The Machiavelli Covenant

22

• SPAIN, COSTA VASCA NUMBER 00204, NIGHT TRAIN,

SAN SEBASTIAN TO MADRID, 5:03 A.M.

"Victor?"

"Yes, Richard."

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I was expecting you to call."

"Where are you now?"

"We left Medina del Campo Station about a half hour ago. We are due to arrive in Madrid at seven thirty-five. Chamartin Station."

"When you get to Chamartin I want you to take the Metro to Atocha Station and from there a taxi to the Westin Palace Hotel on the Plaza de las Cortes. A room is reserved for you."

"Alright, Richard."

"One thing in particular. When you get to Atocha Station, I want you to walk through it carefully and look around. Atocha is where terrorist bombs placed on commuter trains killed one hundred and ninety-one people and injured nearly eighteen hundred more. Imagine what it would have been like when the bombs went off and what would have happened to all those people. And if you were there maybe to you as well. Will you do that, Victor?"

"Yes, Richard."

"Do you have any questions?"

"No."

"Anything you need?"

"No."

"Get some rest. I'll call you later today."

There was a click as Richard signed off, and then Victor's cell phone went silent. For a long moment he did nothing, just listened to the sound of the train as it passed over the rails. Finally he looked around his first-class sleeping compartment with its little washstand, the fresh towels on a rack above him, fresh linens on the bunk bed. There had been only one other time in his life when he had traveled first-class, and that had been yesterday, when he'd taken the high-speed train, the TGV, from Paris to Hendaye on the French-Spanish border. Moreover, the Westin Palace in Madrid was a first-class hotel. As had been the Hotel Boulevard in Berlin. It seemed that from the moment he had shot and killed the man outside Union Station in Washington they had treated him with a great deal more respect than they had before.

He smiled warmly at the thought, then lay back against the soft bedding and closed his eyes. For the first time in as long as he could remember he felt truly appreciated. As if finally, his life had worth and meaning.

• 1:20 P.M.

President John Henry Harris sat in shirtsleeves watching the island of Corsica slide past beneath them, then saw the open water of the Balearic Sea as Air Force One flew west against a strong headwind toward the Spanish mainland. After that it would be on to Madrid and a scheduled dinner with the newly elected prime minister of Spain and a select group of Spanish business leaders.

Earlier that morning he had breakfasted with Italian prime minister Aldo Visconti, and afterward he'd addressed the Italian parliament. His grand dinner at the Palazzo del Quirinale with Mario Tonti, the president of Italy, the night before, had been filled with warmth and goodwill and the two leaders developed a bond almost immediately. By evening's end Harris had invited the Italian president to visit him at his ranch in the California wine country, and Tonti had enthusiastically accepted. That the relationship had developed as it had was important politically, because even as the Italian populace was wary of America's moves and intentions in the Middle East, Tonti had gone out of his way to show the president that he had a strong and dependable ally in Europe. This morning Prime Minister Visconti had assured Harris of the same. The support of both men was a crucial gain for his tour and all the more important after his more painful experiences in Paris and Berlin, and he was grateful for it. Yet it was Paris and Berlin, or rather the leaders of France and Germany, that still hung in his mind. He had dropped his idea of discussing the Jake Lowe-Dr. James Marshall problem with either Secretary of State Chaplin or Defense Secretary Langdon because he knew that if he did, it would become an overriding cause for worry, and the attention to it would take away the focus on their overall mission.

Besides, frightening and unsettling as it had been, it was still only conversation, and neither man was on hand to take it any further. Earlier that morning Lowe had flown on to Madrid to meet with staff members and the advance Secret Service team at the Hotel Ritz, where he would be staying. Marshall had remained behind in Rome to spend the rest of the day in conference with his Italian counterpart.

Harris sat back, fingered a glass of orange juice, and wondered what he had missed in his judgment of Lowe and Marshall that they could be seriously discussing things he would have thought were so alien to their natures. Then he remembered Jake Lowe taking a phone call from Tom Curran during the motorcade in Berlin and being told afterward of the murder of Caroline Parsons's physician, Lorraine Stephenson. He remembered thinking out loud about the very recent deaths of Mike Parsons, his son, and then Caroline, all three compounded by the murder of Caroline's doctor. He remembered turning to Jake Lowe and saying something like: "They are all dead over so short a time. What is going on?"

"It's a tragic coincidence, Mr. President," Lowe had responded.

"Is it?"

"What else would it be?"

Maybe Lowe was right; maybe it was a tragic coincidence. Then again, maybe it wasn't, especially not in light of the "assassination" business. Immediately he pressed the intercom button at his sleeve.

"Yes, Mr. President," the voice of his chief of staff came back.

"Tom, would you please ask Hap Daniels to step in here? I'd like to chat with him about procedures in Madrid."

"Yes, sir."

Five seconds later the door opened and his forty-three-year-old Secret Service detail leader entered.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. President?"

"Come in, Hap," Harris said. "Please close the door."

23

Nicholas Marten felt the aircraft bank slightly as the pilot swung them southeast, crossing the Tyrrhenian Sea toward the lower boot of Italy. Soon they would drop down over Sicily and begin their approach to Malta.

At seven fifteen that morning his British Airways flight from Washington had touched down at London's Heathrow Airport. By eight he had retrieved his luggage and bought a ticket on Air Malta for a ten thirty flight that would get him to the Maltese capital of Valletta at three that afternoon. In between he had a cup of coffee and some poached eggs with marmalade toast, booked a room at Valletta's three-star Hotel Castille, and tried calling Peter Fadden in Washington to tell him what had happened with the police and that he was on his way to Malta. Fadden's cell phone had been answered by voice mail, so he'd left a brief message giving Fadden his cell phone number, then backed it up with a similar call to his Washington Post office, saying he'd try to reach him again later in the day. Then he'd waited for his flight and tried to put together the pieces of what had happened in Washington, the most curious of which was what the French writer and photojournalist Demi Picard had asked him outside the church just before the police arrived. Had Caroline mentioned "the witches" before she died?

Witches?

No, that wasn't quite it. She'd said "the witches."

