The director drifted up to the President and whispered into his ear, "We have a man in jungle fatigues crawling along the North Lawn on all fours."
The President ran to a window.
"Is that him down in the fountain?" he asked.
The director looked. "I'm afraid so, Mr. President."
The First Lady joined them, peered down and asked impatiently, "What's that lizard doing in my foun-"
"Lizard?" the director asked.
"If that mop of white hair doesn't belong to Gila Gingold, I'm Eleanor Roosevelt."
"That's who we think it is, too."
"Let's deal with this quietly," the President told the director of the Secret Service.
"No," countered the First Lady. "Let's call in the press. If the Republican whip has gone off his rocker, it should lead the evening news."
"Not on your life," said the President.
"Who wears the pants in this family?" the First Lady said.
"That doesn't matter. I wear the Presidential pants."
The First Lady stormed away, muttering, "Wait until I'm President."
"Where are you going?" the President called.
"To get my Nikon. If I can't have this on the news, at least I'll get snapshots for my White House scrapbook."
Rolling his eyes for the director's benefit, the President repeated, "Deal with this as quietly as possible."
"That will be difficult, sir. He tried to bite us. Snapped at our heels like a junkyard dog."
"Now you know how the First Lady and I feel," said the President. "Come on. Maybe I can talk sense into him."
"I don't recommend this. It could be a trick to lure you out into the open."
"If the Republicans want me out of office that badly, they're welcome to take their best shot."
The director turned green as he followed the President to the narrow White House elevator.
"GILA, IS THAT You?" the President called uneasily as he approached the fountain gingerly.
From the vantage point on the second floor, the House minority whip had looked absurd. Now, face-to-face, the President found himself shivering under the baleful, unwinking glare of one of his chief political adversaries.
"Gila, whatever's troubling you, I think we can talk it out, just you and me."
The green eyes continued their unnerving unwinking staring.
"Whatever our differences, we both want what's best for this country. Why don't you come out before you catch your death?"
The half-submerged head dropped lower in the cold water until only the eyes peered out from the wet white mop. Slow bubbles formed.
"Better step back, sir," warned the Secret Service director. "Last time he bubbled like that, he took a run at us."
"Good idea," said the President, taking a step backward.
The green eyes narrowed suddenly.
With a ferocious flailing, the white-haired man surged up out of the water. On all fours, he cleared the space between the pool and the Chief Executive too fast for anyone to react.
Strong white teeth clamped over the President's right ankle. He let out a howl of pain.
"Shoot him! Shoot him!" the director cried, hoarse voiced.
"Don't you shoot anyone!" the President, recognizing through his pain that he was in the line of fire.
Secret Service agents staggered back, trying to get a clear shot, their faces going ghost white.
On the dry grass, the President and the minority whip were threshing and struggling madly. The President slapped at his tormentor's hair with no effect.
"Shoot to wound!" the director ordered.
"Stay still! Stay still, Mr. President," Jack Murtha pleaded.
"Get him off me!" the President howled, eyes wide with horror.
Up above, the First Lady was snapping pictures with a flash camera as fast as she could press the shutter release.
Fingers tightened on triggers, but before a hammer could fall, the agents suddenly felt their spines fill with ice. They thought it was a symptom of their own horror. But their weapons fell to the ground a half beat apart.
The director demanded, "What's wrong with you two?"
"I am," a squeaky voice said from behind the two agents.
And while the director's attention was distracted, Remo Williams swept down the darkened lawn and brought the side of his hand down on the back of the minority whip's threshing neck.
Gila Gingold relaxed immediately.
Pulling the President out from under his dead weight, Remo whispered, "Smith sent us."
"Thank God. I thought he was going to tear my foot off."
"Who spoke? Who said that?" the director said, trying to see past his frozen agents.