Mary Higgins Clark

Mary Higgins Clark is a phenomenon, certainly, and one who has earned her status on the world’s best-seller lists by dint of hard work. In the very best sense, she is the novelist-as-Everywoman, and her devoted readers identify not only with her imperilled heroines but with the author herself. The romantic suspense tradition, after all, is a great one, with roots stretching back to the delicious Gothic excesses of Ann Radcliffe and racing forward to the modern era as heralded by Daphne du Maurier.
Clark’s books and stories, however, are firmly contemporary. Shunning moats and manor houses, she reminds us time and again of the many sorts of courage women exemplify in the lives they lead today-as professionals, as wives, mothers, stalwart friends. Add sudden death to the mixture, along with villainy and betrayal, plus a surprise twist or two, and you have the ingredients for another best seller. It may look easy to pull this off, keeping fans hooked, turning pages into the small hours of the morning, but it’s not. There have been, and are, many imitators, convinced that they can use the same ingredients to cook up their own best sellers, but they just can’t match the priceless recipe.

Power Play

So fair a brow to be so troubled, Henry thought as he looked across the table at Sunday. She had just returned from Washington and to his anxious eye seemed thoroughly exhausted. She’d changed into a caftan for dinner and her complexion seemed deadly pale against the shimmering blue-green silk. Her hair, the colour of winter wheat, was loose around her neck and her eyes, usually so sparkling, were clouded and sleepy.
For the last weeks she’d fought her heart out to line up enough votes in Congress to pass a law guaranteeing both breakfast and lunch to needy schoolchildren. She’d succeeded but at the price of bruising exhaustion.
Henry well understood the feeling. During his eight years as president of the United States he’d often been thoroughly weary-not only in body but in spirit.
“You’re not exactly famished, are you, love?” he asked tenderly. “Poor Yves is so proud of the Dover sole. You’d swear he’d caught it himself.”
Sunday smiled and for a moment the fatigue was lifted from her expression. “Knowing Yves, he probably did exactly that.” Then she said ruefully, “Oh, Henry, you know how it is. I’ve twisted so many arms that I don’t think I have a friend left on Capitol Hill.”
“You have one on Pennsylvania Avenue,” Henry told her. “Des called me this afternoon.”
Desmond Ogilvey, the current president of the United States, was Henry’s successor in office.
Sunday looked at him, astonished. “What did he say? People in his own party were the ones who fought me the hardest.”
“Not all his people,” Henry corrected. “Des wanted that bill as much as you did. He loves it that you’re the one who got it through. He said that he was reminded of what Ben-Gurion said about Golda Meir: ‘She’s the only man in my cabinet.’”
“That was very nice of Des.”
“Yes, it was, but he also mentioned that you looked mighty tired the last time he saw you and I was happy to be able to tell him that we’re off for a vacation. Just the two of us-no Secret Service. How does that sound?”
Sims, the butler for the Britland family for the past thirty-odd years, was pouring wine into Sunday’s glass. Henry could see his conspiratorial nod of approval.
“Oh, Henry, I’d love that.” Sunday sighed. “But how can you manage it? We can’t go two feet without you being surrounded.”
“After fourteen months of marriage, you still don’t know everything about me, sweetheart.” Henry was beginning to enjoy himself thoroughly. The last fourteen months were still a miracle to him. On his final night in the White House he’d given a reception for the incoming members of Congress, one of whom was Sunday. Thirty-one years old, a public defender, she’d won the seat of the incumbent congressman in Jersey City in a stunning upset.
Henry had flirted with her and had been both amused and chagrined when she reproached him. Then when she turned down his invitation to dine with him because she was taking her parents to dinner, he’d known that the beautiful young woman with the candid blue eyes was the one he’d been searching for. They were married six weeks later and he happily saw himself removed from People magazine’s choice as the number-one eligible bachelor in the United States, having swept all categories: looks, intelligence, charm, humour, position, and wealth.
Now when Congress was in session, Henry spent most weekdays at Drumdoe, their country estate in New Jersey, writing his memoirs.
But not for the next several weeks, he thought. “Sims and I have it all planned,” he announced triumphantly. “We will go in disguise and incognito. The passports are ready.”
“Passports! Where are we going, for heaven’s sake?”
“For heaven’s sake, indeed. You are going to the Middle East. We will board a cruise ship in Bombay-“
“You mean Mumbai,” Sunday interrupted. “The Indian government changed Bombay back to its original name. As former president I’m sure you must have heard that.”
“Do be quiet, darling,” Henry said with dignity. “Remember, a little knowledge is dangerous. Now if I may continue: We sail from Mumbai through the Indian Ocean, to the sea of Arabia, on to the Red Sea, and finally through the Mediterranean. Along the way we will stop at Jordan, Egypt, and Ahman, disembark in Piraeus, and fly home from there. How does that sound?”
“It sounds glorious, but just a few questions: Why go on a cruise ship when you own a yacht?” Sunday paused. “Oh. I see. The recognition factor?”
“Exactly. Which brings me to show you why it won’t be a problem for us personally.” Henry stood up. “Since you obviously are not going to eat another morsel, come along. You might enjoy having a look at your new persona.”

