"Well, the driver, Larry Elwood, and the location of his car have to be targets of immediate and primary interest. Elwood is a suspect, obviously However, his car arrived five minutes late and his face is not visible on the videos. This could imply his car was hijacked and the man on our tape is an impostor. Also, the car is a mining site for forensics."

"Good point." Townsend turned to George Meany "What are we doing about the car?"

"An APB has been issued."

"Not enough. Scramble helicopters and notify every local jurisdiction to conduct a street-by-street search. Put out a description to every tolltaker in the five-state region. Assume they changed plates. Focus on the car model."

George was furiously scribbling all this down on a notepad.

Townsend studied him and said, "By nightfall, every black Lincoln Town Car from Baltimore to Richmond better have been stopped at least a dozen times." To underscore that, he added, "My official car included. If I don't get stopped and searched, I'll have somebody's head."

Jennie suggested, "We should also send agents door-to-door in the Ballantrae Farm neighborhood, asking if anybody saw anything this morning."

I suggested, "In any of the weeks leading up to this morning. The killers no doubt staked out the Belknaps' house well in advance."

Townsend looked at Meany and commented, "It's an exclusive neighborhood. Strangers would be noticed."

Actually, anybody not in a Brooks Brothers suit and a hundred-thousand-dollar luxury car would stick out like a purple banana on that block.

Meany needed to get a point on the board and suggested, "Also, every police district and sheriff's department from Baltimore to Richmond should be told to report any murders, killings, or serious incidents to us immediately. We can't afford a delay in notification."

My personal feelings about George aside, he was smart and competent, and it was a timely suggestion. Washington, DC, is an annual contender for the murder capital, and a relevant murder could easily get lost or misplaced in the city's embarrassment of riches. Following up on George's thought, I asked, "Exactly what is everybody outside this room allowed to know?"

I thought for a moment I was going to be asked to leave. But Peterson shook his head and said, "Leave it to Drummond to drag the elephant into the room."

George Meany chuckled. Jennie smiled, and everybody else stared at me. I take a bit of getting used to.

But apparently this question fell into Mrs. Hooper's basket, who said, "I haven't decided. For now, Terry Belknap is at home with the flu." She glanced at Peterson and Townsend and instructed them, "You two go brief the President. I'll let you know."

Power is a weird thing. Theoretically and on paper, the Directors of the FBI and CIA are higher in the food chain than some lady who came to town on her boss's coattail and did not need permission from Congress for her corner office in the West Wing. Yet this brief exchange cleared up any messy confusion about who was who in the pecking order. I really missed the Army, where everybody has their rank on their collar. The rank doesn't always tell you who's actually in charge, but it does tell you who can and who can't screw you.

Anyway, they both nodded and departed, and Jennie Margold and I exchanged troubled looks. As soon as the door closed, Jennie addressed Mrs. Hooper and asked, "Are Drummond and I missing something? The White House Chief of Staff's dead. You can't hide that."

It was an interesting question, and apparently a provocative one, because for a moment it just hung in the air. Then Phyllis, my boss, said, "It's… well, it's a little more complicated than that, I'm afraid. We probably should have seen this coming."

"Why?"

"Well… the bounty." She studied a spot on the wall for a moment. "Somebody has offered a reward of one hundred million dollars to whoever murders the President of the United States."

Shit.

CHAPTER FIVE

On that bizarre note, George Meany looked down the table and said, "I have calls to make. Take fifteen minutes to freshen up, then we'll decide what comes next."

The room swiftly emptied, except for Phyllis and me. Phyllis pretended to ignore me while everybody filed out, then I was hard to ignore. She said, "It sounds like you did a splendid job. Jennie Margold was very complimentary."

"Agent Margold was preoccupied with the ton of shit on her shoulders. I had nothing better to do."

"Yes, I'm sure. But I'm glad you gained her trust and confidence."

"Really? Why?"

Phyllis approached this question with the delicacy it deserved. "Surely it is no secret that the FBI and our Agency occasionally fail to communicate in a… well, a timely and effective manner."

"I had no idea."

She forced a smile. "Must I actually explain this to you?"

"Yes."

"All right. In addition to assisting the investigation, I expect you to be a conduit of information. Pay attention to what the FBI is learning and relay that back to me." She added, "Of course you can feel free to selectively pass on any information from our shop that might help the Bureau."

"Define 'selectively'"

"Use your judgment."

"Bad idea. Spell it out for me."

"All right. We're all on the same team, and we're interested in the same goal. I don't really care who gets credit for success. I do care greatly about who is blamed for failure. Understood?"

I nodded.

"Good. Any other questions?"

I had been waiting for this moment. "Why me?"

"Why not you?" After a moment she mentioned,"I read your classified Army file before I decided to bring you over here. You've had an interesting and varied career, Sean. Five years with the Special Forces, hunting and killing terrorists. Eight as a criminal lawyer, handling the most sensitive kinds of cases. My people are analysts or field operators… they have no investigative or killing experience." She looked me in the eye and asked, "So again, why not you?"

Well, I was new to the job, I wasn't actually a CIA employee, I didn't have a clue how the Agency was supposed to help, how it operated internally, not to mention a federal statute called Posse Comitatus, which prohibits military officers from engaging in domestic law enforcement activities. Also I hadn't voted for, nor did I even particularly like this President. But deductive logic aside, I could think of only one impelling reason it should be me-I was the perfect scapegoat.

But perhaps I was being overly cynical. Skepticism's healthy, but is only a hop, skip, and jump from the abyss of paranoia, which is not. Really, it boiled down to trust, and the question was: Could I take this lady at face value?

I recalled what I knew about Miss Phyllis Carney, whose job title, incidentally, was Special Assistant to the Director. There was only one special assistant in these parts, and lumping two spoonfuls of sugar into the boss's coffee wasn't the duty description.

I knew she had fifty-three years in the Agency and had climbed, scratched, and clawed her way from a secretarial stool to her current exalted perch. This made for an interesting and exotic resume, I'm sure not to mention a skill set including such archaic talents as stenography and garroting. Given the span of her service, she had played in some rough games and tilted against the big leaguers, or as the boys in the ranks say, she'd seen her share of the shit. She was either quite good at what she did or monumentally expert at dodging blame. Probably both.

Regarding her personal life and habits, I was aware she had once been married and her husband had either died or they were divorced. So there was no family left in the picture, no distractions from her work, and no complicating loyalties. Actually she was quite charming, bright, and clever, and her speech, manner, and dress were old-fashioned in a way that was disarming and faintly seductive. In her presence, in fact, you actually had to remind yourself that nobody survives half a century in her line of work who can't yank the lever on the scaffold and walk away whistling.