Cloudburst

One ARTICLE XXV

The president nodded to a group of White House servants as he walked past with his entourage, consisting of his COS, Chief of Staff Ellis Gonzales, and four Secret Service agents. The returned smiles from the cook and kitchen help weren’t forced, just strained. It was an effort this early after such a long night to put on a friendly face. Seventeen hours before, those at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue had been answerable to another man, one whom everyone had loved. He was a good man, a grandfather to the nation, and doubly as endearing because of his gentle Southern manner.

The new president was a West Coast native, and, more important, a political maverick who had found his way on to the Democratic ticket a year and half before by dint of his youth and fervor. He, as vice president, had provided a balance with the chief executive, a comfortable symbiosis that necessitated his being relegated to the unseen areas of government. But then that wasn’t uncommon for VPs in the latter half of the twentieth century. The position had, like it or not, become largely a training ground for likely electoral winners after a four- to eight-year grooming period. State funerals and ‘policy reinforcement’ trips to wavering third world governments were the norms of the agenda. It was all very proper, and very safe. What had happened seventeen hours before was not supposed to. It was a variable planned for only in Article Twenty-five of the United States Constitution.

Out the windows on his left he could see three helicopters. They were squat and dark, unlike the presidential chopper, Marine One. “The lawn looks crowded.”

Gonzales looked past his boss as they walked. “Granger came in on one of them. The others…” He shrugged.

They turned right at the end of the connecting hallway to the East Wing, heading away from the north lawn. The pace was set by the president, who found himself walking faster than he normally did and slowed, the four agents in tow adjusting their cadence and stride.

“Everybody here?”

“Yes, sir,” the COS answered without looking up from his folio. He could do that, walk without looking, the same way he had back in high school with the president. There had been many a memorable backpack trip where Ellis had been walking along some backcountry trail in the Sierras with his eyes closed restfully. He called it peace walking, the president remembered.

There was one more turn, to the left, then the entourage entered one of the three elevators to the White House’s lower level, thirty feet below the dew-covered earth. This one opened into a room where a lone Secret Service agent sat behind a wooden desk. He stood when the president exited and returned the nod given him by the nation’s new leader.

The room itself was small, barely twelve by twelve, but its purpose was hidden by the simplicity of design. It was more of a pass way than a room. Overhead and at the upper sections of each side wall were sensors meant to detect everything from metal to high-density plastic, a necessity in the age of strong, composite materials that were suited to the manufacture of weapons as easily as to aircraft structures. The agents called it the radar room, as there were several millimeter-wave radars used within to detect the exotic plastics. Before anyone entered the room, the air in the elevator was passed twice through a ‘sniffer’ element that could sense the smallest amount of explosive materials.

The security had to be unobtrusive, and effective, since the door opposite the elevator led to the situation room, the working nerve center of the White House during times of crisis.

One of the agents opened the door, pulling it outward then stepping aside.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” The chorus from the standing men was new to the president. He had rated only a very courteous “Yes, sir” in his previous capacity. This would take some getting used to.

“Morning.” The president moved to his seat at the peak of the half-oval wooden table.

The situation room, as designed, was a functional area for working, much more so than the Cabinet room almost directly above. Mostly that was because of the reduced number of people that were required to be in attendance. That group was usually made up of the National Security Council and, rarely, a few aides. Through a door to the right of three projection screens there were two other working spaces for added personnel, the National Security Planning Groups, deputies and appointed analysts who could be called upon for information and clarification if needed. There was one group working presently, just five people. Assassination was a crisis, though more bodies could do little to aid the situation. As it was, the NSPG was linked directly to the State Department, CIA, DOD, and, quite routinely, to the four major news networks. If they needed something, it was theirs.

Four coffee tureens were arranged within reach of the seven participants, and pitchers of ice water were also present, though, not surprisingly, they were full. The coffee was half gone.

Bud DiContino was there, two seats from the president. The circumstances might have prevented him from attending as acting national security adviser, but the death of the only other deputy NSA two days previously in a boating accident on the Chesapeake left little in the way of alternatives.

The president had immediately noticed the acting NSA upon entering. “Bud, glad you could be with us. I hear you’re a bit bruised up.”

“A bit, sir,” he answered, forcing a slight smile. “And I’m glad to be here.”

Secretary of State James Coventry, sitting between Bud and the president, put a hand on the acting NSA’s shoulder. “From what I saw you were damn lucky. Damn lucky.”

Being in the inner circle was new to Bud. Deputies, though close to the power center, were never closer than the second ring of chairs in any official meeting. They would sit behind their principal, sometimes two or three of them, and wait until cued to pass forward some needed bit of paper. It was usually a brief of some sort or, if it was a congressional committee hearing, some piece of documentation or evidence. Necessary bullshit, mostly, Bud believed. Politics. It was the nature of the beast.

“They tell me I started down just before the explosions, but I don’t remember that. I think adrenaline wipes out short-term memory. There was enough of it in my veins right then to make an elephant stupid.”

Coventry flexed his jaw muscles as the scene rolled again through his mind. The whole front of the hotel and lobby had been demolished and Bud hadn’t even been cut. Just some bruises.

The president straightened himself against the back of his gray leather chair. He felt tired, and wondered how he looked. If it was like the others in the room, probably like shit. Fifteen of his last seventeen hours had been sleepless and filled with a somber swearing-in ceremony in the Oval Office, an emergency Cabinet meeting as the clock tolled midnight, and several other official meetings with the chairman of this committee and the majority leader of that house. It was a blur, literally, and that couldn’t continue, for him or his Cabinet and close aides. They were human, after all.

“All right, let’s get going.” He slid a stack of his schedule for the day to both sides of the table. “Today’s busy, as you can see, but I want to make something clear,” he said, his tone bringing eyes up from the paper, “I want each of you to schedule some sack time. You all have deputies…” The president caught his mistake as his look passed over Bud. “… or others who can hold down the fort for a while.” He’d make sure that his acting NSA got some assistance. “Understood?”

A staggered recital of ‘Yes, sirs’ acknowledged the request. Or was it a directive? A presidential directive to sleep? Coventry mused.

“Ellis, do you want to start?”

“Certainly, Mr. President,” the chief of staff said. His black hair, however well he might have combed it, never seemed quite right. It had always looked just a little unkempt, even back in their younger days. “I talked to Jeff at Protocol about an hour ago. He says the funeral arrangements should be completed by this evening. It’s tentatively set for Thursday at Mrs. Bitteredge’s request. She wants to wait until the family can all get here.”