Three days later Harry and Sandra Potter checked into the Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai, formerly Bombay. To the casual observer they seemed an ordinary couple, the kind who never received a second glance.
She had short dark hair and round tinted glasses. Her slacks suit, the sort favoured by women whose mothers had grown up wearing sweater sets, was stodgy beige in colour and rectangular in shape; it succeeded in adding twenty pounds to her appearance as well as crying out to be matched with the sensible oxfords she was also wearing.
Her husband, gray haired with a wispy Vandyke, obviously favoured an equally conservative look. His poplin pants were topped with a sombre brown jacket and heavily starched shirt. Even his brown-and-beige-striped bow tie managed to look prim. The panel of the old television show ‘What’s My Line?’ would have pegged him instantly as a teacher.
A courteous attendant led them to their room in the old section of the hotel overlooking the bay. As Henry had explained to Sunday, “I always had a suite when I stayed at the Taj, but the rooms adjacent to the suites are very nice. My father and mother put the valet and personal maid in them, and we don’t want to stand out.”
They went up in the elevator to the sixth floor, then followed the attendant down a half flight to a corridor. Sunday heard Henry murmur “Uh-oh” under his breath as they turned the corner and saw four armed soldiers standing at attention outside one of the doors. A man in civilian clothes was striding up and down the corridor. His watchful glance settled on them, studied them intently, then dismissed them with a flicker of his eyelids.
“Must be someone very important staying here,” Henry said to the attendant. The slight Boston accent he had affected did not conceal the deference in his voice.
“A visiting government official,” the attendant whispered, then looked flustered as though he had said too much. He led them to the door next to the guarded suite, opened it, and stepped aside to let them enter.
The luggage arrived as he was leaving. The instant they were alone, Henry covered the room in long strides and double-locked the door. “We’ve had our first acid test,” he whispered. “That has to be Hasna Ibn Saata in there.”
Sunday pulled off the black wig that was making her scalp vaguely itchy. Her blond hair tumbled on her shoulders. “Who is he and why the acid test?” She realised she was whispering.
Henry looked around and put a warning finger to his lips. He went over to the television, turned it on, and put his lips to her ear. “I don’t think this room is bugged, but we might as well take precautions. Saata is the confidant and advisor of the sultan of Ahman, which is our first stop on the trip. The hidden city of the silver stone is a must-see.
“The sultan and I became close friends when we were at Harvard and he took me there almost twenty-five years ago. It has a rich history and its warren of hidden caves and secret passages played a major role in the ancient history of Ahman. That’s the part of the country where I learned to ride a camel and got pretty good at speaking Arabic.”
“Can you still speak it?”
“Not much opportunity to brush up, I’m afraid. I can understand it fine, but I’d have to make myself understood in pidgin Arabic now.
“While on those trips together,” Henry continued, “Hasna would often come over to brief the sultan on internal affairs in Ahman. That plainclothesman was Hasna’s chief of security, al Hez.”
“He really looked us over,” Sunday whispered back.
“I know he did, and I’m sure he didn’t recognise us. He’s always been a cheeky sort, but he saved Hasna’s life years ago and of course can do no harm as far as the sultan is concerned. I only wish we could stop in on Mac while we’re in his kingdom.”
“Mac?”
“That’s the sultan’s nickname. At Harvard he was crown prince, and we all knew that before too long he’d be one of the last absolute monarchs alive. His full name is Muhammad Abdul a Faisam, but he loved McDonald’s burgers so much that one of the guys started calling him Mac. He got such a kick out of it that the name caught on. I doubt many people are using it now.”
“Didn’t he make a state visit when you were president?”
“Yes, he did. He brought his son, the present crown prince, and his eighteen-year-old daughter. Mac’s exactly my age, forty-four, but he married young. His entire kingdom trembles at his glance, but that night his daughter took so long to get ready that they were half an hour late, which simply isn’t done at a state dinner. When Mac apologised to me he said, “Henry, wasn’t it Theodore Roosevelt who said that he could either run the country or run his daughter, Alice, but he couldn’t do both?”
“Sounds like a nice guy.”
“Nice but also formidable and very impressive. Like King Hussein and King Hassan, he’s a direct descendant of Muhammad, which is an extremely honourable state in the Islamic religion. Our CIA guys tell us there are rumours of trouble brewing, but so far no real evidence. With huge oil revenues pouring into the country, that sort of thing is bound to happen. I have a feeling that my friend next door is going around getting support from the neighbouring countries to make sure any rebels won’t find outside support. Now wash your face and put your wig back on. The Potters are going for a walk before dinner.”

Later, when they were settled for the night, Sunday whispered drowsily, “Henry, this is such fun, just being touristy and no one fussing over us. Mumbai is a marvellous city.”
“Another time we’ll see India properly. Now go to sleep. We board the Bel-Mare right after breakfast.”
In the morning when they left their room to check out, the door of the next suite opened and a frail, elderly man came out, accompanied by the man Henry had identified as the chief security officer. Sunday tried to look nonchalant as she passed him, but then acknowledged his courteous nod. He was wearing traditional Arab dress and his fine, chiselled features were enhanced by the white burnoose that covered his head and neck.
I could imagine his face on a coin, she thought.
Henry did not comment until they were in a taxi on the way to the dock. “I was shocked to see Hasna look so frail,” he said. “He’s aged ten years since he was in Washington with Mac two years ago. Things must be worse in Ahman than our guys realise. The strong ties Mac has forged between his country and ours aren’t popular with some of his neighbours.” Then he shook his head. “Wait a minute. This is R and R for you, sweetheart. No political talk.”
And that’s like telling either one of us not to breathe, Sunday thought with amusement. She was enjoying herself thoroughly. Putting on the disguise and travelling without escorts made her feel as though for a very short time she and Henry could be as totally alone in a crowd as they were in their own suite at home.
And after a couple of weeks, we’ll both be anxious to get back in harness, she realised, but for the moment Capitol Hill seemed very far away.
Jack Collins, Henry’s senior Secret Service agent, had been aghast at the plan. “Mr. President, I absolutely have to tell you that it is dangerous, it is foolish, it is reckless.” Then he’d stopped, afraid he’d overstepped himself.
Henry had clasped him on the shoulder. “And it’s also necessary. Come on, Jack. You’ll be glad to have two weeks off, admit it.”
“Not like this, sir. Will we at least know your itinerary?”
“I’m afraid the President has insisted that I leave it here. It’s in a sealed envelope in my desk, which will not be opened unless Sims doesn’t hear from us regularly by either phone or fax.”
Sunday smiled to herself, remembering the shocked expression on Jack Collins’s face when he heard that arrangement.
The cab pulled up to the gangplank of the Bel-Mare. The ocean liner was on a world cruise and they were sailing on the segment from Mumbai to Piraeus.
Nothing in Henry’s demeanour suggested that he was not entirely used to carrying his own tote bag and camera as they made their way up the gangplank with the hundred or so other passengers who were boarding the ship. However, when he saw their accommodations he looked dismayed. “Darling, there must be some mistake. I reserved a first-class cabin.”
“This is a first-class cabin, sir,” the steward said proudly.
When he was gone, Sunday said, “Henry, dear, it’s not trick photography. It is the cabin you reserved. It’s just that on ocean liners there’s an economy of space. Three years ago I went through the Panama Canal with a couple of my college buddies. The three of us were in a cabin half this size.”
“Amazing.” Henry sighed. “Simply amazing. The room in the Taj Mahal suddenly seems gigantic.” He frowned. “Why do I have a bad feeling about Hasna?” he asked. “I’m glad we’re going to Ahman, and not just for sightseeing. I’m beginning to wonder if things aren’t a lot worse there than we’ve been led to believe.”
“Wouldn’t the sultan have asked for help if he needed it?”
“The Muslim states are not very happy with the United States. He might not have thought it politic. On the other hand, Mac is a strong leader. He’s put down uprisings before. Now, love, let’s unpack and go on deck to watch the ship set sail. Then three days at sea to Ahman.”
Hasna Ibn Saata had not survived for seventy-six years, fifty of them as a confidant to the late sultan and then to his son, the present monarch, without having a sixth sense that, like a security system, sounded an alarm when an intruder entered the premises.
But why now? he pondered as he rested in his suite at the Taj Mahal after his morning meeting with the representative of the prime minister of India. There was no intruder. The guards at his door were his personal force, trusted and caring. Al Hez had taken a bullet for him once. He would do it again if need be, Saata assured himself. Even though he now heads our military, he still insists on personally accompanying me when I leave the country.
Then why the growing certainty that danger was close? It was probably because the fruit juice that room service had delivered when he returned was not sitting well. Vague, smothering pains were beginning to cause discomfort in his chest.
Was that the sound of voices in the foyer?
Al Hez was alone there guarding the bolted door. Hasna got up slowly, then noiselessly moved across the room, taking care not to be in view of anyone in the foyer. Standing behind the partially open door, he listened intently.
Age had not diminished his acute hearing. As the meaning of al Hez’s words sank in, Hasna Ibn Saata shook his head sadly. Al Hez was talking to Rasna, the head of the guards, outside the suite. My trusted bodyguard, Rasna, Hasna Ibn Saata thought. My trusted aide, al Hez, who had just said, “Stop worrying. You will be well rewarded. The juice should do its work soon. The old man will be dead in minutes.”
Poison. Hasna Ibn Saata made his way back to the chair. His throat was closing. It was increasingly more difficult to breathe. No wonder the rebels were becoming so strong. Al Hez, who was privy to the innermost secrets of the palace, was one of them.
In the last moments of his life Hasna Ibn Saata’s hand reached for the phone. He had to warn His Majesty. He pressed the button that would bring the operator on the line, then felt the phone being taken from his hand.
He looked up. Through darkening vision he could see al Hez bending over him, smiling.
“Why?” he whispered. But he knew. Al Hez’s father had been hanged by the sultan’s father, his innocence established after his death.
It was as though al Hez could read his mind. “My father wasn’t innocent,” he whispered, “but you were the one who had him arrested. If he had succeeded I would be sitting in the palace now. But my time has come. Die knowing that in a few days American tourists will be kidnapped and massacred in Ahman, supposedly by bands of rebellious Bedouins. The United States will welcome the restoration of order when the sultan is assassinated by those same people and I take control to save my country.”
“No, no...” Hasna Ibn Saata felt his knees buckle. He managed to whisper, “Allah, save His Majesty,” before his lifeless body sank to the carpet.