The same as Caroline had said. "The ca-"

Whether she had been meaning to say "the committee" was still a guess, but it seemed more than reasonable if-and it was a big if-Dr. Merriman Foxx turned out to be not only "the whitehaired man" but also the "doctor" Lorraine Stephenson had so feared that she put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger in front of him.

Merriman Foxx and Dr. Lorraine Stephenson aside, there was no doubt Caroline had said "the ca." Just as Demi Picard had said "the witches." Both had been plural, meaning there had been more than one person involved. And if Caroline had indeed been referring to a committee, she would have been talking about a group.

• VALLETTA, MALTA, 3:30 P.M.

Marten took a taxi from the airport to the Hotel Castille and checked into a comfortable third-floor room with a large window that gave him a striking view of the city's Grand Harbor and its massive stone fortress, St. Angelo, which jutted into the sea from an island across from the city. The fortress had been built, his taxi driver told him on the way from the airport, in the sixteenth century at the behest of the Knights of St. John to protect the island from the invading Ottoman Turks. "It might have looked like the Knights of St. John versus the Turks," he'd said loudly and passionately. "But it was really West against East. Christianity versus Islam. The groundwork for today's terrorist devils was put down right here in Malta five hundred years ago."

He was exaggerating of course, but with Marten's first viewing of the harbor fortifications from his hotel window came an immediate, even eerie, awareness of that past. Despite its oversimplicity, what the cabdriver had said might well be true; the great distrust between East and West had indeed been established centuries earlier on this tiny Mediterranean archipelago.

Jet-lagged but energized, Marten took a quick shower and shaved, then pulled on a light turtleneck sweater, fresh slacks, and a tweed sport coat, from the clothes he had so hastily packed when he'd left Manchester on the run to be with Caroline.

Fifteen minutes later, a hotel-provided map of Valletta in his pocket, he was walking down Triq ir-Repubblika, or Republic Street, the city's main shopping venue, looking for Triq San Gwann, or St. John Street, and then number 200, which according to Peter Fadden was the home of Dr. Merriman Foxx.

What he would do when he got there he'd worked out in London during his wait in the Air Malta passenger lounge. He'd found a cubicle with an Internet connection, plugged in his electronic notebook, then logged on and accessed the U.S. Congressional Record Web page. There he'd scrolled down to the Subcommittee on Intelligence and Counterterrorism Mike Parsons had been part of, then clicked on the list of its members and found the name of the committee's chairwoman: Representative Jane Dee Baker, a Democrat from Maine, who, as a further Internet search turned up, was at that moment part of a small contingent of congresspeople on a fact-finding tour of Iraq.

If Merriman Foxx had testified for three days as Peter Fadden had said, he would be more than aware of who Congresswoman Baker was. Marten's plan was to call his residence, give his name as Nicholas Marten, a special aide to Representative Baker, and say there were three or four minor ambiguities in the hearing's transcript that the congresswoman would like clarified. Since he was in Europe and would be traveling through Malta anyway, the congresswoman would very much appreciate it if Dr. Foxx would give him a few moments so that the text could be finalized for the Congressional Record.

It was a kind of boldness Marten knew was risky. There was every chance that he would get a firm "No, I'm sorry but my testimony has been completed" or that Foxx might first check with Baker's office in Washington to see if there was indeed a Nicholas Marten on her staff and if he had been given such an assignment. But as a former investigator, Marten was going on the belief that the scientist's reaction would be cordial. Cordial, as in guarded, as if he might still be under the committee's scrutiny. Or cordial, as in friendly, if some kind of cooperative venture was going on between himself and the committee and he didn't want to upset it. In either case, cordial enough to at least meet with him face-to-face. And when they met, Marten would begin to "cordially" feel him out for what he knew about Dr. Stephenson and about the illness and death of Caroline Parsons.

Marten walked toward St. John's Square, where Republic Street and St. John Street crossed. He passed a small games and toys shop, another selling wine and spirits, and then under a colorful banner stretching overhead across Republic Street. A few paces more and he was at St. John's Square and in front of the massive Church of the Knights, the seventeenth-century Co-Cathedral of St. John. He had heard of its grand noble hall and the magnificent design within, but from the outside it looked more like a fortress than a church, and reminded him once more that Malta, especially Valletta, had been designed foremost as a citadel.

St. John Street was hardly a street but rather a long climb of stone steps. No vehicles here, only pedestrians. It was now a little after five in the afternoon and the sun cut deep shadows across the stairs as he climbed them. His reason for coming here was simple; to find number 200 and hopefully get some sense of how Merriman Foxx lived-a glimpse of him would be a sheer bonus-before he returned to his hotel and telephoned him.

One hundred fifty-two steps later he was there. Number 200 was similar to all of the buildings on the street, a four-story edifice with an enclosed overhanging balcony on each floor. Balconies that he was certain gave a clear view of the street below.

Marten walked up another twenty steps, then turned back to study the building. Without going up to the front door and peering in, it was hard to tell if the four floors were part of one residence or were broken into single apartments on each floor. A lone residence might indicate Foxx was a man of some wealth-an investment of part of his alleged siphoned-off millions, maybe. An apartment on a single floor would be less definitive. The one thing that was certain was that anyone who lived here had to be at the very least ambulatory; the steep stone-step street itself proved that. It made him begin to wonder if, as a former military officer, Merriman Foxx may well have chosen this island domicile not only for its rich military history but because as he aged it would force him to stay in shape physically. It was a personal discipline he should not overlook when they met face-to-face and he began to question Foxx about Dr. Stephenson and Caroline Parsons.

24

On the other hand maybe he was jumping the gun by assuming Foxx was both the "doctor" and the "white-haired man." What if he wasn't? What if he was just a former army commander with white hair who had run a secret South African bioweapons program and then retired after the whole thing was dismantled? Someone who had never heard of Caroline Parsons or Lorraine Stephenson, had told the truth before a congressional committee, and was now back home to whatever his life in Malta was and happy to have everything else behind him?

What then?

Go back to England? Go back and go to work putting the finishing touches on the landscape drawings for the Banfield country estate northwest of Manchester? Get everything ready for the grading, the irrigation people, the nursery orders, and the planting crews? Go back and forget about what had happened to Caroline? Or to her husband and son? Or about the decapitation of the already dead Dr. Lorraine Stephenson?