“He had kids…how many? Nine…all over the place.” FBI director Gordon Jones shook his head. ‘Two are in Africa with the Peace Corps.”

Bud leaned in. “What about Jeremy’s, Ellis?”

“Thursday or Friday. The family wants a private ceremony. They’re going to fly him back to Montana today.” The COS saw Bud nod acknowledgment and went on. “There’s no official word from the British embassy on the foreign secretary’s funeral yet, but I wouldn’t expect anything on that until later today. We will need to notify them of our representation, sir.”

“Right. I’ll touch on that later. Anything else?” Gonzales shook his head. “Secretary Meyerson.”

“Sir. Mm-uhm. Excuse me. I just can’t shake this flu,” the secretary of defense apologized. As much as he hated to admit it, he did resemble a graying Clark Kent. “General Granger can cover any specifics if need be,” he said, gesturing to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “As for generalities, we’re maintaining a slightly increased state of readiness worldwide — the military jargon is condition Bravo — as a matter of prudence. Some of our higher-risk outposts, like Guantanamo and South Korea, are taking some further precautions. This is standard procedure following any unforeseen event, especially when the upper-echelon chain of command is affected.

“That aspect of the situation went very well. Our system of control over the strategic forces is intact, and the transfer went quite well, considering.”

“How long was an elected official out of control?” the president asked, obvious to point out his concern with thinly veiled words.

“About twenty minutes.”

“And in the interim?”

Meyerson looked to Granger. The smooth-headed soldier— Chrome Dome to his adversaries on the Hill — cleared his throat. “Mr. President,” the four-star Army general began, in his well-known slow-cadenced voice, “our Top Hat commander aboard Looking Glass passed the ball, so to speak, to you as soon as you were confirmed in position. It went damn smooth considering Naycap was off cycle at the time.”

“What is Naycap, and what is off cycle?” the president asked. “Something doesn’t sound right about that.”

You’re right, Granger thought. Maybe he could score some points for the service here. “I’m sure you know what it is. We get used to acrospeak, sometimes. Speaking in our language of military hyphenations and what have you. It’s actually the NAACP. You can see why we modify it. There ain’t much about civil rights to do with it, and we don’t want to offend. It stands for National Alternate Airborne Command Post. It’s the pure military equivalent of your Kneecap, or NEACP— National Emergency Airborne Command Post.” Kneecap was in a hangar at Andrews Air Force Base, ready to leave on two minutes’ notice. Its purpose, like its military counterpart, was to provide a safe aerial command post to direct U.S. forces in the event of a nuclear attack or serious threat. “Up until eighty-seven we had one Looking Glass aircraft up at all times, usually just flying randomly over mid-America. They’d stay up for sixteen hours at a time, sometimes longer if need be. There are two complete crews on each — we have four aircraft — and tanker support can keep them flying until something critical gives out.”

“The routine shifted in eighty-seven, sir,” Meyerson added. The president looked his way, then back to the general.

“The administration at that time, sir, well…if you’ll pardon the critique, they fell into the tunnel-vision syndrome. Since the Russians were starting to play Mr. Friendly it didn’t seem all that necessary to have a Looking Glass bird up around the clock. They decided that just having one on the runway at ready five — ready to take off with only five minutes’ warning — would do. But, as this shows, we don’t have to have a major threat pointing a gun at us to see our triple C get all screwed up.” Granger saw the puzzled look in the president’s eyes, but not on his face. “Command. Control. Communication. In a war, or a near-war situation, those abilities are paramount.”

The general looked at each man. “The scary thing about this is that there was a window of vulnerability for us, and a goddamn big window of opportunity for someone who might just decide to take advantage of the situation.”

“I agree.” The president’s words stopped the exchange cold. Granger turned to face his commander in chief. “The general is absolutely correct. Now don’t sully my hard-earned reputation by granting me hawk status,” he prefaced, hoping the humor would lighten the moment, “but I don’t believe we can afford to be caught with our pants down…ever. Not for a second. Drew, I want around-the-clock readiness of the National Command Authority ensured. If that means flying those Looking Glass planes twenty-four hours a day again, then do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary Meyerson acknowledged the order, calmly but with satisfaction welling inside.

“Anything else, General?”

“No, sir.”

Secretary Coventry caught the visual cue that it was his turn. “Sir, there is nothing out of the ordinary from our embassies. We have, however, received a number of inquiries from governments concerning the timing of the services. Is there any time frame for putting the word out?”

“ASAP,” the president answered. “If that would be proper. Ellis?”

“I’ll have a statement drafted for you. Noon okay, Jim?”

“Fine. Nothing else, Mr. President.”

“Okay. Gordy?”

The FBI director passed a two-page brief to the other participants. The president had received the same report earlier. “This is a preliminary report from the Los Angeles field office. They’re handling the investigation. It’s still in its infancy, but we are getting some good information, though it’s just about all physical evidence from the lab at this point. We were fortunate, however, to have a senior agent on the scene as the assassination happened. He even got a piece of the action and caught some shrapnel. Anyway, he’s heading up the investigative team out there, which gives us a good start.” Jones noticed that each man was about done with the first page of the report, and moving on to the second. “You can see, I take it, that there are a couple of interesting questions raised by what’s come to light thus far.”

“To say the least,” Granger commented. “But some of this is damn thin.”

Herb Landau, the director of Central Intelligence, agreed with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, but for different reasons. Granger thought in his own terms; invariably, Landau knew from experience. His appraisal came from black-and- white logic, whereas the DCI’s doubts came from more of a personal, secret knowledge. Unconfirmed, yes, but the supposition had hit him immediately upon hearing of the assassination. The report, which he had seen even before the president had — thanks to the close relationship between the Bureau and the CIA — added credibility, if not confirmation, to his… guess?

Landau’s guess, if verbalized, would carry weight. He had been a fixture in the government mechanism for forty-seven of his seventy-seven years, though DCI was his first high- level post, one that the late president felt he been too long overlooked for. That was the nation’s loss. His crotchety exterior was as unlike his real self as appearance could be. “The general has a point, though I can’t speak for his thinking on it. I see the information as interesting. Maybe even a little worrisome. But how it can affect our impact on the probe I’m not sure.”

