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  John Gallagher arrived at Yang's Dry Cleaning a few minutes early.

  A friendly Asian man at the counter asked him if he had dry cleaning to pick up.

  "No thanks," Gallagher said. "But I think my friend does."

  Five minutes later Ken Leary strolled in licking an ice-cream cone. He had a big brown envelope under his arm.

  The Asian man was at the counter again, smiling. Leary handed him a laundry ticket.

  The Asian man nodded and walked around from behind the counter, went to the door, locked it, and flipped the sign to read "Closed," and pulled the shade down over the window. Then he disappeared into the back room.

  Leary sat down on a chair with a faded red slip cover in front of the counter. Gallagher sat down in another chair while Leary pulled some papers out of the envelope.

  "This is a transcript," he began, "of an interview between one of our agents and Mrs. Elena Banica. The interview took place following the murder of her husband. I can't let you take this. It's bad enough I'm letting you read it. And even worse that it's left our New York station even for a few minutes. So look it over now. This is all I have for you. When you're done, I need to get it back to the office."

  Gallagher turned to the first page. He'd read a lot of interrogation transcripts in his career. He knew that a transcript couldn't tell the whole story. There was always the human element that surfaces during that kind of interview. Something that doesn't translate well from the computer keyboard as the Agency secretary types it out. But a few decades of fieldwork with the FBI, inside friendships within the CIA, and an extraordinary degree of gut instinct gave Gallagher a pretty good idea how it all went down. He could practically visualize it.

  This particular transcript contained an interview that had been conducted in Bulgaria by an American agent in the Clandestine Services unit. Elena Banica was the young, attractive wife of a much older Dr. Yergi Banica.

  When the interview took place, the subject, Elena, was seated in an empty back room in a large cathedral just off the Pasaj Subteran Unirea in Bucharest. She knew a friendly priest there, so she had insisted on that location for the meeting. Considering her former seedy occupation, Elena's demand to give her statement in a church probably seemed ironic to her interrogator.

  But the agent questioning her didn't linger on that. The Agency needed to get down to the basement level about Dr. Banica. Elena was the only witness who knew enough about him and who could also be pressured into spilling it.

  Next to Elena, on the floor, was a digital recorder, which was recording the conversation. The questions from the agent zeroed in on her relationship with Yergi. His next question was pretty blunt. "Considering the difference in ages, why'd you marry him?"

  "Love," she said, but she didn't look at her interrogator when she said that. Elena tried to smile and took a second to tap the ashes from her cigarette.

  "What else?"

  "Oh, he provided for me."

  "Money?"

  "He took care of me, yes."

  "Were you seeing anyone else while you were with Yergi?"

  "No. But you probably don't believe that..."

  The agent started talking about the murder.

  "Did you see him on the day of his death?"

  "I served him breakfast. Spicy sausage. Grilled tomato. Coffee."

  Elena spoke the words without expression. Yes, she was tough. Had worked as a call girl in Bulgaria. That was before meeting Yergi. She always thought he knew but was too much of a gentleman to mention it. So one day she discreetly let him see the results of her routine medical check up and blood tests, so he could relax and know for sure she didn't have a disease.

  The agent continued to peel back the layers in his questioning.

  "Did Yergi talk to you that morning about where he was going?"

  "Not then, no."

  "Did you know where he was going?"

  "I think so."

  "So he talked to you about it then?"

  "Yes. But only generally. Just that he was selling some information that had come into his possession."

  "He had obtained it originally from a Russian agent?"

  Elena scrunched up one corner of her mouth. She wondered if the American agent was being honest when he had told her that if she cooperated he would keep her out of trouble. On the other hand, what choice did she have?

  "Yes," she replied, "he told me he got the information from a Russian agent."

  "Information about an American weapons system?"

  "It was...some kind of missile thing."

  "What kind of thing?"

  "Would send a missile coming to a place...well, would turn it around...with a big surprise. Would go back where it came from. Boom. That kind of thing."

  "Return-to-Sender...RTS? Did he call it that?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  The agent paused long enough to lean back and size up his subject. He didn't care if she had loved Yergi Banica. That wasn't the point. What really mattered were her answers to his next line of questions.

  "So Yergi was going to take this Return-to-Sender information, which he had received from the Russian, and was going to sell it to someone else. Right?"

  "That was his plan. Would get big money from that. We would get new house. Close to the beach."

  "Did he ever give you a name?"

  "For who?"

  "I mean the name of the person he would be selling this information to...in Bucharest...the person he was going to meet in the hotel. That name."

  "No names. No."

  "Any description?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Man or woman?"

  "Man."

  "Height?"

  "No."

  "Weight."

  "No. Nothing about that."

  "Complexion?"

  Elena sighed and took a drag on her cigarette.

  "No. Yergi never mentioned that."

  "Age?"

  "No. He really didn't--"

  Then the agent cut her short.

  "Anything about his nationality?"

  Elena blew a whisper of cigarette smoke into the air. She pursed her lips. One eyebrow went up.

  "Say again?"

  "Anything about this man's nationality? What country he came from?"

