

### Jeremy's Secrets

By J. J. MacLeod

Copyright 2015 J. J. MacLeod

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual incidents,

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Prologue

What if I told you that Osama bin Laden was secretly imprisoned in the summer of 2004? Capturing our nation's most wanted terrorist should have dominated the news in every media outlet on the planet. Yet not a single word of this incredible tale was ever written or uttered by the press. A rational person could only conclude that it probably never happened. Some people believe that the Air Force deliberately downplayed legitimate UFO sightings and concealed the evidence of visitors from outer space. Others claim that the Mafia missed their shot from the grassy knoll while Oswald was taking aim from the Texas School Book Depository. My best friend, Jeremy Foster, knew that the CIA had imprisoned, tortured and eventually murdered Osama bin Laden in order to cover up their crimes.

Before writing him off as just another conspiracy wacko, you should know that Jeremy was a senior Agency official intent on blowing the whistle when he too was killed in a suspicious accident. Less than a dozen people know what actually happened. Three are now dead, two are still in prison and the rest of us have been warned to keep our mouths shut. It's an unbelievable story that could have made sensational headlines had it not been buried in the archives. The Administration said, in so many words, that it was in the best interests of the country to protect the reputation of America's first line of defense. Justice was served and there was nothing to be gained by further disclosures. What a load of crap. The Company was running out of control and the politicians were just too embarrassed to tell the public the truth.

When I joined the Agency we were taught that the eagle on the CIA seal was the symbol of strength and courage, standing proudly atop the shield of defense and not cowering behind it. Somehow it's telling that that same emblem is embedded in the floor of the main entrance where anyone can trample on it. The image is supposed to be inspirational, but it means nothing if the institution isn't held accountable for its actions. Some people may feel that this book is nothing more than sour grapes on my part. How could a guy who worked in the trenches for twenty-five years have any real knowledge of the inner-workings of an organization with more than 20,000 employees? Well, you be the judge. I'll tell you what I know and you can decide for yourself. I believe that the public is better served by knowing the facts.

The last official sighting of Osama occurred in December of 2001 when American troops dominated the ground war in Afghanistan. Ragtag Taliban and _Al Qaeda_ combatants were overrun and driven deep into the Tora Bora Mountains. Yet despite vigorous searches backed up with dead-or-alive rewards totaling upwards of $50 million, bin Laden remained at large. He moved around incessantly, traveling under the cover of darkness and never spending more than one night in the same location. Then after almost two years of failed attempts, a radical plan was advanced by a newly-conceived unit deep within the CIA. Had this proposal gone through the normal channels it probably wouldn't have left the Agency, much less been considered by the White House. Bypassing the chain of command was deemed to be expedient and essential under the circumstances. How the Agency handled this affair is the real heart of this story.

When my friend Jeremy discovered the conspiracy, he confronted the leaders and told them he had no choice but to report it to the authorities. To do anything less was a violation of the public trust and made him an accessory to their criminal acts. Unfortunately, he was killed before he could fulfill his duty, but not before amassing and hiding evidence of their crimes. That left it up to me and a cadre of Company retirees to recover the missing proof and complete Jeremy's last mission. As it turned out, he had more secrets than anyone ever imagined.

****

I hate flying. My palms sweat just thinking about it. If it weren't for white-knuckling the arm rests, my hands would slip right off. Claustrophobia threatens to overwhelm me every time I set foot on a jet way. I'd rather be entombed in a sealed coffin than be cooped up in an airliner for even an hour. Yet here I am, sitting in the departure lounge, repeating the relaxation mantra that the psychologist gave me to cope with the anxiety and irrational fears. He was wrong.

Jeremy said that it was all in my head. "Shake it off, Harry. You had a near miss, that's all. Happens all the time. Plenty of airplanes get tossed around in bad weather and come out fine. Think about it as an adventure. People pay good money for roller coaster rides that aren't nearly as much fun." He was wrong too. Besides, it's his fault that I'm about to do it again.

Last Saturday night he was still an hour away from home on a lonely stretch of I-95 when his car suddenly veered off the southbound passing lane. Skid marks showed that his brakes locked up as he fought to get the fishtailing vehicle back on the highway. When the car somersaulted into the median, pitching over and over in clouds of dust and debris, his seatbelt floor anchor failed and Jeremy bounced around the interior like a tennis shoe in a clothes dryer. The coroner said later that he was probably dead before the car came to rest on its mangled roof.

Six hours after the crash my bedside phone awoke me from a sound sleep.

"Harry....," she said, catching her breath.

"Brenda? What's wrong," I could tell she'd been crying.

"He's dead. Jeremy's dead," she sobbed. "The watch commander just left. He said Jeremy's car went off the highway last night...and he...died in the wreck."

My bedside clock said 5:28 a.m. Her apartment was twenty minutes away. "I'm coming over Brenda. Just take it easy. I'll be right there."

For the next four hours we sat in her kitchen drinking coffee and talking about arrangements that had to be made for burial. She wanted to compose a brief obituary, but didn't know what to say. They were married and then divorced and had no children together. Jeremy had no other living relatives. After Brenda, I was his best friend.

"We were married for nine years. Why can't I find the right words?"

"Because you haven't slept more than two hours and you're still in shock."

"Somebody has to do it, Harry. I can't pass the buck."

"Didn't say you should. Just take a break and the words will come to you."

"Maybe I should back away for a while. I think I'll take a shower and get dressed. Make yourself at home. There's cereal in the cupboard and other stuff in the fridge. Or I can fix you something after I clean up. Whatever you want."

Three days later Jeremy's friends and colleagues gathered at his funeral for one more sad reunion of the intelligence community. As most of us were around retirement age, funerals were the main reason that we socialized anymore. I always enjoy seeing these guys, but it was hardly worth it if one of them had to check out in order to bring us together. After the minister prayed and the Agency expressed official condolences, we all took turns saying a few words.

"I was the training officer on Jeremy's first field assignment," I said. "He was right out of college but anyone could see that he was going to go far. It wasn't that long before he became my boss and did a damn fine job. Say what you want, but he worked his way to the top floor without leaving a single footprint on the backs of his fellow officers. Jeremy remembered everyone's name and always had time to offer a word or two of encouragement."

That's about all I could get out before choking up. I left out the part about Jeremy having the gift of Blarney that would one day earn him a key to the executive washroom. He could sell ice cubes to Eskimos while lying his butt off. Not just casual lies, but intricately-woven, highly plausible fabrications that invariably made everything sound much better than it really was.

After excelling in the field and being promoted to the staff in Langley, he quickly rose through the ranks. Anyone old enough to remember those days knows that the CIA wasn't always a model citizen. The Agency engaged in a long series of misadventures which came to light around the time of the Watergate hearings. Presidents Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon had dragged us into operations we shouldn't have been involved in. "Never again," the politicians said, "will the CIA be allowed to roam free without systematic Congressional oversight."

Intelligence Committees in the House and Senate scrutinized the billions of dollars being funneled into secret operations. This forced the Agency to distill reams of data into digestible reports which were crafted to inform rather than antagonize the Congress. By the time Jeremy's work was really getting noticed this had become a very time-consuming and expensive process. He had the innate ability to quickly grasp the significance of raw data and net out the conclusions in the best possible light.

Congressmen who once demanded that the CIA Director personally testify at every meeting soon discovered that Jeremy gave them more complete and forthright answers to their questions. What he didn't know he simply fabricated on the spot, using his quick wit and keen memory to weave it all together. Everyone was happy to finally have answers instead of the tiresome evasions they had been getting from the Old Man.

Those of us who knew him were certain that Associate Director Jeremy Foster had been destined for greatness within the Agency. He got along well with everyone and the relationship between Congress and the CIA had never been better. So when he died so unexpectedly, it left his old friends all asking the same question.

"Why would anyone kill the Golden Goose?"

The boarding pass in my pocket says Harold Wilson. I was born J. Harold Wilson, Jr. in Maumee, Ohio in 1943. My dad, J. Harold, ran the local drug store, where he spent long hours on his feet to fill prescriptions and patiently answer questions from anxious and confused customers who were afraid to talk to their own doctors. My job was to keep the store clean, check and restock inventory and assist anyone who needed help. It was a good time and place to grow up, a Norman Rockwell existence comprised of strong role models, wholesome family values, a Puritan work ethic, belief in public service and unquestioning patriotism. My mother still calls me Harold, but it's much too pretentious for a retired spook who drives a diesel pickup and lives in a used RV.

I always assumed that Jeremy would be saying something nice about me at my funeral instead of the other way around. I broke him in when I had been with the Company for nearly a decade. We worked together several times over the years, but by then he was the Chief and I was the Indian. Then I left in the late 90's when downsizing was all the rage and the Agency made me an early retirement offer I couldn't refuse. Lots of my friends left the same way, so I really can't say that I was singled out. It was just the way things worked out. At any rate, Jeremy was just shy of 55 when he died.

The state police report said that his car had gone off the road on the north side of Baltimore. Apparently there were no witnesses to the single vehicle accident. Traffic thins out considerably after rush hour and the wreck wasn't reported until after midnight. Nothing was said about drugs or alcohol, but I was pretty sure that Jeremy wouldn't have gotten behind the wheel if he'd been impaired. He might have had a blowout or a seizure or even dozed off behind the wheel. The news reports called it 'an unfortunate accident.'

My gut told me it was deliberate. Jeremy could easily have been killed by someone who knew how to make it appear accidental. I know because I was taught how to sabotage enemy vehicles. It only took a few minutes and some simple tools. Only a real expert would be able to tell whether it was rigged to fail or not. Most of my buddies at the funeral had the same reaction. Not surprising since we all went through the same training.

Plus, we all had similar post-partum experiences with the Agency. Once you retire they start screwing with your pension and benefits. A nickel here, a dime there, then a nice long letter of explanation, but you still get smaller checks at the end of the month. After a few years mistrust grows into animosity and ultimately blossoms into paranoia. Then when retirees get together we reinforce one another's prejudices. Hence, our collective assessment that Jeremy's death wasn't accidental. There was nothing you could put your finger on -- just the sense that we were being lied to once again.

"Jeremy was getting way too popular" said one guy. "I saw him on TV all the time."

"Yeah," said another, "and they were always quoting him in the paper. People could easily forget who the Director is, am I right?"

Even though he had been careful to give all the credit to the Director, reporters soon learned where to go for substantive quotes. Other spokesmen talked over their heads using intelligence buzzwords, but Jeremy thoughtfully replied to each question in plain English. His responses may not have been any more informative, but he was considerate enough to show his respect for the questioner. He genuinely cared about people, regardless of their circumstances or positions in life.

However, jealousy wasn't much of a motive for murder. We could find no rational reason for the CIA to have gotten rid of Jeremy. Funding had increased every year since he began briefing the Intelligence Committee and he did an outstanding job of keeping the wolves away from the Agency's door. I guess you could chalk our suspicions up to a bunch of dyspeptic old men who loved to complain.

Brenda was having an especially tough time getting though the funeral. They had not lived together as husband and wife for years, but their divorce had been amicable and they remained the best of friends. "What a waste, Harry," she said as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I should have insisted on going with him. I knew he'd never stay overnight in Manhattan. Maybe he'd still be alive if I had."

"You don't know that, Brenda. You could've dozed off in the passenger seat before he went off the road." It was a monumentally dumb thing for me to say, but it was all I could think of at the time. Anyway, she knew I was trying to be helpful. She managed to smile a little while squeezing my hand.

We stood around for a long time afterward talking to old friends. Those of us who had been touched by Jeremy's life needed to express it to someone who cared. A seemingly endless procession waited to tell Brenda how sorry they were for her loss, how much they were going to miss seeing her and Jeremy together. She was ever gracious, taking time with each of them, nodding at their condolences while dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex wadded up in her hand.

But she wasn't getting the same opportunity to express her feelings. The longer I waited around the more agitated I became. Finally I couldn't take it any longer. Stepping in front of whoever was next in line, I strongly suggested that we go somewhere for a quiet cup of coffee. She hugged me for my attempt at gallantry and then returned to the makeshift receiving line. Only after the last person had left did she agree to go.

Ours were the last two cars in the parking lot and we were beginning to lose the daylight. I knew that she hadn't slept very well in the past three days and had to be running on fumes. Even so she wasn't ready to go home. Neither of us had much of an appetite, but she still needed someone who would just sit and listen to her. So I told her to follow me to a place I knew where we could just talk. It was the least I could do for a man I loved, someone who had saved my ass too many times to count.

When the time came to board the flight I was still thinking about how sad Brenda looked as we were leaving the funeral. She had followed me in her car to a parking lot around the corner from 'The Muggery', a cozy, quiet coffee house in a rambling storefront on the edge of Georgetown. It teemed with college kids when classes were in session and was often deserted between terms. Except for the two singles hunched over their laptops, we practically had the place to ourselves.

Since my legs are too long to fit comfortably in a booth, we selected a small table with two padded captain's chairs in a back corner. The waitress brought us plastic laminated menus with a mouth-watering selection of soups, sandwich wraps and muffins, but we both settled for steaming mugs of coffee. Small-talking our way through the first cup of brew, Brenda commented about the eclectic selection of coffee mugs arrayed across the back of the serving counter. Then we eased slowly into the subject of the funeral, who was there, what was said and what a fitting tribute it had been to Jeremy's memory.

Eventually she began to reminisce about the good times they had shared together. I had played a small part in their wedding, witnessing their civil nuptials at an old county courthouse in Maryland. For some reason it was cheaper for them than getting married on the Virginia side. The bride and groom were dressed in business attire adorned with fresh-picked flowers in their lapels. I paid for their reception, an impromptu affair at the local park with buckets of fried chicken, paper plates, cups, napkins, plastic utensils, tablecloth and a screw-top gallon of wine. I captured it all on film with my 35mm Canon SLR. Most of the exposures turned out well.

"You're right, Harry. I had nearly forgotten about that. The wine was lukewarm, the chicken was cold and my cup leaked. All omens for how things were going to work out, or not as it turned out. I guess we just rushed things a bit."

"You guys had some good years together."

"They were all good. That wasn't the problem. It was our jobs. Jeremy was so good at what he did and genuinely felt like it was is calling in life. There was always a crisis erupting somewhere that needed his attention, so he'd be gone on weekends or even weeks at a time. I was doing research for an agricultural lobbying firm, working my own strange hours in various archives and we never got to spend enough quality time together. I guess he loved the excitement of working for the Agency more than he loved being married to me. I mean, I know that he loved me, right down to the second he died. He just didn't love being married. If that makes any sense."

"I guess so. But I'm no expert on marriage. Mine was over before the ink dried on the marriage certificate. At least you guys stayed close. He told me often that you were still his best friend."

She smiled sweetly. It was a great smile that could light up the whole room when she turned it on. Something about the way her freckles accented the dimples in her cheeks. "Maybe that says more about him not having much of a life outside of work. Lord knows he didn't have much regard for those Bozos he worked with."

"I'm surprised to hear that," I said. "Jeremy had lots of friends in the Agency. He had great respect and affection for the people we worked with."

"Maybe when you were there, but things changed after you retired."

"What do you mean?" I said, signaling the waitress for a refill.

Brenda waved off any more coffee for herself. "When Jeremy was promoted to a big office on the top floor, he sat in on all the important meetings and had access to the key documents. It really opened his eyes to what was going on."

At that point the waitress brought me another steaming cup of something opaque with a bitter aroma, so I waited for Brenda to continue while I cautiously sipped the strong brew. Coffee used to be more drinkable without all the additives, but now everything is a Starbucks clone, crying out for a shot of heavy cream and three sugars before you can consume it without gagging.

She looked around cautiously to ensure that we weren't being overheard. "In the days before 9/11 nobody in Langley worried about domestic terrorism. It was unthinkable that anybody would ever attack us here. Besides, that was the FBI's turf and the Agency was more concerned about threats from hostile countries. Then the new President took office and began appointing his own people into the Agency."

I remembered Jeremy saying that the new administration was paranoid about loyalty and media relations. They wanted to have one and only one voice articulating their new policies. At the time I didn't think it was such a bad idea for the new guns in town. I just didn't realize that it had been taken to such extremes.

Brenda went on. "They just forced top people out of the Agency. Anyone who wouldn't toe the line and embrace the President's policies was history. I couldn't believe it when he told me what had happened. Why get rid of competent experienced people?"

"The same thing happened in the Justice Department. Remember when the former Attorney General lost his job for firing a group of so-called Liberal-Democrat attorneys?"

"No, Harry, this was much worse. At least the Justice positions were filled with bona fide attorneys. The new Agency executives knew nothing about gathering and interpreting foreign intelligence. Some of them had never even been outside of the USA. They were put there strictly to influence CIA operations, taking their orders directly from the White House."

"Bummer. I had no idea. I never paid any attention to comings and goings on the top floor. It was another world to me. At least Jeremy was a regular guy who would eat with us in the employee cafeteria. The rest of them all huddled in the executive dining room."

"Jeremy was one of the few who learned how to get along in both worlds," she said. "Only he wound up spending at least half his time training the new executives on CIA policy. They had no appreciation for the historical role of the Agency or the reasons behind certain restrictions and limitations. He was constantly worried that they would do something stupid. It was chaotic, but Jeremy felt an obligation to keep telling Congress that everything was just fine."

"I can still see him there lying his ass off."

"Oh come on, Harry. He said those things because he believed that the Agency would ultimately do the right thing. Even though competent career people were replaced with ignorant political hacks, Jeremy still hoped that they would come to their senses before doing irreparable harm. But, as I said, that was only until 9/11."

On September 11, 2001, nineteen terrorists hijacked commercial airliners in a coordinated daylight assault on Manhattan and Washington D. C. Another attack was thwarted by heroic passengers on a United Airlines flight that crashed in the Pennsylvania countryside. For days afterward a disbelieving nation watched endless replays of the twin towers of the World Trade Center collapsing into billowing clouds of ashes. Every image I saw that day came flooding back into my memory.

"The Director was practically living at the White House while everyone else frantically searched for answers," she said in hushed tones. "Who could have done this? Where will they hit next? At least the replacement executives had enough sense to sit back and listen to the pros."

"Jeremy must have been relieved," I said.

"I guess. We didn't talk much for weeks. We said things like 'how are you holding up', 'I miss you', stuff like that. He practically lived at the office. Anyway, all he would say afterward was that it was going be a much different world."

"So what was his concern about the Bozos?"

"All they could talk about was getting revenge," she said. "Jeremy told me they fixated on invading countries, bombing foreign capitals, assassinating leaders, kidnapping -- anything to get even. They had the usual list of suspects and were hell bent on going to war with or without U. N. authorization."

The whole country may have been thinking the same thing at the time. I know that I was. But there's a difference between the emotions of people on the street and the considered actions of their sworn leaders. In a nation of laws you'd expect cooler heads to prevail at a time of crisis. She was really preaching to the choir here, but it was getting late, we were both tired and didn't need to wallow in the past on this day of all days.

As I was about to break it off she stiffened and grabbed my wrist. "My God, Harry. That's just what they did. They got their revenge."

"Brenda, this has been a really tough day for both of us. What do you say we get you home and I'll call you tomorrow to see how you're doing?"

"Harry, I'm scared. What if they did kill him? What if they come after me?"

She was really frightened. Hell, I didn't know what to believe myself. "Who are you afraid of, Brenda? Why would anyone want to hurt you?"

"Don't you see, Harry? They murdered Jeremy. He knew they had crossed the line and were covering it up. They knew he had the guts to testify against them. And they sure as hell know about me!"

"Brenda, you're exhausted and probably worrying about nothing. If what you're thinking were true, they would have taken him out long ago. Why wait years after the fact to dispose of him? You'll be fine."

Her eyes darted back and forth, searching my face for some sign of understanding. "Maybe he didn't know at the time. He could have found out later. Besides, he might have been implicated in some way and needed immunity from prosecution. You said yourself that the Justice Department cherry-picked new prosecutors. How could he have made a deal with a corrupt administration? But a few months from now that won't be such a problem."

That logic sort of made sense to me. I said, "So Jeremy was shopping for a deal?"

"Yes, but there's more. About two weeks ago Jeremy found out something that really upset him. He got very quiet around me and didn't want to talk about work. Harry, this was his mistress for God's sake. He ran on about her all the damn time. He gave up our marriage for the CIA and now he doesn't want to talk about it?"

Old Harry knows better than to talk when he should be listening.

"And right after that he suddenly decided to visit an old friend in New York. His college roommate just happens to be a U.S. Attorney."

"You mean he was on his way back when he ran off the road?"

"I'm pretty sure that he was. I know that he called Sherm and made arrangements to meet with him in Manhattan."

"Not one of his favorite places," I said. After graduating from Columbia, Jeremy couldn't wait to get out of New York.

"He never felt comfortable there all the time he was going to college. But he had a full-ride scholarship and didn't want to blow his chance. When the CIA recruited him in his junior year, he couldn't wait to graduate, leave town and never look back."

"Then it's a damn shame that the last thing he ever did in life was visit the one place he never wanted to see again."

"It tells me how important the trip must have been to him," she said.

Sherman Marshall made his bones as a prosecutor by winning high-profile corruption cases. Whenever the public trust was violated, he pulled out all the stops to seek justice and restore the confidence of the people. He often prevailed over flashy, expensive defense attorneys by combating them with infinite patience, solid preparation and dogged determination. They tended to underestimate this myopic, skinny black kid who was rumored to have gotten his job because of family ties to the late Supreme Court Justice with the same last name.

Blessed with smooth skin and naturally dark hair that made him look decades younger than his 55 years, Sherm's quiet intensity hid his brilliance until it was too late in the proceedings to matter anymore. He had been the perfect straight man for Jeremy's outgoing personality and gift of gab whenever they partied together during their undergraduate years. They were two bright kids from the streets who worked hard to maintain their academic scholarships at one of the premier schools in the country. The two roommates were also skilled poker players, Jeremy bluffing more than his share of big pots while Sherm stayed in the game and never walked away from a poker table with less than he started with at the beginning.

They both hated to see it all end at graduation. Jeremy had been called to save the world while Sherm was destined to stay behind, making his neighborhood a better place in which to live. He worked days as a transit cop while earning a law degree in night school, learning hard lessons that served him well when he became an Assistant D.A. One of his first cases involved a prominent city politician accused of accepting bribes in return for favorable treatment for a city contractor. With little help from his superiors, Sherm surprised everyone by winning the case on all counts, sending both the politician and the contractor to jail. As he moved up the ranks his winning streak continued, causing him to be noticed at the national level.

During President Clinton's second term he appointed Sherman Marshall U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. After years of battling corruption in the city, he won an easy confirmation as a popular choice with a solid resume and an enviable record of convictions. Some of his predecessors in the U.S. Attorney's Office had used the position as a stepping-stone to higher elected office, but Sherm was now doing exactly what he had prepared for all of his life. Ten years later he still worked harder than anyone on his staff. Officially an Independent, Sherm had strong ties to state and national leaders in both parties. Although grateful to those who had sponsored him for the job, he was color-blind when it came to enforcing the law.

He believed in the principle that given the right amount of preparation and careful timing, Lady Justice would prevail in the end. Beginning with meticulous investigation and painstaking cataloging of the evidence, checking and cross-checking witnesses and their statements, purposeful selection of juries, jurists and venues, Sherm knew how to bring it all together at exactly the right moment. And so he managed the court calendar to give him maximum leverage for his prosecutions.

When the new Administration swept into office in 2000 they wisely determined that while U.S. Attorney Marshall was no ally to their cause, he would be very difficult to dislodge. Being black, hugely popular and well-connected, he undoubtedly had a hole card or two that would keep him in office despite their best efforts. So they left him alone and moved on to less well-connected incumbents.

Jeremy knew all this and apparently had been waiting for the right time to prevail upon the services of his old friend. Sherm was a certifiable workaholic who seldom left Manhattan other than to commute to his home in Westchester. He was so tied up with important cases that he had missed out on Jeremy's wedding in Maryland and, tragically, his funeral in Virginia. So it was only logical for the two of them to have met in Manhattan.

Brenda filled me in on all the history before finally calling it a day as the coffee house closed for the evening. The more we talked the more insistent she became about me going to see Sherm to find out what had happened when Jeremy came to see him. If the corruption in the CIA was all news to him, then Brenda could stop worrying. If not, it was going to take someone a lot smarter than me to figure out what to do next.

Declining my offer to take her home, Brenda drove her own car while I followed at a respectful distance. She was so hyped up after our conversation that she called Sherm as soon as she returned home. Predictably, he was still up working and took Brenda's call as soon as he knew who was on the line.

"Brenda, I'm so sorry about Jeremy. I should have been there for you today."

"It's OK Sherm. I know you were with us in spirit."

"You know I'm here for you, just say the word."

"I'm really worried about what Jeremy was involved in. Would it be all right if our dear friend Harry Wilson came to talk to you?"

"Of course. I'll make time for him whenever he can come."

"Is tomorrow too soon? It would help me a lot to know for sure."

"Sure, send him up tomorrow. Have him meet me for lunch at the Downtown Athletic Club. Gotta go now. Love ya'. God bless."

So now you know why I'm wheels up on the nine a.m. shuttle flight from Reagan to LaGuardia. Yesterday was a long day with the funeral and afterward with Brenda, who kept me on the phone after her call to Sherm Marshall until well past midnight. She was so charged up that I practically had to hang up in order to get any sleep. I'm getting too old for these late hours. The ideal hours for a retiree are to be in bed by ten p.m. and get up around seven a.m.

When you're younger you don't even give it a second thought. I used to work all day, fly all night and then work through the next day. I did it all the time with the Company. If I could catch a quick snooze here and there, I was good to go for the whole week. Well, I'm here to tell you, it's a different world once you get to the downhill side of 60.

One reason to go to bed earlier is so you can get up to pee during the night, which interrupts your rest and makes it hard to get back to sleep. Booze only makes it worse, so they say. Cutting back on alcohol and caffeine before bedtime helps a bit. At least there are fewer morning headaches and only one trip to the potty.

Anyway, Brenda was kind enough to rehearse me for my interview with Sherm, who she knows well and I don't. He sounds like a tough cookie, not likely to trust me right off the bat. Beyond knowing that I too was a friend of Jeremy, why should he tell me anything? If he's building a case based on Jeremy's testimony, this isn't the time to be showing his hand to just anybody off the street.

I know he's a busy guy, so I don't have all day to tell him stories about how Jeremy and I won the Cold War together. So what could I say that will convince him to trust me? This is where Brenda's genius showed itself.

"Why not just tell him the truth? You know, 'I'm Harry Wilson, Jeremy was my close friend and Brenda and I think he may have been killed because he talked to you...' Something like that."

Nothing to worry about. So what that I'm an out-of-practice retired spook and I'll be talking to a trained investigator and prosecutor at the top of his game. When all else fails, tell the truth, I always say. At one in the morning it beat anything else I could think of to say. At least it allowed me to get a few hours of sleep before leaving for the airport.

On the final approach to LAG with the landing gear down and locked, I'm having second thoughts about what I'm doing here in the first place. First of all, I don't like flying, especially since they added all the TSA crap that now takes three times as long to board. In-flight service has become another oxymoron like 'jumbo shrimp,' and landing is statistically the most dangerous part of the trip, assuming you survive the in-flight turbulence. What could be worse?

How about waiting in line for a cab at rush hour? Better yet, riding in a smelly, who-knows-what-stained yellow jalopy with a driver who speaks three words of English, two of which are profane. Then there's the bumper-to-bumper crawl through pot-holed streets teeming with road-raged drivers. In my book, a cab ride in Manhattan is a real third-world experience. At least a Disney 'E" ticket ride for sure.

Finally, I arrived at the Downtown Athletic Club at eleven forty-five and asked for Sherman Marshall at the reception desk. The uniformed clerk told me that I would find him upstairs in the training room, left at the landing then all the way to the end of the hall. Along the way I observed that the DAC is an impressive turn-of-the-century structure filled with dozens of plaques, trophies and photographs of famous current and former members. It reeked of old money with its arched ceilings, oak-paneled walls, Persian carpets, over-stuffed leather chairs, hand-carved rails and banisters, ten-foot-high doors and white-coated serving staff.

I opened the door to the training room to find a surprisingly large and well-lit gym filled with exercise equipment. The only other person in the room was a trim black guy slugging away at a heavy bag in the back corner. He saw me walk in, ended his routine with a nifty left-jab, right-cross combination that swayed the big bag and waved me over with his towel.

"You must be Harry Wilson," he said, wiping sweat off his brow. "I'm Sherm Marshall. Thanks for meeting me here."

Sherm had a fabulous smile and kind brown eyes that said he was genuinely happy to see me. No wonder people tended to underestimate this guy. He had such an innocent face and disarming manner. With his glasses on he looked like the neighborhood periodontist. I noticed that his arms and shoulders were well-muscled and there wasn't an ounce of flab visible on his trim physique. Kinda like I wished I had looked 40 years ago.

"The pleasure's all mine, Sherm," I said as we shook hands. His grip was like iron, firm and unyielding until he decided to let go on his end.

"Forgive the gloves," he said, removing his training equipment. "I try to get in a little exercise whenever I have enough time off to come here for lunch. Do you mind if we have something to eat while we talk?"

Now here's a civilized man who has his priorities straight. It had crossed my mind that the NYC Downtown Athletic Club might be the type of establishment that would feature a gentlemen's grill. I was envisioning a secluded club room where one could order a small Delmonico or perhaps a slice of prime rib to go with a nice glass of Cabernet. Then my reverie evaporated as Sherm reached into a paper sack sitting on a nearby weight bench and pulled out foil-wrapped sandwiches and two cans of Diet Pepsi.

"Sorry Harry, but I only have a few minutes before I have to shower for my next meeting. How about if I fill you in on what I know while we eat? Practically no one ever uses this place during lunch, so we should have plenty of privacy. It's probably better for both of us if we aren't seen together until this thing is resolved."

I quickly discovered that his questions were largely rhetorical because he didn't wait for me to answer. Since he was already way ahead of me anyway it would only slow us down if I tried to answer, but he sure had my undivided attention. He handed me a sandwich which I unwrapped without taking my eyes off him. I've gotten to be so good at eating that I can chow down on auto pilot while doing something else. So while I burrowed into lunch he continued talking at flank speed.

"I checked you out, Harry, and you got high marks all across the board. Jeremy talked about you all the time when you guys were working together. He had lots of friends, if you know what I mean, but I'm looking for someone with your unique skills to run a hard-hitting low-profile investigation. Someone who can get things done without breaking too much glass in the process."

What the hell? Are you talking to me? What investigation? I decided to slow down on my eating and pay more attention to every word he said.

"Between you and me, Jeremy told me some things that would make your hair stand up. Anyone else I would have dismissed as a complete loon, but Jeremy and I go way back. He could be as full of crap as a Christmas goose, but I could always tell when he was telling the truth. He never, ever beat me in a poker game. Not even once. Even if I didn't believe him, the fact that somebody took him out kind of makes my point, doesn't it?"

I tried to look cool while nodding agreement, but inside my mind was racing to take in everything he was saying. Clearly he had heard a great deal from Jeremy and had already concluded that his death was far from accidental. He was miles beyond what Brenda and I were assuming last night. She was right to be afraid and I tried to talk her out of it.

"I'm certain that he understood the risks, Harry. He had me depose him at length when he was up here last week. I got him on both video and audio tape. The transcription work is just about finished. His statement won't be as compelling in court without his signature, but it might help you in your investigation. I'll see that you get a complete copy to work with when the time is right. For now, I'll give you an edited copy to work with."

Damn! Why didn't you tell me what was going on, Jeremy? All this stuff was happening under your nose and you knew that you might be a sitting duck. Brenda was right. We both might have done something to help if we'd known what was going on.

Sherm's voice interrupted my mental tirade. "There are some pieces of this puzzle that may have to remain hidden, at least for now. Let's just say that Jeremy made certain allegations that are outside my jurisdiction. Trust me, international law can be tricky. We don't want to get into anything that might have to be adjudicated by the World Court. Instead, we'll concentrate on violations of Federal statutes and see where that leads us."

I almost forgot how to breathe. I know I stopped chewing, hopefully with my mouth closed.

"Harry, I really need your help to corroborate Jeremy's allegations. With him gone, the only thing that will keep this from dissolving into a 'he said-she said' fiasco is plenty of supporting evidence. Witnesses, documents, photographs, anything you can find."

"But I'm not on the inside anymore. Practically everyone I worked with is gone. I don't know the players on the new team and I'm no detective -- just a former spook who's trying to be helpful."

"Harry, you've got more excuses than Moses at the Burning Bush. You know this business from the inside out -- where to go, who to talk to, how to gather intelligence discretely. And your cover is perfect. Everybody already knows that you're semi-retired. Nobody will even notice you hanging around. They'll just think you're on another one of your consulting gigs. So, why don't we make it official?"

"How do we do that?" I said sounding even dumber than before.

"I'm hiring you as my consultant. My office will put out a cover story about a bogus pending investigation and you'll be named to the pretrial team."

"So where will I be working?"

"Wherever you like. I'll set you up with a special cell phone and a direct-bill expense account so you can go anywhere you need to. There are plenty of offices available here, but I suspect you'll be spending most of your time in and around D.C."

"What about Brenda? She'll want to be in on everything."

"By all means. Bring in anybody who can help you put the case together. Err on the side of gathering more than you need. We can always sort out the most important evidence at the end."

"How do I explain the fact that I'm working for a New York office?"

"If anybody thinks to ask, we'll just say that Jeremy recommended you. And as it turns out, he did."

After he had showered and dressed, Sherm walked me out to the lobby. He thanked me again for coming and promised to send a Fed-Ex package with enough information to begin working on. I gave him a copy of my standard consulting agreement to sign and add to the package. Since I retired, I've learned never to leave home without at least one blank copy in my pocket. It's amazing how many gigs I've gotten on the spur of the moment. It's always better to get their autographs when they're in a signing mood.

I needed to find a quiet place to get my mind around everything we'd discussed before calling Brenda with the news. It had taken all of twenty-seven minutes to fill my stomach and get my head spinning. How the hell do I get myself into these fixes? Four days ago I was happily retired, thinking about hooking up the fifth wheel trailer for a leisurely trip to Branson, Missouri. Then Jeremy was killed and I saw how hard it was for Brenda, being all alone with her doubts and regrets. Now we're mixed up in a criminal investigation that could get both of us killed as well. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

Leaving the DAC I thought it best to round out my meal and contemplate the next move over a piece of pie and a cup of coffee. Delis can be found on any street corner in Manhattan, but the one I chose was overflowing with a hungry lunch crowd. Instead of waiting for an empty table, I opted for the take-out line, picked up my purchases and searched for a quiet nearby nook where I could sit and think through everything that had happened this morning.

Fortunately I found an empty bench in a small green space about two blocks from the deli. A kind soul behind me in line had given me directions. With every other bench and fence rail occupied by other eaters, it looked like a fairly popular spot for the lunch crowd. Of course, pigeons with New York attitude appeared as soon as I sat down. They demanded a share of my goodies even before they knew what was in the sack. Someone once told me that you have to treat them like the pan-handlers that they are. Just go about your business and don't look them in the eye. Sometimes it even works.

Another thing I've learned is that it often helps to clarify my thinking when I write things down in an organized fashion:

Mission: find evidence to back up allegations I could only imagine at this point.

Resources: good intentions, rusty field experience, knowledge of the terrain, age-dulled wits, a few inside contacts, low profile, special cell phone, expense account.

Risks: too many to list, including severe injury and death.

Situation assessment: in way over my head.

Odds of success: infinitesimal.

Alternatives: few to none.

That was certainly helpful.

Screwing up my courage, I finally called Brenda. We had already talked about the possibility of electronic eavesdropping and agreed to limit our conversations until we could speak privately face-to face.

"It's me. I saw the man and he's way ahead of us," I said.

"I knew it. I'm a dead duck."

"Not so fast. Let's get together and I'll fill you in."

"Give me a hint," she said.

"He hired me to investigate certain allegations."

"How does that help me?"

"It means we'll know what's happening and who to avoid."

"What has been happening?" she asked.

"I don't know exactly. He's sending me a package with the details."

"I'm a dead duck," she repeated.

"Now don't say that. Pick me up and we'll talk."

"When are you coming back?"

"Supposed to land about four p.m. Are you up for an early dinner?"

"Sure, if you're buying. Just prepare yourself for a lengthy discussion. I want to know everything that happened."

"Yes ma'am. See you then."

The trip back was no less irritating than the morning jaunt. I managed to hail a different-smelling cab with another surly immigrant driver, encountered clogged outbound traffic, predictably long lines and more TSA indignities at the airport. That was topped off with a no-frills bumpy flight. Between panic attacks en route I tried to do some thinking about the next few steps as well as names of people who might be able to help. I really didn't have to go to Langley right away. There were plenty of recent retirees who might be able to shed light on the things Jeremy had been involved with.

It also occurred to me that the opposition might not be as awesome as we first thought. The notion of a huge monolithic government conspiracy is almost too funny for words when you consider that the bureaucracy is pretty fouled up to begin with. Most of the time they can't even get out of their own way. Think about the Postal Service or the IRS or a glacier: huge behemoths that are capable of moving mountains but couldn't turn on a dime if their existence depended on it. Not much finesse there.

No, this could just as easily turn out to be a handful of marauders who strayed from the reservation. Considering what's involved in getting someone to betray his country, it takes lots of effort to turn even one agent around in the field. Money can be an effective inducement, but there's nothing like blackmail to really hold their feet to the fire. Imagine the effort it would require to turn the whole agency to the dark side.

I reasoned that it had to be somebody fairly well-placed with a few grunts to do dirty work as required. Maybe no more than five or six renegades in the right positions could pull it off. The only problem is that it's pretty tough to find five or six needles in a haystack of tens of thousands. An exhaustive search wasn't in the cards, but a fishing pole with the right bait might bring the fish to our side of the boat. As long as they weren't Great White Sharks, that is.

I was sure hoping that Jeremy had given Sherm something more substantive to go on. The CIA is involved in myriad activities around the world. Its foreign intelligence mission covers almost every aspect of life, not just military secrets and political maneuvering. Think of it as skipping what's going on in the United States and tracking everything else. The source of our problem was somewhere in that vast sea of potential knowledge.

Brenda was leaning against an unfamiliar car when I finally walked out of the shuttle terminal. I was impressed that she managed to commandeer a spot in the arrival loading zone. It also didn't escape my notice that she cut quite a figure in her patterned summer frock. She has always paid attention to her appearance, working out regularly to keep her weight in check and her body parts in the proper proportion. Maybe I hadn't been giving this girl enough credit.

"Alright Harry, tell me everything that happened," she said, snapping her seatbelt in place as she expertly veered out into the traffic. "And don't leave anything out!"

"Brenda, this car might not be clean, if you get my drift. And watch out for the idiots in the next crosswalk. Some of them don't even bother to look before crossing."

"You've seen too many movies, Harry. This is a loaner they gave me this afternoon. The dealer is keeping my stupid car overnight, trying to figure out why it only acts up when the engine is cold. It's got 'morning sickness'. Isn't that a hoot?"

I cringed as she sailed past a harried business traveler who fortunately had second thoughts about stepping out in front of her against the light. He glared at us but refrained from exhibiting any rude gestures. "So even if they bugged your ride they couldn't have anticipated the switch. Pretty smart, Brenda."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure. I planned the whole thing. Now get on with it. What happened with you and Sherm in New York?"

I took her through everything that transpired at the DAC. She listened carefully as I replayed the dialogue, asking me questions that I hadn't thought of at the time and couldn't answer with any certainty at this point. I left out the other parts about the trip coming and going because she probably could care less how the taxi smelled.

"Sonofabitch," she erupted, stomping the gas and pounding on the steering wheel. "Jeremy, you ratfink bastard. Spill your guts to Sherman, but not a word to me about what you're involved in? I'm glad I divorced you, you ungrateful pig!"

"Brenda, you really have to pay more attention to your driving! We can have a cussing contest when you're safely parked somewhere off the road."

"I'm OK, Harry. Just give me a second here," she said, slowing to the legal limit and gripping the wheel with both hands. "Did he believe he was protecting me by keeping me out of the loop? What the hell was he thinking?"

"I'm as much in the dark as you are. He didn't tell me anything either."

"Why would he tell Sherm things he couldn't tell me?"

"Sherm is an officer of the court," I said. "Jeremy could have given his testimony to any Federal prosecutor he trusted."

"What difference would that make?"

"CIA officers are obligated to protect Agency Confidential Information. He could ethically disclose certain information to a court official that he couldn't share with you."

"Are you making this up, Harry? Sounds like a load of bull to me."

The rest of our trip to the restaurant was more or less a guessing game. We had no idea what Jeremy had told Sherm -- only that it was bad enough to get him killed. Our speculation was as useful as a Budweiser commercial during the Super Bowl: highly entertaining, but it didn't put any points on the board.

Brenda opted for a family-style restaurant just off the highway in Arlington. It featured enclosed booths designed to keep the squalling brats next door from spoiling your meal. We doubled-down on our privacy by selecting a large booth directly across from the glass-fronted fieldstone fireplace. The waitress explained their specials of the day, took our drink orders and left us to ponder the multi-colored dinner menus.

We each chose something simple from the specials page, a summer salad with fruit for her and a burger with fries for me. Strictly basic food groups. Then we engaged in small talk until our orders arrived. The food helped to settle us down and shift our thinking to where we should go from here. I almost screwed everything up when I intimated to Brenda that perhaps it was too dangerous for her to be involved.

"You're as big a horse's ass as Jeremy was, Harry. Where do you two get off trying to protect a poor, defenseless female? Did you get a frontal lobotomy when you joined the boy's club? I have a dog in this fight too."

"Whoa there, Little Lady. All I meant was that you're an obvious link to Jeremy. If he talked to anybody or left anything incriminating behind you're the most likely target. So wouldn't it be prudent for you to keep a lower profile?"

She must have decided she was dealing with a backward child and needed to go a bit easier on me. "Harry, you're a great guy, and I really do appreciate that you are trying to do the right thing here. But can't you see that I'm in this up to my neck regardless? They're going to come after me whatever I do. Don't make the same mistake Jeremy did. I'm a lot tougher than you think and I can help if you'll let me."

I was unconvinced but polite enough to hear her out. Besides, I got a bit flustered when she reached out and placed her hand over mine.

"Nobody knew Jeremy like I did, Harry. I know how his mind worked, what he liked and didn't like. I know where he would go to unwind. If you let me I can help you reconstruct his last steps. Maybe he hid something for us to find. We can find it together."

"Brenda, I believe you. I'm not trying to shut you out."

"Harry, you know he wouldn't just sit around while Rome burned to the ground. He'd figure out some way to turn it all around and make things right again. That's what he did for a living for three decades. He gathered up all their horse droppings and spun it into pure gold."

What could I say to that?

Literally speaking, gold is kept in secure vaults surrounded by guards and alarms. Horse manure is used as fertilizer that nobody in their right mind would want to steal. Somewhere in between is where we'll find what we're looking for. Brenda's metaphor aside, Jeremy would have chosen a hiding place where people experienced in tradecraft wouldn't even think of looking. So we're looking for something more like a barn and less like a bank.

I've been through extensive training at the Farm, so where wouldn't I look? This line of thinking wasn't getting us anywhere and my head was beginning to throb. Maybe I gobbled that burger down too quickly. It couldn't have been the fries. They were lubricated with enough ketchup to overwhelm the grease, I hope.

"You're right, Harry! It would've been too obvious to hide something at my place. We need to find somewhere else to look!" She had only eaten half her salad and seemed perfectly satisfied, but did she have to be so cheerful about hitting a dead end?

"Brenda, let's suspend our search for the Holy Grail. There are too many possible hiding places to consider in a vacuum. We need to focus in on Jeremy's whereabouts instead. If we step back we might be able to narrow it down to more probable locations. What can you remember about Jeremy's travels over the past four years?"

"God, Harry, I don't have total recall. Some things I might be able to give you chapter and verse, but I wasn't with Jeremy every minute."

"That's OK. We're only after broad brush strokes to begin with. Later we'll add more detail after we talk to others who knew him. You'll be surprised how it'll fill in."

"His former secretary should be able to give us his business travel itinerary," she reasoned. "That would give us all the destinations, routes and stopovers, and his expense account vouchers would have information about rental cars, subways, trains and taxis. But that wouldn't account for things he didn't pay for directly or chose not to be reimbursed for."

"It's a start. Remember that we're only looking for broad brush strokes at this point."

"How can I get his secretary to divulge his records?" she asked.

"Just say that Jeremy was being audited by the IRS and you need to go back for four years."

"Are you serious? Why audit someone who is deceased?"

"Tell her that he left a substantial estate that the IRS is threatening to seize. She'll help you because everyone hates the IRS."

"You really have a twisted mind," she said, carefully folding her napkin while considering what I just said. "You think if we can figure out where Jeremy was at a given point in time it might tell us where he hid the evidence?"

"It will certainly help us narrow the search. See, people tend to have patterns of movement. You know, either shopping before lunch or late in the day. Drop off the cleaning first, pick up the groceries last. The frequency can vary, but the core patterns emerge if you know how to look for them. What we're looking for is aberrations, like when a person tries to avoid a covert agent or a dead drop."

Brenda shook her head and sighed deeply. It was getting late and we were both tired. I signaled the waitress for the check and reached for my wallet to see if I was going to be using paper or plastic. "Harry, how do we know that there is anything to find? I mean, wouldn't Jeremy have taken the evidence with him when he met with Sherman Marshall?"

"I thought about that. Jeremy wouldn't have put all his chips in one pot. They might find one stash, but the chances of finding two or more diminish rapidly. No, he would have left some insurance behind when he went to see his buddy. And he would have put it somewhere where only you could find it if something were to happen to him."

