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talking with his hands that bore little resemblance to sign language for the deaf. He sat stoop-shouldered at the breakfast table, a position that camouflaged his lanky six-foot frame. His head was as bald as an egg except for a few graying strands around the temples, and his bushy brows hovered over a pair of oak-brown eyes. Not one to join the Washington, D.C., blue pinstripe brigade, he was dressed in slacks and sportcoat.
    In his early forties, Lucas might have passed for a dentist or bookkeeper instead of the special agent in charge of the Presidential Protection Division of the Secret Service. During his twenty years as an agent he had fooled many people with his nice neighbor-next-door appearance, from the Presidents whose lives he guarded to the potential assassins he’d stonewalled before they had an opportunity to act. On the job he came off aggressive and solemn, yet at home he was usually full of mischief and humor—except, of course, when he was influenced by the eight A.M. news.
    Lucas took a final sip of coffee and rose from the table. He held open his coat—he was left-handed—and adjusted the high-ride hip holster holding a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum Model 19 revolver with a 2½-inch barrel. The standard issue gun was provided by the Service when he had finished training and started out as a rookie agent in the Denver field office investigating counterfeiters and forgers. He had drawn it only twice in the line of duty, but had yet to pull the trigger outside a firing range.
    Carolyn was unloading the dishwasher when he came up behind her, pulled away a cascade of blond hair and pecked her on the neck. “I’m off.”
    “Don’t forget tonight is the pool party across the street at the Hardings’.”
    “I should be home in time. The boss isn’t scheduled to leave the White House today.”
    She looked up at him and smiled. “You see that he doesn’t.”
    “I’ll inform the President first thing that my wife frowns on me working late.”
    She laughed and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Six o’clock.”
    “You win,” he said in mock weariness and stepped out the back door.
    Lucas backed his leased government car, a plush Buick sedan, into the street and headed downtown. Before reaching the end of the block he called the Secret Service central command office over his car radio.
    “Crown, this is Lucas. I’m en route to the White House.”
    “Have a nice trip,” a metallic voice replied.
    Already he began to sweat. He turned on the air conditioner. The summer heat in the nation’s capital never seemed to slacken. The humidity was in the nineties and the flags along Embassy Row on Massachusetts Avenue hung limp and lifeless in the muggy air.
    He slowed and stopped at the checkpoint gate on West Executive Avenue and paused for a few moments while a uniformed guard of the Service nodded and passed him through. Lucas parked the car and entered the west executive entrance on the lower level of the White House.
    At the SS command post, code-named W-16, he stopped to chat with the men monitoring an array of electronic communication equipment. Then he took the stairs to his office on the second floor of the East Wing.
    The first thing he did each morning after settling behind his desk was to check the President’s schedule, along with advance reports by the agents in charge of planning security.
    Lucas studied the folder containing future presidential “movements” a second time, consternation growing across his face. There had been an unexpected addition—a big one. He flung down the folder in irritation, swung around in his swivel chair and stared at the wall.
    Most Presidents were creatures of habit, ran tight schedules and rigidly adhered to them. Clocks could be set by Nixon’s comings and goings. Reagan and Carter seldom deviated from fixed plans. Not the new man in the Oval Office. He looked upon the Secret Service detail as a nuisance, and what was worse, he was unpredictable