“An unanalyzable poison?”

“Yes. Such things do exist. A poison can be made by combining two common household cleaning agents in the right proportions. When ingested, it causes death within twenty-four hours, and it cannot be analyzed. Also, if some stranger injected the poison, it would have to have been done very quickly, so as not to arouse Brennan’s suspicions, so the amount would have to have been very small, certainly much less than a cubic centimeter.”

“There was a case like this in London back in the seventies, I think. A man was stabbed with a poisoned umbrella tip on the street.”

“I’m familiar with that case, but Brennan died much more quickly than that victim, who, to the best of my recollection, took three days to expire.”

“So he was killed by an injection of a tiny amount of an unanalyzable poison.”

“That’s my initial and unofficial diagnosis,” the doctor replied. “And I need hardly point out that, if my diagnosis can be confirmed, we’re likely looking at the involvement of a foreign intelligence service. The London killing was traced to the Romanian or the Bulgarian service, I believe. Cold War stuff.”

“Get back to me as soon as you’ve confirmed something,” Kinney said. “And thanks for calling.” He hung up.

Helen came into the office. “So?”

“We’ve got another victim, and this is getting very, very strange.”

18

KINNEY WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE his apartment when his cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“This is the director’s secretary, Mr. Kinney,” she said. “The director got your memo this morning about the Brennan death, and he would like you to accompany him to the White House this morning for the president’s intelligence briefing.”

“All right.”

“The director’s car will pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“Please tell the director that I’ll drive my own car and meet him there, if he would be kind enough to notify White House security. I have an appointment that I’ll have to drive to immediately following the briefing.” This was a lie, but Kinney had no intention of being trapped in a car with the director for half the morning.

“I’ll let the director know and notify White House security.”

“Thank you.”

KINNEY HAD BEEN to the White House before for meetings with presidential aides, but never with the president him-self. He was passed through the main gate after showing his ID and being carefully compared to his photograph by the guard, then his car was parked for him, and an escort took him to a small waiting room. The director arrived presently, and the room filled up with the meeting’s other participants.

After the others were called inside, Kinney waited until summoned. The director introduced him to the president, then, one by one, to the others.

“I understand we have another killing, Bob,” the president said.

“I believe we do, Mr. President.” He told the group about the circumstances of Brennan’s death and the autopsy results.

“Now those results are preliminary, aren’t they, Bob?” the director asked.

“Yes, sir, but I expect the final report to be the same.”

“What do you make of this?” the president asked. “Are we dealing with a foreign intelligence agency?”

“I don’t believe so, Mr. President.”

“Then who?”

“I believe we’re dealing with an individual who has knowledge of all sorts of technical skills-firearms, explosives, black chemistry. I’ve ordered that all the Bureau’s retired or dismissed employees with such knowledge be investigated, and I want to extend that investigation to the retired employees of other agencies, too.”

“Why retired employees, not current ones?”

“Because our killer seems to have the time to travel up and down the Eastern seaboard, murdering people. Apparently he’s driving, and a current employee wouldn’t be able to do that, unless he were on vacation, and that would call unwanted attention to him.”

“What agencies are you talking about?” the president asked.

“FBI, CIA, ATF, DEA. Any with a tech services department.”

Kate Rule Lee spoke up. “I’ll have a list of such employees at the CIA printed out and messengered to you today, Bob.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

The president sighed. “Bob, I’m afraid it’s time to go public with your suspicions.”

“Must I, Mr. President?”

“The press is already putting it together. Let’s not wait until we’re cornered. Anyway, going public might turn up some leads for you. We might get a phone call from a friend or relative with suspicions.”

“I’ll issue a press release this morning, Mr. President.”

“Do that, but read it at a press conference. You dictate something to my secretary, and you can address the White House press corps at this morning’s regular briefing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks, everybody, that’s all.” The president stood up, and everyone filed out of the room.

BOB KINNEY STOOD in the little auditorium and read his press release. “The FBI is investigating the murders of Senator Frederick Wallace, Mr. Van Vandervelt, and Mr. Timothy Brennan, which we believe were committed by the same person.”

There was a roar of questions from the reporters, which were shouted down by the White House press secretary.

Kinney continued. “We are concentrating our investigation, at the moment, on former government employees who may have acquired skills in the line of duty that are now being used to kill people.”

“Questions?” the press secretary asked, and pointed at a reporter.

“Why do you think the murders are connected?”

“Because of the political connections among the victims and for other reasons I cannot go into.”

The questions continued to come, and Kinney answered them as frankly as he could. Finally, the press secretary ended the questioning, and Kinney was escorted to an exit, where his car was waiting. He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook in the backseat, and it was only then he realized that he had sweated through his shirt. He was glad he didn’t have to face the press every day.

WILL LEE CALLED his core aides into the Oval Office. “What do we know about Robert Kinney, the deputy director for investigations at the FBI?”

Kitty Conroy opened a file. “He’s one of three or four people inside the Bureau on our list of candidates to replace Heller. All I have at the moment is a resume, which is impressive.”

“Find out more. He was just in here, and I liked him.”

“What did you like about him?”

“No-nonsense, professional, has a certain gravitas.”

“He did well at the press conference,” somebody said.

“I didn’t see that, but I could tell from his body language during the meeting that he doesn’t think much of Heller, and that speaks well of him.”

Kitty laughed.

“Of course, we couldn’t give him the job until these right-wing murders are solved. He’s in charge of the case.”

“Is that what we’re calling them? The right-wing murders?”

“Absolutely not,” Will said. “Anyway, the press will come up with a name for them eventually.”

Kitty crossed her legs, something she always did when she was about to bring up something important. “We’re going to begin to get some political fallout from these killings pretty soon.”

“What kind of fallout?” Will asked. “Is the right-wing going to start accusing me of ordering them murdered?”

“They already are, on some of the extreme websites,” Kitty replied.

“You’re kidding!”

“Of course, they hold you responsible for the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby, too.”

Everybody laughed.

“I’m not kidding. This is going to work its way up the food chain to Congress pretty soon, and we’d better be ready for it.”

“Get somebody to ask a question about it at my press conference tomorrow,” Will said.