She just stared at me as if I were speaking to her in Chinese. She did this cute thing with her head, sort of rotating and tilting her dark red hair to one side. "How did you put all that together? I mean, how could he be sure that I would be the one to find it?"

"Brenda, you have to be the key. There is something in your memory, a shared experience that only you would know about: a password, a location, an event...nobody was closer to Jeremy than you were. There has to be something that only you and Jeremy knew about that will unlock his secrets."

Her eyes blinked and her lips were moving but no sounds were coming out. She appeared to be having a pretty good internal debate without my help. It wasn't the first time that such things had happened to me, which probably says something about my conversational skills. Finally she began to speak slowly and distinctly. "I can't fault your logic, but doesn't that also make me a target? Kill me and the key disappears forever."

"They can't afford another killing right now," I asserted. "Jeremy's accidental death would be called into question if his ex-wife were to die suddenly. The authorities would very likely connect the dots and reopen the investigation. They're much better off to let him stay buried and see what develops. So don't be surprised if you find yourself being followed."

"So you're telling me that I have absolutely nothing to worry about. I can just go about my business without a care in the world. Nobody will try to kill me until it comes time for me to testify in a court of law. What a relief."

"Hey, I'm only trying to help, here," I said. The waitress brought us the check, so I handed her my American Excuse card and waited for her to return with the credit card slip while Brenda went off to freshen up. The more I thought about it the more it made sense that the bad guys would be watching and waiting for us to make the next move. They couldn't be sure that we hadn't talked to Jeremy before he died.

Brenda came back with her endearing smile looking fresh as a daisy. "You're right, Harry. Walking around scared is just what they'd want me to do. Well, I'm here to tell you that they're messing with the wrong girl. Let's get out of here."

After leaving the restaurant, Brenda dropped me off at home and then stopped to pick up a few essentials on the way to her apartment in McLean. She lives in a large two-bedroom ground floor unit facing the street. Each tenant is assigned a numbered space in the parking lot adjacent to the rear entrance, which meant that she had to walk almost the full length of the central hallway to get to her apartment.

The sun was setting so she turned on the lights as she entered the unit. One hour and forty minutes after arriving home everything except her bedside lamp had been turned off. Ten minutes later that was extinguished as well, leaving her apartment in total darkness. At this hour all was quiet on Fourteenth Street.

Five cars down from the corner, a man sat smoking in a dark blue Ford LTD. He had been watching Brenda since she returned from the funeral. Now he was waiting to be sure that she had settled in for the night. Another fifteen minutes passed before he picked up his cell phone and punched in a number from memory. He let it ring twice, disconnected the call and waited. Two minutes later the muted phone began to vibrate in his hand.

"You have something to report?" the caller said.

"When and where?"

"I'll take the short version now. Brief me in detail tomorrow at the usual place and time."

"She's home in bed alone," the watcher reported. "She took her car in for service at eleven-hundred hours and picked Wilson up at the shuttle terminal at sixteen-ten. They ate dinner together in a restaurant in Arlington and she dropped him off at his trailer park at nineteen-twenty-two. Then she came back to her apartment and went to bed at twenty-two hundred."

"Did she make any other stops?" the caller asked.

"Yes, sir. She stopped at a Walgreen's in McLean from nineteen-thirty-two to nineteen forty-five. Then she went straight home."

"And what did she and Wilson talk about?" the caller wanted to know.

"Unknown, sir. I installed the listening device in her car, but that vehicle is still at the dealer's garage. She picked Wilson up in a loaner."

"Why didn't you bug the loaner? Don't you carry additional devices with you?"

"Yes, sir, I have additional bugs. She stayed with the loaner until she picked him up, giving me no opportunity to attach the device."

"And what about in the restaurant?" the caller pressed.

"Sir, there was no way for me to get close enough. They were in a three-sided booth facing a stone fireplace. That gave me no line of sight to pick up window vibrations from their conversation."

"So either Mr. Wilson is practicing habits of a lifetime or those two are up to something, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess so, sir. You would know better than me. Should I stay with the woman tomorrow?"

"Yes. Call me when they get together." Then the caller disconnected.

Waking as usual to the sun streaming in between the blinds, I ambled out to rinse and refill the drip coffee maker. I must have slept through the night because I don't remember having to get up for the customary bathroom call. Did I just put in five or six scoops? Travel can wear you out at my age. I guess these old bones must have needed the rest. My neighbors are really good about keeping the noise down at night, but come daybreak they all get up to walk around in the cool of the morning, yakking a mile a minute as they pass below my window.

All things considered, living in a fifth-wheel trailer has turned out to be a pretty good deal for me. I needed a place to live after losing the house in the divorce and didn't want to sink a pile of money into another house or, worse yet, a condominium with exorbitant monthly maintenance fees. Then I ran into a guy who was desperate to sell his rig because of failing health. So after a bit of haggling, I made him a package deal for his nearly new diesel F-250 pickup truck and a fully furnished 36-foot fifth wheel. And I've never been sorry that I did.

He was also kind enough to tell me that decent trailer parks were fast disappearing and I'd better lock something down right away. That turned out to be great advice. Some parks were real run down dives waiting for the health department to post a condemnation order. Others were pending sales to shady developers who would keep raising rates until they were ready to put up more condo units. It took a good deal of searching, but I finally lucked out and found a nice 55+ retirement park in an unincorporated area west of McLean. The lot rental is reasonable, by the month or year, and the park is well-maintained by part-time employee residents. My neighbors are all nice, down to earth people who look out for one another.

Living full-time in an RV is just like owning a house in some ways. You still have to do remedial maintenance now and then when things begin to squeak or leak. Once a year I wash and wax the exterior and caulk around the roof openings, windows and entry door. Otherwise, I dust, wet mop and vacuum, clean the toilet, sinks and mirrors, dump and backwash the black tank every week or so and refill the LP gas tanks quarterly. That's about it as long as I'm parked in one spot. It gets a bit more complicated if and when I ever have to tow it from one location to another. Branson, Missouri was on the list until Jeremy's death intervened in my life.

The purple and white Fed-Ex van I had been expecting pulled up just as I was checking off the third item on my to-do list. A nice-looking young lady in a snazzy Fed-Ex shirt and shorts brought me a hefty overnight delivery from the U.S. Attorney's Office in New York. It looked like Sherm had sent me a ream of paper, but when I opened the envelope it turned out to be a carefully wrapped cell phone and charger, a VISA debit card embossed with my name and a smaller stack of paper.

"Use only to call me -- anytime. Speed dial #1 will connect to me or securely record anything you say, text or photo capture. Erase the memory after you send. Keep it with you for GPS tracking. VISA is for business expenses ($20,000 limit). Welcome aboard, Sherm."

I just love new spook toys. Wouldn't you just know that Sherm would be using the latest encrypted gizmos in his shop? It was matte black with a slim-profile, waterproof titanium clam shell case. Inside was a hi-res video camera, large-capacity memory and a long-life lithium ion battery in a tiny little form factor that only a teenager could type on. I can figure out how to operate most phones, but I wouldn't be able to send a text message if my life depended on it.

The rest of the package was even more intriguing. On top was a signed copy of my standard consulting agreement with a generous daily rate inserted. Thank you, Sherman. The attached scope of work and deliverables sections sounded official without really giving away much of anything. "Work to be performed as directed by the Office of the U.S. Attorney...work products are property of the U.S. Government...all confidential and not to be divulged....blah, blah, blah. Contractor to provide regular progress reports and submit reimbursable expenses within 30 days..." Attorneys all write like Dickens, who was being paid by the word.

At the bottom of the pile was an edited transcription of Jeremy's deposition. The first few pages identified Jeremy and his duties at the Agency, establishing him as an authoritative source for what he alleged in the ensuing sections of the document. It was obvious that he had been preparing himself for this deposition for some time. His testimony was orderly and concise, detailing specific dates, times, locations and participants for each of the events listed.

He had also included archival reference codes for most of the Agency documents referenced in his testimony. Under normal circumstances these would be extremely useful for detailing search warrants for evidence of criminal activity. I'm not sure how well that would work with CIA Classified documents that could remain hidden until Hell froze over under the umbrella of National Security. Even so, the fact that the documents existed and were classified would make quite an impression on a jury.

It was also clear from Jeremy's testimony that the Agency had knowingly crossed the line on a number of occasions. The same names kept appearing in different meetings on different dates, discussing legal restrictions, how to circumvent them or, more often, how to cover up the Agency's involvement. The reasons weren't explicitly spelled out, but it was fairly obvious that some of the actions were politically motivated.

I found it interesting to note who wasn't present or what authorities weren't mentioned when these subjects were being discussed. Didn't the Director or Deputy Director control what was happening within the Agency? What about the President or National Security Council? Where were the orders coming from? Every CIA officer knows that the explicit mission of the Agency is foreign intelligence and that the chain of command is spelled out in the National Security Act as well as Executive Orders issued by at least four different Presidents. The meetings referenced in Jeremy's transcript clearly violated both the mission and the authorization provisions of these statutes. And more than anyone, Jeremy knew that by law, certain specified actions must be reported to the Intelligence Committees of the Congress regardless of who authorized them.

Jeremy, what in the hell did you get yourself into? How long had you been standing knee deep in this cesspool? As grand-standing politicians are fond of saying whenever they know that the red light of the CSPAN camera is pointed their way, "What did you know and when did you first know it?" I can understand wanting to wait for the right moment, but these rascals had been having their way for at least the past four years!

They had helped the Administration justify a war on a country with no substantive weapons, illegally imprison thousands of civilians, lie to the American people about impending threats to national security and aid and abet the brutal atrocities of petty dictators. As some parts of the deposition had been blacked out, I had to read between the lines to figure out what was going on. But it was clear to me that the criminal activity was concerted and repeated.

At one level there is almost nothing new under the sun. Individual detractors had been saying such things and worse in the press all along. I can imagine a knowledgeable national news editor reviewing Jeremy's testimony and saying, "So?" But the fact that one small group appeared to be orchestrating so much of this on their own was appalling. And what if it were being done solely to advance a political agenda? How high up did the conspiracy extend?

I went from knowing almost nothing to knowing too much about the secrets that Jeremy had been carrying. No wonder he didn't want to sit down and pour out his troubles to me over a beer. Even though I was now armed with specifics, I couldn't just barge in to CIA HQ and demand their surrender. Without Jeremy, this amounted to so much hearsay unless I could find corroborating evidence from other sources. Hopefully we could convince one of the conspirators to turn against the others. All we had to do was figure out which one was the weakest link and find something to hold over his head. The rest would be relatively easy.

Flipping a coin, I elected to pursue both strategies, collecting whatever evidence I could find while zeroing in on the weakest link. My Rolodex contained the numbers of retired staffers who had worked all over the Agency: the Middle East Desk, Sub-Saharan Africa, Counter-terrorism, Document Services, Communications, Transportation and various unspecified Special Operations. It seemed like a fairly workable plan. I would make a few calls, buy a few cups of coffee and see what my former associates could remember.

Well that was an inauspicious start. The first three calls were all dead ends. Literally dead ends. Some people just seem to retire to a rocking chair, fall apart and die. It's probably a good thing that my pension doesn't stretch far enough to sustain my lavish lifestyle. Having to work forces me to stay active and staying active will help me live longer, I hope.

The fourth call was to Dr. Millie McCluskey, formerly Chief of Document Services. She had been a holy terror, demanding that everyone toe the line prescribed in Agency procedures. God help you if you ever misplaced one of her documents. When the rest of the world began to embrace the advent of electronics, Millie led the charge to eliminate paper within the CIA. She was all for maintaining audit trails, but saw no reason to keep anything on paper once the new systems were proven to be reliable. Well, as there is more paper being used today than ever before, she's still waiting for that proof.

Millie and I always got along famously. She was the consummate professional and deserving of respect for what she did, but she also had a wry sense of humor and loved to be needled if you did it in the right spirit. A closet practical joker, she had pulled off such classic gags that nobody figured out who the offender really was. She now lived in a Continuing Care Community in suburban Maryland and didn't get that many visitors anymore. I reached her phone and was invited to drop in to see her anytime.

"I'm so glad to see you, Harry. Once you retire it's like you fall off the map. My friends who were living here when I moved in are all dead now."

"Millie, it's been too long. How are you getting along?"

"You didn't come by to hear me complain, did you?"

"I just missed your wonderful smile," I fibbed.

"You're still full of crap, Harry. I was an old sourpuss at work and I haven't gotten any sweeter in this dump. This place is so boring that I sleep half the time. They think that a book discussion group gets together to talk about what books they might listen to on tape."

"Millie, you're pulling my leg."

"Maybe just a little. But my hearing is really starting to go from listening to all the snoring."

I laughed out loud. She suckered me in on that one.

"Seriously, Harry, the good news is that my blood pressure is under control. Other parts of me are wearing out, but my pressure is right where it should be. Just wait until you get to be 85, young man."

"You can't be 85! Hell, you retired after I did, Millie."

"Harry, they pushed lots of people out ahead of me. Some got golden handshakes and a lot of them got the golden shaft. Downsizing was supposed to be accomplished by voluntary attrition, not a forced march to the parking lot."

"Millie, nobody knows better than me that the early retirement incentives barely covered increased medical costs by the time the Agency raised deductibles and co-pays."

"But, they couldn't get rid of me that easily," she said.

"And why was that? Do you have nasty pictures from the Christmas party?"

"Better than that, young man. I was the only one who knew how both document systems worked together."

"You had them by the gonads, didn't you?"

"You're damn right, Harry. All I had to do was give them a little squeeze and they started screaming like little girls. Every time they thought that the electronic system was going to work on its own they started talking to me about retirement. Then it would fall flat on its face and everybody was happy to have me stay around. It was the best deal you could get as far as job security was concerned."

"Don't tell me they finally made it work?" I asked.

"Hell no. But, we all get old and I just decided the time had come for me to go whether it ever worked or not."

"I hope you got a good deal."

"You bet your bippy," she said. "I know some things that they wouldn't want to get out. And they know it would go public in a minute if they ever screwed with me. Harry, you're sweet and I'm glad to have your company, but you didn't decide to visit this cranky old woman for no reason. So, why are you here?"

"Millie, I've never lied to you and it's too late to start now," I said, moving to the seat beside her. "I'm here because I need your help. Jeremy Foster was a dear friend of mine and his death was no accident."

"I'm not surprised. Something was rotten in Denmark. It was only a matter of time before he was eliminated."

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

She scanned the area with her eyes and lowered her voice. "Because I caught him examining classified documents he had no business accessing. They involved operations that would make the Agency look bad, no matter how much sugar you spooned on them."

"Didn't he explain that it was his job to cover everything?" I said.

"Harry, you and I know that Jeremy was a bit of a scamp. Whenever he tried any of that crap with me I just cut his legs right out from under him. No, he fessed up and told me the truth, just as you did."

"And what did he tell you, if you don't mind me asking?" I asked.

"He said that things weren't the same in the Agency anymore, that we were losing our moral compass and not respecting the law. There was a faction within the Company that was totally out of control and he needed to have the facts in order to do something about it...when the time was right."

"So what did you do?" I asked.

"I helped him. What else could I do?"

"Good for you."

"Not only that, I knew a thing or two myself, so I steered him to other documents he needed to see."

"Were these the things that you are holding over their heads?" I probed.

"Those are still my secrets, Harry. If Jeremy ever went public I was planning to join him on the witness stand. Now that Jeremy has been killed they may be the only thing keeping me alive -- if you can call this living."

"Millie, I don't want to burden you, but there are some facts concerning Jeremy's death you need to know."

She straightened up in her chair and said, "Enlighten me!"

"Jeremy died because he had decided to go public. He had given a deposition to the U.S. Attorney in New York and was on his way home when he was killed. I've been hired by the prosecutor's office to help build a case around Jeremy's testimony. That means we need evidence and witnesses to corroborate his testimony."

"No kidding? This is for real?" she brightened.

"Scout's honor, Millie. I've read part of his deposition. It details specific events with names, dates, document reference numbers, the whole nine yards."

"Good luck on ever getting the Agency to release even a single page. You know how they can stonewall: 'Classified Documents', 'National Security', 'Executive Privilege', whatever they have to say to justify keeping the documents hidden."

"Yes, but Jeremy knew that too," I said. "He must have figured out a way to copy enough pages to substantiate his case, don't you think?"

"Copying isn't as much of a problem as it used to be. He could have used a cell phone to capture anything he wanted. Getting it out would be a bit of a challenge, though. The Agency is scared to death that someone could walk off with the family jewels. Everything is searched and every unauthorized device is electronically erased when you leave."

"So how could he have gotten the evidence out of the building?" I asked.

She sat back a bit and thought about the question. "I really don't know about Jeremy, but here's how I'd do it."

Now she had my undivided attention. Wish I'd brought a cassette recorder.

"I'd convert it back to paper and carry it out the front door, I would."

"Don't they search briefcases and handbags anymore?" I asked.

"As long as it wasn't a CIA Confidential Document with red stripes they'd never give it a second glance. After you left, the management geniuses in charge of administration downsized the so-called Security Section and replaced them with rent-a-cops."

"Why would they do that?" I asked.

"It probably saved the taxpayers all of a dollar a day. So they lost all the experienced people and wound up with a bunch of empty uniforms that wouldn't know a state secret if it bit them on the bottom. All the emphasis today is on electronic gadgetry. They don't think that paper has any value anymore."

"And you think this could work?" I asked.

"I know it could. That's how I got my 'insurance policy' out of the building. I just glared at them while they passed right over the secrets I was making off with."

"You always made me uncomfortable when you glared at me," I said.

"Well, I'll let you in on a little secret, Harry. The 'glare' was a special look that my mother used to make my father confess his misdeeds. I saw how effective it was and practiced it until I could do it myself. It came in very handy over the years."

"Maybe I should use it in this investigation," I said.

"You're going to need all the help you can get. The people you're after are very clever. It took Jeremy a long time and a lot of digging in order to find even a few scraps of evidence that could be used against them."

"They covered their tracks pretty well I take it."

"You betcha, Red Rider. But that can also work in your favor. If they mistakenly violated the law, that would be one thing. The fact that they went to a lot of trouble to conceal their involvement proves that they knowingly committed illegal acts."

"Good point, Millie. Now how do you feel about giving us your evidence and testimony to finish the work that Jeremy started?"

Millie had confided to me that her 'insurance policy' was being held in trust with a lawyer along with specific mailing instructions in the event of an unnatural death. When I asked if she wouldn't mind adding Sherman Marshall to her distribution list she readily agreed. I gave her his phone number and mailing address and left it to her to determine whether she would testify if the case came to trial in the meantime.

We said our goodbyes, making hollow promises to stay in touch. "Don't be a stranger," she pleaded with eyes, giving me a lingering hug at the end. All of her physical needs were being met by the nursing home staff. Everything was thoughtfully provided except regular visitors. I felt badly for her even as I was leaving. God help me when and if I get to be 85.

It occurred to me that Jeremy might have left a package with his attorney, if he even had one. Brenda would probably know. I didn't want to get into this discussion over the phone, making a mental note to cover everything with her the next time we were face to face. In addition to someone following her, we had to assume that they would also have bugged her phones. Not being able to call her with anything substantive was going to get old in a hurry.

Ah, but then I remembered the special phone I could use to update my playing client. All I had to do was figure out which buttons to push to activate the speed dial. It seemed that all electronic gadgets were now intuitively designed and didn't need instructions anymore. The manual was either stored internally or available on the Internet. Didn't manufacturers understand if we could do all that for ourselves we wouldn't need manuals in the first place? When the answering machine picked up on the third ring, I left Sherm a summary message.

"Sherm, it's Harry. Obviously I got your package and am working hard to earn my pay here. Dr. Millie McCluskey, that's M-C-C-L-U-S-K-E-Y, retired chief of document services, is joining the team. She has some documents of her own and may be willing to take the stand. The bad news is that she's 85, in a nursing home and needs more time to think about giving up the evidence she has in her possession. Anyway, she also gave me some clues about how Jeremy could have gotten copies out of Langley."

Then I hung up, feeling like a babbling idiot. I hate all forms of dictation and answering machines on general principle. Jeremy had the ability to compose effortlessly on the fly and make it sound like something he'd worked on all day. I tend to freeze up thinking about the right words or the proper sequence of the message. My gifts are obviously in another realm. Anyway, that was done and I moved on to the next name on my list of potential witnesses.

Eddie Moskowicz had retired four years after I left the Agency. He spent his entire career at Langley as an analyst. He did his job well, didn't make waves and produced some of the most insightful analysis to ever come out of the 'puzzle palace'. But instead of standing out, his work was routinely underrated until history proved him to have been right all along. Whereupon his superiors took all the credit and were promoted beyond their levels of competence.

In time all they fell by the wayside or resigned before being fired. Nobody ever went back to Eddie to say that the Agency had made a mistake and was sorry for having underestimated him. But, bless his heart, Eddie never took any pleasure over the downfall of others. He just loved his adopted country and tried every day to do the best job that he could. What a great guy. When I arrived at his small suburban home he was watering the flowers in a planter on his porch.

"Eddie, you're looking well. How are you enjoying retirement?"

"Busier than ever, Harry. I just returned from a mission trip to Mexico."

"What were you doing in Mexico?"

"We finished building a church that some other volunteers had started last year. You should have seen how happy those people were to have a place where they could worship."

"This is the wrong time of the year to be working outside in Mexico."

"You get used to it. Next week I'm helping to repaint another old church in the District. Once they know you're retired they hardly leave you alone. They never seem to have enough volunteers, I guess. How are you doing?"

I put my hand on his shoulder and adopted a confidential tone. "I'm working on a case for the U.S. Attorney's office and could use some help."

"Wow. I heard you were doing some consulting," he said. "Why don't we go inside where we can talk?"

I followed him into the neatly appointed living room and sat down on the couch opposite his easy chair. The room was neatly arranged, mirroring the life of the characteristically organized analyst. "You worked on the Middle-East Desk, right?"

"Sure, Harry. Twenty-eight years in the same cubicle."

"And you were an expert on Iraq."

"I knew as much as anyone, I guess."

"And you provided your assessment of the situation before the Iraq invasion?"

"Sure, Harry. It was my job to give them my views on the situation."

"There's been a lot written about the origins of the Iraq war. Is there any truth to the rumor that the Agency may have seeded the conflict?"

This time he blinked and paused before answering. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean did someone change the facts in order to justify invading Iraq?"

"Where are you going with this, Harry? Enough people have been killed and maimed on both sides. Why are you dredging all this up now?"

I locked eyes and said to him seriously, "Because our country is broken and needs to be healed. We've lost confidence in our institutions and more people may die as a result of lies that have been covered up from the beginning. Because Jeremy Foster was a righteous patriot who died trying to save the Agency he loved. And because I may need a damn army to win this war and you are my first volunteer!"

"Good Lord, Harry. I had no idea about Jeremy. I was out of the country and didn't even make it to his funeral. He was a real stand up guy."

"He always said you were a great analyst, Eddie. That's why I'm here."

Shaken by the news and uncomfortable with being praised, Eddie took a moment to collect himself before speaking. "May I ask what happened to him?"

"He was killed in a car wreck that was made to look like an accident."

"My Lord, the poor man." Again he paused. "What does this have to do with Iraq?"

"Maybe nothing, Eddie, but there is a pattern of behavior here that I need to run to ground. Some people within the Agency were making up their own rules, taking the law into their own hands. Does that ring any bells with you?"

He squirmed in his seat, visibly uncomfortable with the direct questioning. "The truth is I'm a coward, Harry. I never complained when they dismissed my work, even when I was certain that my assessment was correct."

"Eddie, that's all water over the dam."

"No, I could have made a stronger case for my conclusions. Maybe I should have pushed harder when I had the chance. Analysts have to make certain assumptions and take their best guesses on the outcomes. The rest is left up to the higher-ups. They were just so intent on believing the worst that they ignored everything I had to say."

"So tell me, Eddie. What did you honestly think about Iraq?"

"Forgive me for saying so, but I think that Saddam had his ass handed to him during Desert Storm. He was supremely overconfident of his capabilities and totally underestimated the strength of the coalition forces. After the cease fire his army was in tatters. There was no way he had anything left but a few popguns. But I did my job, laid out different scenarios and tried to stretch it to match the rhetoric he was spewing. It wasn't even close."

"What about the U.N. inspections initiated after Poppy Bush halted Schwarzkopf at the Baghdad city limits?" I asked.

"We had access to all their reports. U.N. inspectors had been all through the suspected sites and were going back to do random updates. Saddam denied access to sites that had been swept clean in the previous 18 - 24 months. There was no way the Iraqis could have built up WMD capabilities in the interim. It was like looking at Hollywood movie sets."

"Then what made Saddam so belligerent?" I wondered.

"The simple answer was that he was trying to provoke us into increasing the amount of foreign aid. You know, he'd back off if we paid him off kind of thing. The Iraqi people suffered real deprivation while the sanctions were in force. Saddam and his thugs had skimmed off all the cream, leaving very little to trickle down."

"Why not simply play out the game? He could have let the inspections continue and eventually the sanctions would have been lifted."

"There were two reasons for that. First, it would have taken too long to rescind the sanctions and get the economy rolling again. Second, Iraq was a sitting duck. Saddam was deeply concerned about being overrun by Iran, Syria or Israel. He was losing his grip on the Kurdish, Shi'ite and Sunni factions and he needed a way to rally them around the flag."

"So you're telling me he was better off risking another war with the U.S.?" I said.

"Definitely. Think about it. Iran and Iraq fought to a stand still for almost a decade and suffered huge losses on both sides. There was no love loss there, believe me. And the Syrians and Israelis are both ruthless bastards who would leave him with nothing but scorched earth. But the benevolent U.S. came in with precision air strikes, spanked him hard for 100 days and then gave them truckloads of money to help rebuild the infrastructure blown up in the bombing."

"Now that you put it that way, he may have been crazy like a fox," I said.

"At least not as crazy as he appeared to be. The only problem was he got caught in the crossfire between the Administration and Osama Bin Laden."

"I didn't think that _Al Qaeda_ had any real presence in Iraq," I stated.

"They didn't while Saddam was in charge. He hated them. Osama used the invasion as an excuse to stir up the faithful and create havoc for U.S. troops on the ground."

"What about our retaliation for the 9/11 attacks?" I asked.

"Those had nothing to do with Saddam. The President set out to complete what his father left unfinished a decade earlier. For him it was like hitting the trifecta. He could restore the family honor, get control of Iraqi oil supplies and reward the military-industrial complex that put him in office. Remember, Ike warned us about them more than 50 years ago."

"What about the evidence Colin Powell showed to the U.N?" I asked.

"You mean the intelligence about yellow-cake bombs and the satellite photos of the processing labs?"

"Yeah. Those were supposed to be the smoking guns."

"Harry, those were all fabricated at Langley and I can prove it."

"I'm all ears, Eddie."

"The Israelis would have been all over any dirty warheads long before we ever heard of them, for one. They could have launched a preemptive strike any time they wanted. Look what they did in Syria and Palestine if you don't believe me."

"It isn't that I don't believe you, Eddie. I was just hoping for something more substantive than logic," I explained.

"Oh, I have that too. Give me a minute to find the photo." He left me sitting in his spotlessly clean living room while he went to retrieve the evidence. Personal organization and cleanliness are worthwhile qualities when you don't take them to such extremes.

"Here it is, Harry," he said, handing me an 8 x 10 glossy. "Blow it up and you can see that the shadows aren't uniform around the structures. The irregularities are evidence of dithering, meaning that the pixels in the image were manipulated after two or more images were morphed into the picture they wanted to create. It was pretty sloppy work. Someone must have been in a real hurry to produce the evidence."

I told myself that we still had a long way to go, but I was definitely pumped after meeting with Millie and Eddie. Meager as it was, we had physical evidence and credible witnesses to criminal activity. While the crimes would have to be tied to specific people in the Agency, it wasn't too shabby for my first day on the payroll. I left a second report on Sherm's answering machine, put my encrypted phone away and switched to my personal cell phone to call Brenda. "Do you feel like getting out for a little fresh air?"

"Nah, I'd rather stay here and clean my apartment for the third time," she said flippantly. "Of course I'd like to get out. The walls are beginning to close in on me."

Brenda was definitely growing on me. I had always admired her when she and Jeremy were together, and even though their marriage fell apart I never allowed myself to think of her as a desirable woman, if you know what I mean. When they were married twenty-odd years ago she had shapely legs, a good body, a dazzling smile, gorgeous dark red hair and captivating green eyes. Well, she still has all that and more. Now there are delicate laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, a few more curves in the right places, a delightfully wicked sense of humor and a sassy confidence that makes her fun to be around.

Nevertheless, the timing was all wrong to think about 'us' as a couple. She was very vulnerable right now. Losing Jeremy was bad enough for me. I couldn't imagine how it must be for her. It wouldn't be fair for me to take advantage of her neediness. We'd both hate ourselves later. It was better to play it cool, give her time to grieve her loss and see what happens down the road. Now, if I could just keep saying these things over and over to myself I might be able to maintain a more noble state of mind.

Brenda was waiting for me on the front steps when I pulled up to the curb in front of her apartment. As she climbed in on the passenger side she said, "Harry, I'm going to give you a big hug and a kiss for the benefit of that guy parked across the street. Don't look at him now. Keep your eyes on me and pretend that you're really glad to see me. When you pull out, make a U-turn and I'll point him out as we pass."

My nobility evaporated in a nanosecond as she slid across the seat and wrapped her arms around me. I responded enthusiastically with a brief but passionate kiss on her soft, inviting lips. She smelled so good and felt so right in my arms. For a fleeting moment I had the impulse to hang onto her and never let go. Then I remembered that we were just playing the roles of lovers and broke it off as she began to pull away. My imagination may have gone into overdrive because it almost seemed like her eyes lingered on mine as she was reaching for her seat belt.

After she buckled in, I slowly pulled out into traffic and turned back the way I had just come. "Third car on my side. The dark blue Ford LTD," she said as I accelerated past the parked vehicles. It was definitely a Company car, but I didn't recognize the driver. He was Caucasian with no sideburns or facial hair, wearing a black baseball cap over his short brown hair, dark glasses and a plain black windbreaker. I watched him in my rear-view mirror as he waited until we were a block away before pulling out to follow.

"When did you first notice him?"

"When I went to bed last night. He was parked closer to the corner but it was the same guy in the same car. I watched him after I went to bed to see if he might try something funny, but he just sat there. He may have been talking on a cell phone once or twice, but I couldn't really see him all that well through the tinted glass. He finally left about thirty minutes after I turned off the lights. This morning he was sitting where you saw him when I got up. So I thought I'd better give him another reason for us being together so much. You're a pretty good actor, Harry."

"You seem pretty calm about the whole thing."

"Yeah, well you warned me to expect something. I just didn't think it would be so soon. Do you think he was following me yesterday? I wasn't paying that much attention. Maybe you were right about my car being bugged after all. It was just my good fortune that the dealer gave me the loaner."

"I don't want you to worry, Brenda. Nobody is going to hurt you. They'll probably go away after things settle down a bit. If nothing happens as a result of Jeremy's 'accident', they'll figure they're in the clear."

"How long will that take?" she asked.

"Probably a couple of weeks for all the paperwork to clear. The State Police will file their reports, then the State's Attorney rubber stamps it and the County Coroner conducts a brief inquest and issues the death certificate. Presto, case closed."

"What about any documents Jeremy may have hidden? Won't they keep following me until one of us finds the evidence?"

"It amounts to the same answer," I said. "If nothing happens in the next two weeks, they'll still figure they're in the clear. The odds of finding anything after that are reduced pretty quickly. Whatever Jeremy stashed away could remain hidden forever."

"How can you be so sure?"

"The law of diminishing returns," I said with more authority than I was feeling at the moment. "The longer you run a surveillance op the more chance there is of discovery, which then changes the behavior of the person you're watching. After that, what's the point? No, they'll run this thing for two or three weeks and break it off."

"I just hope that you're right. So, where are we off to, Laurence Olivier?"

"Oh, you liked my performance?" I said with a smile.

"Maybe you could use a bit more practice."

"It's a tough job but somebody has to do it."

"OK, Romeo, so where are we going?"

"How would you like a nice boat ride where we can be alone together? You don't get seasick, do you?" I hoped.

One of the perks of living in my particular trailer park is the occasional use of a runabout that the owner keeps in a slip on the Potomac River. There's a signup sheet in the park's office that is used to reserve the boat for a particular day. As long as we obey the maritime rules and regulations, fuel it and clean it up when we bring it back, the owner pays for everything else. He has even been known to accept an occasional fish as a bonus. We always tell him it was caught downstream toward the bay, whether it was or not. It's a pretty good deal overall.

I could tell that Brenda was impressed with the boat and the smooth way that I got us underway. Other than forgetting to untie the stern line as we were leaving the dock I think I did pretty well for an occasional sailor. At least I remembered to have us don and buckle our life preservers before starting the engine. The boat is what's called a Whaler, made for maneuvering in the high seas often encountered off shore. I don't have to go there to believe their advertising claims. I'm perfectly happy fishing in the bay with some of the guys from the park or just cruising up and down the river with a good-looking girl.

Once we cleared the 'no wake zone', I gave the throttle a nudge and the big outboard propelled us quickly out to the middle of the river. It was a glorious sunny day with a light easterly breeze and plenty of room to cruise. The other boats enjoying the scene were too far away to bother us. It was too bad we had serious work to do. At least we didn't have to worry about bugs or eavesdroppers out here.

I told Brenda about my conversations with Millie and Eddie and what I thought we needed to do next. "I've still got a few calls to make around the District, but there are three people I really need to see who now live in Central Florida. What do you say to flying down with me for the weekend?"

"Harry, you dog. The kiss was only for the benefit of the guy tailing me."

"Come on, I'm serious here Brenda. We can make it look like a romantic getaway without compromising your virtue. You'll have your own bedroom while I sleep on the hide-a-bed in the living room. I need your help to make the most of these interviews. If you'll monitor the tape recorder and take a few notes, I can better concentrate on the questions. It'll save me running back and forth just to ask something I could have found out during the first visit."

"I'm just yanking your chain, big guy," she said with a playful punch to my shoulder. "Of course I'll help. What girl in her right mind would turn down a chance to fly down to Florida for the weekend? When do you want to leave?"

"I'll pick you up early Friday morning, say seven-thirty. That should give us enough time to get to the airport and clear all the security hurdles before departure. The people I want to see are all within driving distance of the airport in Tampa. I've set up appointments for us to spend up to a half-day with each of them, so we should be back here no later than Sunday afternoon."

"It sounds heavenly, Harry. It'll be good to see some of Jeremy's friends who didn't make it to the funeral."

By this point we had cruised several miles upriver, leaving the other pleasure craft far behind. I cut the power, brought us around and reset the throttle so that we could enjoy a more leisurely return trip. She was having a good time, pointing our features along the shoreline and kidding me about my seamanship. In my defense, I managed to maneuver safely to the fuel dock, top off the tanks and return to the mooring slip without incident. She helped me wash and recover the boat so we could leave it cleaner than when we had taken it out. Then I took her back to her apartment, kissed her goodbye and reluctantly went home to spend the night alone.

Brenda was ready when I stopped to pick her up at her place on Friday, and traffic was relatively light on the way to Reagan National Airport. I found a good spot to park my truck in the long-term lot and got us to the right terminal with plenty of time to spare. Somehow it was less of a hassle traveling with Brenda. Maybe she took my mind off all the TSA airport nonsense. She just seemed to roll with the punches and didn't get uptight when they asked her to take her shoes off. Having her along made it seem like more of an adventure, I guess.

At any rate, the plane took off as scheduled and arrived more or less on time in Tampa. We lucked out with a free upgrade at the rental car counter and checked into our hotel just after noon. Brenda had already spotted billboards for the International Mall and made me promise to take her there for dinner so that we could shop late on Saturday night. While she freshened up, I called to confirm our appointment with Fred Stone for two o'clock and verified the driving directions to his condo on the causeway between Tampa and St. Petersburg.

Fred and his wife Gail enjoyed a magnificent view of Tampa Bay from their 23rd floor balcony. You could see planes landing in the distance as well as small boats sailing far out into the Gulf. The Stones had retired to Tampa just before the fall elections in 2004, moving into their condo a few months later. After making sure we had refreshments, Gail left us alone to talk about Agency business. I had told Fred that we needed to talk privately when we set up the appointment two days ago.

He and I had worked together on a number of operations over the years, but after I left the Agency his principal assignment had been counter-terrorism. "I take it that this is about Jeremy, seeing that both you and Brenda are here."

"You guessed it, Fred. We think Jeremy was murdered to keep him from blowing the whistle on some bad actors in the Company. He told his story to a U.S. Attorney before he was killed, and I've been hired to gather evidence to support his allegations. Brenda's here because Jeremy may have left her some clues that we don't yet understand, but we're hoping you can shed some light on the subject."

"I wish I could say I was surprised, Harry. Jeremy was swimming with some real Piranhas on the top floor. In my book they went way over the line. But before I say any more, are you going to need me to testify? You know I did some jobs for Special Services that can never be discussed, if you get my drift." The Agency was scrupulously tight-lipped about its 'black operations', doing things it wasn't supposed to do in places it wasn't supposed to be. The fact was that ever since the days of Wild Bill Donovan, Special Ops teams had gone in ahead of regular troops to gather intelligence and soften up the resistance. It was a necessary evil to which the official response had always been 'no comment'.

Among the few who had survived many such campaigns, all Fred would ever say was that he had been there and had done that. He wasn't especially proud of it, but he told himself that he was just a dutiful case officer following orders. I told him not to be concerned when Brenda brought out the cassette recorder. Regardless of what might have happened in the past, we were only concerned about Agency activities since 2001."Why don't we try it this way, Fred. Tell us what you know and I'll get the U.S. Attorney to grant you immunity on the chargeable offenses if and when he decides to use your testimony."

"Fair enough, but there's also the matter of some papers I signed when I mustered out. They said very explicitly that I could go to jail for divulging Agency Confidential information."

"Fred, believe me, you can't be held to a contract which bars you from divulging criminal activity within a culpable entity that is also a party to the contract. I'll get it for you in writing if you like," I said with as much gravitas as I could muster.

He laughed at my attempts to sound authoritative. "We got spooks playing lawyer and lawyers playing spook. What will they think of next?" He picked up the pitcher of iced tea and refilled his glass, offering more to both Brenda and me.

"Sure, I'd love another hit. So tell us about the lawyers," I said. "It must be hilarious."

"Scary is more like it," he said soberly, taking a long drink from the frosty glass. "After 9/11 they threw the damn book out the window. The brass hats reamed us up one side and down the other for being surprised by a bunch of Muslim amateurs. We were told to go out, pick them up off the streets and get answers any way we could."

"You mean within limits, right. You had some rules of engagement."

"There were only two rules. The lawyers told us once they were in custody, get rid of any insignia and classify them as 'enemy combatants'. Then get them to talk any way we had to. Some of those poor bastards are still being held at Gitmo, or worse."

"You mean stuff like water-boarding and illegal detention?" I asked.

"Harry, it was more like kidnapping, torture, false imprisonment and murder. They told us to press them to the limit and if they died, so be it. Our job was to get information, not confessions. They were already convicted as far as we were concerned."

"Sounds more like the KGB than the CIA," Brenda said.

"It just about turned my stomach," he said, "going against everything I was brought up to believe about our way of life. We didn't even do that shit when I was in 'Nam. It's one of the things that was supposed to make us different."

Brenda winced at what Fred had just told us. No wonder Jeremy was so disturbed by what he had uncovered. But this had happened over six years ago. Whatever had upset Jeremy must have been far worse. "Did anything significant happen in the few weeks before he died?"

"Can't tell you, Brenda. I walked out in 2004 and never looked back, at least when I'm awake. My dreams are another matter."

"Maybe it happened earlier and Jeremy only learned about it recently," she suggested.

"The only thing I can think of was more of a rumor, but I don't want to implicate someone who may have been totally innocent."

"Fred, let's let the cards fall where they may," I said. "Too many people have already looked the other way while protecting one another's asses. We are all accountable for our actions. When you cross the line, you have to assume you're going to pay for it at some point."

"OK, but this is just scuttlebutt, you understand," he said. "We were in the middle of a major shift to ELINT, electronic intelligence. It was supposed to be the next big thing in our business. My golfing buddy in Signal Ops told me that he was given tasking orders to track mouse holes 24/7 in the border region west of Pakistan."

"What are mouse holes?" Brenda asked.

"Sorry, he was supposed to be looking at natural caves in the Tora Bora region," he said. "After the invasion of Afghanistan the rebels used them as hideouts to escape our forces."

"And...." I prompted to get him back on track.

"They were hoping to smoke out high-level _Al Qaeda_ leaders who were holed up in the caves. All the regular troops were moved out of the area so it would look like the coast was clear. Covert teams on both sides of the Pakistani border were supposed to go in by chopper as soon as the bird detected anyone sticking his head out of a cave."

"Then what happened?" I asked.

"After watching around the clock for several days, everything was suddenly shut down tight. It was like the satellite tasking orders never existed and my buddy and his team were transferred to other assignments. All the rumors stopped cold."

"What do you really think happened, Fred?"

"Beats me, Harry. Like I said, it was just scuttlebutt."

"Take your best shot, Fred. You're among friends here. I know you and your Signal Ops buddy wouldn't have just thrown up your hands and walked away."

"Look, Harry, I'm only guessing here, but I think they got lucky. It was a one-in-a-million shot to even see somebody in that terrain. But shutting everything down like that was a pretty clear signal that they had bagged a really big fish. What gets me is why all the secrecy? It was like they didn't want anybody to know about it."

Brenda and I stayed on Fred's balcony for another hour, picking his brain for names, dates and specific locations. He recalled many of the down and dirty parts except when it came to the names of detainees, many of whom still visited him nightly. Some shrink will no doubt say that he didn't want to remember those events in his life so he blocked them out. Between Gail and his new life with a bird's-eye view of Tampa Bay, it looked to me like he was getting the right medicine to help him begin to heal.

We made another pass at the scuttlebutt scenario without learning anything new. Fred protested that he was just guessing, but finally gave up his buddy's name, Al Mosconi, along with approximate dates of the 'operation'. We thanked him for his hospitality, said our goodbyes to Gail and strolled gaily arm and arm out into the brilliant Florida sunshine. You never can tell when someone might be watching.

I made a left turn out of the parking lot and continued west toward St. Petersburg to a cozy seafood place that Fred had recommended for dinner. If he and Gail hadn't already made plans with some of their condo neighbors, they would have joined us. It was one of their favorite haunts. 'Gino's Crab Shack' had weather-beaten, unpainted wooden siding, was adorned with fishing nets and hawsers and covered with a Florida-style tin roof. The inside was dark and cool with the usual assortment of wooden tables and booths. A long shell-encrusted bar stretched along one wall. There was also a shaded patio with a magnificent view of the gulf, an appetizing menu and two-for-one drinks until the dinner hour. In my book, all the bases were covered.

Before losing any more brain matter to the alcohol, I decided to step away on the patio and check in with Sherm and fill him in on our progress. Instead of the answering machine that I had grown so fond of, the call forwarded to another number which Sherm picked up on the first ring. "Harry, I was just thinking about you. Good work on the testimony you elicited from Millie and Eddie. We're off and running." I could hear kids' voices in the background, so he must have been at home for the long weekend.

"Better than that, Sherm. Brenda's being followed by some dude in a Company car. In fact, there are two Hispanic gentlemen outside cooling their heels in the parking lot right now. They'd stick out like Elliot Ness in a Speakeasy if they came in here to get out of the heat."

"That is good news. Hope you guys are taking precautions."

God, what an opening to say something utterly naughty and inappropriate. But I resisted the impulse and ignored the chance for a slam-dunk double entendre. "Yeah, Sherm, we're being careful. Brenda and I don't talk on the phone and we're masquerading as lovers to cover the time we're spending together. It was her idea."

"She's a very classy lady. You should be so lucky to have her as a lover. The worst decision Jeremy ever made was to let her go. She's a real keeper. Might even be our ace in the hole. Got anything else?"

"Brenda and I just debriefed a former counter-terrorism specialist who gave us more ammo for the case. Right now it's just his word, but he gave us names of other agency people who were involved."

Halfway through my summary of Fred's story Sherm cut me off. "Harry, I need you to focus more on domestic crimes. Were any of the detainees U.S. citizens?"

"I thought that might be the case after you told me that International Law could be tricky. As far as I know all the guys Fred knew about were foreign nationals. But he did give us another possible lead."

This time Sherm waited until I had given him the whole nine yards about the rumored covert operation in Afghanistan. "A big fish, eh. Interesting angle if you can flesh it out. Stay on it."

"Gotcha boss. Right now I'm going to have a two-for-one toddy and try to forget what Fred told us about mistreating enemy combatants."

"Good plan, Harry, but don't get the idea that we're turning a blind eye to the abuses. The Supreme Court just gave detainees the same rights to due process as U.S. citizens. They'll have their day in court and those who mistreated them will have to answer for their actions."

"Really? When did this happen?" I asked.

"About three weeks ago. It was a complete surprise. No one predicted that they'd make such a landmark decision. Don't you follow the news?"

Ignoring his sarcasm I said, "Sherm, do you believe in coincidences?"

"No. What's wrong?"

"I got a funny feeling about this," I said. "Something really upset Jeremy about the same time. Did he say anything to you about a major event?"

"Not that I recall. Let me replay the deposition to be sure."

"Is there any chance that something else significant might have happened about the same time?" I asked.

"It's doubtful, but I'll have someone check it out and let you know."

Sherm rang off and I replaced the phone in my side pocket. Brenda was watching me with a mischievous smile, tracing the lip of her glass with her fingertip. "What was all that about using protection?" she asked with a smirk.

