The president was showering, judging by the sounds coming from the bathroom. Legs aching from being on her feet for so many hours, Apara went to the far window and glanced out at the darkened garden, then turned back to watch the servant deposit the tray on the president’s night table and leave the room, silent and almost as unnoticed as Apara herself.
There was one wooden chair in the bedroom and Apara sat on it gratefully, knowing that she would leave no telltale indentation on its hard surface. She felt very tired, sleepy. The adrenalin had drained out of her during the long meeting downstairs. She hoped the president would finish her shower and get into bed and go to sleep quickly.
It was not to be. The president came out of the bathroom soon enough, but she sat up in bed and read for almost another hour before finally putting down the paperback novel and reaching for the pills on the night table. One, two, three different pills she took, with sips of water or whatever was in the carafe the servant had left.
At last the president sank back on her pillows, snapped her fingers to turn off the lights, and closed her eyes. Apara waited the better part of another hour before stirring off the chair. She had to be certain that the president was truly, deeply asleep.
Slowly she walked to the side of the bed. She stared at the woman lying there, straining to hear the rhythm of her breathing through the insulated helmet.
Deep, slow breaths. She’s really sleeping, Apara decided. If the thought of invading another country and killing thousands of people bothered her, she gave no indication of it. Maybe the pills she took helped her to sleep. She must have some qualms about what she was going to do.
Apara realized she was the one with the qualms. I can leave her here and get out of the mansion undetected, she told herself.
And the Cause, the purpose of her life, would evaporate like dew in the hot desert sun. Muldoon would be despairing, Ahmed so furious that he would never speak to her again. They would know she was unreliable, a risk to their own safety.
Strike! she told herself. They are all counting on you. Everything depends on you.
She struck.
By seven-fifteen the next morning the White House was surrounded by an armed cordon of U.S. Marines. No one was allowed onto the grounds, no one was allowed to leave the mansion.
Apara had already left; she simply walked out with the cleaning crew, a few minutes after five A.M.
The president summoned her secretary of state to the oval office at eight sharp. It was early for him, and he had to pass through the gauntlet of Marines as well as the regular guards and secret service agents. He stared in wonder as more Marines, in their colorful full-dress uniforms, stood in place of the usual servants.
“What’s going on?” he asked the president when he was finally ushered into the oval office.
She looked ghastly: her face was gray, her eyes darting nervously. She clutched a thin scrap of paper in one hand.
“Never mind,” the president said curtly. “Sit down.”
The secretary of state sat in front of her desk. He himself felt blearyeyed and rumpled, this early in the morning.
Without preamble, the president asked, “Carlos, do you seriously think we can settle this crisis without a military strike?”
The secretary of state looked surprised, but he quickly regained his wits. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for the past six weeks, Alicia.”
“You think diplomacy can get us what we want.”
“Diplomacy and economic pressures, yes. We can even get the United Nations on our side, if we call off this military strike. It’s not too late, you know.”
The president leaned back in her chair, fiddling with that scrap of paper, trying to keep her hands from trembling. Unwilling to allow her secretary of state to see how upset she was, she swiveled around to look out the long windows at the springtime morning. Birds chirped happily among the flowers.
“All right,” she said, her mind made up. “Tell Muldoon to ask for an emergency session of the Security Council. That’s what he’s been after all along.”