Hood reached his office and shut the door. He stood inside, staring at his desk. If Hood accepted the president's offer, he would be partic.i.p.ating in the spoils system he had always fought. His guiding principle would not necessarily be what was right but what was right for Op-Center. He would no longer be Pope Paul, as Herbert and the others sometimes called him in jest, but Apostate Paul.

But was anything anything so clear cut anymore? It did not matter whether the president was right or wrong about the threat Senator Orr represented. That was psychological spin-doctoring. What mattered was hanging on to men like Matt Stoll and Darrell McCaskey. Hood would not like everything the new NCMC was asked to do. But this was not about his comfort zone. This was about preserving enough of Op-Center so that their important primary mission of crisis management could continue. so clear cut anymore? It did not matter whether the president was right or wrong about the threat Senator Orr represented. That was psychological spin-doctoring. What mattered was hanging on to men like Matt Stoll and Darrell McCaskey. Hood would not like everything the new NCMC was asked to do. But this was not about his comfort zone. This was about preserving enough of Op-Center so that their important primary mission of crisis management could continue.

Hood went to the phone to call Senator Debenport. He would agree to the terms Debenport and the president had presented. He would ask for guarantees, not to be made an amba.s.sador but to protect the existing staff.

He would make his deal with the devil.

TWENTY-SIX.

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 11:50 A.M.

Kenneth Link sat alone in the conference room, reviewing a computer file of layout plans for the convention floor. Eric Stone had E-mailed a suggestion for the location of the podium. He felt the stand should be moved fifteen yards closer to the north side of the convention center. That put the speakers closer to the right when people entered the arena through the main gate. Link felt the change was gimmicky and declined to approve it.

Or maybe Link was just being contrary. He was not sure. The interview with Darrell McCaskey had left him in a sour mood. It had not gone the way he had antic.i.p.ated. The admiral believed that by being forthright about his team and his dislike of Wilson, he would convince McCaskey of his innocence. Instead, something about their talk had caused Op-Center to harden its position. Link was a naval officer and a former head of covert operations for the CIA. He would not permit the tinsel-eyed former mayor of Los Angeles to hunt him. Or, even worse, to judge him.

Throughout his career, Link had always found the struggle between need and protocol, between expediency and restraint difficult to rectify. Right and wrong are subjective. Legal and illegal are objective. When the two forces are in conflict, which one should be followed? Especially when a legal wrong has the potential to rectify countless moral wrongs.

Link invariably put self-determination above regulations, which meant honoring right right above above legal. legal. It meant more than that, though. Working in national defense was not a job for the fearful. It also was not a job for the unprepared. A man needed resources. Fortunately, Link had them. He was loyal to people, and people were loyal to him. It meant more than that, though. Working in national defense was not a job for the fearful. It also was not a job for the unprepared. A man needed resources. Fortunately, Link had them. He was loyal to people, and people were loyal to him.

This matter of William Wilson should never have become the problem it was. Everything had been done the right way and for the right reasons. Looking under the man's tongue was on the medical examiner's checklist, but the tiny needle left no obvious trauma in the soft, veinal undertissue. Only someone who knew that anatomy well would have picked it up. Wilson's death should have been news for two days. After that, he would have been fodder for the weekly news magazines and monthly financial magazines for an issue or two. Most importantly, his banking scheme would have been forgotten. Others could have moved in with different opportunities for investors. Domestic opportunities that would be part of the USF platform. A program based on investments in American technology, manufacturing, and resources. A program that would have put money into the economy and given citizens deep and extensive tax benefits.

A program that would have really put the United States First Party on the political map.

In all their planning, no one had ever imagined that an intelligence service would get involved. Until this morning, Link had not thought they would stay in this for more than another day. He had thought the hiring of Mike Rodgers would discourage them, and the publicity about opportunism would be embarra.s.sing. He had obviously underestimated Paul Hood. Link did not know if the investigation was a result of the man's fabled idealism, Hollywood-bred narcissism, or a combination of both. Regardless, the admiral could not let it get in his own way. There were still actions to be taken, and Op-Center would interfere.

There was a point in intelligence and military operations when there was no longer any benefit to being clandestine. When a covert a.s.sa.s.sination fails, the strategy must shift to a Bay of Pigs scenario-albeit one that is designed to work. When the so-called architect group reaches that point, the question is no longer whether people suspect you did it but whether they can prove it.

Kenneth Link went to a floor cabinet in the far corner of the conference room. There was a safe inside. He opened it and removed a STU-3-a Secure Telephone Unit, third generation. He jacked the all-white phone into a socket behind a regular office phone on the conference table. The STU-3 looked like a normal desk set but with a crypto-ignition key that initiated secure conversations. This model interfaced with compatible cell phones, which is what he was calling now.