No, he'd forget none of it because it wouldn't come to that. Merriman Foxx had to be the doctor/white-haired man. He'd been in Washington from March 6th to the 29th, the period during which Mike Parsons and his son had died in the plane crash and when Caroline had become ill. He'd been the principal witness for the subcommittee Mike Parsons had been a member of. And he knew firsthand about the makeup and covert use of secret deadly pathogens.

There was little doubt Foxx was the man he was after, but even if he was fortunate enough to get the face-to-face meeting with him why would Foxx tell him anything at all about what he was involved in? If Marten persisted and it got ugly Foxx might very well find a way to kill him. Conversely, if what Foxx was engaged in was far-reaching enough and somehow he forced him into a corner, it might be cause enough for Foxx to kill himself. A cyanide tablet under the tongue, or considering his professional background, something more ingenious, prepared long in advance in the event of such a circumstance.

Peter Fadden had told Marten he was pursuing this emotionally, and he was right. It was why he was here. But now, in the shadow of Foxx's apartment building, he realized that what he had been thinking was true and that if he continued on that same path there was every chance either he or the good doctor would wind up dead, and in the process send Foxx's entire operation, whatever it was, underground. Furthermore, and what he should have thought about from the beginning, was that no matter what he uncovered he had no support structure to back him up. Even if he got Foxx to divulge everything, who was he going to turn to?

If this was as potentially explosive as it seemed-the murder of a United States congressman and his son, and later his wife, followed by the decapitation of his wife's doctor, all intertwined with a congressional subcommittee hearing on intelligence and counterterrorism-it was not something an expatriate landscape designer from England should be pursuing alone. That he had once been an LAPD homicide detective meant nothing; this was a national security issue, especially if it involved congressional-level Washington politics. So far he had no proof of anything. But a trail had opened up and Merriman Foxx was at the end of it. It meant that whatever Marten did and said when he met him had to be done with great care and self-control, and with all his personal feelings left out of it. His objective had to be wholly singular: to ascertain if Merriman Foxx was-or was not-the doctor/white-haired man. If he was, his next step would be to get hold of Peter Fadden and let him turn loose the one organization in Washington that would have no qualms about taking the investigation further-The Washington Post.

• MADRID, WESTIN PALACE HOTEL, 7:30 P.M.

"Hello, Victor." Richard's telephone voice was calm and soothing as always.

"I'm glad to hear from you, Richard. I thought you were going to call me earlier." Victor picked up the remote and turned down the television, then moved to sit on the edge of the bed, where he had been resting until his cell phone had rung with Richard's call.

"How is the hotel?"

"Very nice."

"Are they treating you well?"

"Yes, thank you, Richard."

"How was your walk through Atocha Station."

"I-" Victor hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

"You did walk through it as I asked?"

"Yes, Richard."

"What did you think when you saw the area where all those people died in the terrorist attack? Did you imagine what it must have been like for them? The bombs going off inside the railway cars. The screams, the pieces of bodies, the blood. Did you think of the cowards who hid the explosives in backpacks and put them on the trains with all those innocent people on board, then set them off by cell phone when they were themselves safely miles away?"

"Yes, Richard."

"How did you feel?"

"Sad."

"Not angry?"

"Sad, and angry, yes."

"Sad for the people who were hurt and died, angry at the terrorists who did it. Is that right?"

"Yes, I was especially angry at the terrorists."

"You would like to destroy them, wouldn't you?"

"Very much."

"I want you to do something, Victor. There is a garment bag in the clothes closet in your room. Inside it you will find a dark business suit and with it a dress shirt and tie. The suit and shirt are your size. I want you to put them on and go out. As you exit the hotel you will see the Hotel Ritz across the plaza. It's where the president is staying while he is in Madrid. I want you to go there and walk in through the front entrance as any visitor would. Inside you will see the lobby and beyond it the bar and lounge. Go into the lounge and sit down at a table where you can see the lobby and order a drink."

"And then what?"

"Wait a few minutes and then get up and go to the men's room. When you come out look around. The president and his staff have taken over the entire fourth floor. See how the other guests are getting to their rooms on the second and third floors. See if there is any reason you could not get to those same rooms. Then see if there is a way for you to get to the fourth floor. Try both the elevator and the fire stairs. Don't do anything, just see if you would have access. Then go back to the lounge, finish your drink, and return to your hotel."

"Anything else?"

"Not now. I'll call you in the morning to learn what you have found out."

"Alright."

"Thank you, Victor."

"No, Richard, thank you. I mean it."

"I know you do, Victor. Good night."

Victor hesitated, then clicked off. He'd waited all afternoon for Richard's call, and with each passing hour he'd become increasingly worried that they'd changed their minds and wouldn't need him anymore. If that happened, he didn't know what he would do. There was no way he could contact them. Except for a tall pleasant man named Bill Jackson who had met him at a shooting range near his home in Arizona and talked to him about joining a secretive patriotic organization of homeland "protectors," men and women who knew how to use firearms and could be counted on to fight as individuals in the event of a major terrorist invasion; and Richard, whom he'd talked to almost daily for the last weeks but had never met, he had no idea who they were or, for that matter, even how to contact Richard.

And as the minutes and hours ticked away before Richard finally called, his anxiety level had risen almost to bursting. What would he do if they abandoned him? Go back to Arizona and the meager life he'd lived there before they'd found him? It would be as if he'd been given another chance and failed again, then let go for reasons that were not his fault at all, the same as had happened so many times before. It seemed as if it was his damnation-hard worker, always on time, never complaining, but let go in a few months anyway for reasons never made clear. It had all been hands-dirty sweatwork: warehouseman, truck driver, short-order cook, security guard; in his entire life he had never held a job for more than fifteen months. And then this wonderful opportunity had come along, and with it growing respect and first-class travel to cities he had never dreamed of. And now the thought of losing it. Oh God! The awful shadow of that possibility burned in his guts. Fear and despair twisted inside him with each passing minute. Too often he looked at the silent phone on the bed next to him. A phone that should have rung hours before but hadn't. Then, finally, mercifully, it did ring, and he snatched it up to hear the comfort of Richard's voice bringing him back into the fold. Afterward, when he'd clicked off, he let out a deep breath and relaxed, even smiled.

