THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened, and Rapp and Coleman stepped out. Coleman looked to the left, Rapp to the right. Both men had their hands in close proximity to their guns. There was one person in the hallway. A woman with blond hair was walking away from them toward the far end of the hall. Rapp studied her for a second. There was something strangely familiar about the way she moved. When she reached the door to the stairwell, she turned and looked in their direction for a brief second. Rapp got only a glimpse of her, and then she was gone. He tilted his head to the side and squinted in thought. There was something about her, something he couldn't put his finger on.

Coleman tapped him on the shoulder and looked down the hall. They began to walk quietly toward the office. When they reached the right door, they stood one on each side and listened. Rapp placed one hand on the doorknob and his other on the hilt of his Beretta. Coleman kept an eye on the hall. When the doorknob didn't turn, Rapp stepped back and motioned for Coleman to knock on the door. Coleman tried three times and then pulled out his lock-pick gun. He placed the proper bit in the tip of the gun, and then, as quietly as possible, he threaded it into the lock and pulled the trigger.

Rapp pulled his silenced Beretta out of its holster but kept it under his jacket. When Coleman finally turned the knob, he stepped back and out ofRapp's way as he pushed the door in. Rapp hugged the metal door frame, shielding all but a fraction of his body from harm. His left arm shot out, the silenced Beretta swept the room. He saw the body on the floor immediately but continued past it to complete the search of the small office. Rapp stepped into the room, and Coleman followed him, closing and locking the door.

Both men knelt over the body. «Is it him?» Rapp asked.

«I think so.»

Rapp reached out and touched his neck. The skin was still warm – very warm. They did a quick search of the body for a cause of death. It was Rapp who found the puncture wound inside the man's left ear. Rapp looked toward the door. He thought of the woman he saw in the hall. He looked back at Cameron, at the mark of death in his ear. Rapp knew someone who had killed like this before. He knew her very well. Rapp stood and for a moment thought of running after her. She was long gone, though. Besides, he knew where he could find her.

As Rapp looked down at the dead body of Cameron, he was not saddened in the least. The man's death was inevitable; it just would have been nice if he could have talked to him first. Rapp swore as he pulled out his phone and punched in the number. When Kennedy answered, he said, «We found him.»

«Where?»

«In his office. He's dead.»

«Did you do it?»

«No, we found him.»

«Any idea who did do it?»

«No,» Rapp lied.

There was a long pause, and then Kennedy said, «I'll send a team over to get the body.»

«We'll wait for them.» Rapp closed his phone and looked at Coleman. «Why do I get the feeling this trail is going to stop right here?» he said, pointing down at the lifeless body of Peter Cameron.

43

President Hayes studied Thomas Stansfield from across the smooth conference table of the White House Situation Room. The director of the Central Intelligence Agency was literally a shadow of his former self. He was rail thin, his face completely emaciated from the ravages of cancer. Neither of them had called this meeting. Someone else had. Someone who shared their secrets. Someone who sounded very concerned. While they waited for him to arrive, Stansfield took the opportunity to discuss a few things with the president. It was seven in the evening on Thursday, and it had been a very long day for the director. Since finding out that Peter Cameron was dead, Stansfield had struggled to find a link beyond the deceased man to the person or people who had employed him. Stansfield filled the president in on what had happened earlier in the day. He told him that Kennedy, Rapp, and several others were working feverishly to find out who the power was behind Cameron.

Stansfield had his enemies, certainly not the ones in Washington, but he had them. The ones he knew he did not fear. It was the ones he did not know who worried him. They all, though, had one thing in common. They wanted to succeed, and not just in small ways but by obtaining real power, the type of power wielded by the elite of Washington. For politicians, it meant chairing one of die more powerful committees or being the next secretary of state or defense, or even the presidency – the ultimate exclusive club. For bureaucrats, it was a job as an undersecretary in one of the big departments or a senior aide to the president – maybe even chief of staff. For the military officers, it could range from anyone of a dozen prestigious commands, to being placed in charge of one of the branches of the armed forces, to taking the top spot of chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

These men and women roamed the back passages of Washington, and most of them were no more dangerous than their peers in corporate America. They were what he would call fairly harmless plotters, groups of people working together to further their careers. Experience had taught Stansfield, though, that there were always a few willing to use extraordinary measures to achieve their goals, a few who were willing to kill if need be.

One of these groups was obviously on the move, and their target appeared to be the CIA. Stansfield had yet to share these thoughts with anyone. He would wait to hear what their visitor had to say before he would draw any further conclusions. It was disheartening for him to have worked so tirelessly to ensure the neutrality and stability of his beloved Agency and then now, when he barely had the strength to fight, to find out that he was under an assault by a group that he could not identify. He could not allow the CIA to fall into the hands of someone who might use its vast resources for political or personal gain. He had to make sure that Irene Kennedy succeeded him and that she was armed with the knowledge to defend herself.

The CIA was too powerful a weapon to let fall into the wrong hands. The president would nominate Irene Kennedy, and he would use all of his political skill and clout to make sure she was confirmed. Hayes had many reasons for agreeing to this, despite the missteps of the last week. First off, Kennedy was more than qualified, and secondly he trusted her. This led to the third and maybe most important reason far as the president was concerned. He needed his flank protected. With Kennedy at the helm of the CIA, he wouldn't have to worry about any aggression coming from that direction.

As much as both men wanted Kennedy to be the next director of the Central Intelligence Agency, the man they were about to meet with had as much or even more say in whether or not that happened. The fact that he had asked see them during the middle of this Peter Cameron problem was slightly unsettling.

Senator Hank Clark entered the Situation Room, and the president stood to shake his hand. When Stansfield tried stand, Clark put a firm but comforting hand on his shoulder and said, «Now, Thomas, you just stay right there. A living legend like yourself doesn't need to get up for me.»

The president smiled and winked at Clark, approving of his gesture. «Would you like anything to drink, Hank?»

«No thanks, Robert.» Clark and Hayes had served in the Senate together for two full terms. Hayes was on the InteIligence Committee when Clark was named chairman. Hayes preferred to be called by his first name when they were alone like this.

«Are you sure? It's no trouble at all.»

«No, I'm fine. I might need one when we're done, but until then, I think I'll lay off the stuff.»