"Ohhh...you know what I'm going to do after we've both come?" Cindy whispered as she rocked rhythmically astride her customer, grinding her G-string against his crotch. He's getting ready she thought as the third song started. David had his teeth clenched and his eyes shut. "I'm going to wait for you by the men's room so you can give me the rubber. Then I'm going to take it in the dressing room and rub your come all over my chest. Oh, God, I can't wait to do that." That did it Cindy thought as she felt his erection pulsate.

"I'm coming,"she moaned, and flexed her vaginal muscles several times. Just in case he's really paying attention she thought with a smile.

June 20 "Shit," the patrolman said, drawing out the word until it was several syllables long. "Look at this." He used his flashlight to lift up the door handle and open the Lincoln's door. "Looks fresh."

"Damn right," the second man agreed. "Never saw no dead man still had a hard dick." The first cop started laughing.

"White boy, look like he got all the money in the world, want to come over here to East St. Louis, get him some twenty-dollar strange stuff. Crazy damn world."

"You got that right. I'll go call it in. Then we go look for Lawanda, and maybe Sharlene. See what they know."

The two East St. Louis policemen would start laughing even harder when the registration on the vehicle came back over the radio. Neither, however, would be particularly surprised.

"Five of them?" Henry asked incredulously as Cindy handed him the condoms, each one knotted about halfway down.

"Best night I've had in months. None of them would let me leave with just the twenty-five. One guy gave me two hundred. I made twelve hundred dollars tonight, after tipping all the bartenders and staff. What's the plan?" she asked as she watched Henry pack the condoms in an ice-filled vacuum bottle.

"Allen's off getting two airline tickets," Henry said, tamping more ice into the glass-lined container and screwing on the lid. "Commuter flights are about fifty bucks, so they don't bat an eye when you pay cash. You and I are going to Chicago. Once we get there, I'll book us to D.C."

"Sounds like a winner."

"I guess I better check this through, with the other goodies," he said, holding up the bottle.

"Oh, I don't know, Henry. They probably get people carrying things like this on board all the time, don't you think?"

"You're up early."

"Hard to lose a thirty-year habit," Billings cheerfully told his wife. "And I got a few errands to run. You need me to pick up anything on my way home?"

"Some paper towels, and we're almost out of soda."

"Okay." He kissed his wife and was out the door. The errand he planned was one that he had attempted before, but there had always been a snag somewhere. Billings didn't mind. With the dry cleaning business gone, he had lots of time, and he was a patient man.

At the end of the block, Billings came to a complete stop before proceeding through the intersection. He was driving a six-year-old Chevrolet four-door sedan. There were two large cardboard boxes full of old newspapers sitting beside him on the front seat. A steel tube spanned the width of the car above the rearseat windows, and on it hung three suits and a dozen shirts that blocked the view out the back. These accessories would serve an important function when he was ready.

For now, Billings concentrated solely on reconnaissance.

"Returning the twenty-fourth?" the American Airlines ticket agent asked.

"That's the plan," Henry answered as he handed her the credit card, "but we may end up staying longer. Will there be any problem exchanging the tickets for a later return date?"

"No. Since you're paying the full fare, there aren't any restrictions." She looked at the name on the credit card before handing it back. "Vous etes francais, Monsieur Kreyder?"

"Seulement technicalement," Henry said, inventing some pidgin French before switching back to English. "I was born there, but my family left France for good when I was less than a year old, and I haven't been back since. Where am I headed?"

"After you take your tickets and bags over to the other counter, you'll be going to Gate 57 on the 'B' Concourse," the agent said with a smile. "You have a little over half an hour. Enjoy your trip," she added, almost as an afterthought. The way she said it implied she could not fathom why anyone would want to travel to the nation's capital, but wished the best for anyone who actually did.

"Thank you," Henry said as he palmed the tickets. "I will." He slipped one of the tickets to Cindy as he passed by her on the way to the check-in counter.

"Any luggage to check through?" the agent asked. Cindy Caswell gave her a grin as she slid the single bag through the opening in the counter. It was of popular manufacture and had once been advertised in a TV spot that had featured a gorilla. The identifying tag attached to the handle was a cardboard one provided by Trans World Airlines, folded over for security. Inside, it listed a fictitious Chicago address.

"Have you ever met a woman, other than a stewardess, who could travel with just a carry-on?" Particularly when she wants to travel with a bunch of bondage equipment, butt plugs, and a quarter-pound of cocaine she added silently.

