The Camel Club

CHAPTER

16

OLIVER STONE HAD RETURNED to his cottage and attempted sleep, but the night’s extraordinary events rendered that act impossible. He built a small fire to battle the chill in the air and sat and read until dawn, though his thoughts continually wandered to the death of Patrick Johnson. Or rather, murder. Then he made some coffee and had a bit of breakfast. After that, he spent the next several hours attending to his duties in the cemetery. As he weeded, cut the grass, cleared debris and cleaned off aged tombstones, he focused on how close he and his friends had come to losing their lives last night. It was a feeling he’d had many times earlier in his life, and he’d learned to deal with it. Now it would not go away so easily.

After he’d finished his work, he went inside the cottage and showered. Looking at his appearance in the mirror, Stone made a decision; only he didn’t have the necessary tools to implement that decision. Caleb and Reuben would be at work by now. And he just didn’t trust Milton to do the job properly.

There was really only one alternative. He headed to Chinatown.

“Adelphia?” Stone called out. It was forty-five minutes later, and he was standing outside her apartment, which was situated over a dry cleaners. “Adelphia?” he said again. He wondered if she’d already gone out. Then he heard approaching footsteps and Adelphia opened the door, dressed in a pair of black pants and a long sweater, her hair pulled back in a bun. She looked at him crossly.

“How you know where I live?” she demanded.

“You told me.”

“Oh.” She scowled at him. “How did meeting go?” she said irritably.

“Actually, there were a few surprises.”

“What is it you want, Oliver?”

Stone cleared his throat and launched into his lie. “I’ve thought about your advice about my appearance. So I was wondering if you could give me a haircut. I suppose I could do it myself, but I’m afraid the result would be worse than how I look right now.”

“It is not so bad you look.” This comment seemed to slip out before the lady realized it. She coughed self-consciously and then gazed at him in mild surprise. “So, you take my advice?”

He nodded. “I’m going to get some new clothes too. Well, new in the sense that they’ll be new to me. And shoes.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “And the beard? That thing that makes you look to be, how you say, that Rumpelstein person.”

“Yes, the beard will go too. But I can shave that off myself.”

She waved dismissively. “No, I do. I have dreamed many times of disappearing that beard.” She motioned him into her apartment. “Come, come, we do it now. Before your mind it is changed.”

Stone followed her in and looked around. The inside of Adelphia’s apartment was very clean and organized, which surprised him. The woman’s personality seemed far too impulsive and fractured to manufacture such order.

She led him into the bathroom and pointed to the toilet. “Sit.”

He did so while she busied herself with getting necessary instruments. From where he was sitting Stone could see a shelf in the hallway that held books on many subjects, a few in languages Stone did not recognize, though he had spent many years traveling the world.

“Do you know all those languages, Adelphia?” he asked, pointing at the books.

She stopped assembling her tools and looked at him suspiciously. “And why would books like that I keep if I could not read them? Does my apartment look so big that I keep things I no use?”

“I see your point.”

She draped a sheet over him and knotted it behind his neck.

“How much cutting is it you want?”

“Over the ears and off the neck will do nicely.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Absolutely sure.”

She started clipping. Finished, she combed his hair into place, gelling down a few stubborn cowlicks. Next she attacked his thick beard with her shears, whittling it down quickly. Then picked up another object.

“It is this I use on my legs,” she said, holding up a lady’s razor. “But it will do too for your face.”

When he saw what he looked like in a small mirror Adelphia handed him after she’d finished, Stone almost didn’t recognize his reflection. He rubbed at facial skin he had not seen in years. With the bundle of long, scraggly hair and beard gone he noted that he had a long forehead with stacks of wrinkles and a smooth, slender neck.

“It is a nice face you have,” Adelphia said sincerely. “And your neck is like baby’s skin. Me, I have got no nice neck. It is old woman’s. Like the turkey. ”

“I think you have very pleasing features, Adelphia,” he said. Stone was still looking at his face in the mirror, so he didn’t see her blush and quickly look down.

“You have visitor last night.”

Stone glanced up at her. “A visitor. Who?”

“A man in suit. His name it is Fort, or is something like that. I not remember exactly. He say to tell you of his coming by.”

“Fort?”

“I see him talking to those men, the ones across the street. You know him, Oliver. The Secret men.”

“The Secret Service. Do you mean Ford? Agent Alex Ford?”

Adelphia pointed at him. “That is it. A big man he is. Taller than you.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Only that he say hello.”

“What time was this?”

“Do I look like keeper of time? I tell you he say hello.” She hesitated. “I think it is midnight he come by. It is nothing else I know.”

His mind now preoccupied with this latest news, Stone hurriedly rose and took off the sheet. “I would like to pay you,” he began, but she waved this offer away. “There must be something I can do to return this kindness.”

She glanced at him sharply. “There is a thing you can do.” She paused and he stared at her curiously. “We get the café sometime.” She added with a scowl, “When you not have big meeting in middle of night.”

Stone was a little taken aback but decided what was the harm in talk and coffee? “All right, Adelphia. I guess it’s time we did things like that.”

“Then that is good.” She put out her hand for him to shake. He was surprised by how strong her long fingers were.

As Stone walked along the streets a few minutes later, he thought about his late night visitor. Alex Ford had been closer to Stone than any of the other Secret Service agents. So his visit could be simply a coincidence.

Stone headed to a nearby Goodwill store. There, with the money Reuben had given him, he purchased two pairs of dungarees, a pair of sturdy walking shoes, socks, shirts, a sweater and a faded blue blazer. The clerk, whom he knew well, threw in two pairs of brand-new underwear.

“You look years younger, Oliver,” the man commented.

“I feel it. I really do,” he answered. He returned to Lafayette Park with his purchases to make a quick change inside his tent. However, as he started to enter his little sanctum, a voice called out.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, bud?”

Stone looked up to see a uniformed Secret Service agent staring at him. “That tent’s already occupied, so move on.”

Stone replied, “Officer, this is my tent.”

The guard walked over to him. “Stone? Is that really you?”

Stone smiled. “A little less hair and a little less beard, but, yes, it’s me.”

The guard shook his head. “Who you been to see, Elizabeth Arden?”

“And who is this Elizabeth woman?” a female voice cried out.

They both turned to see Adelphia striding toward them and looking at Stone accusingly. She was still dressed in the same clothes as earlier, but her hair was now down around her shoulders.

“Don’t get your conspiracy theories in a wad, Adelphia,” the guard said playfully. “It’s a spa where you go to get all pretty. My wife went there once, and let me tell you, for what it cost, I’ll take the woman just the way she is.” He chuckled and walked off, as Adelphia edged up to Stone.

“You would like to go for a café now and talk?” she asked.

“I would love to but I have to meet someone. However, when I get back.”

“We will see,” Adelphia replied in a disappointed tone. “I too have things to do. I no can wait for you all the time. I have job.”

“No, of course not,” Stone said, but the woman had turned and stormed off.

Stone slipped inside his tent, changed and put the rest of his newly acquired clothes in his knapsack. He wandered through the park until he found what he was looking for in a trash can: the morning newspaper. There was nothing in the paper about a body being discovered on Roosevelt Island; it had obviously occurred too late to make the morning edition. He found a payphone and called Caleb in his office at the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress.

“Have you heard anything, Caleb? There’s nothing as yet in the papers.”

“I’ve had the news on all morning. All they’re saying is that Roosevelt Island is closed due to an investigation of an undisclosed nature. Can you come down here around one o’clock so we can talk about it?”

Stone agreed and added, “You’ve taken precautions?”

“Yes, and so have the others. Reuben’s at work but he called on a break. I spoke with Milton. He’s staying inside his house. He’s really terrified.”

“Fear is a natural reaction to what we all saw.” And then Stone remembered. “Uh, Caleb, you might not recognize me immediately. I’ve changed my appearance somewhat. I felt it necessary because I was the most likely to have been spotted by the killers.”

“I understand, Oliver.”

Stone hesitated and then added, “Since I’m fairly well presentable, would it be possible for me to meet you in the reading room instead of outside the building? I’ve always wanted to see the place, but didn’t want to, well, embarrass you at work.”

“Oliver, I had no idea. Of course, you can.”

As Stone walked to the Library of Congress, he thought about Patrick Johnson’s killers. They would know soon that the eyewitnesses had not gone to the police. And they might see an opportunity there that could lead to the extinction of the Camel Club.

CHAPTER

17

ALEX PULLED HIS CAR OFF THE George Washington Parkway before it ascended sharply along the Potomac River, and parked in the lot for Roosevelt Island. The only access to the island from the parking lot was a long footbridge.

The parking lot was filled with police cruisers and unmarked federal vehicles. A team from the D.C. Medical Examiner’s Office was here as well as an FBI forensics squad. Alex knew he’d be running a gauntlet of suits and uniforms by the time their visit was over.

“Busy place,” Simpson commented.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun to see the Bureau and the Park Police fight out jurisdiction on this one. The D.C. cops will run a distant third.”

They stepped onto the bridge and flashed their credentials at a guard posted there.

“Secret Service?” the uniformed cop said, looking a little confused.

“President sent us. Top secret stuff,” Alex answered, and kept on walking.

They quickly made their way to the crime scene along the marked paths. As they drew closer, Alex caught snatches of conversation and the sounds of cell phones playing a cacophony of downloaded tunes. Alex was proud of the fact that his phone simply rang when someone called him.

The two agents stepped into the paved area in front of the T.R. statue, where Alex looked around, mentally assembling the players working the homicide.

The D.C. and Park Police stood out because of their uniforms and somewhat deferential manner. The forensics techs were also easy to spot. The suits standing around looking like they owned the place were the Bureau boys undoubtedly. Yet there were some other suits Alex couldn’t identify.

He stepped toward what he’d picked out as the ranking park policeman. Getting the uniforms on your side was a very good rule to live by.

“Alex Ford, Secret Service. This is Agent Simpson.”

The policeman shook their hands.

Alex inclined his head at the body. “What do we have so far?”

The cop shrugged. “Probable suicide. Looks like the guy shot himself in the mouth. We won’t know for sure until the M.E. does the post. The guy’s in full rigor. We can’t get his mouth open without screwing things up for the autopsy.”

“That the FBI over there?” Alex inclined his head at two suits standing near the body.

“How’d you guess?” the cop said with an amused expression.

“Superman capes sticking out of their jackets,” Alex replied. That comment drew a chuckle. “How about those guys?” he asked, pointing at the other men he’d noted earlier and who were talking quietly together.

“Carter Gray’s boys from NIC,” the man said. “They’re probably analyzing what Al Qaeda has against Teddy Roosevelt.”

Alex grinned and said, “You mind copying us on whatever you find? My boss is one of those real anal-retentive types.”

“Sure thing, though we don’t have much interest in the case so far. His wallet’s still on him, and there’s a suicide note and a handgun with one round fired. And it looks like the guy sucked down nearly a quart of Scotch. You can still smell it. There’re prints on the gun and bottle, and the revolver’s registered to him. We’ll run the prints to confirm they match the deceased.”

“Gunpowder residue on the hand?” Simpson asked.

“None that we could see. But the weapon looks very new and well maintained. And even with a revolver you may not get residue.”

“Any sign of a struggle?” Alex asked. The cop shook his head.

“One thing,” Simpson said. “Did he drive here to do the deed?”

“No car in the parking lot,” the cop said.

“Well, somebody could have shot him and driven off,” said Simpson. “But if it was a suicide, how else could he have gotten here?”

“There’s an elevated pedestrian bridge on the north end of the parking lot that crosses the GW Parkway and connects to the Heritage Trail and Chain Bridge,” the cop said. “And a bike path crosses the bridge and ends in the parking lot for the island. But we don’t think that’s how he came. Somebody would’ve seen him if he’d used those routes.” He hesitated. “We have another theory. His clothes are soaked, too much for it to be just dew.”

Alex finally got it. “What? You’re saying he swam here?”

“Looks that way.”

“Why? If he was in the water already and wanted to commit suicide, why not just go out by sucking in a bunch of the Potomac?”

“Well, if he just swam across Little Channel from the Virginia side, it’s not very far,” the cop pointed out.

“Yeah,” Alex retorted. “But if you’re going to come from that direction, why not just take the footbridge that goes over Little Channel, instead of sloughing through it? And if he was stone drunk, he would’ve drowned.”

“Not if he drank the Scotch when he got here,” the cop answered. “And there’s something else.”

He called out some instructions to a member of the forensics team canvassing the area. The man brought over something and handed it to the cop, who held it up. “We found this.” It was a plastic evidence baggie with another plastic baggie inside it.

Alex and Simpson studied it. Alex got the answer first. “He used this to put his gun in so his ammo wouldn’t get wet while he was swimming here.”

“You win the prize. It was a .22 revolver with jacketed rounds.”

“I understand there was a suicide note,” Alex said.

