk sergeant had called once, there were no emergencies that required his response.

He wished Tillman could radio him, but he understood there was no opportunity to place the transmitter in his ear. Instead he made do with bits of muffled conversation picked up from the mike in Tillman’s pocket. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it kept him updated. He learned they had hooked up Lorene to an IV. Gideon knew it would buy them another hour or two. But did they have that much time? The State of the Union address was just a few hours away, and every minute they waited was another minute closer to the attack. On the other hand, even if Tillman left the house now, they had little to go on except the name of the Secret Service agent. That might be enough in normal circumstances, but it wouldn’t get them pe w n, ast security to do anything about it, and it certainly wouldn’t convince Dahlgren. Time was ticking, but right now the balance favored waiting. Soon, however, Gideon knew, the balance would shift.