The sergeant clapped his hands, and they both turned and looked at him. He pointed to the office. The big man was waking up.

Carpenter ran over, took the bookend from him and put it back in its place. She got into her slicker and led the way out the door.

It was still raining, but not as hard, and a dull light was penetrating the heavy clouds. They ran toward the jetty, collecting the others as they went, and soon they were in the dinghy headed toward the point.

The sergeant produced a handheld radio. “Mother, this is baby,” he said.

“Go ahead, baby,” the general’s voice came back.

“I’ve begun my journey.”

“I’ll switch on the masthead light.”

As they cleared the point a wave struck the dinghy, and Carpenter slipped off her seat into the bottom and about two inches of water. She clawed her way back, then felt in her hip pocket for the sheet of paper. It was wet. She pulled it out, stuck it under her slicker and her shirt, next to a breast. It was cold and clammy, but it soon absorbed her body warmth.

A moment later, the sergeant pointed to a light in the distance. “There!” he shouted. “Make for the light.”

Five long minutes later, they were alongside the heaving yacht, and men were pulling Carpenter on deck.

“Shall we sink the dinghy?” the sergeant asked.

“No,” Sir Ewan called back. “It might wash ashore. Get it aboard and suck it out.”

The men heaved the large dinghy aboard, connected it to the pump, and hit the reverse switch. The dinghy began to collapse.

Carpenter went below, found her small duffel and retrieved the satellite phone. She slid back the hatch, pulled the spray hood over her head, and tapped in a number.

“Yes?” a voice said almost immediately.

“It’s Aunt Rose,” she said. “Your cousin lives in Arlington, Virginia. Do you want me to read you the name and address?”

“No,” the voice said. “Bring it ashore and fax it. How was your journey?”

“Piece of cake,” she said.

“Good Auntie,” he replied, then broke the connection.

Carpenter went below and made herself a mug of tea, adding a lot of brandy.

37

BOB KINNEY JERKED AWAKE. He had a terrible pain in his neck, where it rested on the arm of the sofa, which was too short for his body. “What?” he said.

“The White House Situation Room is on the phone,” his secretary repeated.

Kinney leapt off the sofa and grabbed the phone. “Bob Kinney.”

“Agent Kinney, you’re getting a fax any minute, now. It goes to the president first.”

“Was the mission a success?”

“Completely, as I understand it.”

“Who is the guy?”

“I haven’t seen the name. It will be in the fax. I did hear that it’s an Arlington address.”

“Thanks.” Kinney hung up. Kerry Smith had appeared at the door.

“Wake up the team,” Kinney said. “The Brits got the name, and they’re faxing it to us momentarily.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t have it yet, but he has an Arlington address, and we’re going to roll the minute we’ve got the name.”

“Great!” Smith replied, then went to start waking people.

Kinney stuck his head out the door. “Assemble everybody in the garage!” he yelled after Smith’s disappearing back. Smith waved and turned a corner.

Kinney went back to his secretary’s desk and stared at the fax machine. “Come on,” he said under his breath.

“You know that talking to it doesn’t work,” she said. “Go sit down, and I’ll bring it to you the moment it arrives.”

The fax machine rang.

Kinney went and stood over it, willing it to print faster.

The machine made the requisite noises, then slowly spat out a sheet of paper. Kinney snatched it from the machine and read it aloud. “Edward E. Coulter, Riverview Road, Arlington.” He furrowed his brow. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“What was it again?” his secretary asked.

“Edward E. Coulter.”

“Edward Eugene Coulter?”

The name came like a spear through the heart. “Our CIA retiree? The one we talked to?”

“The one who’s dead,” she said helpfully. The phone rang, and she picked it up. “Yes, Mr. President, he’s right here.” She handed him the phone.

“Bob Kinney,” he said, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Bob, they faxed me this name,” the president said. “Edward E. Coulter. Isn’t that the retired CIA guy, the one who died?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“What do you make of this?”

“We’ll be interviewing his widow again first thing this morning,” Kinney replied. “I’ll have to get back to you, sir.”

“Please do,” the president said. “At your earliest convenience.” He hung up.

“Call the garage and tell the team to stand down,” Kinney said to his secretary. “Tell Kerry to pick up a tape recorder and be prepared to leave the building at eight a.m.” Kinney went back into his office and stretched out on the sofa again. If he were alone, he would cry, he reflected. Instead, he was going to get some sleep.

AT 8:25 A.M., Kinney and Smith pulled up in front of the Coulter residence, just in time to see Mrs. Coulter step onto the front porch in a bathrobe and pick up her newspaper. She watched as they got out of the car and walked up her driveway.

“Agent Kinney, isn’t it?” she said, looking puzzled.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “And Agent Smith. May we come inside and talk with you?”

“Of course. I was just putting on some coffee.”

They went inside and waited impatiently while Mrs. Coulter moved around her kitchen and finally came out with a coffeepot and some small pastries. “I bake them myself,” she said. “There’s nobody to eat them since Ed died, but I bake them anyway.” She poured them all some coffee and sat down.

“Please accept my condolences,” he said.

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Mrs. Coulter,” Kinney said, “I want to tell you why we’re here.”

“Does it still have something to do with the sniper?” she asked.

The papers still referred to him as the sniper, even though he’d killed only once in that manner.

“Yes, it does. Let me tell you why we interviewed your husband. One of our theories about the case is that the killer, because he had expertise in several ways of killing, might have been a retired employee of a government agency that trained him.”

“So that’s why you talked to Ed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, Ed knew about firearms,” she said, “and that was it. He was just a glorified gunsmith. He wasn’t even a very good shot.”

“Yes, ma’am, and that was why we eliminated him from our list of suspects.” Some list; Coulter had been the only name on it. “That and the state of his health.”

“Good point!” she said. “He could hardly have roamed the country, killing people, while using a walker.”

“Yes, ma’am. The reason we’re here now is, we’ve traced the name of the operator of an Internet website called ACT NOW, where the killer posted pictures of his victims and, perhaps, his intended victims.”

“And who is he?”

“I’m afraid the name was Edward E. Coulter.”

Mrs. Coulter laughed. “Well, I’m afraid the only thing Ed ever did with a computer was word processing and check writing. He didn’t even do email, nor do I.”

“What we now think is, that since the killer used your husband’s name and address to register the website, he might be someone Ed knew at work-a colleague or a friend.”

She nodded. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Can you think of anyone like that? Probably someone who’s retired?”

“Well, this neighborhood is full of retired CIA folks,” she said. “We knew a lot of them.”

“Could you give us a list of their names and addresses?” Kinney asked.

“Just a minute,” she said. She got up and went into her husband’s study. A moment later she returned with several sheets of paper and a pen. She sat down and began making checkmarks on the paper. “This is our Christmas card list,” she said. “I’m checking off the CIA people and putting two checks by the retired ones.”