Capitol Betrayal by William Bernhardt Page B

information. Aerial maps came and went with such speed that Ben could not identify them.
    “Does that mean you’re responsible for the Mymidon attack and kidnapping?” the president asked.
    “I assumed you would know it was me, given how flawlessly the operation was executed. Today’s exercise will be no different. You are but the sand of the desert in my hands, Mr. President. You will bend to the shape and will of my hand, or you will slip through my fingers and fall apart. Permanently.”
    The president sat down in the chair at the head of the table. He leaned in very close to the speakerphone. “And was it also your highly efficient men who raided the Arlington armory a few hours ago?”
    Ben held his breath and waited for the answer. If this sadistic madman had a portable nuclear device, they would be permanently helpless, even if they did recover control of the computer networks.
    “Do you not understand, Mr. President? We are everywhere. We control everything. And now you will do everything I request—everything! Or the consequences will be horrible.”
    “Colonel Zuko, I will not permit you to commit genocide in the Benzai Strip.”
    “What action I take I do to secure our borders. And that is no business of yours! But it does not matter. There is nothing you can do about it.”
    Although he wasn’t taking notes, Ben had been clenching his pencil with a white-knuckled grip throughout the entire conversation. He dropped his pencil, and without really thinking about it, bent down to pick it up.
    While bent over, he looked under the table.
    The president’s feet were moving. Not swaying. Not tapping. But tap-dancing. Moving back and forth in a sprightly manner that did not affect what the others saw above the table. One of the darker secrets in Ben’s past was that in the second grade his mother had forced him to take tap-dancing lessons. He knew a shuffle-ball-change when he saw it.
    A foreign dictator was threatening to take out a large portion of the nation. And the president was tap-dancing.
    The president and Zuko continued talking. Ben knew his expression must have changed, because Sarie gave him a concerned look. “Is something wrong?” she whispered.
    He pointed under the table and mouthed, “Look.”
    “Trying to get a look at my cleavage?”
    Ben’s face flushed. He continued pointing.
    She looked.
    When her face came up again, it was ashen.
    “What’s going on?” Ben whispered.
    She spread her hands wide in a gesture of bafflement and helplessness.
    Ben didn’t know what to make of her reaction. But the situation didn’t seem to be shocking her as much as it was him. He asked: “Have you seen this before?”
    She hesitated before making any response, then, with considerable reluctance, nodded.
    “What’s going on?”
    She shrugged.
    “What does his doctor say?”
    She shrugged again, then added quietly, “He’s concerned.”
    Ben was glad to hear Dr. Albertson understood the president was exhibiting strange behavior, but somehow
concerned
didn’t seem nearly adequate.
    “How long?” Ben asked, careful not to attract attention.
    Sarie thought for a while before answering. “Month or so.”
    “Who else knows?”
    She shrugged again.
    Ben thought about that for a moment. More than once he had been amazed by the number of people the president met in the course of a single day. If he had been exhibiting these strange symptoms for a month, anyone could know.
    Even the dictator of a foreign nation.
    Ben began to whisper again, then caught a glance of Admiral Cartwright on the opposite end of the table, glaring at him. He felt as if he were being scolded for telling secrets in class.
    The conversation with Zuko must have been reaching a fevered peak, because for the first time ever, Ben heard the president raise his voice.
    “Colonel Zuko, the United States will not tolerate this!”
    “When will you get it through your sun-baked brain that you have no choice in the matter?”
    “We