The first night aboard ship they dined alone at a window table. A full moon shone on the tranquil waters of the Arabian Sea. Sunday sipped wine, listened to the soft strains of the violinist in the background, and smiled at Henry. “The only thing that keeps this from being perfect is that this damn wig is beginning to feel like a helmet,” she said.
“I must admit that seeing you in that wig and getup brings to mind the biblical reminder about hiding your light under a bushel,” Henry commented, “but it is nice to be anonymous. Enjoying yourself?”
“You know I am. I saw that in the list of activities someone is lecturing on Ahman tomorrow morning, and I’d like to go.”
“So would I,” Henry said promptly. “The lecturer is also going to head our tour to the Silver Mountain in Ahman. I understand it’s only six of us in the group because it’s a pretty strenuous trip. An hour in the bus, then two hours on horseback through the mountains. I’m glad you learned to ride.”
“How could I have not learned when one of your wedding presents to me was a horse?” Sunday asked. “Before that my idea of riding was to go on a carousel.”

The next morning at the lecture, Sunday observed Henry’s barely concealed annoyance as the lecturer, Maja bin Sayyid, a native of Ahman, discussed his country. At first his remarks had been interesting; that ninety percent of Ahman was covered with rocky and sandy desert separated by ten-thousand-foot mountains from the lush and ferule coastal plains; that vast supplies of oil had been discovered fifteen years ago; that the present sultan had been responsible for sweeping social reforms such as compulsory schooling for girls, hospitals and health centers, and foreign investment.
It was here that Sayyid drew Henry’s wrath. “That does not mean our sultan is honoured by all his people. Quite frankly, many of us are not pleased to be in America’s hip pocket, as you might say. We feel the sultan’s education at Harvard was not good for our way of life.”
Henry stood up. “Can you be more specific?” he asked coldly.
The lecturer shrugged. “I am veering off my subject. I know only a small group are planning to take the arduous journey to the Silver Mountain, which is a pity. It is a breathtaking sight, a city of ornate buildings chiselled out of the rock in the secret valley seven thousand years ago and only rediscovered early in this century. So far, I am happy to say, it does not have a McDonald’s.”