"Sherm was commenting about us being followed," I said. There was nothing to be gained by torturing myself with sexual fantasies that were currently out of reach. "He cares a great deal about you and doesn't want you taking any chances."

"And when were you going to mention the two guys who have been following us since we left the rental car lot?" she asked.

"You saw them too, huh. They're probably locals working on contract. Nothing to worry about, really. Just keep hugging me up and everything will be cool."

"As if I needed a reason to hug you, Casanova."

Between the afternoon sun and the exotic drinks, it was sure getting warm on that patio.

The man in the Company car was in no hurry to leave Brenda's apartment. He took his time, searching carefully and thoroughly, wiping off every surface he touched, putting everything back exactly as he had found it. After long practice he was able to bypass residential locks as easily as if he were using a key, and the Cuban ex-pats who were watching Brenda would alert him if we made any move to come back sooner than Sunday afternoon.

While he was a diligent worker, he really didn't care if he found anything or not. For him it was all about maintaining focus and discipline. His mantra was to do exactly what he was told, keep his mouth shut and collect his pay. His mission today was very simple: search and report. Nothing more. He had learned from long experience that there were times to exercise initiative and there were times to exercise restraint. Clearly, this assignment called for restraint.

The Caller had been very disappointed with his last performance. He had not anticipated that Brenda might switch vehicles at the dealer, and even though there were the auditory barriers in the restaurant, he should have found a way to capture our conversation. Thus, it was much better for him to toe the line precisely and regain the confidence of his superior. Only when he was satisfied that the search was completed did he dial the now familiar number, listen for two rings, disconnect and wait. Twelve minutes later he answered on the first vibration.

"Report," the Caller said without preamble.

"The search was negative. I covered her apartment from top to bottom."

"As I had anticipated. It would have been careless of Jeremy to have hidden anything in the woman's apartment. And what about her car?"

"All secure, sir. The dealer's mechanics did not disturb the listening device. I verified that pickup and transmission are both within specifications."

When the Caller did not respond the Company man continued his report.

"I also set up surveillance on Wilson's trailer. Do you want it searched too?"

"Not yet. He might be expecting it. Even you could miss one of his telltales. Let's wait and see how things develop. I am curious to know whether he's taking advantage of Jeremy's ex-wife or if they are hiding something."

The Company man was accustomed to his superior's rhetorical questions. He waited patiently for the man to think. Three minutes passed before he heard another sound.

"Lester, I've concluded it's highly probable that she knows you are following her. Her display of affection may simply be a distraction calculated to throw us off."

"Yes, sir."

"Nevertheless, we still need to find out what they're up to. Instruct the Cubans to record their conversations if at all possible."

"Will do, sir. I'll take care of that immediately."

"It's probably a long shot, but we'll never know until we try. Video tape would be best. That way we don't have to rely on their interpretation of events to discern what is going on."

"Of course, sir."

"Now, when they return to town I'm going to give you some help so that both of them can be followed independently. They might be planning to use the woman as a decoy so that Wilson can be free to retrieve whatever Foster may have hidden."

"Yes sir, as you wish."

But the call had already been terminated when the Caller finished speaking.

The dinner was superb, the drinks were splendid and the sun setting over the gulf was indescribable. We took our time eating and talking and laughing, savoring the moment as if there were anything we could do to make it last longer. Maybe it was our way of putting the ugliness of the world on hold, even if only for a little while. Too bad I was supposed to be playing a role. This could have been a great beginning to a night of incredible passions.

Mainly we talked about our favorite recollections of Jeremy. Brenda needed more time to let him go and I wanted to respect her feelings. Besides, talking about Jeremy wasn't really a chore for me. I treasured his friendship and had many warm memories of the crazy things we did in our younger days. Like the time we were picked up by the East German Secret Police and Jeremy convinced them that we were lingerie salesmen from London. They let us go when he promised to send the station chief some outtakes from risqué catalogs and a dozen pairs of sheer nylons. Other times it had been Jeremy, Brenda and me, three musketeers ferreting out obscure restaurants in the disparate neighborhoods of the Nation's capital. Yes, it was good for the three of us to be together again, if only in our memories.

By the time we finished our coffee and dessert I felt sober enough to drive. We hadn't had all that much to drink but Brenda convinced me that there was no sense taking any chances. Why rush things when connecting the dots on this case might be enough to get us both killed for our efforts. So instead of leaving the restaurant right away, we took off our shoes and strolled along the water's edge for another half hour. Moonlight shimmered on the gentle swells off shore as we walked hand-in-hand along a broad expanse of beach sand exposed by the low tide. The warm Gulf waters felt soothing underfoot, a gentle complement to the cooling effects of a steady breeze stirring the damp night air.

On returning to the rental car, we brushed off whatever sand we could and began retracing our route back to the hotel. When we passed the Stone's condo tower building it brought to mind the respective conversations we had with Fred and Sherm Marshall.

"Harry, why do you think the Supreme Court decision might have upset Jeremy? He would have been doing cartwheels with the good news about the detainees Fred talked about."

"I have no idea, Brenda. It just strikes me that the timing was too convenient. Jeremy was dealing with malfeasance on a grand scale, so it would have taken something really big to shake his world. Unless I missed something else that happened at the same time."

"Sherm was only messing with you, Harry. He wasn't really being critical."

"I know. Anyway, he said he'd have someone check it out."

"Harry, I think we need to take the next right to get back to the hotel. Maybe we could hit the library on the way to our appointment tomorrow."

"I've got a better idea. Let Sherm check it out for us. There could be something that the public doesn't know about yet. The Feds have computer access to all that stuff."

"How did you get to be so smart?"

"Hey, I am a professional," I said with mock seriousness.

We both laughed. It was a real joy sharing this time with Brenda. She was so much fun to be with. God help you if you ever wound up on her bad side. She could be a holy terror when her Irish surfaced, but most of the time she was in such a good mood that it was contagious. So, once again I resolved to keep our relationship in check as we entered our shared hotel suite. I had first dibs on the bathroom while she made up the hide-a-bed couch for me. Then I wished her a good night's sleep and closed the door softly behind me as I reluctantly left the bedroom.

It took me a long time to drop off to sleep. The strange pillow and mattress weren't helping any. Night was the time when the doubts of the day surfaced their ugly heads. While we were getting some traction with the interviews, I still had the feeling that I was out of my league. I hoped I was up to the challenge if we managed to actually corner one of the rats we were chasing. Now there's an image guaranteed to invade your dreams. Why does the mind play such games when all you want it to do is to be quiet and enjoy the rest? The last time I remember looking at the clock was just after two a.m.

The next thing I knew sunshine was streaming into the room through the open curtains. Brenda was singing away in the shower, already a step ahead of me. I could tell that this was going to be a good day. Despite the short night it was such a good feeling having her there. Procuring sacks of goodies at the local drive-thru, we ate a leisurely dashboard breakfast while on the way south to Bradenton. Our nine-thirty a.m. appointment was with Felicia Harrington, shift supervisor of the communications center until her retirement last year. She was a large, warm black woman who seemed to thrive on the chaos that came with her job.

She was waiting at the door as soon as we got out of the car and began to walk up the brick pathway. "Harry, Brenda, ya'll come on in here," she said, opening the screen door with one hand while holding back her two noisy terriers with the other. "Don't you mind these mangy old dogs. They're worthless but I still love them. We'll leave them in the house while we enjoy the patio."

Her back yard was heavily shaded by old-growth trees, a rarity along this part of the Florida coast. The property was more than 100 years old, purchased by her late husband in the late 70's. He had built their patio with treated wooden beams and concrete paving stones, adding a white-painted arbor to ensure that the far end would always have shade throughout the day.

"Bill and I always knew we'd retire here. It was out dream home for thirty years, but we didn't spend more than a week at a time here until about three years ago. When his heart got worse and he retired on disability, I would fly down to join him on the weekends. Then I retired, but we had no idea that we'd have less than a year together. You must feel the same way about Jeremy, child. Somehow I always thought of him as immortal."

"You're very kind to say so, Felicia. I'm so sorry that you didn't have more time together with your husband."

"Oh, we had many years together. We weren't meant to spend them here, is all. When the Lord calls you home, you go. Just like He did with Jeremy."

"We don't think this was the Lord's doing," I said.

Felicia grinned broadly. "Honey, the Lord is omniscient. He knows all there is to know. He wouldn't have been surprised to have ole Jeremy come home before his time. You're a God-fearing man. What would make you say such a thing?"

"I meant to say that we believe Jeremy was murdered to keep him from blowing the whistle on the Agency."

Her whole face fell as her mouth slacked open at the totally unexpected news. "Lord have mercy. How awful for you Brenda."

"Thank you, Felicia, but right now I'm just plain angry. Someone broke the law and killed Jeremy to cover it up. Please help us nail these bastards."

"Of course I will, Child. Jeremy was a dear friend. He always asked about Bill when he was so sick. He really cared about other people. What can I do to help?"

I told Felicia who I was working for and gave her a quick summary of what we had uncovered so far from Millie and Eddie. I omitted our discussion with Fred except for his comments about the detainees. She was shocked and visibly saddened, especially about the disregard for human rights.

"How could anyone do such things? I had no idea any of this was going on. I mean, I knew that there were some new people in charge, but they couldn't just ignore all the rules, could they?"

"Apparently someone did, Felicia. We'd like to know just how far it extended. That's why we're talking to people from all parts of the Agency. So, can you please tell us about your own experiences after 9/11?"

"Well, our work at the communications center was mainly to ensure that the trains ran on time. We maintained the network and verified the integrity of voice and data links worldwide. The conversion to ELINT just about broke us in the beginning, but we eventually figured out how to sustain significantly greater data traffic whether the lights worked or not."

"Did anything happen in the months leading up to the 2004 elections?"

"What do you mean, Harry?" she said warily.

"Sudden changes of direction, unusual requests, things like that."

"Depends what you call unusual, Honey. I mean, we were doing something new almost every month. Integration of Homeland Security data links, monitoring domestic stations, vetting sub-contractor networks..."

"Scuse me," I interrupted. "What were you doing with sub-contractors? I thought the network was Company-owned end to end."

"It used to be Company owned before all the management changes. Then they brought in outside companies to replace the employees who left during the purges. I don't have to tell you about downsizing, Harry."

"No, it was a bad deal all the way around," I said. "I'm doing all right personally, but there are plenty of others who are really struggling through no fault of their own."

"Some genius assumed that ELINT would let the Agency do more with fewer people," she continued. "Apparently nobody gave any thought to who might be on the other end of the link. Outside companies started showing up with a motley collection of speeds and protocols, and it was our job to figure out how to make it all work together."

"You are so preaching to the choir, Sister," I said.

"Some of the bigger companies even had their own satellite networks, so new security protocols had to be created in order to interface them to our systems. While all this was going on, videoconferencing was being pushed as an alternative to physical travel. Nobody stopped to ask us how we were going to piggyback voice and data, which gets really tricky when you have to synch the feeds with NRO over a dozen time zones."

"Better you than me. It all sounds very complicated," I said, having almost no clue what she was talking about.

"Now that you mention it, we did jump through some extra hoops."

"Yeah," I said, "we picked up some rumors about a special satellite op over Afghanistan."

She thought about it for a moment before recalling the specifics. "TOMBOY. It had to be Operation TOMBOY. They bent over backward trying not to use the codename, but the technicians had to call it something. You could have called it PEANUT BUTTER for all we cared. We scrambled like mad to set up a 24/7 geo-synchronous watch over some previously uncharted mountain range."

"So what happened?" I asked.

"You mean after we worked double and triple overtime to set it up?"

"Yeah, what were they trying to accomplish?" I probed.

"You know, I have no earthly idea," she said. "They told us not to concern ourselves with something that we had no need to know. Our job was to run the trains and not worry about who got on or off. We were also told to vacate the room and not record any of the feeds. When it was over, we were ordered to dismantle the setup and surrender all documentation."

"Was that unusual?" I asked.

"It was highly unusual. All those poor people losing their jobs in order to save the Agency money while we were spending like drunken sailors. We dedicated dozens of premium man-hours to put it all together and then threw away all of our notes and calculations a few days later. There was no way we could assemble it all again without starting from scratch. I mean, we barely got it to work and never even verified that it was properly installed. It just didn't make any sense to me."

"What about the part where you had to leave the room?" I asked.

"That was also weird, but then the same thing happened again with a series of special Videocon links to a contractor in Zimbabwe."

Brenda turned to me with a questioning look. We both knew that Jeremy had been to Africa within the past year. I don't remember his itinerary, but Zimbabwe didn't ring any particular bells. Was this even relevant to our investigation?

"Do you think there were any connections, Felicia?" I asked.

"You mean between Operation TOMBOY and Zimbabwe?" she said, shifting in her chair. "Beats me. It's a long way from Afghanistan if you ask me."

She was getting antsy, so I decided to pull on this thread of the conversation and see whether anything unraveled. "Forget about the geography and think about other possible connections. I know that you and your people were told to leave the room, but might there have been any other similarities?"

Felicia graced me with her million-dollar smile. "Lord, Harry, you expect this old woman to remember something that happened almost four years ago. Honey, I hardly remember what I had for breakfast." She rose from her chair and straightened her dress, giving us a signal that she was finished with the conversation.
I stayed seated and looked her in the eye. "Felicia, I've been watching you pull that 'poor old woman' act for the past twenty years. You know damn well who was on that link and whether they were involved in Operation TOMBOY."

She stiffened at the rebuke, but quickly regained her composure. "OK, Harry, but you didn't get any of this from me," she said, sitting back down. "I tried to keep you out of this, but you're a big boy and can decide for yourself what to do with this information. Just don't expect anything else from me. From here on out you're on your own."

"Sounds like someone may have threatened you," I suggested.

"They're too smart to come out in the open with threats. These are some very bad people. You need to be extremely careful."

"Felicia, Brenda and I are already in the cross-hairs. Right now there are two Hispanics parked across the street who followed us here in a tricked-out dark gray Lexus."

"Probably Cuban ex-pats. They still have a lot to learn about surveillance. They don't know enough to leave their bling at the _hacienda_. But, make no mistake; if they were hired to kill you, we'd all be dead by now. They are some really nasty folks, but very effective."

"So now we're both on the same page. They'll know we talked to you. You might as well tell us everything you know."

"Nice try Harry, but they're not after me. They're after you. And they aren't the people I'm concerned about."

"We can protect you, Felicia," I said, softening my tone. "You don't have to be concerned any longer."

"Easy for you to say, Honey," she said taking a deep breath. "The contractor used for TOMBOY was the same one who set up the Videocons from Zimbabwe."

"Now we're getting somewhere. Who was it?" I asked.

"A company called Vigilance Associates. They might be a division of some giant defense contractor, but that's just a guess. The word was that they were all ex-military goons with bad reputations, the kind that would do anything for money and don't hesitate to kill if they have to."

"I never heard of them. There must be 800 security firms on the Pentagon Rolodex. What makes these guys so special?" I asked.

"All I know is they have a lock on paramilitary sub-contracts for the Agency. They do especially dirty jobs and do them well, or so I'm told."

"Does this Agency 'lock' have a name?" I asked.

"You mean, whose ass did they have to kiss to get on the contract gravy train?"

"Felicia, I always love it when you talk dirty."

"The same guy who kicked me out of my own communications room, threatening me and my people if we ever said anything to anyone."

"So you knew all along that there was a connection between TOMBOY and Zimbabwe. Why all the intrigue?" I asked.

"I, ah, still have friends working there. They need their jobs. He'd take it out on them just to spite me."

"What if we protect you as a source? Give us his name and we'll just say that we got it elsewhere," I reasoned.

"Give me your word that my friends can keep their jobs?"

"Nobody can promise that," I said. "But I can promise you that they will not suffer retribution when we put this guy in jail."

"OK, I guess I can't ask for more than that."

"Who are we talking about, then?" I prompted.

"His name is Conklin, Dr. Mitchell Conklin. He's Assistant Deputy Director for Strategic Support, whatever that means."

"What do you think it means?"

"Mitchell Conklin is one ruthless sonofabitch, Harry. He can preach like a choirboy, but don't you ever underestimate him. He's the Devil incarnate."

Mitchell Conklin was a minor cog in the neocon machinery that seized control after the 2000 Presidential elections. A product of prestigious universities and Potomac think tanks, he shunned the public spotlight, preferring to wield power from behind the scenes. Dr. Conklin had been in and out of public service since the first Bush administration, serving as an advisor on national security issues in both the Pentagon and the White House.

Unlike the other "Chicken Hawks" who promoted a strong military commitment from everyone except themselves, he vigorously championed the use of covert strike teams to achieve political ends with minimal investment. Conklin praised Israel's willingness to use preemptive attacks to keep their enemies in check. Their aggressiveness instilled such trepidation that only their most reckless opponents would even consider retaliating.

He enthusiastically endorsed lean organizational models that could be adjusted through outsourcing, adding or subtracting sub-contract personnel with the stroke of a pen. While others touted the virtues of dynamically managing bottom-line expenses, Conklin was far more interested in the benefits of a deniable arm's length relationship. He argued that it enabled public entities to aggressively pursue policies without significant risk, since covert actions could always be blamed on the unfortunate acts of rogue operators.

True to the doctrine of plausible deniability, Conklin insulated himself and his superiors from direct involvement in any illegal activity. He was blessed with a superior intellect that earned him academic honors, a Rhodes scholarship, prestigious fellowships, lucrative speaking engagements and desirable appointments in academia as well as government. It also led him to believe that he was smarter than his colleagues and adversaries alike. Like his idolized Israelis, he cultivated an atmosphere of fear to motivate subordinates and discourage those who might be foolish enough to oppose him.

His controversial appointment to the CIA had ruffled feathers within the Agency and stirred speculation among graybeards in the media. For all of his self-assured pronouncements, he had no practical experience to back up his theories. Various aspects had been exercised by Israel, South Africa and other smaller nations, no one had as yet implemented the full range of actions espoused in his scholarly books and papers. However, none of this mattered in the long run because Conklin had the confidence of the White House. After the tragic events of 9/11, his star rose even higher.

Felicia insisted that we stay for lunch, enticing us with her homemade pasta salad. "I don't cook that much anymore, but I do enjoy fixing simple foods whenever I have the chance to entertain."

"You don't have to do anything special for us," I said. "We've been imposing on you and should be taking you out to lunch."

"Nonsense, Harry. You guys are more like family to me. Brenda, why don't you see if you can find some pickles and any salad dressing you might like in the fridge."

While Brenda rooted around I watched Felicia chop onions for the salad. She appeared to be steady while she was cutting, but her hands trembled when she stopped to ask Brenda to find some radishes. When she noticed me watching her hand she put the knife down.

"I guess I'm busted, aren't I," she said sheepishly. "It's Parkinson's Disease, Harry. They diagnosed it almost four years ago. The medication I take to control the tremors doesn't seem to be doing me much good lately. It was fine as long as I was working, but they told me it would be temporary at best. In time the shaking will get worse and worse."

"I'm so sorry, Felicia. I didn't mean to pry," I said.

"Harry, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm just a silly old woman trying to hang on to her foolish pride. Getting old isn't for sissies."

"Nonsense," said Brenda, embracing her. "There's no shame in being sick."

"Oh I know, Honey," said Felicia with tears in her eyes. "I've been keeping it secret for so long that it's hard to kick the habit. My husband suffered from high blood pressure and congestive heart failure. He was so brave, but he kept getting weaker and weaker. He didn't need the additional burden of my problems, you know."

"So you kept it hidden from everybody," I guessed.

"Yeah, beginning with me. I kept telling myself that it was nothing, just my nerves. You know, like a sympathetic reaction to Bill's condition. So I cut back on caffeine, tried to get more sleep, anything to manage the stress on my own. But nothing helped."

"It must have been frightening," Brenda said.

"It sure was, but then it got so bad that I had to do something. Sooner or later somebody would have noticed my hands shaking and turned me in to the medical department. I needed to keep working in order to qualify for my full pension. Having both of us on disability wasn't going to pay the bills, you know."

"How do you know that you couldn't continue working?" I asked.

"I couldn't take the chance, Harry. If the Company doctors had blown the whistle on me, I would have been moved to a lower-stress position shuffling paper. You know how long it would have taken them to cut my salary?" she said with a snap of her fingers.

"And that would have affected your pension calculation."

"Exactly. I needed a raise, not a demotion."

"So then you went to an outside doctor," I said.

"I found a private clinic in northeast D.C. They tested me and gave me the bad news along with some prescriptions and information about drug therapy. Since then I've learned that the next step for me is probably a surgical implant to control the shaking. Everyone's careful not to use the word 'cure' when talking to me, but there are therapy alternatives. Unfortunately all of them cost a lot of money."

"What about Medicare?" I asked.

"It only covers the basics, Honey. That's really why I didn't want to tell you about Conklin. If he messes with my pension I won't be able to afford the supplemental insurance I need to pay for more therapy when the time comes."

"Don't you worry, Felicia. The U.S. Attorney that I work for will protect your interests. You connected some pretty important puzzle pieces today: Conklin and Vigilance Associates linked together with TOMBOY and Zimbabwe."

"It doesn't sound very impressive to me. We still have no idea what they were up to."

"What about some of the speculation we've heard?" Brenda asked.

"We got a tip that TOMBOY may have had something to do with snatching up an _Al Qaeda_ muck-de-muck," I said.

"That makes sense to me," Felicia said. "They burned lots of satellite hours staring at the wide open spaces in Afghanistan. What else would they be looking at?"

"Unfortunately, guesses are like belly-buttons -- almost everybody has one," I quipped. "What we need is someone to tell us what the hell TOMBOY was all about. Any ideas on who might know for certain?"

Felicia frowned and resumed chopping up vegetables. "Most times it was just Conklin, one or two henchmen and a technician in the comm room. Once the connection was working, the technician left the room."

"Do any of the henchmen have names?" I asked.

"Hans and Fritz? Mutt and Jeff? Bud and Lou? Honey, you know it wasn't Amos and Andy. That I would have remembered. I don't recall now that Mitchell ever introduced them. He wasn't into pleasantries. We hardly even breathed the same air."

"Harry," Brenda interjected, "What about Jeremy's deposition? Sherm said that there were more sections he didn't send you. Maybe...."

"Maybe we already have names to complete this puzzle," I said. "Good idea."

"You could also check the comm center log," Felicia added. "Everyone who entered the room had to sign the book. We also verified every signature against their Agency ID. Even the Director had to sign in. Just ask Janice Tuttle. She kept the log...but the fools downsized her right after I retired."

"Do you know where we can find her?" I asked.

"No, but I remember she had a degree in library science. I'm not sure if she had any friends or relatives in the area. I guess I can't be of much help, I'm afraid. But, if you'll set the table we're about ready to eat. Inside or outside?"

"Let's eat outside. Your patio is so beautiful and peaceful," I said.

"You sound just like Bill. He loved that patio."

And so we gathered around the patio table and ate and laughed together. After Bill died, Felicia had briefly considered selling their dream home, but so much of him was still there that she couldn't part with it at any price. "Like that paver over there by the ficus tree. It gave Bill fits when he put it in. Ficus roots run just below the surface to tap into standing water. So he had to chop all the roots out in order to get the paver to lay flat. He struggled with it for days, but he finally got it done. Six months later, it was back up again. Then six months after that and six months after that."

"That will preach a sermon, Sister. That will preach," I said.

"Yes, I suppose it will. Cut out the invasive roots and they just grow back over time. Unless you're willing to kill the whole tree, you have to keep going after the roots. I hope you have better luck with the roots that are choking the Agency."

Leaving Bradenton a little after one p.m., we headed northeast for our next appointment in Winter Haven. Before pulling out of the driveway, I called Sherm's answering machine and updated him on our new leads, asking him to find a phone number and address for Janice Tuttle. For all I knew she could have moved to Oregon to make cheese or raise mushrooms. Sherm's staff was much better equipped to chase her down.

"It's too bad we couldn't have stayed longer," Brenda mused. "Felicia is a real treasure and I've missed seeing her. I'm so glad we got to see their dream house."

"Yeah, she's special. But she's pretty isolated and is going to need lots of care down the road. It'll be a sad day when she has to sell her home."

"Things don't always work out the way you plan, you know, Harry. Jeremy and I used to talk about building our dream house, but we never progressed beyond the talking stage. It's just as well because we'd never have agreed on the same location. He would have been just as happy living in his smelly old fishing shack."

"Are we talking about the same Jeremy? He was a fisherman?" I asked.

"I didn't say that he actually fished. He just had a cabin in the northern Virginia Mountains. It was a place where he could get away on weekends whenever the walls started closing in. The former owner was an avid fisherman and he had decorated the place with stuffed fish and fly rods and nets."

"How come he never told me about this place?" I wondered.

"He never told anybody, Harry. It was his sanctuary, a place to decompress and to think. It wasn't set up for entertaining. It had one bedroom, a bathroom and kitchenette. It barely qualified as indoor plumbing. And it always smelled fishy. I went up there a couple of times, but it got old in a big hurry. After a while he just went up there by himself."

"What did he do with it?" I asked.

"As far as I know he still had it. I don't know when he used it last, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have sold it. Are you thinking he may have hidden something there?"

"It's worth checking out when we get back," I said. "One never knows."

We made it to Winter Haven in time for our three p.m. appointment with Charlie Short. At 6' 4" and over 300 pounds, he was anything but short. It was one of those jokes that began when he sprouted in high school and stayed with him ever since. He was a good-natured guy who probably heard more 'short jokes' than any man alive. Before retirement he had been in charge of the transportation unit for the Agency.

Charlie welcomed us with bear hugs at the front door, put cold drinks in our hands and led us through the house and out to the private dock behind his house. "Do you know that we actually have more lakes here than Lakeland does, but they got the rights to use the name first? So 'Winter Haven' was actually second choice. I love it here. I should have retired earlier and learned how to live on less money." Moored to the dock was a snazzy white pontoon boat with a white canvas top, twin outboards, built-in padded couches and captain's chairs, a well-stocked wet bar and a surround-sound stereo receiver. "Welcome aboard the 'Queen Mary'," Charlie said. The eponymous Mary, the second Mrs. Short, already sipping away on something frosty in one of the captain's chairs, echoed Charlie's greeting. "Ya'll must be Harry and Brenda. Welcome aboard!"

This was going to be a memorable afternoon, by gum. Mary was a petite bleached blonde with more of a sun tan than most western saddles. She might have been better off with a less revealing halter and short-shorts, but she was dressing to please Charlie, not me. I was wondering how we were going to have a meaningful conversation when the clouds parted. Mary stood up, apologized for having to leave us while she showed some property on another lake and disembarked. "Realtors have to be ready when the buyers are, you know."

Charlie watched her go with a loving smile on his face. "We met at the Senior Center Dance last year. It was love at first sight. We spend every moment together when she's not out doing her real estate business. She used to go out with a guy who sold used cars. Can you believe it? He was never around to enjoy her. Spent all his time with his stupid car lots. At least he treated her nicely until he dumped her to marry his secretary."

"Does she know about your work history?" I asked.

"Not exactly. I told her I retired from the State Department. Just figured it would be easier that way. She's not a real big fan of the government anyway. She thinks we'd all be better off if we got rid of 90% of government workers and just carried our own guns."

He fired up the outboards, untied the mooring lines and eased the Queen Mary away from the dock. I was about to ask about life preservers when I noticed them stowed neatly in the overhead. As it turned out we probably didn't need them because it was surprisingly smooth sailing on the lake. The big pontoons plowed right through the light chop. Charlie never stopped talking, pointing out various landmarks as well as other boats belonging to his neighbors.

Twenty minutes later he cut the engines as the Queen Mary drifted to a lazy stop in a quiet cove on the far side of the lake. It was such a peaceful and serene setting, sheltered by a thick growth of palms with a panoramic view of the lake. When we were safely anchored, Charlie freshened our drinks and sprawled across a padded seat on the opposite couch.

"I'm sure glad you two came by. It can be awfully lonely out here when Mary doesn't come along. She gets so busy with her Real Estate work and all. So, what can I do for you guys?"

"Charlie, as I said to you on the phone, this is about Company business," I began. "There may be a rogue operation in the Agency and we need your help to ferret it out."

"Does this have anything to do with the two goons who followed you here? That Lexus of theirs sticks out like a black pole dancer at a KKK picnic."

"Agency professionalism went all to hell after downsizing. Whoever took out Jeremy has been tailing Brenda since the funeral. The last guy was driving a Company car, so I assume these birds are subcontractors."

"God, Harry, I had no idea that Jeremy was smoked. I'm so sorry Brenda. He was a giant among the mental pygmies on the top floor."

"Thanks, Charlie," she said. "Jeremy valued your friendship. No matter how bad things got he could always count on you to raise his spirits."

"My legacy will be a lifetime of bad jokes. Bad habits die hard."

"It also caused a lot of folks to underestimate you," I said. "They thought your joking was a lack of comprehension. Am I right?"

"You give me too much credit, Harry. I believe that most people are only as happy as they choose to be. You and I worked in a serious business, but that doesn't mean that every moment was life and death. But this thing about Jeremy is hard for me to swallow."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"He was the Agency's _numero uno_ cheerleader, man. I mean, when things were at their worst, he was at his best. There'd be rumors circulating about operations foul-ups, bribery, corruption or embezzlement and Jeremy would bombard the news media with heart-stopping stories about Agency integrity, heroism and self-sacrifice. Why would anyone cancel him out?"

"Because Jeremy was getting ready to blow the whistle on himself," I said soberly. "Something happened that overwhelmed his unshakable optimism in the future. He reached the point where he no longer had any hope that the Company would straighten itself out."

"I knew that lots of things were changing, but did someone throw the baby out with the bathwater after I retired?"

I took him through what we had learned so far. He listened intently without the usual wisecracking commentary, clenching and unclenching his meaty fists. "In the end," I said, "we think that Operation TOMBOY may have been the one that stuck in his craw."

"TOMBOY was a real ghost ship, man. Talk about your tight cheeks. Even mentioning the codename could get you reprimanded."

"That never stopped you before, Charlie," I said. "What was going on?"

"TOMBOY started at Tora Bora, you know, when it was _Al Qaeda_ -central in Afghanistan. The party line was that Osama was thumbing his nose at us from some cave in the mountains. All we had to do was wait until he poked his turban out and grab him up."

"I can't fault the logic, but how well did it work?" I asked.

"That depends on who you believe. The official word was that TOMBOY never existed, and if it did exist, it didn't work out. Case closed."

"Did you buy that?" I asked.

"My suspicious mind wondered why they said anything at all. You know yourself that ops crapped out all the time. It was all part of the business. We just moved on to the next one without any more discussion. It should have been no big deal."

"So, what did you think, Charlie?" I persisted.

"I think the damn thing was just crazy enough to have worked. My section was put on ready alert status. They told us to get ready to ferry two covert teams into the area and stand by for emergency evac. The next call ordered me to set up for long range transport from Pakistan to a classified location."

"Where, if you had to guess?" I asked.

"That's a good question, Harry. It was too far to be stateside or Gitmo. There was no good reason to go to the Middle East, China, Japan or the Philippines. Maybe they were thinking about Europe or Africa. Since nobody specified refueling stops, it had to be somewhere within the 6,000 nautical mile range of the equipment we had available at the time."

"What would you say to Zimbabwe?" I said.

"There's no place to land anything that heavy. More likely one of the cargo facilities in South Africa. It's only 800 miles south of Harare. Then you could switch to a regional jet or even ground transport, depending where you wanted to end up."

"What happened with the covert teams?" I asked.

"Who knows, Harry. I never got the call to execute. I suppose that there were any number of choppers in the area that could have been used if they didn't want the Agency involved."

"And what about the long range transport?"

"Same deal. I was all dressed up, ready to go to the altar and got stood up."

"Could they have used other aircraft?" I wondered.

"I guess. There were lots of high-mileage 747s being used to ferry cargo and probably still are. Maybe half of them had enough range to make it in one hop from Pakistan."

"What would be involved if I wanted to charter such a flight?" I asked.

"Depends if you wanted to use cash or credit. Those birds are all owned by banks and finance companies and then leased and sub-leased to companies you never heard of. They'll run charters any time they need a few extra dollars for fuel."

"You're telling me that TOMBOY could have been flown by almost any airline without your knowledge." I suggested.

"Sure. Especially if you wanted to avoid being tracked, my man. All my birds had flight logs showing where they were flown and by whom. Manifests are controlled by the unit requisitioning the aircraft, and those are audited as well."

Charlie kept us entertained all the way back to the dock, telling stories about his early days in the field. Once when he was impersonating a priest he didn't realize that he was too tall for the robe until the last minute. So he played the part on his knees and never moved from behind the altar. I thought Brenda was going to pee her pants laughing, literally.

Apparently the Queen Mary came equipped with everything but a head. When we docked, the other Queen Mary was waiting for us on the patio. Brenda waved to her, made a beeline for the Short's bathroom and caught up to us as we were saying our good-byes. Then Queen Mary's phone went off again and she blew us air-kisses while Charlie walked us to the car.

Our Cuban nannies were still parked by the side of the road we came in on. At least they had the good sense to wait for us in the shade. Resisting the urge to wave, we studiously ignored them on way out of the lakeside community. Despite missing a few pieces like flight plans, manifests and air frame numbers, we now had a pretty good idea of what may have happened. It was what my old math professor referred to as an existence theorem.

Osama Bin Laden could have been captured in Tora Bora and whisked off to Pakistan early in July, 2004. All of the required assets were in place and there were several alternative means to get him to Zimbabwe. Contradicting evidence was the total lack of media awareness. Instead of the typical breathless press briefings and saturation television coverage, not one word had ever leaked out of a news outlet anywhere in the world.

How much sense did that make? Why would everything we had uncovered inside the Agency point to an earth-shattering operation that the outside world missed completely? And with all of the allies and detention facilities that were available around the globe at that time, what would motivate the Company to pick a backwater human rights cesspool that was in the midst of an economic meltdown?

My training said that we needed to back up, separate the pieces and take this one step at a time. Compounding the problem statement only made it seem to be impossible. If we could figure out one good reason for keeping TOMBOY hidden from the public then the 'impossible' might become 'improbable'. Then if we discovered a plausible rationale for using Zimbabwe the 'improbable' could move up a notch to 'unlikely'. Finally, if we were really lucky, we might even stumble on the 'likely' reason for Jeremy's murder.

According to Charlie, Sam Seltzer's Restaurant was the best steak house in Tampa. He told us that the International Mall was a great place for lunch, but they couldn't hold a candle to Sam's on a Saturday night. Besides, the Mall would be overrun with shoppers and movie-goers on their way to the huge Cinema complex next door. The traffic alone won the argument for me.

Sam's was certainly the largest steak house I had ever seen. Located across the boulevard from Raymond James Stadium, home of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, the chalet-styled building was a maze of moderately-sized dining rooms, creating the illusion of intimate dining for literally hundreds of hungry patrons at the same time. They won me over with attentive service, fresh hot bread, a crisp green salad, generous baked potato and a man-sized slab of sizzling steak. It was definitely Harry's idea of heaven on earth. Ever the contrarian, Brenda ignored their wide selection of lady-sized cuts and opted for a broiled fish fillet. "Harry, there's a steak house on every corner in D.C. You should be taking advantage of the fresh seafood while we're here in Florida." Sometimes women are clueless.

Instead of lingering over our dessert and coffee, I kept my promise and took Brenda for a meander through the expansive corridors of the International Mall. If you're a female, shopping means feeling fabrics, checking labels and seams, trying on certain garments and badgering salespeople with questions about shrinkage and durability. Male shoppers, on the other hand, are programmed to get in and get out, buying what they came for regardless of price, selection or size. So I had a chance to walk off my dinner while Brenda shopped. It was also a good way for us to enjoy a respite from the search for Jeremy's killers. Barely a week into this mission and we already needed a mental break. I could tell that Brenda had not fully recovered from the ordeal of the funeral, having exhausted herself emotionally and physically. A good night's sleep and a leisurely trip back tomorrow would help replenish our reserves for the coming week. Even the hide-a-bed was looking good to me tonight.

Sunday dawned with overcast skies and the promise of tropical rains by mid-afternoon. I called the airline and moved our flight up so we'd be out of the area before the really heavy stuff came down. We packed our belongings, checked out of the hotel, enjoyed a leisurely drive to the airport, dropped off the rental car and arrived at our terminal with plenty of time for the TSA gong show. At least there was a departure lounge beyond the security checkpoint where one could relax with food and drink.

After enduring the indignities of body scans and barefoot shuffles across germ-infested carpets, we found a quiet alcove in the waiting area where I could call Sherm without being overheard. I was expecting to communicate with his faithful answering machine when he picked up on the third ring. "Harry? I was hoping you'd call. You caught me getting out of the pool. Give me a sec to towel off."

Why not. It was probably a nice day in Gotham City, an opportune time for the caped crusader to take his weekend dip. Maybe he too needed to recharge his batteries.

"I'm back. Where are you? Still down in Tampa?"

"Yeah, we're at the airport. The skies are getting pretty ugly here. It's gonna rain horses and cows this afternoon. Hopefully we'll be long gone before it does."

"Smart plan. I don't even like to fly in good weather. I'll take the subway any day."

"Sherm, we better move on before I disparage your beloved city."

"Good suggestion. As for your earlier questions, there was nothing noteworthy in the weeks immediately before and after the Supreme Court ruling on detainees."

"OK, so we're back to why the ruling was so significant to Jeremy," I said.

"Next, I've got an address and phone number for Janice Tuttle. She now works in a bookstore in Baltimore."

I wrote down the particulars while Sherm repeated the information.

"And Harry, I could have sent this as a text message to your phone, but I wasn't sure that you'd get it. I'd be happy to do so in the future if you'd prefer."

"Sherm, I may not have the thumbs for texting but I can figure out how to read a message. So yes, use texting. It'll save us both time."

"OK. As for Jeremy's deposition, I have no additional names for you other than Mitchell Conklin. The rest of the people you can read about in the Washington Post every week. The hard part will be tying Conklin to whomever he's taking orders from."

"You don't think he could be calling the shots?" I asked.

"I'm pretty certain that he isn't. He couldn't have taken Jeremy out without prior approval from above. Jeremy had too high a profile in the Executive Branch. This hit would have required lots of political cover if anything were to go wrong."

"You really understand how this stuff works, don't you," I said.

"After trudging around in the political swamps for the past twenty years, I've learned a thing or two about how these people work."

"So what can you tell me about Mitchell Conklin?" I asked.

"Guys like Conklin don't appreciate finesse. They have no patience for the nuances of the political process. Their mantra is simple expediency. Then they try to outsmart and outflank the opposition by any means necessary."

"Sounds like you know this guy pretty well," I said.

"In a manner of speaking. I've read his books. He's a super bright guy who comes across as a self-important, single-minded know-it-all. And those are his good points."

Lester knocked softly on the motel room door and waited to be admitted. He had arrived earlier, waiting until the adjacent streets and parking area were completely clear before making his approach through the side entrance. This particular Red Roof Inn was located in an industrial area, bustling with activity during the work week and all but abandoned on weekends. There had been other late night meetings at similar locations, never twice in the same place. Other men might have wondered about having to meet like this when they had perfectly good offices in one of the most secure locations on the planet, but Lester had learned never to question authority. If he was supposed to know, it would all be explained to him. Otherwise, he was better off not wondering about things that did not concern him.

Mitchell Conklin opened the door without comment, returning to his desk chair as Lester entered and softly closed the door behind him. Conklin was dressed casually in an open collared shirt and slacks, much as a businessman might wear when spending the night away from home. He then waited for Lester to sit in another chair that had been positioned in the middle of the room, facing the desk. A trim thirtyish woman with short brown hair watched from the foot of the bed as he took his place in the assigned seat. The room was utilitarian, minimally decorated and sparsely furnished for its road-warrior clientele.

"Report," Conklin said without further preamble.

Lester provided an organized summary of what he learned from the Cubans about Harry and Brenda's Florida trip, detailing the names, locations and former CIA positions held by each of the people they had visited. The subcontractors had tracked the mileage and the duration of each visit, but failed to capture any of the conversations. Obviously, their observations left much to be desired. It was yet another disappointment charged against Lester's account.

"And after they returned to D.C.?" asked Conklin. "What did they have to say?"

"That too is unknown," said Lester, adjusting his position in the chair. "Wilson's truck was inaccessible in the long-term parking lot, so I couldn't install a listening device."

The woman looked at Conklin but said nothing. Her expression was neutral, interested but emotionally detached from the conversation.

"Lester, I think the time has come to make a few changes," Conklin said. "We can no longer wait for them to decide when and how to move against us."

"Yes sir," Lester said, unsure of where the conversation was leading.

"We must be proactive," Conklin continued, "letting them know that any interference on their part will be costly. Our work is too important to be disrupted by outsiders."

Lester resisted the impulse to comment or recommend a particular course of action. He knew that clear instructions would be given when his superior was ready for him to act. He also surmised that the woman would be given an important role. It was significant that she was invited to witness his report tonight.

Highly uncharacteristic for me, I actually slept in late on Monday. I had endured two nights on the hide-a-bed couch and it was good to finally be home in my own bed. It had occurred to me to take my own pillow along on the trip, but that would have compounded the aggravation at the airport. Looking back, the tradeoff might have been worth it for a few more hours of solid rest. So much for the road not traveled, Mr. Frost.

My call to Sherm Marshall had ended prematurely yesterday when a chatty group invaded our space in the departure lounge. We had already covered the basics and were beginning to speculate about TOMBOY when too many uninvited ears came into range. I told him to expect an update by mid-week and hung up. Then Brenda and I began a fruitless search for a little more peace and quiet in an area that was rapidly filling up with tourists on their way to the Nation's Capital. I'm adding xenophobia to my growing list of aversions to air travel.

As I had feared, the flight back to D.C. was crowded, but at least we cleared Tampa air space before the heavier weather moved in. I absently thumbed through in-flight magazines while Brenda slept until we touched down at Reagan National. My reserves were running low, but she seemed to be revived by her nap. We made our way to the baggage claim where the luggage rodeo added another forty minutes to our misery, conditioning us for an interminable wait for the long-term shuttle van. At least my faithful pickup started without complaint.

While the diesel engine was warming up I did a quick scan of the most likely places to hide a microphone. Satisfied that my vehicle was still free of bugs, I smiled at Brenda, put the truck in gear and followed the signs to the exit.

"Harry, I had such a wonderful time in Florida. Thank you for taking me along. For me the best part was seeing everyone, and it was gallant of you to sleep on the couch both nights."

" _No problemo, Senorita_. I told you your virtue would be safe."

"You know, if our affair is to be believable you do need to call me more often. Whoever is watching me may not be concerned if you don't show up every day, but they'll get suspicious if you don't even bother to call."

"You're right. I'll stay home all day tomorrow and just call you instead," I kidded.

"Now don't get grumpy on me. You know I'm right."

"I'm just feeling my age. But I do need to run some errands tomorrow and figure out the next few steps before our next get together."

"Your apology is accepted. And I have laundry to do myself. So there."

"I've been meaning to ask you but it keeps slipping my mind. Did Jeremy leave any kind of a will?" I asked.

"He did have a will at one time. And he had a living trust listing me as co-trustee. We had everything drawn up back when we were married. It was done by a lawyer we met at one of those 'free' estate planning luncheons. That free lunch wound up costing us around $750 before everything was said and done. I can't image how much he might have charged us to change everything after our divorce. Why do you ask?"

"It's probably a long shot, but Jeremy may have entrusted something to an attorney to be opened in the event of his death."

"M-m-m-m. Doesn't really sound like him, but I can check on it tomorrow."

"And as long as we're talking about chasing butterflies we might as well have a look at that cabin you mentioned," I said. "Do you still have a key?"

"I'm not sure. I probably have it around somewhere. But it shouldn't be a problem if we have to break in. It's in the middle of nowhere and not very secure to begin with."

"OK then, here's the plan," I said. "I'll call you about going antiquing in the mountains and you get all excited about making a day of it. Then you say something about packing a picnic basket, and an overnight bag, you know, the whole nine yards."

"Whatever are you talking about, Harry?"

"I want to lull the eavesdroppers to sleep with a false trail," I said. "These little mountain towns always have antique shops, so it's the perfect excuse for us to be in the area. I'll figure out how to shake our tail once we're closer to the cabin."

"Why didn't you just say so? I'll be delighted to go antiquing whenever you call. Are there any other ruses you want to discuss at this point?"

"Yeah. You'd better assume the next time we use this truck it'll be bugged," I said. "My trailer is probably already wired to pick up pillow talk."

"Do tell. And just which pillows are you thinking about?"

"It's a figure of speech, Brenda. I just meant that they would probably wire my living area as well as the bedroom to pick up anything we might say."

"Well, do you have any other lines you'd like to rehearse tonight?"

That's when I decided that my defenses were too low and I should stop bantering, drop her off at her apartment and drive straight home alone. So that's what I did. The only trouble was that I got my second wind and didn't go to bed until after eleven p.m. And now that I've had a good night's sleep I can see how close I came to ruining everything between us.

Despite the late start this morning I still managed to get a lot done by lunchtime. I washed and dried two loads of clothes, scrubbed the shower, sinks and commode, cleaned the mirrors, ran the vacuum, dusted and wet-mopped the tile areas. While I was waiting for the last dryer load to finish, I caught up on bills and balanced the checkbook.

The mail arrived while I was wolfing down a sliced-turkey-and-Swiss on whole wheat sandwich. After USPS delivers everything to the park office, it gets sorted and stuffed into pigeon holes labeled with our site numbers. Then Elvira, a widow who works in the office and lives in the next row, picks up my mail and delivers it to my door with a big smile. Some system, eh?

