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for Major Rogers,” the White House operator said. Old Jolly Rogers, Lambert thought, having already grown accustomed to his paranoid late-night calls about Iranian invasions of Saudi Arabia or Indo-Pakistani nuclear wars.
    â€œMr. Lambert?”
    â€œWhat is it, Larry?”
    â€œSir, we’ve gone to DEFCON 3, all forces worldwide. The Federal Emergency Management Agency is executing the Joint Emergency Evacuation Plan. You’re a JEEP-1 cardholder, sir. Your point of departure is the White House. You’d better get a move on.”
    Greg could no longer hear the buzz of conversations or the faint background clatter from the kitchen. “What’s going on?” he asked, his entire being focused on the faint hiss from the phone.
    â€œAttack Condition Bravo, sir.” Greg heard the words, but the tingle along his scalp and the flood of disassociated thoughts prevented him from comprehending immediately. “General Thomas has convened a missile threat conference. That’s all I know.”
    Greg stared out at the suddenly surreal room of late-night diners. Couples leaned over tables with hands intertwined and facesclose. A crowd of apron-clad busboys at the bar waited for the President to appear on television for his address.
    â€œWhat is it, sweetie?” Jane asked, looking at his face with concern.
    â€œI’ll be right there,” Greg mumbled, placing the phone in his pocket just as Pavel returned. Rather than taking his seat, Pavel leaned to whisper in Irina’s ear. Greg saw Pavel’s lips form the word “Moskvu,” and Irina knit her brows. The accusative declension of the Russian word Moskva, Greg silently translated, meaning “going to Moscow.” “Jane, can I . . . can I talk to you for a second?” She got up and followed Greg to the bar. Pavel and Irina watched, and Greg turned his back to them. Pavel’s early training had been not with the army but with the KGB.
    â€œHoney? Greg, what’s . . . ?”
    â€œI want you to get in the car and head up to Leesburg. Better yet, call your parents and tell them you’re going to meet them at the condo at Snowshoe.”
    â€œWhat? Why?” She laughed nervously. “What’s going on?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he said as his mind raced. North Korea? Zorin? The Russo-Chinese War? Something else? “They’re evacuating the government, Jane.”
    â€œThey’re doing what?” she gasped.
    He pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close. “Oh, God, honey. There’s . . . there’s so much I want to say but . . . I’ve got to go. There’s not much time. You understand?”
    Jane was ashen, staring up at him and shaking her head. “No. No, I don’t understand at all!”
    Greg had to go. The clock had started, and the timetables were skinny. “Just get out of town. Don’t stop for clothes, for food, for anything. Do you have gas in the car?” She stared at him without responding. “Jane,” Greg said, taking her by the shoulders. She instantly wrapped herself in his arms. He hugged her, but softly said, “Jane, is there gas in the Saab?” Her soft hair, just curled at the hairdresser that afternoon, tickled his nose as she nodded, and he pressed his face through the curls to kiss her warm head. “I have to go,” he said, gently prying her arms from around him. “I love you,” he said, staring into her beautiful blue eyes before turning to leave. He said a hurried good-bye to Irina and Pavel and headed out of the restaurant. His driver quickly wheeled up to where he stood. “The White House,” Greg said as he slammed the door. “Use the light.”
    Without asking any questions, the driver put the small red bubble light on the roof with a thud, its magnet holding it firmly in place, and he gunned the engine.