“That McDonald’s crack referred to the sultan’s nickname didn’t it?” Sunday asked Henry as they walked back to their room.
“It certainly did, and I’m surprised anyone from Ahman representing his country on this ship would have the gall to make such a statement,” Henry said. “It says to me that affairs in Ahman may be approaching a crisis. I intend to get into conversation with that guide on the bus tomorrow. According to his credits he’s a retired military officer. That’s not the kind of insolence to the monarch I you expect from an officer, retired or not.”
When they reached the cabin, he locked the door. “Take off that wig,” he suggested. “I miss the real you.”
“Gladly,” Sunday agreed. “But shouldn’t you check in with Sims?”
“Good God, yes. I almost forgot. I certainly don’t want him giving the White House a no-contact report on us.”
One of the phones in Drumdoe was registered to Arthur Sims. It was the one Henry called now. Sims answered on the first ring.
“Harry Potter, here,” Henry said.
“Oh, Mr... Potter, good to hear your voice.”
It was clear to Henry that Sims had almost called him Mr. President. “Just to let the family know we’re having a grand time,” he said heartily.
“Very quiet around here, sir. We miss you and Mrs. Potter.”
“We’ll keep in touch.”
Sunday had been reading the abbreviated copy of the International Herald Tribune that had been slipped under their door. “Henry, look,” she exclaimed.
They both stared at the picture of Hasna Ibn Saata. The caption under it read “Advisor to the sultan of Ahman dead of heart attack in Mumbai.”
Together they skimmed the story. His body had been found by his security chief, General al Hez, and his longtime personal physician, Dr. Ayla Ramas.
“Ramas,” Henry snapped. “I never heard of him. He’s not Hasna’s longtime personal physician.”
He took the paper from Sunday. “I’m very glad to have the opportunity to try to get that guide to talk tomorrow. My gut instinct tells me that Mac may have serious trouble brewing. Hasna looked terribly frail. If he felt he had to go personally to India, it must have been a mighty important mission.”
In his stateroom four decks down, Maja bin Sayyid was on the phone to General al Hez, who had returned to Ahman with the body. As Henry had, he spoke as though in casual conversation. “Yes, sir,” he said, “I am happy to report that I have found exactly the calibre of tourists we were seeking. Tomorrow I will escort a group of six to Silver Mountain. Four of them will interest you. The Camerons; Lloyd and Audrey. He is the retired chairman of Parker and Van Ness International Investments. She founded Audrey Cosmetics. Very well known to the media. They just gave five hundred million dollars to found a research hospital. They’re quite elderly. Why they thought they could do the horseback part of the trip amazes me.”
He smiled at the “Very good” he heard from his listener. “I also will be escorting Pamela and Muffie Andrews, who are the wife and daughter of Winston Andrews, the chairman of Andrews Communications.
“Quite right, sir. The media giant.”
He listened again, then smiled. “I knew you’d be pleased. The other couple are Harry and Sandra Potter, a nondescript former high school teacher and his wife. But surely they may have a few influential friends in academic circles.”
When bin Sayyid hung up, he began to go over the plan step by step. They would dock at nine tomorrow morning. A small motor coach would be awaiting them on the pier. They would drive slowly through the port city of Acqiom to allow the visitors to enjoy the ancient architecture and quaint streets.
In a way playing the role of a guide amused him. He knew he had been very foolish yesterday to show his contempt for the sultan. Today in his bus lecture he would praise His Majesty, pointing out the modern buildings, the handsome hotels, the better roads, the state-of-the-art schools-all of which had been built by the sultan with revenue from the oil fields.
When al Hez is president of Ahman I will take his place as general of the Army, Sayyid thought, envisioning the palace he would build with his share of the oil revenues.
Mentally he reviewed the plan. The tour bus would appear to break down three kilometres from Silver Mountain. It would be surrounded by men on horseback who would subdue the six passengers. They would be held in one of the mountain caves two ranges away from Silver Mountain and ransom demands would be made.
Bin Sayyid smiled coldly. Winston Andrews controlled TV network and cable channels, newspapers, and radio stations around the world. When word was released that his wife and daughter were being held prisoner by a band of rogue Bedouins, the media would screech the story. Add to that the powerful business connections of the Camerons, which would raise vociferous protests for the illustrious couple.
From within Ahman the revolution would start. The sultan would be denounced as a corrupt leader, a despot who could not maintain law and order.
When the bodies are found, General al Hez will be welcomed by the world as a fearless warrior who avenged the deaths by finding and punishing the kidnapers and deposing the sultan, who will of course die attempting to escape.
A masterful plan, Sayyid thought. There was just one question. Was it worthwhile to bother with keeping the Potters alive at all? Wouldn’t it be better to simply dispatch them at once? Mr. Potter annoyed him intensely.
Regretfully, he shook his head. No, better to let the outside world hope and pray for all the captives. Better to let the sultan promise a swift and safe end to the ordeal, as he surely would. Then when hopes were dashed, he would be blamed.

The next morning Sunday was sure she wasn’t wrong. In the bus she could see contempt in the eyes of the guide when Henry asked him a question. But his answer was smooth enough.
“Oh, sir, you can understand. In any country there is a measure of political unrest. No matter how benevolent an absolute monarch may be, there are those who long to have a voice in their own governing. Your democracy has set an example, has it not?”
“He’s too oily for me,” Sunday whispered to Henry as the minibus drove slowly through the crowded streets of Acqiom.
“I agree,” Henry murmured in her ear. “But never mind him. I used to explore Silver Mountain with Mac during summer vacations. We can go off by ourselves when we get there. I’ll be your guide.”

If we get there, Sunday thought ruefully as the minibus began to make coughing sounds. For the past two hours they’d been riding on a seemingly endless road through the desert. Except for occasional clusters of small flat-roofed stone houses, it seemed to be virtually uninhabited, the only company the trucks and tour buses that whizzed past them on the two-lane road.
Several times Henry had commented on the leisurely pace the driver had set. “It’s not exactly the Amalfi coast, where the view is mind boggling,” he said. “The ship sails at seven. At this rate we’ll spend more time on the road than in one of the great wonders of antiquity.”
It was clear that the seventeen-year-old daughter of Winston Andrews was in absolute agreement. “Mom, this is so boring,” she commented a number of times, obviously not caring who heard her.
By the time the range that held the Silver Mountain loomed before them, there were no buses or trucks in either direction. The driver suddenly pulled off onto a road between two crevices. Almost hidden, it wound to the right. He stopped the minibus several hundred yards later.
The guide and he conferred, then Sayyid stood up. “Will everyone please leave the vehicle?” he asked courteously. “The driver must try to locate the trouble with the engine and feels it would be safer. He hopes it will not be too long.”
As he rose Henry said, “I’m a fairly good mechanic. I’d be happy to help locate the trouble.”
Sayyid looked at him dismissively. “The driver will not require assistance, Mr. Potter.”
“Nevertheless he’s going to get it if he doesn’t locate the trouble soon,” Henry said firmly when the passengers were gathered outside. They had all moved to stand in the shadow of an overhanging boulder, shielded from the now blazingly hot midday sun. The hood of the minibus was up. Both the driver and guide were bent over the engine.
“I don’t know why Daddy made us take this trip,” Muffie Andrews complained to her mother.
Pamela Andrews, stylishly thin with auburn hair, snapped, “Because he thought you might actually learn something about history and the way other people live.”
Lloyd and Audrey Cameron, silver haired and both somewhat frail, came over to Henry. “I don’t like either that driver or the guide, Mr. Potter,” Lloyd Cameron said quietly. “Do you think there’s any possibility that there’s more to this than a faulty engine?”
Sunday looked at Henry and realised that that was exactly what he was thinking. His eyes were narrowed and his forehead creased. “There’s something up,” he agreed. “I want everyone to get back in the bus. I’m going to tell that pair that I’m an engineer and insist on helping them. But I want all of you inside the bus when I do it.”
“But...” Sunday bit her lip on her protest. Henry had a black belt in karate. Even so, she found herself wishing that Jack Collins and the other guys in their Secret Service detail were around.
As Henry went to speak to the driver and guide, she took the lead in getting the others to slip quietly on the bus.
Muffie Andrews protested, “It’ll be hot in there.”
“You heard my husband. Get in,” Sunday told her sharply.
She realised that Lloyd Cameron was perspiring heavily. Reaching a hand under his arm, she helped him up. She noticed him wince in pain. “Are you all right?” she asked quickly.
“Nothing a nitroglycerin tablet won’t help,” Audrey Cameron said, the worry in her voice evident.
Outside Henry was arguing with the driver and guide. “How can you possibly tell what’s wrong without turning the engine over?” From the corner of his eye he could see that everyone was on the bus. He knew the key was in the ignition. These two were stalling, but for what? Waiting for accomplices? How much would they get if their purpose was robbery? Enough, he realised. Both Pamela Andrews and Audrey Cameron were wearing valuable diamond rings. Lloyd Cameron had a Rolex watch similar to the one he usually wore himself.
Then his blood froze. In Arabic the driver said to Sayyid, “Why wait to kill this one and his wife? Do it now.”
In two steps Henry had leapt on the bus, and slammed and locked the door. He turned the key, raced the engine, and jerked into reverse. He saw Sayyid and the driver reach into their pockets. “Duck,” he shouted. But before he could switch into drive, thundering hoofs signalled the arrival of a dozen armed men, attired in burnooses and robes, who surrounded the bus, their rifles pointing at the windows. Without being told, Henry stopped the bus and turned off the engine.

