“Like what?” Gideon asked.

Lennart was a wiry South African with a short grizzled beard and longish graying hair. He had worked as a contractor for the State Department and was responsible for several killings in the small African nation of Cameroon, which—although committed in the interest of the United States of America—had nearly resulted in his beheading by an unfriendly local regime. Thanks to Gideon, however, Lennart was still alive.

“You didn’t see fit to mention that you’re wanted by the FBI?”

“Wanted for questioning,” Gideon said. “Big difference.”

“You think this is funny?”

Gideon pushed the pistol away from his head. “We have good intelligence that there will be an attack against a target on US soil. If I don’t have the weapons I asked you for, innocent people will die. Now are you going to help me or not?”

Paulus Lennart leaned forward and looked straight into Gideon’s eyes. His jaw worked on a piece of chewing gum like he was trying to kill it. Gideon could smell the Juicy Fruit on his breath.

Finally Lennart leaned back and said, “I don’t get you, man. You’re supposed to be some diplomat, but you keep getting yourself into all this third-degree ninja shit. Who’s the real Gideon, huh?”

“When you figure that out, let me know,” Gideon said. “In the meantime, have you got my explosives?”

Lennart didn’t move. “Am I going to be sorry I did this?”

“I have a great many talents,” Gideon said. “But reading the future is not one of them.”

“How did you ever become a diploghtng,mat, man?” Lennart said. “You suck in the reassurance department.”

“Have you got the stuff or not? Because I’m on a tight schedule.”

“You got my money?”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“You’re killing me.” Paulus Lennart looked at the huge young man who was still holding Gideon around the chest, gave him a brief nod. “Go ahead,” he said. “Get this guy his gear and get him the hell out of here.”

31

CENTREVILLE, VIRGINIA

I’ve seen that man before,” Verhoven said as he and Tillman crossed the parking lot of a sizable park in Centreville, and approached Gideon. Off in the distance a couple of joggers ran by, looking at their watches.

“He’s been around, so it’s possible,” Tillman said evenly.

There had been a time a few years ago when Gideon had been on the news a lot. Gideon wore wraparound sunglasses that he’d purchased at a local CVS and a GLOCK SHOOTING SPORTS FOUNDATION hat. He hadn’t shaved for two days and hoped that between the hat, the shades, and the scruff on his face that Verhoven wouldn’t recognize him.

“You’re late,” Tillman said.

“You call at the last minute asking for very specialized items, you better plan on showing a little flexibility,” Gideon said. He was making a strong effort to play the role of a professional soldier. “Where’s my money?”

Tillman signaled to Verhoven, who threw a small gym bag on the ground. As Gideon took a quick inventory of its contents, Verhoven continued studying his face. His scrutiny wasn’t lost on either Gideon or Tillman, though both men pretended not to notice.

“Couldn’t track down a Barrett,” Gideon said as he tossed the money in his car. “You’re gonna have to make do with an Accuracy International bolt gun.”

“It’s still a .50 BMG, right?” Tillman said.

“Yeah.”

Tillman looked at Verhoven, who shrugged.

“They make a hell of a good rifle,” Gideon said. “SAS guys all use them.”

“Scope?” Tillman asked.

“Leupold Mark IV. Mil-mil, ten power fixed. Just like the big boys.”

“Good enough,” Tillman said.

“It’s all in the trunk,” Gideon said.

As they all went to transfer the equipment, Verhoven kept stealing glances at Gideon, who decided it was time to call him on it.

“Is there a problem? Because you keep looking at me, and I don’t like being looked at like that by anyone who’s not a wiflllllllntentoman.”

“I’ve met you before,” Verhoven said.

“I don’t think so.”

Verhoven nodded, but he was clearly unsatisfied with Gideon’s answer. A moaning sound from Verhoven’s car interrupted the moment. It was Lorene.

“You should see how she’s doing,” Tillman said, hanging back with Gideon as Verhoven went to check on Lorene in the backseat of the car.

“They’re hitting the State of the Union,” Tillman whispered, waiting until he was sure Verhoven was out of earshot.

Gideon blinked. He’d been privately speculating on potential targets they might be hitting in the DC area, but this was far more serious than any scenario he’d imagined. In fact, because the State of the Union address was such a hard target, he had discounted it at the outset.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty much. Although we’re staging some support operation in Virginia. Not sure yet what it is.”

Gideon felt the mounting pressure, as if sandbags were being piled on his shoulders. “We can’t bring this to the FBI until we’ve got hard evidence.”

“I know that,” Tillman said. “Hang back and shadow me, and as soon as we’ve got something we can move on, we’ll pull the trigger.”

Gideon nodded as Verhoven rejoined them. “She’s doing okay,” he said to Tillman.

“Got a problem in the car?” asked Gideon.

“No problem. My wife isn’t feeling well is all.”

“You should take care of that.”

“It’s no concern of yours,” said Verhoven.

Gideon nodded, then clapped Tillman on the shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said.

“Not if I see you first.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Tillman laughed. “Asshole,” he said. Then the two men climbed into the Honda and disappeared down the road.

As Tillman drove away, Verhoven said, “That man seemed very familiar to me.”

“We go way back. Went through Ranger training together. Good man.”

“He seemed quite disrespectful.”

“He doesn’t know you, that’s all. Situation like this, a guy in his shoes has to be careful.”

“I still recognize him from somewhere.” Verhoven made a sucking sound through his teeth. “It’ll come to me.”

“Where to?”

“We need to find a quiet hotel, a place with no lobby so nobody watches us going in and out. We can drop Lorene off, then reconnoiter the target. That way we’ll be ready first thing ugh Ast thing in the morning.”

Tillman knew that Gideon was listening in on the radio that he’d left turned on in his pocket. “There’s an Econo Lodge up there off of Lee-Jackson. How’s that work for you?”

Verhoven shrugged. He seemed intent on his own thinking.

“There’s always the Hampton Inn. Good breakfast buffet.”

“Could we skip the travel review?” Verhoven said.

“Hey, you’re the boss,” Tillman said. “Econo Lodge it is.”

32

POCATELLO, IDAHO

The Jeep started hard. Evan had given Nancy the keys to his father’s vehicle. Outside it was dark, and the temperature had dropped to around ten degrees Fahrenheit. The snow was still coming down, but it wasn’t the choking blizzard that it had been earlier. It took some careful driving to get to the clearing where the structures stood, but the big tires of the Jeep kept traction as long as Nancy went slowly.

Evan told her he had been investigating his father’s suspicious behavior with John Collier when he came upon the woman’s hand. Whatever his father was doing in the woods—and by now he was fairly certain that it did not involve producing ethanol—had resulted in the death of at least one woman. Evan explained that his father had become a stranger to him. Since Evan had come back from the war, his father had become harder and more reclusive. But nothing could rationalize the horrible truth of what Evan had discovered.

Evan gave Nancy directions back out along the logging trail where she had found him. He was too weak to go with her, and even if he weren’t, he could not bear it. She took the keys to the Jeep and left Evan with his eyes closed, scarred hand extended up out of the blankets, as if he were a drowning man reaching for the surface of a pond.