But it did have to be checked out.

They weren’t taking it lightly. The SWAT team alone had two dozen men on the scene. And that didn’t count the ordinary policemen blocking the street and helping cover the rear alleyway.

The FBI supervisor, Bob Randolph, was an affable Boston area native who’d relocated to D.C. some years before. Breanna had met him once or twice at government conferences, but had never had more than a brief conversation with him.

“Lovely area,” he said, glancing at the graffiti scrawled on the wall of the garage across from them. Next to the building, several garbage cans overflowed with refuse.

“It’ll be quiet tonight,” said Reid dryly.

Randolph gave a polite little laugh. Then he put his hand to his ear.

“Here we go. They’re going in,” he said.

Breanna folded her arms against her chest, waiting. She thought of her fight with Zen—not a fight so much as a disagreement, and not so much a disagreement exactly as just uncomfortableness. She’d been forced into a role she didn’t want to be in, opposing him.

He always seemed to take it all in stride. Why couldn’t she?

“They’re inside,” said Randolph. He leaned toward the driver. “Let’s move up.”

Breanna jerked her head as a bomb squad truck raced past them to the front of the building.

“Are there explosives?” she asked.

“Just a precaution,” said Randolph. “They’re just securing the place now. We have to, you know, anticipate.”

They pulled up at the end of the block. The adjoining houses had been evacuated; Breanna could see small knots of people on the other side herded behind a pair of police sawhorses, one of which was just now being put in place.

“News media will get a hold of it soon,” said Randolph. “Hold on.”

He pressed his hand to his ear.

“We have a dead body inside,” he said. “And traces of explosives in the basement.”

“If nothing else,” said Reid, “it would appear we’ve got a story for the press.”

Chapter 11

Washington, D.C.

Ken glanced to his left and right as he opened the car trunk. He’d found it necessary to steal the car to get here easily; the trade-off was paranoia that someone would spot it and know it was stolen. As highly unlikely as that might be, he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.

The trunk smelled of fuel. No wonder: the can he’d packed had tipped over while he drove, sending the liquid all over. But no harm done: There was still plenty left.

He took the small robot airplane from the rear of the trunk. Cradling the two wings under his right hand and holding the body in his left, he managed to push the trunk lid back down. Then he walked up the short flight of steps from the schoolyard to the back of the building.

The athletic field was empty. It was starting to get dark. He was two hours behind schedule; he’d planned to launch much closer to five but had last minute problems loading the program into the plane. He was sure it was going to work—sure that the guidance system knew it was supposed to target Christine Mary Todd, the Satans’ President, and knew that her primary location was the White House, which was just over the next hill about three-quarters of a mile away. He’d entered the information about the President—in fact, nearly everything he could find on the Internet about her personal habits, her vehicles, her aides, the Secret Service—everything. He’d found several human interest stories and entered them as well. The program interface had taken it eagerly.

Whether it would actually work—whether his guesses about the software program were correct—that was impossible to tell.

The bomb he had embedded in the fuselage of the aircraft would definitely go off, of that he was certain.

He assembled the wings. The UAV was a simple and ingenious aircraft, a perfect weapon. Anyone who saw it in the air would believe it was a police monitoring device. The camera was still attached, in fact—it had to be, as it helped guide the aircraft.

Wings attached, Ken stood back and pressed the ignition on the controller to start the plane.

The engine started right up. He turned, wondering if he heard someone coming up behind him.

There was no one there. By the time he turned back around, the aircraft was racing across the field, bouncing as it became airborne.

It seemed to have a mind of its own, as if anxious to complete its mission.

Go! he thought. Go!

It did—for about sixty seconds. Then suddenly it veered to the right, zooming high into the clouds.

Ken stared in disbelief. Not only was it going off course, but it was flying away from the city.

He was a failure.

Angrily, he slammed the knapsack that contained the laptop to the ground and kicked it several times, even jumping on it in his anger. Finally he got control of himself. He had to dispose of the thing; it was evidence.

He’d find another way to strike. For now, he had to follow through on his plan to escape.

Ten minutes later, crossing the bridge on Route 1, the smell of the fuel in the trunk gave him an idea: he should stop and throw the car into reverse, cause an explosion that would at least kill someone.

But he wasn’t a martyr at heart. His death had to mean something. And it wouldn’t. Not yet.

He crossed the bridge and found a place to park. Then he walked back down to the river and with a heave tossed the knapsack and laptop into the water.

When he was sure it had sank, he turned and began walking in the direction of the Pentagon Metro stop. Before the night was through, he’d be on an Amtrak heading for Florida.

After that, who knew?

Chapter 12

Nationals Park

“Radio says you created quite a traffic jam on the way over,” said Zen, wheeling past the Secret Service agent to greet the President as she arrived at the game.

“Getting through Washington by street is always fun,” she told him, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “If it wouldn’t have caused such a fuss, I would have come by helicopter.”

“Given the pitchers tonight, you may want to leave by one,” said Zen. “And soon.”

“Oh come on.”

Zen nodded at the President’s husband, who, though not as hardy a fan of the Nationals as Zen had become, was nonetheless a fellow sufferer.

“Who are your friends?” asked the President, gesturing to the small entourage Zen had left back by the entrance to the President’s suite.

“A very good friend of mine, Mark Stoner,” Zen told her. “He was a CIA officer—”

“Oh, that’s the man who tried to kill you,” said Todd. “And you saved his life.”

“He was sick.”

“I know the history well,” said Todd. She had sent Zen to the meeting where he had inadvertently become Stoner’s target. “Is he OK?”

“He’s still recovering. He has a long way to go. He’s with one of his doctors, and my bodyguard. Baseball seems to be helping bring him back.”

“I’d like to meet him.” The President glanced at the head of her security detail. “OK?”

“I think it would be fine,” said Zen.

The Secret Service agents were wary, but the head of the detail nodded. Zen wheeled back a bit.

“Hey Mark, Doc, come on. Simeon—you too.”

The men, along with two more Secret Service escorts, came into the suite box. Just then, the National Anthem began.