Everything, he knew, was still alright.

25

• VALLETTA, MALTA, 8:35 P-M.

Nicholas Marten left the hotel and started down Triq ta York. The light fog coming off the Mediterranean was crisp and invigorating for someone still suffering from jet lag as he was. He wore a dark sport coat and gray slacks, a blue shirt and burgundy tie. In his left hand was a hastily bought briefcase he had scuffed up a little to make it appear somewhat used. Inside it were several file folders, a notebook, and a small, also hastily bought, battery-powered tape recorder.

His destination was an easy ten-minute walk from his hotel and he walked it quickly, following the street past the Upper Baracca Gardens to where it turned into Triq Id-Duka.

"The doctor would be happy to meet with you, Mr. Marten," Merriman Foxx's housekeeper had told him when he'd called requesting to see the doctor on Congresswoman Baker's behalf. "Unfortunately his time is short, but he asked if you would drop by the restaurant where he is having dinner. He will take a few moments to give you whatever information the congresswoman requires."

The time was promptly at nine. The place, the Café Tripoli on Triq id-Dejqa, on the far side of the R.A.F. war memorial, a monument to British fliers who defended the island against the German and Italian invasion forces in World War Two. Walking past it Marten once again felt the history of battle here and with it the strategic importance of this fortress island. Just the feeling of it, of seeing the ancient stone garrisons and thinking of the countless invasions Malta had suffered over the centuries gave him a very real sense of the adage that war never ends, that there is always one in waiting.

It made him think of Merriman Foxx's Tenth Medical Brigade and its efforts to develop covert biological weapons, and made him realize Foxx knew that maxim all too well. If he did and took it to heart, did that mean the projects he had been working on before the program was ended had not been dismantled at all and were still alive and active? If so, was that what Mike Parsons had stumbled onto in the committee hearings? That and the fact that some members of the committee knew it and were determined not to let it become public? If that was true, then the next question had to be why? What were they protecting that they had to kill Parsons because of it?

The sharp cry of an alley cat brought Marten back to where he was. He waited for traffic to pass then crossed a wide boulevard and turned down Triq id-Dejqa, looking for the Café Tripoli. He had to appreciate Foxx's openness in agreeing to see him but at the same time knew he had to be wary of him. A public meeting was always circumventive and hardly like being in a hearing room. With others in close earshot one could listen to what was being asked and then answer directly or indirectly or not at all, politely and at choice. The problem for Marten was how to handle the interview because the questions he would ask would have little to do with the hearings and instead focus on Caroline and Dr. Stephenson. It would be tricky and delicate and what would happen as a result would depend as much on Merriman Foxx himself, his character and manner, as on how Marten presented them.

• 8:45 P.M.

The Café Tripoli was down a narrow stone-step alley, its doorway lighted by a large brass lamp. Marten stopped at the top of the steps, watching as the café's door opened and three people came out and started up toward him. Behind him was a darkened doorway, and he stepped into it and waited. A moment later the three walked past and turned onto the street without ever having seen him. This was what he wanted and why he was early. The doorway was a place to observe Foxx as he passed by on his way to the restaurant. Marten wanted to see him first, if nothing more than a glimpse. See his features and the white hair, to know beforehand what he looked like. It would be an edge up, nothing more.

• 8:55 P.M.

For a long time it had been quiet, and Marten wondered if Foxx had been early himself and was already inside. He was beginning to wonder if he should abandon his plan and just go down to the restaurant when a cab pulled up at the end of the alley, the doors opened, and a man and then a woman got out. Marten pressed farther back into the doorway as the taxi drove off and the two started down the stone steps toward the café. The woman passed first. She was quite young, dark-haired, and very attractive. The man was right behind. Medium height, medium build, his shoulders back, he wore a gray knit fisherman's sweater over dark trousers. His face was taut and deeply lined. His hair, the massive shock of it, was white as fresh snow and so theatrical as almost to be a trademark. Merriman Foxx was almost exactly as Peter Fadden had described him. "He looks like Einstein."

Marten waited until they entered, then opened his briefcase, took out the tape recorder, and slid it in his inside jacket pocket. He waited another moment, then stepped out of the shadows and walked down to the entrance of the Café Tripoli.

"Good evening, sir!"

Marten was barely inside the door when he was met by a cheerful, balding maître d' in black slacks and starched white shirt. Behind him was a smoky pub-like lounge with the sound of a jazz piano floating out of it.

"I'm to meet Dr. Foxx. My name is Marten."

"Yes, sir, of course. Follow me please."

The maître d' led him down a flight of stairs to the supper club in the basement. A number of people crowded a small bar near the foot of the stairs. Beyond it was a dining area with maybe two dozen tables; all were taken and Marten looked around for Dr. Foxx and his companion but saw neither.

"This way, sir."

The maître d' led him toward an enclosed area near the back that was separated from the rest of the club by a wood-and-opaque glass partition. The maître d' stepped around it and ushered him into what was essentially a private room.

"Mr. Marten," he announced.

26

Four of them were at the table. Foxx and his lady friend, as he had expected. The other two were a total surprise. He had last seen them in Washington little more than a day earlier-congressional chaplain Reverend Rufus Beck and the French writer-photojournalist Demi Picard.

"Good evening, Mr. Marten." Merriman Foxx stood to take his hand. "Let me introduce my other guests. Cristina Vallone," he nodded to the young woman who had come in with him, "the Reverend Rufus Beck and," he smiled warmly, "Mademoiselle Picard."

"How do you do?" Marten's eyes met Demi's for the briefest moment, but she revealed nothing. He looked back to Foxx. "It's very kind of you to meet with me like this and on such short notice."

"It is always a pleasure to assist the United States Congress any way I can. Unfortunately my time is short, Mr. Marten; if our guests will excuse us perhaps we can go to a corner of the bar and take care of what needs to be done."

"Of course."

Merriman Foxx ushered Marten out of the enclosed area and toward the bar near the stairs. As Marten went, his eyes again met Demi's. She was watching him without trying to show it. Clearly she was as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Further, and just as clearly, she wasn't happy about it.

