"Point," I conceded. "So simple murder isn't what he's looking for—complicated murder, maybe, but not simple murder."
"Oh, my God," Maxwell whispered suddenly, his face going pale. "The debate. He's going to do it at the debate."
For a long second we stared at each other. Then, simultaneously, we grabbed our jackets and bolted for the door.
—
It was something like forty miles to Baltimore; an hour's trip under normal conditions. Maxwell insisted on driving and made it in a shade over forty-five minutes. In rush hour traffic, yet.
We arrived at the Hyatt and found the President's suite... and discovered that all our haste had been for nothing.
"What do you mean, they won't cancel?" Maxwell growled to VanderSluis, the Secret Service man who met us just inside the door.
"Who's this 'they' you're talking about?" the other growled back. "It's the President who won't cancel."
"Didn't you tell him—?"
"We gave him everything you radioed in," VanderSluis sighed. "Didn't do a bit of good. He says canceling at the last minute like this without a good reason would be playing right into Danzing's rhetoric."
"Has he been told...?"
"About the doll? Yeah, but it didn't help. Probably hurt, actually—he rightly pointed out that if someone's going to attack him using the doll, hiding won't do him a damn bit of good."
Maxwell glanced at me, frustration etched across his face. "What about Pak and Christophe?" he asked VanderSluis. "They here?"
"Sure—down the hall in seventeen."
"Down the hall? I thought I told them to stick by the President."
"They're as close now as they're likely to get," VanderSluis said grimly. "The President said he didn't want them underfoot while he was getting ready for the debate."
Or roughly translated, he didn't want any of the media bloodhounds nosing about to get a sniff of them and start asking awkward questions. "At least they're not back in Washington," I murmured as Maxwell opened his mouth.
Maxwell closed his mouth again, clenched his teeth momentarily. "I suppose so," he said reluctantly. "Well... come on, Harland, let's go talk to them. Maybe they'll have some ideas."
We found them in the room, lounging on the two double beds watching television. On the floor between the beds, the room's coffee table had been set up like a miniature surgical tray, with Pak's acupuncture needles laid out around a flower pot containing Christophe's replacement doll. It looked as hideous as the ones back in their Washington vault. "Anything?" Maxwell asked as the doctors looked up at us.
"Ah—Mr. Maxwell," Christophe said, tapping the remote to turn off the TV. "You will be pleased to hear that President Thompson is in perfect health—"
"He had some stomach trouble an hour ago." Pak put in, "but I don't think it had anything to do with the doll. Just pre-debate tension, probably. Anyway, I got rid of it with the new doll."
Maxwell nodded impatiently. "Yeah, well, the lull's about to end. We think that the main attack's going to come sometime during the debate."
Both men's eyes widened momentarily, and Christophe muttered something French under his breath. Pak recovered first. "Of course. Obvious, in a way. What can we do?"
"The same thing you were brought here for in the first place: counteract the effects of the old doll with the new one. Unfortunately, we're now back to our original problem."
"Communications?" I asked.
He nodded. "How are we going to know—fast—what's happening out there on the stage?"
I found myself gazing at the now-dark TV. "Dr. Pak... how are you at reading a man's physical condition from his expression and body language?"
"You mean can I sit here and tell how President Thompson is feeling by watching the debate on TV?" Pak shook his head. "No chance. Even if the camera was on him the whole time, which of course it won't be.
"Maybe a signal board," Maxwell suggested, a tone of excitement creeping into his voice. "With individual buttons for each likely target—joints, stomach, back, and all."
"And he does, what, pushes a button whenever he hurts somewhere?" I scoffed.
"It doesn't have to be that obvious," Maxwell said, reaching past Christophe to snare the bedside phone. "We can make it out of tiny piezo crystals—it doesn't take more than a touch to trigger those things. And they're small enough that a whole boardful of them could fit on the lectern behind his notes—Larry?" he interrupted himself into the phone. "Bill Maxwell. Listen, do we have any of those single-crystal piezo pressure gadgets we use for signaling and spot security?... Yeah, short range would be fine—we'd just need a booster somewhere backstage... Oh, great... Well, as many as you've got... Great—I'll be right down."
He tossed the phone back into it cradle and headed for the door. "We're in," he announced over his shoulder. "They've got over a hundred of the things. I'll be right back." Scooping up a room key from a low table beside the door, he left.
I looked at my watch. Five-fifteen, with the debate set to begin at nine. Not much time for the kind of wiring Maxwell was talking about. "You think it'll work?" I asked Pak.
He shrugged uncomfortably. "I suppose so. The bad part is that it means I'll be relying on diagnostics from someone who is essentially an amateur."
"It's his body, isn't it?"
Pak shrugged again, and for a few minutes the three of us sat together in silence. Which made it even more of a heart-stopping jolt then the phone suddenly rang.
Reflexively, I scooped it up. "Yes?"
"Who is this?" a suspicious voice asked.
"Cal Harland—Washington Police."
"Oh, yeah—you came with Maxwell. Has he gotten back with those piezos yet?"
I began to breathe again. Whatever was up, at least it wasn't a medical emergency. "No, not yet. Can I take a message?"
"Yeah," the other sighed, "but he's not going to like it. This is VanderSluis. Tell him I called and that I just took his suggestion in to the President. And that he scotched the whole idea."
My mouth went dry all at once. "He what?"
"Shot it down. Said in no uncertain terms that he can't handle a debate and a damn push-button switchboard at the same time. Unquote."
"Did you remind him that it could be his life at stake here?" I snapped. "Or even fight dirty and suggest it could cost him the election?"
"Just give Maxwell the message, will you?" the other said coldly. "Leave the snide comments to Senator Danzing."
"Sorry," I muttered. But I was talking to a dead phone. Slowly, I replaced the handset and looked up to meet Pak's and Christophe's gazes. "What is the matter?" Christophe asked.
"Thompson's not going for it," I sighed. "Says the signal board would be too much trouble."
"But—" Pak broke off as the door opened and Maxwell strode into the room, his arms laden with boxes of equipment.
"Hell," he growled when I'd delivered VanderSluis's message. "Hell and hell. What's a little trouble matter when it could save his life?"
"I doubt that's his only consideration," Pak shook his head. "Politics, again, Mr. Maxwell—politics and appearances. If any of the press should notice the board, there are any number of conclusions they could come to."
"None of them good." I took a deep breath. "But damn it all, what does he want you to do?—defend him without his cooperation?"
"Probably," Maxwell said heavily. "There's a long tradition of that in the Secret Service." He took a deep breath. "Well, gentlemen, we've still got three and a half hours to come up with something. Suggestions?"
"Can you find the robber and get the doll back?" Christophe asked.
"Probably not," Maxwell shook his head. "Too many potential suspects, not enough time to sort through all of them."