"I should say not. And I guess we'll have to alert the White House."

"They already know, sir," the director of Special Operations said. "A copy was sent there as well as to us."

The FBI chief shook his head. "Did he send one to anyone else? The UN or the CIA or the Washington Post? God, doesn't the fool at the committee

31

know we're here to handle these things? If we thought the president should be notified, we'd notify him."

"You've got one out of three, sir," the assistant said.

"What are you talking about?"

"The UN and the CIA didn't get copies but the Post did. So did the New York Times and all the TV networks. Seems the SA.A.E. made enough copies to go around."

"Bloody nice of them, wasn't it?" the director said. He was of the opinion that when he said things like that, he sounded like Sir Laurence Olivier. He'd always wished that during the war he had served in Great Britain so he could have had an excuse to affect an English accent. "Bloody nice indeed," he repeated.

Wonderful, the president thought. Wonderful. To inflation, unemployment, the oil crisis, and our overseas alliances falling apart, I can add the slaughter of the U.S. Olympic team. Reelection? I'll be lucky I don't get lynched.

"Mr. President?" one of his staff said and he looked up in surprise from the note. He had forgotten they were standing there.

"The press wants a statement of some kind."

"It's a crank," the president said. "It has to be." It better be, he thought to himself. / just don't need this.

"I don't think that's the right tack to take with the press, though," his top assistant said.

"All right. How about this? We guarantee- absolutely guarantee-that nothing will happen to any of our athletes in Moscow. Try that. Absolutely guarantee. Make me sound like that football player in panty hose. You know what I mean. That might be good."