Reverend Beck was a surprise too, and like Demi, he had shown no recognition. Yet Marten was certain he remembered him from Caroline's hospital room. Not only had they introduced themselves when Beck came in, but, as Demi had told him, Beck was curious enough about him to have asked one of the nurses who he was.

"Just what ambiguities did Congresswoman Baker want clarified?" Foxx said as they reached the bar. It had cleared out a little now and they stood alone at the end of it.

Marten set the briefcase on the bar, opened it, and took out a folder, then reached into his jacket pocket for a pen. As he did, he clicked on the tape-recorder. At the same time, and without being asked, the bartender set a snifter of single malt whiskey at each man's sleeve.

"There are several, doctor," Marten said, deliberately reminding himself of the reason he was here, to ascertain as best he could whether Foxx was or was not the doctor/white-haired man. His great disadvantage here, and one he hoped was not fatal, was that he had no transcript of the congressional hearings and therefore no idea of what had been asked or answered. All he had to work with was what he knew about Foxx's history and that of the Tenth Medical Brigade, the bits and pieces he'd learned through a brief search of the Internet when he'd returned to his hotel; what Caroline had told him, and what Dr. Stephenson had said just before she shot and killed herself.

He opened the folder and glanced at the page of handwritten notes he'd prepared in his hotel room as if he had taken them down during a phone conversation with Congresswoman Baker.

"Your biological weapons project in the Tenth Medical Brigade was called Program D, not B. Is that correct?"

"Yes." Foxx picked up the snifter and took a pull at his whiskey.

Marten made a notation on the page next to his notes and went on to the next. "You stated that the toxins you developed, including forty-five different strains of anthrax, and the bacteria that cause brucellosis, cholera, and plague and systems to deliver them, as well as a number of new and unaccounted-for experimental viruses-all had been accounted for and subsequently destroyed. That is correct as well?"

"Yes."

Foxx took another drink of whiskey. For the first time Marten noticed how extraordinarily long his fingers were in proportion to the size of his hands. At the same time also he took stock of the doctor's build. When he'd first seen him in the alley he'd seemed average, neither stocky nor slim, but in the bulky fisherman's sweater, if he was indeed in shape and muscular as Marten had previously thought, it was hard to tell. Either way it was something he couldn't dwell on without drawing attention to what he was doing, so he went back to his questioning.

"To your knowledge has any further experimentation been done on human beings since 1993 when the president of South Africa declared that all of your biological weapons had been destroyed?"

Foxx suddenly put his glass down. "I answered that quite clearly before the committee," he said irritably. "No, no further testing was done. The toxins were destroyed, along with the information about how to create them."

"Thank you." Marten leaned over his file, taking his time to scribble a few more notes. Initially Foxx had greeted him cordially. It meant he had taken Marten's introduction of himself at face value and in all likelihood had not verified that he was with Congresswoman Baker's office. Yet now he was clearly becoming short-tempered, either by the questions themselves or more likely because of his ego. These were things he'd already been over in a closed congressional hearing and here he was standing in public going over the same material with some third-string messenger, one he was showing increasing contempt for. What he wanted was to have it over and done with once and for all.

It was just this display of temperament that told Marten he could be vulnerable if pushed, that with more direct questioning he might give something away he had not intended to. Marten knew too that if he was going to do it, he had to do so quickly because the doctor was clearly not going to give him much more of his time.

"I'm sorry, there are just a few more," Marten said apologetically.

"Then get to them." Foxx glared at him, then picked up his glass once more, his long fingers wrapped around it.

"Please let me explain, as perhaps I should have earlier," Marten said in the same contrite manner, "that some of these clarifications have been made necessary because of the death of one of the committee members after the hearings had closed, Congressman Michael Parsons of California. Representative Parsons, it seems, had left a memo for Congresswoman Baker that only recently surfaced. It had to do with a consultation he had with a Dr. Lorraine Stephenson, who, besides being a general practitioner, was also, I believe, a virologist. She also happened to be the personal physician of Congressman Parsons's wife, Caroline. Are you familiar with Dr. Stephenson?"

"No."

Marten glanced at his notes, then looked up. Now was the time to push, and hard. "That's curious because in Congressman Parsons's memo to Congresswoman Baker, he mentions that you and Dr. Stephenson had met privately more than once over the course of the hearings."

"I have never heard of a Dr. Stephenson. Nor do I have any idea what you're talking about," Foxx said tersely. "Now I think I've given the congresswoman quite enough of my time, Mr. Marten." He put down his snifter and started to turn from the bar.

"Doctor," Marten kept on, "Congressman Parsons's memo raised questions about the veracity of your testimony, particularly in the area of the unaccounted-for experimental viruses."

"What's that?" Foxx turned back, his face flushed with anger.

"I didn't mean to upset you. I'm only doing as instructed." Again Marten played the apologetic messenger. "Now that you know about the memo and since Congressman Parsons is dead, Congresswoman Baker asked if you would state for the final transcript that everything you said under oath was, and to the best of your knowledge, still is, the whole truth."

Foxx picked up the snifter again, his eyes deadly cold. "Yes, Mr. Marten, for the final transcript, everything I said was and is the whole truth."

"The viruses included? That none had been used on a human being since 1993?"

Foxx's stare bore into him, both hands encircling the snifter, his thumbs protruding up and over the rim. "The viruses included."

"One last question," Marten said quietly. "Have you ever been know simply as 'the doctor'?"

Foxx finished his whiskey and looked to Marten. "Yes, by hundreds of people. Good night, Mr. Marten and please give Congresswoman Baker my best wishes." He set the empty snifter on the bar and walked off for his table.

"My God," Marten breathed. It had happened so quickly and inadvertently he'd almost missed it. Yet there it had been, shown to him as clearly as if he had asked to see it. Yes, Merriman Foxx had white hair. Yes, he was called "the doctor." But those two things taken alongside Marten's rather sorry attempt at getting hard information did not mark Foxx without a doubt as the doctor/white-haired man who had overseen, if not administered, the toxin that killed Caroline.

But the other thing did.

It was something he had forgotten completely until he had noticed the unusual length of Foxx's fingers as they circled his whiskey glass. It was what Caroline had told him over the phone when she'd first called him so fearfully in Manchester and asked him to come to Washington.

