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bomb hit. I am Sir Geoffrey Cornwell’s assistant and I need a torch.” The soldier handed her his own flashlight and ran to the bathroom, calling for others to help.
    Delara worked her way over to the far wall and probed the shining point of the flashlight across piles of debris. The entire wall along the right edge of the room had collapsed, which brought down most of the ceiling with it. She recognized the dark brown tapestry that had depicted a royal hunting scene and had hung on the far wall. It had been thrown down like a blanket. She lifted an edge and shined the light beneath. The legs of a woman and the bottom of a torn navy blue organza gown were visible.
    “Pat!” she screamed and turned back to the soldiers. “I need help here! I’ve found somebody!” Several men jumped through the rubble and knelt beside her, then peeled away the heavy tapestry and the debris holding it in place. With their bare hands, they dug deeper into the wreckage. Pat Cornwell was on her side and Sir Jeff lay diagonally across her midsection, having used the split-second of warning before the first explosion to throw them both beneath the edge of the heavy table and between two sturdy chairs. The soldiers rolled him onto his back and finished clearing the heavy load that pinned his wife. A medical officer wiped away the dirt and blood from their faces and felt for vital signs. “Two live ones here,” he called. “Bring some stretchers!”
    Delara used her cotton sweatshirt to gently wipe Sir Jeff’s face, her fingers gingerly dislodging clumps of dirt from his mouth and nose. He began to cough, and his eyes flew open and he managed a panicked whisper: “Pat…”
    Delara Tabrizi felt a jolt of happiness. He was coming back! She grabbed his hand and placed its palm on the arm of his wife, and let it rest there. “She’s right here beside us, sir, and the doctor says she’s still alive, too. Getting beneath the table saved both of you. You’re going to be okay.”
    His eyes fluttered and he was about to fall unconscious again. “Delara?” he asked softly, and she leaned closer, tears in her eyes. “Delara,” he repeated, the voice just a bit stronger. He had to say something.
    “Yes, sir. I’m right here. Don’t worry. I shall stay with you and Lady Pat.” She took his other hand in both of hers.
    Geoffrey Cornwell shook his head, and looked into her eyes, then whispered, “Delara. Get Kyle. I need Kyle.”
    6
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    IT WAS THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon. Sybelle Summers had been at work for half of her shift and had not yet come up with a new excuse to get out of her job. She was running out of reasons, and had been turned down by every boss she had, even the guy in the Oval Office. The president of the United States, Mark Tracy, was so tired of listening to her bitch that he had recently snapped that she had better get used to being his military assistant because she was going to be in the position for a while, so just shut the hell up. It was the most boring job she had ever had.
    So she sat in an uncomfortable chair at a little desk just outside the Oval Office and stared at the black leather Halliburton suitcase beside her. The hefty Glock pistol dug into her hip, so she shifted it. The White House Military Office had wanted her to carry a prissy little Beretta, because it was easily hidden and therefore not as obvious when she was in public with the president. The Secret Service would take care of any real threats, she was told. Sybelle liked the Secret Service agents, but no guard detail was ever perfect, and if she ever had to shoot, she intended to blow a hole in any bastard stupid enough to try to steal the Nuclear Football.
    Major Summers, of the U.S. Marine Corps, was one of five military officers, a single representative from each branch of the armed services, who worked in shifts to lug the Football around so that it was always available to the commander in chief. No one knew much about her