“It’s just preliminary, Herb.” Jones’s tone was agreeable. “But this is the way an investigation starts. A little conjecture has to be the lead after any hard evidence. That’s the natural investigative process.”

“M-16s. LAWs.” Granger scoffed noticeably. “Do you know how easy those are to get on the arms market?”

“Outside the United States, yes, very easy. But internally there’s a pretty tight grip on any missing stock,” the FBI director pointed out.

Bud jumped in. “Wait. That doesn’t fit. How does the Bureau keep track of a missing bunch of weapons. That’s contradictory. If these guys were able to utilize assault rifles and anti-armor weapons to kill the president, then something didn’t work. Somewhere they were able to get the stuff to do all this with.” Bud was a little heated. He had seen the effects. “Tell me — is it easier to smuggle those types of weapons in, or to get them right here? I’d really like to know.”

Jones felt the animosity to his line of reason, but he was a reasonable man and could easily understand the acting NSA’s motivation. “It’s all a matter of circumstance. Sure, there are some military weapons floating around out there, on our own streets, but holders of those stocks tend to try to sell them en masse. That keeps their distribution and storage problems to a minimum. Bringing them in from outside the States is just as easy sometimes, and much harder others. It’s all situational. What my real gist is that once a weapon shows up we have a good chance of identifying the source. That’s tracking. Once we track and pin that person or persons down, then we have a bust.” Jones still talked like a street agent at times. That was natural, considering his twenty-eight years in the FBI. That a street agent had risen to the post of director was highly uncommon in the days of political appointees. “Now, the other side of it: Why and how? It’s pretty clear that there’s a conspiracy of some sort. Two killers just don’t penetrate a security perimeter with the weapons they had unless there was some pretty decent assistance. The mere number of killers — two — indicates the lowest form of conspiracy.” Jones hinted some frustration. “Unfortunately this kind of thing doesn’t lend itself to a quick solution. Every hour past twenty-four it’s going to be tougher to zero in on any other players.”

It was quiet for a few seconds.

“Hell of a security perimeter,” Granger observed sarcastically.

“The Service is working overtime to figure it out,” Jones said. “And no excuses. Somebody screwed up royally.”

Royally. Bud thought that was an understatement. His emotions were running rampant inside, and finally it clicked in him. Sink or swim, Bud. This wasn’t the time for petty emotions to cloud his professionalism. “Somebody on the wrong side was good.”

Landau noted the change in Bud’s tone. He scanned his memory for specifics on the man. Early fifties. Retired Air Force, and a graduate of Colorado Springs. Left as a colonel, wasn’t it? There was more but the director’s once fine memory didn’t retain as well the past few years. His wife told him he was getting foggy. Other factors were affecting it, too, though he wouldn’t admit to that.

“Good may be an understatement,” Landau said. “To pull that off they had to have good intelligence on their target, or targets. Like the director said, they didn’t decide to do this overnight. There was a leak somewhere. Maybe innocent, I don’t know. But this meeting wasn’t even set until a month ago. That’s a short amount of time in the real world to pull off this sort of thing. Hell, I don’t even know if the location of the meeting was publicized much before last week.”

The implications of that were unspoken, but fully understood. Somewhere, someone had access to schedules and the like, and the transfer of that information had cost men their lives.

“Herb, what did you mean by targets?” the president asked. He poured a first cup of coffee before the answer.

“We’re only assuming that the president was the intended target.”

“Who else?” Jones posited. Then an alternative flashed. “The foreign secretary?”

“A possibility,” the DCI agreed, though only in words. It was possible, but not likely. Possibilities had to be explored, though. “We know the IRA has access to the firepower and their networks in this country aren’t bad. It’s mostly prevalent out here, in the East, but…”

Jones wondered if L.A. was looking at that angle. He’d mention it to them.

Landau continued, “And the money end of it” The balding CIA chief held his hand out and rubbed his thumb back and forth across his outstretched forefingers. “They needed money, and lots of it.” He sat back in the chair. His snow-rimmed, gaunt skull made him look sickly, though he had always been a wiry-framed man.

“Exactly,” Jones confirmed. “This wasn’t a couple of Hinckleys. We’re more than likely dealing with some major players here.”

“That could influence our response to this,” Bud added, carefully avoiding the word ‘reaction’.

The president knew the eyes were upon him. At thirty-nine he had a lot to prove, or so some would say. He wasn’t above admitting that he had a great deal to learn. “Bud, I’d like you to put together a list of options we have if this turns out to be what I’m afraid it might, considering what I’ve heard so far. Tomorrow’s good.”

“In the morning, sir.” Bud quickly jotted a few ideas that were fresh in his mind.

“Now, shifting gears a little,” the president began, closing his folio. “I’m meeting with the congressional leaders at eleven. Hopefully that’ll go smoothly. I don’t anticipate anything out of left field. I’m going to ask for some assistance, butt kicking if necessary, to get my nomination for vice president through the Senate. I’ve decided to ask Nate Harmon to accept the job.” He waited, letting the choice settle in. “Any comments?”

“He’ll fly through the process,” the secretary of state noted. “I don’t think there will be much need for ‘butt kicking’ to get the nomination confirmed.” He looked around knowing that there wouldn’t be any disagreements.

“Definitely,” Bud said. “Four Senate terms. He’s squeaky clean and—”

“And old enough to be your father, Mr. President,” Gonzales finished the sentence with a grin.

“As is three quarters of the membership of both houses,” the president responded. There was a unified chuckle.

“His antiabortion stand conflicts with your view on the subject,” Meyerson pointed out, raising the first possible concern. Granger, sitting to his left, knew this wasn’t his area to input. He was a soldier. The vagaries of bureaucratic goings-on were uninteresting to him, and he often found himself cynical when allowed to observe. This wasn’t his place.

“I was no clone of President Bitteredge, if you remember. But he knew that.” He knew a lot. “It was a strength to him to have a — I don’t know — maybe a counterweight of sorts on the other side of the fulcrum. I think Nate Harmon will be a good addition to the administration.”

There was no further discussion on the decision. It was a wise choice. Nathan Hale Harmon had been a constant player in government since the early fifties when he began his long career as a public servant with the State Department. He could have opted to continue as a paid appointee, but allowed himself to be chosen instead for office by his home state of Louisiana. The president expected him to accept and felt that he would be the proper representative at the services in Britain. The others concurred.