Bold action had to be taken. The action would be condemned, but it would also discourage others from pursuing Link. The police would look elsewhere for the Hypo-Slayer, as the media had taken to calling it. Before long, the investigation would all but disappear. The killer would not be found. The public would lose interest.

Besides, there would be other news to replace it.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:10 P.M.

Mike Rodgers felt like Philip Nolan in The Man Without a Country The Man Without a Country. Whereas Edward Everett Hale's protagonist had been exiled for his part in the treasonous activities of Aaron Burr, Rodgers felt as if he had been banished by timing and circ.u.mstance. He was still employed by Op-Center, which had betrayed its charter. The general believed that Paul Hood was pursuing what the military described as a directed service agenda directed service agenda. That was a program masquerading as patriotism that was designed to help the branch itself, like starting a war to test new weapons or burn through old ordnance. Op-Center had a marginally legitimate reason to look into Wilson's death. Now they were pursuing it beyond that original mandate for self-serving reasons. Ironically, part of Rodgers understood those reasons. It had obviously hurt Hood to ask for Rodgers's resignation. He wanted to make sure there were no more firings. But part of Mike Rodgers also wanted to go to Op-Center and call Hood out, challenge him for the sludge he was flinging on Rodgers's new employer.

Instead, Rodgers sat down with Kat Lockley and Kendra Peterson and reviewed the plans for the convention as well as Senator Orr's platform. Now and then, they solicited Rodgers's opinion. The women were responsive to the handful of suggestions he made. The staff had spent so long knocking ideas around just between themselves, they were happy to have a new set of eyes. The experience was a good one for Rodgers. It was nice to be heard.

When the meeting was over, Rodgers asked Kat Lockley to lunch. She said she could get away in about a half hour. Rodgers said he would wait for her on Delaware Avenue. That lifted his spirits even more. At Op-Center, he had to remain detached from the women because he was the number-two man. He did not want to be emotionally involved with someone he might have to overrule or send into combat. It was pleasant to get in there and push around ideas, especially among young women who had energy and fresh ideas. And, yes, killer smiles. Bob Herbert had once described a meeting with young women at some university mock think tank as "PC."

"Not politically correct," Herbert said. "Pleasantly coercive."

This meeting was definitely PC.

On the way out, Rodgers b.u.mped into Admiral Link. The future vice presidential candidate did not look happy.

"Is your friend Mr. McCaskey usually so bullheaded?" Link asked. "I don't mean that meeting," he added. "McCaskey called back to tell me we were going to see some rising tide on this investigation."

"What?" Rodgers said. "That doesn't sound like Darrell at all. Someone must be holding his feet to the flame."

"Is Hood usually this reckless?" Link asked.

Rodgers shook his head firmly. "This budget crisis must have really shaken him up. Do you want me to talk to him?"

"I don't think so-"

"I don't mind," Rodgers said. "I was thinking about going over there anyway and kicking up dust."

"No," Link said. "Hood is going to do what he wants. Let him. Why fight a battle we're going to win anyway?"

"Because I've got rockets in the launcher, and I've flipped open the safety cover," Rodgers said.

Link smiled. "Save them for the campaign, General. This is a sideshow. That's all it is."

Rodgers reluctantly agreed. There were times when he simply wanted to engage the enemy, and this was one of those times. Link thanked him for his support and went to see Kendra. Rodgers walked out to Delaware Avenue, sat on a bench, and let the sunshine wash over him. It was amazing how different the same sun felt in different parts of the world. It was searing in the deserts of the Southwest where he had once trained a mechanized brigade, impotent in the Himalayas, slimy in the humid Diamond Mountains of North Korea. It was full of warmth and vitamins in the South American plains, an outright enemy in the Middle East, and comforting here, like freshly brewed tea. Individuals and inst.i.tutions had almost as many colors as the sun. Everything depended on the place, the day, and the circ.u.mstances.

There was a time when Op-Center had nourished Rodgers, too.

While the general sat there, he checked his cell phone for messages. There was one call from psychologist Liz Gordon, checking to see how he was, and one from Paul Hood asking him to call as soon as it was convenient. Hood sounded annoyed. Rodgers smiled. He could guess why. He speed-dialed Hood's direct line. Apparently, he was going to get his confrontation after all.

" 'Loyalty is missing in action, along with honor and integrity,'" Hood said angrily, without preliminaries. "Mike, did you give that quote to a reporter named Lucy O'Connor?"

"I did," Rodgers replied.

"Why?"

"Because it is true. And don't take it too personally, Paul. I told her it was missing everywhere, not just at Op-Center."

"How I I take it doesn't matter," Hood said. "It's how the rest of the team takes it. Mike, I thought we had discussed the circ.u.mstances surrounding the budget cut, that you understood-" take it doesn't matter," Hood said. "It's how the rest of the team takes it. Mike, I thought we had discussed the circ.u.mstances surrounding the budget cut, that you understood-"

"Paul, this is not just about me getting s.h.i.t-canned," Rodgers said. "It's about this whole stinking investigation of Admiral Link."