Anyway, on this particular day there was a handwritten note from Millie.

" _My Dear Harry,_

Thank you so much for coming to see me. I so enjoyed your visit and earnestly hope that you will be back again soon. After you left I decided that you were right. I should turn over my papers to your friend and testify in court, if necessary. Please ask him to contact my attorney, Phillip Orbison, Esq., to obtain copies of the documents.

It occurred to me that you might want to talk to my friend Rosalie Collins at Bayfront Manor. She knew Jeremy and most of the Agency executives. She was White House appointments secretary before she retired. I told her to expect you.

Your hopeful friend,

Millie"

Hot damn! Millie, I love you. According to MapQuest, Bayfront Manor wasn't too far from the Books-A-Million where Janice Tuttle worked. I had been calling her at home without much success, so why not try tracking her down at work? Afterward I could swing by Bayfront and see what Rosalie Collins had to say.

Books-a-Million turned out to be a grocery-store-sized building in an aging strip mall on the outskirts of Baltimore. Inside I encountered racks of open steel shelving and folding banquet tables piled high with hardbacks and paperbacks of all descriptions. Signs proclaiming discounts ranging from twenty-five to sixty percent off were posted on every aisle. In response to my question about where to find Janice, a young man with a nose ring who was shelving books near the front door pointed to the back of the store. She turned out to be a graying fortyish brunette taking inventory in the 'self-help' section.

"May I help you find something?"

"You may if you're Janice Tuttle," I replied.

"I am. What may I do for you?"

"Is there someplace we could go to talk more privately about Company business?" I asked.

Now this really raised her guard. "I don't know what you mean."

"Janice, this is about Jeremy Foster. Felicia said you might be able to help," I said.

It was like I just said 'abracadabra' because her features relaxed into a smile. "Of course. Let's go out back for a smoke break." Outside the delivery entrance was a makeshift employee break area with plastic chairs and umbrella-shaded tables. Janice selected one of the tables, pulled two chairs together, lit a cigarette and waited for me to start talking.

"OK, here's the short version. My name is Harry Wilson and I'm working for the U.S. Attorney who's prosecuting Jeremy's murder. We believe that Jeremy was killed by someone inside the Agency, maybe someone who was in the Comm Center with Mitchell Conklin. Felicia said you kept the visitor log. I want to know who else was in that room."

"Wow that was short. You said that Jeremy Foster was killed by the Agency? I heard lots of stories when I worked there, but I always figured that they were talking about some dictator in Central America."

"This one was a lot closer to home," I said. "What can you tell me about Conklin?"

"I remember that son-of-a-bitch," she said, turning her head to blow the smoke away from me. "He would show up unannounced and expect everyone to drop what they were doing in order to cater to his needs, right then and there. Then he'd demand that everyone leave so he could conduct his precious teleconference in private."

"Do you remember if anyone was with him?" I asked.

"Sure, he had two lapdogs who loved to intimidate the staff. They'd stand around like they were nightclub bouncers or something, glaring at people like they were no more than cat poop. They never said a word to anybody, just stared."

"Any names come to your mind?" I probed.

"One of them was Schwartz, Karl Schwartz I think. I remember because he always signed his name so you couldn't read it and he had a funny ID badge."

"What was strange about his badge?" I said.

"There was no picture on it. Just his name and Agency serial number. I thought Dr. Conklin would have a stoke whenever I asked him to co-sign the log entry. Hey, I didn't make the rules. The procedures clearly stated that anyone without picture ID has to be cosigned by a recognized member of Agency management. Rules are rules, you know."

"Was there anyone else you recall?" I asked.

She took another drag on the cigarette and thought about my question. "Lester, his first name was Lester. At least that's what Conklin called him. His last name began with a 'G', something Germanic."

"Take you time. I'll be happy with a description if you can't remember his name."

"I remember thinking that it was funny for someone with that name to have such a hatchet face. That's it! His last name was Gerber, like the baby food company. They always have such cute kids' faces on their labels. He didn't look anything like that."

Lester Gerber and Karl Schwartz were purported to be subcontract coordinators for Strategic Support, an experimental division created by Mitchell Conkin. With only a handful of regular employees, he was trying to prove that intelligence operations could be implemented by contractors who were managed by a small cadre of regular employees. But when most of the contracts began going to Vigilance Associates, their jobs couldn't have been all that demanding.

All Janice could tell me was that they were creepy. They sounded like mercenaries to me, but it was up to Sherm's team to figure that out. I thanked her for her help and wished her well in the book business. She said it was only a temporary job to pay her bills while she waited for a librarian position to open up in the public schools. It paid less than her former position with the CIA, but it was far more necessary and personally rewarding. Good for her.

Fifteen minutes after bidding farewell to Janice I entered the lobby of Bayfront Manor and asked to see Rosalie Collins. I was informed that she was waiting for me in the interior courtyard. Following the instructions the receptionist had given me, I found a well-dressed elderly woman sitting on a cushioned love seat in the shade of a striped canvas awning. "Pardon me," I said, "but are you Rosalie Collins?"

"Mr. Wilson, I presume. Please come and sit here next to me. My hearing isn't what it once was, you know."

"Mr. Wilson was my father's name," I said, returning her smile and sitting down beside her, "and the guy on TV who said 'Don't squeeze the Charmin.' I wish you'd call me Harry."

She chuckled at my lame joke. "Mille said you were a card. My friends call me Rose. Will you be my friend?"

"Of course, dear lady. What else did Millie tell you?"

"She said that you were trying to find out who murdered Deputy Director Foster. Such a nice man. So many politicians tried to sweet talk me in order to get preferential treatment, but not Director Foster. He was a real gentleman. He cared about me as a person."

"Amen to that, Rose. Did Millie say how you might be able to help?" I asked. "Her note wasn't that specific."

"When people would come to the White House, they were intent on what they wanted to say to the President or perhaps some member of his executive staff. They didn't take time to appreciate the elegant décor or even notice those of us who worked there. It's as if we were invisible or at least deaf. They'd just chatter on like we weren't even there."

"I'm getting the sense that you may have heard something important."

"Oh, we heard many things that we weren't supposed to. They were always trying to impress one another with the number of codenames they knew. At lot of it was Greek to me, but they still shouldn't have been so careless with secret information."

"If it was Greek to you, how did you know it was important?" I asked.

"By the looks on people's faces, of course. They were all such pitiful poker players. Do you remember the old television commercial for the financial services firm where everyone would stop talking when someone mentioned the words, 'E.F. Hutton'?"

"When E.F. Hutton talks, people listen?" I guessed.

"Yes, precisely. Whenever someone said 'TOMBOY' it was just like that commercial."

My passive poker face told her everything she needed to know.

"I thought that might pique your interest. You intelligence people use so many buzzwords and acronyms that it can be difficult to tell what you're talking about. But then that's the idea, isn't it? You really don't want others to know what you're talking about."

"Yes, Rose. We often use code names to confuse outsiders."

"Well, that's what was so strange. I mean, I could understand the CIA Director briefing the President or the National Security Council. That would make sense, wouldn't it."

"A big part of the job is keeping the boss informed," I said.

"Yes, the Director was usually the President's first appointment of the day. On other occasions we might see the Deputy Director for joint reviews with other members of the Intelligence Community. But it was the other meetings that made me curious."

"What other meetings?" I asked.

"These were meetings with members of the political staff. People whose job it was to follow the polls and advise the President on elections."

"Why would they have been involved?" I wondered.

"My question exactly. That's where I heard conversations about TOMBOY."

"Do you remember who was in the meeting?" I said.

"Dr. Conklin, for one. I remember because he insisted that we use his academic title on all appointments and correspondence. There were so many PhD's coming and going, but he was the only one that made a fuss. You never heard Secretary Rice say such things."

"Who was he talking to?" I really wanted to know.

"The Vice-President's Chief of Staff and the President's Senior Political advisor. They were whispering about what to do with TOMBOY."

"Why would they have been whispering?" I wondered out loud.

"Because they didn't want to be overheard, I suppose."

Brenda turned off her raucous upright vacuum cleaner, suddenly aware that her phone had been ringing insistently. "Hello."

"Mrs. Foster? This is Ann Reynolds of American Liberty Insurance. I'm calling in regard to your former husband's life insurance policy."

"I haven't been involved with his financial affairs for some time."

"Are you aware that he designated you as his sole beneficiary?"

"No, I mean yes, when we were married. I had no idea that he kept me on the policy. Is there something you need from me?"

"As a matter of fact, I do need a few things from you to complete the disposition of the policy. His employer asked American Liberty to expedite the process and it would help a great deal if you and I could review this together. Would you have time to stop by my office today?"

"This isn't something that can be done over the phone, I suppose. I have a million things to do today."

"No, I'm sorry. I have some papers you should see, and I'll need to verify your physical identification and signature. Perhaps tomorrow would be better for you? I promise to have you on your way in no more than 20 minutes."

"Tell you what. Let's go ahead and do it today. Tomorrow could be just as bad. Where are you located?"

Following the door-to-door directions that Ann had given her, Brenda arrived within the hour at a sprawling building complex of real estate offices, financial services, law firms, a dental clinic, travel agent, hair salon, coffee shop and a check-cashing store. Suite 102 turned out to be an otherwise unmarked door adjacent to the west side.

"Mrs. Foster? I'm Ann Reynolds," said the trim blonde with horned-rim glasses that stood up to greet Brenda as she opened the outside door. "Thanks so much for coming by so quickly. Please excuse the mess. This is just temporary until they finish redecorating our main office. Would you care for some coffee or a cold drink?"

The insurance office appeared to be a one room affair cluttered with metal furniture and a few cardboard boxes stuffed with file folders and documents. There were no decorations on the walls, not even one of the ubiquitous calendars given away by real estate brokers.

"No thanks. I don't have a lot of time. Let's just go over the paperwork you wanted me to review," said Brenda, sitting in the guest chair next to Ann's cluttered desk.

"OK, now this is a copy of your former husband's life insurance policy. As you can see, the face amount of the benefit is substantial. But with the double indemnity provision, you could be receiving a check for several million dollars. That is if his death is found to be accidental."

"I don't understand. I mean I get it about the policy provisions, but I was told that Jeremy died in a car accident. Is there some problem?"

"Not as far as I know, but we still have to wait until the coroner's office issues an official cause of death."

"Are you expecting a different result?" Brenda asked.

"Honestly, it's hard for me to predict. I process claims for lots of different government employees. Those who work for clandestine organizations typically have high-dollar benefits with double-indemnity riders. I'm not asking you to disclose anything, you understand."

"No problem," said Brenda warily.

"As I was saying, in my experience people in your former husband's position sometimes succumb to the pressures of the job. If that were found to be the case, under the terms of the policy that would nullify any benefits."

"Are you saying that Jeremy may have committed suicide?" Brenda said incredulously.

"Heavens no. I'm just saying that until the final coroner's report is received our hands are tied. That's all."

"And what is it you want from me?"

"I just need to verify your identity and obtain your signature on the highlighted line. May I make a copy of your driver's license?"

Brenda handed her the license, read and signed the proffered form while Ann made a photocopy and then returned the laminated card.

"Well then, I guess that's all I need at this point. All we have to do now is wait for the final report. I don't foresee any problems unless the coroner's findings were to be challenged. Then I'd be obligated to interview your former husband's co-workers to determine his state of mind prior to the car crash," Ann said carefully.

"I'm sensing that you may be giving me a message, Miss Reynolds."

"Certainly not, Mrs. Foster. I'm merely informing you of the steps remaining before we can pay out this policy."

"Then what's all this innuendo about suicide? He never would have taken his own life."

"I apologize if I've upset you. I didn't mean to suggest anything of the kind. As long as the coroner's findings are uncontested, I don't really see any problems."

"Do you think I give a damn about the money?" Brenda fumed. "If I thought for a minute that something else happened to Jeremy I'd be jumping all over the coroner's desk."

"Of course you would."

"So why do you feel that it's necessary to threaten me about the coroner's findings?"

Ann smiled sweetly. "We just want you to be very clear about your options, Mrs. Foster."

I was fascinated by Rose Collins' stories about her working experiences in the White House. The public imagines this well-oiled machine, tirelessly laboring for the common good. The facts are that the President serves as a lightning rod for criticism from all sides while his staff continues to labor on, helping him wield the reins of government. Rose's version sounded more like a castoff from Rube Goldberg's drawing board. Even Goldberg had some standards.

Rose's view was one of driven, well-intentioned people laboring at cross purposes to one another. Practically everything initiated by the Administration had to be run through the sausage grinder of politics. Back room horse trading resulted in last minute changes, additions or outright deletions to otherwise sound policies and programs. As a more famous Harry was quoted as saying, "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." Political expediency was that rare but often longed for solution to particularly thorny problems. Every politician dreams of being able to implement his pet program without objection from the Legislature or second guessing by the Judiciary. What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to just make the decision and pull the trigger, figuratively speaking. Of course such opportunities were few and far between.

More often there were too many risks involved. Just as the founding fathers intended, there were consequences for unilateral action. Unless, that is, it were somehow possible to escape the blame. The public would be more understanding if an underling acted without the knowledge of the head office, especially if that individual were to be quickly thrown under the bus when the finger-pointing started. Field agents understood that there were times when you were out on your own. Uncle Sam wasn't going to admit to knowing you if you were caught doing certain things behind the lines. Plausible deniability allows the government to deflect accusations by attributing guilt to the actions of the proverbial rogue agent. How convenient.

Rose's recollection told me that even if TOMBOY went all the way to the top, we'd never be able to make it stick. It was possible that some overzealous underling had taken it upon himself to act without the boss's knowledge, but we'd never know for sure. Look at what happened with Scooter Libby and the Valarie Plame scandal. After he took the fall, all of the uproar about White House leaks dissipated, even though it was pretty evident that other senior officials were involved as well.

As I was leaving Bayfront Manor I called Brenda on my personal cell phone to play the boyfriend role for our eavesdropping friends. "Hey, how's my favorite girl?"

"Picnic deprived. It's too nice a day to be indoors, so I'm packing a picnic basket for dinner. Do you know anyone who'd like to take me out?"

"I'll take you, with or without the basket," I said, wondering what she was trying to tell me.

"What, have you lost your voracious appetite? You better be on your way here, Mister, because I'm getting hungrier by the minute. Do you think you could arrange to take me out on your yacht?"

Finally I got what she has been trying to communicate. Something came up and we need to talk privately right away. "Yeah, I just finished my afternoon appointments. Just more dead ends I'm afraid. I don't know why I ever accepted this contract."

"I'll see what I can do to make up for it. See you soon."

I called my landlord to get permission to use his boat and steered a course for Brenda's apartment. Her picnic ruse was pretty clever, you know? Brenda is one sharp cookie, but people tend to underestimate the intelligence of beautiful women.

After I arrived at her apartment, we wasted no time loading the goodies and making a beeline for the dock. On the way there she chatted about replacing her noisy vacuum cleaner and made only a casual reference to the encounter with Ann Reynolds from American Liberty Life Insurance. I heard a great deal more about her confrontation after we cast off and made our way toward the center of the Potomac.

"That damn woman had a lot of nerve. Insurance agent my ass. It was a thinly veiled threat to get me to back off, or else."

Boy was she pissed. Talk about getting your Irish up. I just listened.

"I guess I should feel vindicated," she said after venting some of her outrage. "At least we know they have something to hide and they're afraid we're getting too close. Well, screw them, Mister."

"You said it, Babe. But let's give Sherm a call. Maybe we can find a way to work this to our advantage."

"First tell me what happened with your appointments. It will help me to calm down. I want to be more level headed when we get Sherm on the line."

"Well, since you're already half way up the wall, let me tell you about my conversation with sweet old Rosalie Collins."

I could almost see the smoke coming out of her ears when I told her that we wouldn't have much luck pinning the tail on the donkey at the White House.

"So that's that? We're just going to let them lay the whole mess at the CIA's door while the rest of them get off scot-free," she whined. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Don't give up yet," I said. "We may yet get one of the culprits to rat out his handlers. I've seen stranger things happen before."

"Harry, you're awfully sweet but sometimes you're too damn positive for your own good. So, tell me about your other appointment with Janice Tuttle. Was she of any help?"

"Janice has a clear recollection of Mitchell Conklin and two lapdogs: Lester Gerber and Karl Schwartz. From her description they sound more like mercenaries to me, but both of them work for the Company. At least they did while TOMBOY was all the rage. We'll see if Sherm can get dig up anything on them while we're off antiquing."

We had no luck getting in touch with Sherm directly, but his answering machine did its job without protesting. I filled him in on my conversations with Janice and Rose, ending with Brenda's encounter with the woman calling herself Ann Reynolds along with my two cents about how we might turn it to our advantage.

"Harry, I didn't thank you for coming to my rescue today. I was really upset and just had to get out of there. Having your apartment bugged and your phone tapped is like being in a prison. I'm even afraid to think for fear that I might say something out loud. Heaven help us if I talk in my sleep. It made me wish that we'd stayed in Florida for another week."

"Why, Brenda, I can't remember when I've been so complimented," I said kiddingly. "Not many women would rather spend a night with me than be bugged by killers."

"You know what I was trying to say. I'm glad we're doing something about what happened to Jeremy. It's just that I would love to tell them how I really feel once in a while."

"You could move in with me," I said, "but I've probably got the same infestation."

"Darn, and here I was so looking forward to cavorting around with you in that tin can you live in."

"Aluminum. It's got an aluminum frame and siding," I said defensively. "There are also fiberglass caps and canvas awnings and a sheet rubber roof. It's like a yacht on wheels."

"Harry, that's it. Let's go on a cruise!"

"We are cruising. See out there, lots of moving water, other boats, even some people sunning themselves in bathing suits."

"No, I mean on a real cruise ship, you goof. We could have a big, comfortable suite, wonderful food, ship-to-shore communications and no damn bugs."

"OK, let me change course for the bay and I'll see if I can catch up with one."

"No, no, no. I mean after we hear back from Jeremy's lawyer and check out his fishing shack. I can put up with living in the prison for a few more days."

"OK, are you up to handling the reservations?" I hoped.

"Consider it done, Lone Ranger."

When we chanced upon a shady spot in a bend of the river, I eased back on the throttle and steered a course toward the shoreline. Then we anchored in the quiet cove and devoured the contents of the picnic basket. Brenda had thoughtfully included a bottle of white wine as a tasty compliment to the cold chicken and potato salad. She was right. It was good to get away and regain some perspective.

The life insurance ploy was a clumsy attempt to get us to back off, but it was a definite affirmation that we were headed in the right direction. They wanted Jeremy to stay buried with no more muss or fuss. Somehow it was important to them to have the coroner's ruling of accidental death. What were they afraid that we might discover? Perhaps they were worried that we'd find latent evidence in the wreck of his car. Could they have screwed that up as well?

Sherm called back just as I started hauling up the anchor. "Harry, Brenda, you guys have been busy. Good work on making them sweat."

"We're doing a little sweating ourselves, Sherm. These hornets might prove to be a handful once we stir them up."

"I hear you, Harry. You'd be crazy not to feel some apprehension. Just remember that they're antsier than you are. It makes them much more likely to make mistakes."

"Swell," I said without enthusiasm. "What do we do about the coroner's report?"

"Nothing. Let me handle it. The final report will say that Jeremy's death was accidental. It won't impede our prosecution efforts."

"And what about Jeremy's car?" I asked.

"It's already taken care of," said Sherm between bites. Apparently he was dining a la desk, as usual. "We already shipped it to the New York Police impound lot. My guys substituted a look-alike at the junkyard. The paperwork says it's still in Baltimore."

"Have you found anything yet?" I said with new interest.

"Yes and no. It looks like the seat belt anchor was weakened before the crash. The bolt was completely sheared off. We're trying to narrow down the fingerprints. In my experience they always forget to wipe off something."

"How about the power steering and brake lines?" I asked.

"Nothing so far. What are you suggesting?"

"Have them look for small holes in the brake lines near the wheel cylinders. The technique is to drill them out and then seal them with a wax plug. It'll hold until you panic stop the vehicle, then they'll blow out like Old Faithful."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Yeah, check the tie rod rubber boots for pin holes," I offered. "A syringe full of grease solvent will dissolve the lubricant in a day or so and cause the steering to freeze up. It makes the car much harder to handle in an emergency."

"OK, sounds like you may have done this before."

"No, but I remember getting an A on the test at the Farm," I lied. It was a B+.

"I knew I had the right man for the job, Harry. Jeremy was right."

"Save the kudos, Sherm. We still have a long way to go. Right now I'm going to weigh anchor and get us fueled up so we can get back to the dock before all the mosquitoes come out. Enjoy your fine dining experience."

"I'm due back in court tomorrow, but one final thought guys. You may have uncovered evidence of a crime, but it's still circumstantial. Unless we dig up a witness, it'll be hard for us to get a conviction. We can still use it as a great bargaining chip when we stack up the other charges. Anybody with knowledge of the crime before or after the fact is fair game."

"My money is on Frick and Frack, Conklin's gophers," I said. "They probably have the knowledge and are used to taking orders without asking any questions."

"You may be right. Messrs. Gerber and Schwartz look like good candidates to me too. We'll see what their civilian and military records have to say about their past deeds. Having their fingerprints will help us either link them to Jeremy's murder or eliminate them from the running."

"Have you dug anything up about Vigilance Associates?" I asked. "We know that they're probably dirty for kidnapping and false imprisonment."

"There's not much to tell yet. It was set up as a wholly owned subsidiary of a privately-owned shell company, meaning that there are no discrete public records. But we still have ways of finding out what they've been up to."

"Can you find out if they've been bribing someone inside the Agency?" I asked. "I'd love to know if Conklin's been taking payoffs so that Vigilance could keep eating out of the public trough."

"Only if we can match up both ends. My forensic accountants should be able to find out if any deposits in Conklin's accounts came from Vigilance. But that will have to wait. Banks can be skittish about disclosing information on depositors' accounts without their knowledge, and we don't want to do anything to alert him right now."

I told Sherm about our intentions to follow up with Jeremy's lawyer and search his old fishing shack. "Is there anything special we should be looking for?"

"You tell me. You're more familiar with all those spy techniques."

"Sorry, my bad," I said. "I meant, you told me that you wanted to stay within your jurisdiction. Not to bring you anything to do with war crimes, as I recall."

"Check. I'm betting Jeremy was killed because he could finger someone for serious jail time in this country. Things like murder, extortion, bribery, embezzlement..."

"OK, I got it. The usual suspects," I said. "We'll let you know if we find anything. _Bon appétit."_

I finished hauling in the anchor and we motored back to the slip as the sun was beginning to settle into the horizon. Refueling the runabout took a bite out of my wallet, but it was worth it to get away and enjoy the time together. Brenda was definitely growing on me. I must have been lonelier than I had realized. Once again she helped me to clean and recover the boat and gave me a special kiss goodbye when I dropped her at home.

The next day we got an early start for our 'antiquing' trip to the mountains. Once we cleared the western suburbs the countryside opened up into a panorama of farmlands and forests. I never stopped to consider how many different shades of green there must be in the world. The air was fresher and the clouds appeared to be performing solely for our enjoyment. It made me wonder why anyone would choose to live in the cramped, congested environs surrounding the capital beltway. Brenda was more visibly relaxed, thoroughly enjoying the scenery. We had already exhausted our repertoire of small talk about the joys of antiquing and spending quality time together to satisfy anyone who might be listening in. Now we were just a couple of old shoes enjoying one another's company. At least that's what we were striving for.

The Shenandoah Road Inn was what travel brochures characterize as 'quaint'. In plain English that equates to an old building with weathered exterior, dark narrow hallways, small musty rooms, well-used beds and drafty casement windows. The curtains and wallpaper had been freshened and the bathroom fixtures were ancient, albeit clean and well maintained. But it had one feature that fit our needs exactly. There was a private parking lot and entrance in the rear that could not be seen from the street. As he had agreed to do when I called him last night, my buddy from the RV Park had left another car there for us this morning.

So we played out a romantic scene as we checked in, holding hands and exchanging meaningful glances. When we got to the room the shades were still open, so we embraced as we closed the shades, hung a do-not-disturb sign and closed the door on our way out to the rear exit. I figured we could be gone for four or five hours before anyone got too inquisitive. Older people need their rest, after all.

With Brenda navigating and me driving it took us about thirty minutes via the back roads to get to Jeremy's cabin. Thankfully the roads were all paved, but each time we turned off they seemed to get narrower. By the time we got to our destination we were reduced to a single lane, obeying the signs to honk before going around the blind curves. Brenda had brought the necessary door key with her and we had no trouble getting in. Someone had recently lubricated the lock so it opened easily. And she was right. It did smell like musty fish the minute we opened the door.

I saw right away why Jeremy loved it here. There was a stuffed leather couch and easy chair, a man-size refrigerator-freezer, large fieldstone fireplace, satellite dish TV and no phone in sight. Wall decorations looked like they came from an old boy's club, a plus if you're into displaying the stuffed heads of defenseless animals. A comfortable bed and working toilet made it the perfect place for a man to get away and forget about his troubles. Brenda sank into the well-used couch and slowly looked around. Clearly she had fond memories of this place. I tried not to intrude on her reverie, but I couldn't help noticing as a tear rolled down her face. "I'm turning into a real crybaby, Harry. I guess I wasn't prepared for this."

Lots of thoughts came to my mind, but I wisely discarded all of them and remained quiet for a change. This was Jeremy's personal refuge, a place where he could drop all pretenses and just be himself. Most of the time I knew him he was wearing the face of an upbeat, never-say-die optimist who knew in his heart that everything would turn out for the best. Here he could expose the doubts that were hidden behind the mask.

"Jeremy wanted to honeymoon here, if you can believe it. He said it was the perfect place to begin our life together, away from the world in the bosom of nature. I thought he was nuts. Look at it! This place is practically falling apart. The most I would put up with was a long weekend now and then. But now I'd live here for the rest of my life if I could just have him back."

"Amen, Sister," I said, choking back my own emotions. I don't know how long the two of us sat there, reliving our separate memories of the man who felt so much at home in this place. At barely one notch above a dump, it was so lacking in pretense that you couldn't help but relax and forget about what was happening in the rest of the world. Outside the weather was warm, especially in the direct sunlight. Inside it was very pleasant, cooled by breezes circulating the deep shade of the surrounding forests.

"Well," Brenda said at last, sitting up and wiping her eyes, "we came here for a purpose, so let's get to work. I might as well start with the gun safe."

"Jeremy kept guns here?" I said skeptically.

"No, just a gun safe. It came with the cabin. It was probably too heavy to move and the former owner made him a good deal in order to leave it behind." Brenda spun the cylinders and opened the heavy door on the first attempt. "He used my social security number for everything." Inside were documents dating from the purchase of the property, the satellite dish warranty and a half-dozen assorted envelopes stuffed with photographs and negatives. "I can go through these at home. It will give me something to keep my mind occupied."

"Something Millie said about pictures," I remembered. "She said Jeremy could have taken pictures of anything he wanted with a cell phone."

"These are from a standard 35mm film camera," she said. "Cell phone pictures are digital. You use a memory chip or download to a computer."

"So I'm not a techno-geek," I confessed. "You should still look through all the pictures and all the negatives just in case."

"OK, but you're still geeky enough for me."

I left Brenda to finish searching the front room while I nosed around in the bedroom and adjoining bathroom. Nothing was hidden in or under the drawers, under the mattress, behind the light fixtures or wall-hangings or inside the commode tank. There were no loose boards, trap doors or attic access doors in the bedroom or closet. Any other places I could reach Brenda wouldn't even begin to think of searching. Then I had second thoughts about the animal remains hanging in the front room. Brenda was still pulling out drawers in the kitchenette. "Do any of these trophies have special meaning to you?"

"You've got to be kidding. Those things are hideous dust collectors put up by the former owner. Jeremy got a kick out of them, especially the spike horn deer with the open mouth on the east wall. He said it looked like it had been caught in someone's headlights."

"I don't see any open mouth," I said.

"That's odd. Why would Jeremy have closed it...unless..."

"My thoughts exactly," I said. "Do you mind if we take it down?"

"Shoot it down for all I care. Better yet, let me help you."

She brought in a step-stool from the kitchen and held it steady while I removed the stuffed head from the wall. Covered with dust and a collection of dead insects from years on the wall, the mouth appeared to have been sewn shut with a fine black thread. Once I cut the threads and opened the mouth, out came a cigarette-pack-size plastic box filled with micro-cassette tapes.

"Congratulations, Dick Tracy," she beamed. "Now what have we got to play them on? Everything I have uses CDs or DVDs. Maybe we could find a player at the Inn."

"No, we're not even going to try to listen to these tapes," I said seriously. "See if you can find something we can wrap them in for mailing. We're going to send these little beauties to our buddy Sherm." There is one rule in the field that you never, ever break. It is drummed into your head from the very first day of tradecraft training. Couriers do not mess with the packages that they are entrusted to carry. It's too easy to screw up the contents when you don't know what you're doing. For all I knew Jeremy could have inserted microdots inside cassette recordings of 'Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits'.

So we packaged the recordings with the address Sherm Marshall had given me and tucked them away in Brenda's purse until we found a post office. She completed the inside search while I checked around outside. My task was probably a waste of time because I believe that Jeremy wouldn't have wanted Brenda crawling under or on top of the cabin for any reason. But, it was a bird in the hand and it didn't take all that long for me to check it out anyway.

When we were satisfied that all of the possible hiding places had been explored, Brenda locked the door, lingering on the stoop for one last minute before joining me in the car. Then she took the cell phone Sherm had given me and patiently showed me how to Google directions to the nearest post office. How was I to know it could do all those things? It's not like it came with an instruction book. Did it?

With electronic directions in hand, my tech-savvy navigator guided us to the local post office where we mailed the cassettes. Then we returned my buddy's car to the back parking lot of the Inn, entering though the rear door to our unused room on the ground floor. Brenda's tears had been fresh reminders to me of her vulnerability. As much as we kidded around, it might take quite a while before she would be ready to move on to the next level. Hopefully sooner rather than later, but that was not my call.

We took turns freshening up in the antiquated bathroom, changed our clothes, put on our best smiles and strolled arm in arm though the lobby and out the front door. An hour later we had completed a superficial tour of local antique shops and selected a promising restaurant for dinner. Given the choice of three, two of which specialized in take-out orders, the family-style eatery was perfect for our purposes. My meat loaf and mashed potatoes were first-rate, swimming in gravy with an accompanying basket of freshly-baked drop biscuits. Brenda's salad was, after all, just a salad, but she seemed to enjoy it nevertheless.

I had to admit that the opposition must have brought in the first team. It took me until after our dinner to spot the second tail. She was better at it than her male partner had been, changing her look slightly whenever she took the lead from him. Obviously, she had been trained to alter her gait and her posture, rotating the combination of sunglasses, scarf, and jacket to make her appear to be a different person. Her partner kept a fairly constant distance throughout, observing us through his dark glasses from the shadows of storefronts along the street.

The restaurant wasn't busy and there was no reason for us to hurry back to the hotel room, so we lingered over our dessert and coffee. Brenda told me funny stories about Jeremy and their times together in the fishing shack. Like the time a raccoon got trapped in the bathroom and wanted to fight Jeremy instead of leaving. Finally, Brenda coaxed it out with a trail of mini-marshmallows. It was getting increasingly harder for me to play my part with a straight face. Hang in there, Harry, I told myself. Stay focused and keep your head in the mission. This isn't about me. It's about Jeremy.

Walking back to the Inn Brenda asked if I had noticed the thirtyish brunette who was seated across the room from us in the restaurant.

"Yep. She and her partner have been watching us," I said.

"I thought so. The last time I saw her she was wearing horn rim glasses and a blond wig and her name was Ann Reynolds."

"You mean the phony insurance agent?" I smiled.

"That was the bitch."

"Brenda, that's great news," I said enthusiastically.

She stopped dead in her tracks and looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "How can you say that?"

I put my arm around her to get her moving again. "Keep smiling at your handsome beau while he explains his point. Don't you see? The fact that they're using someone you've already seen means that this is a small-time Off-Broadway production."

"What if they bring in more people like they did in Florida?"

"All the better. Contract personnel are notoriously unreliable," I said with certainty.

"You're a real piece of work, Harry. You're almost as full of crap as Jeremy was."

"No, seriously. They've committed all their available assets to us. That means if we added more people to our side they won't be able to cover all of us. And I know just the person to add to our team."

Once again Brenda made me comfy on the pullout couch while she luxuriated in the inn's old fashioned bed. But this time I got the better deal. Her old mattress sagged like a swayback mule while mine was still firm from lack of use. The worst part, according to her, was listening to me snore all night. I didn't have the temerity to tell her that she snored as well. It was actually comforting listening to the sound of her breathing.

In the morning while she took her turn in the bathroom, I made arrangements to meet that special friend of mine on the way back to D.C. Brenda emerged looking radiant as usual despite her professed lack of sleep.

"I hope you're not starving," I said.

"Aren't we having breakfast here?"

"Not today. We're going to eat at a diner on the way back to civilization. It's time for you to meet that certain friend of mine."

"Can I at least take one of their delicious muffins with me?"

"How could I deny you anything, girlfriend," I said.

We made a show of checking out, winking at each other and gushing about how much we had enjoyed our stay. I loaded the bags while Brenda chatted with another guest about which shop had the cutest antiques. Our two shadows were already loaded, parked in the morning shade and waiting for us to depart.

Ninety minutes later we pulled into one of my favorite diners just west of Tyson's Corner. The morning rush had ended, giving us our pick of seating. We chose one of the two freestanding tables in the front corner of the long narrow room. No one could overhear our conversation with the possible exception of the man eating breakfast over his morning newspaper at the next table. I sat down with my back to him.

" _Dobroye, Nikkoli Alexandrovitch_ ," I said while looking at Brenda.

"Morning Harry," the man responded without turning around.

Brenda sat facing me with her mouth open. I nodded over my shoulder at the man behind me. "This is my friend Nikkoli Roskofski. Nicky, say hello to Brenda."

"Harry gets a kick out of using my Russian name. It's been Nicky Richards for the past twenty years. I'm so sorry to hear about Jeremy, Brenda. He was the absolute best."

"My pleasure, Nicky," she said hesitantly. "Thanks for your condolences."

"Jeremy stuck his neck way out for me and was there the day I was sworn in as a U.S. citizen. All Harry ever did was arrest me and turn me into a double agent."

"You see," I said to Brenda, "Nicky was a spy for the U.S.S.R. He managed to get a visa by posing as a poor Polish college student who never went home. I busted him when I was tasked to the FBI. He saw the light, ratted out the rest of his sleeper cell and came over to our side."

"Sounds very dangerous," said Brenda.

"Not really," said Nicky. "My cell was gathering industrial intelligence. We needed blueprints and trade secrets to kick-start our manufacturing industry without paying for niceties like patents and royalties."

"Why not use reverse engineering?" she asked.

"We did that too," he said, turning the page as if he were reading the paper. "It didn't always work out. So, stealing plans at least gave us the right dimensions."

"Is he making this up?" Brenda asked me.

"No, it's true," I said. "Any wonder they lost the cold war?"

"Even before the Berlin Wall fell the Eastern Bloc was crumbling and it was every man for himself," Nicky said. "We all made the best deal we could and never looked back. I got myself a job in electronics and luckily it turned out all right."

"He's too modest," I said. "Nicky is the leading specialty electronics distributor on the East Coast. Now he's a filthy capitalist."

"And proud of it," he added, turning another page in his newspaper. "When the next quarterly survey of distributors is published, we expect to be at the top of the list in sales and gross profit. Not bad for an immigrant Polish kid, eh?"

"I doubt you've ever been to Poland," I said. "That was the dumb cover story they stuck on this poor hick kid from the Ukraine. The first time I heard his accent I knew he wasn't Polish, so we busted him and made him a deal he couldn't refuse."

"My debt to Jeremy can never be fully repaid," Nicky said. "I'm truly sorry that I did not attend his funeral, but with so many intelligence officers I didn't want to be a distraction."

"Some of my less forgiving colleagues thought that Nicky should have been deported or sent to prison," I explained. "Jeremy made the case that he had been a productive double agent for us and, given the chance, would be a productive American citizen."

"For which I'm eternally grateful. Now, how may I be of service?"

"There are two birds watching us from the parking lot," I said. "They've been tailing Brenda since the funeral. They've bugged our homes, our phones and our vehicles. We'd like to know who they are, for openers."

"Are you speaking of the man and woman in the blue LTD? They followed you into the parking lot but haven't left their vehicle."

"I see that you haven't lost your touch," I said. "We've got to get going right now. Let me know what you find out. _Spasibo, tovarich_."

Excusing myself to wash my hands, I called Sherm's answering machine from the restroom, filling him in on the micro-cassettes we found as well as the addition of Nicky Richards to our team. We also worked out a scheme to communicate with Nicky should the need arise. As soon as our breakfast dishes were cleared, we left without making eye contact with Nicky while he remained behind, sipping coffee and reading the paper.

After dropping Brenda at her apartment I went home to check the mail and do a load of laundry. With smaller capacity machines that take longer to wash and dry, I've found that it makes sense to keep up with the clothes hamper. On my way in I noticed that the grass around my trailer had been freshly cut and trimmed, one more chore I didn't have to worry about. My answering machine said that I had three messages waiting. The thought of taking it to a more secure location for playback evaporated when it dawned on me that the eavesdroppers had already heard the messages as they were being recorded.

"Harry, it's Elvira in the office. I made a rhubarb pie today. It really smells good! If you'd like a piece you can stop by my trailer tonight. I'll be up late, so stop by any time." Erase and pretend I never got the message.

"Hello, do I begin speaking now? It's Millie McCluskey. I had another idea we should talk about. Can you come by sometime this week?" Erase and make a note to visit Millie again.

"Um, yeah, you uh called me last week. I was away. My buddy said you were OK, so give me another call. Same number." Must be Fred's friend Al Mosconi, the Signal Ops guy who drove the satellites for Operation TOMBOY. I can't blame him for being careful if he wants to keep his job. Erase. Note to call Al M.

As an afterthought I turned down the volume on the answering machine. There was no sense sharing any more information with the eavesdroppers in the future. Why didn't I think of that earlier? Hopefully no harm was done. Leave it to them to figure out who Elvira is and how she fits in this caper. I washed, dried, folded and put away the clean clothes, flipped through the mail, closed up my fifth wheel and then headed off to see Millie. It was a beautiful day, one of those when you're just glad to be alive. Having Nicky join the team gave me a real lift, leveling the playing field so we could get to the bottom of this conundrum.

Millie was sitting in a chair in one of the nursing home day rooms while a teen-aged volunteer applied a fresh coat of fingernail polish to the nails on her left hand. "I was hoping you'd come by today. I never know how long my memory will last these days, you know."

"Your memory was never better," I said. "Don't you pull that stuff with me."

"You are sweet, Harry, but we all lose brain cells as we get older. I'm slowing down and I know it. It's not so bad, just a bit frustrating when you can't recall the right word or put the right name with a face you should know."

"I read somewhere that doing crossword puzzles was supposed to help maintain brain function," I said helpfully.

"I'd rather have phone sex," she said wickedly as the young volunteer giggled. "It's more fun and requires much less effort."

"Call me some time and we'll give it a try."

"Calling my bluff, are you? Well, let's talk business instead." Speaking to her young friend, she said, "You did a very nice job, Sweetie. Why don't you take a break and get a soft drink while I talk to this handsome man. We can do the other hand in about twenty minutes, OK?"

"Nice kid," I said as the girl left us alone to talk privately.

"All the volunteers here are special. We can't thank them enough for putting up with all us old fools."

"Yeah, right. So what were you trying to remember?"

I thought about another way to get documents out of the Agency."

"I'm all ears," I said.

"Remember I told you that they were paranoid about losing documents? Everything that left the building was either searched or scanned."

I nodded, waiting for the punch line.

"However, diplomatic pouches were exempt. Once they were sealed at the sending department, a bonded courier picked them up and there were no more searches or scans."

"Yeah, but then the courier makes a beeline to the airport," I recalled. "After that it leaves the country. What good is that?"

"All Jeremy needed was someone at the other end to sign for the pouch, remove the contents and send it right back by regular mail. The security geniuses saw no need to scan or search incoming mail."

"Millie, you're the genius," I gushed. "We were too narrow in our thinking. Jeremy didn't need to hide something at his place or Brenda's when he had the whole world to choose from."

"Now you're using your brain cells. His confederates could be sitting on the contents until someone gives them permission to send them back."

"Right, right. There could be any number of people sitting on any number of packages waiting to be recalled," I completed the thought.

Mitchell Conklin was visibly agitated when Lester knocked and entered the unfamiliar hotel room. The man had an irritating habit of waiting until the last moment before arriving at a scheduled meeting. Never late, he was always right on time. Conklin decided that it wasn't worth getting into now. He could deal with Lester at another time. Instead, he suppressed his emotions and took his customary seat behind the small desk while his subordinates began their report on Harry and Brenda's trip to the mountains.

This time the woman known as Ann Reynolds did most of the talking, which suited Lester Gerber very well. He was more than willing to let her sweat while Conklin habitually probed for obscure details.

"We followed them to an inn in the Shenandoah Mountains where they spent the afternoon together," she said.

"You're positive that they never left the inn."

"Absolutely. They had a snuggle and a long nap together," she replied.

"And how do you know all this?" he asked pleasantly. "Did you observe their coupling? Were you listening to their sighs of pleasure?"

"Well, not exactly," she backtracked.

"Then what, exactly?"

"We watched them until they drew the curtains. The fabric was too thick and irregular to provide the necessary audio resonance..."

"So," he cut her off in mid-sentence, "you hoped that they weren't just putting on a performance for your entertainment."

"And, we know that that they did not leave the building because we could see the entrance from our vantage point," she said, realizing her error as soon as the words left her mouth.

Conklin gripped his chair while searching the ceiling with his eyes. "Why do I continue to employ such people? I might as well hire 'Dumb and Dumber'. Did it ever occur to you that there might be other exits? Perhaps a service entrance or a basement access or a rear fire-escape?"

This time she understood why it was best to remain quiet.

"Lester, I may owe you an apology," Conkin said. "You could have fouled this up just as badly on your own. You certainly didn't need her help."

Ann and Lester continued to sit quietly without looking at one another. Their superior was a brilliant man who did not suffer fools gladly. It was better to let him rant and rave and get it out of his system.

"Your Mr. Wilson may appear to be a dimwit, but don't underestimate him. He is a very experienced and highly decorated field agent who was mistakenly thrown out with the bath water in the downsizing. It was, in hindsight, a miscalculation to lose such an asset."

Conklin was beginning to get himself back under control. Like a distance runner hitting his stride, lecturing released endorphins in him which produced an almost pleasurable calming sensation. "And do not compound your errors by assuming that Mrs. Foster is just another castoff housewife. She is a trained researcher with a keen analytical mind. Regard her as a courageous and worthy opponent." Conklin stood and began to pace back and forth in the small hotel room. "My sources tell me that the coroner has concluded that Jeremy's death was accidental and the final report will be released within the week. A point in our favor. Perhaps your chat with Mrs. Foster was efficacious after all." That was as close as Conklin ever came to praising an employee.

Lester left via the side door, avoiding the overhead security lighting as he disappeared into the night at the far side of the parking lot. Five minutes later the woman known as Ann Reynolds exited from the rear entrance, backed out quickly and made a hard left onto the freeway on-ramp. Another nine minutes passed before a Yellow Cab pulled up to the front entrance, picked up Conklin and drove away in the opposite direction.

Nicky watched them all leave through his light-amplified field glasses, pausing to photograph each one as they came into view. He had followed the woman after she had tailed Brenda back to her apartment and subsequently left to meet with the other conspirators. Apparently Conklin was already waiting in the motel room while Gerber had been the last to arrive. To be safe, Nicky waited fifteen minutes more before entering the lobby and borrowing the key to the room that had just been vacated. He told the desk clerk that he was a private investigator hired by the "gentleman's wife". She was furious at him for having another affair and wanted to have physical evidence for the divorce proceedings. The clerk, an understanding man of the world, was happy to oblige for a mere $50 bribe.

Nicky worked quickly, photographing the room's interior and lifting prints from all of the doors, chairs, table, glassware, phone and bathroom surfaces. He carefully surveyed the other surfaces, observing that there was nothing in the wastebaskets and the bed hadn't been slept in. On the way out he returned the key to the desk clerk and paid him another $50 for a copy of the credit card receipt signed by Mitchell Conklin. Only the credit card imprint and matching signature were for someone with a different name. Nicky had no way of knowing how significant this discovery would prove to be in the days to come.

Instead of going straight home, Nicky went to his office to process the pictures he had taken at the motel. Advances in digital photography made it a toss-up between film and memory, but he had confidence in his equipment and saw no need to make any changes now. He had captured clear images of all three subjects, as well as their license plates. Deciding that the rest of the information could wait until morning, he went home to bed.

By noon the following day he had cataloged and mailed the fingerprint cards, photographs and credit card copies to Sherm Marshall's office. A friend of his in the District PD ran the plates and confirmed that both cars were registered to a company Nicky suspected to be a front for the CIA. He then drove past Brenda's apartment building where the woman known as Ann Reynolds was dutifully watching the front door. Nicky parked up the street, waiting for Brenda to leave for her afternoon "appointment". He had asked her to be gone for at least two hours, giving him plenty of time to process the apartment.

Reynolds pulled out to follow as soon as Brenda's car exited the driveway. Dressed as a cable company employee, Nicky then entered with the spare key Brenda had given him and began an electronic sweep. There were wireless microphones hidden in overhead light fixtures as well as the telephone, but no hidden cameras.

