Was it possible this wasn’t what he wanted? Could it be the intellectual life was no longer the place for him, that he was no longer a “Man of Peace”? The thought made him uneasy.

Gideon’s parents’ marriage had been a loveless and tragic one—one that ultimately ended when Gideon’s father killed his mother and then turned the gun on himself. Out in the world, Gideon knew he was a man of unusualnce¡€† confidence. It wasn’t faked. He knew what he knew and trusted his intuition, and he had learned from long experience that he generally made sound decisions.

So marrying Kate had just felt like the right thing to do, something he knew from the first moment they were together.

And yet. After Kate had quit her job and moved to D.C. to work as a lobbyist for Trojan Energy, he had sometimes been assailed by a suspicion that maybe he wasn’t cut out for civilian life. It was the feeling of unease at the end of the day when night descended and the world was quiet. It was peace, itself, that gave rise to an itchy feeling, the sense he should be out there engaged in the struggle. It was something Tillman had said to him after they left the Obelisk: A life in the shadows is not a life lived at all.

He finished the glass of wine just as the candles on the floor burned out. A waxy, sooty smell filled the air.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

He put down his glass, picked Kate up, and carried her up...

Gideon’s mind kept returning to Mixon, like a train jumping off the tracks, spinning possibilities, conjectures, contingencies, questions he wanted to ask but couldn’t. What had happened to him? Where did he go? Was his disappearance proof of his allegations? Or was the supposed conspiracy just a chimera dreamed up by the paranoid imagination of a delusory drug addict?

He tried to tell himself that Nancy was a big girl, that she didn’t need his help to pursue Mixon’s lead. He had agreed to make the contact, and now it was out of his hands. But he couldn’t help thinking of ways he could contribute, things he could say to Dahlgren in the morning to get him to devote some FBI resources. As he brushed his teeth, then climbed into bed, he reviewed the events of the day, searching for moments where he could have learned more from Mixon and perhaps been more useful.

His thinking made him restless, and his restlessness made him toss and turn. Kate’s eyes opened slightly and her arms went around his neck. Her skin felt hot. She smiled sleepily. “Hey, you made it,” she whispered.

“I made it,” he said. “I’m home.”

He kissed her gently. That kiss kindled a deeper and longer kiss, and soon they were making love.

But long after Kate fell back asleep, Gideon lay back, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the missing man who claimed to have knowledge of an attack on American soil.

6

FBI TRAINING ACADEMY, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

So let me get this straight,” FBI Deputy Director of Counterintelligence Ray Dahlgren said after Nancy had finished her explanation about the events of the previous day. “You brought a civilian to a meeting with an informant on a subject regarding national security?”

It was bright and early the next morning. Nancy Clement had brought Gideon to the FBI’he 0em" ;s Quantico training facility so that he could meet her boss and help her advocate to find Ervin Mixon. The deputy director had just given a speech to the current class at the FBI Academy and was now about to join them as guest instructor on the firing range. Nancy and Gideon were riding in a golf cart that Dahlgren was driving toward the shooting range, keeping his eyes pinned on the small track they were navigating. He had not yet looked at Gideon once.

“It was Ambassador Davis who brought the informant to our attention. I’m sure you’re familiar with his work in the Diggs administration.”

The deputy director was a big man who looked like a cop’s cop—the sort of guy who probably grew up on a farm in Minnesota, served in the Marines before joining the FBI, and cleaned his guns to relieve stress. Every syllable he uttered seemed intended to make it clear that he was in charge and you weren’t.

“We’re fighting a war against terror,” he said, “and you come to me with a story about a meth head looking for a payday. He gave you no specifics and disappeared before you could even talk to him.”

“He claims to have information about an attack on a high-value domestic target,” Nancy said. “He links it to a militia group in West Virginia.”

Dahlgren cut her off with a wave of his hand. “So you’ve said. And so far as I’m aware, this worthless tweaker has since contributed precisely zero evidence to corroborate his claims.”

Gideon interrupted. “I think he’s telling the truth. He has a recording—”

Dahlgren slammed on the brakes. “We’re here,” he said to Nancy. “As soon as the class assembles, I’ll be instructing them. So if you have some new data point to add, you need to haul it out right now.” Without waiting for her to respond, he turned and for the first time looked at Gideon. “You claim to be a good judge of character, Mr. Davis? What was your impression of this informant?”

Gideon noted that the deputy director had made a pointed choice to refer to him as mister, rather than as ambassador. Not that Gideon cared a whit for titles. But it was a signal. Gideon could see that if he was going to have any chance at all with Dahlgren, it would not come by beating around the bush.

“What’s my appraisal of Mixon?” Gideon said, climbing out of the golf cart. “I think he’s a slippery piece of shit.”

Dahlgren studied his face impassively for a moment. “And yet here you stand,” he said finally.

“Because I believe the guy knows something.”

“Walk with me,” Dahlgren said. A group of FBI trainees wearing baseball caps and blue jackets were milling around near the firing line. Dahlgren strode quickly toward them.

When they reached the trainees, they assembled quickly in a neat line.

“All right, people, listen up,” Dahlgren shouted. “I’m sure that your instructors have given you superb training in the basic operation and handling of your weapons. But I’m here to talk about some of the finer psychological aspects that come with using lethal force. A firearm is not simply a machine that goes bang ="0±€†when you press the trigger. If you find yourself using your weapon, it will inevitably be under some high-stress circumstance. Life or death. With that kind of sudden stress, your fine motor control deteriorates, your field of vision narrows, your hands get slick with sweat, and your body trembles. So you better be way past the point of fumbling around trying to remember how to run your gun. It’s got to be dead instinctive.”

He turned and pointed at Gideon. “We have a special guest with us today. I’m sure you’re all familiar with Gideon Davis. Some of you may even know him as the Man of Peace. I hear, however, he’s pretty good with a gun. Isn’t that right, Mr. Davis?”

Gideon nodded. He knew the deputy director was toying with him. “I can shoot,” he said.

Dahlgren drew a pistol from his hip, slid out the magazine, and racked the chambered round into his fist. Then he handed the pistol to Gideon. “Can you identify this pistol, sir?”

“It’s a 1911. A Les Baer. Nice gun, but I was under the impression that it’s not an FBI-approved firearm.”

Which drew a scattering of laughter from the trainees.

“You were, huh?” He smiled coolly. “In fact, ladies and gentlemen, the 1911 is an FBI-approved firearm for agents who have received special clearance.”

Gideon smiled. “I stand corrected.” He handed the 1911 back to Dahlgren.

Dahlgren surveyed the range. “Give me two targets, seven yards,” Dahlgren called to the range officer.

“Yes, sir,” the RO said. He pressed a button on a small control panel located to his right, and two human-shaped targets rose from small bays in the ground.