"Stinking in what way?" Hood asked.

"It's hara.s.sment for gain," Rodgers told him.

"You know us better than that, dammit."

"I know Darrell better than that," Rodgers said. "I'm not so sure about you anymore, and I can't believe he did that without your okay."

"Yeah, I approved it," Hood told him. "h.e.l.l, I encouraged it, and with good reason. I didn't suggest the ramping-up, though. I shouldn't be telling you this, but that was Bob Herbert's idea."

"Bob?"

"Bob," Hood said.

That took Rodgers by surprise. It also stripped him naked. He looked around with slow, probing eyes. His gaze moved along the avenue, across the street, peered into parked cars and the windows of office buildings. Rodgers knew all the tails Op-Center used. He half-expected to see one of them watching him from behind a hamburger or a paperback book. The thought was also a disturbing reminder of how quickly an ally could become an adversary.

"Look, I'm not going to get into a howling contest in the press," Hood went on. "I told Ms. O'Connor that I disagree with your view and left it at that. But I do want to remind you that Op-Center is my first concern-"

"I have my dismissal to remind me, thanks," Rodgers interrupted.

"I thought you understood what went down," Hood said.

"I do. I thought you you understood that I did not like it." understood that I did not like it."

Both men snapped off the conversation. The crackling cell phone silence was heavy, but it did not hurt. Rodgers felt that Hood was out of line. As he sat there, his eyes continued to search for familiar faces. Aideen Marley, Maria Corneja-McCaskey, David Battat, some of the others that Rodgers himself had trained. His heart ached over what they must be feeling.

"Mike, we both want the same thing," Hood said. "Whichever way it goes, we want this to be over as soon as possible. So I'm going to ask you to cooperate by letting Bob's people work-"

"Christ, you don't have to ask that," Rodgers said. "I know the drill. Just don't put any of them on me."

"Of course not." Hood said. He sounded as though he had been wounded.

Too bad.

Rodgers clicked off the phone. He decided he was not angry with Bob Herbert. Yes, the intelligence chief was just doing his job. More importantly, though, Rodgers believed that Herbert had involved himself for the reasons Hood had stated: to put this crippled bird in the hangar. Unlike Paul Hood, Herbert was looking out for his friend's interests.

Rodgers tucked the cell phone back in his pocket. Because he was not technically on duty, he was not in uniform. It seemed strange wearing a blazer instead of his uniform. It was also liberating. Mike Rodgers and General Mike Rodgers had been the same person for so long, he was looking forward to discovering what it was like to be a civilian. Starting with having the freedom to talk back to a commander who had betrayed him.

Rodgers stopped looking for spies. He enjoyed the respite, and when Kat finally showed up, breathless but smiling, he knew he would enjoy his lunch as well. They set out toward a cafe with open-air seating, put their names on the waiting list, and talked about the morning. Rodgers let her out-gas as they rather unromantically called it in the military. But he made Kat promise that once they were seated, she would not discuss the campaign, the investigation, or anything else pertaining to Senator Orr. He wanted to hear about her life.

She agreed to tell him.

It was good to be a civilian but, more important, it felt good to be a man. Hood had done him a favor. He tried not to let his mind go to a place where it desperately longed to be, to a future where Senator Orr was President Orr and Mike Rodgers was the secretary of defense. A future where a spoils system appointee took over the CIOC from Senator Debenport. A future where the first act of the new chairman was to ask for Paul Hood's resignation.

Rodgers did not let himself go there because revenge was not a good primary reason to do anything. It caused rash, often counterproductive behavior, like the prize-fighter who looked to put away a hated rival in round one and tired himself out.

Rodgers would take a more measured approach.

Revenge would not be an atom bomb. It would be fallout.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Herndon, Virginia Tuesday, 12:11 P.M.

For more than a century, the Washington & Old Dominion Railroad was a lifeline to the nation's capital. Nicknamed the Virginia Creeper in honor of its speed-or lack thereof-the train moved northwest through Virginia to points beyond. The track still pa.s.ses through the center of town, where an underground garage stands not far from the W&OD museum. Two hundred feet long by seventy-five feet wide, and fifteen feet deep, the garage used to have track over it. Now there is only high, wind-rustled gra.s.ses. Once covered by removable wooden slats, workers would use the garage to get underneath the cars and conduct repairs.

Today, the garage has a much different use. It is the workplace of Art Van Wezel. It is where the CIA employee runs three key facets of the black ops infrastructure, what he calls "ways, means, and most definite ends."