In New Jersey, Sims paced the library waiting and hoping for the phone listed in his name to ring. The call he expected was already hours late. His instructions were to open the sealed envelope with the travel itinerary and call the White House if a full twenty-four hours lapsed without phone contact.
Not twenty-four hours yet, Sims comforted himself. I am sure all is well.
The ringing of the phone was a symphony to his ears. With dignified haste he reached for it. “Mr. Potter, good morning.”
He was crushed when he heard the familiar voice of Jack Collins, the head Secret Service agent. Collins did not waste time. “Sims, I’ve got the willies sitting around doing nothing. Has Ranger been checking in on time?”
Sims’s fears crystallised. Something had gone wrong. Collins had sensed it too. “I’m afraid Mr... er, Potter is twelve hours behind schedule.”
“Twelve hours!” Collins exploded. “Open the packet.”
“We are under firm orders to wait a full twenty-four hours before we check the itinerary,” Sims protested.
“I’m on my way,” Collins said. “By the time I get there it’ll be a full sixteen hours. I’ll take responsibility for opening the envelope.”
He had just reached Drumdoe when the regular NBC program was interrupted. “A breaking story,” Tom Brokaw announced briskly. “Six American tourists have been kidnapped in Ahman. The victims are the wife and daughter of media mogul Winston Andrews; philanthropist Lloyd Cameron and his wife, Audrey, founder and CEO of the Audrey Cosmetics empire. Not much is known about the other two, Harry and Sandra Potter, a retired educator and his wife from Massachusetts. The minibus they were in disappeared on its way to Silver Mountain, the legendary city carved out of rock some seven thousand years ago and only discovered again in this century.”
Brokaw warned, “The State Department has issued a travel warning urging Americans to stay away from Ahman, since it is obvious their safety cannot be guaranteed.”
Jack Collins and Sims stared at each other.
“Give me the itinerary,” Collins demanded. Ashen, Sims nodded and went to the centre drawer of Henry’s desk.
Collins ripped open the envelope, scanned it, groaned, then with flying fingers pressed the numbers on the phone that would connect him to the Oval Office.

Desmond Ogilvey sat at his desk, the presidential seal behind him, surrounded by his advisors. It had been an uncommonly pleasant day in late March and he’d been longing to play a fast eighteen holes of golf with the Speaker of the House, whom he’d just scathingly attacked in the media but who also was one of his best friends.
A lean, spare man who epitomised the stereotype of the academic he once had been, Des Ogilvey was a remarkably intelligent, shrewd statesman who never forgot that he’d been plucked from congressional obscurity by his predecessor and best friend, Henry Parker Britland, IV.
Instead of golf, the day had brought a major crisis, a new hot-potato hostage situation.
Hostage. The word sickened him. Lebanon... Iran... hijacked planes. Innocent victims, cries for retribution at home, fractured political alliances abroad, sounding board for revolutionists.
This time in Ahman; six Americans vanished on their way to Silver Mountain. The minibus they’d been riding in found one hundred miles to the north of their planned destination.
The kidnapers had chosen their targets well. The wife and daughter of Winston Andrews: he’d already been on the phone three times and was now in his private jet heading for Ahman. Lloyd and Audrey Cameron: they’d been at a state dinner only a month ago. If those people were not returned unscathed, all hell would break loose. Somebody in Ahman would be hung out to dry, and in this case Des was sure it would be the sultan. Mac, westernised, smart, our friend in the volatile Middle East, was vulnerable. His absolute monarchy had been a source of criticism no matter how many reforms he had instigated.
And of course there was another couple involved, a former high-school teacher from Massachusetts, some poor schmuck; named Harry Potter and his wife. Probably saved money all their lives to take that upscale cruise.
The private phone rang. Only one person called on this one.
Henry. Just the person he wanted to talk to about this calamity. Henry was a big buddy of the sultan.
Ogilvey answered with his automatic greeting to Henry. “Mr. President,” he said. Then listened. “Oh, my God!” he groaned.
His advisors and aides leapt to their feet. He waved them back, continued to listen to his caller, then finally snapped, “I’ll call you back, Collins.”
Hanging up, he said quietly, “Get me the sultan of Ahman.”
“Right away, sir.” His chief of staff reached for a nearby phone.
Ogilvey considered. “No. Wait. Hold it.” He looked without pleasure at the anxious faces around him. “Get out, all of you. I need to think.”
When he was alone, he folded his hands under his chin. The kidnapers didn’t know who they had, but they’d been daring enough to select other highly visible targets. God knows what they would do if they were aware they were holding a former president of the United States and his congresswoman wife.
Some hostages were released when a ransom was paid. So far, the kidnapers had not made any demands. Maybe money was what they wanted. There’s only one thing I can do right now, Desmond Ogilvey agonised. Keep my mouth shut and trust Henry. He’s gotten out of other tight spots.

