Part 11 (1/2)

Rucker and Deitel were almost too late. While Deitel was asking an omelet chef if he knew how to make breakfast tacos, Rucker was scanning the crowd.

Deitel put a hand on Rucker's shoulder, about to ask him something.

”Hand. Hand!” Rucker hissed, brus.h.i.+ng Deitel's paw away.

Just across the lawn the Hawaiian delegation-replete in their native garb-were seating themselves and trying to enjoy what pa.s.sed for seafood in this cold, deathly climate. They were listening to a diamond-draped elderly Manhattan socialite give her opinion of the merits of national socialism versus state socialism. The amba.s.sador noted that the lines on her face were etched by a lifetime of sneering disapproval. The poor woman wasn't ugly because she had bad genes; it was the ugliness of bad character.

”Well, darling, from what I read in Gotham magazine,” Mrs. Vanderbilt was saying, ”the German leader champions the rights of the workers, and he regards capitalist society as brutal and unjust. Although he has his eccentricities, he deplores the selfishness and exploitive capitalism in countries like France, Brazil, and Texas. He seeks a third way between communism and the anarchy of the free market, something which provides stability and proper place for everyone. In this regard, he has emulated some of the steps taken by Vice President Roosevelt's New Society agenda, taking large-scale economic decision-making out of private hands and putting it in the hands of central planning agencies answerable to the political establishment, and which protects the people from risk . . . Oh me? No, my grandfather established a trust fund for me.”

One of the aides motioned to the amba.s.sador, who was looking for any excuse to get away from this woman. Could he pretend to be brain-damaged? he wondered. Start thrusting his hips in her direction and jabbering nonsense? He saw the aide trying to get his attention. He finally excused himself by telling the elderly New York socialite that she should ”p.i.s.s off”-an American idiom he particularly enjoyed.

”Anolani,” the aide said. ”That man over there. Does he look familiar?”

The corpulent amba.s.sador nodded. He'd never forget the blond-haired devil. The Hawaiian amba.s.sador switched to Olelo, their native language.

”I wonder what the Fox is doing here, among the Yanks?” Anolani asked his a.s.sistant.

”Shall I go ask him if he'll join us?” the a.s.sistant said.

The Hawaiian amba.s.sador considered it.

”Hmmm. As much as I would be delighted to speak with him, there's something about his mien. I don't think he's here on a social or diplomatic matter. We owe him much. We don't want to ruin his wave. Play it cool. And stick with the 'Me like 'em fire' act for these backwater white a.s.ses.”

Rucker's eyes pa.s.sed the Hawaiian delegation and he gave a quick wink to Anolani. Anolani touched his nose, and Rucker nodded slightly.

Rucker turned back to his visual sweep, this time toward the West Wing.

That's when he saw her.

No doubt about it. It didn't matter what name she was using at the moment or that she'd colored her hair that ridiculous . . . fetching . . . shade. It was her.

Terah Jane Spencer.

The love of his life.

And there she was, sneaking off with a man for what looked like a morning tryst.

It was just typical, Rucker thought.

He grabbed Deitel's arm and jerked him away from the serving table.

”Come on.”

Deitel almost choked on the shrimp he was chewing.

”It's Terah.”

Discreetly as he could with a full-size German doctor in tow, Rucker followed Terah and Horichi through one of the servant entrances to Hamilton House and up a lesser used stairway to the third floor of the immense mansion. He peeked through the stairwell door and saw the imminent amba.s.sador leading Terah into one of the side rooms as he nuzzled her neck.

Peeking around Rucker, Deitel saw the same thing. He pulled his head back and put his back against the doorjamb.

”So, how will we handle this? Discreetly, I presume?”

Only when he heard the door in the hall crash open did he realize Rucker wasn't standing beside him anymore.

In the Lincoln Room, Horichi had his coat off and some lipstick on his face. And a tent in his pants.

And a gun pointed at his head.

Terah's gun.

Rucker was standing in the doorway amid the ruins of the door.

”Oh thank G.o.d. This crazy broad just pulled a gat on me,” Horichi said when he saw Rucker.

”Shut up,” Rucker said to him.

”What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?” Terah demanded. There was a murderous glint in her big green eyes.

”Lysander sent me. I have to get you out of here now. Something more important has come up.”

”Nothing is more important than squas.h.i.+ng this bug,” she said, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng in anger.

G.o.d, she was beautiful.

”You know,” he said, ”you're supposed to keep things low-key. It would have been easy to take care of this trash once he was in Hawaii. But no, you want to go doing it right here in the presidential palace.”

Terah and Rucker eyed each other angrily, both holding pistols at their sides now.

”You haven't changed a bit,” she smirked.

”And you're still crazy as an outhouse rat,” he said.

Horichi, hands out and palms up, spoke very softly.

”I don't know what this is all about, but I'm sure we can work it out. If she's your woman, I had no idea. There's no need for violence or gunplay. h.e.l.l, I'm not even carrying a gun-”

The report of the two pistols was almost simultaneous. A .45 caliber hole opened in Horichi's forehead. A .32 caliber hole opened in his nethers.

Terah and Rucker hadn't taken their eyes off each other. Rucker shook his head.

”And now we're running.”

Hearing the gunshots and the ensuing alarm, Deitel scrambled down to the Lincoln Bedroom. Rucker was pulling the window open. A woman-Terah, the doctor a.s.sumed-was trying to drag a stocky corpse behind a couch.

Deitel paused in the doorway and Terah wheeled around, aiming her pistol right at his heart.

”Don't shoot him!” Rucker shouted. ”He's with me.”

”Peachy,” Terah said, and turned back to her work. ”In fact, give me a hand.”