With the meeting over, the president rose, as did the others in the accepted show of respect, and exited through the heavy oak-covered steel door. His augmented security detail met him and escorted him and the COS to the Oval Office.

The other participants gathered their things and filtered out, Director Jones leading off to his waiting car. He seemed to be in the most hurry. Granger and Meyerson quietly exchanged critiques of their new boss. There was nothing improper about that, Bud thought. He was doing the same thing silently.

Herb Landau strained against the armrests to push himself up. The doctors had said it would be a matter of months. Spinal cancer was a hideous thing and unfortunately not as painless as some forms of the disease. He walked over to the acting NSA in steps that he forced to appear normal.

“It may not be appropriate,” the DCI began, “but Congrats, Bud.”

He took the director’s hand. The old man still had a hearty grip and shake, which Bud especially felt in his right side. “Thank you, sir, but it’s not official.” The grimace was obvious.

“It will be. Like it or not, he’s going to ask you to be his national security adviser.” The director’s expression changed. “Bad, son?” Landau was genuinely concerned.

“Three broken ribs. Landed on my briefcase.” Bud tapped his Anvil, which he had lifted to the tabletop.

The director, who stood a head shorter than the NSA, brought a closed fist to his own stomach with a thump.

“I broke every rib and both legs on the Lexington back in the big one. It hurt like a son of a bitch for a year, every time I breathed. They can’t tell you how to stop breathing, can they?”

Bud smiled. “No, sir. The tape doesn’t help much either. Just seems to squeeze tighter every time I take a deep one.

“Stick it out, Bud.” The DCI almost made a comment about making sure the wife took care of him, then remembered that the man’s wife had died a few years back. Heart attack, or something. “Listen, son, could you come by my office later today? Say one o’clock?”

“Urgent?”

Landau didn’t want to telegraph the genuine concern he felt. “I’m not quite sure, but I’d feel better if you would look something over for me.”

Bud mentally checked his schedule. He could push back the meeting with the German ambassador a couple of hours or so. “Sure. One’s fine. Is this quiet?”

“I’d appreciate it.” The DCI pulled out his small pocket calendar and made a note to himself. “I’ll have a bird here for you at about half past twelve.”

“Fine.”

A parting handshake, gentler than the first, and the DCI was slowly on his way. As he walked away his gait appeared somewhat shuffling. His own detachment of plainclothes Agency security was waiting in an anteroom near the elevator upstairs. They formed up and escorted their chief to his helicopter.

Bud finished stowing his papers in the case. The lid closed with a sharp slap. Lifting his eyes he saw that he was alone in the room. He hurried out, passing the guard outside without a look.

There were twelve round tables arranged in one corner of the banquet room. Each had at least one phone, one had four, and duct-taped wires snaked along the floor to a temporary junction box just inside the only open door. Contrary to the fire regulations the other four doors that led out of the room were secured, chains and padlocks around their panic bars. But then the hotel was empty, much to the displeasure of its manager.

The makeshift office was temporary home to the FBI’s investigative team, which exceeded two hundred agents, though most were in the field following the scant few leads there were or just arriving in the city. Offices from as far away as New York were sending agents to augment the resources on hand, and that was fine with Art Jefferson. He knew he would need a lot of manpower to sort this one out.

Other government agencies were working with the Bureau, each having a senior representative who reported to Art. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, the government apparatus whose name, when compared to others, most accurately conveyed the scope of its mission, had agents sifting through the debris-strewn street below the 818 and inside the damaged areas of the building. ATF’s work had paid off so far with an identification of the types of weapons used. Now they were trying to find evidence that would aid in identifying the source of the weapons, and, working with the Bureau’s explosive experts, trying to determine the maker of the explosives used in the blast.

Art read over a brief summary of findings prepared by his second, Special Agent Eddie Toronassi, affectionately known as Joker by those fortunate enough to have avoided being a victim of his near legendary practical jokes. Art called him Eddie.

“The shooters weren’t born on the fifth floor,” Art said, sipping from his convenience store cup of coffee. The Hilton’s kitchen was closed. “They came from somewhere.” He looked up. “Where?”

“You got me, boss.” The third-generation Italian-American agent had spent an hour putting the report together. He wanted answers as much as Art. “You know what: These guys were stupid. They did things all wrong.”

Art coughed up a swallow of coffee. “You might find some different opinions on that one.”

“Sure.” Eddie’s eyes, crystal blue like cheap marbles, lit up. “They killed a whole slew of people—”

“A whole slew of people?” Art responded, flipping to the last page of the report: the casualty list. “The president, his national security adviser, the British foreign secretary, fifteen Secret Service agents, six local cops, six government aides — four American and two British — and two bystanders. Twenty-two injured. Shit, Ed. I’d call that a fucking accomplishment.”

“Yeah, but they were sloppy in some ways, and smart in others. Kinda cocky, yet paranoid.” Eddie’s face expressed mild bewilderment.

“What do you mean?” Art leaned back in the swivel chair he had borrowed from the front desk.

‘Take the rifle we found — the parts, anyway. The stamp markings were bored out. I talked to one of the ATF techs, and he said that it must’ve been taken apart and sanitized. And from what he said it’s not easy. It’s not the same as filing down some serial numbers like they did on the receiver. That’s solid steel, so a file does the trick. All that’s there is a shallow gouge. The numbers that are stamped on are a whole different story. When they make the guns there’s a lot of sheet metal used. He says it’s easier to manufacture and—”

“I’m up on how they’re made, Ed.”

“Okay.” Eddie had a tendency to get excited when detail work was needed. It was his forte, and a small embarrassment at times. He continued, “So the stamp in the sheet metal is another identifier. When you file it down you end up with a hole. You’ve gotta practically cut out the stamped part and weld on a patch flush with the rest of the metal. To me that sounds like someone who wants to cover his trail.”

Art continued to listen attentively as Eddie reached across the table and took the bag which forensics had delivered earlier. “Then they’re stupid. Kinda like they don’t care if it helps us ID ‘em. I’m not talking about flaunting anything. Just carelessness… no, indifference. It just didn’t matter.” Eddie shook the contents of the clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a blackened, melted lump of plastic whose previous form had been narrowed down to some type of credit card, though any further specifications were impossible to obtain. “And that…” He motioned to another of the Ziplock bags. A single wallet-size picture shielded by the body was the only contents, showing a young man and an even younger female child, each dark-haired with obvious Mediterranean features. “I mean, we don’t know who the people in the picture are, but it’s a clue. If I was gonna do this, I’d wanna ditch this stuff before I did any shooting.”