Henry had appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness since the guide smashed a rifle butt on the side of his head before they were carried on horseback to this place. First their captors had forced the women to slip a long black sharshaf, the traditional Islamic garment, over their own clothing and veil their faces. Lloyd Cameron and the unconscious Henry had been dressed in long flowing robes, their heads covered with burnooses. To any observer they might have been a band of Bedouins travelling through the mountains. No one would have realised that the horsemen surrounding them had guns trained at their hearts.
The unconscious Henry had been thrown across the saddle of a horse. Sunday had been frantic until they finally arrived at their destination. Henry whispered that he wanted the captors to believe that he was badly injured.
But now she had to talk to him. “I think Lloyd Cameron is going into a full-fledged heart attack,” she murmured as she held her face to his.
It was the second day of captivity. They were being kept in a network of caves in the mountain range behind Silver City.
Their captors had taken them into the shallow but well-hidden warren, finally settling in the next-to-the-last cave, barricading the narrow area between them and this final chamber-like area with rocks and sheets of tin. Only a space as wide as a small window had been left for food to be passed back and an observer to periodically check on them.
Muffie Andrews was asleep on her mother’s shoulder as far to the back as possible. Even though it was cold she had yanked off the sharshaf  and veil,
Lloyd Cameron was half lying, half sitting against the wall nearest to the hint of fresh air that came through the open space. His gasping breath was deep and irregular; Audrey Cameron had her arm around him. Even in the near darkness the agony of worry on her face was clearly visible.
Henry’s finger touched her lips and Sunday realised he was trying to overhear what their captors were saying. Henry was a linguist, and she remembered that Arabic was one of the many languages he understood and spoke.
She could feel his body tense. Whatever he was hearing was upsetting him.
Henry strained to hear their captors. As the voices rose and fell, he sickened, realising that they had no intention of seeking ransom. They were discussing that the first two hostages, the insignificant teacher and his wife, would be shot at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and their bodies dumped on the outskirts of the city.
The sultan, General al Hez at his side, would of course deplore the violence and beg that the lives of the other hostages be spared. The next morning when those four bodies were found, al Hez would declare a revolution against the corrupt regime that had rejected his demands for permission to wipe out the wandering tribes of murdering Bedouins and in the name of the people execute the sultan and his family as they try to escape.
We’re all going to die, Henry thought helplessly. There’s no way out of here.
“The girl... the young beauty... a shame to let her die. I could get ten thousand camels for her...” It was the voice of their guide, bin Sayyid.
I wouldn’t put it past him to put his hands on her, Henry thought.
“This place... this Shinona Cavern... will again be enshrined in history...” It was the bus driver’s deep, clipped tone.
Shinona Cavern... Henry thought. Shinona Cavern... Mac brought me here the summer he showed me around Silver Mountain. It was the place where the legend is that an ancient king took refuge against a palace plot. He was followed here but escaped through the secret passageway that goes underground to the temple in Silver Mountain. Mac showed me the way. I’m sure it’s right here in this chamber.
The voices of their captors began to trail off. It was almost midnight. He sensed that soon they’d be checking on them one last time before morning. He lolled his head to the side as though still unconscious, then whispered, “Sunday, demand they throw blankets back here. Tell them you’re afraid Lloyd Cameron will die before ransom can be paid.”
It isn’t in the plan for Cameron to die yet, he thought.
A moment later he heard Sunday’s voice speaking fiercely. “Listen, bin Sayyid, I know you’re still ‘guiding’ us, you creep. Unless you want a dead hostage, you’ll at least give us something to cover Mr. Cameron.”
Good girl, Henry thought, then held his breath.
He heard a short barking spat of laughter, then through slitted eyes watched as, a few minutes later, a rolled blanket was pushed through the opening, followed by another one. Then a third cover of sorts began to come into view to the accompaniment of a spattering of small rocks.
It worked, he thought exultantly. “Sunday, while they’re still watching, pull me back farther,” he whispered, “as much away from their direct view as possible. Then cover me and pass the other blankets around.”
It only took a few minutes before his goal was accomplished. He sensed bin Sayyid was watching as Sunday tucked the blanket around him, then handed out the others.
When she lay down beside him, her back to the opening, shielding him from view, Sayyid snapped, “Sleep well. I don’t want to hear any mere demands. Got that?”
Quickly Henry whispered instructions. Sunday nodded, grabbed the soiled, scratchy blanket, shaped it to resemble a body, and threw her arm over it. The Camerons, grateful for the bit of warmth, were huddled together. They stared when he slid over to them.
“I’m going for help,” Henry whispered. “Hang on. Pretend to stay asleep as long as possible.”
Muffie Andrews had awakened. He put his lips against her ear. “You’ve got to keep that sharshaf and veil on.” He murmured to Pamela Andrews, “If bin Sayyid tries to come near her, say she’s unwell.”
They both understood what he meant. Pamela Andrews’s eyes widened in fear. “At least it isn’t boring,” Muffie tried to joke.
Henry patted her shoulder.
For an instant he touched Sunday’s hand, then began inching on his stomach to the place at the side and back of this chamber where, twenty-five years ago, he and the crown prince of Ahman had lifted the stone that led to a tunnel, hardly wider than a drainpipe, that had saved a sultan’s life twenty-five hundred years ago.

Three hours later, just outside Silver Mountain, the sleeping fourteen-year-old attendant of the camels used for picture-taking tourists stirred in his sleep. But he did not awaken as one of the camels was led from the enclosure by a man in a long robe and burnoose.

Henry, his robe torn and filthy, led the camel a safe distance before he ordered it to kneel. An instant later he was galloping to the capital city, a distance of at least four hours. He had to get in touch with Des. It was the only way.

In the cave, Sunday spent the night praying. Sometimes she heard Audrey Cameron murmuring to her husband. She thought she heard Muffie Andrews weeping. But, as a random touch of daylight started to trickle into the cavern, she thought: If he got through he might be in Acqiom now. Maybe help is already on the way.

