I DON'T KNOW what to tell you, Mr. President.” Robert Tidwell was in charge of the president’s security detail.

     “Well, Bob, we can’t just cancel all public appearances -- not with the election coming up.”

     “Like I said before,” Tidwell said, “unless you’re willing to wear paper straw hoodie-footie pajamas, we can’t guarantee your protection.”

     “What about paper shields?”

     “That would help,” Tidwell said, “but they can’t defend against sound from above or below.”

     “You could do floor mats for below, couldn’t you?” The president was reaching.

     “That’s true,” Tidwell agreed, “but there’s still the matter of sound from above.”

     “How about an umbrella?” Now the president was grasping at straws -- paper straws to be exact.

     “On a sunny day?” Tidwell questioned. “Walking up to the podium? Kissing babies?”

     “So you’re telling me only indoor events?” The president could live with that -- maybe literally.

     “I’m telling you, he’s got you by the short hairs,” Tidwell said. “This guy surgically disabled seventeen drivers as they sat behind the wheels of their cars -- without affecting drivers in cars to their right or left.”

     “But I’m safe in the motorcade, aren’t I?”

     “I believe the general may have spoken too soon.” Tidwell popped that balloon. “All the metal surfaces have a layer of protection built in. But the glass may be vulnerable.”

     “Then that would also be true of the White House and Air Force One!” The president was beginning to lose confidence in his general. “Can’t you have it tested?”

     “We’re working on it,” Tidwell answered, “but creating directional sound is not like a high-school science fair project. All of the members of the team -- that is, the team that developed this weapon -- are dead: three of them as a direct result of working on this project. And the only prototype we have blasts anything alive in its path for five miles.”

     “We’ve gotta catch this guy,” the president surmised. “That’s all there is to it.”

     “That’s proving to be about as easy as catching bin Laden,” Tidwell said. “This guy has pretty much unlimited access to unmarked cash. He’s already demonstrated the ability to be dozens of different people in dozens of different places when he’s out and about.”

     “He wants me to pardon him. We oughta be able to do something with that.”

     “Are you willing to meet with him?” Tidwell asked.

     “Somewhere in a public place -- with sharpshooters trained on him,” the president answered, “Sure.”

     “We know he has that website that he probably checks periodically,” Tidwell offered. “We could set up an invite. Where would you want to meet him?”

     “Remember when the vice president and I went out for burgers?”

     “We got a lot of flak on that, Mr. President, when some of the bloggers calculated how much those burgers ended up costing. And the people who normally frequent that part of town were a little peeved when they couldn’t be there for six hours.”

     “Set up a meet with me, the attorney general and him. Same place,” the president suggested. “And let him pick the date -- so long as it gives us enough time to secure the area, if you know what I mean.”

     “The message will be on his site this afternoon.” Tidwell thumbed the note into his Blackberry.