"Nice to have your own bank. Where are you withdrawing from?"
"The Federal Emergency—" Smith's voice broke off. He froze in his chair. His gray face paled to a kind of ghost gray. "My God…" he croaked.
"Don't tell me you're overdrawn."
"In a manner of speaking," Smith said hoarsely.
"Hey. I was kidding."
"And I was not," Smith said grimly. "According to my screen, the Federal Emergency Management Agency operating fund was frozen not two hours ago by executive order."
"What idiot did that?" Remo demanded.
"The President of the United States."
"Can he do that?"
"Excuse me," said Harold Smith, reaching for the red telephone.
In the Situation Room of the White House, the President was listening to a tactical briefing. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was doing the honors.
"We have a division-strength unit at El Paso," he said, flicking a collapsible metal pointer so its end telescoped out and tapped a red triangle below El Paso, Texas.
The President said, "Division. How many men is that?"
"About fifteen thousand."
The pointer flicked north to a blue dot. "And a regiment in reserve."
"That's how many soldiers? Exactly."
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs rolled his eyes as the President held his pen poised over a memo pad.
"Over two thousand, but these numbers are unimportant."
"I'm Commander in Chief. I should know how many troops are in the field. Shouldn't I?"
The chief of naval operations looked to the JCS chair, and the unspoken thought between them was, the Commander in Chief should have taken time to memorize a military table of organization. Preferably before his inauguration.
The door was suddenly flung open in the unmistakable style that telegraphed a typical First Lady's hurricane entrance. Everyone stiffened. Especially the President.
"It's the telephone," she hissed.
"Can't it wait? I'm conducting the defense of the nation here."
"This phone needs answering."
"Take a message."
"I tried. Smith hung up."
"Smith?"
"Exactly."
The JCS absorbed this byplay with growing interest.
"Gentlemen," said the President, pushing back his chair, "you must excuse me."
"Of course, Mr. President."
After he had left the room, the Joint Chiefs of Staff huddled.
"Who's this Smith?"
"I think there's a Smith over at State."
"Don't we have an Admiral Smith, Admiral?"
"I believe we have three."
The door opened and the First Lady shoved her blond head in. Her blue eyes seared them like angry lasers. "That conversation never happened."
"Yes, ma'am," said the Joint Chiefs of Staff, quietly folding their hands as they waited for the President's return.
In the Lincoln Bedroom, the President of the United States sat on the immaculate bedspread and lifted the ringing red telephone from the rosewood nightstand. He took up the receiver and spoke into it, his voice hoarser than usual.
"Smith?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"The line is fixed?"
"As of yesterday. I regret it took so long."
"Glad to have you back. Have you been monitoring the Mexican situation?"
"I have. I also have a matter of grave urgency to place before you."
"What could be more urgent than a U.S.-Mexico showdown?"
"The organization has come to the end of another contract, and I must meet the demands of my enforcement people."
"Is there a problem?" the President asked.
"This is black-budget money, as you know."