Anyway, the one-hour flight was uneventful, except for a bad cup of coffee. As we came into Ronald Reagan National Airport, we followed the Potomac River, and I had a spectacular view of the Jefferson Memorial with all the cherry blossoms in bloom, the Mall, the Capitol, and all those other white stone buildings that project power, power, power. It occurred to me for the first time that I worked for some of those people down there.

Anyway, we landed and deplaned on schedule. I noticed that Koenig was wearing a Federal blue suit and carried a briefcase. Nash had on yet another continental-cut suit and also carried a briefcase, no doubt handcrafted of yak hide by Tibetan freedom fighters in the Himalayas. Kate was also wearing a blue suit, but it looked better on her than on Jack. She also carried a briefcase, and I had the thought that I was supposed to carry a briefcase. My attire for the day was a dove-gray suit that my ex bought me from Barney's. With tax and tip, it probably ran close to two thousand bucks. She has that kind of money. It comes from defending drug dealers, hit men, white-collar criminals, and other high-income felons. So why do I wear this suit? I wear it, I think, as a cynical statement. Also, it fits very well and looks expensive.

But back to the airport. A car and driver met us and took us on a ride to FBI Headquarters, aka the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

There wasn't a lot of chatter in the car, but finally Jack Koenig, sitting up front with the driver, turned to us and said, "I apologize if this meeting interferes with your worship services."

The FBI, of course, pays lip service to church attendance, and maybe it wasn't just lip service. I couldn't imagine my old bosses saying anything like that, and I was at a loss for a reply.

Kate replied, "That's all right," whatever that means.

Nash mumbled something that sounded like he was giving us all a dispensation.

I'm not a habitual churchgoer, but I said, "J. Edgar is up there watching over us."

Koenig shot me an unpleasant look and turned back to the front.

Long day. Long, long day.

CHAPTER 25

At 5.30 A.M., Asad Khalil rose, took a wet towel from the bathroom and wiped all the surfaces where he might have left fingerprints. He prostrated himself on the floor, said his morning prayers, then dressed, and left the motel room. He put his overnight bag in the Mercury, and walked back to the motel office, carrying the wet towel.

The young desk clerk was sleeping in his chair and the television was still on.

Khalil came around the counter with his towel-wrapped Clock in his hand. He put the pistol to the man's head and pulled the trigger. The young clerk and the wheeled chair flew into the counter. Khalil pushed the young man's body beneath the counter and took his wallet from his hip pocket, then took the money out of the cash drawer. He found the stack of registration slips and receipt copies, and put them all in his pocket, then wiped his key tag with the wet towel and returned his key to the keyboard.

He looked up at the security camera, which he'd noticed earlier and which had recorded not only his arrival but also the entire murder and robbery. He followed the wire to a small back room where he found the video recorder. He pulled the tape out and put it in his pocket, then went back to the counter where he found an electrical switch marked MOTEL SIGN. He shut it off, then shut off the lights in the office, walked out the door, and went back to his car.

There was a damp fog hanging in the air, which obscured everything beyond a few meters. Khalil pulled out of the parking lot without headlights and didn't turn them on until he was fifty meters down the road.

He re-traced his route and approached the Capital Beltway. Before he entered, he pulled into the big parking lot of a strip mall, found a storm sewer drain, and pushed the registration cards, receipts, and video cassette through the metal grate. He took the cash out of the clerk's wallet and threw the wallet into the drain.

He got back into his car and entered the Capital Beltway.

It was six in the morning and a faint dusk came out of the east, illuminating the fog. There was little traffic on the road on this Sunday morning, and neither did Khalil see any police cars.

He followed the Beltway south, then it curved west and crossed the Potomac River, then continued west until it went north and crossed the Potomac again. He was circling the city of Washington, like a lion, he thought, stalking his prey.

Khalil programmed the Satellite Navigator with the address he needed in Washington and exited the Beltway at Pennsylvania Avenue.

He continued on Pennsylvania Avenue, heading directly into the heart of the enemy capital.

At 7:00 A.M. he drove up to Capitol Hill. The fog had lifted, and the huge white-domed Capitol Building sat in the morning sunshine. Khalil drove around the Capitol, then stopped and parked near the southeast side. He removed his camera from the overnight bag and took photos of the sunlit building. He noticed a young couple about fifty meters away doing the same. This photography was not necessary, he knew, and he could have passed the time elsewhere, but he thought these photographs would amuse his compatriots in Tripoli.

He could see police cars within the gated area around the Capitol Building, but none on the street around him.

At 7:25 A.M., he got back in his car and drove the few blocks to Constitution Avenue. He drove slowly down the tree-lined street of town houses and located number 415. A car was parked in the narrow driveway, and he saw a light on in the third-floor window. He kept going, circled around the block, and parked his car a half block from the house.

Khalil put both Glocks in his jacket pockets, and waited, watching the house.

At 7:45 A.M., a middle-aged man and woman came out the front door. The lady was well dressed and the man wore the blue uniform of an Air Force general. Khalil smiled.

They had told him in Tripoli that General Terrance Waycliff was a man of habit, and his habit was to attend religious services at the National Cathedral every Sunday morning. The General would almost always attend the 8:15 service, but had been known to attend the 9:30 service. This morning it was the 8:15 service, and Khalil was pleased that he didn't have to waste another hour somewhere.

Khalil watched the General escort his wife to their car. The man was tall and slender, and though his hair was gray, he walked like a younger man. In 1986, Khalil knew, General Waycliff had been Captain Waycliff, and the radio call sign on his F-lll had been Remit 22. Captain Waycliff's fighter-bomber had been one of the four in the attack squadron that had bombed Al Azziziyah. Captain Waycliff's weapons officer had been Colonel-then Captain-William Hambrecht, who had met his fate in London in January. Now General Waycliff would meet a similar fate in Washington.

Khalil watched as the General opened the door for his wife, then went around, got into the driver's side, and backed out of the driveway.

Khalil could have killed both of them right there and then on this quiet Sunday morning, but he chose to do it another way.

Khalil straightened his tie, then exited and locked his car.

He walked to the front door of the General's house and pushed the doorbell. He heard chimes ringing inside the house.

He heard footsteps and kept back from the door so his face could be seen through the peephole. Khalil heard the metallic scrape of what he thought was a chain being put on the door, then the door opened a crack, and he could see the hanging chain and a young woman's face. She started to say something, but Khalil slammed his shoulder into the door. The chain snapped and the door swung in, knocking the woman to the floor. Khalil was inside in a second and closed the door behind him as he pulled his pistol. "Silence."