I wondered if he knew I was now doing his former. By the same token, I wondered if the lobby metal detector had been checked recently

But maybe I had nothing to worry about. Maybe George had put it all behind him, us, and the instant he laid eyes on me he would rush across the room, throw his long arms around my shoulders, and say, "Sean, Sean, you great guy you. Gee, I really missed you."

In fact, George was the ambitious type, and when we bagged the killer, he had stolen full credit, made a big name for himself, and, as present circumstances indicated, landed a big promotion out of the deal. From that angle, the guy owed me big-time. I just wasn't betting George would see it that way.

Anyway, Townsend and Peterson moved to the front of the room, and the underlings all began taking seats. There was a bit of confusion and jostling, because the session was too rushed for namecards, and, impromptu or not, in the celestial capital of the world's mightiest nation, where you sit defines who you are. I took a chair against the wall and tried to pretend I wasn't there.

George Meany bagged the seat closest to the front, right beneath his boss's nose, close enough that he wouldn't have to strain his neck to get his nose up his boss's butt. By the way, this wasn't musical chairs; the name of this game was avoid the hot seat. Ergo, the Bureau had La Lead and Monsieur Meany had his pudley on the chopping block. I directed a finger at Margold. She tried to ignore me.

Our host, Director Peterson, allowed everyone a moment to get organized, settled, and so forth, before he cleared his throat and said, "We have a lot to get done and very little time. Most of us already know each other, I think. Still, we should begin by identifying ourselves."

I saw Meany's eyes scan the faces around the table, and when he got to me he did not appear surprised or even displeased by my presence. Actually, I had the sense he expected me to be there. George correctly pronounced his own name, and announced to all concerned, "As the Assistant Director in Charge, or ADIC, of the D.C. Metro Office, I will head this investigation. I just want to thank all of you in advance for whatever help and assistance you can offer. We have tense and busy days ahead. But we are all professionals. I'm confident we'll work well together."

Everybody nodded at George, acknowledging this masterpiece of bullshit. The federal government hasn't got a clue how to work together-not well, not otherwise. Still, it was good form to state it, and equally good form to recognize the sentiment.

The gent across from George went next; he was named Charles Wardell, he represented the Secret Service, and he looked fidgety and edgy. Mr. Wardell had come to hear how his Service screwed up and to assure everybody it would not happen again. Nobody at that table offered to trade places with him. His team already had minus six on the scoreboard and couldn't even hope to break even.

The lady to Meany's right appeared hesitant, and I thought at first that she was seized with shyness; eventually I understood she was waiting to be introduced. When nobody stepped into the breach, she said, "Nancy Hooper… Special Assistant to the President."

Regarding this la-di-da title, there are many special assistants to the President, most of whom are superfluous stamp lickers. But Mrs. Hooper was not superfluous, innocuous, nor, I gathered from the expressions around the table, a welcome presence. She was the President's public relations guru, consigliere, and hatchet person. She informed us, "I'm here, obviously, to provide political guidance and oversight."

Nobody corrected her, but the expressions around the table said, Bullshit. She was here to make sure the buck stopped in this room.

Her hair was dark and curly, and the rest of her was tall, skinny, and lanky, with piercing brown eyes and a hooked nose, which lent her a weird resemblance to a featherless parrot. I recalled seeing her on the tube a few times. She had struck me as pushy and glib, but bright, with a quick mind, a facile tongue, and she went straight for the kneecaps. Her admission to this conference room did not signal happy sailing ahead.

Next went the guy across from her, Mr. Gene Halderman, an Assistant Secretary of Who-Gives-A-Shit from the newly minted Department of Homeland Security. Gene appeared to be in his late twenties, Armani suit, blow-dried hair, and I wondered if he'd wandered into the wrong room. Certainly he was the youngest person at the table, he was from the youngest department, and he didn't get the dress code.

I was really hoping somebody would send Gene out to get coffee. But maybe he was a whiz kid, maybe I underestimated him and we were lucky to have him in our midst.

Anyway, Gene Halderman made it through his introduction without stuttering, which was a hopeful sign. He then looked down the table, directly into George's eyes, and said, very earnestly, "And you can expect the full cooperation of my department in this matter. We are facing a dire national emergency We will not let you down, George."

Nobody laughed, but a few people coughed into their hands. Mr. Halderman's secret was out-he was an idiot.

Next went the little old lady seated to the left of Mrs. Hooper and directly across from me. She said, "Phyllis Carney, Office of Special Projects here at the CIA." As I mentioned, she was old, white-haired, thin-framed, at least seventy, pushing eighty, and you looked at her and wondered what she was doing here-on active government duty-and not down in Florida, the Elephant's dying ground, parching her skin and whacking little white balls into little empty holes. But you had to know that nobody dodges the federal age ax unless they possess some supernatural talent or skill, or a loving and influential nephew on the Senate Appropriations Committee.

I wasn't sure which applied to Phyllis Carney, nor did I-nor would I ever-have the balls to ask. It happened that Phyllis was my boss, the same lady who had arranged for my assignment to her organization, and the same lady who dispatched me to the den of death this morning. I was still wondering why, and something told me I was about to find out.

Agent Margold went next. Her comparatively low title drew a few unimpressed stares, and then moi. I failed to mention my Army rank, which wasn't a deception but an optional protocol for military officers serving as interagency exchange students. Though, in truth, even in the Army nobody takes a JAG officer's rank seriously, especially JAG officers. Anyway, I was the only person in the room lacking a rarefied title and responsibilities, and I was sort of hoping somebody would send me out to fetch coffee.

But now I knew all the players, and I found myself wondering about the heavy mix of national security officials in this room. I had observed no sign or evidence that what happened at the Belknap residence this morning was more than a domestic murder. Obviously, somebody knew something that hadn't yet been shared or divulged.

But Peterson was moving things along; he fixed us all with a grave stare and said, "At around 6:20 this morning, Terrence and Marybeth Belknap and four Secret Service agents were coldly murdered. Terry and Marybeth were close friends of mine. They were fine people. I'm sure they were friends to several of you in this room."

Several heads bobbed up and down. The Belknaps weren't my friends, or even my acquaintances, but I recalled those toys in the basement and did feel a pulse of sadness. Then I thought of sweet little June Lacy with the bullet through her throat and felt a burst of genuine regret.

He cautioned, "You've all seen or heard about the note. So you know we're facing a serious emergency. In the event you're wondering, the FBI has the lead. Speaking for the country's intelligence agencies, I pledge our full assistance until the killers are found and stopped." Having dispensed with the pieties and pro forma claptrap, he faced Townsend and said, "Mark, I'm sure you have some thoughts to add."