The cop pulled out his memo book. “I wrote it down verbatim.” He read it to the two Secret Service agents, and Simpson copied it down in her notebook.

“Do you have the original note?” Alex asked.

“And you are?” a strident voice asked.

Alex turned and was confronted by a short, compact man in a two-piece Brooks Brothers, muted tie and shiny banker wing tips.

Alex flashed his creds and introduced himself and his partner.

The man barely glanced at the creds before announcing, “I’m FBI Special Agent Lloyd. We already have agents from NIC here to represent the Service’s interests.”

Alex assumed his beleaguered federal lawman pose. “Just following orders, Agent Lloyd. And quite honestly, the Service likes to rep its own interests. I’m sure the Bureau can understand that losing someone from N-TAC is a sensitive area, what with us being part of Homeland Security instead of Treasury now.” Alex knew that Homeland Security carried a lot more beef than Treasury ever had in law enforcement circles. And if nothing else, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla Bureau tended to respect the nine-hundred-pound gorilla that Homeland Security had become.

Lloyd looked like he was going to shoot back some ripping comment but then seemed to think better of it. He shrugged. “Fine. Go play Sherlock Holmes. The body’s right over there. Just don’t contaminate the crime scene.”

“I really appreciate it, Agent Lloyd. I was asking about the note that was found.”

Lloyd motioned to one of the other FBI suits, and the note was brought over.

Lloyd said, “They’re going to fume the clothes and other stuff for latent prints, but I’m not confident they’ll find much. It’s a suicide.”

Simpson spoke up. “Cloth isn’t great for capturing latents, but that jacket he’s wearing isn’t a bad surface, particularly since it was damp and the weather last night was good for holding prints. Your tech guys have a Superfume stick in the truck? You can’t beat cyano for popping latents on surfaces like that.”

“I don’t know if they do or not,” Lloyd said.

“It might actually be better if you take the clothes to the lab. You can fume them in a heat-accelerated chamber or a megafume. I know the FBI lab has those.” She pointed to the suicide note. “Pop that in a heat chamber with ninhydrin or DFOSPRAY, and it’ll pull whatever’s there right out.”

“Thanks for the pointer,” Lloyd said tersely, although it was obvious he was impressed with her knowledge of fingerprint lift techniques.

Alex looked at Simpson with new respect, and then his gaze returned to Lloyd, who was staring darkly at her.

“You’ll need to confirm it’s his handwriting on the note,” Alex added.

“I’m aware of that,” Lloyd said.

“I can get the Service’s lab to run it. And whatever fingerprints that might be there.”

“The FBI lab has no peer,” Lloyd shot back.

“But our lab has less of a backlog. We are on the same team here, Agent Lloyd.”

This comment seemed to strike some cooperative nerve buried deeply within the stubborn FBI man. After a few moments his manner totally changed. “I appreciate that, Agent Ford.”

“Make it Alex, she’s Jackie,” Alex said, inclining his head at Simpson.

“Good enough, I’m Don. We’ll actually take you up on that offer. The FBI lab is pretty full with terrorist-related matters. You’ll have to sign for it for chain of custody. The M.E.’s a stickler for that.”

Alex did so and then examined the paper closely through the plastic before giving it to Simpson to hold. “So we have any motive for the suicide? I heard he was getting married.”

“That’ll sure drive some men to kill themselves,” the cop said.

That comment drew a laugh from everyone except Simpson, who looked for a moment like she might pull her gun and produce some dead men of her own.

Lloyd said, “Too early to tell. We’ll investigate, but it certainly looks like Patrick Johnson killed himself.”

“No signs of anyone else having been here?” Simpson asked.

The cop answered, “There might have been, but then fifty schoolkids came marching through. It was still foggy here this morning. They almost tripped over the body. Scared the crap out of them. The stone pavers here won’t be of much help for footprints or other trace.”

“What path did he use to get here?” Alex asked.

“Probably that one.” The cop pointed to his left. “If he swam across Little Channel, that path would’ve been the one he’d use after he walked through the trees and crap.”

Lloyd added, “We’re making a search along the shore for his car. He lived in Bethesda, Maryland. He had to drive down here reasonably close and then swim for the island. If we find his car, we can better pinpoint where he entered the water.”

Alex glanced toward the Virginia side. “Guys, if he swam across Little Channel, the only place to leave his car would be in the parking lot.”

The cop shrugged. “But he didn’t. Unless someone drove him to his suicide spot and then left. That doesn’t make much sense.”

“The police boat usually runs through here,” Simpson noted.

Lloyd nodded. “They did in fact come by here last night. But the fog was so thick they didn’t see anything, certainly no swimmer in the water.”

“How long has he been dead?” Alex asked.

“M.E. thinks about twelve hours give or take.”

“Any thoughts on why he picked Roosevelt Island?”

“It’s private, quiet, but still close to everything. And maybe he was a Roosevelt groupie,” Lloyd added. The FBI agent glanced over at the men from NIC, frowned and then turned back to Alex. “We’ll be heading over to NIC to ask some questions, see if we can find out why Johnson would want to kill himself. What we learn might get those guys” — he motioned to the NIC folks — “a little more paranoid than they already are.”

“Meaning Johnson might have been doing something at NIC he shouldn’t have?” Alex said.

“Hard for me to say, since I’m not really sure what it is they do over at NIC,” Lloyd commented before walking off.

“Join the club,” Alex muttered. He motioned Simpson to follow him over to the body. “Your stomach gonna be okay with this?” he asked her.

“I was a homicide detective in Alabama. I’ve seen plenty of gunshot wounds and dead bodies.”

“I didn’t know Bama was such a killing field.”

“Are you kidding? Alabama has more guns than the entire United States military.”

Alex squatted down and looked at Johnson’s body. He felt one of the stiffened arms. The sleeve was soaked through, and the body was still in full rigor.

There was dried blood coming from the ears, nose and around the mouth.

“Basilar fracture,” Simpson deduced. “The blood seeps down from the base of the fractured skull. The M.E. will probably find the slug near the top or the back of the head. Since it was only a .22 caliber, he would’ve had to really shove it up there to get a clean trajectory.”

“There’s some blood spatter on the sleeve but only one small blood drop on the right hand,” Alex added. “That’s a little surprising.”

“Yeah, but sometimes there’s less bleeding when the slug stays in the head.”

“Probably right.”

Over his shoulder Alex called out, “Where was the gun and note found?”

The cop answered, “Gun was on the right side of the body, about six inches away. The note was in the right side pocket of his windbreaker.”

When Alex rose, he bit back a searing pain in his neck. It almost always gave him a jolt when he stood quickly. Simpson looked at him.

“You okay?”

“Old yoga injury. What do your Alabama homicide detective instincts think?”

Simpson shrugged. “I learned that the prelim manner of death was usually right.”

“That’s not what I asked you. What does your gut say?”

She spoke quickly. “That we need to know a lot more before we close the book on this one. This wouldn’t be the first case where the preliminary findings were misleading.” She nodded over at the NIC guys. “I doubt they’re going to be very cooperative.”

Alex stared at the men. If there was one agency that was more shrouded in secrecy than the CIA and even the NSA, it was NIC. He could easily envision the roadblocks being erected with a foundation of national security interests outweighing everything else. While it was true that the Secret Service used that tactic at times, Alex had a lot more confidence in his agency invoking that authority properly. He wasn’t nearly as comfortable with NIC chambering that particular silver bullet.

“So what do you think?” Simpson asked him.

Alex studied the ground for a long minute and then looked up at her. “Not to sound too selfish about it, but I think this is going to be a pain in my ass that I don’t really need at this point in my career.”

As Alex and Simpson were leaving Roosevelt Island, the two men who’d been identified as being with NIC hustled over to them.

“We understand you’re Secret Service,” the tall blond one said.

“That’s right,” Alex replied. “Agents Ford and Simpson out of WFO.”

“I’m Tyler Reinke and this is Warren Peters. We’re with NIC. Since Johnson was a shared employee between our two agencies, it’ll probably be best if we work together.”

“Well, it’s pretty early on in the game, but I don’t mind sharing so long as I get something in return,” Alex answered.

Reinke smiled. “That’s the only way we play the game.”

“Okay, so can you arrange for us to interview the people Johnson worked with?”

Peters said, “I think so. Do you know anyone at NIC?”

“Well, you’re the first two I’ve ever found who would admit you worked there.”

Both Reinke and Peters looked a little chagrined at this comment.

“Here’s my card,” Alex said. “Let me know when you’ve got it set up.” He pointed to the bagged note in Simpson’s hand. “We’ll also run a comparison on the handwriting on the note, to make sure it’s Johnson’s.”

Peters said, “I actually wanted to talk to you about the note. We’ve got lots of handwriting experts on staff. They can turn that around pretty fast.”

“The Service can get it done quickly too,” Alex countered.

“But NIC has a hundred samples of Johnson’s handwriting at work. I’m just offering to help make things go faster. Cooperation is the key these days, right?”

Simpson piped in, “That note is evidence in a homicide investigation. The M.E. might have a problem letting you take it. It’s one thing to give it to the FBI or Secret Service, we’re sworn law enforcement.”

“Actually, we are too,” Reinke said. “And I’ve already talked to the M.E. and pointed out that there are national security interests here. He was fine with us taking custody of it so long as the chain of evidence was properly maintained.”

“Well, I’m sure that scared the hell out of him,” Alex said. He pondered for a moment and then shrugged. “Okay, let us know ASAP. And check it for prints too.”

After Peters had filled out the appropriate paperwork with the M.E., he gingerly took the note. “Carter Gray’s going to be on the warpath. Probably already is.”

“I can see that,” Alex replied.

After the NIC men had left them, Simpson asked, “So what do you really think?”

“I think they’re assholes who’re gonna pitch my card in the nearest trash can.”

“So why’d you give them the note, then?”

“Because now that they have control of material evidence in a homicide case, that gives us a great excuse to go to NIC and see things for ourselves.”

CHAPTER

18

CARTER GRAY HAD RISEN AT six-thirty and arrived back at NIC forty-five minutes later. In the NIC lobby were a series of stark black-and-white photos that every employee had to pass each day. One showed the World Trade Center towers ablaze. The photo next to it graphically captured the rubble and empty space where the towers had stood. The crippled Pentagon was in the third photo, a hole punched in its face by the American Airlines jet. A fourth photo showed the stark crater in the Pennsylvania field, the final resting place of the doomed United Airlines flight. The picture beside that one captured the blackened and blistered skin of the White House where two rocket-propelled grenades had hit and actually entered the East Room of the president’s house, and the one next to it showed the devastation of the Oklahoma City bombing.

These horrific pictures continued down one side of the NIC lobby and then marched down the opposite wall. For many, though, the last photo was the most devastating. Virtually all of the victims had been under the age of sixteen, their lives ripped from them by a squad of four suicide bombers who detonated simultaneously during a special ceremony overseas honoring America’s best and brightest schoolchildren. They had won the trip to France because of their academic prowess and stellar community service back home. They returned to the States wrapped in coffins instead of accolades.

“Never forget,” Gray had lectured his people. “And do all you can to make certain these things never ever happen again.”

NIC kept an unofficial tally of how many lives and property had been saved by its stopping potential terrorist attacks in the United States and overseas. The estimated number of deaths prevented stood at 93,000 Americans and 31,000 foreigners, and the value of property saved at nearly $100 billion. No one outside the highest intelligence circles knew of these statistics; certainly, the American public would never know, and for good reason. If they ever found out how many “near misses” there had been, the American people would probably never leave their homes again.

Gray rode the elevator to the same floor as he had the night before but entered a different room. In here were five men and two women seated around a rectangular conference table. Gray sat and opened a laptop in front of him.

“Results of last night?” he said.

“Al-Omari refused to cooperate,” one of his lieutenants answered.

“Not that surprising actually.”

“About al-Omari’s son, Mr. Secretary, do you want us to take him?”

“No. The boy can stay with his mother. A child needs at least one parent. ”

“Understood, sir,” the man said, acknowledging the death sentence just handed out to the unfortunate father.

“Take one week, and by any means at your disposal you will extract as much useful intelligence as possible from Mr. al-Omari.”

“Done,” one of the women said.

“Ronald Tyrus, our resident neo-Nazi?” Gray asked.

“We’ve already started debriefing him.”

“And the others?”

“Kim Fong has given us a confirmed lead on a shipment of a new-generation explosive allegedly invisible to airport X-ray. According to him, it’s being smuggled into L.A. next week.”

“Follow it to the buyer. I want the scientists, equipment and their financial backers, the whole spectrum. The others?”

“None of them would cooperate.” The man paused. “The usual exit strategy?”

Each of the people in this room had worked with Gray before in some capacity and stood in awe of the man. They had collectively made decisions and taken actions that were illegal and often immoral as well. Over the years these highly educated and trained men and women had been given orders to find and kill those persons deemed to be enemies of the United States; and they had dutifully carried out those commands, because that was their job. Yet the potential death of another human being, while certainly not new territory for this group, never failed to garner their respectful attention.

