Richmond wiped the knife blade on the dirt. Then he rose and went after the other snake.

That was when he heard it. Richmond turned back to the ledge. He crouched and listened.

There was a fire road to the east, a narrow, rain-rutted dirt path he could use to escape in case the only paved road were ever blocked by a blaze. Below it, about two thousand feet down, was a housing development. Occasionally, people hiked here to look out over the valley. They rarely walked up this early to watch the sunrise because they would have had to set out in the dark. But once in a while they drove out to see the sunrise. What he had heard sounded like a car.

Richmond moved toward the fire road. There was a Jeep parked on a landing. The vehicle was black with a gold star on the side. There was a lone occupant, a sheriff's deputy. He probably had the night shift and had come up here before heading home. The deputy opened a thermos.

The lawman would be up here for a few minutes at least. That was good. Richmond had an idea. He doubled back, slipping the bowie knife into the leather sheath attached to his belt and removing his windbreaker as he walked. He pa.s.sed the dead snake, lying on the ground muddied with its blood. He continued after the larger one. His eyes moved slowly from side to side. He paid special attention to stones and underbrush.

The snake was in a narrow gully, cut by erosion and filled with rocks that had washed down the slope. There was a gopher hole hidden among the small stones. The snake was going to warm itself on the rocks while it waited for breakfast to emerge. At least, that was apparently the snake's plan. Richmond had a different idea. He walked alongside the gully and lay his windbreaker on the rocks. He knotted the ends of the sleeves, spread them out flat, then went back behind the snake. Scooping up a handful of stones, he began tossing them at the reptile one at a time. They hit the animal in the tail and body, and it moved ahead, rattling. Richmond followed. He continued to pelt the snake, driving it toward the windbreaker. As he expected, the snake crawled into the only shelter nearby: one of the two sleeves. Once the creature was inside, Richmond quickly grabbed the sleeve at the armpit. The snake had tried to coil itself inside. As a result, it was completely within the sleeve. Richmond carefully folded the body of the jacket around the sleeve so the diamondback did not slip out. Then he put his left hand around the sleeve and moved it toward the snake's head. He held tight as the snake squirmed to get loose, its body twisting and undulating inside the sleeve. When the diamondback finally relaxed, Richmond untied the mouth of the sleeve with his right hand. If he released the head, the snake would drop free. Richmond then wrapped his right hand around the rattle. The creature was now his silent prisoner. Without removing his hands, Richmond hugged the windbreaker toward his belly and walked forward. Having the snake beside him, a captive, was almost like carrying a gun. The snake was just as potent, just as feared. Even better, Richmond realized, was that the snake would take the blame for the killing.

Richmond reached the rocky ledge. The sun was well above the distant mountains now. In the distance, a trio of hawks had begun to search the hillsides for small animals. He never tired of watching them circle as their wings and tail feathers shifted this way and that as they rode the changing thermal currents. Whenever a bird saw a potential meal, it called to the others, then pulled in its wings and plummeted like a lawn dart. Unlike the defense-minded snakes, the offense-oriented birds were nature's most perfect hunting machines.

Defense and offense, Richmond thought. What looks inherently dangerous on the dirty ground is not. What seems graceful and beautiful in the blue heavens is lethal. Appearance is rarely an accurate yardstick for danger. Richmond thought. What looks inherently dangerous on the dirty ground is not. What seems graceful and beautiful in the blue heavens is lethal. Appearance is rarely an accurate yardstick for danger.

Richmond started down the fire road toward the Jeep. The driver's side window was open.

"Good morning, Deputy," Richmond said as he approached.

The deputy glanced into the side mirror. "Morning, sir." He regarded Richmond a moment longer. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, why?"

"Looks like you got your arm bundled up."

"No, no, I'm just collecting birds' eggs for my aviary," he smiled. He was speaking in a soft, fair voice. Laying a trap was part of the fun.

"Collecting eggs-with a bowie knife?" the deputy asked.

"That's for snakes," Richmond said as he reached the window.

"I thought so, though I suggest next time you bring a firearm. Carrying anything larger than a pocket knife is a felony."

"But not a handgun?" Richmond said.

"No, sir."

"Lord bless the NRA," Richmond said.

