He moaned as he adjusted himself in the seat. "Maybe we both compromised, but our choice was life, and there can be no sin in that."

"I'm not so sure."

"You must be, Chuni."

The old man reached over, turning his son's face to him. "Evil has many faces, many guises. Few can recognize it beneath its beauty. But you can. You have."

Xenos nodded. "And I've started something worse because of it."

"You think so? I wonder."

"What is there to wonder about?" the morose man asked as he leaned back and stared up at the starry night.

"Let me ask you, not as a father-but as a teacher-do you still believe in G.o.d?"

"Yes," came the delayed response. "I just don't think he believes in me anymore."

"Really," Avidol said in a professorial tone. "Then why has he made you responsible for so much?"

"He didn't. I did."

"No!" It was an unequivocal statement of fact. "Einstein said it better than all the Talmudic scholars in all the centuries of our history." He paused. "G.o.d does not play dice with the universe."

"We are, to G.o.d, strange creatures. Capable of gaining Heaven or creating our own h.e.l.l. But it is always our choice. He set us in motion in Eden, and the rest has been of us, alone. He will not interfere in our lives, other than to place the tools of Heaven or h.e.l.l within our grasp. And always in equal balance."

He frowned. "G.o.d does not want a suicide any more than a murderer. If I do not kill, then I allow myself to be killed. G.o.d's paradox."

"Papa, it's cold. We should go inside."

But the old man refused to move.

"You see, Chuni, G.o.d offered these same tools to the Chinese and this Canvas fellow. They chose the path to h.e.l.l. But he also gave you the tools, the responsibility. You have chosen Heaven and accepted the responsibility."

"For a situation I created." The younger man sounded beyond bleak.

Avidol shook his head as if trying to explain the alphabet to a child who refused to believe F followed E.

"Jerry, whether lives would be lost now or in the future, the same lives would be lost. This is the inevitability of evil. The rest is only timing. This Canvas was born to be the right arm of the Chinese at this time in this place. His entire life-for good or ill-is what has placed him here. Not the money or bad breaks or political beliefs.

"But," and the old man smiled warmly, "G.o.d has also given you your life. A thing of twists and turns, blackness and pain and isolation. But a thing that has given you what you need to stand up to this evil. As G.o.d's strong right arm!"

Xenos stared into his father's intense eyes, inhaling the strength and purpose he saw there.

"And from the moment of your birth," Avidol said flatly as if G.o.d had told him himself, "the responsibility has been yours." He shrugged. "Everything that's happened in the last weeks has been mere details."

A young Corsican appeared on the roof. "Durete, the jar is opening."

Xenos nodded and started for the door. "Are you going to be all right?"

"Sure, go."

A moment later, when he was alone on the roof looking up at the magnificent pageantry of the constellations and planets, Avidol sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

"Dear G.o.d, give my boy the strength he needs." He paused, almost unwilling to give voice to the thought that was almost a betrayal. "And let me be right."

O'Neill watched the young woman until she turned the corner. Smiling and waving to her as she disappeared from sight. Then he picked up a cell phone from under his seat.

The phone was answered on the first ring. "Yeah?"

"The jar is empty," O'Neill whispered.

"We're ready, was followed by the click of the line disconnecting."

Barbara had gotten out of the Bible salesman's car a block away from the house. After the night's battles and terrors, she was taking no chances now. She didn't see any surveillance on the street, everything looked calm and normal. But...

Twice she'd thought about calling the emergency number again. Each time deciding against it. Because the more she thought about it, the more she began to realize that it was a d.a.m.ned short list of who would want her dead and who had the resources to put together a professional hit team like the men in the vans.

And the Apple Blossom chain was at the top of that list.

It could be that she had outlived her usefulness to them. Or maybe they were just tidying up before anything could go wrong at the sonofab.i.t.c.h's hearings.