“No,” Gray said. “Let them go, but with tracers. And let it be known through discreet channels that they’ve talked to the authorities.”

“The result will be they’ll be killed by their own people,” the other woman present said.

Gray nodded. “Film the murders. We’ll use that as leverage. And if they won’t turn to our side, terrorist killing terrorist never fails to make the six o’clock news. Okay, give me the latest.”

The man charged with responding to this query was the youngest person in the room. However, in many ways he had more experience in the field than most agents far his senior. Tom Hemingway looked just as dashing and was dressed just as impeccably as he had been last night at the LEAP Bar. He was a rising star at NIC and its reigning expert in Middle East affairs. He also had an excellent grounding in the Far East, having spent the first twenty years of his life in those two places with his father, who’d been a U.S. ambassador, first to China, then Jordan, and, for a brief time, Saudi Arabia, before returning to China.

Because of his father’s travels, Tom Hemingway was one of the few operatives in American intelligence who could speak Mandarin Chinese, Hebrew, Arabic and Farsi. He had read the Qur’an in its original Arabic and knew the Muslim world as well as any American other than his father. It was these attributes, plus physical and mental indefatigability and a gift for spy craft, that had fueled his meteoric rise through the ranks to his current position as one of Gray’s inner circle.

Hemingway clicked a key on his computer, and a screen hanging on the far wall sprang to life showing a detailed satellite-imaging map of the Middle East.

He said, “As outlined here, CIA and NIC operatives on the ground have made significant inroads in Iran, Libya, Syria, Bahrain, Iraq, UAE and Yemen as well as the new Kurdish Republic. We’ve infiltrated over two dozen known terrorist organizations and splinter cells at the deepest levels. All are on track to pay big dividends.”

“It helps when your field agents aren’t all blond and blue-eyed who speak no Arabic,” one of the other men commented dryly.

“Well, for decades that’s all we had,” Gray shot back. “And we still don’t have nearly enough operatives who can speak the language.”

“Kabul and Tikrit aren’t exactly popular career paths these days,” commented one of the men.

“What are the losses currently running?” Gray asked.

“Two operatives killed per month,” Hemingway answered. “It’s as high as it’s ever been, but with more reward obviously comes more risk,” he added.

Gray responded, “I can’t emphasize enough the importance of getting these people out safely.”

There was a murmur of largely unenthusiastic agreement around the table. Middle East terrorists dealt with suspected spies very directly. They filmed the beheading of the person and released it to the world to dissuade others from replacing the fallen. It had proved a very effective strategy.

“We’re losing soldiers over there at the rate of a dozen a day, seven days a week,” Hemingway pointed out. “And with the new front that just opened on the Syrian border, the casualty rate will only get worse. Meanwhile, the Muslim independence movements in Chechnya, Kashmir, Thailand and Mindanao are allowing the spread of radical Islamic ideology to grow unabated. And Africa’s a whole other problem. Most of northern Nigeria had adopted strict sharia law. They’re stoning women to death for committing adultery and cutting the limbs off petty thieves. The terrorists’ recruiting and training operations are largely conducted over the Internet, and they use identity theft and other scams to hide their movements and conduct financing through the hawala system of informal money transfers. There’s no centralized command for our military to hit. Clandestine, undercover operations are the only viable strategy.”

“There’s a democratic government in power in Iraq, duly elected by the people,” another man said. “Despite suicide bombers and bullets flying everywhere, the people came out and voted. And look at the gains in Lebanon, Kuwait, Afghanistan and Morocco. In fact, democracy is slowly spreading across the region. That truly is a miracle and something both we and the Muslim community can be proud of.”

Hemingway looked at Gray. “It’s cost this country half a trillion dollars and counting to get to the election stage in Iraq. At that rate we’ll be bankrupt in five years. And when the Kurds declared their independence, it hardly set well in Baghdad. And the Sunnis may not be far behind in revolting from the Shia control. Meanwhile, the Baathist exiles and foreign insurgents are continuing to escalate the violence. On top of that, word is the Iraqi government will soon be asking the U.S to leave because it’s struck a deal with the Baathists for a bloodless coup. And then the Baathists will fight a final battle with the insurgents who favor a Taliban-style government. Iraq will end up far more destabilized than it ever was, with a legion of newly minted terrorists ready to attack us. So what has our money and the blood of our soldiers really bought us?”

Gray said, “I’m aware of that. We knew the day would come. Unfortunately, from our side we really can’t leave. The situation is far too volatile.”

Hemingway threw his hands up. “That’s what happens when you have a country that was artificially created by a colonial power, jamming three distinct and incompatible groups into one boundary. A one-size-fits-all democracy is not an effective foreign policy when you’re dealing with such different cultures. Western democracy is predicated on separation of church and state. That’s a difficult sell to Muslims. That’s why Mali and Senegal are the only Muslim nations rated fully free.”

Gray said calmly, “We don’t make the foreign policy of this government, Tom, we just try and clean up the mess and limit the damage. India and Pakistan?”

Hemingway drew a deep breath. “Situation continues to worsen. The current casualty estimates of a nuclear war between the two countries have twenty-five million dying the first day, with another twenty million critically injured. That is a disaster beyond the world’s collective ability to respond. And China and India are closer every day, both economically and militarily. That’s a real concern.”

“Egypt?” Gray asked.

“Ready to erupt, along with Indonesia and Saudi Arabia,” Hemingway responded. “Ever since the Temple of Hatsheput massacre, Egypt’s tourist trade’s been in the toilet. And a bad economy equals opportunities for an overthrow.”

Gray sat back in his chair. “Well, understandably, people on vacation are averse to being shot and hacked to death.”

“And then there’s North Korea,” Hemingway said.

Gray nodded. “A madman in charge, the world’s third largest army, with nukes that can hit Seattle and whose lead export is counterfeit American money. I want the updated detailed scenarios on my desk in twenty-four hours. Okay, narcoterrorism?”

Hemingway clicked another key and the wall screen changed. “In the highlighted areas Middle East terrorists are hooking up with Far East drug cartels in a much more formal way. In some cases they’re actually taking over the drug operations completely. The Central Asian republics are imploding. Drug production is the fastest-growing part of the economy. And since the republics were the former Soviet Union’s toxic waste dumps, we could soon have Middle East terrorist groups selling radioactive heroin and crack in the States.”

“Ironic considering Muslims don’t even touch liquor, much less crack,” another man said.

Hemingway shook his head. “I’ve been on flights with some Saudis where the hijab comes off and the booze comes out as soon as the plane was wheels-up.”

“Thank you for your report, Tom. Is this current hit list fundamentally accurate?” Gray asked another man.

“Yes, sir. It’s based on very credible evidence.”

“In my experience a term very often confused with incredible evidence,” Gray said. “As usual, ground-level operatives are to be given the broadest possible latitude to accommodate different tactics by the enemy. Preemptive action is encouraged whenever possible. We’ll take care of any lingering details on the other end.”

Everyone in the room understood Gray’s words to mean: kill them and don’t worry about the legal or political niceties.

Gray next asked for and received a report on the domestic terrorist front, which included groups of militia and religious cults.

“Give me the current hot reads,” Gray ordered next.

And on it went for the next two hours as one potential crisis after another was carefully dissected. And yet at any moment all this analysis could be thrown out the window as another building or world leader toppled or a jumbo jet exploded in midair.

Gray was about to adjourn when one of the women, who’d left the room in response to a hurried summons, returned and handed him a new file.

Gray took two minutes to scan the four pages. When he looked up, he was clearly not pleased. “This happened last night. The police and FBI have been investigating since eight-forty-five this morning. And this is the first I hear of it?”

“I don’t think its potential importance was appreciated as quickly as it should have been.”

“Patrick Johnson?” Gray asked.

“He’s an analyst with—”

“I know that,” Gray said impatiently. “It’s in the report you just handed me. Regardless of how he died, does it have something to do with his work?”

“The FBI’s heading up the investigation.”

“That gives me no comfort whatsoever,” Gray said bluntly. “Do we at least have people on the scene? This report was inexplicably silent on that.”

“Yes.”

“I want Patrick Johnson’s entire life history in one hour. Get on it.”

The woman shot out of the room. After she’d gone, Gray rose and walked down the hall to another conference room where representatives from CIA, NSA and Homeland Security were waiting. For the next hour Gray received a briefing and asked a series of questions that made half the people in the room feel uncomfortable and the other half seriously intimidated.

After that, he walked to his office, a modest room wedged between two far larger ones used for crisis command centers that were full of activity on most days. His office was devoid of any personal mementos or the ubiquitous photo wall of fame. Gray had no time to consider his past triumphs. Sitting at his desk, he stared for a moment at a wall where windows would normally be. He had vetoed them out of the NIC facility’s design; windows were a weakness, an avenue for spies and a source of distraction. Still, it had not been an easy decision because Gray was an avid outdoorsman. Yet here he was spending his “golden years” in a place without windows and sunlight trying to prevent the destruction of his world. Ironic, he mused, the mightiest intelligence agency ever created could not even see out of its own building.

A noise sounded on his computer. He hit a key and started to read about Patrick Johnson with great interest.

CHAPTER

19

THE RARE BOOKS DIVISION AT the Library of Congress Jefferson Building holds more than 800,000 precious volumes. For many bibliophiles the crown jewel of this literary treasure was the Lessing J. Rosenwald collection of antique books and prints. Many of these were classified as “incunabula,” meaning they were created before 1501 and without benefit of the Gutenberg printing press technology. The Rosenwald collection, along with over a hundred others, is housed in numerous vaults next to the Rare Books reading room. It was in this sanctuary that patrons were allowed to read, and occasionally touch, volumes that were more works of art than simply books.

Although the reading room is open to the public, security is very tight. The entire area is monitored 24/7 by closed-circuit camera with time stamp. Clerks monitor the usage of all books in the room, and no volume is ever allowed out of the room except on loan to another institution or by order of the Librarian of Congress. The most rare publications are often not even taken out of the vault except under special circumstances. In many of these exceptional cases the staff handles the books while the visitor merely reads the exalted pages from a few inches safe distance.

No bags or notebooks that could be used to secrete the precious tomes are allowed; nor are pens, as they could smudge the ancient pages. Only pencils and loose-leaf paper are permitted in this sanctified place. And even then, some clerks will often draw nervous breaths when a lead pencil draws within a foot of one of their cherished “wards.”

Oliver Stone made his way to the reading room on the second floor and passed through the large leather and brass inner doors with porthole windows. Enormous bronze metal doors — which some claimed were symbolically stamped with three panels to show the importance of the history of printing — were open against the inner wall. When the reading room was closed, these doors were locked over the inner ones, creating a formidable barrier even if one could get past all the electronic security and armed guards. The room itself was one of the most beautiful in the whole of the Library of Congress. It had been fashioned after the Georgian simplicity of Independence Hall in Philadelphia with the intent of creating a soothing environment for scholarship and contemplation. This result had been achieved, because as soon as Stone entered the space, he felt a wondrous sense of calm.

Caleb Shaw was working at his desk at the far end of the room. As a reference specialist he was an expert in several antiquarian periods, and he also helped scholars with important research. When Caleb saw his friend, he came forward to meet him, buttoning up his cardigan as he did so. The room was very cool.

“Oliver, you’re right, I’m not sure I would have recognized you,” he said, gazing at his friend’s altered appearance.

“It actually feels good.” Stone eyed one of the security cameras. “This place seems very well guarded.”

“It has to be. The collection is priceless, the only one like it in the world. The safeguards they go through to make sure nothing is lost, you wouldn’t believe it. If a book gets misplaced, no one leaves until it’s found. The person who buys the books for the collection can’t access the database and alter the descriptions in the catalog, and the person who accesses the database can’t purchase books.”

“Because otherwise a person could buy a book for the collection and make it ‘disappear’ on the database, and then take the book and sell it and no one the wiser?”

“Exactly. My goodness, what a morning it’s been!” Caleb exclaimed. “A very elderly gentleman came in, not a scholar known to anyone here, just someone off the street. And he wanted to see a William Blake. A William Blake! ‘Any William Blake will do,’ he said. Well, that was a red flag right there. You might as well have asked to see our Mormon Bible, for all the sirens that set off. No one gets to see a Blake without senior-level approval, and that is not frequently given, I can tell you.”

“Blake is rare?” Stone said.

“Rare doesn’t even begin to describe the situation with Blake. Godlike perhaps.”

“So what did you do?”

“When we talked to him a little further, we discovered that he was quite probably descended from one of Blake’s siblings. So we brought out some of his illuminated works, his engravings, you know. He wasn’t allowed to touch them, of course, because very few people know how to handle old books. But this episode had a nice ending. The gentleman was quite overwhelmed by the entire experience. In fact, I thought he might start weeping. But many of our volumes are things of beauty. I think that’s why I love working here.”