Commandeered by the OSS during World War II and covered with concrete, the Garage-that became its formal code name-was originally used as a secret listening post. Fifth columnists working in and around Washington, D.C., would often go into the countryside to meet fellow operatives or send radio messages to waiting submarines. Because of the wires already in place for the railroad, the OSS did not have to erect additional antennae. The rails also gave them train and hand car access to the entire region, allowing for furtive counterespionage activities. After the war, the Garage was transformed into a storage facility for equipment used by the successor to the OSS, the newly formed Central Intelligence Agency. During the Cold War, the CIA leadership used the garage for decatalogued weapons and chemicals. These were produced for the sole purpose of arming field agents. They were stored in the Garage because, officially, such armaments did not exist. In the 1980s, the CIA converted the Garage to a warehouse for covert ops equipment. It was staffed by two former navy men: Jason Harper and Art Van Wezel. When Harper retired, only Van Wezel remained.

Van Wezel was still there.

When Kenneth Link took charge of covert ops at the CIA, he spent a lot of time in the Garage. Part of that was spent organizing it into a world-cla.s.s repository for new and specialized ordnance. Part of the time was also used to shift deactivated materiel from the Defense Supply Center in Richmond, Virginia, to the Garage. His rank gave him access to everything the navy was no longer using. Many of these weapons were prototypes that were either abandoned or actually went into production. Van Wezel made sure the weapons were kept in working condition. He also made sure that most of them were reported to have been destroyed. Link countersigned those reports. The admiral held on to them.

The admiral also held on to Van Wezel. Link made certain he was promoted to increasingly more lucrative pay grades. Link gave Van Wezel friendship and job security in an insecure world.

During Link's stewardship, the Garage appeared in fewer and fewer internal CIA memos. Over time, the warehouse virtually became Link's own private black ops repository and staging area.

The fifty-year-old Van Wezel was devoted to Admiral Link. Together, over the years, they built a small network of off-the-books counterespionage agents code named Mechanics. Most of them were former SEALs loyal to the former admiral. Today, the Mechanics remained on the Company's stealth payroll. But they were available to their friend and mentor for special jobs. They knew his heart, and they knew that it belonged to an uncompromising patriot. They recognized that Kenneth Link would never ask them to do anything that was not in the nation's best interests.

One of these people was Jacquie Colmer, a former captain on the admiral's staff. The thirty-six-year-old woman was fearless. When Link shifted to the CIA, he made certain that she was appointed the new navy liaison with the Garage. She and Van Wezel got together once a week to review inventory. That list was sent to Link, along with the whereabouts of the Mechanics. Jacquie also went out on the rare local jobs Link requested. Most of those were surveillance. A few were more hands-on.

Link had informed both Van Wezel and Jacquie about this new operation he needed done. The job was risky, and it was extreme. Both of the Garage veterans had grave reservations about the target. But they had read the newspapers. They understood what was at stake.

They would do what the admiral asked.

Van Wezel had two other functions at the Garage. One was intentionally visible. He maintained a small fleet of nondescript vehicles. These were "the means." The trucks and vans were owned and operated by the Herndon Road Services Company, a sh.e.l.l company controlled by the CIA. The HRSC rented vehicles to local firms in order to appear legitimate. Van Wezel wore white coveralls and could frequently be seen taking care of his half-dozen vehicles, washing and servicing them and waving to the locals when they pa.s.sed.

Van Wezel's third job was to give operatives "the ways" to do their jobs. He maintained a large computer database of logos from utilities and local companies. He used these to make photo ID badges for the field ops. More often than not, he had the right one for the right job already at hand. He regularly checked the web sites of the firms to make sure the design had not changed.

For this particular mission, Van Wezel needed a badge for the Country-Fresh Water Corporation. The CFWC had a contract to provide water to the coolers in all local government agencies. He had called the CFWC, pretending to be the client, to make sure this was not a regular delivery day. It would be disastrous if the real provider showed up while Jacquie was there. Then he called the client to schedule a delivery for today. Van Wezel already had a badge prepared for another agent. It was an easy matter for him to put Jacquie's photograph on that ID. He also had a small sign with the CFWC logo. He slipped that into a frame on the side of the van. If the guard asked, this was a loaner while the real truck was being repaired.

Van Wezel was confident about the ways and means. He also had the "ends," one that was developed by the Air Force for air drops into power plants. It would accomplish the admiral's goal with a minimum of event-injuried allies. Despite their differences, the men and women of Op-Center were also Americans. Link had no desire to hurt them. He had only one objective: to stop them.

TWENTY-NINE.

Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 12:25 P.M.

Like dinner the evening before, lunch with Kat was a welcome respite from angry thoughts. She was a sophisticated young woman with an eye firmly on the future but also a critical eye on the past. She had not only been influenced by her police family, but her journalistic background had given her broad political exposure. Kat Lockley knew how the system worked. More importantly, the New York native obviously knew how to work the system.