  A few more seconds went by. Elena considered taking another drag on the cigarette and raised it to her lips as if she were going to.

  But then she stopped.

  "Yergi called him 'the Algerian.'"

  " 'The Algerian'? Are you sure?"

  "Yes. That I am certain about."

  "Okay. Thank you."

  "But I want to tell you one more thing," Elena said.

  "Yes?"

  "When you find this man who killed my Yergi. Please..." Elena's chin trembled a little.

  "What?"

  She managed to stop the trembling. Then she spoke with icy control.

  "Kill him good."

  That was the last entry that appeared on the last page of the CIA interview transcript.

  When Gallagher had finished reading the transcript, he collected the pages and handed them back to Ken Leary, who had by then finished his ice-cream cone. Leary thrust the papers back into the big envelope.

  "Thanks," Gallagher said.

  Leary was struck by the way his friend had said that. Gallagher seemed intensely deliberate like Leary had never seen him before. Committed. Inflexible. So Leary gave Gallagher another warning, just for good measure. "Look John, I can't deal with you any more on this subject. You're on your own from this point on. I will deny our conversation. All of it. You know that."

  "Right."

  But Leary had to ask one last question. "You're going to keep after Zimler aren't you? John, do you know what you're doing?"

  "Ken, I thought you and I were finished talking about this. Isn't that what you just said?"

  Leary smiled and stood up with the envelope under his arm. His last words to John Gallagher were "God's speed."


  Then he walked out of the dry cleaners and headed back to his office.

  FIFTY

  From his position against the railing of the ferry, Joshua Jordan had a good view of the Statue of Liberty as it loomed large on the water beyond the bow of the tour boat. The sky was grey and overcast, and the iron-colored water of the bay was choppy as the ferry left Battery Park Harbor in Manhattan. He felt uneasy about leaving the privacy of his hotel room. Wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses was a start. But he knew he was exposing himself to risk. But the wife of the Patriot, whoever she was, had said that they had inside information about threats against Joshua, and he needed help. Time for another calculated risk. But he couldn't afford too many more. He just hoped he wasn't walking himself out onto a gangplank by agreeing to the meeting.

  He turned his focus toward the passengers on the deck and tried to pick out his contact. Joshua didn't know what he looked like, but the voice on the phone had told Joshua that the man known as "The Patriot" would recognize him.

  Taking one last look at the business card bearing only "The Patriot" on it along with a telephone number, Joshua wondered if anyone would show up. Joshua had called him immediately after the conference call with the Roundtable. The Patriot had insisted on the ferry for their rendezvous. Not exactly Joshua's first choice.

  There was a crowd on the ferry that day. Joshua looked over the sea of faces milling around on the deck.

  Then he heard the voice of a man next to him. "You remind me of a man who likes to play chess."

  That was the prearranged opening line. The scripted intro concocted by the Patriot seemed melodramatic. But Joshua was required to give him the agreed response.

  "I do. I prefer to lead with the knight."

  The other man reached out his hand and gave Joshua a crushing, hydraulic handshake. He had a good-natured face, in his early sixties, was medium height, and in very good shape. By all appearances he could have been a banker or a clerk in a men's clothing store.

  "Sorry about the secret-agent stuff," the man said. "Mr. Jordan, it's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Call me Josh."

  "And you can quit calling me the Patriot. My name is Packard McHenry. I'm simply Pack to my friends. So you wanted to talk to me?"

  "Your wife gave me your card. It seems that you're a man who stands ready to help. Exactly how, I'm not sure."

  "Information, Josh. Among other things. I've got a little group of friends that work with me on matters important to our country. Similar to your Roundtable."

  "How'd you know about that?"

  "If you knew my friends you'd understand. Retired folks from the National Security Agency. Former members of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Past agents from the Secret Service. Me, I'm retired from...the Company."

  "CIA?"

  Pack McHenry smiled, didn't reply directly, but asked, "What can we do to help?"

  "We've got an emergency. We need to know something about World Teleco. They're shutting down a project of ours. We had a contract with them, but they're refusing to honor it. Our media plan depended on it. And that, in turn, was going to be the linchpin for everything."

  "You mean, the linchpin to get Senator Straworth to drop the subpoena, so Judge Jenkins will then not order you incarcerated for contempt of court and of Congress...so you can keep the RTS weapon design protected and solely in the hands of the Defense Department of the United States, so it doesn't get leaked to some less-than-friendly nations? You mean that kind of linchpin?"

  Joshua chuckled and said, "So, you really are on top of the game."

  "Look, my group likes what you're doing. For the country. So I've had some of my people track you. For your own safety. And also to track some not-nice people who might pose a threat to you. I have intelligence about a meeting arranged by one particular not-nice lawyer by the name of Allen Fulsin, a man you know about because Judge Fortis Rice from your Roundtable talked to him about joining your group. I'm sure Judge Rice thought he was being discreet when he talked to him. But it turns out that Fulsin is one of those well-connected guys who knows all the dirty tricks and can get deep information from only a few leads. So Fulsin did some digging about your Roundtable based solely on the tidbits Judge Rice had given him, got what he needed, and then met with a high ranking VP of World Teleco at a bar. In a corner booth. We've got the whole story. Fulsin warned the telecom company that your message would be criticizing the White House. Exposing corruption. Showing how deliberate misinformation has been fed to the American people. How a media monopoly is aiding and abetting this. And most important to us, explaining how control of our country is being sold off, piece by piece, to a global network."