Outside the rear of the apartment building he found a recording device and wireless receiver in a dummy control box next to the main power panel. Donning disposable gloves, he lifted fingerprints from the most likely surfaces. Then he carefully opened the back of the recorder, sprinkled powdered acid on the circuits and replaced the cover. He also sprinkled some of the powder on the hinges of the dummy control panel. Selecting a location with a clear line of sight to the power panel, Nicky set up his own remote camera. It also had a built-in motion sensor and 24 hour memory which could be remotely controlled. There was a chance that someone might have legitimate need to open the main panel, but he had more than enough memory to capture anyone accessing the dummy control box.

Ambient moisture would activate the acid within a few days, causing the cover hinges and delicate circuits to oxidize and interrupt the reception from the microphones. It was not enough to cause a total failure, but it should create enough of a problem that someone would have to come out to investigate. When they did, Nicky would have a video record of whoever had bugged Brenda's apartment. He stopped by the post office for a second time that day, mailing the dummy control box fingerprints to Sherm's office. More than likely they belonged to the same person who would be dispatched to investigate the recording circuit problems. If not, they'd have a lead on one more member of the opposition.

I knew that Millie's epiphany about diplomatic pouches must mean something, but it still didn't take me anywhere. Sure, Jeremy could have made copies and snuck them out with a courier, but to where? I'd have to find someone with access to the courier log just to begin listing the possibilities. Then I'd have to come up with a scheme to narrow the list, but how was I going to do that? Hopefully Jeremy left other clues that could tell me when and where he sent the copies.

Furthermore, his accomplice at the receiving end could have extracted the contents and either hidden or sent them on by regular mail, but to whom? Was someone sitting on the copies waiting for Jeremy to either pick them up or provide another destination? How long was the chain? There could be any number of intermediaries forwarding the package along to others. Sherm would have been a logical destination, but Jeremy didn't get him involved until his final days. Maybe he used his personal lawyer as a letter drop for safekeeping in the event that something were to happen to him.

I decided to move on to the next topic and let my massive brain incubate on the problem. Something might fall into place while I'm asleep. They claim that sleep allows your brain to perform housekeeping functions, sorting out your thoughts, completing connections that have been blocked by fatigue and priming your emotional pump for the next day. Perhaps Brenda will find out more information when she connects with Jeremy's lawyer. Either way, it was time for me to take another pass at Al Mosconi.

He was still an active employee at the Agency, so we'd have to meet somewhere off campus. Answering his personal cell phone on the first ring, he said "No names. I got your caller ID. Meet me in an hour at Fred's favorite place. You know where that is?"

"Yes," I managed to say before he hung up. Talk about your basic Nervous Nellie. He must be guarding something extremely important to be so jumpy. I figured it would take about forty-five minutes to get to our meeting place, including the time it would take to lose the guy who had been following me all day. Losing a tail wasn't too difficult unless you wanted him to resume his surveillance without becoming suspicious about what you had been doing in the interim. For that it was better to get closer and then ditch him at the last minute. I'd be able to spend maybe ten minutes with Al before I'm missed.

Fred's favorite place was a hole-in-the-wall Coney Island joint on the ground floor of the McLean Mall. It was one of the few hot dog emporiums that would actually deliver if he couldn't get away for lunch. The mall adjoined a multi-level parking deck with three levels of retail outlets, an ideal place for me to become separated from my shadow before meeting with the guy doing the Don Knotts man-on-the-street impressions.

Finding the last space in the inner row on the third level, forcing my tail to go around to the next aisle, I made it to the mall entrance just as my unidentified friend was parking his car. He wouldn't have a clue where to find me once he entered the mall. Just to be on the safe side, I took the stairs down two levels and hugged the store fronts until I entered the Coney Island. Mosconi was already there, sitting against the back wall.

"Sit facing me," he said tensely. "I'll keep an eye on the door."

"Nice to meet you too, Al."

"What do you want? I don't have much time."

I wrote the word 'TOMBOY' on a napkin and watched his eyes grow large as I pushed it across the table in front of him. "Fred said you could tell me about this. It has to do with Jeremy Foster's death."

"I don't want to know what's going on. That's your thing. All I know is I was ordered to maintain geo-sync over some coordinates in Afghanistan. They saw what they wanted to see and then shut it down. Told me to forget everything, or else."

"Or else what?" I asked.

"This could mean my job, man. Maybe even jail time. I shouldn't even be sitting here talking to you."

"And yet, here you sit because Fred told you it was important," I said evenly, hoping to get him to relax and open up. He looked around nervously, trying to decide how much to tell me, I guess.

"These guys are serious, you know. I could be in trouble just being with you."

"Al, take a breath and tell me the truth," I said "You won't be in any trouble." I couldn't decide whether to reach across the table and slap him or round up a brown paper bag for him to breathe in. At the rate he was going I was afraid that he could hyperventilate at almost any minute.

"OK, I trust Fred and he said to trust you. Just don't screw me, man."

"Scout's honor. Just deal the cards," I said calmly.

"So we were watching for hours without seeing a thing. The guys with me were hardly paying attention, expecting me to tell them if anything important happened. It was really getting to me, you know."

"You're doing fine," I reassured him. "Just stay with me."

"Then I thought I saw something move, and a guy poked his head out of one of the caves in our field of vision. So I alerted the guys behind me and zoomed in for a tight shot."

"Good, you're doing well, Al."

"A minute later there were two, then three, four and finally five turbaned figures emerging from the cave. One was taller than the other four, carrying a staff and walking with a limp. The others all carried weapons that looked like AK-47s."

"Then what happened?" I asked.

"Somebody behind me radioed the coordinates while I tracked the group."

"Who radioed? Who was there with you?" I pressed.

He ignored my question. I don't know if he couldn't hear me or just wanted to spit it out and get it over with. "I was doing all I could to keep the image centered while they slowly moved off to the east. The taller guy couldn't move very fast in that terrain."

"How long did you track them?" I asked.

"Then all of a sudden, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and the guys with AK's all went down. Then five other guys with Uzi's surrounded the tall guy with the limp. At that point they reached over my shoulder, shut off the video and told me to forget what I saw."

The next thing I knew Al Mosconi had jumped to his feet and was practically sprinting for the door. "Gotta go. Can't talk right now. I'll call you. Don't call me." And with that, he was gone. I don't know if he thought he saw something or just hit an anxiety threshold. He never did tell me the names of the guys who had been in the satellite center with him.

I left a short time later after purchasing a large Coke and a foot-long hot dog smothered in chili and onions, purely for cover in case I was spotted coming out of the store. The aroma seeped out of the wrapper while I was carrying it and nearly overwhelmed me as I worked my way up the central stairway to the third level. There I commandeered an empty bench in the atrium and greedily consumed my cover meal.

Somewhere between opening the chili-dog wrapper and licking the last bit of chili off my fingers my missing escort reappeared. He must have been systematically searching the mall wondering what could have happened to me. I couldn't look directly at him, but he didn't appear to be too distraught for having lost sight of me. When I stood up to toss away the empty cup and food wrapper my Sherman Marshall phone rang. "Hello Dear," I said for the benefit of anyone within earshot.

"Being watched, I take it," said Nicky. "Care to slip away for a bite?"

"Shoot, I just had a quick bite at the Mall. Can I get a rain check?"

"No hurry. I put some pictures in your mail slot at the trailer park. Let me know if you recognize anyone. Oh, can you find a reason to stay away from your palatial home for another two hours while I sweep it for bugs? I already mapped the devices and set a big rat trap at Brenda's apartment."

"Oh Honey, you don't have to do that. I'm just fine the way I am."

"You want to leave the bugs so you can feed them misinformation."

"Exactly. You're just too good to me," I gushed.

"OK, Buddy. I'll get back after I catch a big rat."

"Love you, too."

Then my shadow and I walked back to our respective cars and drove home. Recalling Mosconi's play-by-play on the way there, it sure sounded like one of the covert teams had either nabbed Osama or his body double. How many gimpy 6' 4" Arabs could have been hiding out in the Tora Bora caves? A body double makes about as much sense as capturing our #1 enemy and then keeping it quiet for four years.

Instead of going straight to my trailer, I stopped at the park's office to discover that my mail slot was empty. That could only mean one thing. Elvira had her radar on, locking on to me as soon as I stepped out of my truck. She hot-footed up my driveway even before I turned the key in the lock. "Here's your mail, Harry. I'm still saving you a slice of rhubarb pie."

"Elvira, you're such a treasure," I replied with my best smile while accepting the mail she was holding. "And don't you look nice today. You know, as much as I'd love a piece of your prize pie, it doesn't quite fit with the Adkins diet. My doctor ordered me to shed a few pounds and I'm just getting started on the diet as we speak. You know, it's the one with low carbs, high protein and gallons of water. In fact, I have to pee again right now, if you'll excuse me."

She seemed to take the brush-off in stride, still smiling as she turned around and walked off in the direction of her trailer. Elvira was the determined sort who didn't give up easily. She probably thought that she could win me over with kindness. A faithful and persistent ally, she wasn't the type of person that you'd ever want as an enemy. It was a real challenge to keep her at arm's length without alienating her completely.

Nicky had left me a copy of his surveillance report as well as pictures of the three subjects and their respective vehicles. I recognized the two people who had been following us, but the third face was a mystery to me. He appeared to be tall and thin, clean-shaven with wire-rimmed glasses and stylishly long salt-and-pepper gray hair and sideburns. The report said that he had used a credit card issued to William C. Fields, an obvious pseudonym. Hopefully the fingerprints would be more revealing. Having read the name in the report, I almost flipped past the copy of the credit card receipt. Then I took a closer look at it. The charge was from an American Express Gold Corporate Credit Card issued to Vigilance Associates in the name of William C. Fields. A whole new paper trail had just fallen into our laps.

Prominent Washington law firms all seemed to be named after four or five guys you never heard of, unless you happened to be another lawyer or a lobbyist. Some were almost comical combinations of words with other connotations, nearly as gross as Gluttony, Dyspepsia, Squat, Dump and Leavitt. Ironically most masthead names had either retired to Palm Beach or were now practicing in that big courtroom in the sky. Leave it to Jeremy to find a sole practitioner that he trusted to handle his affairs.

Pedro 'Pete' Martinez wanted to be a civil engineer just like his father had been, but everything changed after the family escaped from Cuba. Ernesto Martinez washed dishes, dug ditches, collected trash and anything else he could find to do in order to feed his family of five. Due to his lack of relevant experience with modern technology and poor English language skills, he was disqualified from doing anything other than manual labor.

These lessons were not lost on Ernesto's son, who mastered the English language and excelled in oratory and debate. He earned a National Merit Scholarship to Florida State University where he majored in speech and communications, perfecting the neutral accent favored by the broadcast media. Then he met the girl of his dreams, fell head over heels in love and followed her to law school. The girl eventually grew tired of the grind, married a young man with money and left both Pete and the law school behind. That led him to turn his focus inward, using his extensive debate training and experience to prepare for a career as a trial attorney. But in his third year he found his true calling as an immigration lawyer, helping people like his father enjoy a better life in The Land of Opportunity.

After successful stints with two of the top three firms on the East Coast, Pete had enough money, experience and corporate clients to open his own office in Washington, D.C. His sizeable hourly rate was enough to fund pro bono work for needy clients, as well as allow him the luxury of giving preferential discounts to old friends like Jeremy Foster.

"Thanks for coming in to see me today, Brenda. I hope you didn't think I was neglecting you."

"No, as a matter of fact I wasn't even aware that Jeremy had made another will. We just never talked about such things."

"My hands were tied until the death certificate was issued and I've been pretty busy preparing testimony for some pending legislation. My main practice is immigration law, so I don't handle estate matters all that often. But who could ever say no to Jeremy. He was a special friend and I'll miss him a great deal."

"Me too, Pete. More than you know. The crazy thing is that I wasn't sure who handled Jeremy's legal work. I mean, he was the one who found a firm to handle our divorce, but other than that I had no idea. I thought I knew all his friends."

"Let me tell you a few things you may not be aware of. It might help to put everything into perspective. Is that agreeable?"

"I'm game. Nothing could surprise me at this point."

"Jeremy probably told you that he was orphaned at a young age and raised by a kindly aunt who doted on him."

"Yes. I think she died while he was in college."

"That was a convenient fiction. For all intents and purposes, Jeremy grew up in an orphanage. Except for some unfortunate episodes in foster homes, he was raised by the State of New York. He had no siblings or other relatives. Most of his friends were either adopted, in jail or dead by the time he went to college, which was a miracle in itself."

"But why would he tell me about an aunt who never existed?"

"It was a happier ending for him. Jeremy developed the ability to recast his surroundings in a more positive light at a very early age. It may have been the reason he excelled instead of being ground up by the foster care system. It certainly served him well as a career public servant, and it made him into a veritable force of nature who went out of his way to encourage others."

"He joked now and then about being a 'foster child', but I thought that was just a play on words."

"As a matter of record, it was the other way around. He never knew his real surname, so he adopted the name 'Foster'. It was a statement about where he had come from. I filed the petition for his name change when I was still in law school."

"How did you two meet?"

"We were both on the debate teams at our respective schools. Florida State wasn't in the same league as Columbia, but we'd run into each other at regional competitions and eventually became friends. I think he took pity on the poor Cuban kid with the funny accent, but it was in his nature to always root for the underdog."

"What about after college?"

"He went to work for the CIA and spent much of the first year training at Camp Peary. By then I was in law school at Georgetown, so we'd get together on weekends. Besides being a fun companion, he had this deep well of compassion for others. He had a grand vision for his work, and in many ways he probably influenced me to follow my heart instead of the money I could have earned being a criminal trial lawyer."

"Looks like you're doing OK to me."

"The money is still secondary. It gives one a certain freedom to do the things that are really important in life. Anyway, we stayed in touch over the years and when he needed legal help he usually called me first. I had to pass on the divorce for a number of legal and ethical reasons. You understand, I'm sure."

"What gets me is that he never told me anything about this side of his life. Why all the secrecy? He could have at least told me about you."

"That you can probably blame on me. Due to our respective positions, Jeremy and I had to maintain the appearance of an arms-length relationship. He was an official of the Federal Government while I was advocating for people whose legal status may have been questionable, at best."

"You mean that he was actually helping you under the table?"

"Something like that. Contrary to what you may have heard, U.S. immigration policies are fluid, self-serving and totally arbitrary. Just as national alliances change over the years, immigration rules fluctuate with the Administration's list of who is favored and who isn't at any given point in time. Depending on the country of national origin, someone with a criminal history may be customarily admitted while hard-working immigrants from another country are routinely excluded."

"I can believe it. Jeremy always said that the quota system was insane."
"It's even worse than that. Quotas are traded back and forth like so many bushels of wheat. They serve as bargaining chips to leverage whatever it is that the government is trying to negotiate with other nations."

"So they can be turned on and off like water taps?"

"Pretty much. The great hue and cry you hear about illegal immigration from Mexico could be fixed with the stoke of a pen. We don't need expensive fences or more Border Patrol Officers. What we need is a sensible immigration process that dovetails with seasonal employment patterns in the principal agricultural states."

"You mean so people can legally cross the border and then return to their home countries?"

"Yes, all that and more. The root problem is the imbalance of skilled labor and availability of jobs between the U.S. and Mexico. What could be a mutually beneficial symbiosis between the two is hopelessly fouled up."

"And it's not just Mexico, is it?"

"No it isn't. Central and South America and the Caribbean nations are just as confused. Sea travel has become so hazardous that nearly all of them use the land bridge through Mexico to cross the border. My people came here from Cuba and I could tell you stories that would make you very angry."

"I'm already angry, Pete. Jeremy was killed to keep him from blowing the whistle on something rotten in the CIA."

"Frankly, I'm not surprised. Jeremy wasn't himself the last time we talked. I had a feeling that he was holding back on me."

"Did he leave anything in trust for me? We're hoping to find hidden evidence that we can use against the Agency."

"I'm sorry to say that to my knowledge, he did not. The only thing I have for you are the official death certificates and documents I prepared according to his instructions. He also left you this set of keys and $2.5 million from his estate."

"Where did he get $2.5 million?"

"His estate is worth more than $5 million. He left you half."

"Now I am shocked. He made a good living with the Agency, but nothing close to this while we were married."

"Before you imagine the worst, let me characterize Jeremy's sources of funds. He believed in people with demonstrated integrity and a willingness to work. He invested in the people he believed in."

"I don't understand."

"Some people arrive here with nothing and just need a hand up to get started. Others get in a bind and need something that will tide them over until they can get back on their feet. A few have big dreams that cannot be fulfilled without access to working capital. Most of them cannot qualify for loans from other legitimate sources."

"It sounds like Jeremy was acting like a bank."

"He was more like a venture capitalist. I know for a fact that he was the principal investor in the largest electronic distributor on the East Coast."

"Jeremy funded Nicky Richard's company?"

"So you know Nicky. He's been very successful and has repaid Jeremy's original investment several times over. But he's only one of many that benefited from your former husband's generosity."

"Who are the others?"

"Jeremy kept a ledger with all of the details. One of the keys he left you is for the safe deposit box where it was kept."

"How do you know that?"

"It's one of his stipulations for distribution of the remainder of the estate. You or your designated agent are to continue investing in people as Jeremy did. Any expenses you incur will also be paid by the estate."

Brenda called to talk about the cruise that she had booked for the two of us this coming weekend. Having our phones tapped had its advantages, giving us a convenient means to effortlessly communicate the details to our eavesdropping friends. Apparently they were still enduring the worsening static on their wireless receiver at Brenda's because so far no one had checked out the dummy control panel.

"What time do you want me to pick you up?" I asked.

"Eight-thirty should be fine. Boarding starts at ten-thirty for the noon sailing from Baltimore. I assume that the route is well-marked."

"If not, we can always Google from my phone," I said with a grin.

"Aren't you funny!"

"Did you get a good deal from one of those last-minute departure sites?"

"Let's just say you're gonna love the suite I picked out. It has a sitting room with a full balcony and a separate queen-size bedroom."

"Just don't make promises I can't deliver on, Missy," I said hopefully.

"And you just pick me up on time, Mister. The rest will take care of itself. In the meantime you could take me out to dinner tonight."

"Tired of your own cooking I take it," I said.

"I have this craving for fish, so no streak houses tonight."

"They have a drive-thru lane at Long John Silver's."

"I'll leave the details in your hands. Pick me up at six."

"That's still in the rush hour. How about seven?"

"Make it six forty-five, fast talker. I'm getting hungrier just thinking about it."

So at six-forty when I pulled up in front of Brenda's apartment she was waiting on the steps. "You weren't kidding about being hungry," I said.

We chatted about the upcoming cruise as I threaded my way through the early evening traffic to a local seafood establishment with a stunning view of the bay. Our reservation had been for seven-thirty, but they were kind enough to seat us at one of their special tables on the perimeter of the outdoor deck right away.

'Mannys' was a popular roadhouse dating back to Prohibition days. A bit off the beaten path, it could be difficult to find if you didn't have detailed directions. At one time it was rumored to have been a place where you could place a bet, have an illegal drink and rub elbows with the Washington elite all at the same time. Even without a sordid past, the view and the selection of fresh fish made it well worth the trip. Brenda inserted her delicate fingers into the bread basket even before the waiter had finished taking our order. She selected a broiled whitefish while I was seduced by the featured special, a seafood jambalaya. With the high-calorie cruise coming up, we decided to hold off on any deep-fried appetizers and creamed side dishes. We also settled for iced tea instead of the usual wine or mixed drinks.

As we were facing away from the parking lot and out of eaves-dropping range from nearby tables, we talked freely while we ate. "Before you tell me about the lawyer," I said, "Sherm sent a text message asking us to call him at eight p.m. tonight."

"You actually got a text message? How special."

"I'm not completely helpless," I said feeling chastised.

"Nobody is completely anything. Some people are simply blessed with more technical capabilities than others."

"Tell me about the lawyer in less than 30 minutes."

She easily beat the deadline, even with an interruption when our dinner was served. I had no idea that Jeremy had such a bankroll. Why am I only now learning these things about a man I thought I knew well? Maybe his safe deposit box contained more than just a ledger. Even so, it would have to wait until we returned next week, giving us a chance to set things up with Sherm and Nicky before opening Jeremy's box.

"So, can you fill me in on Nicky's research in less than ten minutes?"

"OK, you know about the rat trap he set behind your building," I said. "So far, no rats have come sniffing around the cheese. It's only a matter of time before they will."

"I could rustle some cellophane whenever I use the phone."

Ignoring her frivolity, I plowed on. "Nicky captured photos of one Lester Gerber, Alicia Johansen and a mystery man who turned out to be none other than one Dr. Mitchell Conklin. Gerber and Johansen are both ex-Army noncoms with questionable service records. They're officially employed as 'advisors' on Conklin's staff and both of them were driving cars registered to Agency front companies."

"Isn't domestic surveillance a no-no?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am. It's a violation of the National Security Act and several Presidential Executive Orders. Conklin was also dumb enough to use a phony name with an AMEX card issued to Vigilance Associates, giving us a paper trail to follow."

"Serves the arrogant jerk right. What did you say they had here for dessert?"

Sherm answered his office phone on the third ring. He asked me to hold on as he was still in the middle of a conversation on another matter. I took advantage of the lull to make inroads into my half of the cheesecake. Brenda had already eaten the other half. Neither one of us needed the calories, but we reasoned that it was an even trade against the appetizers and alcohol we didn't have. That's the power of rationalization.

"Harry, I'm back. I'm in the middle of another trial. Things are a little chaotic around here, as usual. What have you got?"

I gave him the Reader's Digest version of the meetings with Millie McCluskey and Al Mosconi as well as Brenda's encounter with Jeremy's lawyer. He was more interested in what Al didn't say about who was present when the takedown took place, encouraging me to find some way to fill in the blanks.

"Pete Martinez has a good reputation," he said. "I never met him myself, but I've heard that he's a straight shooter. It's good to know that Brenda's been taken care of financially. We'll iron out the details about opening the safe deposit box next week."

"That's all at this end for now," I said. "Nicky set a trap at Brenda's place plus a few surprises for the opposition while we're away this coming week."

"I read his report. With what he collected at the motel and the evidence from Brenda's apartment, we have more than enough to charge them with a half-dozen felonies. It might be a good time to cut one of them out of the herd and see if you can turn him or her against the others."

"Just say the word, boss," I said. "We could corner one of the rats if and when they follow us on the cruise. What about the cassettes we found in the cabin?"

"The audio analysis is still underway, but we can clearly hear Jeremy's cohorts incriminating themselves. We still have to pin down the specific names, dates and locations. However, it dovetails pretty well with his deposition, so we should be able to piece it together by the time you get back."

"Sorry I can't be of more help," I said. "It's been nearly ten years since I roamed the halls in Langley and Jeremy and I didn't travel in the same circles anyway."

"No problem. Jeremy did a good job playing devil's advocate, asking whether the ends really justified the means they were debating."

I knew exactly what he was talking about. The Company fell in that same trap fifty years ago and had been digging itself out ever since. It earned the condemnation of the public and the nation's leaders, resulting in continuing oversight by the House and Senate Intelligence Committees. I heard once that every company with a unionized work force had earned it, and the Agency was no exception in this regard.

Sherm went on with his description. "Jeremy also made it clear that they were acting without the Director's knowledge. Someone in the ranks was apparently taking orders from outside the CIA. From Jeremy's comments, he thought it could have been coming from the White House."

"How would he know?" I asked.

"First, none of the actions in question ever showed up in the Director's Executive Summary. The White House part was probably an educated guess. But I have to question why anyone would go to the trouble to create covert operations and not be able to take advantage of the resulting intelligence?"

This was one ground ball I could field. "You feed the intel back through a legitimate operation. Everybody's happy when a dry well pumps out a few more barrels."

"So it was a no brainer," said Sherm. "Oh, we finished going over Jeremy's car and the seat belt anchor, steering linkage and brakes were definitely tampered with before the crash. That means we can add accessory to murder to our list of potential charges. We haven't been able to match the prints to anyone we've looked at so far."

"Does that mean you eliminated the people in Nicky's report?" I asked.

"For the most part, but there are other Agency people we're looking at. Didn't you tell me that Conklin had another goon named Karl Schwartz? It must be an alias because there aren't any matching records in the federal data base under that name."

"Deep cover spooks aren't in the data base. The Old Man would have the records, but you couldn't get access to those files without an Act of Congress."

"Then we may need the Director's agreement to dig any deeper. But I want to have all the ducks lined up before we talk to that 'Old Man' of yours. We'll only get one shot at him and I want to be loaded for bear when we do."

"Karl, this had better be important. I'm already late for a briefing on the hill." Conklin detested satellite phone conversations because of inherent transmission turnaround delays. Having to pause before speaking interrupted his natural rhythm and train of thought.

"Sir, I knew you'd want to know bad news immediately. Our host is insisting that we continue paying him rent indefinitely."

"What? You told me that everything had been dismantled. What earthly reason could there be for still using the farmhouse and the airstrip?"

"We aren't using either of them, sir. It's just as I told you before. The package was disposed of and everything was moved out of the farmhouse. I went over every square foot myself. All traces had been removed. And we haven't been using the airstrip either."

"Then why is the old fool demanding more money? We had an agreement and have already paid him more than $50 million for something he seized from the rightful owner to begin with. It was pure profit for him."

"Please sir, allow me to explain. The agreement was $1 million per month for use of the property including taxes, utilities and an 'insurance premium'. Landing fees, fuel and other incidentals were paid for separately.

"Karl, I know all that. We went over every detail when you negotiated the agreement four years ago. Doesn't he understand that the international sanctions would have been much more severe had we not interceded on his behalf?"

"Yes sir, I told him all that. He's very grateful and asked me to convey his appreciation for all your efforts on behalf of the people of Zimbabwe."

"Then why on earth is the old fool demanding that we continue paying him more money?"

"He has run into a little problem with his own people. The recent popular elections backfired on him and now the people want him out of office."

"That's not our problem. If he couldn't figure out a way to rig the results in order to ensure his reelection he deserves to be run out of office."

"Yes sir, but he said that it could become our problem unless the payments continue. If he doesn't receive $1 million a month deposited in his personal Swiss account he will tell the media what we were doing in his country."

"Tell him to be my guest. Who would believe him?"

"He has pictures of TOMBOY to prove it. I have seen them myself. He showed them to me, but would not give me any copies."

All conversation ceased for a full minute while Conklin considered the implications of what he had just heard. His first instinct was to terminate the call in a fit of anger, but it was a secure line and he might as well gather as much information as he could before making any more decisions.

"Sir, are you still on the line?"

"Yes, yes, I'm thinking. Tell me Karl, how could he possibly have any pictures? TOMBOY was never out of the house, was he?"

"No sir. He was always kept under guard indoors."

"What about outside visitors? Could anyone else have gotten into the house?"

"Absolutely not. Only the contractor's people were permitted inside."

"Who did the contractor employ?"

"There were translators and interrogators, shift guards, food service, cleaning staff and sometimes medical personnel who were all vetted by Vigilance."

"Do we know if they were all Vigilance employees?"

"Everyone was in uniform and they had to display their picture ID at all times. There were also detailed logs for everyone who ever set foot on the property. No one was ever allowed in or out without authorization."

"Could any cameras have been hidden before we took possession?"

"No sir, the place was swept top to bottom before anyone set foot inside. Security sweeps continued every month thereafter."

"So, what am I missing here Karl?"

"Nothing sir. Those are the only possibilities."

"No Karl, those cannot be the only possibilities. Someone on the Vigilance team could have been bribed to look the other way. People are inherently greedy. It's not too difficult to find the weakest link and exploit it."

"If you say so sir."

"It's also possible that the pictures were fakes."

"No sir, I saw them. It was TOMBOY sitting in the chair with the bed and the IV stand. There was no one else in the picture."

"Stay where you are. We may have to pay this extortion until we can negotiate a more satisfactory way to end our business with the old fool."

Slamming the phone down in frustration, Conklin resisted the urge to rant and rave. He couldn't resolve the situation by berating his subordinate and losing control of his emotions. In fact, Karl had done the right thing by informing him immediately. The photographs could become a serious problem if they weren't dealt with right away. Karl was tough, fearless and completely loyal, but he was still only one man. It would take a small army to retrieve the photos by force, which his former business partner might be expecting right now. Even though he was an old man who was on the verge of being ousted from office, he could still be a formidable and resourceful opponent. A few more millions in bribes would buy them additional time, lulling the old fool into thinking that he had won this round.

Pressing #4 on his desk phone, Conklin speed-dialed the private line of Phillip Beemer, CEO of Vigilance, Inc. He picked up the hand set and sat down as soon as Beemer answered. "Good afternoon, this is..."

"We have a problem. When can you meet?"

"I'm at your disposal. The usual place in thirty minutes?"

"As soon as you can be there."

Conklin left immediately and drove out to the Skyline Drive scenic overlook, parking next to the only other car at the far end of the lot. The man in that car put down his newspaper, stepped out of his vehicle and slowly scanned the surrounding area. When he was satisfied that they weren't being watched, he opened the passenger car door and sat down next to Conklin.

"What seems to be the problem, Mitchell?" Beemer said.

"One or more of your people sold us out. Someone took pictures of TOMBOY and sold them to the 'host'."

"I see. And what does he want from us?"

"Either he gets $1 million a month or he'll tell the world what he knows."

"That isn't good, but why blame my people?"

"Figure it out, Phillip! Who else had access once he left Pakistan?"

"A fair point. Have you seen these pictures?"

"No, but Karl has. He just called me from there."

"Could they have been faked?"

"Highly unlikely. Karl said they were definitely taken inside the farmhouse. He said you can see TOMBOY sitting in the chair with a bed and IV stand in the background."

"Was anyone else in the picture?"

"No. Just TOMBOY. Nothing else was visible in the photograph."

"That helps some. There would have been cameras or microphones visible if it had been during an interrogation session. If he was still in the chair, he was either being prepped or had just finished for the day. We follow strict procedures for bringing any equipment into the room. Nothing stayed in there between interrogations. And he was never left alone, not for any reason."

"Jesus, Phillip. I don't need another sales pitch from you. I need some damn answers on how you intend to fix this problem."

"Of course, I understand."

"That lunatic won't be satisfied with $1 million a month and you know it. He'll continue doubling the figure every month until we remedy this problem."

"First we'll find the entrepreneur who took the pictures and see what he can tell us. We'll learn how many pictures he sold and how they were transmitted. Once we have what we need, we'll take care of whoever is responsible."

"I assumed that you'd clean up your own mess. What about getting the photographs back?"

"Are you suggesting we storm the presidential palace?"

"That's your department, Phillip. I don't care if you send in a whore with a can of gasoline and a book of matches. You're getting paid a lot of money to run your end of the business. Figure it out for God's sake."

"Take it easy, Mitchell. We're just talking about our options here. I don't expect you to lay out a strike scenario. We'll do all that when the time comes. Right now we need more G-2 before going anywhere."

"Then tell me what you propose to do about the photographs."

"Don't be so concerned. He's an 85-year-old man. How difficult could it be to get him to see things our way?"

"So you don't have a clue at this point, do you?"

That effectively ended the conversation. Beemer made one more attempt to calm his primary customer before exiting the vehicle, but Conklin only wanted to hear about tactical scenarios to recover the photographs.

They parted without further discussion, Conklin leaving first so that Beemer could watch for any signs of surveillance. He then made one more call before pulling out of the lot, setting up another covert meeting with a very interested third party.

There are days when the universe conspires against you. We mapped everything out in advance and it was very straight forward. All I had to do was pick Brenda up at eight-thirty a.m., drive to the Baltimore docks, drop off the luggage, park the truck and board the ship in plenty of time for the noon sailing. None of it went according to plan. It started unraveling when I made a last minute fuel stop, got snarled in traffic and arrived at her apartment twenty minutes late, only to discover that emergency vehicles blocked our customary access road to the Interstate.

Backtracking our way onto I-95, we ran into a road resurfacing project within the first five miles. That's when I made a strategic error and took the wrong exit, ending up mired in downtown Baltimore traffic. GPS was useless, unaware of the directionality of temporary one-way streets set up to ease congestion created by municipal construction. Breathless and sweating, we barely made it up the gangplank by eleven fifty-five a.m. Then the ship didn't depart until one-fifteen p.m., allowing our luggage as well as struggling birddog Alicia Johansen to board nearly an hour late.

Bless her heart, Brenda kept her cool through it all, speaking in reassuring tones until we were safely aboard ship. Then she took me by the hand and led me to our ocean-going suite. She was absolutely right. It knocked my socks off. The passageway door opened into a queen-size bedroom with a generous adjoining bath. A separate sliding door lead to a spacious sitting room with couches, easy chairs, big-screen TV, beverage refrigerator, wet bar and a full-wall private balcony. Glass sliding doors stood open to the gentle sea breeze, beckoning us to enjoy the view from ten stories above the water line.

"Fix yourself a drink and relax on the balcony while I freshen up," she purred.

How could I argue with her logic? I'm a levelheaded guy who usually rolls with the punches, but my blood pressure definitely spiked several times on the way to the docks. A little self-medication was certainly called for. After all, I wasn't planning to drive anywhere for at least another five days. The refrigerator was well stocked with a selection of beer, cold drinks and mixers, and the wet bar had enough single serve bottles to get us through the evening. I mixed up one of my favorite libations and plopped in one of the lounge chairs on the balcony.

I could only see our side of the ship, but Royal Caribbean International certainly spared no expense in outfitting this floating pleasure palace. There were swimming pools, open-air bars, lounging decks, glass-enclosed restaurants and casinos of every description. On the way to our suite we had passed retail shops, spas, movie theaters and electronic game rooms. Brenda emerged while I was consuming my second beverage in her new cruising outfit, smelling of floral crème rinse and looking like a million bucks. "The bathroom is all yours, big fella. If you like, I'll lay out something for you to wear on the bed."

Women won't just come out and accuse you of smelling like a goat. They proffer a suggestion with just a hint of innuendo, making it seem like the notion originated with you. Either way it was a good idea. I was getting pretty ripe after sweating through stop-and-go traffic. I peeled off the offending togs and stuffed them in the handy clothes hamper. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship there were laundries and dry cleaning machines just waiting for such contributions. To think that I had to do all this for myself at home.

The shower helped to improve my disposition with plenty of hot water and a spacious enclosure with an adjustable spray head on the end of a flexible hose. This cruise was going to make it very hard for me to return to the Spartan amenities of my fifth-wheel trailer. A guy could get used to living in a place twice the size and ten times as elegant as his second-hand rig. The fancy engraved soap smelled really good and after a little scrubbing, so did I. When I emerged in the complimentary fluffy bathrobe, Brenda had laid out on the bed a mostly blue Hawaiian-style shirt, white Bermuda shorts and rubber-soled deck shoes. After shaving, powdering, combing and dressing, I found her nursing a cold drink on the balcony. "Harry, you really clean up well! I knew that shirt was right for your color palette."

Having no clue as to what she was talking about, I just smiled and settled into the lounge chair next to her. "This balcony is open enough for us to talk safely. Did you see our friend Alicia board behind us?"

"You mean the erstwhile brunette in the hideous red wig and ugly purple dress?"

"The very same. What about her friend Lester?" I asked.

"Nope. I only saw Alicia. What am I allowed to say to her if we happen to run into each other? This ship will be pretty small after being cooped up together for five days."

"We will most certainly be running into Alicia. Sherm said it was time to cut one out of the herd, so we're going to play 'let's make a deal'."

"What makes you think that she'll talk? She could tell us anything or nothing at all. We don't have any authority to detain her."

"Ah, but Sherm and I have a plan to deal with that," I said. "When she learns the evidence we have against her, she'll deal. We'll make her an offer she won't be able to refuse."

"And how can you be so sure, Godfather?"

"Brenda, my dear, this is how I made my living," I said. "We'd single out one of the opposition, confront him with incriminating documents and cut a deal. Simple as one-two-three. It's like they knew they were going to get caught and they were actually relieved to have it over with. Trust me, it's all in the delivery."

"Harry, you never cease to amaze me."

"There you go, Brenda, making more promises that I can't keep," I said.

We had pretty much settled into a routine by our second day at sea. After touring the ship from bow to stern, we had found the facilities we cared about the most and set up a schedule to use them when the fewest people were likely to be around. That's not as easy as it sounds when you consider that there could be 2,000 people lined up for happy hour. Approximately half of our schedule was allocated to eating, getting ready to eat or bemoaning how much we just consumed. The travel brochure had referred to it as 'relaxed dining', a time-honored tradition of cruising.

Brenda kept herself in check by burning off calories in the ten a.m. exercise class, followed by a sauna and a massage. This presented an opportunity for me to improve myself as well, so I caught up on my reading in a lounge chair overlooking the salt-water swimming pool. Afterward she'd come by and wake me up on the way to lunch at the open air grille. Besides, it gave the hard-working cabin staff at least three uninterrupted hours to clean and restock our suite.

By eleven-fifteen Monday morning the cleaning crew had finished their chores, locking our door on the way out. Alicia Johansen watched them depart, then inserted the key she had taken from Brenda's locker to quietly enter our suite. She took her time searching the bedroom, bathroom, closet, clothes hamper and luggage before quietly opening the slider to the sitting area. Imagine her surprise when she looked up and found us waiting for her on the balcony.

"Hello, Alicia, we've been expecting you," I said.

She bolted for the door and ran headlong into a solidly-built man waiting in the passageway. He was dressed as a uniformed member of the crew, but she knew right away that he was more accustomed to the uniform of a law enforcement officer. Without taking her eyes off of him, she slowly retreated through the bedroom back into the sitting room as he entered, closed and locked the door behind him. This looked like a good time for me to handle the introductions.

"Alicia, I'd like you to meet Deputy U.S. Marshal Raymond Egan. He has the authority to arrest and detain you for cause on any vessel operating in U.S. territorial waters." Marshal Egan and Alicia were locked in a silent standoff in the middle of the suite. He stopped advancing when he had effectively blocked her exit by filling up the opening between the bedroom and sitting room. She was watching him intently, staying just out of his reach.

"The Marshal has two court orders in his possession with your name on them," I continued. "One is an arrest warrant charging you as an accessory to murder of a Federal employee. The other is an Order of Protection as a material witness. Which one would you prefer that he use when he takes you into custody?"

I gave her a few seconds to process what she had just heard and weigh her options. She was standing very still, but her eyes were continuously scanning side to side, calculating her diminishing chances for escape. "One way or the other, you will be in his custody. It's up to you whether you walk out of here under arrest or as a protected witness."

"This is all a mistake," she blurted. "I just got the wrong room."

"Your name is Alicia Marie Johansen, born September 5, 1971 in St. Paul, Minnesota," said Marshal Egan. "You are employed by the Central Intelligence Agency as an advisor to the Associate Deputy Director of Strategic Support. According to your military records, you served a total of eight years, seven months in the U.S. Army before being reprimanded, reduced to the rank of private and given a General Discharge."

"But I never killed anyone," she pleaded. "You've got the wrong..."

I cut her off in mid-sentence. "Jeremy Foster was murdered by someone who deliberately messed with his seat belt, steering and brakes. You used the alias 'Ann Reynolds' while attempting to cover up the crime. Mrs. Foster here is prepared to testify against you in Federal court on charges of obstruction of justice and accessory to murder after the fact."

Alicia continued to protest, but her arguments were losing steam.

"We also have you for wiretapping, illegal surveillance and conspiracy." I lifted a stack of documents, doling them out one at a time. "These pictures as well as your fingerprints were taken after your meeting with Lester Gerber and Mitchell Conklin. And these impressions were found in the office you rented for the meeting with Mrs. Foster. They're also a perfect match to your fingerprints."

She looked at the evidence on the table, then at Marshal Egan and slowly turned to face me. "You've made your point. What do you want from me?"

I showed her the agreement that Sherm had faxed to me last night. "This is the deal being offered by the U.S. Attorney. If you tell us everything you know right now and testify for the prosecution in court, you'll receive immunity on all Federal charges as well as the protection of the U.S. Government. It's a very good deal -- more than you deserve."

"Yeah, well I know people who can make all this go away," she said with false bravado.

"The people you know are going away themselves. Conklin's political cover is evaporating as we speak. They're bailing out of the White House and the Pentagon in droves. The rest will all be out of business in a few months anyway."

"If I keep my mouth shut you'll never be able to touch him," she said without conviction.

"Let me explain this more slowly. We have a solid case against the three of you, with or without your cooperation. He'll be going to jail for the rest of his life, in any case. Here's your deal in simple terms. You can take the guarantee of no prison time today or take your chances in court with Conklin. Are you sure that you don't want to take a minute to reconsider your decision?"

Behind her no-nonsense exterior was a brain that took less than thirty seconds to weigh the options and accept the Order of Protection. "Remember, Alicia, the deal is only good if you tell us everything. We're taping your statement and will be checking everything you tell us." Having finally exhausted all her excuses and agreeing to cooperate, the three of us settled down to business in the well-appointed sitting room. Even so, Marshal Egan held his ground between Alicia and the locked entry door.

"I get it, already. I signed the deal, didn't I?" she said. "I'm as good as dead, no matter what I tell you. Why should I hold anything back now?"

"Who are you afraid of, Alicia?" I asked. "You're in protective custody now."

"They got to Foster, didn't they? It may take a week or a month or a year. They have very long memories. Let's just get on with it."

"Good girl," I said, turning on the recorder. "You made a wise choice. Why don't you start by telling us something about yourself."

Alicia had a checkered career, joining the Army straight out of high school in order to get away from her abusive step-father and alcoholic mother. It was something that she clearly didn't want to talk about except to say that it was the reason she wanted to sever relations with her dysfunctional family. She channeled her repressed anger into the training regimen, disciplining her mind and body to be the best in her company.

"The classroom part was a real bore, memorizing a bunch of rules and regulations about uniforms and military conduct that didn't have squat to do with combat operations. But the physical part was more fun because it gave me a chance to compete with the men. I had played basketball and ran track in high school, so PT was a piece of cake. The obstacle course was a bitch, but I kept going back and working at it until I could almost run it in my sleep, you know? That pissed them off because they didn't appreciate women showing up the rest of the unit. So when they would hassle me I gave it right back to them and more."

After spending two tours stateside in mundane assignments, she saw the Iraq invasion as a chance to show what a female noncom could do in a military intelligence unit in Kuwait. "We went through all this preparation, running exercises and war games, live fire training in the desert heat, monsoon rains and pitch black nights. I was so ready to go over there and kick some ass, but they made me into a baby sitter for a bunch of rag-heads. What a joke."

Frustrated with the rear echelon assignment, she tried too hard to prove that she was better than the male soldiers. Barely more than children themselves, the prisoners came from a culture that had little or no respect for women, let alone women in authority. The combination of her frustration with the clash of cultures led to the downfall of her military career. "I wouldn't take any crap from my own soldiers, so why should I have to put up with it from a bunch of prisoners? They either moved when I told them to move or they got a taste of my baton. If that didn't get their attention I either bitch-slapped them or kicked them in the balls. One time one of them made the mistake of trying to grab me and I dislocated his shoulder in a take-down move. He cried like a baby."

Eventually Alicia was brought up on charges for abusing prisoners and then lied about it to cover it up. Confronted with the testimony of men from her own unit, she pled guilty to lesser charges, was demoted, sent home and given a general discharge to avoid the mutual embarrassment of a court martial. But some of her fellow soldiers respected her guts and helped her to secure a succession of jobs with paramilitary contractors and security firms. One of those references resulted in her being hired by Mitchell Conklin at the CIA. At first she stayed busy coordinating short-term contracts. Then, as more and more business was awarded to Vigilance Associates, she was given responsibility for certain 'strategic initiatives'. They turned out to be glorified errands, picking up and delivering packages in various parts of the world. It had never occurred to her that she could have been carrying illegal bribes.

Whereas the Army had stripped off her stripes and booted her out, Conklin encouraged her inherent aggressiveness. He ordered all his underlings to cultivate an atmosphere of fear, keeping outsiders on the defensive. They consistently ignored Agency rules and regulations that impeded their progress. Since Conklin thought that he was holding all the cards, he did exactly what he wanted without regard to the possible consequences.

"OK, Alicia, let's get a bit more specific," I said. "Tell us about TOMBOY."

"Conklin told us we had this TOP SECRET op that was going to change the course of history, only we could never tell anybody about it."

"Why do you suppose that was?" I asked.

"At first it was because there was no Agency authorization. Nobody knew anything about it except our department, not even the Director of the Agency. It was a desperation play, like throwing a 'hail Mary' pass from your own end zone with no time left on the clock. If it failed, no one would ever know about it. If he pulled it off, Conklin would have been a hero. Then when it worked, he still couldn't tell anybody about it."

"How did that happen?" I asked.

"We had this contractor, Vigilance Associates, and they set up the takedown with some guys that Karl knew about. Osama bin Laden was hiding out in different locations to evade our troops in Afghanistan, and they helped us figure out which route he was using to move from cave to cave. So they set up a satellite watch in Langley to catch him in the act and snatch him up."

"And this actually worked?" I said with amazement.

"Craziest thing I ever saw. I thought it was a screwball idea when it was first explained to me, but then it happened right before my eyes. He came out of this one cave with his bodyguards and they walked a klick or so before being taken down by the mercs hired by Vigilance."

"Then what happened?" I asked.

"I heard later that he was evac'd to Pakistan and flown to Zimbabwe."

"Why Zimbabwe?" I persisted.

"It was off the radar and run by a guy who didn't tolerate Muslim terrorists in his country. Karl negotiated a deal with the president to give us exclusive use of a farm with its own airstrip. Everything we needed was in one place and we could fly in and out anytime we wanted."

"Have you been there?" I asked.

"No. Only Karl and the Vigilance people were allowed to go there. We'd get briefings by videoconference, but no outside visits."