It also occurred to the young woman as she fished in her purse for the keys to the co-op she secretly owned with Valerie (her house was out of the question for now) that it could be other, even more sinister forces that were trying to kill her. A vengeful CIA or NSC that had discovered the plot and were cleaning house to avoid a public scandal.

But-in either event-she would clean up, get something to eat, definitely something to drink, then think about her next move.

She let herself in the side door, waiting to turn on the lights in the entry hall until she'd locked the door behind her.

"h.e.l.lo, Barbara," a familiar voice called out softly from the dark behind her.

"What..."

She never finished the thought as her ribs seemed to explode with pain as Valerie's baseball bat crashed into them.

The furious congresswoman watched as Fabre picked up the screaming woman with the broken ribs and tossed her on the couch. A quick search of her, a nod to Valerie, and the a.s.sa.s.sin stepped out from between the women.

"You and I have a lot of catching up to do," Valerie hissed as she took the bat and held it under her chief of staff's chin, painfully bending it back.

"Take your time," she said as Barbara struggled to catch her breath. "But you be thorough, like you've always been, old friend, when you tell me where my babies are. Get it right the first time."

Valerie paused, releasing the younger woman's chin and leaning in so close that Barbara could smell the rage on her when she spoke.

"We have the rest of your life."

Fourteen.

Tony Grimes was a pillar and leader of the horsey set of northern Virginia.

Tony Grimes was a man of breeding and culture, an example proudly pointed to by the poor people of Bricks Hollow, South Carolina-the scene of his humble beginnings.

Tony Grimes was an internationally renowned artist, sculptor, composer. A man whose works had never pleased the critics but received an almost unprecedented public acceptance ... giving him a "simple, humble platform on which to hold forth on everything from the Super Bowl to international relations."

And, as he looked out across his large farm from the back of his prize American saddlebred stallion, he smiled.

Everything as far as he could see was his. The old-growth trees, the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion with the priceless Edwardian antiques, the vintage barn that held the even more vintage car collection, the small collection of guesthouses-barely visible in the distance through the trees-with his aspiring ballerina mistress and wannabe sculptor mister. It was a multiglutton's paradise constructed from the blackness of a mind that still saw itself as shoeless, voiceless, powerless, amid a youth of terror.

As he gently urged the big horse on, the smile grew as he thought of the days to come, the days at hand.

Within a year he would be a nightly commentator on the largest network news show. Within three years, the de facto head of one of the most powerful communications networks in the world. Within eight years, the "de facto" replaced by permanence.

And all those from the years before Apple Blossom-those who had ignored, dismissed, or brutishly silenced the arrogant little boy who knew he was better than the rest-would be forced to listen! To obey! To follow!

All because he'd opted to attend college for a brief time in England.

The horse hesitated, sensing the electronic cable that ran just under the ground in front of it. Grimes dismounted, tied the animal to a nearby bush, and went on by foot.

Twenty minutes later-in a hollow of trees and rock in a left-wild part of the farm-he nodded at the guards. "Good morning."

"Mr. Grimes," one of the heavily armed guards said into his radio. He nodded at the response that came through his earpiece. "Go ahead, sir."

Grimes pulled out a Havana Blanca Montefiore, carefully wet the end between his lips, then took his time lighting it. Ritual satisfied, he continued on into the first of five-connected-concrete and metal outbuildings in front of him.

"Sir," the guard just inside the door said as he opened the interior door for him. Grimes just nodded and walked on, the door shut and locked behind him.

The room was small-almost an antechamber-with three steel doors on the far wall, a desk with a television monitor on the near wall.

"How are they?" he asked the guard at the desk.

"Still not eating right," the guard said as he logged Grimes in. "Stubborn. The boy's lost maybe fifteen pounds since he got here. The girl just sleeps, mostly."

Grimes bent over the monitor, watching the split-screen picture of a young boy and a younger girl-both staring blankly across their bare room of a cot and little else.

"What about ice cream?" he offered. "Kids love ice cream."

"How would you know? a voice asked him from behind."