  "But how did you get all this information?"

  Pack McHenry pointed to the approaching Statue of Liberty. "I wonder when they started naming a football play after that monument?" he said.

  Joshua just shook his head.

  McHenry said, "Well, sometime before the turn of the century, at least, a college team ran the first Statue of Liberty. That same play, or some variation of it, is still used occasionally in college ball. I've even seen it used in the NFL. Guess that proves one thing."

  "Which is?"

  "It's good to stick with the old stuff that works. We followed an old playbook with Fulsin. Did an old-fashioned close surveillance. It paid off. When they set up the meeting, we made sure they were shown to a booth. It was in the evening, and both of those guys are the drinking type. Not likely to take coffee. So we had a listening device placed in one of the sugar packets in the cream-and-sugar basket. I'm telling you all this because it's our first meeting and we're building trust. But don't expect me to tell you any more of our tricks of the trade in the future."

  "Understood."

  "I'll tell one of my people right now to email you an affidavit substantiating the meeting between Fulsin and the World Teleco executive."

  "Here, I'll give you my private email address--"

  "No need," McHenry said, "we already have it. By the way, you may want to upgrade your email encryption security program." Then he smiled as he continued. "Just be warned, I'm hoping this doesn't get into court and go public. If it does, our operative who signed the affidavit will have to distance himself entirely from us. That'll be the end of his usefulness to our group. And he's a good man."

  "Don't worry. My wife has a plan, but it's not litigation."

  "Good."

  "But there is something else I need to know," Joshua said.

  "Right," McHenry said preempting him. "What my wife, Samantha, told you in the hotel restaurant. About being in danger from foreign actors? All we've got are bits and pieces that don't add up. What we do know is that federal agencies, including the Department of Justice, are all clamping down on this hard. Closing ranks. We can't get any intel on this at the moment. But we're working on it. I do have one recommendation, though."

  "What's that?"

  McHenry handed Joshua a slip of paper, then said, "Have General Rocky Bridger from your group call this man at this number. They need to talk."

  On the slip of paper he had written the name of Special Agent John Gallagher along with his private telephone number.

  After that, Pack McHenry pronounced what sounded like a kind of benediction. "We wish you God's speed."

  Then he crossed the deck and disappeared into the crowd of passengers.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Judge Olivia Jenkins was in her chambers bright and early. She flipped open her calendar to see what was pending. She had a full docket. But one case in particular was on her mind. And it would be the first case she would call.

  Outside in the courtroom Harry Smythe and the two assistant U.S. attorneys from the government were waiting patiently for the clerk to call them back into the judge's chambers.

  Then the clerk poked her head out into the courtroom and waived them in.

  When all were seated and the clerk had closed the door, Jenkins began. "Harry, I notice that your client, Mr. Jordan,
is not with you today."

  "He's not, Your Honor."

  "Are you prepared to give this court the whereabouts of Mr. Jordan so he can be served with my bench warrant today?"

  "I'm not, Judge."

  "What's the reason for that?"

  "Not anything I can discuss without breaching attorney-client confidentiality."

  "I recognize that," Judge Jenkins said. "But it could be argued that the oath you took when you were first sworn in to be a lawyer--the oath to uphold our system of justice--is equally important. Maybe more so."

  "There's nothing more I can say, Judge," Smythe said in his studied calm. "Except that I've been presented with a very...challenging dilemma."

  "You know I could cause you a world of trouble," the Judge said.

  "As a federal judge, your power is broad and impressive," Smythe said. "I would only ask that you allow us until the end of today before you issue your bench warrant for the arrest of Mr. Jordan."

  "Judge," one of the assistant attorneys interjected, "that would be more than forty-eight hours. And your order from the bench the other day said forty-eight hours."

  "End of business today," Harry Smythe said. "That's all I'm asking." In his face was the plea for mercy rather than justice.

  Judge Jenkins recognized the look. She picked up the case file and balanced it in one hand. Then she ruled. "Okay. End of business today. But that's it. No more extensions. No more excuses. Unless there's been a radical change of circumstances, at that time I will be issuing an order for the immediate apprehension of Joshua Jordan. From that point on he will be treated as a fugitive from justice by the federal government."

  Harry Smythe slipped quickly out the courtroom and called Joshua to give him an immediate status report. He got his voicemail and left a lengthy message.

  Cloistered in his hotel suite Joshua wasn't taking any calls other than those from the Roundtable. That day he had been in constant contact with Phil Rankowitz about the AmeriNews project. Phil had his entire wireless tech team ready to pull the switch on the national unveiling of their news service, sending it to half of the cell phones in America. But one thing was missing. The technical support engineers at World Teleco would have to open the electronic gate.