"So you don't have any first-hand knowledge of bin-Laden or the conditions under which he was kept," I said. "How did Jeremy Foster figure in all this?"

"Like I said, this operation was supposed to be TOP SECRET. Nobody outside the department was supposed to know."

"And why was that?" I asked. "After all, the most wanted terrorist in the world had been captured. It should have made all the headlines."

"A bunch of BS politics," she said. "They said it was bad for the elections."

"How could capturing Osama be a bad thing?" I said incredulously.

"They figured that Homeland Security was only important as long as there was a viable threat. If people knew TOMBOY was in custody it would have neutralized their advantage in the polls."

"So he kept it quiet in order to save his damn job?" I said. "You conspired to keep the American people scared enough to vote for the right political party?"

"Hey look, these guys were dead serious," she said defensively. "They didn't want to hear anything other than 'yes, sir'. It wasn't open to debate."

"What did Jeremy Foster find out that got him killed?" I asked.

"At first he didn't know anything. Maybe we were too confident that everything was under wraps, but somehow he began putting the pieces together about six months ago. We weren't sure what he knew, but he was like a bulldog with a bone. He kept gnawing and gnawing until he figured it out on his own."

"Didn't Conklin try to scare him off?" I wondered.

"Conklin said it would be a waste of time to try to intimidate him. If he couldn't be convinced that it was in the national interest to keep quiet, he'd have to be eliminated as a threat."

"So what was it that finally triggered the hit?" I asked.

"The Supreme Court ruling sent everything into a panic."

On June 12, 2008 the Supreme Court ruled that foreign detainees had the right to challenge indefinite imprisonment in U.S. civilian courts. It was the third major setback to the War on Terror in as many years. While the ruling had to be applied on a case by case basis, spawning more challenges in the lower courts, the handwriting was already on the wall. Sooner or later the government would have to produce a list of every foreign detainee in custody.

"Conklin broke every other rule in the book. Why did this particular ruling upset him?" I wanted to know.

"He was losing political cover, and after four years it was getting harder to keep TOMBOY a secret. Sooner or later it was bound to come out."

"So TOMBOY would have had a field day if his case ever came to court," I guessed.

"Conklin said we'd all go to jail if TOMBOY were ever identified as a prisoner. Things had been coming apart for the past year and he didn't want to be the only one without a chair when the music stopped."

"What did he mean?" I wondered.

"Conklin was apparently taking orders from someone outside the Agency. He never said who, but you could tell he was upset when a few of his friends left the Administration."

"According to the newspapers, some quit, some were forced out and at least one big fish was sentenced to jail. So what did Conklin do?"

"He told us to shut down TOMBOY."

"Why would he do that?" I asked.

"Without TOMBOY there would be no evidence."

"So what happened to bin Laden?" I persisted.

"They killed him and burned the body."

"Who killed him?" I demanded.

"I don't know who actually did it, but Karl was sent over there to supervise the clean-up. Conkin told him to dispose of everything, leaving no trace anywhere. But somehow, Foster still found out what we were doing."

"Then what happened?" I asked.

"He confronted Conkin. Foster told him that he had stepped way over the line and needed to tell the truth. He said that nobody was going to shed big tears over TOMBOY, but covering it up was a threat to the whole Agency. There were people in Congress who would tear the CIA apart for lesser reasons."

"How did Conklin respond?" I asked.

"He told Foster that things had gotten out of control and he needed a few days to get the facts together before going public. They were scheduled to meet together with the Director when he returned from an international security conference in Switzerland."

"And that was...,"

"...the day after Foster died."

I almost heard the clunk as a giant puzzle piece fell into place in my brain. Jeremy had given Sherm just enough to build a case without putting the whole Agency in jeopardy. He was holding back on the rest until he could ascertain whether the Director was involved as well. Talk about walking a tightrope. "I don't understand how Conklin expected to keep this thing hidden. How many people were involved over the four years?"

"I don't know exactly. Conklin, me, Lester, Karl, the snatch squad and the interrogators is all. We scared everybody else away."

"You think?" I almost laughed. "Who did the snatch?"

"They were five ex-mujahidin that Karl knew. He hand-picked them and paid them all in cash. They could all take out ads in the Washington Post and nobody would ever believe them."

"What about transport?" I asked.

"Some fly-by-night companies that Karl found. They had no idea what they were transporting. Who knows if they're even in business anymore?"

"And who did the interrogation and where?" I probed.

"A hand-picked team from Vigilance handled the debriefing. Their CEO took care of everything. No Agency people were ever on site, that is, until the end, with the clean-up and all."

"Sounds ideal. Who was their real estate agent in Zimbabwe?" I wondered.

"Karl set the whole deal up through the president. It was one of the estates he confiscated from white farmers. Totally empty and ready to go."

"What did he get out of the deal?"

"They paid him at least $1 million per month. He also got some political IOU's out of the deal. That part was over my head."

"After twenty years in office, he's going to need the money for his own rent. He didn't fare very well in their most recent elections. OK, Alicia, let's take it slower here. I want to hear more about Vigilance and Zimbabwe, so why don't you decide which one to tell us about first."

"There's not much to tell. Zimbabwe was a quiet backwater that nobody paid much attention to. All eyes were on Iraq, Afghanistan and Gitmo. The risk of discovery was low and Africa was the last place anybody would think of looking in any case. It had a stable government, a poor economy in need of cash and little or no risk of inadvertent satellite observation. Karl had done some business with them in the past, so he handled all the negotiations."

"Karl sounds like a handy guy to have around. Where, exactly was this farm?"

"Geography isn't really my thing. All I know is that it wasn't that far from Harare. That way Vigilance could fly in and out using existing commercial air corridors without creating suspicion."

"I'll bet you know a lot more about Vigilance," I suggested.

"Maybe a little more. Vigilance is run by a guy named Phillip Beemer. He was a brigade intelligence officer when I was in Basic. He started his own business when DOD began downsizing, sub-contracting work that was deemed non-essential for regular troops."

"It's a whole industry now. Get to the good part," I said.

"We used to use several different firms for tactical ops, but Beemer convinced Conkin that Vigilance could provide better service at rock-bottom prices if they did it all. Their motto was no job was too tough or too small."

"I mean about TOMBOY," I corrected.

"Beemer personally vetted everyone who had anything to do with TOMBOY. He provided a complete report every month. Every name, every task and every dollar of expense."

"So who has these reports?" I wondered.

"No one. It was all handled by video conference. Nothing was recorded."

"Bullshit, Alicia. Conklin is clever enough to have packed himself a golden parachute. He couldn't trust Beemer on a stack of Bibles unless he had something to hold over his head. He had to know that Beemer was also keeping his own files, just in case."

"Now that you mention it, that does kinda make sense. But how did he do it?"

Another puzzle piece clunked into place. No wonder Al Mosconi wasn't in a hurry to give up any names. He was Conklin's ace in the hole, secretly recording enough of the Videocons to keep Beemer and his boys honest.

"Beats me," I lied. "About how many people are we talking about?"

"Maybe two dozen. For TOMBOY they would have had at least six guards for each shift, two inside and four outside, a medic, a cook, technicians, supervisor, that's about it. It was a pretty stable team. I don't recall there being many personnel changes."

"What about the locals?" I asked.

"Zero. The farm had its own satellite communications, solar and wind-powered generator, water wells and sewage treatment plant. There were no visitors and no deliveries. Everything was flown in and out by Vigilance."

"How much did all of this cost the taxpayers?"

"Vigilance added a surcharge on top of the $1 million per month rental."

"And who was collecting the rent?" I wanted to know in case a paper trail existed.

"You got me. Karl arranged to have funds paid directly into a Swiss bank account every month. Vigilance was paid out of another account."

"So there should be financial records covering all the disbursements."

"I guess. That wasn't my thing either."

"What happened to Karl?" I challenged.

"I don't know. He was sent over to make sure that everything had been shut down in Zimbabwe. As far as I know he hasn't been back."

"What did he have to do with Jeremy Foster's death?" I persisted.

"He could easily have done it. Karl had a reputation for doing whatever had to be done. It isn't that hard to disable a vehicle."

"But did he do it?" I demanded.

"The truth is I don't know. Conklin wouldn't have known how and didn't want to get his hands dirty in any case. Gerber would have used a different method, making it look more like a street mugging. And I sure as hell didn't do it. But you had to know that already or you wouldn't have given me immunity."

"Conklin wouldn't have gotten his hands dirty, but you just told me that he effectively ordered the murder of Osama bin Laden. Did he order Jeremy's murder as well?"

"I don't know. All I heard him say was that Foster would have to be eliminated if he didn't listen to reason. I don't know whether Karl understood him or not."

"What do you mean? Didn't he speak English?" I asked.

"As a second language," she said. "His first language was Afrikaans."

We took a break for a room-service lunch in the sitting room. While the steward delivered our food cart, Marshal Egan took Alicia out to the balcony to begin a conversation about her new life in protective custody. She knew enough about personal security to know there were no guarantees, but appeared to be sufficiently interested to be asking the right questions.

Under one of the silver buffet covers I found a generous array of thin-sliced meats and cheeses, sandwich rolls, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, onions, condiments and bite-sized veggies. Not a bad selection for lunch, but Brenda wrinkled her nose before uncovering another platter with selections of fruit, pasta, seafood and vegetarian salads. Lifting the third cover revealed individual servings of various pastries, plates, silverware, glasses and napkins. An iced bucket of soft drinks and bottled water completed the food inventory. Something for every taste.

Brenda and I helped ourselves to our personal favorites and invited Alicia and Marshal Egan to come back in and join us. Egan continued to position himself between Alicia and the door, but she seemed to be more relaxed after the morning interrogation. Several times she started to apologize to Brenda before catching herself and changing the subject. I felt like I was watching the vulnerable adolescent victim emerge and then retreat into her tough alter ego. In time that high school kid might find that it was safe enough for her to return to the real world.

The next thing I knew, Brenda starting picking up the used plates and glasses, recovering the food platters and offering everyone a final pass at the dessert tray and beverage bucket. I helped her collect the remaining items and pushed the food cart out in the passageway while she called room service for pick-up. Then I made a pit stop before rejoining the group in the sitting room, putting a fresh cassette tape into the recorder and sitting down on the couch. "OK, let's get back to work. What did we get for $50 plus million?"

"We learned a lot about the organization and operational structure of _Al Qaeda_. Osama had to learn the hard way about putting his theories into practice. Not only were his fighters ill-trained and ill-equipped, but the guerilla tactics he had used against slow-moving Russians in Afghanistan were useless against highly mobile American forces. His tactical innovations were born out of desperation and he had a complete disregard for his losses."

"Is this Henry Ford or Osama we're talking about?" I asked. Obviously Conklin had added his own spin in pumping up the few scraps of intel they milked out of their captive.

"You can laugh, but he scared the crap out of millions of people with a rag-tag bunch of conscripts. He pissed through his personal fortune and was begging for donations all the time he was threatening the Great Satan with box-cutters and suicide bombers."

"You're right," I said. "How did _al Qaeda_ keeping working with the head cut off?"

"They probably never even knew he was even gone. He set up a very decentralized operation with self-sustaining autonomous cells. Other than a shared ideology, they were completely independent. No command and control structure, no supply lines, no replacements, no reinforcements, no nothing. The local commanders recruited their own troops, picked their own targets, devised their own tactics and enforced their own discipline."

"What about his audio and video messages?" I asked.

"He had recorded a handful of generic rants right before the 9/11 attacks. They were distributed to trusted aides who periodically leaked them to friendly news outlets like _Al Jazeera_. Sometimes they'd dub in a few words to make them sound more contemporary, but most of them were sent out without further editing."

"How convenient," I said. "And translations are always open to interpretation, right?"

"I guess so. Conklin always sat in when they were reviewing the raw tapes. He could have added his two cents and then some."

"How did this make us any safer in the past four years?" I asked.

"In the beginning we picked up lots of names. Some were big fish, some were minnows, but it helped to get a lot of people off the street. A fair number of them are still at Gitmo."

"What about large scale operations? The 9/11 attacks took years of planning and coordination," I said. "Did TOMBOY stop anything like that from happening?"

"It's hard to tell. We took out some key people and froze a few dozen bank accounts, so obviously some apple carts were upset in the process. Osama was this big picture guy who understood the iconic power of images in people's minds. He didn't waste his time worrying about the details of tactical ops. He surrounded himself with other people who took care of that."

"You mean after all the hype about this evil genius, he turned out to be a philosopher?" I marveled.

"More like the Wizard of Oz. You know, the little guy hiding behind the curtain with a microphone and a big set of speakers? You have to remember that Osama was still dangerous because of what he had created. Making him a martyr at this point would be the absolute worst thing we could ever do."

"Alicia, that may well be true in the cold light of dawn," I said. "Right now it's a self-serving rationalization for having been his judge, jury and executioner. The real problem was that you had absolutely no legitimate reason for keeping this secret for four years."

"Look, I had nothing to do with that. Go after Conklin!"

"OK, Alicia, no more evasions," I demanded. "You want indemnity, you'd better come up with more specifics about who was really in charge. Give us the name of the person or persons who was giving Conklin his marching orders."

Lester Gerber was born and bred to live by a strict code of conduct. From his earliest years, any rebellion on his part had led to swift and certain punishment. There was peace in the house as long as he obeyed the rules without grumbling. "The Bible says that patience is a virtue," his father used to say. "Don't grumble or you will be judged, like it says in James 5:9." He was fed, clothed and trained to work hard on the family's meager farm, just as his father had been before him. Never asked for his opinion, Lester did only what he was told to do.

For him, the Army had been a natural extension of civilian life. The lessons he learned in basic training would last a lifetime, especially those he learned the hard way. Part of it came from being a know-it-all nineteen-year-old recruit, and part of it was simply pent-up rebellion after years of living under his father's thumb. By the end of Basic Training he had come to believe that his role in life was simply to take orders, do his job and keep his mouth shut. He had come full circle and it was no different than working for his father: never debate, never complain, just suck it up.

Lester's Army career had come to an abrupt end when they mistakenly made him a squad leader. Like so many professionals who can only excel at the technical aspects of their jobs, he was promoted well beyond his level of competence. Subordinates who talked back or questioned his authority in any way were swiftly and severely punished. What Lester thought of as necessary discipline the court-martial determined to be flagrant abuse, causing him to be stripped of his rank and separated with a general discharge.

Working for Mitchell Conklin turned out to be one of the best assignments he ever had. Conklin needed someone who would act without question and Lester needed someone to tell him what to do. He had made mistakes and fallen short of the mark in the eyes of his employer, but Conklin appreciated having a functionary who would at least attempt to do what he was told without a second thought. Today he was searching musty attics and dirty crawl spaces looking for anything Foster might have hidden in his ex-wife's apartment building. He'd previously been over every inch of living space, but Conklin said that since he hadn't found anything, it wasn't good enough. If necessary, he wanted the whole building turned upside down.

It was all because of some eroded electrical contacts. The wireless receiver began picking up more interference over the past few days, so Conklin had sent Lester to check it out. "As long as you're there", he said, "you might as well go over the whole building with a fine tooth comb. The subjects will be gone for five days and it doesn't take two people to maintain surveillance in an enclosed space." How the hell would he know?

The three microphones and telephone handset transmitter in the apartment all checked out within their respective performance specifications. Lester didn't see anything wrong when he opened the dummy control panel at the rear of the building, just some rust on the hinges. But as soon as he opened the back of the wireless unit he saw the corroded leads. Somebody had been too lazy to weather-seal the panel and coat the contacts at the factory, causing Lester to have to diagnose and repair the affected components.

Before replacing the recording unit with a new part, he removed the back and coated all the contacts with a non-conductive gel. Army E-school had taught him that prevention was far more effective than remediation when it came to electrical circuits. Then he carefully replaced and sealed the back, cleaned and oiled the cover hinges, caulked around the seal and closed the dummy panel. He did not check the main power panel. That was someone else's job.

Back inside the apartment he methodically rechecked all the light fixtures, switches, cabinets, drawers, closets, counter-top containers and picture frames. Working from the outside walls in, he systematically eliminated every possible hiding place, bringing him back to square one. Then he sat down and considered the possibility that it might not be hidden after all. Conklin had told him to leave no stone unturned. From where he was sitting, he could see neat stacks of paper on her desk and kitchen counters that hadn't been scrutinized.

Being careful to put everything back exactly as he found it, he read through every scrap of paper he could find in every room of the apartment. There were literally hundreds of recipes, coupons, prescriptions, correspondence, bills, junk mail, datebooks and bills to go through, but he was determined to look at every possibility over the next five days, if necessary. His diligence was rewarded on day two of his search with three discoveries worthy of further investigation.

Brenda Foster had an appointment listed in her date book to meet with 'Jeremy's lawyer' four days earlier. She also had a receipt from a prepaid safety deposit box at a local credit union, and had left herself a post-it note to 'read J's ledger'. There was nothing in the apartment that remotely resembled a ledger, so Lester concluded it must be kept elsewhere. Perhaps the ledger and the safety deposit box were linked together. Then, as he was about to leave, he noticed the key hooks by the door.

Following a hunch, he took each key in turn and matched it to a corresponding lock on the premises. When he had finished there were still five unmatched keys. Two were obviously car keys which could be checked against the vehicle she left parked outside. One was an older door key that did not fit any lock in the apartment. The remaining two keys looked as if they might fit different safety deposit boxes or strong boxes. He knew where one box was presumably located, but had no clue as to where the second box might be. Then he looked down at his notes and attempted to connect the dots.

Could it be that 'Jeremy's lawyer' had given her the unmatched door key? Maybe Foster had stashed 'J's ledger' in a strong box at another location and left instructions with the lawyer. Whatever the case, Lester was pleased with himself that he did not have to return and report to his superior empty-handed.

This time it was Mitchell Conklin's car that was sitting in the parking lot when Phillip Beemer turned into the Skyline Drive scenic overlook. Knowing that he must be anxious for some good news, Beemer saw that his customer was standing alone near the edge of the bluff. "Are you enjoying the view, Mitchell?" he said as he walked the remaining few steps to join the impatient executive.

"I've been waiting for you. Talk to me."

Beemer came abreast, facing him from the side. "We found the leak. It's been plugged."

Conklin turned toward his ally, studying his face.

"He told us that he took three pictures with a video phone, and then sold the memory chip for $250,000. There was one basic pose with three quick exposures of TOMBOY tied to the chair. There was nobody else involved."

"How can you be so sure? Did he just deliver the chip to the Presidential Palace, or was Mugabe kind enough to drop by and pick it up in person?"

"He mailed it," Beemer said. "Every six months we rotated members of the team to keep them fresh. He took the pictures just before his last rotation, then mailed the chip to Mugabe with instructions for depositing the funds into his bank account."

"How do you know that he only took three exposures?"

"We talked to him three different times, asking him different questions each time," Beemer replied. "He told us when he did it, how he did it, who was there with him before and after, how he managed to be alone in the room, how he got the phone out, where he mailed the chip, how he ditched the phone, when and how he got paid...believe me, we got every last detail."

"Jesus, you are thorough. How did you find him?"

"Like I tried to tell you the other day," Beemer said. "We traced the log books, backtracked through the periods when TOMBOY was in the chair. From there we figured out when there was only one other person in the room, narrowing the possibilities down to two guards."

"How did you figure out which one did it?" Conklin pondered.

"It didn't make any difference to us at that point. We talked to both men until one of them finally told us what we wanted to know. Sometimes you have to be willing to risk collateral damage. It happens in the sharp end of our business."

"You mean you killed both men?" Conklin exclaimed.

"You really don't want to know, do you Mitchell? Let's just say that we cleaned up our own mess and let it go at that."

"How do we retrieve the video chip?"

"We don't," Beemer said. "He may be a tinhorn dictator but he's surrounded by a well-equipped army. Nobody could get close to him even if you knew where to find the chip. Besides, he's had plenty of time to make duplicates and more prints. We'd never be sure that we had them all."

"So I should just forget it and pay the extortion? That's your recommendation, Phillip?"

"Just blow him off, Mitchell. Better yet, ignore him. What evidence does he really have? He's got a tricked-up picture that could have been taken anywhere. Who's going to take him seriously, especially if the farmhouse disappears as well?"

"He must have more than just a photo," Conklin said. "You were there four years."

"Consider the facts. He never met anyone other than Karl. My team came and left by air and never ventured off the property. We sealed off the perimeter and nobody else set foot on the grounds. Whatever else he's got must have come from you."

"Do you think I would have been dumb enough to give him anything in writing?" Conklin exclaimed. "Karl wouldn't have been so careless either."

"Are there any other potential paper trails? Any documents or signatures that could come back to haunt you?"

"Absolutely nothing," Conklin said. "Karl handled all the negotiations in person. Anytime he was there he paid all his expenses with cash. All the fund transfers were done electronically through front organizations and are virtually untraceable."

"Then may I suggest that we burn the farmhouse to the ground?" Beemer said reasonably. Take no chances on anything being left behind which might support his claims. It would leave nothing for him to show the media except ashes. He could blame it on anyone, but everyone knows that the rebels are fond of torching government-seized property."

"Yes, yes, make certain that all traces have been eliminated," Conklin agreed.

Beemer folded his arms and considered the problem, kicking a small stone over the edge of the cliff. "He'd have to be pretty dumb not to have taped his negotiations with Karl."

"He's teetering on the edge of being deposed," Conklin said. "We could leak proof to the opposition that he was paid almost $50 million in bribes."

"Bribes aren't that big a deal in that part of the world," Beemer reminded him. "You're better off not having any more contact with him."

"What about Karl? He's the only link they could have."

"That can be rectified," Beemer said evenly.

"Let me give it some consideration. He could still be useful."

"Mitchell, you're stalling," Beemer prodded. "You know what has to be done. We'll incinerate the farm and ensure that Karl will never be a problem for you in the future. Just say the word."

Right in the middle of one of the sexiest dreams I've had in years Brenda rolled over and kneed me in the side. She had thrown the covers off on her side of the bed and was taking her half out of the middle. It took me about five seconds to realize that I was actually awake and we were both naked. The moment I had been longing for had magically come and gone in a night of champagne-fueled passion that surpassed my fondest desires.

The interrogation sessions with Alicia Johansen had been exhausting for everyone involved. We were mentally and emotionally spent after extracting every shred of information we could dislodge from her memory. It had taken her some time to get up to speed, but she gained momentum and cooperated fully throughout the afternoon session. The pace began to slow perceptibly after our in-room dinner and finally petered out just after ten o'clock. She probably never knew who had been giving Conklin his marching orders.

After Alicia left our suite in the custody of Marshal Egan, Brenda helped me organize and pack the cassette tapes for shipment to Sherm's office. Then we sat back to enjoy the fruits of a major victory and wallow in the peace and quiet. We had both been stunned by the audacity of the rogue operation within the Agency. For years they acted with impunity right under the noses of apparently clueless executives. It was amazing that Jeremy was the only one who caught on.

I don't remember now which one of us suggested that we open the complimentary bottle of champagne, but we had definitely passed a significant milestone and needed to celebrate the occasion. Huddling together for warmth on the open balcony, we toasted our good fortune while enjoying the bracing night air of the open sea. We also raised our glasses to Jeremy's memory, feeling closer to him and to each other in that moment than we had any right to expect. I was lost in the moment until she caught me totally off guard.

"Is there something wrong with me, Harry?"

"Whatever do you mean?" I said. "In my book you're just about perfect."

"Here I am, missing Jeremy with all my heart and wondering why you're avoiding me."

"Brenda, I'm not avoiding you," I lied. "Our timing is off, that's all."

"Says who? Who made you the referee in our relationship?"

"I mean, I'd never hit on you while Jeremy was alive, and...."

"And what?" she asked, refilling her champagne flute.

"And, and we need some time to grieve his loss, don't we?"

"I've had it up to here with grieving, Harry. Let's go after the bastards who killed him and get on with the rest of our lives."

"What, you mean now, here, tonight?"

"Harry, you are so dense at times. Ever since our first night in Florida I've done everything short of taking out an ad in the Washington Post. Don't you find me desirable?"

"Of course I do. It's all I can do to keep my hands off you!"

"Then why don't you?" she asked, setting her glass out of the way.

"Brenda, it's not you. I've been alone for a long time. Even at my peak I wasn't the smoothest. What if I do something to disappoint you?"

"I'll take that risk. Come over here and hold me, you big dummy."

So I did. Awkwardly at first, but she adjusted to my bulk and suddenly we felt very comfortable and natural together. Her hair tickled my nose and it smelled wonderful.

"That's better," she cooed. "It's like riding a bicycle, as they say."

Then I nuzzled her neck and shifted my embrace to better feel her warmth and softness. She responded by looking into my eyes, kissing me tenderly on the lips. Her hand caressed my ear, drawing me ever closer with the slightest pressure on my face. I wrapped my arms around her slim frame, reacting to her surprisingly strong embrace. Then I felt her pressing harder with her firm breasts as I began to grope for the zipper on her dress.

She stopped me long enough to lead us into the bedroom where she helped me slowly undress her with a bemused smile. "See Harry, you've been worried about nothing. You're doing just fine, but you'd have more luck unhooking my bra in the front."

"This isn't exactly the part I was worried about," I confessed, taking in every rise and curve on her resplendent body.

"So, why don't we take the next step together," she giggled, unbuttoning my fancy new Hawaiian shirt and leaving my new white Bermuda shorts in a pile around my ankles. "Nice boxers. Let's see what else you have in there."

Well, I thought that was going to end it right then and there. You can't imagine how hard I was praying for patience and self-control.

"You know what, Harry, I think that shower might be big enough for the two of us. Care to join me in a rinse off?"

I sobered up in a big hurry as she soaped me up and down and then sprayed me all over while cranking up the settings on the shower wand. I never knew that hot water could have such a sensual effect on me.

"Now it's your turn," she said, handing me the soapy washcloth. "Take your time. I'm sure that there's plenty of hot water left."

Our shower games proved to be a great warm up for the main event. We toweled each other off slowly and wrapped ourselves in the ship's big fluffy robes until I finished blow-drying her hair. I have to admit that she was right. Once the robes came off and we climbed into bed together, I remembered vividly how to ride the bicycle. I peddled longer and soared over more hills than I had thought was humanly possible. And it was much, much better than my sexy dreams.

The two men were huddled together at a table on the edge of the patio. Facing away from the building, they appeared to be sharing a break along with other employees who were sunning themselves outside the CIA cafeteria. The headquarters building, nestled in a heavily wooded section of Fairfax County, was all but obscured by the dense foliage. Conklin knew that he had been too cavalier with Jeremy, talking openly in places where they could have been recorded. Henceforth he would be more careful about his surroundings when discussing special operations.

Today he seemed to be less intense, almost relaxed as Lester was preparing to give his report while they enjoyed their blended coffees. "You may begin now, Lester."

"Yes sir. The signal deterioration we were experiencing was caused by corrosion on the transceiver terminals. It was probably the result of a manufacturing defect. I replaced it with a new part and made sure that it won't happen again."

"Could it have been tampered with?" Conklin asked.

"It's doubtful, sir. The pattern was irregular and spotty, very consistent with condensation. A corrosive agent would have pooled around the terminals."

"And what about the other listening components?"

"I verified that they are in working order," Lester said. "I double checked the whole system from end to end."

"So you are confident that this was an isolated incident."

"Yes, sir," said Lester with more assurance than he felt, waiting for Conklin to pounce.

"Very good," he said, uncharacteristically. Conklin rarely gave compliments. "Did you happen to find anything inside the apartment building?"

"You were right, sir. I wasn't thorough enough the first time. There wasn't anything hidden in her apartment or in the rest of the building for that matter, but I found out that there is definitely another location where she could have hidden the evidence."

"And how do you know that, Lester?"

"First, I discovered that she met with Foster's lawyer before leaving for the cruise. Second, she had a receipt for one safety deposit box at the credit union, but there were two different keys on her key ring. Third, I also found a key to an outside door that didn't fit any of the locks in the apartment building. Fourth, she made a note to herself to 'read J's ledger', which wasn't anywhere in the apartment either."

"What did you conclude from these findings?" Conklin asked pedantically.

Lester was venturing way outside of his comfort zone, but having been around Conklin for nearly six years had taught him to anticipate the question. Taking a sip of coffee to calm his thoughts, he took a quick breath and delivered the speech he had been practicing all morning,

"Well, she obviously came away with something after her meeting with the lawyer. At a minimum there would have been some sort of legal document, which I did not find in the apartment. He could have also given her Foster's ledger, which wasn't there either, as well as one or more of the keys. I figure there's either a second safety deposit box or maybe even a strong box at another location. Either way, all we have to do is stay close to her and she'll lead us to that location and whatever Foster had hidden there."

"Advance to the head of the class, Lester. You connected the dots very well. The only thing I might add would be a computer search to determine if Foster happened to own or lease any other property in the tristate area. The door key you found may be very revealing."

"With all due respect, sir, I'm not as good with computers as Alicia, and....."

"Lester, Alicia is otherwise engaged right now. The cruise line called the emergency contact number she gave them to let us know that Alicia has been stricken with severe abdominal pains and will be taken to Baltimore General as soon as the ship docks tomorrow."

"Was it food poisoning?" Lester asked out of concern.

"Food poisoning, appendicitis, gall bladder, diverticulitis, who knows at this point. Just assume that you'll be on your own for the next week or two. Concentrate all your efforts on the woman. Forget about Wilson. She's our primary subject."

"Yes, sir. I'll also see what I can find out about the property records on my own."

"No need, Lester. I'd rather have you well rested when you meet the ship tomorrow. I'll get someone else to check the records and let you know. It may be some time before you'll get another break, so make the best of it."

Conklin was actually smiling for a change. He must really be on top of things these days. Lester and Nicky might have been thinking the same thoughts, but while Lester was getting up to leave, Nicky was still concentrating on Conklin's face through a telephoto lens. The dense undergrowth and deep shade of the forest gave him excellent cover within 400 yards of the patio. He had been fortunate to see Conklin and Gerber as they were coming through the beverage line earlier, guessing that they would be taking their coffees out to the patio. It had taken some doing for Nicky to make his approach through the trees without giving himself away. He could only hope that CIA Security Officers were more focused on the streets and not as concerned about threats coming from the woods.

Nicky's lip-reading skills were a bit rusty, but he felt like he had gotten the gist of their conversation. Knowing what the opposition was planning made it much easier to set up the next phase of the operation. Now it was time for him to move on before being discovered so close to one of the most sensitive installations in the country.

Both Brenda and I hated to have the cruise come to an end. No longer pretending to be lovers, we had really begun to enjoy all the romance that the 'Love Boat' had to offer. I never knew how many pleasurable pursuits there were for couples aboard ship. As a result of turning Alicia from the dark side, we had been able to break through the emotional and psychological barriers that had been keeping us apart. At least that's how I felt about it.

At any rate, we had a lengthy debriefing with Sherm on the secure phone that the Marshals Service provided. Alicia's testimony helped to fill in a lot of the blanks in Jeremy's original deposition as well as provide context for the cassette tapes we found at his cabin. It had been well worth the effort on all counts.

"Do you have enough to charge Conklin with murder?" I asked.

"With Alicia's corroboration, we can certainly charge him as an accessory. He clearly had knowledge of the crime after the fact and conspired to obstruct justice. We'll need a confession or other testimony to prove that he participated before the fact."

"OK, so we'll just keep on digging," I said. "Did you ever find out whose fingerprints were on the car?"

"Not yet. We sent them off to Interpol for analysis. There were no matches in any of our civilian or military data bases."

"Alicia told us that Karl was originally from South Africa."

"OK, I'll amend our request to Interpol," Sherm said. "It may help narrow the search."

"Any luck with witnesses to the car wreck?"

"No, but we did find transfer marks on the rear quarter panels and bumper that gave us a different theory of the crash."

"How's that?" I wondered.

"There were silicon transfers on the surface of the paint. Any smudges you could see with ambient light might have been attributable to the rollover. However, under UV light, there are visible transfers from synthetic rubber bumpers resulting from the friction at impact."

"Somebody shoved him off the freeway?" I guessed.

"Sure looks that way according to the physical evidence. Based on the relative height of the impacting vehicle, it was either a large pickup or medium duty truck with an after-market bumper, like you'd see at a gas station or towing service. It was definitely not something you'd find on a passenger vehicle."

"So it wasn't a one-car collision," I said.

"It was a least a clear case of hit-and-run. No doubt about it. Both the brakes and steering failed when Jeremy tried to maneuver back onto the highway. His seatbelt anchor snapped as soon his car began to cartwheel, leaving him to ricochet off the interior. All we need now is a witness to wrap it up as vehicular homicide."

"Why didn't the cops see this when they investigated the accident?" I wanted to know.

"It didn't present itself as a typical hit-and-run. You had to be looking for subtle indications, things you wouldn't do unless there were reasons to suspect homicide."

"Thank God you have a suspicious nature, Sherm."

"That comes with on-the-job training. I'm just glad to have Alicia playing for our team. She will be very valuable in front of a jury. In their minds there is a big difference between circumstantial evidence and eyewitness testimony."

"It also helps to know what Jeremy was doing while all this was happening," I said.

"I can understand now why he held back on me. He was protecting me and the Agency at the same time until he could talk to the Old Man about their problems. Otherwise I couldn't ethically walk away if they decided later to handle the matter administratively."

"That's our guy," I said. "Wise beyond his years."

"We've narrowed the tapes you found to five distinct voices. Jeremy, Conklin, now Alicia and two other males. Most of the dialogue was between Jeremy and Conklin. At times it sounds like a tennis match between the Yin and the Yang, professional ethics versus political expediency. It's given us very clear premeditation to add to the other charges."

"OK, now we're cooking," I added.

"We're just warming up here, Harry. There's more. The credit card receipt that Nicky picked up gave us a lead to public and private accounts accessed by Vigilance and Mitchell Conklin. We'll need the CIA Director's agreement to chase them all down, but we have enough in hand to get a look at the American Express files."

"Why would otherwise smart guys use something so easy to trace?" I asked.

"Greed doth make fools of us all, Harry. The bonus points and air miles are too good to pass up when you're charging thousands of bucks a month. The credit card company keeps track of everything and sends a nice report at the end of the month. It avoids having to hire a bookkeeper to do the scut work. Remember, it was the accountants and not Elliot Ness who ultimately sent Al Capone to prison."

"You don't think they would have been dumb enough to skim the CIA?" I wondered.

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"

Sherm then outlined his plan for confronting the Director. The 'Old Man' had seen seven United States Presidents come and go, surviving public scandals and political infighting on every front. His Company files were said to contain enough secrets to bring down any Administration, Republican or Democratic. With all that going for him he wasn't going to be easily intimidated by allegations of renegade operations within his own organization.

"You know, Harry, this is a very convoluted case. There are lots of characters and almost too many plots to mention, so why make things complicated. Let's tell him the basic facts about Jeremy's death and skip all the rest about bribes and Osama and Zimbabwe."

"Then how is the murder his problem?" I asked.

"We simply tell him that Jeremy was killed because he found out that Conklin had embezzled $50 million from the CIA. How the money was spent is irrelevant for our purposes at this point."

No wonder they pay this guy the big bucks. "So, the Old Man will have to look into the financial records, forcing Conklin to prove that he really spent the Agency funds on unauthorized operations."

"It's really all up to him," Sherm said. "Either he cops to grand theft or he comes clean about running an illegal operation. Both are major felonies."

"One thing still bothers me," I said. "If this has been going on for four years, why didn't the auditors pick it up earlier?"

"My guess is that it has something to do with the law of large numbers. If the combined total for all intelligence agencies is around $50 billion a year, a good share of which goes to the CIA, $50 million over four years is barely a rounding error. Conklin may have assumed that a few dollars here and there wouldn't be missed."

"Just like the synthetic rubber transfers on Jeremy's car," I said. "You'd never see them unless you were specifically looking for them."

So that's how I ended up with the assignment to dig up evidence on financial records. It never occurred to me to ask Alicia how the rogue operations were funded. Unfortunately, this was an area of the business that I'd scrupulously avoided during my career. I hate doing income tax returns and dislike balancing my own checkbook, so this promised to be a real character-building assignment for me.

Brenda was left to pursue the leads she had received from Pete Martinez. It was time to find out whether Jeremy's ledger had any bearing on the investigation. He never would have confronted Conklin without a least an ace in the hole. All we had to do was find where he had hidden his hole card. It would be at least another week before Conklin realized that Alicia wasn't coming back, so we had to make a lot of hay in the meantime. He'd never go near her at the hospital, but in the event that he called to check on her progress they'd give him the run-around about HIPAA and a patient's right to privacy. A simple yet effective ruse for keeping him off the scent.

While waiting for our luggage to be unloaded at the shipping terminal, Brenda went off to powder her nose and I found Nicky standing behind me with a clipboard in his hand. "You look pretty good in uniform, _Tovarich_ ," I said without turning around. "Picking up some extra spending money?"

"Your friend Lester is parked up the street waiting for you to leave the parking lot. He was too lazy to watch for you coming off the ship, so I could have met you in my underwear and he would never have known. You just can't get good help these days."

"Give them a break, Nicky. They're a little short-handed these days."

"Did you turn the girl or is she really sick?"

"She's singing like the proverbial canary. But how did you know about the cover story?"

"Loose lips sink ships," he grinned. "Your friend Conklin told Lester and I happened to overhear them from the trees."

"Is the clipboard part of your outfit or did you bring something to show me?" I asked while waiting for Brenda to return from the cruise line baggage area restroom.

"Funny you should mention that," Nicky said, flipping open the cover to reveal a set of photographs. "I did happen to bring a few snaps for the family album. Here's one of your friend Lester replacing the wireless recorder at Brenda's. He also left fresh prints in the dummy control box as well as in her apartment."

"How careless of him," I said, examining the pictures. Lester was clearly identifiable in the sequence showing him replacing the recording element and cleaning the cover hinges.

"While he was crawling around the attics in Brenda's building, I installed a recorder and locator in his vehicle. I figured there's no sense chasing the lad all over town when we want to find him."

"Impressive work, Grasshopper," I said, returning the photographs. "It's too bad you couldn't have done Conklin's ride as well."

"As a matter of fact, I did. On a hunch, I waited for him outside Langley and tailed him to where he met up with his buddy at the Skyline Drive scenic overlook. When they strolled the cliff together I gave them each a few parting gifts."

"I'm speechless. You can take the boy out of spying, but you can't take the spy out of the boy. Who was he meeting with?"

"This dude," he said, handing me another photo. "His name is Phillip Beemer, head honcho of Vigilance Associates."

"Good catch. If he's as good as they say, he'll find your toys within a few days. But, until he does, let's see what he has to say."

"Yeah, it's too bad I couldn't hear what Beemer and Conklin were saying. They used pretty good tradecraft to keep from being overheard. But I did better when Conklin was talking to Lester back at Langley."

"How did you manage to pull that one off?" I asked.

"Another piece of pure dumb luck. They left a perfectly good soundproof building to drink their lattes in the open courtyard. I just happened to catch them standing in the coffee line and hustled out to the woods with my trusty telephoto lens."

"So you lip-read them on the Agency patio," I said. "What a hoot!"

"There is something to be said for the old ways, my American friend. All these new electronic gadgets have signatures that can set off alarms," he said, lowering the clipboard and stepping closer to me. "They were talking about Brenda."

"What did they say?" I asked seriously.

"They think she knows where Jeremy hid the evidence he was planning to use against them. Lester found a door key and a safety-deposit box key, and he also said something about Jeremy's ledger."

"How did Conklin respond to that?" I asked.

"Conklin told him to meet the ship and stay with Brenda until he found the stash."

"Any chance they might grab her and make her talk?" I feared.

"It's always possible, especially if they panic, but I doubt they'd do anything until she has something they want in her hand. Do you know anything about these keys?"

"The door key is probably for Jeremy's cabin in the mountains," I said. "We had just been up there when we met you at the diner. Nothing there to go back for."

"And the safety deposit box key?" he asked.

"The box is in a First Virginia Bank branch across from the McLean Mall. It may be where Jeremy kept his ledger. You should at least check it out, find out how public it is. My guess is they'd try to grab her before she got back to her car."

"Will do," he said. "I think I know the one you mean. Anything else?"

"Not unless you can give me a crash course in Agency bookkeeping."

"Sorry, I didn't do that well with numbers in spy school. That's why they sent me to America to study electronics."

"We're hoping to find evidence that Conklin spent $50 million of Uncle Sam's money to pay for illegal acts," I said.

"That's a whole bunch of lap dances."

"More like bribing a dictator so they could torture and murder prisoners," I explained.

"Sounds like the bad old days to me. The KGB used to do stuff like that to Soviet dissidents."

"Really ugly business," I agreed. "We're just hoping to find the paper trail."

"What about your friend, the guy from the GAO. Didn't he do intel audits?"

"You mean Carl Wong?" I asked.

"Yeah, the financial planner. Pretty sharp guy. He helped me a lot.

"Before I forget, did Conklin happen to say anything about Karl Schwartz? He seems to have just dropped out of sight."

"Not a word. I can't help you there," he said as he walked away. No sooner had I turned to check on our luggage when I heard my name being called.

"Wasn't that Nicky you were talking to?" Brenda asked as she rejoined me in the baggage area. "Why was he wearing a uniform and where did he go in such a hurry?"

"It's a long story, but he did ask me to say 'Hi' to you," I said.

"He did not, you fibber. What's going on between you two?"

We'd kept the world at bay for a few days, so I guess it was time for us to return to reality. There was no sense beginning a new chapter in our relationship by keeping the truth from her. "The uniform was a cover in case we were being watched. Nicky overheard Conklin telling Lester to meet the ship and follow you. Somehow they know about Jeremy's ledger and the safe deposit box key."

"Don't you worry about me, Big Fella. I can handle myself. Bring them on, I say."

"Simmer down there, Missy. We need to stay cool and let the fish come to us. Let them nibble the bait a little, set the hook completely and then start reeling them in."

"I love it when you talk dirty, handsome."

"Yeah, get my hopes up in the middle of a crowded terminal," I said. "Just wait until I get you alone, my girl. You will pay for your sassiness."

"Promise me anything, but shouldn't we at least collect our luggage first? Aren't those our bags over there? Do you want me to watch them while you get the truck?"

It was six of one, half a dozen of the other, so I decided to schlep our bags over to where I had parked the truck. Once we were loaded and safely buckled in, I eased out of the narrow space and paid the long-term ransom demand. Lester was alert enough to pick up the tail as I was pulling out of the lot. Sooner or later, my lad, we'll be bringing you over from the dark side too.

I dropped Brenda off at her apartment, kissing her goodbye with meaning and extracting her solemn promise to stay put until the morning. We needed to give Nicky a chance to get a lay of the land and set up a defensive position first. Tomorrow was soon enough for this to play out. Noticing that Lester stayed put outside her apartment instead of following me when I left, I kept telling myself that there was nothing to worry about until she opened the safe deposit box.

On the way home I stopped to fuel up at my favorite diesel palace and opted to see if I could catch up with Carl Wong before going home. He had invested his early retirement bonus into an Edward Jones franchise in Tyson's Corner. The financial planning practice thrived by catering to Federal retirees like me who didn't have a clue about how to handle money.

I dropped in without an appointment and caught him just as he was finishing up with another client. "Harry, how nice to see you. Come on in."

"Likewise Carl. Can you spare me a few minutes right now?"

"Sure, sure," he said, leading me into his cozy office. "My next appointment isn't until three p.m. How may I be of service?"

I took a seat in one of the guest chairs across from his desk. "You knew that Jeremy Foster was killed in a car wreck, right?"

"Yes, a terrible loss," he said, sitting down in the other guest chair next to me. "He was a real gentleman. Always concerned about other people."

"Carl, it wasn't an accident. He was murdered by someone inside the Agency. I'm working for the U.S. Attorney and we need your help in prosecuting this case."

He looked shocked. Accountants usually stayed away from the sharp end of the business and he wasn't prepared for this kind of revelation, especially when it was about someone he knew personally. "What can I do to help? I haven't seen Jeremy since I retired."

"Here's the deal, Carl. Jeremy caught somebody embezzling from the CIA. They were channeling Agency funds into unauthorized projects. It's been going on for four years. So far it's over $50 million and apparently the auditors didn't catch it."

"Impossible. They would have found $50, let alone $50 million. Unauthorized funds stick out like a sore thumb if you know where to look."

"So how did they get away with it?" I asked.

"I can only think of two possibilities offhand. The first is that there was a direct allocation covering the funding. Sort of a "super authorization" bypassing the normal process. All of the disbursements would have been posted to another agency ledger."

"Would the CIA Director know about this allocation?" I asked.

"Not necessarily. The White House could have authorized seed money in conjunction with a Presidential Executive Directive. Sometimes the funding particulars are obscure details."

"What's the other possibility?" I wondered.

"A crooked auditor. It's unlikely but not unheard of. Someone on the inside would have to 'overlook' the unapproved transfers. It's very tricky business because you never know who might actually be performing the audit. You'd have to be certain that the right person was assigned to the audit in question."

"Tell me more about direct allocations and Presidential Executive Directives."

"Executive Directives have the force of law but do not supplant the legislative process. They can be used to kick-start new initiatives or fund extraordinary items not included in regular budgets, like the impacts of reorganizations ordered by the President. After that, the affected agency would have to pick up the costs in their regular budgets."

"How about something covering four consecutive years?" I asked.

"Totally unheard of. A continuing resolution might extend it to two years, but any longer would be a flagrant abuse of the process. Besides, a continuing resolution would involve action by the Congress, which is always a messy affair. In any case it would be a real red flag in the audit summary."

"What happens when something is red-flagged?" I said.

"First, the exception must be unequivocally stated in the audit report presented to the agency head. Then the agency has 60 days to respond to the GAO in writing, including a plan to resolve all of the exceptional items."

