The Dogfish chugged slowly aft of the ship, then puttered abreast, coming up along the Lonely Fisherman’s port side. As it moved across the final few feet of water separating the two vessels, Faqir made eye contact with MacDonald, captain of the Dogfish, who stood at the helm. He was balding, with gray hair along the fringes of his scalp and a tan face. Two other men stood behind the wheelhouse on the deck of the boat, both dressed in yellow all-weather fishing gear, creased in stains and wear. One of the men from the Dogfish tossed a rope line onto the deck of the Lonely Fisherman, just as Faqir nodded to the two gunmen.

Faqir stepped through the door of the wheelhouse onto the deck of the ship, waving at the men on the smaller boat.

“Hello,” he yelled.

Faqir stepped to the rope line and picked it up.

Suddenly, both of the Chechens stood up, turned to the Dogfish, and opened fire.

The unmuted rat-a-tat-tat of submachine gun fire erupted above the sound of ocean and boat engines.

Slugs ripped through both men at the same time; a streak of bullets cut red across one man’s chest, spraying blood down his chest and torso as he was kicked backward. The other man was struck in the head; the slugs tore the top of his skull off as he dropped to the deck.

The Dogfish made an abrupt lurch as MacDonald jammed the throttle forward, then ducked.

Both Chechens opened fire. But the captain was shielded.

Faqir sprinted toward the bow of the Lonely Fisherman. He leapt to the rail, then jumped out into the air. He landed on the back transom of the Dogfish, clutching the transom as his feet touched water, now churning in the wake of the boat’s engines.

Faqir pulled himself aboard. He sprinted across the deck toward MacDonald. MacDonald turned, saw him, and reached for a knife. As Faqir entered the open-back wheelhouse, MacDonald thrust the blade at him. Faqir ducked, then kicked out MacDonald’s legs. MacDonald fell to the ground, screaming. Faqir stepped on the back of his neck and grabbed his forehead with both hands and yanked back, snapping his neck.

He stepped to the bridge and turned the boat around, bringing it back to the Lonely Fisherman. He steered the Dogfish alongside it, then stopped and moved to the deck.

“Tie us off,” he barked to the gunmen. “Give me a gun.”

Faqir searched the Dogfish for other men but found none. He went back to the bridge of the Dogfish and ripped the VHF radio from the wall. He returned to the bigger ship and climbed aboard.

“Are they packed up?”

“Yes, Faqir.”

“Get rid of the dead men, then come below.”

Over the next hour, the six Chechens, along with Faqir, carried both bombs slowly up the stairs and placed them aboard the Dogfish.

Faqir tore the VHF radio from the Lonely Fisherman and handed it to one of the Chechens.

“Put it aboard the boat.”

Faqir went belowdecks to Poldark’s room. He lifted the blanket to carry the old man up the stairs, but Poldark was dead. Faqir sat down for a moment and closed his eyes.

“A prayer for you, Professor,” Faqir whispered. “May you find your peace and may the heavens thank you for your bravery.”

In the engine room, he grabbed a gas container. He took it up to the deck, then poured it on the deck.

In the wheelhouse, he picked up the mike from the Dogfish VHF radio. He moved the dial to channel 17, the international channel for distress calls.

“Mayday, Mayday,” he shouted. “This is the Dogfish. Mayday. We have a fire in our engine room. We are taking on water and need immediate assistance. I repeat, Mayday.”

“Dogfish,” came a faint voice.

Faqir stepped from the bridge and threw the Dogfish’s radio into the sea. He lit a lighter and touched the flame to the deck. Fire shot out along the wood, quickly spreading out. By the time he climbed aboard the Dogfish, the entire deck of the Lonely Fisherman was aflame, with clouds of black smoke rising into the sky above.

“Cast off!” he barked.

He stepped to the bridge and pushed the throttle forward, aiming for the East Coast.

“Find the paint,” he yelled. “Get rid of anything with the name on it. Hurry up.”

78

NATIONAL ARCHIVES

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The helicopter swooped low through the nation’s capital, coursing along the National Mall and then banking left and hovering for a moment before descending toward the roof of the National Archives building.

Calibrisi looked at Katie and Tacoma. He handed Katie a thick green card the size of a business card.

“His name is Stoddard Reynolds,” said Calibrisi. “Give him this. You’ll need it to get in the room.”

“What is it?”

“That card gets you entrance into certain places during times of national crisis,” said Calibrisi.

“Is that the one for getting on the doomsday plane?” asked Tacoma.

“Don’t lose it. I’ll be at the White House. Call me if you find anything.”

Katie opened the chopper door and climbed out, followed by Tacoma. The blue Sikorsky shot up into the sky as Katie and Tacoma walked toward a man standing at roof’s edge.

“You must be Reynolds,” said Katie loudly, above the sound of the helicopter.

“Follow me.”

They rode an elevator to the basement of the building, then followed Reynolds down a long corridor. A stairway went two stories lower. After another long corridor, they came to a large steel door.

“Swipe the card,” said Reynolds.

Katie held the card over a digital scanner. A second later, they heard the steel locks clicking. A green light appeared above the door.

Reynolds reached for the latch and pushed it open, then pointed.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Are you coming?”

“No, I don’t have access. I’ll be waiting right here when you’re done. You need to lock it from the inside.”

As they entered the vault, fluorescent lights went on. Tacoma shut the door, then locked it.

The room was massive, at least a hundred feet long and equally wide. For the most part, it was empty, like a library that has been shut down and cleaned out. Only in the center of the room was there anything to see. There, steel filing cabinets ran in a straight line. There were thirty in all.

Katie and Tacoma approached the cabinets. Each five-foot-tall cabinet held four drawers. The cabinets weren’t labeled.

Tacoma came to the first cabinet and pulled out a drawer, then reached inside and removed a thick black manila folder. On the cover of the folder, words were typed:

OPERATION TRIANGLE 14

Tacoma opened the folder and started reading.

“Motherfucker,” he whispered.

“What is it?”

Tacoma kept reading, but didn’t answer. After a minute, he shut the folder, then put it back in the cabinet and slammed it shut.

“What was it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said quietly.

“Rob—”

“It was Cairo,” said Tacoma. “A year ago. Remember Bill Jarvis?”

“Yeah, sure. He was station chief for a while, before he got killed in a car accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” said Tacoma. “We did it. These are the termination files.”

“Meaning what?”

“When we have to take down an agent. These are the end-of-action reports.”

Katie nodded, then started walking down the line of cabinets. She found a cabinet that interested her and pulled out the top drawer.

“These are completely unorganized,” said Katie. “We could be here awhile.”

She looked back at Tacoma, who was still standing at the first cabinet.

“Don’t be so naïve,” she said.

“Don’t you want to know what happened? Like to Rodney? Haven’t you ever wondered?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Katie. “Shit happens. Look at where we are. What did you think these were? Now start looking.”