It was nearly seven and the hot desert sun was rising high over the ancient city of Acqiom when Henry abandoned the exhausted camel and set into town on foot. Seven o’clock here, thirteen hours difference. Des would be in the White House. But how to get to him? He’d have to try to steal a tourist’s pocketbook in the market. Get a credit card. Make the call.
But the market was deserted. In the bay he could see two gleaming ocean liners. They probably had arrived during the night, but the tourists wouldn’t be here until at least nine. He couldn’t wait that long.
Despairingly he walked through the city in the direction of the palace. Built by Mac when he became monarch, it was a modern building with low, rounded rooftops and a pink-and-cream marble facade that reflected the brilliance of the sunrise. He could see that the palace was surrounded by guards.
Henry looked up at the windows that he knew were the private apartments of the monarch. He wanted to shout, “Mac!” the way he had when they were students in Cambridge. So near... But that traitor al Hez was in there too. At a hint of danger he’d step up his plan.
Henry turned. There was only one thing he could do. Would it work? Get to a hotel, get to a phone. He could not waste time. Sunday was going to be executed in less than two hours. When they realised he was missing, they might kill all the hostages.
The streets were still quiet, the shops still shuttered. In the direction of the bay, Henry could see the tip of a spire. Of course! The spire was part of the lavish new hotel they’d noticed on the minibus. “The sultan wished to promote tourism,” Sayyid had announced, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
There’s sure to be plenty of phones there. He had to get to one. But looking like this, they’d never let him in the door.
He loitered in the parking lot facing the entrance for fifteen minutes before he found his opportunity. The doorman stepped into the parking valet’s booth to the side of the entrance. He did not see the tall man in a soiled robe and torn burnoose, his pasted Vandyke beard slipping from his chin, stride through the wide luggage door into the lobby, which, to Henry’s dismay, was filled with media people. Pulling the loose end of the burnoose over his chin, Henry drifted through the crowd toward the corridor, where a sign indicated rest rooms and telephones.
He had almost cleared the lobby when an elevator door opened and Winston Andrews, accompanied by General al Hez, emerged.
Microphones were thrust at them; cameras popped, as Andrews, his face creased with fury and worry, announced, “I am going by helicopter to again stand by at the point where my wife and daughter disappeared. I am ready to pay any price to get them back. I have been heartened by the support of General al Hez, who has been candid about the problems of roving criminals in this country. He was personally responsible for rescuing a group of German tourists last year.”
Al Hez stepped forward. “I am ashamed that this has happened in my country. It should not have happened. All our resources are scouring the countryside. I return to the palace to be with the sultan.”
Why isn’t Mac speaking for himself? Henry thought. That swine al Hez is setting up the revolt. Andrews won’t blame him no matter what happens.
Accompanied by the general, Andrews strode through the lobby, angrily pushing away mikes that were raised before him. Any thought Henry had fleetingly entertained about trying to communicate with one of his associates disappeared. Sure, Andrews would believe him, but the slightest leak would be disaster. He didn’t doubt that those thugs were in touch with events. They’d kill the captives and get away if they thought something had gone wrong.
“You look familiar, friend.”
Henry turned, instinctively reaching to be sure the burnoose was covering the lower half of his face. It was Dan Rather, anchorman of CBS. His cameraman was behind him, the camera trained on Henry.
Henry frowned. “What do you want?” he barked in Arabic.
Rather looked uncertain. “Sorry.”
Henry thought, I can trust Dan, but then became aware of curious eyes on them. No. Not here and now. Ignoring the famous broadcaster, he again headed for the corridor. A phone booth was empty. He picked up the receiver, pressed zero, and asked to be connected to an overseas operator. Finally one came on.
“A collect call.” He gave the number registered to Sims at Drumdoe.
There was no answer.
Ten minutes later he tried again, this time giving the main number.
Again no answer. They’d given the rest of the household staff a holiday, but where was Sims?
Of course. He had opened the envelope. He had contacted Des. If Henry knew anything it was that Sims and Collins, with all the Secret Service guys, were on the way here now.
There was a line for the phone booth. Henry glanced out at a sea of angry faces. There was just one thing he could do. “Another number collect,” he told the operator, then prayed. “Please God let him take the call.”

It was seven-fifty. Sunday knew that for the last hour their captors had been looking in to see if they were awake. Now she was sure that unless they all began to stir, suspicion would be aroused. Had Henry gotten to Acqiom? Who had he contacted there? What had he overheard last night that so upset him?
No use thinking about it, she decided.
Clearly it was going to be a brilliantly sunny day. Light was filtering into this cavern far more than it had yesterday or the day before. The blanket that last night had been a reasonable facsimile of a man’s body now seemed pathetic as a disguise.
Muffie Andrews seemed to understand the problem. She left her mother’s side, their blanket in hand. “Mrs. Potter, maybe your husband would like our blanket too.”
Together they threw it over the supposed form of Henry.
“Such caring,” bin Sayyid’s voice echoed hollowly from the opening. “Surely your husband would enjoy a last meal, Mrs. Potter.”
Last meal, Sunday thought.
“And, Muffie,” bin Sayyid continued. “You don’t have to wear the shurshaf or veil now. Why don’t you take them off?” It was not a request.
Pamela Andrews stood up, thrusting Muffie at Sunday. “My daughter will remain suitably garbed. I must speak to you, Mr. Sayyid.” She began to move forward when the faint sound of a vehicle approaching made Sayyid turn abruptly from the opening.

Desmond Ogilvey was about to leave his office with Patrick Blair, his chief of staff, to once again face the media, when one of his private phones rang. Probably his mother calling to offer suggestions on what to do in the crisis. He wasn’t up to it.
Impatiently, he put his hand on the door of the Oval Office as the ringing continued to permeate the room. There was an urgency about it that was bothering him.
Reluctantly he nodded to Blair. “Tell my mother I’ll call her back.”
He watched impatiently as Blair’s brief hello was followed by widened eyes. “Are you kidding?” the chief of staff demanded.
Some instinct made Ogilvey rush across the room.
“Sir, it’s got to be a sick joke,” Blair told him. “The operator wants to know if you’ll accept a collect call from a Mr. Potter.”

