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taken at his home in Arlington almost two hours ago, after being woken by the ringing of his cellphone.
    But his face was another matter. Raw fear had carved deep worry lines into his skin and added at least ten years to his appearance. He looked down at the briefcase in his right hand which contained the source of his distress. Thinking about the contents, he noticed his hands tremble, felt cold beads of sweat rising on his forehead. Normally he was a calm man, totally in control of his emotions. But he wasn't calm now. This morning, America's worst fear had finally come true.
    Glancing at the bronze bust through the open door, Stevens saw Abraham Lincoln stare down with his usual sorrowful expression, as if to say: I understand the weight of your burden. You have my sympathy.
    Stevens thought: Thanks, Abe. But I'm afraid it doesn't help any.
    The door opened, the aide reappeared. 'The President will see you now, sir.'
    They were seated in the Oval Office, the President at his desk with the American flag behind him. He wore a dressing gown over his pyjamas. His hair was rumpled, his eyes puffy after being woken from his sleep. Still a relatively fresh-looking man, and barely into his middle fifties, President Andrew W. Booth had fought his way up through the ranks of politics with gritty Texan determination, and a willingness to face up to any obstacle or crisis. But Stevens knew that this morning the man was going to be tested by a crisis far greater than any he'd ever had to deal with.
    One of the night staff had left a pot of fresh coffee on the desk. Booth glanced beyond the window at the pouring rain. Tentacles of forked lightning lit up the White House lawns. He smiled slightly, indicating a chair. 'It seems quite a morning out there, Doug. Coffee?'
    'No thank you, Mr President.'
    'Your call said it was extremely urgent.'
    Stevens nodded. 'My apologies for waking you, sir, but it's a matter that demands your immediate attention.'
    'Then I guess we better begin.' The President finished pouring coffee for himself, barely awake as he sipped tiredly from his cup.
    Stevens's voice was hoarse, braided with fear. 'A package was delivered to the Georgetown home of a Saudi Arabian diplomat at approximately twelve-fifteen this morning. The package was addressed not to him but to you, sir — the President of the United States. As to why the particular man was chosen as an intermediary we've no idea. But the circumstances of the delivery are pretty simple. The man's doorbell rang. When he got out of bed to answer, he found the package waiting for him on the doorstep, addressed to you. That's when he decided to call the FBI's Washington field office for advice. I was contacted about the matter at one forty-five a.m. by my Assistant Director, who requested to see me urgently. We met in my office forty-five minutes later, and once I was made aware of the package contents, I knew I had to see you immediately, sir. So I headed straight here and called you on the way.'
    The President frowned. 'You have this package with you?'
    'Yes, sir, I do.' Stevens nicked open his briefcase, withdrew an A4-size Jiffy bag.
    'Naturally, standard procedure was followed. The package was examined for any dangerous or explosive material.'
    At least one hundred thousand letters and seven thousand parcels were delivered unsolicited each year to the White House. Most of the letters addressed to the American President were from well-wishers, or citizens with an axe to grind about his policies. But about five per cent were from nutcases, abusive missives or blatant 'I'm going to kill you' threats that would promptly be investigated by the Secret Service and FBI.
    As for the parcels, most contained simple gifts — baked pies or cookies posted by concerned matronly citizens, anxious to nourish their President's health with home-cooked food. But a small percentage of the packages — less than three per cent contained anything from human excrement posted