"So, there is no way an agency director could not know after four years."

"The only possible exception I can think of would be collusion by the auditor," he said. "Hypothetically speaking, the audit report would be silent and the director would never know."

"How about the report itself? Could someone edit out the flagged items before the report was released?" I asked. "Like when the White House rewrote the so-called scientific conclusions about the evidence for Global Warming."

"That's not possible in this case. General Accounting and Budget are quasi-independent entities when it comes to reporting the findings of official inquiries. A senior official might temper the language, perhaps, but the numbers would never be changed. There is no way that an audit exception could be eliminated entirely. Simply not possible."

"So how would I smoke out a crooked auditor?" I wondered.

"Very simple. Begin by checking the personal assets of anyone assigned to the CIA audit team for the past four cycles. Unless they chose to jeopardize their careers without compensation, your crook should stick out like a proverbial sore thumb."

"Easy for you, maybe," I confessed. "Is there anything you can do to help me sort this out, Carl?"

"I suppose that I could find out the names of any auditors assigned to the CIA for consecutive audit cycles by tomorrow. After that, you might require some sort of court authorization in order to look at personal financial records."

"Carl, you're a real peach," I gushed. "This could be the evidence we need to blow this thing wide open. Thanks fifty million."

What a relief! It's such a pleasure dealing with real professionals. They can take a complicated subject and make it seem so simple. Of course I'll still need specific examples for the meeting with the Director, but that shouldn't be difficult once Carl isolates whoever Conklin was bribing or blackmailing to look the other way.

It was getting on toward four p.m., senior dinner time, the hour when early bird specials were beginning to be served in the less expensive restaurants. Given what we ate on the cruise I was better off to go home, fix myself something on the light side, sort through the mail, pay a few bills and catch up on the laundry. With the outfits Brenda bought for me before the cruise plus a few extra souvenirs we picked up along the way, I had probably four loads to do before bedtime. Each wash cycle would take at least an hour, plus another hour to dry, fold and put everything away. I was really going to miss that shipboard service.

I pulled in next to my trailer expecting to see Elvira bounding around the corner with my mail in hand. Somehow I managed to get all the way inside without being molested, a real first for me. Over the next several hours I busied myself with the necessities of single habitation and gave no more thought to my good fortune.

Finally I took a break after putting in the third load and walked over to the office to get my mail. The really important items were hidden in the mound of useless junk, which were tossed away immediately, saving me the trouble of carrying the whole mess back to my fifth wheel. I didn't even glance at the community bulletin board until I was walking out the door. What I saw posted there stopped me dead in my tracks.

Right in the middle of the bulletin board was a picture of Elvira with a brief, typed note underneath. She had suffered a stroke last Saturday night at the weekly pot-luck dinner and passed away in the early hours of Sunday morning. Her family was coming down to take her back to Ohio for burial. They were planning on being present for the memorial service scheduled to be held in the park community room at four p.m. yesterday. She would be missed by one and all, the notice said.

Life is too damn short. I was shocked and angry when I heard about Jeremy's accident because it was so unfair to lose such a friend without notice. We had shared so much together that it felt like I had lost a piece of me when he died. This time all I felt was deep regret. Elvira wanted to be my friend and I never made the time to let her. All she wanted from me was a little attention. Jeremy would have given it to her gladly. She was faithful to the end and it was my loss. I still have so much to learn about the important things in life.

Early morning showers chased away the oppressive heat and humidity that had been blanketing much of the east coast. A passing cool front was projected to bring with it milder temperatures for the next few days, making for a pleasant drive to the Northern Virginia Bank. Brenda left the parking lot of her apartment building and pulled out into traffic, assuming that Lester would be following at a respectful distance. She didn't make any particular effort to watch for him, driving at her normal pace with due regard for traffic signals and speed limits. After all, this trip was as much for his benefit as it was for hers. Arriving at the bank across from the McLean Mall, she parked in a space in the middle of the second row and entered by the side door as Nicky had instructed. After verifying her identification and checking the papers Pete Martinez had prepared for her, the bank's assistant manager led her back to the vault area. Brenda's key opened the door containing the safe-deposit box, which was then removed and placed on a table in a private viewing room.

Inside she found a small leather bound ledger, various legal documents and a stack of five business-size envelopes bound with a rubber band. The legal documents included the title for Jeremy's car, the recorded deed to the mountain cabin, a lease agreement for his apartment and a copy of the Last Will and Testament she had reviewed with Pete. Apparently Jeremy had long since discarded any documents associated with their marriage and subsequent divorce. The business envelopes were already sealed, stamped and preaddressed to individuals that Brenda didn't know. A note on top of the stack said simply, "Verify postage before mailing." The postage meter imprints were all dated within the last month, so the postage amounts should still be valid. The envelopes were all addressed to individuals in different foreign countries and had no visible return addresses either front or back.

Giving in to her curiosity, Brenda opened the ledger to see if any of the addressees were listed. Each page was formatted with an individual's name, address, phone number, email address, date of origination, amount and brief description of the terms of the investment. Payments were listed below under headings labeled 'dividend' and 'return of capital'. Some pages had other margin notes that she didn't take the time to read. Brenda leafed through the ledger, encountering a few names she recognized, including Nicky Richards. Further on she eventually found all five of the names listed on the preaddressed envelopes. While it was fascinating reading, she suddenly realized that she was running short of time and needed to collect everything and move on to the next part of the plan.

Reaching into her oversize purse, Brenda removed a large, prepaid priority mailer addressed to an address provided by Sherm Marshall. Then she placed the ledger, business envelopes and legal documents into the mailer and sealed it shut. Closing the box, she left the viewing room and returned it to the vault attendant. She then asked the same assistant manager if she would kindly include the priority package in the bank's outgoing mail. Brenda quickened her pace a bit and tried not to appear anxious as she walked back to her car. When nothing untoward happened, she entered the vehicle and drove straight home by the same route, this time checking her mirrors to see if Lester was following.

She thought that he might be two or three cars back, but couldn't be certain because of the surrounding traffic. Returning to her assigned parking space, Brenda locked her vehicle, placed her purse strap over her right shoulder and entered the apartment building. So far there was no sign of Lester. Perhaps he got caught at the last red light. After all, it was solid yellow when she went through the intersection.

As she was opening the door to her apartment, he appeared out of nowhere, pushing in behind her while wrapping a strong arm around her neck so that it was impossible to turn her head. Closing the door with his foot, he whispered harshly next to her ear. "Don't struggle and don't scream. All I want is your purse. No tricks and you won't get hurt." She reached across with her trembling left hand, slid the strap off her shoulder and handed him the purse behind her. Then, opening the door with his free hand, he took a quick glance down the hall and shoved her forward violently, sending her sprawling into the apartment.

When she looked up he was gone and the door was standing wide open. It had taken less than thirty seconds for her to lose her purse, her dignity and her bravado. Her heart raced as she rushed to close and lock the door in case he decided to come back. Looking around the apartment, Brenda could barely decide what to do next. Even though she had anticipated the encounter, it was sudden, violent and badly unnerved her nonetheless. Then when I opened the door from inside her bedroom she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Holding a finger to my lips and pointing to the microphone hidden in the overhead light, I motioned for her to follow me outside. The color that had drained from her face was returning with a vengeance. I found her hastily discarded purse at the end of the hall, replaced the spilled contents and handed it back to her with my handkerchief as we exited the building.

"Harry, what the hell were you doing?"

"Preserving any fingerprints he may have left on your purse," I said.

"I know that. I'm not an idiot. What were you doing in my bedroom? You nearly scared me to death."

"I thought I better be close by if he decided to get rough."

"Were you waiting for him to shoot me or stab me?" she hissed.

"Of course not, but we wanted to let him think he was getting away with it, right?"

"Why didn't we just mail him the damn cassettes?" she sputtered. "Why did I have to go through this charade?"

"Are you sure he didn't hurt you?"

"A lot you care, you big oaf. I thought he was going to break my neck."

"Would you like me to massage it for you?" I asked caringly.

"No, dammit! I'm fine. He just scared me and then you scared me and you could have at least told me you were going to be hiding in my bedroom, that's all."

At this point I figured that the wisest thing for me to do was shut up and let her work it out. Fortunately, Nicky showed up just in the (dare I say) 'nick' of time.

"Is everyone OK?" he asked.

"No thanks to King Kong, here. Lester pushed me down, took my purse and ran off. Harry found it where he dropped it in the hall. Everything seems to be here except the package you fixed up for him to find."

"I'm just glad you're not hurt," he said. "Might I suggest you go back to your apartment and call the police? The opposition will be expecting you to report this. Tell the cops you were mugged in your apartment, he got away and dropped your purse on the way out."

"Also tell them you never saw his face," I added, "and you don't know who he is."

"Good idea," Nicky said. "And say that all you're missing are some papers from your ex-husband's estate. You didn't have a chance to open the envelopes so you don't even know what's missing."

"Do you two baboons think I can remember all that, or do you want to come along and feed me lines when I forget?" Then she turned around and stomped away before we could say anything else that would get us into even more trouble.

"I'd say that she was a mite upset, wouldn't you, Harry?"

"She's right to be angry about being roughed up, but I think that she's madder at me for hiding in the bedroom without telling her. Wait'll she finds out that the cops won't even show up after listening to her complaint. That'll really make her day."

"I think I got the whole thing with the camera I set up outside her door," he said. "I also got some candid shots of Lester dumping her purse as he left. Who knows, it might come in handy in the future."

"Well done, _amigo_. I'll be happy if they just take the bait. Jeremy's cassettes plus a few pages from Millie's 'insurance policy' should be pretty convincing."

The vibration in my pocket reminded me that I'd muted the phone while hiding in Brenda's bedroom. According to caller ID, this was the call I'd been expecting from Carl Wong.

"Harry, Carl here. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

"I'm all ears, good or bad," I said.

"The most any one auditor worked was two of the four years, and even then it wasn't for consecutive cycles. There is no way that the Director couldn't have known what was going on. He would have seen the red flags at least three times."

"Don't feel bad, Carl. At least we now have the facts."

"You were hoping he wasn't involved, weren't you Harry."

"I suppose you're right. That Old Man was the backbone of the Agency for as long as I worked there. It's hard to believe that he was involved in this mess."

"Do you think he was behind Jeremy's murder?"

"I honestly don't know what to think," I said. "He obviously knew what was happening and didn't stop it. That makes him complicit, doesn't it?"

"I'm a CPA, not a lawyer, but I find it hard to believe that he was involved in anything like you described. There has to be some other explanation."

"That's what Jeremy would have said," I added. "He always looked for the best in people. I'm finding out more and more that I don't measure up to the same standard."

"We had a saying at GAO. Liars figure, but figures don't lie."

"I'm not sure I get the point," I said.

"It means that you have to complete the entire audit before all the facts present themselves. You've only been looking at one $50 million segment. Maybe when you can see the bigger picture it will make more sense."

"You're certain that she didn't see you," Conklin said. They were standing side by side inside a car wash, watching as their vehicles moved through an open spray booth. The constant noise of the automated machinery made it difficult for them to be overheard.

"Yes, sir. I positioned myself inside the building until she put her key in the door. Then I hammer locked her from behind. She could not turn around and could not have seen me when I left. I did not see anyone else in or around the building, coming or going."

"And did she report the incident?" Conklin probed as they continued walking slowly as their cars progressed though the building.

"Yes, sir. She called the local police almost immediately. She said that she didn't see her attacker and had no idea what was in the envelope from her ex-husband's estate."

"How did they respond?" Conklin asked in his characteristic manner.

"They took her statement over the phone, asked a few questions and told her that patrols would be beefed up in the area for the next few days. Since she didn't need medical assistance, they won't be sending anyone to investigate further."

"Fine, but just as a precaution, you'd better stay away from her and her apartment for the next few weeks," Conklin said. "No sense pushing our luck."

"Would you like me to resume surveillance on Wilson?" Lester asked as they reached the end of the viewing area and were about to enter the cashier lobby.

"No, he'll probably be spending more time with her anyway. No doubt you gave her a good scare. Time for you to catch up on the paperwork you love so much."

"As you wish, Dr. Conklin," said Lester, opening the lobby door for his superior.

As soon as he had paid the bill and reclaimed his freshly-washed car, Conklin returned to his office, locked the door and opened the sealed mailer Lester had taken from Brenda. Inside were five unlabeled cassette tapes and four pages of what appeared to be CIA internal documents. He studied the documents for a few minutes and determined that they were incriminating but not nearly as bad as he had been expecting. Turning his high-backed executive chair around, he ran them through the shredder located behind his polished office desk.

It took him a few minutes to locate a suitable cassette player and earphones with which to listen to the tapes. The voices were immediately recognizable and the subjects soon became evident from the conversations. In retrospect, Jeremy had obviously set him up, engineering provocative discussions for the purposes of recording his intentions. Conklin had the sinking feeling that he had been far too casual about discussing sensitive topics in Agency meeting rooms. It was too easy to record conversations almost anywhere in the building.

Conklin had to admire his own eloquence as he listened to himself arguing the merits of expedient action over the uncertainties of ponderous bipartisan processes. In his opinion, the greater good would be served with less cost and far more certainty. Jeremy had offered the same lame platitudes about holding the Agency to higher standards, protecting civil rights and moral principles. He just did not understand that all that had ended with the first terrorist attacks. It was a new world order where new tactics were needed to combat the forces of evil.

Unfortunately, it did prove intent and premeditation on Conklin's part. He was certain to be proven right in the end, but in the interim he could go to jail until and unless clearer minds changed the applicable statutes and regulations. It was only a matter of time before the country accepted that security measures had to prevail over so-called civil liberties. When the ringing phone interrupted his thoughts he paused the tape player.

"You know who's calling, don't you?" asked Beemer.

"Yes, do we need to meet?"

"Not necessarily. If you have a minute I can fill you in right now."

"Please do, I could use some good news," Conklin confessed.

"We had a fire sale and everything has been reduced to bargain basement prices. There is nothing left to be concerned with."

"Very good. And the other problem we discussed?"

"It went away," Beemer said matter-of-factly. "You won't be hearing any more about it."

"No chance that something might turn up later?"

"It will be someone else's problem if it does," Beemer said.

"Excellent. I think that concludes our business, then."

"For the moment, but you may wish to keep us on retainer just in case something else comes up in the future," Beemer proposed.

"What are you suggesting?"

"Let's just say we continue our cost plus agreement. It will be far less than what you had been paying before and we will be exclusively at your beck and call."

"Would a month-by-month arrangement be satisfactory?" Conklin countered.

"As long as we can renegotiate going forward, as needed."

"That seems prudent for both parties. I'm hoping to reduce expenses in the future."

"Let's hope you are successful," Beemer said. "If not, you will still be prepared."

"I'm confident that we will succeed. Everything is under control right now."

Later that same evening we caught up with Sherm at his favorite athletic club. As usual, he was enjoying a vigorous workout on the heavy bag. "Give me a minute...to catch my breath...you talk, Harry."

"Does your wife know who you're spending all this time with? It gives new meaning to the expressions 'hitting the sack' and 'taking it out on the old bag'."

"Focus, Harry," he gasped. "Save jokes...for later."

"We think that the head fish swallowed your bait. Lester hasn't been back to bother either of us and they still don't know that Alicia is AWOL. Someone quizzed the information desk at Baltimore General this morning and was given the 'patient's rights' shuffle. For all they know, she's still in the hospital."

"Good, good," he said, taking a breath. "How about the financials?"

"Disappointing. I was hoping to find that there was some off-the-books source of funds or a crooked auditor covering up unauthorized spending, but no such luck."

"Have you gotten copies of any of the audit reports?" he asked.

"I don't have actual reports in hand yet, but my GAO buddy Carl Wong convinced me that the Old Man must know about the money. All sources of funds get swept up in the accounting process and different auditors were used every year since 2004. Thus there are no secret accounts and no opportunities for crooked accountants. Therefore, I can only conclude that the Director has been watching the evidence pile up through at least three annual audits."

"Don't take it too hard, Harry. At least we know where he stands. He can't deny knowing about the money, so we'll see what he thinks they have been spending it on. The embezzlement angle is still the way for us to go. Let him tell us different."

"Do you still plan to lead with Jeremy's car?" I asked.

"Yes, but it's getting harder to tie the murder to the Agency. Interpol matched the prints we lifted off Jeremy's car to a guy who was found floating in the surf off of Cape Town. The body was in pretty bad shape, like it had been tossed out of an airplane from high altitude. We still don't have an ID, but he's somebody else's problem now."

"And there is nothing to connect him back to the CIA?" I asked.

"Not without his prints on file, I'm afraid. We hit a dead end with Karl Schwartz, the name you gave us. There are no fingerprints or photographs under that name anywhere. We'll see if Alicia can come up with any of his aliases or known associates."

"My radar says that this guy was a deep-cover spook," I said. "You cannot get legitimate CIA credentials without prints and a mug shot. With the South African heritage, he could have been on loan from MI6 or even Mossad."

"We'll let the Director explain it to us."

"How about the Vigilance Associates credit card numbers?" I asked.

"That's also very odd. American Express issued two dozen Gold cards but only three were even activated. They told us that there was fairly high usage on two of the cards. My accountants are running down the details."

"Why would a paramilitary unit set up financing and then just nibble around the edges?" I wondered. "Alicia said there had to be two dozen guys involved in the op."

"Alicia was probably guessing. Based on her own experience, it would have taken that many people to pull it off. We really don't have all the facts yet."

"Is it just me or is this thing getting weirder and weirder?" I asked. "We've got secret accounts that are being reported to the Director, a CIA executioner who doesn't appear to exist, and twenty-one high-limit credit cards that are sitting in the drawer unused. What are we going to run into next, Sherm, a unicorn? How about the Cheshire Cat?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," he chuckled. "You wouldn't believe some of the convoluted cases I've been involved with. As Yogi Berra was fond as saying, 'It ain't over 'til it's over.' I always try to remember never to eat the menu."

"Why would anyone want to eat a menu?" I asked.

"Fast food restaurants often have menus with large colorful pictures of their selections. It all looks so delicious until it's actually prepared and served. Only then you can tell whether it's any good. After we fill in the blanks we'll know what this really tastes and smells like."

"So, where does this leave us?" I asked. "Do we still have a case?"

"Yes and no. We have a case against the little fish, both living and dead. We have circumstantial evidence of a criminal conspiracy and murder involving bigger fish, but we need the Director's help to fill in the blanks."

"When do you want to meet with him?" I asked.

"He's scheduled to be in Manhattan next week for a security conference, I'm told. I'll try and set it up for us to meet on neutral ground. You bring as much ammo as you can carry and we'll choreograph it from there."

"Do you have the sense that the Director's behind all this?" I worried.

"Everything points to him running the show. Maybe not the operations we've heard about, but he sure as hell is aware of the big picture."

"Maybe I should take comfort in the fact that he is on top of things after all."

We spent a quiet night at Brenda's apartment, sleeping in late on Saturday morning. She eventually forgave me for not telling her in advance about hiding in her bedroom in case things got out of hand. The word she used in response to my explanation was a popular barnyard expletive, but she gradually relented as the evening wore on. While we didn't actually get around to talking about it in the most civilized terms, I could tell that all was forgiven by the time we crawled into bed together.

Around ten a.m. we donned our walking shorts, laced up our sneakers and headed out the front door for a leisurely stroll to her favorite neighborhood café. Our experiences aboard ship had expanded our thinking to the possibility that the extra calories we intended to consume this morning could be offset by walking there and back. While this theory wasn't supported by empirical data, it had enough of a ring of common sense that we accepted the rationalization. At worst, we could save gas, enjoy the fresh air and talk more openly about the case.

"Don't be so discouraged," my burgundy-haired cheerleader said, holding my hand while maintaining a brisk pace. "Sherm knows what he's doing and he wouldn't move forward unless he was confident of winning."

"Brenda, I'm in so far over my head that I can't even see the surface. It was all coming together so well, and then poof, it disappeared overnight."

"You know that's not true, Harry. You're just bummed because one of your heroes may turn out to be a villain. You really thought that the Director was being scammed, didn't you. Only now he may have been the one who was pulling the strings."

"How did you get to be so smart, my girl? I was really hoping that the Old Man would turn out to be a beacon of integrity in this drama. The Agency is broken and I can't think of anyone else who could fix all the problems. I've looked up to him for so long that I just can't seem to picture him any other way. It is so unlike him to abandon his principles for the sake of any amount of money."

"People are extremely complicated," she said. "Just when you think you have them figured out they do something totally unpredictable. After all the years we lived together I thought I knew Jeremy, but then Pete Martinez showed me a side of him that I never knew existed. Maybe I wasn't paying enough attention to him. How do you like them apples, Sparky?"

"But Jeremy didn't turn to the dark side. He made a huge mistake letting you go and then found another way to fill the void in his life. In a way you were instrumental in his becoming a real altruist, helping people realize their dreams without any thought of personal gain. It was a very noble thing, and he selected you to carry on his good works. I'd call that a pretty wonderful revelation of someone's character."

"Speaking of revelations, Dr. Phil, I completely forgot to tell you about the things I found in Jeremy's safe deposit box. I was so upset after the mugging that it completely slipped my mind. The package should have been delivered to Sherm's office by now, but I did sneak a peek at the contents before putting it in the mailer."

"I assume you found the ledger," I said.

"Not only that, but there were also envelopes addressed to five people I've never heard of. They were all from different countries and they were also in his ledger."

"What was in the envelopes?" I wondered.

"I don't know. They were all sealed and stamped when I found them."

When she began recalling names and destinations, alarm bells started going off in my head. Millie had given me the key and Brenda figured out how to use it. I got so excited that I nearly jerked her off the sidewalk when I stopped dead in my tracks.

"What's happened to you?" she exclaimed. "You nearly knocked me flat."

"Brenda, I love you! You broke the code. I know how Jeremy did it!"

Practically dragging her to a bus stop shelter where we could sit and talk to Sherm without being overheard, I explained to Brenda what Millie had told me about using couriers to get secret documents out of Jeremy's office. At the time I had no idea where he could have sent the packages, nor where they might have been forwarded. The five envelopes she found gave us the answers to both questions.

As the call was automatically forwarded to heaven-knows-where, I waited through nine rings and two transfers before he finally picked up. "Sorry Harry, it's hard for me to hear the phone when I'm under water. I'm at home cleaning the pool."

"Sherm, I think we know where Jeremy hid the documents he copied!"

"Lay it on me. I'm all ears."

"You remember I told you Millie's theory about using couriers to get evidence out of the Agency without being searched?" I reminded him.

"Sure, you thought it might be a dead end."

"That was until Brenda told me what she found in the safe deposit box. Jeremy left sealed envelopes stamped and addressed to five different people outside the country. I'm betting they contain recall instructions to get the evidence back here for prosecution."

"You may be on to something, Harry. I like your theory a lot."

"Is there anyone in your office today we can trust to open the package?" I wondered.

"I can be there within the hour. Charge up your cell phone, Harry, and I'll patch you in on the overseas calls. I'll bring in some technicians to handle the communications, but I may need your help to get these people to talk to us over the phone."

I called Nicky while Brenda and I waited for our takeout order at the café. He suggested meeting at his office where we'd have the latest electronics equipment needed for international communications. He trusted us to turn out the lights and lock the door behind us, but I asked him to stay in the event that his language skills might prove to be useful on the overseas calls. Sherm brought in his own experts in Manhattan to initiate and manage the connections. While they were setting up the calls, we strategized on how we were going to convince Jeremy's associates that we were legitimate. Brenda faxed Sherm written permission to open the envelopes so the enclosed letters could be faxed back to Nicky's office. Each letter contained nearly identical instructions for mailing Jeremy's packages to a specific post office box in northern Virginia.

The fact that the instructions weren't identical was puzzling. Everything was to be sent to the same address, so why did Jeremy feel the need to change the preambles? Was there some nuance of the primary language of the destination country that made it necessary to alter the phrasing? While I was pondering this mystery it struck me that the ZIP code was the same rural post office where we had mailed the cassette tapes we found in Jeremy's mountain cabin. What else might have been stashed in that P.O. Box? I made a note to myself to find out first thing Monday morning, if possible.

Beginning with the furthest time zone, Sherm's people established contact with the person whose name and address was on the corresponding envelope. He spoke English surprisingly well and appeared to be following the conversation until it came to anything having to do with a package he was supposedly holding for Jeremy. No matter how the questions were phrased, he denied having received any courier pouches from Langley, let alone from Jeremy.

Nicky listened to the dialogue on the speakerphone as he carefully reread the envelope inserts Sherm had faxed to us earlier. Tugging on my sleeve, he pointed to specific variations in the wording of the insert intended for the man talking to us from the other side of the world. At first I didn't understand what he was trying to show me. The phrasing in English sounded awkward, almost childlike, but who said that code-words had to make sense to the uninitiated.

"Excuse me for interrupting," I said. "This is Harry Wilson in Washington, D.C. I was a friend of Jeremy's and I think I can help. I'm looking at a copy of Jeremy's instructions to you and I want to read it to you word for word. Are you ready?" I had to read it to him twice, but in the end it was as if we had turned on a light switch in the conversation.

From then on he couldn't have been more cooperative. Of course he had received the package and was safekeeping it according to the letter of the instructions he had received from Jeremy, including the part about playing dumb until he was properly authorized to relinquish it. The same scenario was repeated with every call. Jeremy had inserted different code words into each recall letter, thus ensuring that the addressees would neither acknowledge nor give up their packages until the proper authentication sequence had been given. It was like being back in trade-craft classes at the Farm.

In the end, all of the addressees promised to send their packages to a specific box number at Sherm's office by the fastest means available. In turn, Sherm promised to reimburse them for any costs incurred. They all expressed profound affection for Jeremy and were deeply saddened by his loss. And they were thoroughly delighted to learn that Brenda was also on the call and would be carrying on Jeremy's work through the investment ledger.

As the last call was ending just after four p.m., it was ten o'clock where the person we had been talking to was preparing to go out to dinner. Eating late was a European custom that never appealed to my sensibilities. Early Bird specials were not only economical, but they were much closer to keeping time with my biological clock. All that Brenda and I had eaten so far today was an onion bagel with cream cheese. Accordingly, I started making noises about wrapping things up and calling it a day so we could all enjoy an early dinner.

"One more thing before we go people," Sherm said. "Brenda, would you pick up the handset so we can turn off the speaker phone?"

"It's OK, Sherm. These guys are all the family I have now, and all I'll ever need."

"Amen," I said. Nicky was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

"Jeremy left you a personal note in the back of the ledger. I haven't read it and these guys don't need to hear it now. I'm sending it to you along with a key that was inside the note. I assume it'll fit the Virginia P.O. Box he referred to in his letters."

"Bless your heart, Sherm."

"Just let me know if you find anything interesting in the box. I'll have a team combing through the ledger to see if there are any more hidden gems. And, speaking to everyone on both ends of this call, you all did an excellent job today, people. This could prove to be the final breakthrough we were hoping for in this case. I'm sorry to have to ruin your Saturday plans, but I appreciate all your efforts to bring this to a successful conclusion. Are there any final thoughts before Harry gets his wish to run off to dinner?"

"How do we know that what they're sending will be enough evidence?" I asked.

"Jeremy thought it was enough," he said. "He could have sent six, eight or ten packages by the same means, but he only sent five. I trust his judgment."

"What about the meeting with the Director?" I asked. "Do we wait for the packages to arrive from overseas?"

"Nope. As soon as he's ready, we're ready," he said confidently. "He'll realize that we have the basics covered and the capability to get more evidence if necessary."

"Great. When do you want us there with you in New York?"

"As soon as I can lock down the meeting with the Director. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm going home to finish cleaning my pool while the sun still shines."

Saturday night began with a casual take-out for two, picked up tempo when Nicky invited us to his favorite neighborhood bistro and then morphed into a raucous celebration after his Italian bride Sophie insisted that we have a home-cooked meal at their house.

"Nicky's never home anymore," she said, noisily chopping vegetables for the salad. "He thinks that being an American means you always have to work, work, work. I ask you, how much money does one man need? Does he need to earn enough to support an entire village? Retire and enjoy the fruits of your labor, I say. Don't work yourself into an early grave."

"Sophie, my love, I'm having too much fun," Nicky said with gusto. "You wouldn't deny a man his simple pleasures, would you?"

"Such a big fat liar you are!" she lectured with her wagging finger inches from Nicky's face. "A man who's having fun doesn't grind his teeth while he sleeps. A man who's having fun doesn't work until midnight and then get up before the sun. A man who's having fun doesn't have a medicine cabinet full of aspirin and Pepto-Bismol. It is better you should have a girlfriend. Then at least we'd all sleep better."

"But I already have a girlfriend! It's you, my one and only love," he said, swatting her bottom as she bent over to check the garlic bread and adjust the heat under the spaghetti sauce.

"Go make yourself useful and pick out some wine for dinner. Poor Harry and Brenda are about to die from starvation."

"Poor Harry is just fine," I said, working my way through a second plate of appetizers. "We just hate imposing on you at the last minute."

"Nonsense," she said with a huge smile. "I'm starved for the company, believe me. You and Jeremy have done so much for us. Cooking a little spaghetti dinner is the least we could do."

"Let me help you, Sophie," said Brenda. "I'm feeling like a fifth wheel."

"Don't you live in a fifth wheel, Harry?" kidded Sophie. "English is such a strange language. Better you should learn to speak _Italiano_. Here, Brenda, you can carry these plates to the dining room. Nicky! We're almost ready. Have you picked out the wine yet? It needs to breathe, you know."

"Coming my love, princess of my life," he said with enthusiasm. "Tonight could be the night. They say that a good wine is the best aphrodisiac."

We laughed and laughed, eating our way through a mountain of steaming pasta, salad and garlic bread. Sophie and Nicky entertained us throughout the meal with their good-natured banter and reminiscences about their lives together. They met when Nicky was posing as a Polish college student. He had felt so guilty about deceiving the Sicilian girl who had captured his heart, but he was afraid to tell her the truth and risk being hauled off to jail.

"Seriously, Brenda," Sophie said, "we never thought that we'd have this chance to do something to repay Jeremy. My heart goes out to you for his loss, and I want you to know how special he was to us. He's the only reason we have all this."

"What do you mean, Sophie?" Brenda responded. "I've seen the ledger and you guys repaid Jeremy many times over."

"The money is the least of what he did for us," Nicky said. "Without Jeremy, I might have gone to prison or been deported or both. He put his career on the line for me and Sophie. When we had nothing, he went out of his way to see that we got a fresh start."

"I regret not knowing that side of him," Brenda said. "From my perspective it was always about the Company, one more international crisis that needed his personal attention. I know that it takes two to make a marriage, so maybe I didn't give him a chance to explain what he was really doing. All I knew was that it didn't involve me."

"Don't blame yourself," said Sophie. "Men are such poor communicators. You need to pull it out of them like teeth, and even then you can't be sure they're telling you everything. That's why I badger Nicky so much. At least he responds to my heckling. Otherwise we'd sit quietly in front of the TV every night and I'd never know anything."

"And here you were complaining because I was never home, my love," Nicky said. "But she's right about not blaming yourself. Jeremy was a much different person after the divorce. Without a family to go home to he got more involved in the lives of others."

"Oh, thanks," said Brenda, "That makes me feel so much better."

"What this fool man is trying to say is that Jeremy made a big mistake letting you get away," said Sophie, "so he tried to make up for it by helping others who had nowhere else to go."

"That really does help. Thank you, Sophie." Brenda said.

"See how easily she untangles my tongue," Nicky said. "Jeremy didn't invest any money in our company until years later. We had some early successes, but could never put together enough capital to expand the business. I tried to borrow the money from banks and I even talked to a few venture capitalists, but they all turned me down. Then I happened to run into Jeremy at the grocery store, we stopped to have a drink together and the rest is history."

"We had no idea that he any money to invest," said Sophie. "The subject never came up. I mean, he knew about our growing company, but we had never talked to him about our dreams."

"Until he bought me a beer to cry in," said Nicky. "He never said a word, just sat there listening to me pouring out my tale of woe. The next day he showed up with a cashier's check for $50,000. I almost fainted!"

"Where did he get that from?" Brenda asked.

"He sold his car," Sophie said, "and cashed in his retirement account. He said that he had a company car and never drove the other one anymore."

"What about his retirement?" I asked.

"That was the strange thing," Nicky said. "He said that he wasn't going to need it."

"Almost like he could see into the future," I said.

Sherm's Fed-Ex package arrived just after nine a.m. Monday morning. Brenda prepared a picnic lunch and we drove west on a now familiar route toward the mountains. At my age one full day of rest isn't quite enough for a full recharge, but we were both anxious to find out if Jeremy had left anything else behind. The scenery was every bit as captivating as it had been on our earlier trip, but I could tell that Brenda's thoughts were elsewhere. She was already looking forward to her new role overseeing Jeremy's investments.

"Maybe I should look into setting up a non-profit foundation. It would be a shame to pay taxes on the investment dividends if I didn't have to."

"Makes sense," I said, not having a clue about whether foundations paid taxes or not.

"I didn't get a real good look at the ledger, but he must have four to five million invested plus another $2.5 million or so available for new investments."

"That's not what I would call chicken feed," I said.

"Then there's another two million and change from his life insurance. We could be talking about $10 million by the time everything is totaled up."

"You should talk to my friend Carl Wong," I suggested. "He retired from GAO and has his own financial planning business. He might be able to suggest other options for you to think about."

"Right, and I'll also ask Pete Martinez for his advice. He should know where to go and who to talk to. I'll bet he'd sit on the board if I asked him."

"What board?" I said cluelessly.

"For the tax-free foundation I'm thinking about setting up. Haven't you heard anything I've been saying?"

Well, there was no way out of that hole aside from just digging it deeper. So I took the coward's way out and changed the subject. I had gotten fed up with having to work around the bug in my truck so I disabled it. Lester was welcome to break into it sometime and find out where I cut the wires, but in the meantime we could talk about the case if we wanted to. "Don't you wonder what's in the P. O. Box?"

"He could have mailed himself more cassette tapes. Which reminds me, how did he get them out of the building?" she asked. "I thought they had all this security."

"Maybe he didn't have to. Alicia told us that Conklin was paranoid about his offices being bugged, so he preferred to have his meetings outside of the building. And Nicky caught him talking with Lester on the patio outside the cafeteria, then again at the motel and at the Skyline Drive overlook with his friend from Vigilance. We might be able to isolate the location by filtering out the background noise."

"You could be right, Harry. How ironic to be caught on tape because you're afraid to meet in the one place designed to prevent such things from happening."

We lapsed into silence when the scenery became more interesting as we climbed into the foothills. Every time I see all this beautiful open space I wonder why anyone would want to live on recovered swamp land in D.C. It makes absolutely no sense.

"You haven't asked me about Jeremy's note," she said.

My normal response would have been an automatic 'What note?', but this time I concentrated on the question while searching my memory bank for the context.

"Harry, are you listening to me?" she persisted

"I figured that you'd tell me when you felt the time was right," I said, hoping that it was somewhere close to an acceptable response.

"I'm saving the note until this is all over. If these are truly Jeremy's last words to me I want to be at peace when I read them for the first time. Does that seem silly to you?"

"Absolutely not," I said, finally understanding what she was talking about. And then we went back to enjoying the scenery without talking until we pulled into the P.O. parking lot. We found the box without too much searching and inserted the key. Inside the box was a standard government mailer addressed in Jeremy's precise hand printing. Inside the mailer was exactly what we had been looking for all along.

Everything fell into place by Wednesday night. Sherm secured a meeting with the CIA Director for early Thursday morning at the Downtown Athletic Club and all five packages were delivered as promised. Brenda and I caught the afternoon shuttle flight to La Guardia, ate an early dinner and settled into our hotel room by eight p.m. Instead of touring the city sights, we decided to get a good night's sleep in order to be at our best for the morning showdown.

Room service delivered the Wall Street Journal along with our breakfast order promptly at six-thirty a.m. Normally I would have taken the time to savor the Eggs Benedict, but my anxiety got the better of me and I wolfed them down like just another plate of scrambled eggs. We were ready and waiting when Sherm's car picked us up outside the front door at seven-ten. Sherm was relaxed and confident on the ride over, proudly pointing out famous landmarks in his beloved city like a veteran tour guide. When we walked into the Downtown Athletic Club Board Room fifteen minutes later, the Director was already there waiting for us.

He stood ramrod straight, looking somewhat older and thinner than I remembered him. His prematurely gray hair had turned to silver and there were deep creases in the skin around his jaw and neck. Elegantly dressed as always in a three piece gray pin-stripe suit with a gray and white silk tie, he was still a commanding presence in any room. He set his coffee mug down on a paper coaster on the conference table and greeted Brenda first. "Mrs. Foster, I am very sorry for your loss. Please forgive me for not personally extending the Agency's condolences at your former husband's funeral."

"Thank you, Director. I know you would have been there if you could."

"And Harry, you're looking well. Retirement must be agreeing with you. I envy your successful transition to the good life."

"Director," I said, knowing that Sherm would be anxious to get on with the meeting.

"Mr. Marshall," the Director said, extending his hand, "thank you for meeting with me at this early hour. I've heard good things about you and I'm anxious to hear what you have for me."

"Sir, the honor is mine," replied Sherm, shaking his hand firmly. "I know that your schedule is tight, so, with your agreement, we can get started right away."

"By all means, sir," said the Old Man graciously. "Please do help yourselves to coffee. It is one of the things they do consistently well at this club." He waited until we had all settled in our places before retaking his own seat.

Sherm wasted no time in getting right to the point. "The reason we're here is to request your cooperation in the investigation of Jeremy Foster's murder by a person or persons employed by the Central Intelligence Agency."

The Director didn't flinch a muscle nor respond in any way. He remained seated, sipping coffee as Sherm continued with his opening statement.

"Just prior to his death, Mr. Foster came to see me regarding certain criminal activities within the CIA. In a few minutes I will take you through specific incidences of these acts. Before I do, let me tell you that he also discovered that Mitchell Conklin embezzled some $50 million in government funds over the past four years. We believe that Mr. Foster was killed to prevent him from informing you of these crimes and to preclude his testimony in a court of law."

"I presume that you are prepared to show me some proof of these allegations," said the Director calmly.

It was the opening that Sherm had been waiting for. He stood up, opened the cover of the cardboard bank box he had brought into the room and removed the prepared exhibits as they were needed to make his points. For the next forty-five minutes he deftly presented and thoroughly explained the relevance of each piece of evidence. The package Brenda and I retrieved from Jeremy's P.O. Box on Monday was a virtual index to the cassette tapes and the documents Jeremy had entrusted to his friends around the world.

In addition to copies of confidential Agency documents and financial records, Jeremy had made his own transcripts of the conversations he had taped, identifying the date, location, participants and context of each meeting. Sherm's oratory was masterful, linking every single detail to specific violations of criminal code, Presidential Executive Directives and published Agency policies. I had been watching it all come together and was still impressed with his grasp of the evidence and applicable statutes.

Apparently the Director was impressed as well. He studied each exhibit as Sherm passed them to him and listened carefully as the U.S. Attorney ticked off each of his points. No doubt an accomplished poker player in his own right, the Old Man's face masked all of his emotions. As far as I could see he had no 'tells', maintaining the same relaxed posture throughout, with both hands on the table, no visual tics and no audible sounds. Even his coffee mug remained untouched.

When Sherm finished explaining the last exhibit he closed the cardboard box, sat down and repeated his original request for cooperation. No one said a word for the next two minutes. We had all agreed to remain silent and motionless when Sherm arrived at this point. He warned us that the silence would become palpable, but he was insistent that the next person to speak would lose the argument.

Finally the Director removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and responded. "I see you have done your homework very well, Mr. Marshall. The things I was told to expect from you were vastly understated. I commend you on a very thorough and most articulate presentation, but I fear that you may have misinterpreted the facts."

Being dumbstruck can be a good thing, especially when you should be firmly planted in your seat with your mouth shut. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to put an unobtrusive hand on Brenda's arm to keep her from leaping to her feet before the Old Man had fully explained his comments. Sherm kept his composure and didn't move a muscle.

"As you have already surmised from the exhibits," the Director said, "I was completely aware of the fund expenditures in question. The auditors do an excellent job of flagging spending on unauthorized projects and are legally bound to bring it to my attention. So now you're probably all wondering why I allowed it to continue."

"Yes sir," said Sherm. Actually we had talked about it a lot. It made no sense for him to have allowed Conklin to continue skimming from the Agency over the years, and yet he had. So there had to be another explanation. I just hoped that the Old Man wasn't in on the take.

"Let me share with you a few things that you may not be aware of. My job has become increasingly more complex in the past decade. The Cold War had its own challenges, but we were opposed by a monolithic enemy. All of our energies were focused on Communist aggression, principally instigated by the megalomaniacs in Moscow and Beijing. With the very real threat of nuclear war, the stakes were so high that virtually no one in the Executive and Legislative branches felt inclined to meddle in CIA operations."

Ah yes, the good old bad old days. I remember them well. Perhaps all the misadventures with Presidents Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon had been initiated within the Agency after all.

"After the Berlin Wall came down, we entered a period of anarchy whereby anyone with an RPG and an AK-47 represented a threat to our security. The Soviet Union may have been a repressive régime, but it also kept the lid on the renegade pots that were boiling all over Eurasia. The same thing could be said for dictators such as Saddam Hussein in Iraq. His iron rule also kept the peace between Sunnis, Shi'ites and the Kurds."

"And now?" said Sherm.

"Now I'm afraid that the lids have come off all the pots. We're dealing with hundreds of breakaway countries, coalitions and factions all fighting for control. And to make matters worse, certain individuals in the Congress and the White House now feel compelled to second guess and even interfere with CIA operations."

"Was Jeremy Foster successful in keeping the Congress at bay?"

"Yes, he did an excellent job for the Agency. Like you, Mr. Marshall, he did his homework very well and was thoroughly prepared for his engagements with the House and Senate Intelligence Committees. He earned their trust and respected their statutory authority to oversee Agency activities. They, in turn, trusted his full disclosure of our plans and programs. I only wish I could say the same about our relationship with the White House staffs."

"But don't you work for the President?" I blurted. My bad.

"A very good question, Harry. I serve at the pleasure of the President and we actually get along quite well together. However, everyone has a boss, including the President. The ideologues responsible for putting him into office insisted that he appoint a few of their own people to key positions on his staff, which would have been tolerable if they had stopped there. They also insisted on putting their own people on my staff."

Aha! These were the Bozos that Jeremy had complained about to Brenda.

"I deeply regret that the Agency lost some very good people as a result. The downsizing fiasco was bad enough, but then we actually pushed out able executives to make room for the political appointees. It is a consequence of our political system, I'm afraid."

"What did you do about it?" Sherm asked.

"Initially, I did nothing. I allowed the staff changes to proceed unchallenged and looked the other way when inexperienced staff members overstepped their organizational boundaries. Then I discovered that someone in the White House approved the use of mercenaries to carry out unauthorized operations in the Middle East. The whole thing was being funded and directed out of my agency without my prior knowledge and approval."

"Why not just have the President order you to do it?" I asked.

"The President cannot order illegal acts and they knew I would have refused to do it."

"Hence the indirect approach, one political appointee to another," Sherm said.

"Sadly, yes. When I brought it to the President's attention he told me candidly that it was up to me to handle it, and so I did. The fact that Jeremy Foster may have died as a result of my decisions is something that I will always regret."

"Let's go slowly, Director," Sherm said. "Take us step by step."

"Well, I couldn't abide mercenaries running amok in the Middle East, so with the help of a former military intelligence officer I set up a unique paramilitary company to counteract the intrusion of the political operatives."

"You and Phillip Beemer created Vigilance Associates."

"Very good, Mr. Marshall. I can see that your reputation has not been overstated. Colonel Beemer's mission was to contain the damage done by one particular appointee, and if I may say so he did an admirable job for several years. Now, of course, the situation is very different."

"I take it that Mitchell Conklin is the appointee you're alluding to."

"Yes, Dr. Conklin is very well connected and highly regarded by the people who effectively control the government these days. When he was still in academia he authored some provocative literature that caught the attention of senior military advisors. They were taken by his hawkish views and vigorous advocacy of preemptive strikes and covert paramilitary actions. Thus he was given the task of implementing insurgency operations."

"Did he have any relevant field experience?" I asked.

"Harry, I'm not even sure that he's ever been out of the country. All of his knowledge is academic and theoretical, based largely on his analyses of Israeli strategy and tactics. He's written several policy books and his arguments are certainly persuasive. In person he can be quite charming and forceful in his views. As I said before, he is well connected and knows how to capture the imagination of those in leadership positions."

"So he talks the talk but never walked the walk," I said.

"Yes, that rather sums it up."

"Exactly how did Vigilance figure in all this, Director?" Sherm asked.

"Colonel Beemer represented himself to Dr. Conklin as an uncompromising businessman, willing to underbid all of his competitors in order to win Agency contracts. It wasn't long before he was the prime contractor for all their rogue operations."

"How did he perform the contracts?" Sherm asked.

"The field work was actually done by CIA operatives, giving us tight control and accountability, especially in volatile areas of the Middle East. Beemer would then submit his invoices and tell Conklin whatever he wanted to hear about the events."

"So the money was going from your left pocket to your right pocket," Sherm surmised. "That's why you never took any action on the audit results."

"Exactly. Beemer was actually paid under a personal services contract with my office."

"Then what was TOMBOY all about?" I asked.

"You did come prepared, Harry. Well done. TOMBOY was a wishful thought that originated in a closed session of the Security Council. Someone suggested that it might actually compromise the 2004 elections if the perceived threat to our national security were removed. It was absurd and a moot argument without Osama in custody in any case."

