"Albert, whatever you have can wait until I have some clothes on. Now get the hell out of here!"

Rudin had never heard Clark so upset. Reluctantly, he retreated from the room and closed the door. He looked down at the envelope in his hand. He desperately wanted to show the contents to someone, and Hank Clark was the obvious choice. He'd been looking for him for the past two hours. He'd called his house, his office and his cell phone. No one at the house answered, no one at the office knew where he was, and he didn't answer his cell phone. The club was a lucky guess. Rudin saw the senator's gleaming Jaguar in the parking lot and practically ran into the building. The locker room manager told him Clark was getting a massage. Without putting any further thought into it, Rudin had raced off through the maze of lockers like a rat in search of a piece of cheese.

Standing alone in the bright lights of the locker room Rudin now saw the error of his ways. He checked his watch. It was 9:55. Clark wouldn't be that much longer. Rudin began walking. He'd waited this long to destroy Irene Kennedy, he could wait a few more minutes.

there WAS A small lounge in the men's locker room; two couches, several chairs, a television and two phones. This was where Rudin had decided to wait. It was a good thirty minutes before Clark showed. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back and he was wearing a pair of dress corduroy pants, a button-down shirt and a cashmere sweater. Rudin popped out of his chair looking slightly low-rent in his wrinkled khakis, faded flannel shirt and overstuffed down coat.

Clark had decided to act as if the intrusion into his hypnotic massage had not happened. There was no sense in revisiting the issue. After all these years Rudin wasn't about to change. Clark did not greet the congressman. He simply said, "Let's grab a cup of coffee."

Rudin shook his head emphatically. "Let's talk outside. In your car." He looked around the small lounge like the walls had ears.

Clark understood Rudin's paranoia. He was the one who had encouraged it. "All right."

They left the club and went to the parking lot without speaking. Rudin took every step like he was on point during a patrol behind enemy lines, Clark played along and kept his mouth shut. He'd anticipated Rudin's behavior. From thirty feet away, he pressed the button on his keyless remote. The headlights flashed once. Clark climbed in behind the wheel and Rudin got in on the passenger side.

From the folds of his down coat Rudin extracted the envelope and said, "You're not going to believe what is in here." He offered the envelope to Clark.

Clark didn't take it. He instead asked, "What's in it?"

"The information I've been looking for," replied Rudin with glee.

Impassively, Clark nodded for him to elaborate.

"Have you ever heard of an organization called the Orion Team?"

Clark just shook his head no.

"It's a secret organization that was started by that bastard Thomas Stansfield, and headed by Irene Kennedy," Rudin spoke their names with great hatred. "They've been running covert ops in the Middle East for over a decade, and they haven't said shit to us." Rudin stabbed his finger into his own chest. and I've got the proof Right here! Look!" Rudin pulled some papers from the envelope. "I have a list of people they've killed. There's account numbers where legitimate money has been diverted to fund these operations. There's even mention of Special Forces units being used to support these fucking antics."

"This is absolutely shocking." "I told you she was no good. Just like her old boss Stansfield."

"I can't believe it," said Clark. "Where did you get this?"

"From your guy," said Rudin defensively. "That Steveken fellow."

"And where did he get it?" "That's the best part," said Rudin excitedly. "He got it from Jonathan Brown ... Judge Fucking Brown. Can you believe it?"

That was not the answer Clark was expecting. "Have you talked to anybody else about this?"

"No! You're the first person."

"Well, do yourself and Brown a favor and don't mention his name to anyone." Clark was trying to figure out how in the hell Rudin had got Brown's name.

"Why?"

"Because the second you mention his name they'll destroy his reputation." Clark was thinking quickly, trying to come up with a logical reason. "Think of his name as your ace in the hole. The longer you wait to show it, the more valuable it'll be."

"Or the longer you wait to play it." Rudin tried to pass the envelope to Clark.

"No. I believe you. When you get a chance make copies for me and send me the whole thing." Clark wasn't about to put his fingerprints on classified documents.

Rudin was a little disappointed, but pleased to hear that Clark trusted him enough to take his word. "So what are you going to do on Monday?"

The senator placed a hand on his chin and looked out the front windshield. Quietly, he said, "I'm not sure."

Rudin was sure. It's all he'd been thinking about for the past three hours. Kennedy's confirmation hearing was going to turn into an inquisition. "Hank, what do you mean you're not sure? You're going to get her under oath, and you're going to nail her ass to the wall!"

"Oh, don't worry, if this information is as damaging as you say, that'll happen," he said reassuringly. "I'm just trying to make sure we have all of our bases covered first." Clark looked at Rudin and asked, "Are you still scheduled to appear on Meet the Press tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

Clark paused briefly and said, "All right, here's what we're going to do."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Maryland, Saturday evening

A steady drizzle fell from the night's black sky, and the cab's headlights cut a perfect but limited swath through the darkness. In the backseat Anna Rielly sat feeling her determination wilt away. She wasn't sure what she wanted to happen, but she knew she had to meet him face-to-face. She couldn't run. She loved him too much; she'd poured too much of her heart into the relationship. There were too many things that needed to be said. And besides, as a matter of practicality she had to get her car.

The trip back from Milan had been a long one. Thankfully, the American Airlines ticket agent had been kind enough to honor Rielly's first class ticket without charging her for changing the return date. It probably helped that she recognized Rielly as the NBC White House correspondent. What made the flight so miserable was that she was seated next to a forty-some-year-old man from Baltimore who spent the majority of the flight trying to put the moves on her. She heard his life story at least once, and several chapters that he deemed extra important were repeated. The experience did nothing for her resolve. Like most people with any sense, she didn't like dating. If this was what life held for her, maybe she was better off spending a few fitful nights waiting for Mitch to come home. She knew that wasn't true, but in the midst of the excruciating flight the thought occurred more than once. With a few days to cool off, Anna had settled in on her main problem with Mitch. How well did she really know him? The question of course could be asked, how much did one really know anybody, but she didn't buy into that esoteric philosophy. She knew her family and her friends very well, and she thought she knew Mitch well, but she would have never thought him capable of doing what he did in Milan.

Rielly knew why they went to Italy. They went there to get engaged. Mitch had a little business to take care of first, and then they were off to start the rest of their lives together. The big problem was, his business involved meeting with an ex-lover. She tried to put the shoe on the other foot. What would Mitch have done if she'd gone off to meet secretly with an ex while they were on vacation together? It didn't take Rielly long to come up with an answer. He'd blow his top.