The deputy took a swallow of coffee, then replaced the cup on top of the thermos. He was wearing a wedding band. He could not have been more than twenty-six. Richmond wondered if he came up here to slack off in secret or to contemplate the universe. Was he deciding whether to leave his wife or wistfully remembering how they used to come up here at night to make out? Richmond tried to guess how far ahead this young man had planned his life. To the next day? To the next promotion? To his first or next child?

"I'm Wayne Richmond, by the way," the man said.

"Andy Belmont," the deputy said. He extended his hand, then withdrew it when he remembered the bundle of eggs. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Richmond replied. "I walk here often, but I haven't seen you here before."

"I was transferred from Southwest Station last week," Deputy Belmont told him. "I thought it would be a good idea to familiarize myself with the area in case I'm ever called up here."

"Good thinking," Richmond said. "Tell me, Deputy, is this the start or end of your shift?"

"The end," the deputy said. "I get the morning baby-sitting ch.o.r.es so my wife can go to work. Then her mother relieves me so I can go to sleep."

"Really? It must be difficult, working different hours like that."

The deputy smiled. "I don't know. It sort of makes us appreciate the time you do have together."

"I guess that would be true," Richmond said. He looked down at the young man's exposed lap. All he had to do was empty the windbreaker sleeve and grab the radio from the deputy's left shoulder. It was within easy reach, by the window. Deputy Belmont would die where he sat.

The deputy put his thermos in the cup holder between the seats. He turned his headlights back on. "Have a good day, sir, and don't forget about the knife."

Richmond had bent forward to talk to the deputy. He straightened so that his waist was even with the window. "Thanks. I won't."

He stood back. The deputy waved as he started down the path. Richmond nodded after him. And with his fingers tightening around the snake's neck, he twisted it in a complete circle. The snake, which had begun wriggling again, trembled for a moment and then was still. Richmond shook the sleeve lightly. The snake did not move. He dumped it from the sleeve and jumped back.

The snake hit the ground and lay there. It was dead. Richmond left it for the crows, then turned and started back toward the ledge.

The day had begun better than Richmond could have imagined. Two snakes were dead, and he had spared a deputy. Three lives had been his. More, if he counted the wife and child.

To risk or not, to kill or not. Choice was the heart of control, control was the engine of power, and power was the key to a rewarding life. Wayne Richmond did not know how rewarding the rest of his life would be. But this day, at least, had begun very well indeed.

TWENTY-THREE.

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 9:44 A.M.

Darrell McCaskey was not what his FBI coworkers would have described as "badge heavy." He did not bully suspects, subordinates, or anyone else. But when he wanted results, he usually got them. He was earnest. And if the earnestness failed to register, there were always his squared shoulders, unyielding eyes, and commanding manner.

McCaskey was dressed in a leather jacket instead of his usual tweedy blazer. He felt the battered old bomber jacket looked street-smart, a little more intimidating. He arrived at the Russell Senate Office Building and showed his Op-Center ID to the security guard. McCaskey instructed the young woman not to call ahead. He wanted to send a signal to the admiral. This was an investigation, not a fishing expedition. McCaskey would be courteous and respectful during the interview, but he would not be servile. The Bureau referred to this as the LAT approach-legal authority tactics. Suspects had rights under the law. So did police and Bureau interrogators.

McCaskey walked quickly to the senator's office. The receptionist directed McCaskey to the conference room. Political parties are not permitted to have unelected representatives working on federal property. There were no regulations governing unaffiliated advisers.

Admiral Link had just returned from the press conference and was checking E-mails on his laptop. He appeared slightly unsettled.

"You don't waste time," Link said without looking up from the computer.

"Not when I'm on the taxpayers' clock," McCaskey said.

"Civic responsibility. A sad exception, not the rule," Link said. "Would you like coffee or tea, Mr.-?"

"McCaskey, and no thanks," McCaskey interrupted. He took a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. "I just wanted to ask you questions about some of your activities at the Company."

Link smiled. "I have two things to say, Mr. McCaskey. First, you're aware that I am not permitted to discuss any of the work I did, even with a member of an intelligence service."

"Technically, that isn't true."

Link finally glanced up. "What do you mean?"