"I didn't like him," she'd said about the white-haired man who'd come to the clinic where she'd been taken following the injection given her by Doctor Stephenson. "Everything about him frightened me. The way he stared at me. The way he touched my face and my legs with his long, hideous, fingers."

Those fingers around the whiskey glass were only part of it. The rest had come when an angry Foxx had held his snifter in both hands with his thumbs protruding up and over the rim. It was then he'd seen it and remembered the whole of Caroline's description: "The way he touched my face and my legs with his long, hideous, fingers; and that horrid thumb with its tiny balled cross."

A faded cross-two straight lines that intersected in the form of a cross with a tiny circle, a ball, at the tip of each of the four ends-had been tattooed on the tip of Merriman Foxx's left thumb.

Marten had almost missed it, but he hadn't. A tiny, faded tattooed cross described in passing by a terrified, dying woman. At the time it had been part of a jumble of information and had seemingly meant little. Now it meant everything.

It told him he had his man.

27

Marten reached into his pocket and clicked off the tape recorder. There was little doubt that it was Foxx who had overseen the murder of Caroline but there was nothing incriminating in the recorded conversation nor was a lone tattoo the kind of hard evidence Peter Fadden would need to warrant an investigation by The Washington Post. Marten needed something concrete and definitive but getting it or even how to approach getting it would be hugely difficult, especially since Foxx had clearly closed the door on him and because there was no doubt the doctor would contact Congresswoman Baker's office to verify who he was. Once that happened he wouldn't get within a mile of him.

"Mr. Marten."

Marten looked up to see Demi Picard alone and coming toward him. It made him wonder what she was doing here. That she was with Beck was no surprise because she had told him the reverend was one of the subjects of a photo-essay book she was doing on political clergy. But that they were both here in Malta and at Foxx's dinner table so soon after Caroline's service in Washington was more than a little disturbing, especially now, with what he'd learned about Foxx.

"Ms. Picard." He started to smile. "How nice to-"

Her eyes suddenly narrowed and she cut him off in a sotto voce charged with anger. "Why are you here? In Malta? In this restaurant?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

"Dr. Foxx and Reverend Beck are old friends," she said defensively. "We were on our way to meet with a group of Western clergy visiting the Balkans and stopped overnight to visit."

"Presumably you know Reverend Beck quite well."

"Yes."

"Then maybe you can explain how an African-American minister can be the friend of an apartheid-era officer in the South African army, one who headed a notorious medical unit that developed secret biological weapons designed to wipe out the black African population."

"You would have to ask Reverend Beck."

Marten stared at her. "What if I asked you about 'the witches'?"

"Don't," she warned.

"Don't?"

"I said, don't!"

"You're the one who brought it up," Marten said quickly. "You came to me, remember?"

"Demi," a familiar voice called from behind her. They turned to see Beck approaching. Cristina Vallone, Merriman Foxx's attractive female friend, was with him.

"I'm afraid Dr. Foxx has been called away. An urgent family matter," he said to them both, then directed the next at Demi. "He asked that I see you and Cristina back to the hotel."

Demi hesitated, and Marten could see she was troubled by the sudden turn of events. "Thank you," she said politely, "I have to use the loo. I will meet you upstairs."

"Of course." Beck looked to Marten as she went off toward the restrooms. "It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Marten, perhaps we shall do it another time soon."

"The pleasure would be mine, reverend."

Five minutes later Marten stood on Triq id-Dejqa watching the taillights of a taxi carrying Reverend Beck, Cristina, and Demi Picard disappear in a swirling fog. He glanced back down the dampened alley toward the Café Tripoli. The door was closed. Nothing stirred. He wondered how Foxx had left without him seeing him, or if he had left at all. In either case there was nothing he could do about it now. He took a breath and then stepped off for the walk back to his hotel, Demi's words still clear as when she'd stopped at the bar on her way from the loo.

"I don't know who you really are or what you're doing here," she'd said forcefully with the same heated tone she used before. "But stay away from us before you ruin everything." With that she'd turned and gone up the stairs to where Cristina and the Reverend Beck waited.

Ruin everything. What did that mean?

And now as he walked, making his way in damp night air toward the R.A.F. war memorial and after it the Upper Baracca Gardens on the way to his hotel, Demi's words faded in favor of what Reverend Beck had said as he bade him goodbye.

It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Marten, perhaps we shall do it another time soon.

See you again-again.

It meant Beck knew who he was, and clearly remembered their meeting in Caroline's hospital room. At the time they'd met, the subject of Marten's profession had never come up, so it was possible that he might believe Marten did indeed work in Congresswoman Baker's office. Nonetheless it was a coincidence that would have been pointedly discussed with Foxx when he returned to the table. Couple that with the fact that Marten had not only brought up Caroline's name and that of Dr. Stephenson but that he'd said Mike Parsons had left a memo behind questioning the veracity of Foxx's testimony before the committee-Foxx would have put all those things together in a hurry, which was undoubtedly the reason the evening had ended so abruptly for everyone.

28

• MADRID, 10:40 P.M.

The lights of nighttime Madrid flashed by. The Palacio de la Moncloa, residence of the Spanish prime minister, the dinner there with the newly elected prime minister and the twenty or so top Spanish industrialists he had invited to join them, over and done with and left behind.

Only four people rode in the presidential limousine, the Secret Service agent driving, a second agent riding shotgun beside him, and the two in the back; President John Henry Harris and his Secret Service special agent in charge, Hap Daniels. The interior communications system was turned off. Whatever the president and Daniels said was wholly private.

The motorcade itself had been reduced to the presidential limousine, two black Secret Service SUVs, and the black communications Hummer following behind. This time there was no ambulance, no staff van, no press pool van-just a small presidential motorcade going to a private residence in the wealthy La Moraleja suburb to share a brief drink with an old friend, Evan Byrd. Byrd was a former network news correspondent and press secretary to the late president Charles Cabot. For a time he had been President Harris's press secretary, before he retired to this Madrid suburb. After that it was back to the Hotel Ritz where the presidential entourage had taken over the entire fourth floor and the president looked forward to a sound night's sleep.

