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“You know,” said Laing, “he’s a clever little bugger, and I quite like him. But he really is a terrible fusspot. You’ve heard about his private life?”

A cab went by, empty, its light off. Tea break time. Laing swore at it.

“Yes, of course, the Box ran a check.”

The Box, or Box 500, is slang for the Security Service, MI-5. Once, long ago, the address of MI-5

really was P.O. Box 500, London.

“Well, there you are then,” said Laing.

“Steve, I really don’t think that’s got anything to do with it.”

Laing stopped and turned to his subordinate.

“Simon, trust me. He’s got a bee in his bonnet, and he’s just wasting our time. Take a word of advice.

Just drop the professor.”

“It will be the poison gas weapon, Mr. President.”

Three days after the New Year, such festivities as there had been in the White House—and for most there had been no pause at all—had long died away. The whole West Wing, the heart of the Bush administration, was humming with activity.

In the quiet of the Oval Office, George Bush sat behind the great desk, backed by the tall narrow windows, five inches of pale green bulletproof glass, and beneath the seal of the United States.

Facing him was Lieutenant General Brent Scowcroft, the National Security Adviser.

The President glanced down at the digest of the analyses that had just been presented to him.

“Everyone is agreed on this?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. The stuff that just came in from London shows their people completely concur with ours.

Saddam Hussein will not pull out of Kuwait unless he is given an out, a face-saver, which we will ensure he does not get. For the rest, he will rely on mass gas attacks on the Coalition ground forces, either before or during their invasion across the border.”

George Bush was the first American President since John F. Kennedy who had actually been in combat.

He had seen American bodies killed in action. But there was something particularly hideous, especially foul, in the thought of young combat soldiers writhing through their last moments of life as gas tore at their lung tissues and crippled their central nervous systems.

“And how will he launch this gas?” he asked.

“We believe there are four options, Mr. President. The obvious one is by canisters launched from fighters and strike bombers, Colin Powell has just been on the line to Chuck Horner in Riyadh. General Horner says he needs thirty-five days of unceasing air war. After day twenty, no Iraqi airplane will reach the border. By day thirty, no Iraqi plane will take off for more than sixty seconds. He says he guarantees it, sir. You can have his stars on it.”

“And the rest?”

“Saddam has a number of MLRS batteries. That would seem to be the second line of possibility.”

Iraq’s multilaunch rocket systems were Soviet-built and based on the old Katyushkas used with devastating effect by the Soviet Army in the Second World War. Now much updated, these rockets, launched in rapid sequence from a rectangular “pack” on the back of a truck or from a fixed position, had a range of one hundred kilometers.

“Naturally, Mr. President, because of their range, they would have to be launched from within Kuwait or the Iraqi desert to the west. We believe the J-STARs will find them on their radars and they will be taken out. The Iraqis can camouflage them all they like, but the metal will show up.

“For the rest, Iraq has stockpiles of gas-tipped shells for use by tanks and artillery. Range, under thirty-seven kilometers—nineteen miles. We know the stockpiles are already on site, but at that range it’s all desert—no cover. The Air boys are confident they can find them and destroy them. And then there are the Scuds—they’re being taken care of even as we speak.”

“And the preventive measures?”

“They’re completed, Mr. President. In case of an anthrax attack, every man is being inoculated. The Brits have done it too. We are increasing production of the anti-anthrax vaccine every hour. And every man and woman has a gas mask and a coverall gas cape. If he tries it ...”

The President rose, turned, and stared up at the seal. The bald eagle, clutching its arrows, stared back.