“Ed, these guys were suicidal. They didn’t have to hide their identity.”

“Then why clean the weapons? Huh? Why the trouble?”

Art thought for a moment. “Apparently the shooters didn’t give a damn if they were fingered, but they wanted the trail to stop with them.”

Eddie nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking.” He tossed the evidence bag containing the plastic lump on the table. The other one he held up. “You’ve seen the picture?”

“Yeah.” Art took the bag and studied the faces through the plastic. “But I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions.”

“You think it, too.”

“What? That the shooters might have been Arabs? Just because of this.” He slid the bag across the table. “Come on.”

Eddie sniffed a laugh and pulled out a handkerchief. Damn cold! “How’s your jaw?”

The stitches were hard to the touch. “I guess I’m going to have a macho scar.”

“You were lucky.”

Art remembered having been ready to dash across to the 818 just before it blew. “More than you think, Ed.”

Another agent brought in a box of coffees. Eddie took one and slid a chair around. “We’re gonna run dry here in not too long. What’s next?”

“Like always. Who? Who were the shooters and where were they from? How? They got inside the security zone; that is not supposed to happen. How did they do it, and what help did they get?”

“Another ‘Who?’ “ Eddie said.

“Correct. And why? Suicide is something you think about. What pushed them to do this?” The inevitable assumption of some kind of fanatical terrorist bent on death, or glory, or whatever they called it, flashed in Art’s mind. Remember Beirut. Those people were crazy. And the picture. He couldn’t let a snapshot of two Middle Eastern-looking kids influence him right now. It could help, though.

Art exhaled heavily through his nose. “We have to start with ‘Who?’ The other stuff is going to all come from that.”

“So we’ve got two guys, almost surely male.” Eddie pulled the flimsy lid off the cup. He never could stand drinking through those flip-up openings. “We have nothing on a physical makeup yet.”

“Who has the bodies?”

“You mean the pieces,” Eddie corrected. “The county coroner. Stan is with him. You know he told me the only way they could tell right away that there were two bodies was the arm count. They found parts of three.” He laughed. “Maybe it was one guy and he was a Medusa or something.”

“You’re sick, Toronassi.”

The conversation was interrupted by another agent. “Sir, they want you outside.”

A minute later Art and Eddie were standing at the base of what had been the original rubble pile, which was now divided into several smaller mounds of debris as the sifting progressed. They looked up at the gaping hole in the front of the 818. Floodlights, still providing illumination in the early-morning din, outlined the damage. A full four floors were literally gone, blown out both front and back of the tall structure. Art wondered what times out here were like when the 818 was really a tall building. Now it was dwarfed in the shadows of its steel-and-glass successors to the east, and barely rose above some of the buildings along the Wilshire corridor to the west.

“Best guess so far is fifteen pounds of C-4,” Eddie said, referring to a military-use explosive. “Hellish.”

Art didn’t respond. He just turned away, amazed that anything had survived as evidence.

“Sir,” an overall-clad agent said.

“Jefferson.” Art extended his hand, not recognizing the agent.

“Agent Mike Stafford” came the reply, very formal and businesslike. “San Diego forensics.”

“Right. You work with Dan La Verne.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s a good guy. Has he still got that enormous dog?”

“Irish wolfhound, sir. He calls him Sir Galahad. I met the mutt at a barbecue he threw out at his ranch near Fallbrook.”

“What do ya know. Small world. What have you got for us?”

“This.” He reached into his breast pocket.

Eddie smiled. “Bingo!”

Art took the bag, smaller than the evidence holders. It held a single key, which appeared to be untouched by the blast. “Where did it come from?”

“Embedded in a piece of buttock we found a little while ago,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Over there. The location makes me think it was one of the bad guys. We found some other parts there earlier. This was deeper.”

“In his ass. Can you beat that.” Art held it up to the light cast by the floods. “Awfully clean.”

Stafford shrugged. “It was probably in his back pocket. We were able to pull some fibers out with it. Those might help us, but that…not with body oils and the like. We couldn’t pull a print, or even a partial off of it in a million years. I thought you guys might be able to use it.”

They could. Art turned to his second. “There’s no marking on it.”

“We could tell what model from the book,” Eddie said. “Hell, there’s probably a locksmith around here who could tell us quicker than that.”

“In a while. We can move on it now. This means they drove here.”

That was almost a surety, Eddie thought. “I’d bet on it. And if they drove here…”

“Right.”

Minutes later they had twenty agents redirected to several locations within walking distance of the 818.

The young Irishman set the one Samsonite down on his right and knocked four times as he had been instructed. They said four, didn’t they? After pausing thirty seconds he knocked again, three times. There was no answer, which meant he could proceed. He inserted the key and opened the door to the modest second-floor flat. The front room was furnished comfortably, he noticed, but he did not linger to enjoy the decor. An easy kick closed the door behind him. The hall ahead led to the bedroom, or so it should if his instructions were correct.

They were. He laid the one Samsonite at the head of the single bed, and the other at the foot. The key to the flat was left on the one at the head.

He gave the room a look from where he stood. It was nice. Nicer than anything he’d ever lived in. The colors were peach and blue, and the only window was catching the afternoon light. Back to his duty. He opened the second suitcase and removed its contents: a leather shoulder bag and a cloth sack which held the valued contents. As per his instructions he put the sack into the shoulder bag and closed the case. On his way out he noticed that the flat lacked some of the small things that came only with occupancy. Pictures and the like. This piqued his curiosity but did not break his discipline. He resisted the urge to explore, which was natural, having never been far from Belfast before.

With the brown leather bag slung on his right he exited the flat, locking the door before closing it behind. He could feel the other key in his shirt pocket without having to touch it. But he was nervous and ran a hand up just in case. In case what, you fool? You already locked the bloody door! To himself he shook his head. Iain would have to pass this one on to him.

The other flat was a half a kilometer away. He would leave the shoulder bag there and drop the key in the WC. Then, he would be on his way. The underground would be near, as would a bus stop. He would try the underground, he thought. It would be fun. Just a phone call left to place in a few hours. It wasn’t really work, then, was it, lifting up a telephone? It was all the better, though. He understood the need for a routine.

It’s not too bloody bad, this job.