At eight-thirty, Henry waited impatiently, watching the side gate of the palace. Every passing second was agony. Had Des been able to get through to Mac or had the call been stopped inside the palace? If he did get through, had Mac believed that he could trust none of his Army brass, that his own life was in danger? And if he did understand, would he be able to get out of the palace unnoticed?
If Mac didn’t show up... It was one of the few times in his life that Henry felt absolutely helpless. There was no alternate plan that could possibly work.
Sunday. The other hostages... Please, God... Henry realised he was praying. Time was so short. He needed a miracle.
And then he saw what he had been desperate to see. A service van stopped at the guard’s station and was permitted to pass. It drove up the street, around the corner, and slowed.
The driver rolled down the tinted window. He was dressed in a coarse, dark robe, a flowing burnoose, and heavy dark glasses. But when he whipped the glasses off, nothing could conceal the aristocratic features of the sultan of Ahman.
Three minutes later, aware that time was racing against them, they drove back to the palace. This time the guard waited before opening the door.
“Insolent...” the sultan muttered.
Henry jammed his foot on his friend’s instep. “Mac, wait!”
The gate opened. They drove through. In the service parking area the sultan ripped off the coarse robe, revealing a western business suit. “Let’s go, Henry.”
A few minutes later, in his magnificent private office, surrounded by officers of the division that was his personal guard, he sent for General al Hez. When the man arrived, confident and with self-satisfaction emanating from every pore, he was astonished to be surrounded by the soldiers.
“You and your entire staff are under arrest,” the sultan told him. “You are a traitor to your country and your people. For the sake of your ancestors and descendants, the captives had better be safe.”
Al Hez paled, then gasped as Henry stepped forward. “I know that you have ordered my wife executed in less than an hour. Call it off.”
Now al Hez smiled. “I know what will happen to me, but it’s already too late for her, Mr. Potter. I have given the final order to proceed. No more communication will be accepted as genuine.”

The car or van that had arrived had distracted Sayyid. Nearly an hour had passed. What was going on? If only I understood Arabic, Sunday fretted. Cautiously she slipped up to the opening and stood next to it. Clearly some sort of preparations were being made, but for what? She could tell that Sayyid and the driver lapsed into English occasionally. Then she heard Sayyid say, “I can wait for the girl. It’s only fifteen minutes more till ten o’clock. After we get rid of the Potter couple, we can do what we want. The old man is helpless and the other women terrified. At five of ten, tell them to pull open the barrier and drag the first two out.”

Henry and the sultan were in the first of the armada of helicopters. They had just had their first glimpse of the mountain range where the prisoners were being held. “Almost there, Henry,” the sultan promised.
“If only we had time to go through the tunnel.” Henry’s throat was closing with tension. It was two minutes of ten.
“We don’t but Allah is with us. We will be there in time.”
“They might panic and shoot all of them.”
“They will know their only hope for mercy is if the hostages remain unharmed.”
Henry looked back. Two dozen helicopters, each containing six armed men, enough to overpower the kidnapers but too many to surprise them. They’d already be poised to shoot Sunday.
They were over the cave. Henry looked down, then sickened as he realised there was barely room for one helicopter to land near it. In the important first moments the soldiers would be useless.
“Put it down,” the sultan commanded the pilot. The descent was rapid. As the wheels touched the rocky surface, both men jumped out. There were only seconds left till ten o’clock.
“We can’t wait,” Henry snapped.
“I know it. Stay here,” the sultan ordered the pilot and co-pilot. “It’s too late for guns.”

The captors had broken the barrier and were coming for her. Lloyd Cameron made a futile effort to stand. Audrey Cameron, Muffie, and Pamela Andrews were shrieking.
Sunday fought back. She stiffened her palm and cracked it on the throat of the first man who tried to grab her, then attempted to kick the second one. But then her arms were roughly yanked behind her back and Sayyid was in front of her.
“Get him,” he ordered, nodding to the prone figure that was supposed to be Henry’s body.
The yelp of surprise from the man who found himself holding an empty blanket and the realisation that Henry was missing stunned Sayyid. He grabbed Sunday by the hair and yanked her face up to his. “Where is he? How did he escape?”
She did not answer. He yanked again and the black wig came off in his hand. Her blond shoulder-length hair tumbled out.
His look of astonishment was followed by a shriek from Audrey Cameron. In a trembling voice she cried, “I knew you seemed familiar. You’re Sunday. Then that was the president.”
The president. Of what? Sayyid stared at Sunday and realisation dawned. He had had the former president of the United States under his control and didn’t even know it. The game was over. But he could still have satisfaction. He’d always had his own contingency escape plan. In two hours he’d be over the border. But first...
His men, confused, and somewhat frightened, were staring at Sunday. Sayyid shoved her away.
“Take aim,” he said.
They pointed their guns at Sunday.
“All of them,” Sayyid snapped.
There was a roaring sound outside. A helicopter. Al Hez must have made his escape and come for him.
He lifted his hand. The men, now frightened and confused by the noise outside the cave, knew to fire when he dropped it.
He looked at Sunday. “For you I would have given twenty thousand camels.”
“Stop!” The voice of majesty filled the chamber. Side by side Henry and the sultan stepped through the widened opening.
Awed, the kidnapers stared at their monarch.
“Mercy and exile will be given to those who put down their guns,” the sultan said, his tone frightening in its absolute authority.
The clatter of rifles was followed by the deep, subservient bows of the outlaws.
“Majesty, your generosity...” Sayyid began.
As Henry reached for Sunday and running feet signalled the arrival of the royal troops, the sultan addressed Sayyid. “My generosity is not for you. You were not carrying a gun.”

“So in some ways, the trip was quite successful, was it not, sir?” Sims asked as he presented Henry with a glass of champagne. After staying a night in the palace they were on their way home in Henry’s private jet, which had flown Sims and the Secret Service detail to Ahman.
Sunday gasped. “How do you figure it was successful, Sims?”
“Well, from what I understand, madam, you weren’t recognised for days. That must have been refreshing, only I do hope you won’t try it again soon. It was quite distressing for us, oh my, yes.”
Sunday thought of the moment when she’d been sure she was going to die. “Sims,” she said, “you do have a way with words. It was quite distressing, oh my, yes!”
When Sims left, she said, “Henry, you had a few last words with the sultan. What did he want to tell you?”
“It was pretty interesting. When I sympathised with him about Hasna’s death, he told me that one of al Hez’s group at the Taj Mahal has confessed that Hasna was poisoned. But then we talked about the attempted revolution. Mac said that he’s going to make some changes in government, set up ministers who represent the different areas of his country, give the people more of a voice in the government. He asked if I approved. Of course, I did. Then we both quoted an interesting proverb that we used to debate.”
Sunday waited.
“No man is wise enough or good enough to be trusted with unlimited power,” Henry said solemnly.
“I absolutely agree,” Sunday said, “and not the least because if that weren’t true in our country, I’d be out of a job.”