"The standard CIA employment agreement says that a former employee may not reveal information that might compromise ongoing operations," McCaskey said. "You signed such an agreement without riders. I checked. My questions involve personnel you may have worked with who are either no longer with the Company or may be a.s.signed to the D.C. area."

"You abrogate the spirit of confidentiality, Mr. McCaskey."

"People have said worse things about me, sometimes in English," McCaskey replied. "What is the second thing you wanted to say?"

"Sidestepping the question of whether you or anyone else has reasonable cause to insist on this interview, I'm curious," Link said. "By what chartered authority is Op-Center here to question me?"

"By the International Intelligence Cooperation Act of 2002," McCaskey replied as he sat at the table across from Link. "A British national has died, Scotland Yard has requested an investigation, and we were the agent they selected. By law, I am permitted to ask questions of potential witnesses to the crime or events leading up to it. The senator agreed to an interview with Director Hood, which establishes his understanding of the validity of the IICA. Do you object to my questioning you?"

"Yes, and I also question your interpretation of the law," Link said. "But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt-for the moment."

"Thank you. Admiral Link, have you personally hired anyone for the United States First Party?"

"No," Link replied.

"Have you recommended anyone for a staff position, paid or interned, for the United States First Party?"

"Eric Stone, the young man who is managing the convention," Link said. "That's Eric with a c." c."

"How do you know Mr. Stone?" McCaskey asked as he wrote the name in his notebook.

"He was my a.s.sistant at the Company. Eric is a very good organizer."

"Does he have field experience?"

"As a certified public accountant," Link replied. "Chicago office."

"Have you hired or recommended anyone else?" McCaskey asked.

"Not yet."

"What about the senator's staff?" McCaskey asked.

"I brought in Kendra Peterson," Link said.

"How do you know her?"

"She was a field agent based in j.a.pan but working in North Korea and Taiwan," Link said.

"One of yours?"

"Yes. Strictly ROO."

ROO was recon only operative recon only operative. However, McCaskey knew that even pa.s.sive field agents were sometimes used in offensive operations. There was a case in Russia in 1979 when CIA operative Genson Blimline had been exposed by a Soviet mole. Rather than pull him out, the Company sent an observer in to watch the men who were sent to watch him. When they moved against Blimline, the ROO moved against them. Both the ROO and Blimline were able to get to a safe house in Moscow.

"Ms. Peterson's name came up as a possible contact when Striker went over there," said a voice from behind McCaskey. "I can get you that file."

McCaskey turned. Mike Rodgers was standing in the conference room doorway.

"May I come in?" Rodgers asked Link.

"Absolutely," Link replied.

Rodgers entered. His eyes were fixed on McCaskey. "What's the latest on the witch-hunt?"

"I wouldn't call it that," McCaskey replied.

Rodgers did not reply.

"Mr. McCaskey, if you have more questions, would you please get to them?" Link said. "I have real work to do."

Link's smugness was starting to p.i.s.s McCaskey off. "Admiral, this is a serious inquiry," McCaskey said. "It would be a mistake to think otherwise."

"Sir, you you are taking it seriously, which is not the same thing," Link told him. "But then, I have an advantage you do not, Mr. McCaskey." are taking it seriously, which is not the same thing," Link told him. "But then, I have an advantage you do not, Mr. McCaskey."

"And that is?"

"I know that I am innocent of any wrongdoing or complicity in wrongdoing. Now, what's your next question?"

As much as McCaskey disliked Link, he reminded himself that he was here to get information, not to make a new friend.

"Are you aware of anyone who might possess the skill to talk their way into a man's room, kill him by lethal injection under the tongue, and leave virtually undetected?" McCaskey asked.

"A woman, you mean."

"Or a man who might have trained a woman."

Link acknowledged the correction with a nod. "Only Kendra."

"That woman is a font of hidden talents. Where did she get her training?" McCaskey asked.

"From the United States Marines," Link said. "She spent several months as a 91-W, a health care specialist. She had to transfer out because of a problem with her fine motor skills."

"Related to tendonitis?" McCaskey asked.

"I don't know," Link said. "Would you care to ask her?"

"Not at present," McCaskey said. He wanted time to research Kendra's file before talking to her.

"You may not get another chance," Link advised him.

"Why not?"

"Because when you're finished here, I intend to see that neither you nor anyone else from Op-Center get back in," Link told him.