"I have to ask," the woman said, laughing as she hooked the routing tape around the handle. "It's my job."

Two queues to Cindy's right, Henry Bowman was checking an identical suitcase with another airline employee. His bag was packed with nondescript clothing, a small shaving kit, and some reading material. Nothing inside it gave any clue as to its owner or origin. The TWA tag on the handle listed the owner as Didier Kreyder, whose address was a post office box in the Boston area. In about five hours, the tag would be gone and the suitcase would be placed in the Unclaimed Baggage office at Dulles airport, where it would remain.

The real Didier Kreyder had died of influenza in 1955 at the age of five months, and was buried in a cemetery outside Paris. His birth certificate was one of four Henry had acquired while on a European concert tour with the Amherst College Glee Club in the summer of 1973.

Billings followed the other car until it pulled into the lot of the tall office building. The route was the same as it had been the day before. This time out, Billings had spotted another likely site for what he had planned.

He smiled as he cut the wheel and drove away from the parking lot.

"This is going to take some time," The President said as he unbuttoned his collar. "You men might want to loosen your ties. The air conditioning in here is a little weak." Some of the people in the room shifted slightly in their chairs, but the men's hands all stayed in their laps or on the notes they held. No one there was about to look less than his best in front of the President of the United States. 'Talk to me," the President said as he scanned the faces before him. Dwight Greenwell cleared his throat. The task force had decided the previous afternoon that Greenwell should speak first. What he had to say was important background for what was to follow.

"Mr. President, I knew Wilson Blair for sixteen years," the ATF Director began. The President raised an eyebrow at Greenwell's choice of tense for the verb he had used, but said nothing. Greenwell took a deep breath and rushed on.

"There is no possibility that the man I knew could have been responsible for the message that was sent out over the Internet. Blair would have had a list of agents at ATF, however. That leads me to the inescapable conclusion that Wilson Blair is dead, and whoever killed him stole the list and distributed it." Greenwell saw that the President expected him to explain.

"Wilson Blair did not, as the message claimed, work for years and years in the tobacco section of ATF and suddenly get transferred to firearms. Lower-level agents at ATF are trained in all three sections from the moment they are hired and rotate departments every few months. Supervisory agents such as Blair almost always remain in one section. Wilson Blair had been a supervisory agent in the firearms division since 1987, and he had worked in the firearms division for quite some time before that."

"I see."

"Wilson Blair was also one of ATF's most dedicated men. I checked his record, and his agents have been responsible for over eight hundred arrests for federal firearms law violations. The conviction rate on those arrests is 99.7%, which is the third-highest at ATF." Helen Schule turned her head at this number, not certain she had heard correctly.

"I'm sorry, but-a ninety-nine point seven percent conviction rate?" she broke in. "And that's third highest at ATF?"

"That's correct, ma'am. Wilson Blair was a professional, and some gun nut killed him for it. It could have been any one of them. The bombing in Oklahoma in the Spring of 1995 showed us that." The two men from the FBI nodded at this comment. The Chief Executive remained impassive.

"Mr. President, anyone who saw that Internet message knows it was a transparent attempt to incite people to attack ATF agents. The gun nuts in this country stick together, and that is one of the things that makes this situation so dangerous." He licked his lips nervously.

"So far, we have refused to issue any official comment on the Internet message, and that has been a public relations nightmare for us. With your permission, sir, we would like to issue a press release that the Internet message was not authored by Wilson Blair or any other member of ATF, and also counter the outright slander of the ATF that the message conveys." Greenwell was trying to sound as mild as possible, but half the people in the room knew that the President's 'No Comment' order had made the ATF Director furious.

"I know it's been tough for you, Dwight," the President agreed, without speaking to his request. "What about the claims of entrapment, and the part about three raids using illegal wiretaps, blank warrants, and planting evidence?"

"Complete lies. The paranoid gun nuts in this country have been saying that about us for decades." "I'm not sure I understand-were there actually three raids scheduled or was that made up as well?"

"No, no sir, I'm sorry," Greenwell said hurriedly. "There were three raids planned, but they didn't happen. Well, the third one did, but..." His voice trailed off as he realized he had nothing to say about the disaster involving the helicopters.

"So who were these three men Blair's team planned to raid?"

"Three machine gun dealers, Mr. President," Greenwell said confidently, feeling himself on firmer ground now. "Three of the largest in the country, as a matter of fact."

"And who had these men been selling machine guns to-terrorists? Drug gangs? Organized crime syndicates?"