All of this came thundering out in the fashion of a man passionately engaged with his work and eager to spread this enthusiasm to others.

Caleb and Stone took a staff elevator to the lower level, where they walked through the tunnels that connected the Jefferson, Adams and Madison Buildings of the Library of Congress complex, arriving at the cafeteria in the lower level of the Madison. They purchased lunch there and carried it outside, where they ate on a picnic table set up on the Madison’s raised frontage that looked out on Independence Avenue. The massive Jefferson Building was on the other side of the street, and just beyond that was the U.S. Capitol.

“Not a bad view,” Stone commented.

“I’m afraid it gets taken for granted by most.”

Stone finished his sandwich and then leaned toward his friend.

“Patrick Johnson?”

“I looked him up in the government database but found nothing. I don’t have the security clearances to make a really thorough probe. You thought he might be with the Secret Service because of that pin you found. If so, that’s out of my league. Law enforcement and librarians don’t share the same databases, I’m afraid.”

“There’s a new development. That Secret Service agent I’m friendly with, Alex Ford? He came by to visit me last night at my tent.”

“Last night! Do you think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t see how there can be, since he came by before the murder even happened. But it is troubling.”

There was a buzzing sound, and Caleb pulled out his cell phone and answered it. His features became very animated as he listened. When he clicked off, he said, “That was Milton. He was able to hack into the Secret Service’s database.”

Stone’s eyes widened. “He was able to do that! Already?”

“Milton can do anything with a computer, Oliver. He could make a fortune doing illegal things on the Internet. Three years ago he hacked into the Pentagon because he said he wanted to make sure they weren’t planning on nuking one of our own cities and blaming it on terrorists as an excuse for an all-out war against Islam.”

“That certainly sounds like something Milton would think of. What did he find?”

“Johnson worked as a data management supervisor at NIC.”

“NIC? Carter Gray.”

“Exactly.”

Stone rose. “I want you to call Reuben and Milton and tell them to be ready to go out tonight. And we’ll need your car. You can pick me up at the usual spot. We’ll meet Reuben at Milton’s house. It’s closest to where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“Bethesda. To the late Patrick Johnson’s home.”

“But, Oliver, the police will be there. It’s a murder investigation.”

“No,” Stone corrected. “It’s a homicide investigation right now with the police no doubt leaning toward suicide. But if the police are there, we might be able to pick up some valuable information. Oh, and, Caleb, bring Goff.”

As his friend walked off, a puzzled Caleb stared after him. Goff was Caleb’s dog! However, Caleb was well acquainted with his friend’s odd requests. He threw his trash away in a garbage can and headed back to his world of rare books.

CHAPTER

20

AS SOON AS TYLER REINKE AND Warren Peters left Roosevelt Island, they headed directly back to NIC. They dropped the “suicide” note off to have it compared against samples of Patrick Johnson’s handwriting and to have it checked for fingerprints. They instructed the labs that there might be useful latent fingerprints on the paper that would rule out suicide. That’s what they said, but not, of course, what the NIC men intended. If any of the witnesses last night had touched the note and they were on a database somewhere, Peters and Reinke would have a golden opportunity to tie up the loose ends.

After that, they drove to Georgetown, parked their car and began walking toward the riverbank.

“They haven’t come forward,” Peters said. “We’d know if they had.”

“Which might give us some breathing room,” Reinke replied.

“How much do you think they saw?”

“Let’s just go with worst-case scenario and assume they saw enough to pick us out of a police lineup.”

Peters thought for a bit. “All right, let’s also go with the theory that they haven’t told the police what they saw because they were on the island doing something illegal, or else they’re scared to for some other reason.”

“You were in the bow of the inflatable; how good a look did you get?”

“It was so damn foggy I didn’t see much of them. If I had, they wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Boat they were in?”

“Old and wooden and long enough to accommodate at least four.”

“Is that how many you saw?”

“Only two, maybe three. I’m not really certain. I might have winged one of them. I thought I heard somebody cry out. One was an old guy. I remember seeing a whitish beard. Pretty crappy clothes.”

“Homeless?”

“Maybe. Yeah, that could be it.”

“Now we’ve got the police, FBI and Secret Service to worry about.”

“We knew that going in,” Peters replied. “A homicide gets investigated.”

“But the original plan didn’t take into account eyewitnesses. What’s your take on this Ford character?”

“He’s no kid, so he probably knows how to hedge with the best of them. We’ll find out more on him and his partner later. I’m more worried about the Bureau.”

When they reached the riverbank, Reinke said, “We know they were headed this way. I made a preliminary recon of the riverbank earlier this morning and didn’t find it, but the boat has to be here. I’ll go north, you go south. Call if you spot anything.”

The two men headed off in opposite directions.

Patrick Johnson’s fiancée had finally stopped sobbing long enough to answer a few standard questions posed to her by Alex and Simpson, who sat across from the devastated woman in her living room. The FBI had already been by to interrogate her, and Alex doubted that Agent Lloyd had exhibited the greatest bedside manner. He decided to try a gentler approach.

Anne Jeffries lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Springfield, Virginia, where eighteen hundred a month in rent bought you considerably less than a thousand square feet, a single bedroom and one toilet. She was medium height and a little on the plump side, with a puffy face engraved with small features. She wore her brunet hair long, and her teeth had been bleached to a startling white.

“Our wedding was to be on May first of next year,” Jeffries said. She sat dressed in a rumpled sweat suit with her hair unkempt, her face unmade and a pile of used Kleenex next to her feet.

“And there were no problems that you were aware of?” Alex asked.

“None,” she answered. “We were very happy together. My job was going great.” However, she made each of these statements as though they were questions.

“What is it that you do?” Simpson asked.

“I’m director of development for a nonprofit health care group based in Old Town Alexandria. I’ve been there about two years. It’s a great position. And Pat loved his job.”

“So he spoke about it to you?” Alex asked.

Jeffries lowered her tissue. “No, not really. I mean I knew he worked for the Secret Service, or something like that. I knew he wasn’t an agent, like you two. But he never spoke about what he did or even where he did it. It used to be that old joke between us, you know, the ‘if he told me, he’d have to kill me’ thing. God, what a stupid line.” The tissue went back up, and the eyes filled with fresh tears.

“Yeah, it is a stupid line,” Alex agreed. “As I’m sure you know, your fiancé was found on Roosevelt Island.”

Jeffries took a deep breath. “That was where we had our first date. It was a picnic. I still remember exactly the food that I brought and the wine we had.”

“So he maybe committed suicide at the site of your first date?” Simpson asked. “That might be symbolic.” She and Alex exchanged glances.

“We weren’t having problems!” exclaimed the woman, who’d sensed their suspicion.

“Maybe from your perspective you weren’t,” Simpson said in a blunt tone. “Sometimes the people we think we know best we don’t really know at all. But the fact is a bottle of Scotch and a gun were found with his prints on them.”

Jeffries stood and paced the small room. “Look, it’s not like Pat was leading some secret double life.”

“Everyone has secrets,” Simpson persisted. “And killing himself at the place where you had your first date, well . . . ? It may not be a coincidence.”

Jeffries whirled around to look at Simpson. “Not Pat. He didn’t have secrets that would cause him to take his own life.”

“If you knew about them, they wouldn’t be secrets, would they?” Simpson said.

“His suicide note said that he was sorry,” Alex interjected, shooting Simpson an angry look. “Any idea what he was sorry about?”

Jeffries dropped back onto her chair. “The FBI didn’t tell me about that.”

“They were under no obligation to tell you, but I thought you would want to know. Any idea what he might have meant?”

“No.”

“Was he depressed about anything? Any change in emotions?” Alex asked.

“Nothing like that.”

“The gun he used was a Smith & Wesson .22 caliber revolver. It was registered to him. You ever see it around?”

“No, but I knew he’d purchased a gun. There’d been a couple of break-ins in his neighborhood. He got it for protection. I hate guns personally. After we were married, I was going to make him get rid of it.”

“When was the last time you spoke with him?” Alex asked.

“Yesterday afternoon. He said he’d call me later if he got the chance. But he never did.”

She looked like she might start bawling again, so Alex spoke quickly. “No idea what he was working on lately? Anything he might have mentioned, even just in passing?”

“I told you, he didn’t talk about work to me.”

“No money problems, ex-girlfriend, things like that?”

She shook her head.

“And what were you doing last night between the hours of eleven and two?” Simpson asked.

Jeffries looked stonily at her. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“I think the question is pretty straightforward.”

“You said Pat killed himself, so why does it matter where I was?”

Alex cut in. He was finding his partner’s interrogation technique very annoying. “Technically, it’s a homicide, which can include anything from suicide to murder. We’re just trying to establish the whereabouts of everyone involved. We’ll be asking lots of people that same question. Don’t read anything more than that into it.”

Slowly, Anne Jeffries’ defiant look dissolved. “Well, I left work around six-thirty. Traffic, as usual, was a bitch. It took me an hour and ten minutes to crawl a few miles. I made some phone calls, had a bite to eat and went back down to Old Town to meet with the woman who’s making my wedding dress.” Here she paused and let out a sob. Alex handed her a fresh tissue and nudged the glass of water she’d earlier poured for herself closer to the woman. She gulped from it and continued. “I finished with her around nine-thirty. That’s when I got a call from a girlfriend who lives in Old Town, and we met for a drink at Union Street Pub. We were there for about an hour or so, just chitchatting. Then I drove home. I was in bed by midnight.”

“Your friend’s name?” Simpson asked, and wrote it down.

The two agents rose to leave, but Jeffries stopped them.

“His . . . his body. They didn’t tell me where it is.”

“I would imagine it’s at the D.C. morgue now,” Alex said quietly.

“Can I . . . I mean would it be possible for me to see him?”

“You don’t have to do that. They’ve already positively identified him,” Simpson added.

“That’s not what I meant. I . . . I just want to see him.” She paused and said, “Is he, is he terribly disfigured?”

Alex answered, “No. I’ll see what I can do. By the way, is his family nearby?”

“They live in California. I’ve spoken with them; they’re flying in with Pat’s brother.” She gazed up at him. “We were really very happy together.”

“I’m sure you were,” Alex said as he walked out the door with Simpson.

Outside, he faced off with his partner. “Is that what the hell you call effective interrogation techniques?”

Simpson shrugged. “I was the bad cop and you were the good cop. It worked pretty well. She’s probably telling the truth. And she doesn’t know zip.”

Alex was about to respond when his phone rang.

He listened for a minute and then turned to Simpson. “Let’s go.” He started walking off fast.

“Where to?” she asked, hustling after him.

“That was Lloyd from the FBI. They think they just found out what Patrick Johnson was sorry about.”

CHAPTER

21

WHEN ALEX AND SIMPSON arrived at Patrick Johnson’s Bethesda residence, they were surprised, for two reasons. One, there was no visible police presence, not even a marked vehicle or yellow police tape. A couple of Suburbans in the driveway were the only evidence of someone being on-site.

The second surprise was the house itself.

Alex stopped on the front sidewalk, put his hands on his hips and surveyed the single-family home. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t attached to another house either, and the upscale neighborhood was within walking distance of the thriving Bethesda downtown area. Alex said, “At Johnson’s pay grade I thought we’d be looking at a one-bedroom apartment like his fiancée. Hell, this thing’s got a yard. With grass.”

Simpson shook her head. “When I got assigned to WFO and didn’t know squat about the D.C. housing sticker shock, I priced some places around here just for the hell of it. This is over a million dollars, easy.”

Inside, Agent Lloyd was waiting for them. Alex said, “Where’d he get the money for this place?”

Lloyd nodded. “And it’s not just the house. There’s a new Infiniti QX56 in the garage. Runs over fifty grand. And we found his other car. He left it on the Virginia side of the river before he took his last swim. Lexus sedan, another forty grand.”

“Selling secrets?” Simpson asked.

“No. We think it’s a more reliable source of illegal cash.”

“Drugs,” Alex said quickly.

“Come up and see for yourself.”

As they were being led upstairs, Alex mentioned to Lloyd, “Bureau securing crime scenes differently these days?”

“Special marching orders on this one.”

“Let me guess. Since it involves NIC, discretion is valued over all other things.”

Lloyd didn’t answer but he did smile.

In the master bedroom closet there was a set of drop-down stairs leading to an attic access panel. On the floor of the closet they saw bundles of something stacked in clear plastic.

“Coke?” Simpson asked.

Lloyd shook his head. “Heroin. That brings ten times the return coke does.”

“And his fiancée knew nothing? Where’d she think he got all this money?”

“I haven’t asked her that yet because we interviewed her before we found this. But I will,” Lloyd added.

“How’d you get onto the drug angle so fast?” Alex asked.