"I was a kid once." Grimes smiled as he turned and held out his hand. "How're you doing, Jeff?"

DeWitt looked angry. "How the f.u.c.k do you think I'm doing? Taking a chance like this at this stage!"

Grimes led the vice president designate into a comfortable side room and poured them both a drink.

"What's to worry about? The great man needs a moment of retreat in his moment of trial and triumph. What more natural way than to spend the night with an old friend-a national treasure-who by just standing next to you gives you the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval."

DeWitt downed the drink in one long gulp. "If the Secret Service got wind of what's going on..."

Grimes sighed and shook his head. "You always worried too much."

DeWitt poured himself another drink. "Why the meeting, Tony?"

Grimes settled into an overstuffed chair. "It's decision time, old friend. And certain, well, others thought you ought to be included."

"Go on."

"The committee votes in three days, the full Senate the following Monday. Our Eastern friends feel that all loose ends should be wrapped up before then."

Now DeWitt made a show of sitting down in a deeply relaxed way. "And..."

"Well," Grimes said easily, "there's still the issue of your playmates."

DeWitt sipped his drink. "Any of them even seem to be about to cause trouble and they're gone." Period. He smiled; a pleasant thing, yet filled with sharp teeth and the slightest drool. "They're just p.u.s.s.y anyway."

"And my houseguests?" Grimes looked steadily into the handsome man's eyes, wondering what he would've done if the positions were reversed.

"Get rid of them."

Grimes shook his head. "Wh.o.r.es are one thing. Kids are another." He paused, leaning close to the other man. "No euphemisms, Jeff. You want something done, you're going to have to come out and say it."

DeWitt studied the artist for a long moment, then nodded. He leaned forward, then suddenly grabbed the man by the throat, throwing him to the ground. His left hand held Grimes down while the right roughly searched every inch of the man's body for a hidden microphone. When he was done, he pushed his face into the other's and virtually growled.

"You wouldn't be doubling on me, would you, Tony?" "There's no wire."

DeWitt nodded and thrust his hand into the man's groin. "I know," he said as he felt around. "But convince me anyway."

"I'm not wired," Grimes almost whispered. "But I'm also not going to take the responsibility for killing two kids-high-profile kids-on my own."

He took a deep breath. "And f.u.c.king Canvas says one of us has to. So I figure it might as well be you." Another pause, this followed by an expression of commitment and fear. "There's some things I'm not real comfortable doing, you know?"

DeWitt nodded, patronizingly patted the man on the cheek, then got off him. "I do know." He straightened his clothes, ran his fingers through his hair, then reached down and helped the artist-would-be media king-up. "That's why I'm going to be president and you're just going to watch."

Grimes didn't move. "You still haven't said anything, Mr. President," he said with bite and vitriol.

DeWitt smiled and nodded. "Then listen to this. After my confirmation, after my swearing in as vice president, as soon as I'm in a position to move on the old man"-he seemed to consider something-"Tuesday, Wednesday would be even better." He picked up his drink. "Kill the little f.u.c.kers." His voice was calm and steady. "Grab them by the hair, pull their angelic little faces up to Heaven, and cut their f.u.c.king throats."

He raised his gla.s.s in a toast. "G.o.d bless America."

In another room, less than twenty feet away, another man-a man who seemed to always be there (in an invisible sort of way)-stopped the video recorder that was connected to a tiny camera in the ceiling light, then pocketed the "edge he'd promised Steingarth, to help keep DeWitt in line."

"Amen," he said softly as he started out of the room. "Amen."

One by one they met with Xenos, told their stories, and conveyed their information, given their a.s.sessments. They'd walked into his small workroom, spoken briefly, answered terse questions, then been asked to send in the next. No questions entertained by the man who continued to sketch as they talked.

He kept the room dark, illuminated only by a pale blue bulb, the sound of midnight jazz quietly filling the air. He never looked up at them, never changed expression, took no notes. Remained a blank cipher with no key-with no reactions-to even begin interpreting.