Part 6 (1/2)

Frank was safe. He _had_ to be. Frank hadn't been over from Blair House in three days. They hadn't even _seen_ each other in three days. The Secret Service men--

He threw a glance toward the door that led from his bedroom to the hall.

The Secret Service agents would know that Frank couldn't possibly have had anything to do with it. The only possible connection would be the hypogun itself. He looked at the little gadget. _h.e.l.l_, he thought; _now or never_.

He got up and strode purposefully into the bathroom. He smiled crookedly at his own reflection in the mirror. It was d.a.m.nably difficult for a President to outwit his own bodyguard.

_Get on with it!_

He swallowed the capsule Frank had given him. Then, placing the muzzle against the precise spots Frank had shown him, James Cannon pulled the trigger. Once ... twice ... thrice ...

Against each nerve center in his left side. Fine.

Now that it was done, all fear--all trepidation--left Senator James Cannon. Now there was no way to go but ahead.

First, the hypogun that had blown the drug into his body. Two minutes to get rid of that, for that was the only thing that could tie Frank in to the plan.

They had already agreed that there was no way to get rid of it. It couldn't be destroyed or thrown away. There was only one way that it could be taken from the White House ...

Cannon left his fingerprints on it, dropped it into the wastebasket, and covered it with tissue paper. Then he left the bathroom and walked toward the hall door. Beyond it, he knew, were the guarding Secret Service men.

And already his left side was beginning to feel odd.

He walked to the door and opened it. He had a scowl on his face.

”h.e.l.lo, Jenkins--Grossman,” he said, as the two men turned. ”I've got a h.e.l.l of a headache again. Aspirin doesn't seem to help, and I can't get any sleep.” He looked rather dazed, as though he wasn't sure of his surroundings. He smiled lopsidedly. ”Call Frank, over at Blair House, will you? Hurry?” Then he swallowed, looked dazed, and fell to the floor in a heap.

The two Secret Service men didn't move, but they shouted loudly. Their orders were to guard the body of the President--_literally_! Until it was declared legally dead, that body was their responsibility.

The other Secret Service men in the White House came on the run. Within one minute after Cannon had fallen, a call had gone to Blair House, asking for the President's brother.

Inside of another two minutes, Dr. Frank Cannon was coming through the front door of the Executive Mansion. In spite of the chill outside, he was wearing only a topcoat over his pajamas.

”What happened?” he snapped, with the authority that only a physician can muster. ”Where is he?”

He heard the story on the way to the President's room. Jenkins and Grossman were still standing over the fallen Chief Executive. ”We haven't moved him, except to make him more comfortable,” said Grossman.

”He's still O.K.... I mean, he's breathing, and his heart's still going.

But we didn't want to move him--”

”Fine!” snapped the doctor. ”Best thing.” He knelt over his brother and picked up his wrist. ”Have you called anyone else?” he asked sharply while he felt the pulse.

”The Naval Hospital,” said another agent. ”They're coming fast!”

”Fine!” repeated Dr. Frank. By this time, most of the White House staff was awake. Frank Cannon let go the wrist and stood up quickly. ”Can't tell for sure, but it looks like a slight stroke. Excuse me.”

He went into the Executive bedroom, and on into the bathroom. He closed the door. Quickly, he fished the hypogun out of the wastebasket and dropped it into the little black bag which he had carried with him. He came out with a gla.s.s of water. Everything was taken care of.

_PRESIDENT SUFFERS STROKE!