“When we saw where he lived, we ran Johnson’s name through SEISINT and pulled up the property records on his purchase of this place. He bought it last year for one point four million and put a half million in cash down from a financial source we haven’t been able to trace. He financed the cars and then paid them off soon after, again using a bank account we can’t track. I knew it had to be an inheritance, drugs or selling secrets. The point of least resistance was the drugs. So I pulled in a dog from DEA. It started barking its head off when it went into the closet. We didn’t find anything until we saw the panel to the attic. We lifted the dog up there and bingo! He had it stacked between the rafters with insulation over it. ”

“Well, I guess other things being equal, it’s better he was selling drugs than selling his country down the river,” Simpson commented wryly.

“I’m not even sure he had access to secrets worth selling,” Lloyd replied. “And now we don’t have to go down that road. But this is going to be a big enough mess as it is. Hell, I could write the Post headline myself: ‘Carter Gray, Intelligence or Drug Czar?’”

It seemed to Alex his FBI counterpart was looking forward to every last bit of dirt thrown up on the only federal law enforcement agency that rivaled his in terms of budget and bite. He said, “Now the question is, did he kill himself because he was a drug dealer getting married to a respectable woman and suddenly couldn’t handle it, or did his druggie associates kill him and try to make it look like a suicide?”

Lloyd said, “I’d vote for him taking his own life. He died on the spot where he and his fiancée had their first date. Drug dealers would’ve just popped a new hole in his head while he was sitting in his car or sleeping in his bed. The whole murder-suicide subterfuge is way too sophisticated for those types.”

Alex considered this, then said, “Did you find anything else connected to the drugs? Transaction journal, list of drop-off spots, computer files, anything like that?”

“We’re still looking. But I doubt he would’ve been careless enough to leave stuff like that around. We’ll let you know what we do find so you can close your file out.”

As Alex and Simpson walked back to the car, Simpson glanced at her partner. “Well, there goes the pain in your ass that you didn’t really need. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Alex said curtly.

“But a drug dealer at NIC, they’re still going to take heat over that.”

“That’s how the cards fall sometimes.”

“So back to WFO?”

He nodded. “I’ll shoot off my e-mail upstairs, follow with a more detailed one when friend Lloyd fills in the rest of the spaces, and we go back to busting counterfeiters and standing in doorways looking to catch a bullet.”

“Sounds like a thrill.”

“I hope you believe that, because you’re going to be doing it for a long time.”

“I’m not complaining. I joined the ranks, nobody pushed me here.” She didn’t sound very convincing, though.

“Look, Jackie, I usually mind my own business, but here’s a piece of real honest advice for a healthy career with the Service from someone who’s seen it all.”

“I’m listening.”

“Do your share of the crap work, no matter who’s looking out for you upstairs. One, it’ll make you a better agent. Two, you’ll leave the Service with at least one friend.”

“Oh, really, who’s that?” Simpson said irritably.

“Me.”

CHAPTER

22

AT THE NIC HELIPAD GRAY boarded a Sikorsky VH-60N chopper. It was the same model the president used as Marine One, although in the coming years it would be replaced by a Lockheed Martin-built version. Gray usually rode the Sikorsky to the White House for his meetings with Brennan, causing some understandably anonymous souls to snidely dub it “Marine One and a Half.” However, there was one distinct difference between how Gray and Brennan were ferried on choppers. When the president rode in from Andrews Air Force Base, Camp David or elsewhere, there were three identical VH-60Ns in the convoy. Two served as decoys, giving any would-be assassin with a surface-to-air missile only a one-in-three shot of hitting his intended target. Carter Gray was on his own in that regard. After all, there were numerous cabinet secretaries, but just one president.

Traditionally, it was only Marine One that was allowed to land on the White House grounds. It was Brennan who’d authorized Gray to travel this way, over the very heated protests of the Secret Service. It saved Gray what could have been a tortuous daily commute from Loudoun County, and the intelligence czar’s time was very valuable. However, there were still grumblings at the Secret Service. Understandably, they didn’t care to see anything flying at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue unless it had the president on board.

At a speed of 150 knots the ride was quick and uneventful, though Gray was too busy to have noticed. He strode across the White House grounds knowing full well that the countersnipers arrayed on the surrounding rooftops were drawing practice beads on his wide head. Inside the West Wing Gray nodded at people he knew. Until 1902 greenhouses stood on this plot of ground. That’s when Teddy Roosevelt finally decided he needed a private place, away from his numerous children and their large coterie of pets, in order to competently conduct his business as the nation’s leader. His successor, the rotund William Taft, made the West Wing even bigger and the Oval Office a permanent fixture in the lives of all future presidents.

Gray’s daily visit had already been scheduled and approved. No one went into the Oval Office unannounced, not even the First Lady. Brennan always received Gray in the Oval Office and not the adjacent Roosevelt Room, as he often did visitors and other underlings.

Brennan looked up from his thirteen-hundred-pound desk built from the wood of the British ship HMS Resolute, which American whalers discovered after it had been caught in the ice and abandoned by its crew. The ship had been repaired by the U.S. government and sent back to England as a gesture of goodwill. Queen Victoria reciprocated by presenting the desk as a gift to President Rutherford B. Hayes. Thereafter, the Resolute Desk, as it became known, had been used by every president since, except for a period of time when it was at the Smithsonian Institution.

Gray had had his antennae on high since he stepped inside the West Wing. He had seen the Web casts on Patrick Johnson’s death. More of them had trickled out that afternoon. He got the last of them on the chopper ride over. Gray had also received a briefing by the FBI that included the discovery of the drug cache at Johnson’s home. He also knew of Secret Service agents Ford and Simpson’s involvement in the investigation. When he heard Simpson’s name, it allowed him a rare smile. That could be his ace in the hole down the road, should he need one.

As befitted any respectable spymaster, Gray had eyes and ears in the White House and had already been warned that Brennan was concerned about the Johnson matter and its possible negative effects on his reelection campaign. Therefore, he did not let his boss initiate the discussion.

As soon as the two men sat down across from each other, Gray said, “Mr. President, before we go into the daily briefing, I’d like to take up the unfortunate issue of Patrick Johnson’s death on Roosevelt Island.”

“I’m surprised you hadn’t called about it, Carter.” There was an edge to the man’s voice that Gray understood but didn’t particularly like.

“I wanted to have a firm grasp of the facts before I did, sir. The last thing I wanted to do was waste your time.”

“You certainly wouldn’t be the first one to waste it today,” Brennan snapped.

This is the President, and I serve at his pleasure, Gray reminded himself.

Gray gave the president a brief background on the matter, information that doubtless the man already knew. When Gray got to the drug discovery, Brennan put up his hand.

“Are there any others involved?” he asked sharply.

“Good question, Mr. President, and not one that’s been answered to my satisfaction. I will personally conduct an internal investigation of this matter, aided, at my request, by the FBI.” Getting the Bureau involved was loathsome to Gray, but better he suggest it than allow someone else to do it.

“Carter, if the FBI is coming in, you have to give them a free hand. Nothing swept under the rug.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. However, at this point it does not appear that the case goes any further. That is to say, if Johnson was selling drugs, it was separate from his work at NIC.”

The president was shaking his head. “That’s not an assumption we can make yet. What exactly did he do for you?”

“He oversaw our electronic intelligence files containing background information on terror suspects and other targeted individuals and organizations, both outstanding and those that had been apprehended or killed. Johnson actually helped to design the system.”

“Worth selling?”

“It’s hard to see how. It was basic info. A lot of it is contained on our public Web site. Then there’s the confidential information such as fingerprints, DNA info, if applicable, that sort of thing. However, the files Johnson managed did not contain, for example, any specific intelligence that we’d uncovered to aid us in capturing the targets.”

The president nodded, sat back and rubbed a kink out of his neck. At his desk since seven a.m., he had already crammed fourteen hours’ worth of work into eight, and he had a full afternoon ahead of him with a state dinner to follow. And then it was off the next day to the Midwest to campaign for an election that he had in the bag but was far too paranoid to let his guard down about. “To put it bluntly, Carter, I’m not happy about this at all. The last thing I need right now is some damn scandal.”

“I will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening, sir.”

“Well, vetting your employees a little better would’ve been good,” the president admonished.

“I absolutely agree with that.” Gray paused and then added, “Sir, obviously, we cannot allow this development to interfere with our main work.”

Brennan looked puzzled. “Come again?”

“As you know, the media has a way of creating something out of nothing. It’s a terrific way to sell newspapers, but not necessarily good for national security.”

Brennan shrugged. “That’s First Amendment territory, Carter. That’s sacrosanct.”

Gray leaned forward. “I’m not saying otherwise. But we can do something about leaks, and also the content and timing of the information flow. Right now the media knows about as much as we do. They’ll report it, and NIC will be giving an official statement regarding the matter. I think at this stage all that is fine, but it’s certainly not in our best interests to see NIC’s mission derailed for something like this.”

He paused again and then delivered the lines he had practiced on the chopper ride over. “There are only a few ways you are politically vulnerable, sir. And your opponents are so desperate now they’ll seize on anything to hit you with. In that desperation they may see this as such an opportunity. Historically, such a strategy has a certain precedent of success. To put it bluntly, we cannot let them use this to defeat you in November. Whatever the truth is, it’s not important enough to prevent you from winning a second term.”

Brennan thought about this for some time. Finally, he said, “Okay, together we’ll keep a tight leash on the media. I mean this is national security, after all. And if you run into any flack from the Bureau or others, you let me know about it.” He paused and then said, in his best politician’s baritone, “You’re right, this nation’s security will not be sidetracked by some guy selling drugs on the side.”

Gray smiled. “Absolutely.” Thank God it’s an election year.

Brennan went to his desk and pressed the intercom button. “Tell Secretary Decker to come in.”

Gray looked surprised at this. “Decker?”

Brennan nodded. “We need to talk about Iraq.”

Decker walked in a minute later. He was in his fifties with close-cropped gray hair, handsome features and lean body from running five miles every day wherever he happened to be in the world. A widower, Decker was deemed one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. Although he’d never served in the military, he’d begun in the defense industry, working his way up and earning a sizable fortune before jumping to the public arena. His rise there had been equally swift and included stints as secretary of the navy and deputy defense secretary. He was the total D.C. package — smart, articulate, ruthless, ambitious and well respected — and Gray loathed him. As defense secretary, Decker headed up the Pentagon, the sector that used the vast bulk of all intelligence dollars, a purse that Gray technically controlled. Thus, while Decker was cooperative with Gray and said all the right things in public, Gray was well aware that behind the scenes Decker tried to circumvent and backstab him at every opportunity. He was also Gray’s major rival for the president’s ear.

Decker opened the conversation in his usual brisk manner. “The Iraqi leadership has made it clear that they want us gone very soon. However, there are enormous problems there, even more than the Kurds forming their own republic. The Iraqi army and the security forces are simply not ready. In some critical ways they may never be ready. But the country is growing weary of our presence. And now the Iraqis have publicly taken the position that Israel must be exterminated, following the hard line of their new ally, Syria. It’s an untenable situation but hard for us to reject since it’s a democratically-elected government saying it.”

“We know all this, Joe,” Gray said impatiently. “And the Baathists are negotiating with the leadership to come back to power in exchange for stopping the violence,” he added, looking directly at the president.

Brennan nodded. “But how can we leave Iraq in that way? The last thing we want is Syria and Iraq teaming up, with Hussein’s cronies in control again. With the Sharia Group and Hezbollah headquartered in Syria, we could soon have their presence in Iraq and beyond,” Brennan added, referring to the two anti-Israeli terrorist organizations. “And France sliced off the coastline of Syria and formed Lebanon in the 1920s. Syria has always wanted it back and may unite with Iraq to do so. And then they might go after the Golan Heights, sparking a war with Israel. That could destabilize the entire region more than it already is.”

Gray said, “Well, if another country came here and lopped off New England and unilaterally formed another country with it, we’d be upset too, wouldn’t we, Mr. President?”

Decker cut in. “Besides the Baathists, there are extremist Islamic factions in the Iraqi legislature that are growing in power. If they take over, they’ll be far more dangerous to the U.S. than Saddam Hussein ever was. But we also promised the Iraqi people that we would leave when they had adequate security forces in place and officially asked us to withdraw. That moment is almost upon us.”

“So get to your point, Joe!” Gray snapped.

Decker glanced at Brennan. “I haven’t discussed this fully with the president yet.” He cleared his throat. “By taking out some of these extremist factions in the legislature, we can tip the power in favor of the government in Iraq that’s best for the U.S. and keep the Baathists from coming back to power. And there is all that oil to consider, sir. Gas is approaching three dollars a gallon now. We need the leverage of the Iraqi reserves.”

“Take out? As in, what, assassination!” Brennan said, scowling. “We don’t do that anymore. It’s illegal.”

“It’s illegal to assassinate a head of state or government, Mr. President,” Gray corrected.

“Exactly,” Decker agreed. “These people are not in that category. To me it’s no different than putting a price on bin Laden’s head.”

“But the targets you’re talking about are duly appointed members of the Iraqi legislature,” Brennan protested.