"The plane carrying Representative Parsons and his son"-Hap Daniels was reading from notes taken in a small spiral notebook. No BlackBerry here, no chance that the information he had received could have been electronically monitored, just handwritten notes jotted down in an everyday notebook. What he had learned had come over the STU, or secure-line phone, he had as part of his own personal communications equipment-"went down due to pilot error, at least according to investigators from the NTSB. No part of the aircraft was found to have malfunctioned."

"We know the official word, Hap," Harris said, "Is that all you were able to find out?"

"As far as the crash is concerned, yes, sir. The thing that no one seems to know about, or at least to have brought up, was that Mrs. Parsons was to have been on the flight with them. Her plans changed at the last minute and she flew back to Washington on a commercial flight. It was coincidental. There certainly was no conspiracy theory behind the crash. No reason to expect foul play. She never made a thing of it, at least publicly. It appears to have been one of those things that just happened."

"One of those things…"

"Yes, sir."

President Harris nodded vaguely, trying to absorb whatever meaning there might or might not be in Caroline's change of plans, then immediately moved on.

"The man in Caroline's hospital room, the one Caroline gave legal access to her and Mike's private papers."

"All we have is what we knew before. His name is Nicholas Marten. He's an American ex-pat living in Manchester, England, and working as a landscape architect. He's seems to have known the Parsons family for a long time; at least that's what he told the D.C. police. Their feeling was that he and Caroline Parsons had had a relationship of some kind. He said they were just old friends. No proof of it. But no sense he was blackmailing her either."

"Why did the police talk to him?"

"He'd made some pretty strong phone calls to Mrs. Parsons's doctor after she died. He wanted to ask her about Mrs. Parsons's illness but she wouldn't talk to him, claimed privileged information between doctor and patient. They thought he might have been involved in her murder. But there was nothing to hold him on so they put him on a plane to England and basically told him not to come back."

"The murder of Caroline Parsons's doctor? What do we have on that?"

"That's a nasty one, Mr. President. She was beheaded."

"Beheaded?"

"Yes, sir. The head hasn't been found, and the police have kept it very quiet during their investigation. The FBI has its own people on it."

"When was someone going to inform the White House?"

"I don't know, sir. Probably they felt there was no need."

"Why a beheading?"

"You're thinking some kind of terrorist act. Some Islamic group."

"It doesn't make any difference what I think. It's what I know. And so far no one seems to know much of anything. Get somebody you're comfortable with in the FBI to keep you on top of it. Tell them I'm interested personally but don't want the media to jump on it and blow it out of proportion. We don't need to stir up the Islamic world any more than it's already stirred up, especially if there's nothing to it and the head business was done by some cuckoo out there."

"Yes, sir."

"Now," the president shifted gears. "Caroline Parsons. I want a report on what kind of infection she had, how she got it, and the treatment for it, from initial diagnosis to death. Again, I don't want to send up a flare, I just want the information as quietly as you can get it. We've got four people dead here in a very short time. Three from the same family and the last, Caroline's doctor."

"There's something else you should know, Mr. President. I don't know if it means anything but Representative Parsons…"

"What about him?"

"He tried to get an appointment to see you privately. Twice. Once during his subcommittee hearings on terrorism. Once again the day they were concluded."

"How do you know?"

"His secretary requested it, but she never heard back."

"Mike Parsons had full access to me, anytime. Chief of staff knew that, my secretary knew it too. What happened?"

"I don't know, sir. You'd have to ask them."

Suddenly Hap Daniels put a hand to his headset; at the same time the limousine slowed and then leaned as the Secret Service driver made a sharp right turn and started up a long private driveway.

"Thank you," Daniels said into his headset, then looked to the president. "We're here, sir. Mr. Byrd's residence."

29

Evan Byrd greeted him at the door like an old school chum he hadn't seen for years, not with a handshake but a bear hug.

"Damn good to see you, John," he said, leading him past an ornate fountain and then inside through a Spanish-tiled foyer and into a small dark-paneled room with a full bar and big leather chairs that faced a fireplace where a warming fire crackled.

"Not bad for a retired civil servant, huh?" Byrd grinned. "Sit down. What can I fix you to drink?"

"I don't know. I've had my share of everything tonight, just water or coffee, black, if you have it."

"Damned right I have it." Byrd winked and pressed a button on an intercom at the bar and ordered coffee in Spanish. Then he walked over and sat down in a big chair next to Harris.

Evan Byrd was in his early seventies and dressed casually in cream-colored slacks and a matching sweater. He seemed a little on the heavy side but otherwise appeared in good shape, still favoring the stylish long gray hair and matching sideburns Harris remembered. Byrd had been around network television and Washington politics for nearly forty years before he retired to Spain, and still had an active Rolodex that would put most Washington insiders to shame, meaning he knew just about everyone worth knowing and as a result wielded considerable influence without ever seeming to.

"Well," he said, "how did it go tonight?"

"I'm not sure." Harris let his gaze fall to the fire. "Spain is in a war with itself. The prime minister's a nice guy, too much of an altruist maybe and too far to the left to get anything done to really boost the country's economy. But the business leaders, the power guys who joined us for dinner, most of them are fiscally conservative, they see the bottom line as part of the national identity. They have money to invest and at the same time want to be invested in. They want to be in the same global marketplace as everyone else. That puts them at odds with their own leadership. But still the prime minister had the cojones to have them there, so you've gotta give him credit for that. Of course they're all worried about terrorism and where the next shoe will drop. No one's being helped on that count."

"What about France and Germany?"

"You read the papers, Evan. You watch TV. You know as well as I do. Not good."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know." For the briefest moment the president looked off, then his gaze went to Byrd. "I really don't know."

Just then a voice came over the intercom in Spanish. "Your coffee is ready, sir."

"Gracias," Byrd spoke into the intercom and then stood. "Come on, John, we'll take coffee in the living room." He grinned as President Harris got up from his chair. "I have a surprise for you."

Harris groaned. "Not at this time of night. Evan, I'm too damn tired."

"Trust me, you'll love it."

Seven men waited in the room as they entered and the president knew every one of them. Vice President of the United States Hamilton Rogers. Secretary of State David Chaplin. Secretary of Defense Terrence Langdon. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, United States Air Force General Chester Keaton, and the men he had last seen in Rome: Tom Curran, his chief of staff; his chief political adviser, Jake Lowe; and national security adviser, Dr. James Marshall.