He looked little like a soldier at the moment. He was, in actuality, much more. The shorts were military-issue swim trunks, but the T-shirt, emblazoned with a neon Nishiki logo on both the front and back, was non-regulation. That was excused, even expected, at the Stockade, the former military jail, which at present, and for the past decade and a half, housed the world’s most elite counterter-rorist force: Delta.

“Gotcha!” Captain Sean Graber blurted out. He had been at Demon Ninja for over an hour already and had, as yet, made it through only two of the twelve known levels. There would be more, he knew. New computer games from the Demon series had never disappointed him.

“Slay a nuclear robot or something?” Buxton asked. He was a lieutenant, right below Graber in team seniority, and he dressed equally as comfortably.

“A dark lord,” Graber answered without looking. “You want a try next, Chris?”

“Yeah, right.” Buxton snickered and went back to his book.

The eight men of Charlie Squad, Special Operations Detachment Delta, had been on alert since 1330 the previous day. That was a precaution and basically it required the team to be near their barracks — the unit rec room in this case — and have their gear ready. The latter was accomplished soon after the alert in the indoor firing range. They all checked the sighting and performance of their three standard weapons. Any special needs would be taken care of as required.

“Captain.” It was Major McAffee.

Graber paused the game and came to a relaxed attention, as did Buxton. “Sir.”

“The rest of your squad, Captain — where are they?” McAffee looked all business. He wore the old-style olive drab BDU — Battle Dress Uniform — but not the favored baseball-style cap.

“Back of the building. I think it’s a game of three on three.”

Blackjack, as the major was informally known, eased his stance. It was his job to ensure instantaneous readiness of the team on alert, and it was doubly important to him since he would lead any team that went into action. He was second in command of the ground forces of JSOC — Joint Special Operations Command.

The major noticed the computer was on, the image of a sword-wielding white knight frozen on the twenty-six-inch screen. “A good guy, I presume.”

Graber looked over his shoulder, smiling away from his superior. “A good guy, sir, of course.” The smile now was obvious to the major. “Good guys are always in white.”

McAffee wouldn’t allow a smile, though he wanted to.

“I’m sure you mean clothing, Captain.” The major’s skin was a dark chocolate brown, and there was a rumor among the team that his nickname was race-related, though they couldn’t figure out how or why. “Or are you referring to my tan?”

“Clothing, sir. Naturally.”

“Good.” The major heaved his chest out exaggeratedly and cocked his head to the side, pretending to examine the blond-haired captain. “You’re looking pale, Captain. Kinda pasty I must say.” His head shook, then he turned and walked out. “That boy’s gotta see the doc,” he said just outside the door, then he was gone.

“That’s one for the maj, Sean,” Buxton said, his own face covered with a wide grin. “Pasty! That’s a good one.”

Graber shook it off and laughed at the exchange. Mock verbal battles could be a hell of a good time. It was the real kind that scared you shitless.

“Okay, level three…watch out!”

On the seventh floor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters, DCI Herb Landau was at work behind his light oak desk, which jutted out from a wall unit of bookcases and framed the director with the scene of the damp Virginia country behind him. Lines of rainwater trickled along the double window, which ran half the length of the wood- paneled wall and was more a transparent continuation of the wall than a true window. It did not open and its layered, tinted surface made the inclement weather seem more ominous than it truly was. It was the first good rain after summer. Landau had his chair swiveled and was watching the storm.

A knock at the door was a courtesy as Deputy Director, Intelligence Greg Drummond strolled in carrying his soft briefcase, one that he used only inside the Agency’s secure building. It made transferring sensitive files easier and less cumbersome than using the pyro-lock leather-over-steel attaché case required when transporting such material outside the confines of Langley. The DDI’s office was three doors down from the DCI’s, but he was a stickler for security procedures, and dutifully put the copy of the requested file in his case.

His boss smiled when he entered, stretching his hand across the nearly barren desk. Those were two of the things that made working for Herb Landau pleasant: He always greeted you with a handshake when first seeing you for the day, and he was impeccably organized. Work on his desk was in neat, square-edged folders, which found their way back to the file cabinet when he was through with them. Personal items were few. A picture of his wife of fifty-two years, Adella, and one of the entire family: six children, seventeen grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. And there was the clock. It was a gift from his longtime friend, the late president, upon his confirmation by the Senate as the Director of Central Intelligence, and it was as indicative of Landau’s thoughts on decor as anything could be. A simple wooden-cased timepiece, no bigger than a normal windup alarm clock, with two hands and a crescent moon which turned bright at night and dark in the daytime.

“Morning, Herb.”

The DCI glanced at the clock. Its sleeping moon face stared back. “Hardly, Greg. Is he here yet?”

The DDI nodded and pulled two chairs close to the desk and sat down, wondering why the director’s chairs were more comfortable. His domain in the Agency was the Intelligence Directorate, whose role and territory were all those things that collected, gathered, or generated intelligence data for the nation. Analysis of the data was also his turf, and, surprisingly to some, he had no idea how many people actually worked for him. Often the other major directorates — Science & Technology and Operations — overlapped with Intelligence and each other, but their primary roles were what their names indicated. Intelligence calls were his.

“Did you bring your copy?” Herb motioned to the case.

“Sure did.”

A security officer knocked, then opened the door for the guest. Bud DiContino entered. His hands were free, having left his briefcase on the Executive UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter, which would wait for him on one of Langley’s five marked pads. Another seven were routinely used some distance away from the official ones.

The DDI stood to greet the acting NSA. “Mr. DiContino, I’m Greg Drummond.”

“How are you doing?” Bud shook his hand, then the seated DCI’s. “I met you at the assessment conference at Meade a month ago, right?”

“That’s right,” Drummond answered. He liked the acting NSA, but had no overt reasoning for his feelings. He just seemed to be, at least, not a bastard, like so many appointees could be. “You did a good job. That was nice stuff on the low-grade-warfare concept.”

“That was my area of so-called expertise in the Air Force. Stealth technology and the like. Hell, that’s going to be the way of the next war.” Bud took the seat offered by the DDI, who sat down also.

“Next war.” Landau grunted, shaking his head. “Why do we always seem to be able to look forward to those instead of away? Hell, we’re supposed to be benefiting from the greatest thaw in superpower relations in fifty years, and we can still see ourselves at war! Oh…don’t mind me, Bud. I’m just an old fart who’s seen too many last wars, big ones and small ones. Believe me”—he brought a finger down on the desk for emphasis—“men die in any war, and one is too many, at least from what I’ve seen.”