"Uh, no, Mr. President. Not to my specific knowledge, although that is certainly possible," he added quickly. "Wilson Blair was in charge of the investigation, and I'm still looking into the particulars of it." "You don't know what the raids were for?" The Chief Executive asked. "What kind of business were these men engaged in, Dwight?"

"Mr. President, our regional supervisory agents have the authority to initiate and conduct investigations and raids without my micromanaging them. If Wilson Blair were alive and in his office instead of having vanished into thin air, I would have the answers to all your questions. As it is, we're still looking." Harrison Potter chose that moment to clear his throat, and the President glanced at him.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Mr. President, I know nothing of the raids in question, but after our meeting yesterday, I paid a visit to NFA Branch over at 5100 Pennsylvania, and made a few other inquiries. Being retired, I'm always looking for something to do," he said with a smile. Potter's face became serious. "I, too was interested in who these three men were selling machine guns to."

"Go on, Harry."

"The three men Director Greenwell is describing are licensed by the Treasury Department to deal in weapons regulated by the National Firearms Act of 1934," the retired Chief Justice explained. Potter referred to a small, leather-bound notebook in his hand before continuing. His notes in it were written in fountain pen ink.

"It seems almost all of Grant Millet's customers are other Treasury-licensed dealers around the country, and a few police departments also. Millet apparently has a talent for finding rare military accessories in foreign countries, and the majority of his business is actually in obsolete gun parts for collectors and museums."

"So Millet is an importer of machine guns as well as a dealer in them."

"That's correct, Mr. President," Dwight Greenwell broke in.

"Actually, it's not," Potter said mildly. "Since 1968, it has been illegal to import any machine gun receiver except for government or law enforcement use. Millet is a...Class 2 manufacturer," Potter said, referring to his notes for the correct term, "and he was manufacturing receivers in Ohio, importing other parts, and assembling and selling guns to other dealers.

"However, on...May 19, 1986," Potter went on, once again referring to his notebook, "manufacture of machine guns in this country became illegal, again with the exception of arms made for sale to government entities. Millet has manufactured or imported a few of these firearms since 1986, but all were for police departments. Most of his business is now importing spare parts. He has some weapons for sale to other dealers, but no good way to replenish that inventory once it is gone." Harrison Potter turned several pages over until he found the notes he wanted.

"Allen Kane, according to the kind people at ATF who researched this for me, has sold more machine guns to police departments in this country than any other single licensee in the United States save the Colt factory. I also learned from them that Kane does a lot of business with...Stembridge Gun Rentals in Hollywood," he said, checking the spelling of the name. 'This is a firm which supplies the movie industry with props for films.

"I then called California to speak with this company. The gentleman I spoke to said that Mr. Kane has regularly acquired historic machine guns for Stembridge that the company had been previously unable to locate, let alone purchase. The man at Stembridge also had high praise for Mr. Kane's mechanical and restoration abilities. He said every machine gun he had bought from Kane worked flawlessly, even turn-ofthe century pieces.

"Apparently, then, in addition to police sales, Kane makes much of his living buying large machine gun collections from private individuals and dealers who are leaving the business, and then selling these weapons one at a time. He also holds a manufacturer's license, although since the 1986 prohibition his activity in that area has been next to nothing.

"Which brings us to Mr. Bowman," the retired Chief Justice said as he flipped to another page. "Henry Bowman is licensed to deal in machine guns, but unlike Kane and Millet, he does not hold a manufacturer's license. Selling guns is also not a significant source of income for him. Bowman's selling activity has been minimal in the last few years. He did sell...twenty-seven machine guns to a police department in Missouri last year," Potter added as he peered at his notebook, "but he makes only a handful of sales to other dealers a year, and sales to private collectors are even less than that.

"Bowman's current inventory is seventy-three machine guns, with little duplication as to make and model. According to a man in your Firearms Technology department," Potter said as he looked at Dwight Greenwell, "many of Bowman's guns are ones of which only a handful of examples exist on the civilian registry. Many of these he acquired from Allen Kane, and some from Grant Millet, according to NFA records."

"We know that all three men are good friends," Greenwell broke in.

"Typical gun nuts," Carl Schaumberg muttered under his breath. Only Helen Schule heard him.

"So he's a collector, and when he sells any machine guns, it's to a police department," the President summarized. "Thanks, Harry," he said with a smile, then turned to the ATF Director. "Dwight, I'm still waiting to hear what these men were being raided for."