SIXTY TWO.

    The entire security team was tense. Twenty or so protestors stood on the other side of the heavy black steel gate, but that's not what concerned Uri Doran, the man charged with protecting Israel's Ambassador to the United States of America. It was the camera crews, two of them to be precise. Doran had been with Shin Bet, Israel's internal security service, for eighteen years. The organization was the rough equivalent of the Secret Service and the State Department's Bureau of Diplomatic Security. He'd learned over the years that cameras were far more dangerous than any bullhorn, sign or brick.

    Through simple editing, he and his people could be made to look like jackbooted thugs.

    The Metropolitan Police had dispatched two squads to help deal with the crowd, but their presence did little to abate Doran's worries.

    He'd watched Washington's finest in action before, and with a record number of law suits for police brutality in the past few years, the men and women in blue were not about to forcibly subdue unruly protestors and put their careers in jeopardy. To make matters even worse, Washington was a town filled with professional protestors who knew exactly when and how to provoke a confrontation. When forced to move, they were prone to pratfalls and overly dramatic wails of pain as if their limbs were being twisted to the point of breaking. All of this was done, of course, right in front of the cameras to elicit maximum drama for the nightly news audience.

    Doran clutched his tiny digital two-way in his hand and looked out across the embassy grounds at the protestors. For now they were acting somewhat civilly, but as soon as the Ambassador's armored limousine began to move they would go nuts and rush the gate. For a moment he longed for his days in Argentina when the police would simply turn the water cannons on the crowd and be done with it. This was America, however, and he could hope all he wanted, but such a thing would never happen.

    Sitting out the storm would be the best course of action, but the Ambassador had told him this was not possible. His presence was requested at the White House, and given the current state of affairs, it was a request he could not ignore. One of Doran's men had suggested sneaking the Ambassador out the back way, in one of the security sedans, but the head of the detail had dismissed it for two reasons. The first was that the Ambassador was too vain to show up at the White House in a mere sedan, and the second was that none of the sedans were as safe as the Ambassador's armor-plated gas guzzler. They would just have to gently inch their way through the crowd and fix the dents and scratches later.

    Doran stepped back into the embassy to find Ambassador Eitan nervously pointing at his watch. The Shin Bet officer reluctantly nodded and brought his radio to his mouth. He alerted his team that the Ambassador was coming out and then after waiting a moment he escorted the Ambassador out the door and quickly into the backseat of the black Cadillac.

    The random course to the White House had been chosen and the lead and chase sedans were in place. The heavy vehicle rolled slowly toward the gate. From his position in the front seat Doran could see the protestors begin their surge. Doran resisted the urge to grab the Uzi submachine gun from under the dash. They were simple protestors and nothing more, he told himself. He radioed his team, reminding them to stay calm. They'd been through it before.

    The gates slowly started to open and the group immediately pressed past the four police officers trying to hold the line. Doran's orders were specific in one regard; if any protestor was foolish enough to try to run through the open gate they were to be immediately brought to the ground. Having witnessed the efficiency of Doran's men before, all of the protestors stopped short of the curb. The lead sedan nudged its way through the crowd, creating a path for the limousine, which stayed right on the sedan's bumper.

    The protestors collapsed in around the limousine and began acting like berserk chimpanzees on some safari tour gone bad. They were hammering the limo with their signs, and although Doran couldn't see it, they would also be scratching the paint job with car keys. Out of nowhere came an object that caused Doran to freeze. He could do nothing but watch. It was against all standard security procedures to open the door. The metal cylinder was hoisted over the shoulder of one of the police officers and then a mist of bright orange paint began to coat the front windshield and the side of the car as the limousine kept moving.

    As the three-car motorcade broke free, Doran swore to himself and pressed the transmit button on his two-way, telling his people back at the gate to make sure the culprit was arrested. He would press charges this time and make sure the idiot received the maximum penalty allowed by the American courts.

    The Ambassador would want to stop now and clean the paint.

    Under no circumstance would he want to arrive at the White House with a freshly vandalized limousine. Doran would put his foot down this time, though. There was no way he was going to stop in a non secured area to clean the car. The Secret Service had a pressure washer available for just such a problem and it could be taken care of in mere minutes in a very secure environment.

    The limousine's internal phone buzzed and Doran picked it up.

    "Yes." He listened to the Ambassador complain for a few seconds and then said, "No." The Ambassador was used to getting his way. He began to demand that the car be cleaned. When the Ambassador had run out of breath, Doran said, "Mr. Ambassador, we are not stopping, and that is final."

    Doran hung up the phone and let out a frustrated sigh. He dreaded the confrontation that would take place later when they got back to the embassy, but he knew he was right. It was his job to worry about security, and the Ambassador's to worry about diplomacy.