“Yes, sir…” Bud began.

“No, please. I’m old enough without the ‘sir.’ It’s Herb.”

“Certainly,” Bud agreed, though calling the DCI Herb would take some getting used to. “What I mean by ‘next war’ is the probability of small, contained regional conflicts. If we get involved in those conflicts we’re going to need technology that will minimize our risks. The country won’t be ready to accept heavy casualties from any of these small actions. The Gulf War proved that it can be done, and damn decisively. Stealth and other technologies played a big part. I mean, if we can place a conventional and powerful smart weapon on a target from five or six hundred miles away, or hundreds of these weapons, then we can effectively fight the most dangerous part of any action — the beginning — from a safe distance. There are many, many uses for this kind of technology. But then that point is moot when you look at the cutbacks in R&D. That’s the one war the Congress usually wins.”

“You’re a convincing speaker, Bud, and you know the limits of rhetoric. I like that.”

Bud smiled at the DCI’s compliment. “Thanks, Herb.”

“How was the helo ride?” Drummond asked.

“Fine. I’m not used to a decked-out Blackhawk.”

It was Landau’s turn to smile. “Get used to it. This time tomorrow you’ll be official.”

“That’s not definite,” Bud said, knowing that it probably was.

The DDI reached for his wallet. “I’ll lay money on it.”

“Damn right,” Landau said. “Like I told you this morning, do yourself a favor and get up to speed on the idea of it.”

Bud was flattered but didn’t show it. Couldn’t show it He didn’t want to seem cocky. At fifty-two he felt younger than the DDI, who was a babyish forty-three, a result of the new-kid-on-the-block syndrome. He was a newcomer, and he could deal with that. As the DCI said, he was almost certain to be the new NSA, which went against conventional wisdom. That didn’t bother him because it obviously didn’t concern the president, who had requested him to arrive a half hour before the two P.M. NSC meeting. He would then be “official” for that meeting. The position was officially known as Adviser to the President for National Security Affairs, and had fortunately been condensed to the more widely known designation of National Security Adviser — NSA to the ‘in crowd.’ Press were the only ones to use official and full titles.

“Herb tells me you’re from Colorado. Snowmass, wasn’t it?” The skier in Drummond believed he had found another person with whom he could swap downhill stories.

“Born and raised,” Bud proudly affirmed. “I never got back there enough after Colorado Springs.”

“Air Force Academy — do any flying?” Drummond was probing for another of his passions. The DCI watched the two men with little knowledge of their apparent shared interests. He hated snow, and his experience with aircraft was limited to his duties as squadron painter aboard the old Lady Lex back in World War II.

“Four years in F-105s, mostly Wild Weasels.”

“Nam?”

“Yep. Two years of that was enough for my lifetime. I did not, repeat not, enjoy flying suppression for 52s. Down on the deck is definitely not the way to gain a love for the beauty of flight, especially when the guys you’re supposedly covering are forty thousand feet above you.” Bud didn’t go into the link he saw between his early career and Stealth technology. B-2s don’t need Wild Weasels.

“Sorry to interrupt, boys, but are either of you hungry?” The DCI’s illness hadn’t taken away his appetite. “Bud?”

He looked at his watch.

“Don’t mind the time,” the DDI reassured him. “Our mess is good and fast.”

“Sure, then.” Bud was hungry, not having eaten since a late dinner the previous night.

Herb nodded and took the phone. The sandwiches arrived five minutes later with a large pitcher of water and a smaller one of iced tea. Bud took a corned beef on rye, with a smile from the other men who chose the ham and Swiss on wheat. His first bite gave away the reason for their mild amusement.

“The executive cook has a thing for hot mustard,” Drummond shared with a chuckle.

Bud finished his bite and washed it down with a gulp of iced tea. “Obviously.”

The men finished the light meal in ten minutes as the cordial conversation was interrupted by the food and frequent drinks to quench the fire in Bud’s mouth. As the steward removed the tray and dishes, leaving the drinks on a separate tray, the atmosphere echoed the seriousness of the coming conversation. Bud could feel it.

The DDI opened his case and removed a single file. It was not unusual, except for the red-and-green label in the upper right-hand comer, under which was an acronym, MSRD, which Bud had become familiar with during his work on the Stealth program. It stood for Most Secret, Restricted Distribution. The red-and-green markings identified its ‘owner’ as the CIA. Each government agency with sensitive material was issued a color code. The CIA had this one, the Defense Intelligence agency was red and blue, the State Department was yellow and orange, and so on. This was intended mainly to prevent the mixing of files, and each page was also color-coded the same as its folder. Bud knew that the MSRD designation meant that fewer than ten pairs of eyes were authorized to view the material. Actually, he was to become only the fourth living human to have the right to know the contents of the manila folder.

“I don’t need to remind you about security, Bud,” the DCI began, signaling for Drummond to hand the file to the newcomer, “so we’ll just get to it. There are only two copies of this: I have one and Greg the other. They have never left either of our offices except in our own possession, and when they have it’s only been between our offices. When we aren’t in our offices they are kept in our personal safes. We know each other’s combinations, as does the Deputy Director of Operations Mike Healy, but he is not privileged to this information. Bud, the president is not privileged to it.”

Something was up, Bud thought. The president was cleared for everything. Or maybe…

Landau continued, “Now, to my point. First, you better read what’s in the file.”

Bud opened the folder, looking to both men before he began reading. There were only four double-spaced pages, which he finished in less than three minutes. He spent another two minutes reading over the second page.

His eyes came up from the paper, though not to meet the others’. “Did Jeremy know about this?”

The DCI nodded.

“Jesus… This was dated to last December, and this last part just a month ago. Was the president informed?”

“He was, yes, about the last part, but he vetoed any measures that would have compromised the source,” Landau answered. He knew Bud wouldn’t ask about the source. “Jeremy didn’t even want him informed because it would take away presidential deniability. We convinced him to at least inform him of the risk to himself.”

Bud was incensed. “Who the hell authorized this operation?”

“We don’t know,” Drummond replied. “There was no finding or authorization; no hard copy other than the Eyes Only brief that you’re looking at. Somehow it missed the shredder and ended up in a case file. The officer who the file belonged to — he was stationed in Sicily — left the Agency after the inauguration.” He carefully avoided letting on to the officer’s role in Italy. “There’s no way to tie him to this since it was a stateside report, probably dictated. It ended up in his file…” Drummond shrugged. “…mistake, maybe. A stupid oversight. It’s even conceivable that it was intentionally left unshredded for future purposes, but that’s a paranoid’s view. It’s among the possibilities.

