W hen King woke up, he was so thickheaded he was sure he'd been drugged. His head slowly cleared, and it was then he realized he could move his arms and his legs. He gingerly felt around him. There were no restraints. Ever so slowly he rose, at the same time preparing for an attack. He edged his foot down until it found the floor. Then he stood. There was something in his ear and something rubbing at the back of his neck, and he felt the bulge at his waist.

Then the lights came on, and he found himself staring at his image in a large mirror on the opposite wall. He was dressed in a dark suit and patterned tie, and on his feet were black rubber-soled dress shoes. And his probing hand had just pulled out a.357 from his shoulder holster. Even his hair was combed differently. Just like he'd styled it back in… Damn! Even his graying temples had been darkened. He tried to check the gun's magazine, but it had been sealed in such a way that it wouldn't come open. He could tell by the weapon's weight that the mag was loaded. Yet he was betting that the ammo in there was blanks. It was the exact model he had carried back in 1996. He put the gun back in his belt holster and looked in the mirror at a man who seemed exactly eight years younger. As he drew nearer to the mirror, he noted the object on his lapel. It was his Secret Service lapel pin, red, the color he wore on the morning of September 26, 1996. A pair of sunglasses were in his jacket breast pocket.

As he turned his head, he saw the curly cord of the ear receiver in his left ear. It was undeniable: he was Secret Service agent Sean Ignatius King once more. It was amazing that all of this had started with the murder of Howard Jennings in his office. The sheer coinci-He stared at his stunned reflection in the mirror. The trumped-up charges against Ramsey, it hadn't been Bruno at all. The last piece finally clicked into place. And now there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Actually the odds were he'd never have the chance to right it.

He suddenly heard it, off in the distance somewhere, the low murmurings of what seemed to be hundreds of muffled voices. The door at the other end of the room stood open. He hesitated and then walked through it. Passing down the hall, he felt a little like a rat in a maze. Actually the farther he went, the more he felt that way. It wasn't a comforting thought, but what choice did he have? At the end of the corridor something slid open, and through this portal bright light was revealed along with the amplified sounds of the murmuring voices. He squared his shoulders and walked through.

The Stonewall Jackson Room of the Fairmount Hotel looked far different from the way it had looked the last time King was there. Yet it still felt intimately familiar. The room was brightly lit, the velvet rope and stanchions exactly where they were eight years ago. The crowd-represented by hundreds of carefully painted cardboard characters inserted on metal stands and holding "Elect Clyde Ritter" pennants and signs-stood behind the barrier. The din of their simulated voices emanated from hidden speakers. It was quite a production.

As he looked around, the memories came flooding back. He saw painted cardboard faces of his Secret Service colleagues positioned exactly where they stood all those years ago, badly positioned as it turned out. There were other faces he recognized. Some of the painted crowd held infants to be kissed, others pads and pens forautographs, still others nothing except broad smiles. On the back of the wall the large clock had been rehung. According to that timepiece, it was about 10:15. If this was what he thought it was, he had about seventeen minutes to go.

He glanced over at the elevator banks, and his gaze became a deep frown. How exactly was that going to play out? They couldn't do it the same because the surprise was no longer there. Yet they'd taken Joan for some reason. He felt his pulse quicken, and his hands started to shake a little. It was a long time since he'd been with the Service. In the intervening years he'd done nothing more strenuous than lift some heavy verbiage in thousands of boring, if creative, legal documents. And yet in sixteen more minutes he sensed he was going to have to perform just like the experienced agent he'd once been. Observing the lifeless figures arrayed behind the purple line, he wondered where among them would emerge the real, red-blooded assassin.

The lights dimmed and the sounds of the crowd ceased, and then footsteps approached. The man looked so different that if King hadn't been expecting to see him, he probably wouldn't have recognized him.

"Good morning, Agent King," said Buick Man. "I hope you're ready for your big day."