“The insurgents are murdering moderate legislators with impunity over there right now. This is simply evening the playing field, sir,” Decker rejoined. “If we don’t do something, there won’t be any moderates left.”

“But, Joe,” Gray said, “if we go in and do that, it’ll ignite a civil war.”

“We’ll make it look like the Iraqi moderates did it in retaliation so there’s no heat on us. I’ve been promised full cooperation from them.”

“But the resulting civil war . . . ,” Brennan said.

“Will give us a perfectly legitimate reason to keep our military presence in Iraq for the foreseeable future,” Decker responded quickly, obviously pleased with himself. “However, if we allow the Baathists back in, they’ll crush all opposition, and Iraq will return to a Hussein-style dictatorship. We can’t let that happen. All the money spent and lives lost will have meant nothing. And if that happens in Iraq there’s no reason to think the Taliban can’t reemerge in Afghanistan.”

Brennan looked at Gray. “What do you think?”

Actually, Gray was chagrined he hadn’t thought of it first. Decker had clearly outflanked him on this. The little son of a bitch. “You wouldn’t be the first U.S. president to authorize something like that, sir,” he grudgingly admitted.

Brennan didn’t look convinced. “I need to think it over.”

“Absolutely, Mr. President,” Decker replied. “But it is on a tight time frame. And as you well know should Iraq and Afghanistan fall back under the control of governments hostile to us, the American public will raise holy hell.” He paused and added, “That is not a legacy you want or deserve, sir.”

For all his hatred of the man Gray had to admit, from the concerned expression on Brennan’s face, Decker had played it perfectly.

After Decker had left, Brennan sat back and took off his reading glasses. “Before we start the briefing, I want to run something by you, Carter. I’m heading up to New York on September 11 to give a speech at the memorial site.” Gray knew where this was going but stayed silent. “I wanted to know if you’d like to accompany me. After all, you’ve done more than almost anyone to ensure something like that never happens again.”

It was unheard-of to decline an invitation by a United States president to travel to an event. However, Gray really didn’t care about protocol or tradition with this particular subject.

“That is a kind offer, sir, but I’ll be attending a private service here.”

“I know it’s painful for you, Carter, but I just thought I’d ask. You’re sure?”

“Very sure, Mr. President. Thank you.”

“All right.” Brennan paused. “You know about my hometown renaming itself after me?”

“Yes, sir. Congratulations.”

Brennan smiled. “It’s one of those things that come along that’s both flattering and embarrassing at the same time. My ego’s not so large that I can’t see that the town’s hope in profiting by the change is at least equal to their wanting to pay homage to a local boy made good. I’m going up to give a speech at the dedication and shake some hands. Why don’t you join me?”

If the most important rule was you never declined a president’s invitation, the second most important rule was you never turned the man down twice.

“Thank you, I’d like that very much.”

The president tapped his glasses against his briefing book. “It’s likely that I’ll be here for another four years.”

“I’d say it’s more than likely, sir.”

“I want you to speak frankly, Carter. This will stay between you and me.” Gray nodded. “Despite your successes in protecting this country, do you believe that the world is safer today than it was when I took office?”

Gray carefully considered this question, trying to ascertain the answer his chief wanted. However, Brennan remained inscrutable, so Gray decided to tell him the truth. “No, it’s not. In fact, it’s far more volatile.”

“My people tell me that at its present consumption the planet could run out of fossil fuel in fifty years. No more plane travel, a few electric cars, cities shutting down for lack of energy. How we communicate, work, travel, get our food, all radically transformed. And this country won’t have the means to adequately maintain its nuclear weapons and other military resources.”

“That’s all certainly possible.”

“Yes, but without our military, how do we remain safe, Carter?”

Gray hesitated and then said, “I’m afraid I don’t have the answer for you, sir.”

Brennan said quietly, “I believe the difference between a mediocre president and a great one is opportunity.”

“You’ve done a good job, Mr. President. You should be proud.” Actually, in Gray’s opinion, the man hadn’t done anything special, yet he was not about to tell his boss that.

As Gray walked out of the West Wing an hour later, his mind, for once, wasn’t on stopping America’s enemies or pleasing his commander in chief. As he climbed aboard the chopper, Gray was thinking about purple. That was his daughter’s favorite color until she was six. And then orange became her favorite. When he asked her why the change, she informed him with hands on little hips and her stubborn chin angled up that orange was a more grown-up color. Even to this day that memory never failed to make him smile.

Warren Peters finally found the boat where the Camel Club had hidden it. He immediately called Tyler Reinke and the man joined him quickly.

“You’re sure this is it?” Reinke asked as he gazed at the boat.

Peters nodded. “There’s blood on the gunwale. So I was right. I hit one of them.”

“If they took the boat and brought it back, someone might have seen them.”

Peters nodded and then stared out at the water. “But there might be an easier way to track them down. Johnson had ID in his pocket.”

“Right, so?”

“So what if our witnesses saw where he lived, and get curious?”

“It might save us a lot of legwork,” Reinke agreed. “We’ll go there tonight.”

CHAPTER

23

CHOOSING HIS WORDS WITH CARE and hedging as much as he possibly could without drawing the ire of his superiors, Alex wrote up his report and e-mailed it to Jerry Sykes. He finished up some other paperwork and decided to call it a day before someone grabbed him for post duty. Alex had no desire to spend another evening watching a king or prime minister stuff his face with crab dip.

He passed an agent who was stashing his pistol in a wall locker before going in to interrogate a suspect.

“Hey, Alex, bust any more ATM bandits?” the agent asked. The story had made its way through WFO with the swiftness only a water cooler broadcast network could inspire.

“Nope. Couldn’t find anybody else that stupid.”

“Hear you and Simpson make a nice team,” the man commented, barely suppressing a grin.

“We have our moments.”

“Heard of J-Lo?”

“Who hasn’t?” Alex replied.

“Well, Simpson is J-Glo. Didn’t you know you were partnering with a celeb?”

“J-Glo? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Alex, she’s got a halo over her. The light is shining from heaven above on that little southern pistol. They say it’s blinding from at least five hundred yards. I’m surprised you can still see.”

The agent walked off, laughing.

As luck would have it, Alex ran into his partner on the way out of the building.

“Going home?” he asked.

“No, I’m going to see if I can find any friends. I can’t seem to dig up any here. ”

She started to walk off, but Alex put a hand on her shoulder. “Look, what I said was meant as constructive criticism, nothing else. I would’ve paid good money for tips like that when I was just starting out and didn’t know squat.”

For an instant Simpson actually looked like she wanted to take a swing at him, but with what seemed immense self-control she regained her composure.

“I appreciate your interest but it’s different for a woman. The Service is still very much a man’s world.”

“I’m not denying that, Jackie. But the fact is you’re not doing your career any favors by letting yourself be treated differently from everybody else.”

Simpson’s face flushed. “I can’t help it if people are treating me with kid gloves.”

Alex shook his head. “Wrong answer. You can help it. In fact, you better make damn sure it stops.” He paused and then asked, “Who is your guardian angel?” Simpson didn’t appear to want to answer. “Look, just spill it. It’s not like I can’t find out.”

She snapped, “Fine! My father is Senator Roger Simpson.”

Alex nodded, impressed. “Chairman of the Intelligence Oversight Committee. That’s a pretty big angel.”

In a flash Simpson was right in Alex’s face, almost stepping on his size 13 loafers as she attacked. “My father would never use his influence to help me. And for your information, being his only child didn’t make my life easier. I had to fight for every damn thing I got. I’ve got the bruises and thick skin to show for it.”

Alex backed up a step and put out a hand to keep her at bay. “This town isn’t built on fact, it’s based on perception. And the perception is that you get out of the crap work more than you should. And that’s not all. ”

“Oh, really?”

He pointed at her jacket. “You usually wear a blazing red handkerchief in your breast pocket.”

“So what?”

“So, to a Secret Service agent, that’s a no-no. It not only draws attention to you in a profession that prides itself on keeping a low profile except on protection detail. It also makes a damn fine target for somebody looking to take a shot at you. So not only does it label you as a maverick, it labels you as a stupid maverick.”

Simpson’s jaw clenched as she stared down at this crimson mark, as though it were a scarlet letter.

Alex continued. “And your gun. It’s a custom piece. Another sign that you think you’re different — translate, better — than everybody else. That doesn’t sit well with agents here, men or women.”

“My daddy gave me this gun when I became a police officer.” Alex noted that the angrier Simpson became, the more pronounced her Alabama drawl.

“So put it in a shadow box on your wall and carry the Service’s standard issue!”

“And what, then all my problems just go away?” This shot out of the woman’s mouth with such an attitude that now Alex felt like decking her.

“No, then you just have all the problems everybody else has. Why don’t you just file that one away under ‘Life’s a Bitch’?” And so are you.

Alex turned and walked off. He’d had enough of the rookie for one day. The LEAP Bar was seriously calling his name.

Kate Adams had just come on duty after a full day at Justice when Alex walked in. It was relatively early yet, so the place was mostly empty. Alex marched up to the bar, a man on a mission. She’d seen him coming and had the martini with three fat olives waiting for him by the time Alex’s rear hit the stool.

“My imagination, or are you a little upset about something?” she said in a teasing manner that immediately eased the tension from him.

The mingled scents of coconut and honeysuckle drifted across the width of the mahogany bar and settled in his nostrils. He wondered if she’d washed her hair before coming to work, or if it was her perfume, or both. Regardless, it was doing a number on him.

“Just work. It’ll pass.” He took a sip of his drink, popped one of the olives into his mouth and chased it down with a handful of peanuts he grabbed from a bowl next to him. “How goes it with you? Your superspy friend Tommy come calling?”

She raised her eyebrows at this comment. “Hemingway? I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend.” He gave her such a skeptical look that she put down the glass she was drying off and leaned across the bar.

“You have another opinion you’d like to express, Agent Ford?”

He shrugged. “None of my business really.”

“A girl can flirt and not mean anything by it.”

Alex took another hit of his martini. “That’s good to know.”

“You have to admit, he’s very cute, well traveled, intelligent. The man’s the whole package really.”

Alex started to launch a blistering rejoinder but then realized she was just pulling his chain, and enjoying herself immensely. “Yeah, he is. Hell, I was thinking about asking the guy out myself.”

She leaned across the bar again and grabbed his tie so hard Alex was jerked toward her, spilling part of his drink.

She said, “Well, since you can’t seem to get around to it, I will. Do you want to go out?”

Alex felt his mouth hanging open but had the good sense to shut it a second later. “You’re asking me out?”

“No, I’m asking the guy behind you. Yes, I’m asking you out.”

Alex couldn’t help but glance around him on the outside chance that he was being set up with a hidden studio audience that was just waiting to erupt into belly laughs.

“You’re really serious?”

She tightened her grip on his tie. “When I flirt, I flirt. When I ask, it’s a whole other ball game.”

“Yes. I want to go out with you.”

“See, that wasn’t all that hard, was it? Now, since we’ve finally gotten that settled, why don’t we negotiate a date? Because you seem a little slow on the social uptake, I’ll go first. I’m assuming you enjoy eating as well as drinking. How about dinner?”

“You just threw me a curve. I thought for sure you’d be safe and propose lunch.”

“I’m not into safe these days,” she said. Then Kate let go of his tie very, very slowly, sliding her hand down the fabric until the tie fell free.

Alex eased himself back, not seeming to mind at all that half his martini was now on his jacket sleeve.

“Dinner sounds fine with me,” he managed to say without mangling the words too badly.

“Okay, let’s set a date and time. I’m into instant gratification; are you free tomorrow night?”

Even if he’d been assigned to guard the president on his deathbed, Alex would’ve found a way to be available. “Sounds good.”

“Say around six-thirty. I’ll make dinner reservations unless you’d care to.”

“No, go ahead.”

“Do you want to meet at the restaurant or pick me up at my place?”

“Your place is fine.”

“My, you’re so agreeable, Agent Ford. I can’t tell you how refreshing that is for me after being around lawyers all day. Lawyers don’t agree on anything.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

“Why don’t you come by around six?”

She wrote her phone number and address down and slid it across to him. He handed her one of his cards with his home address and phone number penciled in on the back.

“You like it out in Manassas?” she asked, eyeing his card.

“My wallet likes it a lot.” He glanced at her address and got a funny look. “R Street? Georgetown!”

“Don’t get your hopes up, mister. I’m not an heiress masquerading as a DOJ do-gooder. I live in the carriage house behind the mansion. The woman who owns the place is a widow and likes having someone around. She’s really nice. Quite the pistol actually.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“But that doesn’t mean that you don’t want one.” She poured him a fresh drink. “On the house, since you seemed to have spilled yours.” She handed him a rag.

“While you’re in a cooperative mood, where does the ‘total package’ work and what project are you two involved in?”