“The best we’ve been able to do is run the trail back here, to this office.” Drummond saw Bud’s lips part slightly as the enormity of the situation continued to sink in. “The typewriter used for the first three pages is right there.” The DDI pointed to the DCI’s machine on the oak rollaway behind and to the right of the desk.

“That’s a photocopy you’re looking at,” Landau informed him. “The original is in my copy of the file.”

“So, what you’re saying, and what this information describes, is that the former director—”

“Correction, Bud,” the DCI interrupted, “the former upper apparatus of the Agency, probably including the DDI at least, and probably the DDO.”

Many had been surprised when the entire executive structure of the Agency had left after the new administration won the election. Now Bud knew why. “Okay. So they initiated a covert operation upon their own authority, without presidential approval or congressional knowledge. And this! Christ, were they totally oblivious to the possible ramifications?”

“Not anymore,” Landau responded. “Unfortunately they’re no longer with the Agency and even if they were, the trail they left is nonexistent, except for my predecessor.”

“Doing anything now would be counterproductive,” Drummond said, shifting in his seat. The whole damn thing made him uncomfortable.

“Counterproductive?” Bud raised his voice. “The action initiated by that…that man more than likely was the direct cause of the president’s death, not to mention the others.”

“Whoa there”—the DCI raised his hand to his front—“as much as you and I and Greg here find this distasteful, we can no more bring this into the open than the president could have taken precautions to safeguard his own life. If we do, a very important asset of ours would likely be compromised, and that would be counterproductive. This asset has given us a hell of a lot of vital intelligence on terrorist movements and intentions, including what just happened. But that is not confirmed — officially.”

“Unofficially?” Bud asked.

The DCI thought for a second before answering. “My predecessor apparently didn’t buy the colonel’s feigned humanism. Neither did I, for that matter, but the solution proved to be more of a catalyst than an end-all. Hell, he got us back. Grammar school-style revenge. Tit for tat. We wagged his tail and he pulled ours clean off.”

“And we take it. Has there been any confirmation on the success of our…” Bud hated to even imply ownership in the rogue operation. “… endeavor?”

“Nothing definitive,” Drummond replied. “But the colonel has been lying low. Very low.”

“There has been a resurgence of activity at the old training camps,” Landau noted.

That figures, Bud thought. “It appears we convinced the colonel that change was futile.”

There was a quiet in the room as Bud again looked down at the open file on his lap. He flipped the pages quickly, wondering who exactly had thought of the plan, and beyond that, what genius had decided to carry it out. This was precisely the reason for controls on covert operations, the process of which was supposed to begin with the president and move quickly to Congress, or at least to the small number of congressional leaders known as the ‘gang of eight.’ It was required by law as spelled out in the Intelligence Oversight Act. Sometimes Congress wanted too much control over executive actions, Bud believed, but this would have been a perfect time for some knowledge of the operation.

“So,” Bud began, “you want me to decide whether the president is to be informed of this. Am I correct?”

The DCI’s answer was silent, but obvious. He detested having to be the custodian for his predecessor’s dirty work. Damn them!

“Your recommendation, Herb?”

“If you inform him there is no deniability. His lack of action against a former government official who has violated several federal statutes can be construed as obstruction of justice. If he does decide to take action then we open up a new can of worms.”

“It’d make Iran-Contra look like The Peoples’ Court” Drummond added.

Bud was angry. “Is it just because I spent twenty- five years of my life as an honorable military officer that that word—deniability—has a decidedly sinister ring to it? Or has it become a concept, something our political leaders must have? A fallback tool instead of that old standby: responsibility? I tell you, gentlemen, this kind of garbage… I don’t know.” There was a long pause. “I imagine we’ll be dealing with this for a period of time to come.”

“Who knows,” the DCI said, lifting his hands in a gesture of wonder or futility. Bud couldn’t tell which.

Bud closed the folder and ran the long edge between his thumb and forefinger. It felt slick, almost wet, and the rough edge, neat and straight from its limited handling, was sharp enough to cut skin. He handed it to the DDI, who looked to the director before returning it to his case.

There was a curse that came with knowledge. If Bud were to let it stop here, with him, it might be over, and any crucifixion for nondisclosure could be absorbed by him. But that held as much appeal as his old days in Wild Weasels. Soaking up the heat for someone else went against his grain, and that was what would be truly counterproductive. The truth was that it was just too risky to inform the president. Bud could take the rap if it ever did come out, but suspicion would always lead to the president. The damage would be done — and severe. But then it might just bury itself.

“It’s a no-win situation,” Bud observed. “A shitty no-win situation. All in all I’m glad you filled me in, but I didn’t expect it to start like this.”

“D.C. is no Disneyland,” the DDI pointed out. “This is not a fairy tale.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Bud’s sarcasm was directed to no one. “I guess I should have expected less from the brochures.” He rubbed his smooth upper lip while thinking, but the decision was already made. He was just trying to reconcile it with his conscience. “Okay…this stays in this room. If it ever becomes necessary I will inform the president myself. My gut tells me otherwise, but this seems like the best course.” Bud stood, as did the DDI. “I just hope it is.

“Well, I’ve got to get going.” He didn’t but he had to get out of that room. Out of that building.

“Bud, thanks for coming over.” The DCI offered his hand. Bud accepted it, shaking the DDI’s next.

“Thank you, Herb…Greg. Maybe next time it’ll be something mild, like an increase in Chinese SSBN deployment.”

The DCI laughed. “Okay. We’ll see if we can arrange that for you.”

The acting NSA left and was airborne a few minutes later, heading back to the White House through an early-autumn storm. Drummond returned to his office, leaving the director of Central Intelligence alone at his desk. He turned again toward the window and thought for some time of the topic at hand. It made him mad as hell that someone with his authority could go off like a loose cannon and leave the mess for others to clean up. But that was the reality of government. That drew a private smile. His predecessor was enjoying a lucrative slot on the lecture circuit, reportedly pulling down twenty grand a speech. A couple of engagements would buy a lot of coffins.

Maybe, though, it would be over now. Who could pay? No one, he believed, so what was the point in looking back. It was over. Done.

He could not have been more wrong.