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Opfer bolted from his chair and rushed over to see what was happening. The agent at the bank of radios said the president “had shots fired at him,” and the supervisor told Opfer to inform Mrs. Reagan that there had been an incident at the Hilton. As he raced for the stairs, he heard over his radio that the motorcade had changed course and was heading to GW. He knew the agents wouldn’t divert to the hospital without a good reason, which meant the president was almost certainly injured.

Now Opfer was desperate to reach Mrs. Reagan before she heard about the incident from someone else. He was certain that if he arrived even a few seconds behind the news, he’d be chasing the first lady across the White House driveway as she ran for the hospital. If he had learned one thing in the past few months, it was that Mrs. Reagan was her own woman. Especially in a crisis, she would never take orders from him. So it was critical that he get to her right away, approach her with extreme care, and somehow manage the situation as it evolved. Above all, he had to protect her from acting impulsively and putting herself in harm’s way. He knew she would stop at nothing to be at her husband’s side.

Opfer’s heart pounded as he took the stairs two at a time to the third floor of the residence and the White House solarium. As he neared the door to the solarium, he tried to calm down. Then he put on his best poker face, opened the door, and walked up the ramp leading into the room.

As Opfer entered, the first lady was talking to Ted Garber, the Reagans’ decorator, and Rex Scouten, the chief White House usher. When Opfer caught Mrs. Reagan’s eye, the first lady seemed puzzled; then as she walked toward him, her expression became anxious, and suddenly he felt certain that she knew that something awful had just happened.

In his calmest and most measured voice, Opfer told her, “There was a shooting when the president was departing the Hilton hotel. My information is that your husband was not injured, but others have been shot. The president is going to the hospital.”

The first lady’s eyebrows furrowed and she instantly seized on the obvious question. “George, why would they be taking him to the hospital if he wasn’t hurt?”

“It’s just precautionary,” he replied, hoping that this invention would allay her fears until he could learn whether a trip to the hospital would even be safe. For one thing, he worried that other assailants might target Mrs. Reagan or anyone trying to approach the hospital; for another, he knew nothing about the president’s condition. If he’d been seriously wounded, it might be traumatic for the first lady to see him.

“Besides,” the agent added, “maybe he is insisting on seeing the condition of the other people who were wounded.”

Before Opfer could utter another word, he was looking at Nancy Reagan’s back. She was hurrying for the elevator.

“I’m going to the hospital,” she said. “If you don’t get me a car, I’m going to walk.”

“No, let’s wait and see what happens,” Opfer said, following her. “It’s a madhouse over there. He’ll probably be coming right back to the White House any minute.”

“No, I’m going to the hospital,” she said.

“Once we get the all clear, I’ll take you over,” he said.

“No, I’m going now,” she replied.

There was no point in arguing. “Okay,” Opfer said. “How about this, give me a couple of minutes to have the cars ready and we can go.”

“Fine,” she said.

With Opfer leading the way, they took the stairs down to the ground floor. Then they headed for the diplomatic entrance to the White House, where the first lady’s two-car motorcade would assemble. He could hear Mrs. Reagan right behind him—she was nearly clipping his heels.

“George, when are we going?” He heard a note of panic in her voice.

“As soon as the cars are ready,” he answered.

By now Opfer had radioed instructions to prepare the motorcade. When the two agency sedans pulled up outside the diplomatic entrance, Opfer took his place in the front passenger seat of