Kate put a finger to her lips. “Lawyer confidentiality thing, you understand. But without breaking any state secrets I can tell you I’m working with his agency on its request to reuse an old building. But I don’t think we’re going to reach such an agreement. So what’s going on at work that has you ticked off?”

“You don’t hear enough sob stories as it is?”

“We’re officially going out. So, in for a dime, in for a dollar.”

Alex smiled. “Okay. There’s this rookie at work I’m partnering with on an investigation. She’s got a bigwig daddy who’s pulling strings for her upstairs. I’m trying to explain to her that that’s not how you make friends at the Service.”

“And she’s not getting the concept?”

“If she doesn’t soon, it’ll come down on her like a ton of bricks.”

“So what’s the case you’re working on with her?”

“Now it’s my turn to plead confidentiality.” Suddenly, Alex’s gaze was riveted on the plasma screen TV on the wall behind the bar.

A camera shot of Roosevelt Island was in the foreground of the screen as the big-toothed news anchor teleprompted her way through the story of a mysterious suicide. There was no report on the Secret Service’s involvement, Alex noted. However, the heroin find at Patrick Johnson’s house was prominently mentioned.

“Is that your case?” Kate asked.

He glanced back at her. “What?”

“I was hoping that’d be the only reason you were so totally ignoring me.”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s it. But no more details.”

They both turned to the TV when they heard a familiar voice.

The man was articulating NIC’s official response to the tragedy. And it wasn’t Carter Gray, who probably didn’t want to make this an ongoing national story by lending his considerable presence to it. However, Tom Hemingway was polished and efficient, the total package, as he presented NIC’s spin to the country.

Alex looked back at Kate, who for the first time seemed at a loss for words. He smiled triumphantly. “Busted.”

CHAPTER

24

CALEB PICKED UP OLIVER STONE near the White House in his ancient pewter-gray Chevy Malibu with a fidgety tailpipe. They headed to Milton Farb’s house near the D.C. and Maryland line, where Reuben would meet them. Stone sat in the front seat holding Caleb’s dog, Goff, a small mongrel of unknown provenance named after the first chief of the Rare Books Division, Frederick Goff. As they pulled up in front of Milton’s modest but well-kept home, Reuben jumped up from the front steps, walked over to the car and climbed in. He was dressed in his usual jeans, moccasins and a wrinkly red-checked flannel shirt; a pair of work gloves stuck out of his back pocket, and he carried his safety helmet in his hand.

“Grabbed some overtime at the loading dock,” he explained. “Didn’t have a chance to go home.” He looked in surprise at Stone’s new haircut and clean-shaven appearance. “Don’t tell me you’re rejoining mainstream America.”

“Just trying to remain incognito and alive. Is Milton ready?”

“Our friend will be delayed a bit,” Reuben said with a wink.

“What?” Stone said.

“He’s entertaining, Oliver. You remember? His new lady friend?”

“Did you meet her?” Caleb asked excitedly. “Maybe she has a friend for me.” Although a confirmed bachelor, Caleb was always on the lookout for new prospects.

“Just got a glimpse. She’s actually a lot younger than Milton and damn nice-looking,” Reuben replied. “Hope the poor fellow doesn’t go and commit himself. I’ve had three trips down the aisle, and there won’t be a fourth unless I am ungodly drunk. Blasted women. Can’t live with them, and they sure as hell can’t live with me.”

“Your third wife was quite a nice woman,” Stone noted.

“I’m not saying that the ladies don’t have their uses, Oliver. I’m just of the opinion that long-lasting relationships are not the product of legal commitment. There have been more good times bashed by the covenant of marriage than I could count in several lifetimes.”

“So your logic is what, ban marriage and you’ll see the divorce rate plummet?”

“That too,” Reuben said gruffly.

They all looked over as the door to Milton’s house opened.

“She is good-looking,” Caleb said, peering around Stone.

Milton and the woman kissed lightly on the lips, and then she walked down the steps to her car, a yellow Porsche that was parked in front of Caleb’s Malibu.

“I wonder if Milton’s OCD creates a problem for her,” Caleb said thoughtfully. They had all spent hundreds of hours of their lives waiting through Milton’s rituals. Yet they’d accepted it as an element of their friend’s personality. They all had such “elements,” and Milton had been diligent in seeking help for his disorder. And after years of medication, counseling and occasional hospitalization, he led a fairly normal existence, only resorting to his OCD for brief periods when locking his doors, sitting, washing his hands, or during moments of intense stress.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem for her,” Reuben said, pointing.

They all watched as the woman tapped the pavement with her high heels and then pecked on the car window with her finger, silently counting and muttering before opening her car door. Then she performed a similar exercise checking her seat, before climbing in. She left a considerable amount of rubber on the pavement as she hit sixty miles an hour six seconds later, before she slammed on her brakes at the next intersection. Then she roared off again, the deep-throated decibels of the Porsche’s turbo actually causing Caleb to wince.

“Where the hell did he meet the woman, at a NASCAR event?” Caleb asked as he stared wide-eyed at the smoke still rising off the tire marks on the street.

“No, he told us he met her at the anxiety clinic,” Reuben reminded them. “She was there getting treatment for OCD too.”

Milton closed his front door, went through a brief ritual and came out to join them carrying his knapsack. He climbed into the backseat next to Reuben.

“She’s a real looker,” Reuben said. “What’s her name?”

“Chastity,” Milton replied.

Reuben snorted. “Chastity? Well, for your sake, I hope she doesn’t live up to her name.”

Traffic was fairly heavy, and by the time they got to Patrick Johnson’s neighborhood it was quite dark. This suited Stone well. The nighttime was where he was most comfortable.

He checked house numbers as they drifted down the street. “All right, Caleb, it’s coming up in the next block on the left. Park the car here.”

Caleb pulled the Malibu to the curb and looked at his friend.

“Now what?” he asked nervously.

“We wait. I want to get the lay of the land a bit, see who’s coming and going.” Stone pulled out his binoculars and gazed through them up the street. “Assuming that those Suburbans parked out front are Bureau cars, I’m guessing that the third house up on the left is Johnson’s.”

“Nice digs,” Reuben commented, following his friend’s gaze.

Meanwhile, Milton had been studying his laptop computer. He said, “It was reported that they found heroin in the house. And Roosevelt Island was where Johnson spent his first date with his fiancée. They’re theorizing that he killed himself there symbolically; with his upcoming marriage he couldn’t live his double life anymore.”

“How can you be on the Internet in a car?” Caleb exclaimed.

“I’m pure wireless,” Milton replied. “I don’t need hot spots. You know, Caleb, you really should let me bring you into the twenty-first century.”

“I use a computer at work!”

“Only for word processing. You don’t even have a personal e-mail account, only a library one.”

“I prefer pen, paper and stamps to compose my mail,” Caleb responded indignantly.

“Are you sure you don’t mean foolscap and a quill, Brother Caleb?” Reuben asked with a grin.

Caleb said heatedly, “And unlike those Neanderthals on the Internet, I use complete sentences and, heaven help us, punctuation. Is that a crime?”

“No, it’s not, Caleb,” Stone said calmly. “But let’s try to keep the discussion relevant to our mission tonight.”

“You know, you would’ve thought that an NIC employee would’ve been vetted well enough that his drug dealer status showed up,” Reuben said.

“Well, presumably, he was clean when he signed on with them but turned dirty sometime after,” Milton replied. “Look at Aldrich Ames. He had a big house and drove a Jaguar, and the CIA never even thought to ask him how he could afford it.”

Caleb said, “But apparently, Johnson was selling drugs, not secrets. He ran afoul of his business associates, and they killed him. That seems pretty clear.”

“Did those two gentlemen look like drug dealers to you?” Stone asked.

“Since I don’t know any drug dealers, I’m not in a position to really answer that question,” Caleb said.

“Well, I do know some,” said Reuben. “And despite what damn bigots might think, they’re not all young black gang members with nine-millimeters stuffed in their prison shuffle pants, Oliver.”

“I’m not implying that they are. However, let’s consider the facts. They brought him to a place where he had his first date. That implies intelligence gathering unless he was in the habit of sharing his romantic history with his alleged criminal associates. They carried him in a powered boat that was so silent we didn’t even hear it until they reached the island. Now, that may be a technology drug dealers employ in, say, South America where there is a good deal more water. But in the nation’s capital?”

Reuben said, “Who the hell knows what sort of high-tech toys they’re using around here nowadays?”

Stone ignored this. “In addition, the two killers undertook a fairly military-style reconnaissance of the area and used a killing technique that smacks of the professional assassin. And they were well aware of potential incriminating forensic residue and took appropriate steps accordingly. They even had the foresight to bring a plastic baggie to give the impression that he’d used it to keep the gun dry while he swam to the island.”

“That’s right,” Caleb said. “But even drug dealers want to avoid jail.”

Stone ignored this comment too. “And when they realized there were witnesses to their crime, they gave not a second thought to disposing of us. These men are expert killers, but I very seriously doubt that they are drug dealers.”

The other three pondered their friend’s logic as Stone raised the binoculars to his eyes again.

The silence was broken a minute later by Caleb, who asked Milton, “What does Chastity do?”

“She’s an accountant. She used to work for a big firm, but they fired her because of her OCD. She has her own company now. And she helps me with my Web design business. I’m awful with money. She keeps the books and does the marketing too. She’s really terrific.”

“I’m sure she is terrific,” Reuben said. “It’s those quiet professional types you have to watch out for. You think they’re mild-mannered and then they just jump you. I dated this woman once, prim and proper, dresses past the knees. But I swear to God that lady could do things with her mouth that defied—”

Stone broke in quickly. “Firing Chastity because of her medical condition doesn’t seem right unless it prevented her from doing her work.”

“Oh, she could do the work. They said she embarrassed the firm in front of clients, which was a crock. Two of the partners just didn’t like her, one of them because Chastity wouldn’t sleep with him. She sued and won a lot of money.”

“That’s the country we all know and love,” Reuben said. “The United States of Lawyers. But don’t let the rich pretty ones get away, Milton. I’m not telling you to marry the woman, God forbid, but if a man can keep a woman in these enlightened times, there’s nothing wrong with a woman keeping a man.”

“She does buy me things,” Milton said quietly.

“Really,” Reuben said with sudden interest. “What sorts of things?”

“Software for my computer, clothes, wine. She knows a lot about wine.”

“What sorts of clothes?” Reuben persisted.

“Personal clothes,” a pink-faced Milton said. He immediately looked down at his computer and started hitting some keys. Reuben started to say something, but Stone silenced him with a very severe look.

Finally, Stone said, “All right, here’s what I want each of you to do.”

After laying out his plan, Stone put on an old hat he pulled from his backpack, placed Goff on a leash and got out of the car. Milton’s spare cell phone was in his pocket. Reuben and Caleb would stay in the car and keep watch, while Milton walked on the other side of the street toward Johnson’s home. His task was to note anyone who was paying Stone too much attention. Milton had been chosen for this role because he had remained in the bottom of the boat while they were being pursued, making it nearly impossible for the killers to have seen him. If Milton spotted anyone, he would ring Stone’s cell phone.

Stone strolled slowly along the street, stopping to bag some waste that Goff deposited next to a tree. “Good dog, Goff,” Stone said, petting him. “That’s very helpful in keeping up our cover.” When he reached the front of Johnson’s residence, a man wearing an FBI windbreaker came out carrying a large box wrapped with police evidence tape.

“A terrible tragedy, Officer,” Stone said in an inquiring tone to the man. The man didn’t answer, however, hurrying past Stone and handing the box to a woman who sat in one of the Suburbans. Stone let Goff sniff around a tree in front of Johnson’s house. While the animal did so, he was able to take in many details of the house and the adjacent properties. As he continued down the street, he passed a sedan that was idling at the curb. He managed not to even flinch when he saw who was sitting in the driver’s seat.

Tyler Reinke’s gaze bored into Stone briefly before returning to his surveillance of Johnson’s house. He obviously didn’t recognize the man he had come close to shooting the night before. Stone inwardly said thanks for his prescience in radically altering his appearance. Now the question became, where was the other man?

Stone continued down the street, turned left at the next corner and immediately called Caleb, relaying what he’d just seen. He then phoned Milton, who joined him a minute later.

“You’re sure it’s him?” Milton asked.

“No doubt. Now I want to know where the other one is.” His cell phone buzzed. Caleb’s voice was taut.

“Reuben just spotted the other man.”

“Where is he?”

“Speaking with one of the FBI agents outside of Johnson’s home.”

“Come and pick us up,” Stone said, relaying to Caleb where he and Milton were. “Don’t come down the street you’re on. I don’t want you to pass the house or the car he’s in. Turn left at the next corner and then make a right. We’ll meet you on the next block.”

As the two men were waiting at the arranged spot, Stone watched as Milton picked up a page from a newspaper that had blown across the street. He folded it neatly and deposited it in a trash can that sat in front of a driveway.

