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will escort you back to your room in a few minutes.”
    Mick remains on the cot until the nurse has closed the door. He stands, returning to the far wall, his back to the window, the index finger of his left hand casually sliding the white pill out of the empty cup and into his palm. Resuming his lotus position on the floor, he tosses the crumpled cup onto the bed while slipping the white tablet into his shoe.
    The zyprexa will be properly disposed of in the toilet when he returns to his private cell.
     

 
     
    Chapter 2

     
    SEPTEMBER 8, 2012
THE WHITE HOUSE
    S ecretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia stares at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He adjusts the patch over his right eye socket, then pats down the short graying tufts of hair along both sides of his otherwise balding head. The black suit and matching tie are immaculate as usual.
    Borgia exits the executive washroom and turns right, nodding to staff members as he makes his way down the corridor to the Oval Office.
    Patsy Goodman looks up from her keyboard. “Go on in. He’s waiting.”
    Borgia nods, then enters.
    Mark Mailer’s gaunt, pale face shows the wear of having served as president for nearly four years. The jet-black hair has grayed around the temples, the eyes, piercing blue, are now more wrinkled around the edges. The fifty-two-year-old physique, noticeably thinner, is still taut.
    Borgia tells him he looks like he’s lost weight.
    Mailer grimaces. “It’s called the Viktor Grozny stress diet. Have you read this morning’s CIA briefing?”
    “Not yet. What’s Russia’s newest president done now?”
    “He’s called for a summit between military leaders from China, North Korea, Iran, and India.”
    “For what purpose?”
    “To conduct a joint nuclear deterrent exercise, in response to our latest tests involving the Missile Defense Shield.”
    “Grozny’s grandstanding again. He’s still fuming about the IMF canceling that twenty-billion-dollar loan package.”
    “Whatever his motive, he’s succeeding in stirring up nuclear paranoia in Asia.”
    “Mark, the Security Council meeting’s this afternoon, so I know you didn’t bring me in just to discuss foreign affairs.”
    Mailer nods, then drains his third cup of coffee. “Jeb’s decided to step down as vice president. Don’t ask. Call it personal reasons.”
    Borgia’s heart skips a beat. “Christ, the election’s in less than two months—”
    “I’ve already held an unofficial meeting with the powers that be. It’s between you and Ennis Chaney.”
    Jesus … “Have you spoken with him yet?”
    “No. Thought I owed it to you to brief you first.”
    Borgia shrugs, smiling nervously. “Senator Chaney is a good man, but he can’t hold a candle to me when it comes to foreign affairs. And my family still wields plenty of influence—”
    “Not as much as you think, and the polls show that most Americans aren’t interested in China’s military buildup. They perceive the Missile Defense Shield as being the see-all, end-all of nuclear war.”
    “Then let me be blunt, sir. Does the Republican National Committee really think the country’s ready for an African-American VP?”
    “The election’s going to be tight. Look what Lieberman did for Gore. Chaney would give us a much-needed toehold in both Pennsylvania and the South. Relax, Pierre. No decision’s going to be made for at least another thirty to forty-five days.”
    “That’s smart. Gives the press less time to pick us apart.”
    “Any skeletons in your closet we need to be concerned with?”
    “I’m sure your people are already looking into that as we speak. Mark, level with me, does Chaney have the inside track?”
    “Opinion polls show Chaney’s popularity stretches across both party and racial lines. He’s down-to-earth. The public trusts him even more than Colin Powell.”
    “Don’t confuse trust with qualifications.” Borgia stands, then paces. “The polls also show Americans are concerned about