Evan Byrd closed the door behind them.

"Well, gentlemen, this is indeed a surprise," Harris said evenly, trying not to show his astonishment at their presence. "To what do I owe it?"

"Mr. President," Lowe began, "as you know the NATO meeting in Warsaw is to take place a very few days from now. Before, when we went into Iraq, when we had problems with France and Germany and Russia, our people were not yet in place. Now they are. We have been assured of this by friends of trust. Friends who are in a position to know."

"What friends? Who are you talking about?"

"In order to prevent the kind of unthinkable catastrophe I spoke of earlier"-National Security Adviser Marshall stepped forward-"of terrorist groups taking over the entire Middle East and its oil supply in a very short composite of time, it has become necessary for us to take a full and decisive initiative in that part of the world. To do that we can have no dissent in the United Nations. We have been assured that neither Germany nor France will object this time when we ask for their vote. And, as you know, if they do not object, in all probability neither will Russia or China."

"Assured?"

"Yes, sir, assured."

The president looked around at faces as familiar as family. Like Lowe and Jim Marshall, these people had been his most trusted friends and advisers for years. What the hell was going on? "Just what is it we are going to do in the Middle East?"

"Unfortunately, we're not in a position to tell you, Mr. President," Secretary of Defense Terrence Langdon said directly. "The reason we are here is to ask you to authorize the physical removal of the current leaders of France and Germany."

"Physical removal…" The president looked to Lowe and Marshall. They had started it earlier; now they had the whole team with them. He didn't understand. He was a conservative Republican, the same as they were. They had been behind him all the way, made certain he was nominated, then pulled out every stop possible to guarantee his election. "I think assassination is the word you want, Mr. Secretary."

Then it came to him like a thunderbolt and shook him to his core. He wasn't their president at all; he was their pawn and had been from the beginning. He was there because they had put him there. Because they had been certain he would do whatever they asked.

"Who are these 'friends of trust' you are referring to?" he asked.

"Members of an organization who have guaranteed that the people who will be voted to replace the president of France and the chancellor of Germany will wholly support whatever we do."

"I see," the president said finally. There was no point in asking what this "organization" was because they wouldn't tell him. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and walked over to where a large window opened out onto lighted formal gardens. Through it he could see two Secret Service agents standing in the shadows. There would be more he couldn't see.

For a long moment he stood there with his back to them. They were waiting for his answer. They could wait a while longer as he tried to put it together, to understand how all this had happened and what would happen next. As he did, Jake Lowe's words cut through him.

Before, when we went into Iraq, when we had problems with France and Germany and Russia our people were not yet in place. Now they are.

Our people.

Now they are.

Now they are.

Whatever this organization was, it was strikingly clear that they, all of them, were members of it and what they had planned they had been working on for a long time. And now, finally, they had people in every country that counted in position to execute it, himself included. He looked back and then started across the room toward them.

"Does Harry Ivers belong to this 'organization'? You all know Harry Ivers, chairman of the National Transportation Safety Board. The man in charge of investigating the crash of Congressman Parsons's plane." Suddenly he looked to Tom Curran, his chief of staff.

"Congressman Parsons tried to get an appointment to see me. Twice. Once during and once immediately following the close of the subcommittee hearings on intelligence and counterterrorism. You knew he had full access to me at any time. Why didn't those meetings happen?"

"Your schedule was full, Mr. President."

"That's bullshit, Tom." The president looked around the room, stopping at each of the eight men in turn. "Congressman Parsons was onto something, wasn't he? It had to do with his subcommittee looking into the supposedly dead South African bioweapons program and the questioning of this Dr. Merriman Foxx. I'm guessing that that program or some offshoot of it is not dead at all. And whatever it is, somehow we, or rather you and your 'friends of trust,' are involved with it.

"You thought Mike Parsons as a strong conservative would go along with it but he wouldn't and threatened to bring it to me if you didn't back away from it. The result was you killed him."

There was a long silence and then National Security Adviser Marshall spoke. "He couldn't be trusted, Mr. President."

The president suddenly became furious. "And his son and everyone else on board that plane?"

"It was a matter of national security." Marshall was cold and unemotional.

"His wife, too."

"Who knows what he might have told her? Her doctor gave her a little something to take care of the problem."

"Dr. Stephenson."

"Yes, sir."

"Her reward was that somebody cut off her head."

"Unfortunately she became frightened afterward and that put her into the category of 'liability' and she had to be terminated."

The president's eyes left Marshall and swung to the others. Every one of them stared back at him in silence. And that included his long-time political adviser and close friend, Jake Lowe, and his dear host, Evan Byrd.

"Jesus, God," he breathed. He had no friends here, none at all. Again he heard Jake Lowe's words. Before… our people were not yet in place. Now they are.

And before they didn't have the weapons they needed.

Now they did.

"What you are planning is some kind of biological warfare. Against what, the Muslim states?"

"Mr. President." Vice President Hamilton Rogers crossed in front of Marshall. Rogers was blond with dark savage eyes, ten years his junior and far more conservative. The truth was he had fought against having him as a running mate, feeling he was much too conservative, but had finally given in to the pressure of Lowe who had convinced him Rogers was the man to push the vote over. Now he knew why. Rogers was one of them. Whoever they were.

"For the security of the nation we are asking you to authorize the physical elimination of the president of France and the chancellor of Germany. Please give us that authorization."

In that instant President Harris knew that if he didn't go along with everything they wanted, they would kill him. And then, by law, the vice president would become president and authorize the killings anyway. Looking at them-who they were, the offices they represented, the vast connections they had-he realized that from top to bottom there was no one he dared trust. No one. Even his private secretary, who had been with him for nearly twenty years, had to be suspect. The same with his Secret Service protectors, and that included his SAIC, Hap Daniels. What he needed was time to find some way out, to find some way to stop them and whatever horrifying Armageddon they were planning.

"Where and when do you want to carry out this 'removal'?" he said.

"At the NATO meeting in Warsaw. When the whole world is watching."

"I see," the president nodded, then once again looked around the room at the faces of the men watching him, waiting for his answer.

"I need time to think about it," he said quietly. "Now, I'm tired. I would like to go back to my hotel and get some sleep."