Stone said, “Milton, did you touch the note in Patrick Johnson’s pocket last night?”

Milton didn’t answer right away. However, his embarrassed look was all the response Stone really needed.

“How did you know, Oliver?”

“Those men knew we were there somehow. I don’t think it was because they saw us. I think they must have come back to the body for some reason and noticed that the note had been disturbed or was in a different place.”

“I . . . I . . .”

“You just wanted to check it, I know.” Stone was deeply worried for a very simple reason. Damp paper held fingerprints extremely well. Were Milton’s prints on any database anywhere? He didn’t want to ask him that question right now, for fear of sending his already upset friend into a panic attack.

When the Malibu pulled up, Stone and Milton climbed in. Caleb drove ahead a bit, found a parking spot on the crowded street and wedged in.

“Do we risk following them?” Reuben asked.

“Unfortunately, Caleb’s car rather sticks out,” Stone said. “If they pick up that we’re following them and run the license plate, they’ll be at Caleb’s house waiting before he even gets back there.”

“Oh, dear God,” Caleb said as he gripped the steering wheel and looked like he might be sick to his stomach.

“So what do we do?” Reuben asked.

Stone replied, “You said one of them was talking to the FBI. But the FBI wouldn’t be talking to just an ordinary citizen. I know. I tried. That could very well mean they’re law enforcement.”

“Which means they could be with NIC,” Milton chimed in. “That’s where Johnson worked.”

“A thought that had occurred to me,” Stone replied. “Carter Gray,” he muttered.

“Not a man you take on lightly,” Reuben commented.

Oh, shit!” Caleb whispered. He was staring in the rearview mirror. “That might be their car coming up behind us.”

“Don’t look in that direction,” Stone commanded sharply. “Caleb, take a deep breath and calm down. Reuben, slump down a little in your seat to disguise your size in case they look this way.” As he was talking, Stone took off his hat and slid forward in his seat until he had disappeared from view. “Caleb, can they see your license plate from the street?”

“No, the cars parked in front and back of us are too close.”

“Good. As soon as they pass, I want you to wait ten seconds and then pull out, and turn in the opposite direction from them. Milton, you’re pretty well hidden from view in the backseat. I want you to very carefully glance over and see if they look at us. And I want you to get a good look at them.”

Caleb took a deep breath and then held it as the car passed by slowly.

“Don’t look over, Caleb,” Stone whispered again from his hiding place.

As the car headed on and turned left at the next intersection, Stone said, “Milton?”

“They didn’t look over.”

“Okay, Caleb, go ahead.”

Caleb slowly pulled his car out and turned right at the next corner as Stone sat back up. “Everyone keep a sharp lookout to make sure they don’t return,” Stone said.

Stone looked back at Milton. “What did you see?”

Milton gave a fairly complete description of both men as well as the Virginia license plate number of the car.

Reuben looked at Stone. “I say now we go to the cops. We’ll back each other up. They’ll believe us.”

“No!” Stone said sharply. “We have to get them before they get to us.”

“How?” Reuben asked. “Especially if the killers are the authorities?”

“By doing what the Camel Club used to do very well: seek the truth.”

Milton broke in. “We can start by running their license plate number. It wasn’t a government plate, so we might just have lucked out, and it’s his personal car.”

Reuben said, “Do you know someone at DMV who can run the tag?”

Milton looked offended. “If I can hack into the Pentagon’s database, Reuben, DMV should prove no challenge at all.”

CHAPTER

25

AT NIC HEADQUARTERS THERE was a state-of-the-art gymnasium in the lower level that virtually no one used for lack of time. However, in a small room off the main area there was one person working out.

Tom Hemingway wore only a pair of loose-fitting shorts and a white tank shirt, and his feet were bare. He sat cross-legged on the floor with his eyes closed. A moment later he rose and assumed a martial arts stance. Most people watching him would have concluded that Hemingway was about to start practicing kung fu or karate. These same people would probably be surprised to learn that “kung fu,” literally translated, meant a skillful ability attained through hard work. Thus, someone could be a baseball player and be deemed to have good “kung fu.”

There were four hundred types of martial arts disciplines that had originated other than in China, whereas there were only three indigenous to that country: Hsing-I Chuan, Pa-Kua Chang and Tai Chi Chuan. The key difference between the four hundred and the three was power, as the whole body was used as a means to transfer all kinetic energy of the attacker on to the target. It was roughly equivalent to the speed of a slap with the shock of being hit by a car. A blow struck by a skilled practitioner of any of the three so-called internal martial arts had the power to rupture organs and kill.

During his years in China, Hemingway had found himself drawn to these internal martial arts, if for nothing more than to create a sense of identity that blended better with his surroundings than his blond hair and blue eyes did. Although he practiced the other forms of internal martial arts, Hemingway had become most proficient in the ShanXi House of Hsing-I.

Prior to starting his practice forms, Hemingway had sat motionless for almost an hour meditating. This exercise allowed one to intuitively take in his surroundings, sensing presence long before anyone could actually be seen. This talent had served Hemingway well in the field. As a CIA agent his life had been saved on more than one occasion by his ability to be aware of his enemy in a manner that defied the five human senses.

Through long years of practice Hemingway’s joints, tendons, ligaments, muscle groups and fascia were enormously strong. Decades of spine stretching while executing the twists and turns of his discipline had kept each of his vertebrae in perfect alignment with its neighbor. His sense of balance almost defied human comprehension. He had once stood for six hours on a skyscraper’s one-inch-wide ledge, twenty-one stories up in a driving wind and rain, while a Colombian death squad circled below looking for him. So strong were his fingers that he had to consciously hold back when he shook hands, and even then people frequently complained of his crushing grip.

He now assumed the bamboo stance, which was the critical maneuver in Hsing-I. The bamboo technique was simple physics, and also where the famed power of Hsing-I emanated. Hemingway had killed highly skilled men with just one vector strike off the bamboo stance.

He next picked up a pair of crescent swords, the traditional neijia weapons of the Pa-Kua internal martial art. They were his favorite form of practice weapon. He flew around the room using highly intricate bilateral movements of the curved swords, coupled with astonishingly tight footwork and tremendous centrifugal force that were characteristic of the Pa-Kua discipline

After he had finished his workout, Hemingway showered and changed into his street clothes. As he was dressing, he unconsciously rubbed the tattoo that he carried on the inside of his right forearm. It was composed of four words in Chinese. Translated, it meant “Ultimate loyalty to serve country.” There was a story behind the marking that intrigued Hemingway.

A famous general in the Southern Song dynasty named Yueh Fei had served under a field marshal who had defected to the enemy. This betrayal had sent Fei home in disgust. There his mother lectured him that a soldier’s first duty is to his country. She sent him back to battle with those four words tattooed on his back as a permanent reminder. Hemingway had heard the story as a young boy and never forgotten it. He’d gotten the tattoo when a particularly troubling mission he performed for the CIA caused him to consider quitting. Instead, he had the words engraved on his skin and went on with his work.

Hemingway drove to his modest apartment on Capitol Hill and went into the kitchen to make wulong black tea, his favorite. He brewed a pot and placed two cups on a tray and carried it into the small living room.

Hemingway poured out the tea and then called out, “Cold wulong isn’t very good.”

There was a stirring in the next room, and the man walked out.

“Okay, what gave me away? I’m not wearing anything scented. I took off my shoes. I’ve been holding my damn breath for thirty minutes. What?”

“You have a powerful aura that you can’t hide,” Hemingway said, smiling.

“You scare me sometimes, Tom, you really do.” Captain Jack tipped back his head and laughed and then accepted a cup of tea. He sat down, took a sip and nodded at a painting of a Chinese landscape that hung against the far wall. “Nice.”

“I’ve actually been to the area depicted in the painting. My father collected that artist’s work and some sculpture from the Shang dynasty.”

“Amazing man, Ambassador Hemingway. I never met him but I certainly knew of him.”

“He was a statesman,” Hemingway said as he sipped his tea. “Unfortunately that’s a breed that’s nearly extinct these days.”

Captain Jack remained silent for a few moments, studying the man across from him. “I tried reading the poetry you told me about.”

Hemingway looked up from his tea. “The Red Pepper collection? What’d you think?”

“That I should work on my Chinese.”

Hemingway smiled. “It’s a beautiful way to communicate, once you get into it.”

Captain Jack set his teacup down on the table. “So what was so important that it had to be done in person?”

“Carter Gray will be going to the dedication in Brennan.”

“Damn, I’d say that was worth a face-to-face. How do you want to play it, then?”

“The exit strategy has always been problematic. No matter how we tried to tweak it, there was too much uncertainty. Now, with Gray coming, we have certainty.”

“How exactly do you figure that?”

Hemingway explained his plan and his colleague looked suitably impressed.

“Well, I think it’ll work. In fact, I think it’s brilliant. Brilliant and ballsy.”

“Depending on whether it succeeds or not,” Hemingway replied.

“Don’t be modest, Tom. Let’s call this what it is. A plan that will rock the entire world.” He paused and added, “But don’t underestimate the old man. Carter Gray’s forgotten more than you and I will ever know about the spy business.”

Hemingway opened his briefcase. Inside was a DVD. He tossed it to his companion. “I think you’ll find what’s on there helpful.”

Captain Jack fingered the DVD and watched Hemingway closely. “I did over twenty years with the Company, quite a few under Gray, and you did what?”

“Twelve, all in the field, with two years at NSA before that,” Hemingway answered. “I started at NIC a year after Gray became secretary.”

“I hear they’re grooming you for the top spot. Interested?”

Hemingway shook his head. “There’s little future there that I can see.”

“Back to the CIA, then?”

“It’s a useless anachronism.”

“Right! There’ll always be a CIA, even after the Iraqi WMDs that never were.”

“You think so?” Hemingway said curiously.

“Oh, when I was helping support a host of ‘acceptable alternatives’ to communism, mostly monster dictators, or feeding crack to black neighborhoods to help fund illegal operations overseas, or blowing up democracies in other countries because they wouldn’t support American business interests, I thought to myself, there’s got to be a better way of doing this. But I got over that thinking a long time ago.”

“We can’t win this particular fight with soldiers and spies,” Hemingway said. “It’s not that simple.”

“Then it can’t be won,” Captain Jack answered bluntly. “Because that’s the only way countries know to settle their differences.”

“Dostoyevsky wrote that ‘while nothing is easier than to denounce the evildoer, nothing is more difficult than to understand him.’”

“You and I have both spent a lot of time there, but do you really think you’ll ever understand the ‘evildoer’ mentality of the Middle Eastern terrorist?”

“How do you know that’s the ‘evildoer’ I’m referring to? We certainly don’t have clean hands when it comes to events overseas. In fact, we created many of the problems we face today.”

“That’s why there’s only one sensible motivation these days: money. As I’ve told you before, I don’t care about anything else. I will go back to my beautiful little island, and I will not stir again. This is it for me.”

“That’s being brutally honest,” Hemingway remarked.

“Would you rather I tell you that my twitching ideology is screaming for me to help make the world better?”

“No, I’ll take the brutal honesty.”

“And why are you doing it?”

“For something better than what we have.”

“Idealism again? I’m telling you, Tom, you’ll live to regret it. Or die.”

“Not idealism, or even fatalism, but simply an idea put into action.”

Captain Jack shook his head slowly. “I’ve fought for and against pretty much every cause there is. There will always be war of some kind. At first it was over fertile soil and good water, then precious metal and then the most popular version of human disagreement, ‘My God is better than your God.’ Whether you draw your faith from Jeremiah and Jesus, Allah and Muhammad or Brahma and Buddha, it doesn’t matter. Someone will tell you you’re wrong, and he’ll fight you over it. Me, I believe in aliens, and to hell with all earthly gods. In the grand scheme of a trillion planets in the universe we’re just not that damn important anyway. And humans are rotten to the core.”

“Buddha rose above materialism. Jesus was champion of embracing one’s enemies. As was Gandhi.”

“Jesus was betrayed and died on the cross, and Gandhi was murdered by a Hindu who was ticked off Gandhi tolerated Muslims,” Captain Jack pointed out.

Hemingway paced the room. “I remember my father telling me about England’s redrawing of India’s boundaries when it became independent. They wanted to separate the Hindu from the Muslim, but they used outdated maps. Twelve million people had to relocate because the Brits screwed it up so badly. And a half million people died during the resulting chaos. And before that, Iraq was unilaterally cobbled together, causing many of the conflicts we see today. There are dozens of such examples. The strong countries smashing the weaker ones and then avoiding responsibility later for the very problems they caused.”

“You keep proving my point, Tom, that we’re rotten to the core.”

“My point is we never learn!”

“And what, you think you have a better answer?” Hemingway didn’t respond. Captain Jack rose but then paused at the door. “I doubt that I’ll see you again, unless you end up heading to a small island in the South Pacific. If you do, you’ll be welcome. Unless you’re a fugitive. Then, my friend, you’re on your own.”