She nodded. Then she suggested, "But there's something important-something we're overlooking. I'm not thinking…" She glanced in the direction of the ruined BMW, then said, "Antitank weapons… Bouncing Bettys… this is military hardware we're talking about."

"And…?"

"And where did these people get their hands on these things? Right?"

Right.

Jennie then rushed off to inform Meany of the newest disaster, our guesses about the weapons used, and what this might mean in terms of fresh leads and whatever.

Left with nothing better to do, I withdrew my cell phone from a pocket and turned it on for the first time that day. The little window informed me that somebody in the 703 area code had called about ten times. Incidentally, the CIA, like the Army, is big on reporting chains and timely communications. Of course, as a lawyer, I'm accustomed to working and operating alone, making my own decisions, accountable to nobody but my clients and the court docket. I was having a little trouble getting back into this chain of command thing.

I decided to get this over with and called Phyllis. On an open airwave, I was no doubt engaging in an egregious heresy of some sort. But with three helicopters broadcasting overhead, and a Supreme Court justice splattered across the front of his house, confidentiality was the least of our worries, in my view.

Phyllis sounded a lot annoyed and wasted a few comments reminding me I wasn't the only one working this case, and so on. Then she listened patiently as I unloaded the latest. She asked a few questions, some of which I could answer, and some of which I couldn't. Finally she commented, "Well, I can't recall a worse evening."

I nearly replied, "How about 9/11?" The CIA hadn't exactly ended that day parading down Constitution Avenue draped in victory laurels, as I recalled. But maybe she had a point. By the evening of 9/11 the worst was over, except for the shock, funerals, cleanup, and revenge. These guys weren't through. In fact, the worst could be yet to come. I commented, "Well, the morning wasn't so hot either."

"The morning was just the entree."

"Right." I suggested, "We should probably anticipate another hit to start off our day tomorrow."

"It would be a mistake to expect these people to be predictable. They haven't been yet."

"Would you care to wager?"

"No, I would not." She changed the subject and noted, "This is all very mystifying. It's obvious why they assassinated Merrill Benedict, don't you think?"

"I think it looks obvious. Like Belknap, he's a confidant of the President, and given his job… Well, there's going to be a big hole at the White House morning press briefing tomorrow."

"Indeed. Now, what about Fineberg?"

Good question. Connections are important in any criminal case; they're irreplaceable when they're all you have. So I considered her question and it was a bit tricky.

Justice Phillip Fineberg wasn't close to anybody I knew of. And though it pains me to speak ill of the dead, here goes; the man was a prick. He was about seventy, a legal egghead plucked two Presidents back from the faculty of Yale Law, and every President since has cursed the choice. The press generally characterized him, somewhat delicately, as cantankerous and iconoclastic, journalistic code words for a robed asshole. He browbeat and terrified every lawyer unfortunate enough to appear at the highest court, even those arguing a case he favored.

The American Bar Association could raffle tickets to pee on his gravestone. Also his legal opinions were irrational, and he was famous-or infamous-for writing contrarian dissents insulting to both the minority and majority opinions. His eight brethren would dearly love to get this lug in a back alley and lump him up good. Except somebody beat them to the punch.

In truth, Fineberg's murder would be a source of quiet jubilation in many quarters, and made no sense I could see.

Phyllis repeated, "Well? Is there a connection? Or was he just a target of convenience?"

"I don't think there's a specific connection."

Apparently I was being tested, because she snapped, "Think harder, Drummond. This city is filled with targets. There has to be a reason they chose him. Right?"

"Right."

"I didn't give you this assignment to speculate. These killers aren't stupid. You can't afford to be."

So I thought harder. I suggested, "Maybe Fineberg was a decoy."

"For what?"

"To sow doubt and confusion. To mislead us and force us to waste time and precious resources chasing down an empty path. You know-"

"Yes… possibly." After a pause she observed, "Also, there are many prominent people in Washington, our ability to protect them is limited, and by forcing us to spread out, it gets easier for them."

"Right." The lady was on, and I went into the listening mode.

She added, "They're forcing our hand. This makes three important officials in one day We can't very well dissemble any longer, can we? We're going to have to disclose what's happening to the public."

"Maybe we should have done that earlier."

"Don't be naive. There was a very good reason we chose to handle things this way."

"To avoid embarrassment?" I offered.

"Oh please. What nobody could in good taste confess this morning. What we all wanted to avoid-hysteria. Every person in this town with a hint of an impressive title is going to beg for protection. Somebody has to perform the triage."

"Goon."

"A lot of feelings are going to get hurt, and a lot of enemies made. Understand-with an election, the President wanted desperately to avoid that."

Made sense, I guess. I was reminded of the cold war days, when a select handful of people in the Pentagon were issued special passes to be flown out of the city on the first whiff of an incoming nuclear attack. They would ride out the great cataclysm inside a hollowed-out mountain somewhere not even God knew about, to emerge, I guess, after the Geiger counters stopped having heart attacks. It was the ultimate get-out-of-jail card, the modern equivalent of a ticket to Noah's Ark. For the rest of us, it was an official stamp of expendability. Fortunately, the big one never came, so there were no hard feelings-as if anybody would've been left to feel bad anyway

Not so this time. The President was involved in a touch-and-go election campaign, plenty of people would remember, and he. already had enemies by the bushel. I said, "Got it."

"I shouldn't have to explain these things to you."

Right.

It's never pleasant getting your butt chewed by the boss. But I didn't really want to get into it with this lady who might lace cyanide into my cigars or something. And for the record, if you'll pardon the pun, the lady was dead-on. Bodies were piling up, and Sean Drummond's singular contribution was to explain how. What mattered was why, and from there you might get to who.

I asked her for an update on the bounty, and she informed me that no progress had been made, though reports were still filtering in from around the world, and she would let me know. In other words, piss off.

She closed by informing me that Jennie, Meany, and I needed to be back at the Incident Command Center in time for a nine o'clock session of the oversight cell.

I began to wonder if this day was going to end.