Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

"Too many black ants," Salazar replied with an elastic grin.

"Black ants?"

"Everyone wear dark suits and run crazy. All they make is paper and wave tongues. Me, I'd write law saying congresspeople could only meet every other year. That way they'd cause less trouble."

The President laughed. "I can think of at least two hundred million voters who would applaud your idea."

They continued along the course, followed at a discreet distance by two Secret Service agents in a golf cart while at least a dozen others prowled the course grounds. The banter remained cheerful as the President's game went smoothly. After he retrieved the ball from the cup on the ninth green, his score tallied thirty-nine. He considered it a minor triumph.

"Let's take a break before we attack the back nine," said the President. "I'm going to celebrate with a beer. Care to join me?"

"No, thank you, sir. I'll use the time to clean grass and dirt from your clubs."

The President handed him the putter. "Suit yourself. But I must insist you join me for a drink after we finish the eighteenth."

Salazar beamed like a lighthouse. "An honor, Mr. President." Then he trotted off toward the caddy shack.

Twenty minutes later, after returning a call from his chief of staff and downing a bottle of Coors, the President left the clubhouse and joined Salazar, who was sitting slouched in a golf cart on the tenth tee, the wide brim of his straw hat pulled low over his forehead. His hands hung loosely draped on the steering wheel and were now encased in a pair of leather work gloves.

"Well, let's see if I can break eighty," said the President, his eyes glistening in anticipation of a good game.

Salazar said nothing and simply held out a driver.

The President took the club and looked at it, puzzled. "This is a short hole. Don't you think a number three wood should do the job?"

Staring at the ground, the hat hiding any facial expression, Salazar silently shook his head.

"You know best," the President said agreeably. He approached the ball, flexed his hands on the club, arched into a back swing, and brought the head down gracefully but entered into a rather awkward follow-through. The ball sailed straight over the fairway and landed a considerable distance beyond the green.

A perplexed expression spread across the President's face as he retrieved his tee and climbed in the seat of the electric cart. "That's the first time I've ever see you call the wrong club."

The caddy did not reply. He pressed the battery pedal and steered the cart toward the tenth green.

About halfway down the fairway he reached over and placed a small package on the dashboard shelf directly in front of the President.

"Bringing along a snack in case you get hungry?" asked the President good-naturedly.

"No, sir, it's a bomb."

The President's eyebrows pinched a fraction in irritation. "Not a funny joke, Reggie--"

His words suddenly choked off as the straw hat rose and he found himself staring into the indigo-blue eyes of a total stranger.

"Please keep your arms in their present position," said the stranger conversationally. "I am aware of the hand signal you were advised to give your Secret Service people if you thought your life was endangered."

The President sat like a dead tree, disbelieving, more curious than afraid. He couldn't trust himself to speak at first, to assemble the right words. His eyes remained locked on the package.

"A stupid act," he said finally. "You won't live to enjoy it."

"This is not an assassination. You will not be harmed if you follow my instructions. Do you accept that?"

"You've got guts, mister."

The stranger ignored the remark and kept talking in the tone of a schoolteacher reciting class rules of conduct. "The bomb is a fragmentation type that will shred any flesh and bone within twenty yards. If you attempt to alert your bodyguards I will detonate it with an electronic control strapped to my wrist. Please continue your golf game as if nothing is out of the ordinary"

He stopped the cart several feet from the ball, stepped to the grass, and glanced warily at the Secret Service agents, satisfying himself that they appeared more intent on scanning the woods around the course. Then he reached in the bag and pulled out a six iron.