"But you seized the opportunity to make it work to your advantage," said Sherm.

The Old Man shifted in his chair and appeared to realize that his coffee cup was empty. He stood up, refilled the cup and set it back on the table. "It was such a bizarre notion. I should have anticipated that it might run out of control."

He settled back into his chair and took a sip of coffee while collecting his thoughts. "Colonel Beemer had worked with a South African mercenary who he assured me had the necessary skills to pull off a scheme of this magnitude. When I checked into his background it was sketchy at best, meaning that he had engaged in illegal activities for other countries in the past. But for our purposes, he seemed perfect for the role of a rogue mercenary."

"This would be who, Director?"

"A man calling himself Karl Schwartz. He had lots of aliases, of course."

"And exactly what did he do?" I asked.

"Principally two things. He produced the visual evidence of Osama's capture. Instead of a live satellite feed, they were actually watching a B-movie that was taped somewhere in the mountains of Mexico. He also convinced Conklin that he had a personal relationship with the president of Zimbabwe, and for a monthly fee, they could keep bin Laden at an isolated ranch with self-contained utilities as well as its own airstrip."

"It was all too good to be true," Sherm said.

"And yet Conklin fell for it hook, line and sinker. He even brought Schwartz onto his staff as an advisor. After the 'capture' had played out, he personally took the news to his contacts in the White House, only to discover that they wanted it kept under wraps. He was assured that it had been discussed and approved by the Security Council, which was a considerable stretch of the facts. But in the end he did exactly what his handlers told him to do."

"How did you fake the 'intelligence' from bin Laden?" I asked.

"Most of it came from various tidbits picked up from regular ops. There were a few embellishments to make it more palatable, but I made sure that they were removed before we released it outside of the Agency."

"Just like the funding. The intelligence went from one pocket to the other," Sherm said. "What would you have done if the politicos suddenly decided to produce bin Laden?"

"Beemer cleverly convinced Conklin that bin Laden's health was marginal. He could have taken a turn for the worse at any time. Consequently there were periods when no intelligence was elicited while Osama was ostensibly recuperating. He never appeared on camera during any of the secret videoconferences, so it was a simple matter to maintain the fiction."

"Then what went wrong?" Sherm asked.

"Conklin panicked when his political mentors began to leave their posts in the Executive Branch. Within a few weeks he felt as though he would have had no one left to talk to in the White House or the Pentagon. He couldn't come to me about something he'd been doing behind my back, so he began to make decisions on his own."

"When did he decide to kill Jeremy Foster?" Sherm asked.

The Old Man was actually troubled by the question of Conklin contemplating Jeremy's murder. "I cannot believe for a minute that he actually intended to kill Foster. No, despite what you may believe about the apparent consequences, the supreme ego of someone like Conklin would have relished the opportunity to debate the superiority of his theories in a court of law."

"Yet he decided to kill bin Laden," Sherm said with his prosecutor's voice.

"No, that was my decision. I viewed the Supreme Court ruling as a fortuitous pretext to terminate the charade. It had gone on long enough and had to end at some point. Colonel Beemer floated the suggestion in private so that Conklin could appear to be decisive in a larger meeting."

"Out of curiosity," I said, "what would have happened if the real Osama bin Laden showed up while this was going on?"

"That was highly unlikely. To the best of my knowledge bin Laden was crushed to death during an earthquake on March 27, 2003. He was reputed to be making his way to Pakistan for treatment of a chronic intestinal disorder when a cave collapsed on him and his bodyguards."

"Why didn't you tell anybody?" I stammered.

"In the first place, it was unconfirmed. We had no witnesses, only seismic data, a few collapsed caves in the target area and an approximate knowledge of his whereabouts just prior to the earthquake. There were already a number of unconfirmed reports of his death after the last official sighting in 2001. He was supposed to have died from liver disease, typhoid fever, massive organ failure or an assassin's bullet. Since no one ever produced a body, there was no conclusive evidence that he had died."

"Besides," I said sarcastically, "he was more valuable as a living threat."

"Perhaps, but we might have been even worse off with bin Laden the martyr. There was no sense rushing things to an unknown conclusion, was there?"

"Let's get back to who killed Jeremy," Sherm continued.

"My belief is that Karl Schwartz acted on his own. For whatever reason, he took it upon himself to remove Jeremy as a threat."

"But you told us that Karl knew it was all a hoax from the beginning," Sherm protested. "He probably thought that Conklin was a joke. What possible motive would he have had for killing Jeremy?"

"He had a million reasons, as they say. Schwartz was an opportunist who devised a scheme to extract large sums from the Agency. He told Conklin that the president of Zimbabwe had pictures of bin Laden and was demanding $1 million a month to remain quiet. Without Conklin and the bin Laden fiction, his scam was an empty threat. Jeremy would have completely neutralized his window of opportunity."

"You're telling us that Karl Schwartz, or whatever his name was, killed Jeremy so that Conklin would be compelled to pay him $1 million per month with CIA funds?"

"The law of unintended consequences, I fear. I'm ashamed to say that this whole affair was originally contrived in order to avoid needless entanglements and potentially save lives. Instead, it has cost us all dearly."

"With all due respect, Director," Sherm said pointedly, "was it worth Jeremy's life so that you didn't have to confront the powers behind the throne? My God, man. You let them walk all over you, letting key people be forced out of their jobs so that political hacks could play spy games in the CIA? Instead of dreaming up deceptions, how much gumption would it have taken for you to tell the President and his bosses to go straight to hell!"

"You aren't saying anything that I haven't said to myself."

"Where is Karl Schwartz now?" Sherm asked.

"As I said before, he came to us with a sketchy past. When Conklin told him about the attempted extortion, Colonel Beemer came to see me about the problem. I told him to get in touch with some of Karl's former colleagues and let them know where to find him. Two days later he was found floating face down off the coast of South Africa."

"You're telling me you had him killed," Sherm asserted.

"Yes, in effect, I had him killed. Beemer was just following orders. Karl was unstable and it was a mistake to have used him in the first place. I'd give anything if he hadn't killed Jeremy. It made me physically ill when I heard what he'd done."

"Is that why you made us chase down all this evidence before deciding to tell us the truth?" Sherm responded. "When were you planning to come forward on your own?"

"A fair question, Mr. Marshall. The truth is that I might have continued avoiding you if my doctor had given me better news last night. You see, I have an inoperable brain tumor. Nobody knows I've been coming here for treatment at Sloan Kettering these past two years. There are so many security conferences scheduled here that it's no problem to find a reason to be in Manhattan almost any month of the year."

"What is your prognosis?" Sherm asked in a softer tone.

"I won't be needing a seat at the inauguration. I can't see out of my left eye and my right eye is beginning to fail as well. Before long the doctors tell me that the headache medicine I have been taking will be ineffective and I won't be able to stand unaided."

"That's definitely not a good outlook," I said with real feeling.

"I'm still better off than Jeremy, though. I don't mean to play on your sympathies, but it's important for you to understand that my reserves are limited at best."

"We appreciate your candor, Director," Sherm said, "but you've left us with a hell of a mess to clean up."

"Then let us spend our remaining time together figuring out where we should all go from here. Justice has to be served, and there is still the matter of what to do with Colonel Beemer, Dr. Conklin and his staff. It appears that my crimes will be judged by a higher court."

"You've been very open with us, but this would be a good time to tell us if there is anything else we should know. So far, this entire investigation has been handled out of my office, but I won't hesitate to bring in the full weight of the Justice Department if I find that you're holding out on me."

"Please believe that I deeply appreciate not having to deal with the FBI at this point, Mr. Marshall. To my knowledge, the only other person involved in this affair is the technician who made it appear that Osama had been captured during a live satellite feed."

"Mosconi," I said. "Al Mosconi in Signal Ops."

"Very good, Harry. I can see we made a mistake letting you take early retirement."

"Not just me, Director. A lot of people were forced out by the downsizing. You may not have known it, but they were the cream of your human intelligence corps. They were the ones Brenda and I went to see after Jeremy was killed. Each one of them contributed a piece to this jigsaw puzzle. We worked it out as a team, just like we always did in the old days."

"A point well taken Officer Wilson. My congratulations to the team for a job well done. As I was saying, Mr. Mosconi did not break any laws. The same can be said for the rest of those involved in the escapades we've been discussing: auditors, administrators, secretaries, field operatives -- they were all simply doing their jobs."

"That was a wonderful speech, Director, but I was really thinking of people outside the Agency and much higher up the ladder. For example, how much did the President know about what was going on? And what about these so-called bosses you referred to?"

The Director smiled and shook his head slowly. "Mr. Marshal, I don't need to explain to you how things are done in Washington, do I? The layers of bureaucracy are there for a purpose. Our elected leaders establish policy as if they were painting broad strokes on a large canvas. Then operational people like me are responsible for filling in the details, interpreting their meaning from nuances of speech and gesture."

"I believe the term is 'plausible deniability'," Sherm said. "The President has no idea how you interpreted his direction to 'handle the problem'. Am I correct?"

"Precisely. Those members of his political staff who had more specific knowledge or involvement have long since departed. The few who may be subsequently indicted and convicted will never serve one day of their prison sentences."

"Now it is you who is misinterpreting the facts. Being out of office is not a free pass on a Federal felony charge. I would like to know who gave Conklin his marching orders so that we can determine their complicity in his crimes."

"Perhaps you and I could discuss this matter with the Attorney General in a smaller meeting, if you don't mind."

"As you wish, Director," Sherm replied. "However, he may not be as patient as I have been about bringing in the FBI. Which brings us back to Phillip Beemer, Mitchell Conklin and Lester Gerber. We've already offered immunity to Miss Johansen in return for her testimony."

"And me. Don't forget that I am as much to blame as Colonel Beemer. He was following my instructions to keep Dr. Conklin's misadventures under control."

"You're telling me that I have as much chance of convicting Beemer as I do of convicting you," Sherm said, "and you'll probably die of a brain tumor before it ever comes to trial."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Other than allegedly making a phone call that led to Mr. Schwartz's untimely demise, I can think of no laws that Colonel Beemer may have violated. He was certainly not involved in Jeremy's death."

"Forgive me for saying so, but we only have your word for that," Sherm said. "And I inferred from your earlier statements that he had knowledge of the crime after the fact. I would still like to talk to Mr. Beemer at his earliest convenience. Either you produce him for questioning or I will charge him with obstruction and obtain a warrant for his arrest."

"No need for threats, Mr. Marshall. Colonel Beemer will present himself at your office this very afternoon."

"And then there were two Little Indians," I said. "You expect us to believe that this elaborate charade was one big parlor game inside the CIA that didn't break any laws?"

"Not exactly, Harry. There are checks and balances in the system to deal with abuses by Agency personnel, and I'm confident that there will be appropriate measures taken if any boundaries were crossed during authorized or unauthorized operations."

"You're saying that the Inspector General will deal with the mistreatment of detainees and other incidents that could potentially wind up at The Hague," said Sherm. "But does that also mean that you're willing to cooperate in the prosecution of Conklin and Gerber?"

"That depends on several factors. What are the specific charges against Dr. Conklin?"

"Accessory to murder, obstruction of justice, multiple counts of conspiracy, assault, illegal wiretapping, theft of government property and unlawful surveillance, to name a few," said Sherm. "I'm willing to entertain lesser charges as long as he does some serious jail time."

"Dr. Conklin will demand his day in court. He may even wish to serve as his own counsel, anything to give him a platform from which to rationalize his actions. Do you realize what a media circus this could become? The Agency will be a laughing stock."

"Director, you invented this damn mess and nobody here is laughing," Sherm said.

"Then perhaps we should consult the Attorney General at this point. I believe that he may be waiting for our call."

"What just happened in there?" said Brenda after we were excused from the boardroom. Sherm had given us one of those looks that said it was time to leave him alone with the Old Man.

"The Director just pushed all his chips into the pot. He played all his cards and still hadn't won the hand. So he upped the ante, hoping that by pulling rank he can get someone to bail him out of this mess. He's probably worried that Conklin will try to save his own hide by spilling his guts on the witness stand."

"So let him," she said. "He'll look like an even bigger fool."

"I can understand his dilemma. Can you imagine how this will play in the media? How about 'CIA hoaxes own staff in political battle with the White House!', or 'Osama capture faked to foil party meddlers!', or maybe 'Congress and White House kept at bay by CIA executives!'."

"I see what you mean. I hadn't thought about the publicity angle," she conceded. "But can't this country stand a little embarrassment in order to make things right? Why are we so intent on protecting our sacred institutions when we should be hosing them down with disinfectant?

"This one will be decided way above our pay grade, My Dear."

"And what about justice for Jeremy?" she asked. "Do we just walk away quietly because the goon who ran him off the road was killed too? What about the others who tried to cover it up?"

"I'm not disagreeing with you, but it's out of our hands now."

"Why be so concerned about protecting a tarnished image?" she continued. "Let's be honest for once, take our medicine, clean up the mess and vow to do better in the future. People have short attention spans anyway. A plane that crashes today won't be news for more than a few days. One way or another, the scandal will all be over in two weeks if we just get it over with. It's all the cover-ups that prolong these things."

When I stopped agreeing with her she finally began to wind down, lowering her volume until it became little more than a whisper. She was disgusted with me, Sherm and herself for being so naïve about the ruthlessness of power-politics at the national level.

We fretted and stewed for another forty minutes before the door to the boardroom opened. The Director came out unsmiling, thanked us for our efforts and left to attend the security conference that had started without him. Through the open door we could see Sherm standing alone at the table with a look of disgust on his face. We waited a moment until he beckoned to us to return, eager to find out what had happened in out absence.

He indicated where he wanted us to sit down and then pulled up a chair between us. "I briefed the AG yesterday afternoon and thought that he was prepared to follow the evidence. Apparently the Director got to him after I did and reframed the discussion. He was ready and waiting for our call. It was pretty much a forgone conclusion."

"Don't you think that the Old Man just might have picked up some guerilla tactics after forty years in the jungle?" I said.

"He's a real piece of work," replied Sherm respectfully. "He started with his hat-in-hand confession and deftly turned the conversation into a referendum on the reputation of the Agency. The real issue came down to how all this was going to play out in the media."

"Does that mean that we did all this work for nothing?" Brenda asked.

"No, far from it," he replied. "We just have to find a way for Justice to be served without denigrating any American institutions."

"We were just talking about some of the possible headlines that might come out of Conklin's trial," I offered.

"Yeah, politicians and cockroaches seem to do their best work in the dark," he said ruefully. "But I don't expect that there will be any trials."

"What about Jeremy's murder case?" Brenda asked.

"The AG wants me to negotiate a deal with Conklin and Gerber. They'll plead to lesser charges, elocute in a closed courtroom and their testimony will be sufficiently narrowed to avoiding attracting too much media attention. They will receive little if any jail time, but they'll both have felony convictions on their records. That plus ten years of probation ought to keep them out of government service for life."

"And what about Phillip Beemer?" I asked.

"That remains to be seen. The AG sided with me that he should at least be permanently barred from doing business with the government. That means revoking his license, dissolving the front company and annotating his permanent file to warn off any agency who might consider hiring or contracting with him in the future."

"You can really do that?" Brenda said.

Sherm smiled, but didn't answer.

"What about the Director? I said. "He said himself that he was to blame for much of what happened. Does he just get to walk away?"

"He'll be submitting his resignation to the President this week. He's concerned about his successor, but he doesn't have much leverage left for a negotiation. It's something he should have thought about much earlier."

"What about the legitimate CIA executives who were forced out? Without Jeremy and Conklin, there should be openings for at least two or three to return."

"You must have been reading his mind, Brenda" said Sherm. "The Director has already been in contact with those who left and is hoping to get them all to come back in some capacity."

"I hope he has the courage to tell them the truth this time," she said. "So much of what happened resulted from his cowardly evasion."

"He won't be around long enough," I said. "Besides, they're all smart enough to realize what happened to them in the first place. I'd be amazed if they all returned. I was pretty unhappy when that had happened to me."

"We can only hope that the best ones will swallow their pride and work to restore the Agency," she said. "Jeremy had a sincere and abiding faith in the CIA because he was accustomed to dealing with people of integrity. They didn't always get everything right the first time, but they kept on trying to do the honorable thing. So he stood up for them and tried to show the world their best side."

"I guess his investments were an extension of that philosophy," I said. "He put his money where his heart had been for some time."

"Well, I'm just sorry that it didn't turn out as you expected," said Sherm. "You two did one hell of a job."

"Don't apologize, Sherm," Brenda said. "You put your heart into it as well. We did the best we could. We knew we weren't going to get Jeremy back. Maybe the best we can hope for is that some of the damage done to the Agency will be repaired over time."

"I'm reminded of something that a good friend of mine said to me recently," I said. "He told me not to eat the menu. He also said it wasn't over until it was over."

Sherm laughed and Brenda gave me the strangest look. "You're absolutely right, Harry," he said. "We need to keep pushing until our last alternative has been exhausted. The Director shredded our game plan, so let's get back to work and make a new plan."

"I understand that they have some exercise equipment upstairs," I quipped. "Brenda and I could grab a bite while you work out the details on the heavy bag."

Sherm took a rain check on my offer and we left the Downtown Athletic Club together and headed for Foley Square, the center of the State and Federal judiciary in New York City. It had been cool earlier, but the heat was beginning to build up as the sun burned through the morning overcast. Unless it was raining hard, Sherm still preferred to walk the six blocks to his office, rubbing shoulders with the citizens of Manhattan.

"Politicians run the risk of losing touch with reality and become too insulated from the people we serve. We live in the suburbs, work in air-conditioned high-rises and ride around in stretch limos. For us, life has been made a lot easier while it's still hard for the people at street level. It's easy to forget what it's like to make a living down here if you don't see it, smell it and feel it for yourself."

He was striding along at his customary pace while I was struggling to keep up, breathe and converse at the same time. "Not much fresh air, is there."

"That's why New Yorkers enjoy blustery rainstorms that wash away the pollution and keep the exhaust fumes down," he said. "Jogging is much healthier if you wait until later in the evening."

"Yeah, I can picture me hanging out on the streets alone after dark," I replied.

"Things are beginning to turn around, Harry. If we continue chipping away at the roots of poverty and crime then everybody will be able to enjoy the streets after dark."

"Sounds like the American dream," said Brenda, effortlessly keeping pace. "People shouldn't have to live in fear in their own homes and neighborhoods."

"It's my dream," Sherm said. "It's what I've been fighting for my whole life. I'm sure Jeremy felt the same way about his work with the CIA."

"He cared about individual opportunity, not policing the world," she said.

"Claimed we treated information too much like a weapon," I added.

"Makes you wonder about why they call it 'intelligence'," Sherm quipped.

I managed to stay up with them all the way to St. Andrews Plaza, gateway to the pedestrian malls and offices around Foley Square. The U.S. Attorney's Office spreads across three separate buildings, including six floors near the mid-point of the St. Andrews tower. Sherm had a formal public office with secretarial staff and reception area on the fourteenth floor, but he took us directly to a sizeable meeting room on sixteen. The immense conference table was covered with stacks of documents of every size and description. There were enlarged exhibits and photographs lining the wall, flanking a whiteboard covered with words and phrases in at least three different colors of dry-erase marker laying out the prosecution strategy for upcoming cases.

"Welcome to my working office," he said. "This is how we prepare for trial."

"So what you showed the Director was just the tip of the iceberg," I said, squinting at the notes scrawled in blue on the whiteboard.

"Yep. I learned a long time ago it was better to be over-prepared," he explained. "You never know what you're going to encounter once you enter the courtroom."

"Did anything we heard this morning surprise you?" Brenda asked.

"Yes and no," he said. "I had inferred from the financial data that Vigilance didn't really exist, meaning that Beemer and his associated operations were phonies. You proved that the Director knew about the funding exceptions, so putting two and two together, I figured out that he must have been behind the whole charade. What I didn't know was why he would go to such lengths to con one of his own staff members."

"It seems like such a terrible waste of time and resources," Brenda said. "If Conklin was such a loose cannon, why not turn him around so he'd quit blowing holes in the deck?"

"Because, the cannon was being aimed from somewhere inside the White House," I said. "We may not be able to pin anything on his controller, but it really would be nice to know who was actually calling the plays."

"Unless there is corroborating evidence, I'd be skeptical of any names tossed out at this point," Sherm added. "Conklin has nothing to gain by turning in his rabbi. He probably can't prove that anyone told him to break the law in any case."

"What's he got to lose by telling us who's behind all this?" said Brenda.

"Plenty," said Sherm. "He's a relatively young man with a solid résumé. Even with a felony conviction, he'll be better off with their help then he would by making powerful enemies. Politicians have long memories. The jailhouse code of silence is rational, after all."

"So is there anything you could do to tip the scales?" I asked.

"You mean, can I make it more advantageous for him to name names?" Sherm asked. "His job is history and with little or no jail time, I can't see that reducing his probation will mean anything to him. Still, it's a good question. Let me think about it and I'll let you know."

"If you can't charge him with anything, what good does it do to know who was actually calling the shots?" Brenda asked. "I'd say lock Conklin up and throw away the key. Don't make it any easier on him. He should get the maximum sentence with no possibility of parole."

"You're some tough lady," I said. "Remind me to stay on your good side."

"I want to know the names of everyone who was involved in this debacle," Sherm said. "Sooner or later they will surface in another case and I'll be there waiting for them."

"You remember what the Director said?" I said. "'Everyone has a boss, including the President.' We can't just walk away without finding out who's ultimately pulling the strings and confront them, whether we can prove anything or not. I want them to know that we know too."

"That's a commendable sentiment," said Sherm. "My only advice is to wait until the heat of passion passes. An old Russian proverb says that 'Revenge is a dish that is best served cold.'"

"I hope that this is more than some personal desire on my part. People in public office have to be held accountable for their actions, don't they?" I asked.

"Let me rephrase my comments, Harry. There is a time and a place for confrontation. It may feel good to stand on a soapbox and shout your accusations in the public square, but these guys have tough hides that your words alone won't be able to penetrate. Look at all the abuse they heap on one another at election time. After all the mud-slinging is over and the votes are counted, they all act like nothing ever happened. It's all part of the game to them."

"So are you suggesting that we sit around and wait for them to screw up again?" I asked.

"Political power is an addictive substance. Sooner or later these guys will need another fix. Bide your time and catch them unaware when they are blinded by the glare of public spotlights. Then you put them on the stand, force them to respond with more than just a sound bite, and the media will help you bury them for all time."

Over the next four hours Brenda and I completed a careful review of all the evidence, adding our comments and compiling a list of suggestions and questions for Sherm's team to sort out. Before leaving to oversee other cases, he promised that he would continue as if he were preparing for trial until the final documents were signed, sealed and delivered. Despite all the assurances that had been given by the CIA Director and acknowledged by the Attorney General, Conklin could still balk at pleading guilty to the lesser charges.

We went back to our hotel, collected our bags, checked out of the room and took the courtesy van to the airport. Given the possibility of traffic delays, it was better to be there early and take our chances on finding something to eat than the other way around, if you catch my meaning. Brenda spotted a food service counter on the departure level where the sandwiches looked pretty appetizing. They were made with fresh-baked onion bagels piled high with thin-sliced pastrami, anointed with spicy brown mustard and garnished with crisp dill pickles and a bag of Lay's potato chips. As luck would have it, we were also able to get an earlier flight home. After our long walk in the city and my tummy delightfully filled, I drifted off soon after boarding and was enjoying a wonderful dream when the shuttle touched down in D.C.

Phillip Beemer showed up at the U. S. Attorney's office as promised while Brenda and I were winging our way home. He gave Sherm a more detailed version of the story the Director had outlined about Vigilance and the Osama bin Laden scam. Apparently relaxed and willing to cooperate fully, he explained how the counterfeit paramilitary company was able to insinuate itself into Conklin's confidence. Over time, Vigilance Associates provided excellent low-cost services for the Agency neophyte, setting him up for the faked capture, imprisonment, interrogation and elimination of the world's most wanted terrorist. Beemer had neither pity nor contempt for Conklin, the man he had duped by pandering to his questionable theories.

Then the going got tougher for the former colonel. He had claimed to have kept scrupulous records of expenses for every contract, but did not bring any exhibits with him to the meeting. So when Sherm bore in on him with questions about specific charges that had been made with his American Express Gold Card, Beemer could not explain his actions without referring to his own data. Finally he agreed to return within the week, better prepared to clear up any questions that the U.S. Attorney might wish to pose.

"Do you think he has anything to hide?" I asked when Sherm called Thursday night.

"Let me answer you this way. My forensic accountants tell me that he may have been padding his expenses to upwards of $5 million or so."

"And we thought that Karl Schwartz was greedy," I said. "Did Beemer have anything to say about the late Mr. Schwartz?"

"He claimed to have no recollection of the alleged call to former colleagues regarding the location of Mr. Schwartz. He had no idea where Karl was hiding and was as surprised as anyone when he heard about his demise."

"So, just when we thought that they were joined at the hip," I quipped, "Beemer and the Old Man can't get their stories to match."

"Beemer also claimed that the Director was the one who introduced him to Karl in the first place," Sherm replied. "He told me he had never worked with Karl before and didn't know of any other aliases or previous associates. Before this is all over we'll find a way to put them both in the same room and sort all of this out. To answer your original question, my sense is that both of them have more than a little something to hide."

"So Karl may have been a deep-cover spook after all?" I speculated.

Friday came and passed by uneventfully, allowing me to catch up on laundry, mail, and guy talk in the RV Park. Men are more comfortable talking to one another while standing around a car with an open hood or a lawn mower partially disassembled in the driveway. It gives us a chance to gossip while either asking semi-informed questions or making suggestions without fear of condemnation. In this case it was a bicycle with a broken chain, but the principle was the same. Wouldn't you know that Elvira had been chasing the other single male residents, bringing them their mail and tempting them with homemade pies? I was so relieved to know that she wasn't pining away for me alone. She had been a very talkative person, so much so that the other volunteers found something else to do whenever she camped out in the park's office. But we all conceded that was just the type of person she was, and we still missed her, warts and all.

Closing up my fifth wheel Saturday morning, I tossed some clean clothes in the truck and set off for a cozy weekend at Brenda's. Nicky had been minding the store while we were gone and assured me that Lester and Conklin had been behaving themselves. Either they were satisfied with the contents of the ersatz safe-deposit box package or they were wary of the additional patrols promised by the local police. Either way was fine with me.

Sherm called Saturday afternoon to let us know that everything was set up for the confrontation with Mitchell Conklin and Lester Gerber. The plan was for CIA Security Officers to detain them when they showed up for work on Monday and escort them to a guarded conference room. After letting them stew for an hour or so, the Director and CIA General Counsel would conduct the interviews while Sherm was conferenced in by phone from Manhattan.

"I thought the Director was supposed to resign," Brenda said after I had turned the speakerphone on.

"He tendered his written resignation and the President asked him to stay on until a suitable replacement could be named," said Sherm.

"Is that code for 'clean up your own mess first'?" I asked.

"Harry, you're catching on. You may have a future as a politician after all. If everything goes according to plan, Conklin and Gerber will see the wisdom of taking our deal and surrender themselves to the Attorney General's office by noon on Tuesday."

"Why are you letting them turn themselves in? Why not just hang on to them while you have them in custody?" Brenda asked.

"Technically, they won't be in custody," Sherm replied. "CIA Security Officers don't have police powers as such. In fact, most of them are rent-a-cops without the necessary training and experience in any case. Their mission is to protect the property and people who are authorized to be on the premises. Conklin and Gerber can walk right out the front door any time they want, but we don't think that's very likely."

"Why would they want to stay?" I asked.

"They'll know right away that they can leave at the end of the meeting. But if they walk out before the meeting is over, they won't know what evidence is stacked against them. We're also counting on the intimidating effect of the large men with badges who will be standing just outside the door."

"I don't understand," Brenda said. "The AG could have the FBI arrest these two and be done with them, right? Why dance around without making an official arrest?"

"We're doing all this to avoid adverse publicity," Sherm reminded her. "If the FBI were to make the arrests, Conklin and Gerber would have to be charged and arraigned according to due process. Setting aside the lack of grand jury indictments, the arrests would create too many opportunities for disclosure of certain facts that we've agreed should remain hidden."

"Is there no end to this evasion?" Brenda blurted. "I'm sorry, Sherm. I know I'm preaching to the choir."

"That's okay, Brenda. Some of this makes me gag too. At any rate, General Counsel will be there to protect their civil rights, including their right to counsel. Part of the deal is that they will have 24 hours to turn themselves in to the AG's office. If they decline the offer or fail to show up by the deadline, they will be charged with all offenses and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Otherwise they'll enter guilty pleas to reduced charges, elocute before a judge, be sentenced and possibly released to begin their probationary periods. It could all be wrapped up by the end of the week."

"The hard part may be explaining all the rush to the media," I suggested.

"Not so hard, Harry," Sherm replied. "It's all a matter of national security."

"What about the question I asked you on Thursday?" I asked.

"You mean about sweetening the deal to get Conklin to name names?"

"Yeah. I want the rabbit to tell us who else was hiding in the hole," I said.

"That's an appropriate image," Sherm said. "I think we can get what you want by giving his arm an extra twist. We'll talk to them together, but Lester will be excused before I take Conklin through Alicia's testimony regarding the cover up of Jeremy's murder."

"That should wake him up," I said.

"We'll ask him to name names in exchange for the same deal as Lester received. It's known as 'giving him the sleeves out of the vest'. He won't know whether he'd draw more severe punishment or not. He'll just assume that he can negotiate for a better deal. As they say, hope springs eternal."

"You're really devious, you know that, Sherm?" I said with admiration.

"I'll take that as a compliment, Harry. Do you have anything else for me?"

"Yeah, just between us," I said, switching off the speakerphone mode and stepping away from Brenda, "is Jeremy's official cause of death going to change as a result of all this legal mumbo-jumbo? You know what I'm saying?"

"Ethically, I couldn't be a party to falsifying a death certificate in order to collect more life insurance. However, I can tell you that Justice does not intend to take any action that might bring the original cause of death into question. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that the finding of the coroner's jury will remain as originally issued. All this is hypothetical, you understand."

"We never had this conversation," I agreed.

"You could do well as a politician. I'll call you after we see how things go on Monday. Give my best wishes to Brenda. Have a wonderful weekend."

Monday dragged by interminably as we awaited word from Sherm about the confrontation that morning at Langley. I found myself pacing the room, going for coffee, using the bathroom, looking out the window, unable to sit still for longer than a few minutes at a time. When Brenda couldn't stand my fidgeting any longer she found an excuse to go grocery shopping. She asked if I wanted to go along, but I decided to take no chances on missing the call, so I stayed put. Just as she was returning with armloads of goodies my cell phone rang.

"Harry, it's Sherm. I think we're OK. It went about as well as you could have expected."

"Did they deny their guilt?" I said, switching on the speakerphone mode.

"At first. Apparently Conklin threw a purple fit about being detained and having to cool his heels for an hour without explanation. After the Director showed up, he adopted a more reasonable tone while still protesting his detention. Gerber was wise enough to say nothing."

"Were you on line yet?" I asked.

"They got me on the phone after the General Counsel explained their rights. Once they understood that we were serious, they both shut up and began to listen. The Director showed them evidence page by page while I talked them though the exhibits like I did at the Athletic Club."

"I'll bet they loved that," I relished.

"Obviously I couldn't see anything, but I imagine that they were surprised to see the extent of the evidence. Once I finished presenting, no one said a word for at least two full minutes. I timed them on my wall clock."

"Letting them stew in their own juice for a while," I grinned.

"Then the Director gave them each a copy of the charge agreement while I explained the terms to both of them. Conklin asked lots of questions, like he couldn't believe that he might get away without going to prison. Remember, we hadn't talked about Jeremy's murder yet."

"What about Gerber?" Brenda asked.

"He hadn't said a word, so I had to ask him if he understood everything I'd presented."

"Yes, sir," Gerber said. "No questions. Do I sign now?"

"Good boy," I said. "He understands the program, that one does."

"So he was reminded about the twenty-four hour deadline, excused from the meeting and escorted out of the building while we continued talking to Conklin. He reacted strongly when I brought up Jeremy's murder, vociferously denying that he was involved in any way and asserting that he had no knowledge of the crime."

"I wish I could have seen that act," I said sincerely.

"Then I asked the General Counsel to explain what 'accessory after the fact' meant. He still claimed that he had no knowledge until I began quoting from Alicia's sworn statement. It never occurred to him that she might testify against him."

"Did he think she was still hospitalized?" Brenda asked.

"I have no idea. All I know is that it really shook him. Alicia swore that Conklin had told her that Karl Schwartz had rigged Jeremy's car so it would look like an accident, and it was Alicia's job to get Brenda to back off until the coroner had ruled his death as accidental."

"Pretty damning testimony," I said. "What did he say to that?"

"Nothing. He didn't say a single word."

"That was probably a first," I said.

"Then I walked him through the evidence of vehicle tampering, the fingerprints and the paint transfers while the Director showed him the exhibits. It all confirmed that Karl had caused the car to roll over and kill Jeremy."

"Did you have to get into the motive at all?" I asked.

"Thankfully no. We avoided any discussion of TOMBOY and Vigilance Associates. I figured it was up to the Director to tell Conklin if and when he thought it was appropriate."

"So then you were ready for the punch line," I said gleefully.

"Almost ready. First, I explained the sentencing guidelines for the murder of a Federal employee. In some cases, the death penalty attaches. For the remainder, there is a minimum of twenty-five years to life imprisonment."

"I'll bet he was ready to wet himself," I chuckled.

"Then I explained to him that there was no difference under the law between a person who committed the actual crime and another person who facilitated it, either before, during or after the fact. In legal terms, he was as guilty as if he had killed Jeremy himself."

"Definitely peed his pants," I said.

"No, it was really strange. He figured out that I was taking him somewhere during all the legal foreplay, so he just said, 'What is it that you want from me?'"

"Smart guy. Probably not a bad poker player," I admitted.

"I said to him, 'Give me the name or names of the person or persons who were directing your actions.' I told him we knew that he had contacts in the White House and wanted him to tell us who was directing his actions."

"So, what happened? The suspense is killing me here, Sherm."

"Nobody said a word. Then Conklin simply sighed and said, 'OK'."

I jumped up out my chair. "That's it? OK? What does that mean?"

"He said that he wanted to think carefully about his response and would tell us what we wanted to know when he turned himself in within twenty-four hours."

"Jesus, Sherm, talk about dragging things out!"

"I know it sounds strange, Harry, but it's all we could do. He didn't even ask what the deal would be if he didn't tell us. He just wanted to know when he could leave."

"So then what happened?"

"The Director gave him a copy of the charge agreement and an amendment extending his immunity on the condition that he supplies names of co-conspirators. Then he was reminded about the twenty-four-hour deadline and escorted out of the building."

"What did he say?" Brenda asked expectantly.

"Who, Sherm?" I asked.

"No, I got the gist of what he was saying. What did Conklin say?"

"He said he would give them names in twenty-four hours."

"What sense does that make? Why is he stalling?"

"How should I know?" I said. "Maybe he wants to talk it over with his rabbi, hold out for a better deal. You know, like the story of the singing horse."

"What singing horse?" she asked. "What are you talking about?"

"It's like a parable. See, these two guys are brought before the king and he asks them if they have any last requests before being sentenced to death. The first guy says, 'Give us your best horse and we will teach him how to sing in one year. Then you will be even more famous throughout the land, the only king with a singing horse."

"This is another one of your dumb stories, Harry."

"No, no hear me out," I said. "It makes a great point."

"Proceed, Aesop."

"So the king gives them the horse and one year to teach it to sing," I continued. "On the way out, the second guy says 'We don't know anything about horses and neither one of us can sing.' The first guy says, 'Don't worry, at least we have another year'."

"That's it? They get another year?" she asked.

"No wait. Then the first guy says, 'There are only four things that can happen: the horse could die, the king could die, we could die or we could actually teach the stupid nag to sing.'"

"So what's the point?" she said.

"The point, My Dear, is that Conklin now has another twenty-four hours in which to figure out some other alternative."

"Then why don't you just say something like 'hope springs eternal'?"

"Women," I said, quietly. There was no sense digging myself in any deeper.

My penance was to wash and wax her car. She didn't ask me to. I just looked around for something constructive to do outside and that seemed to fill the bill. Once I got started it didn't take all that long. I could put my thoughts in neutral and just concentrate on the task at hand. When I got ready to buff the wax off she showed up next to me with a soft cloth.

"Is it all right to work next to you or should I go around to the other side?" she said meekly.

"How about following me down this side?" I offered. "I'll put a light coat on and you wipe it off as soon as it hazes over."

"It's a deal. I shouldn't have given you such a hard time earlier," she confessed. "I just want it to be over. I hate that I've become so vindictive. I didn't used to be like that, did I?"

"No, that's not like you," I said, putting my grubby arms around her. "I feel exactly the same way. Somebody should be made to pay for taking Jeremy's life. Instead of that, we're dancing around trying not to make waves or, God forbid, headlines."

"I'm so glad to have you around, you know that?" she smiled.

"Don't think you can talk yourself out of buffing this car, you hear?"

"Aye, aye, captain," she said, snapping off a mock salute.

The car did look a lot better when we finished, I have to admit. Maybe that was the point. We took on something that needed to be done, worked on it as a team, finished it off and felt good about our efforts. So why didn't we feel better about what we'd tried to do for Jeremy?

Sherm called just after two p.m. on Tuesday. "Harry, are you sitting down? You're not going to believe this."

"Don't tell me," I said prophetically. "Conklin skipped town."

"Not a big surprise, eh. I should have known when he stopped negotiating the charges."

"It wasn't your fault," I said. "I should have anticipated another sleight-of-hand trick by the Director. The only way to guarantee that the Agency wouldn't be embarrassed was to make Conklin disappear. He must have been planning it all along."

"I don't think that the Director had anything to do with this one," he said. "Conklin's being held by Brazilian authorities at the airport in Sao Paulo. He attempted to enter the country using a forged passport."

"Let me guess," I said laughing. "He was using the name W. C. Fields."

"Very good, Harry. We would have confiscated his official passport, but as far as anyone could determine, he never applied for one. Apparently Phillip Beemer gave him a matched set of 'Fields' documents including a passport and the American Express Gold Card."

"So he left the country with the only passport he had," I added. "Agency art work usually passes muster anywhere in the world. How did the Brazilian authorities trip him up?"

"You're gonna love this," he said. "Conklin was so groggy after the interrogation and the overnight flight from Miami that he used his real name on the immigration form he filled out on the plane. When the name on the form didn't match the passport he was carrying, they detained him and searched everything he brought with him with a fine-toothed comb."

"Don't tell me that they found multiple sets of IDs in his luggage," I guessed.

"Not only that, but he was also carrying Justice Department documents listing the charges pending against him. So they're holding him as a fugitive and threatening to file their own charges for identity fraud and illegal entry."

"Why don't they just deport him?" I asked. "The U.S. Marshal would be delighted to fly down there and bring him back under guard."

"It's a little complicated, even for me," Sherm admitted. "As I understand it, under the terms of the current extradition treaty, Brazil has the right to try Conklin for violations of their laws before sending him back to us. That assumes that the severity of the crimes is roughly the same in both countries. The only exception is if the charges pending in the U. S. are more egregious, such as treason, kidnapping or murder. Otherwise, Brazil is within their rights to hold him until their courts either exonerate or convict him and he finishes serving his sentence."

"How long could this take to play out?" I asked.

"That question is difficult to answer at this point. If we proceed with the greater charges, including accessory to murder, we might be successful in extraditing him within four to six months. But then he would be arrested and tried on multiple felony counts, exposing all the dirty laundry that the Director and AG would rather remain hidden. Under the current sentencing guidelines, Conklin could be looking at 25 years or more in a Federal prison."

"What happens if you go with the lesser charges?" I asked.

"Then he will most likely be tried and sentenced in Brazil, serve hard time in their penal system and then be returned to the U.S. to face whatever charges were still pending. The wild cards are that they have no uniform sentencing guidelines like we have here, so it's anybody's guess on what sentence he might receive. Plus, they have no provisions for early release. Whatever time he's sentenced to is what he'll actually serve. "

"Any chance that he could be rescued by someone in the White House?" I asked.

"As far as I know they aren't returning his calls. The U. S. Embassy in Sao Paulo is trying to sort it all out with Brazilian immigration as we speak. If a rescue were being contemplated, the Administration would be dealing more directly with the situation at much higher levels. Right now Conklin appears to be _persona non grata_."

"Well, how about them apples," I marveled. "What about his faithful bird dog Lester?"

"Mr. Gerber surrendered an hour before the deadline and is currently being processed. It looks like he turned out to be smarter than his boss after all."

"Yeah, the brightest guy in the class manages to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory," I said. "What made him decide to run when he could have walked away with no jail time?"

"I'm not sure that even he knows at this point," Sherm admitted. "He obviously didn't want to go to prison and he didn't want to expose whoever was giving him orders. We didn't offer him that option, so he created a logical third choice for himself."

"His plan may have seemed rational under the circumstances, but his execution left a lot to be desired," I said. "So much for a guy with great-sounding theories and no relevant experience. The guy who wanted to play spy master couldn't pass his first test in the field. That's why newbies spend at least a year in training before being sent out on a mission."

"It gets better and better, Harry. My accountants have concluded that both Beemer and Schwartz were padding the bills and filling their own wallets while the Osama scam was going on. Since Conklin had no experience with field operations, Schwartz explained away the overages with paramilitary gobbledygook on expense reports that Beemer had to approve."

"So Beemer was lying about his relationship with Karl?" I said.

"He was indeed. Mr. Beemer has now decided to cooperate with our investigation."

"How did you manage that?" I asked. "Last week he was trying to pin everything on the Old Man."

"When I read his original statement to the Director, he responded with an audio file of Beemer selling him on the idea of bringing Karl on board to run the scam."

"You just knew that he had a recording to cover himself, didn't you," I said.

"What else would you expect from the head of the CIA?"

"What did Beemer have to say?" I wondered.

"He and his attorney came to see me this morning, expecting to negotiate a deal. I told him that since he had already lied on his previous statement, he had no credibility with me. However, if he wanted to give me a new statement, I would reconsider the charges in light of the value of his revised testimony."

"So what did he do?" I asked.

"Right now he's giving his deposition to one of my senior attorneys. So far he's given us Karl Schwartz's real name, aliases and former associates, and names of the banks where they hid the extra money as well as a few recordings of their own."

"Has he said anything about Jeremy's murder?" I asked.

"That's one thing that Beemer and the Director actually agree on. Schwartz got greedy and figured out how to scam Conklin out of millions on his own. When Jeremy threatened to bring down the whole house of cards, Schwartz killed him."

"I'll bet Beemer claims that he wasn't involved," I ventured.

"Yes, but then he implicated himself as an accessory after the fact. When Schwartz informed him of what he'd done, Beemer told the Director instead of turning him in. That alone proves facilitation. The fact that he did the Director's bidding and told a hostile third party where to find Schwartz in order to eliminate him makes him an accessory to that murder as well."

"Sounds like he's facing some serious jail time," I said joyfully.

"To be sure. I'm giving the Director immunity for testifying against Beemer. He may not live to see the trial, but we've already videotaped his testimony."

"So, let's review the bidding," I said. "Beemer's going to prison for embezzlement and possibly accessory to two murders, Conklin's going to rot in Brazil for tactical stupidity, Schwartz is dead, the Director is on the way out, literally and figuratively, Gerber's all but convicted on felony charges and Alicia gets a second chance to get it right. What did I miss?"

"The fact that Al Mosconi is finally off the hook. He was caught in a no-win situation between Conklin and the Director. They both scared him so badly that the poor guy worked himself into an ulcer. He did such a good job running the faked Osama video that Conklin had him taping the bogus video-conferences from Zimbabwe as well. We now have all the tapes, but I'll be darned if I know what we're going to do with them."

"Harry, let's spend Thanksgiving weekend at the cabin," she said, slowly tracing figure eights on my bare chest. After the walls began to close in on us at Brenda's apartment, we decided to sleep over at my fifth wheel trailer, of all places.

"I thought you hated that place," I replied, inhaling the floral fragrance of her hair. Her head nestled on my shoulder while the rest of her bare body was snuggled up to mine.

"I did hate it. It's dilapidated, boring and it smells like fish."

"Are those the good points?" I kidded.

"No, Silly, that's the downside," she said with a playful slap to my tummy. "You didn't give me a chance to list the positives."

"A thousand apologies. Please enlighten me," I said.

"In the fall, the colors in the mountains are incredible, the nights are delightfully cool and we can bundle up together in front of the fireplace," she said, turning so that she could look me in the face with an impish grin.

"We can bundle up right here and save me all the trouble of chopping wood, tending the fire and schlepping the ashes," I said, embracing her tightly.

"We just did that, Harry," she scolded. "I'm talking about getting away for a long weekend, enjoying the changing seasons and putting some distance between us and this city."

"Aha, now we're getting somewhere," I said. "You're stringing me along so that I'll be captivated by your beauty and whisk you away from all this."

"Who do you think will be slaving away in the kitchen while you're collecting the dry branches that fell during the summer?" It'll be fun to do something different."

"Give me a minute and I'll invent something different," I said suggestively.

"You are insatiable, Harry. But I'm making a different point."

"You're telling me that you need to get away for a while. I'm just wondering why you want to want to go somewhere that will conjure up memories of Jeremy," I said more seriously.

"The last time we went to the cabin we were looking for something Jeremy left there for us to find," she said. "This time I want to go there to begin a whole new set of memories with you."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to Branson?" I suggested. "It shouldn't take me long to hook up the hitch, the colors will still be awesome and the shows are first rate."

"I'll take a rain check on Missouri," she said. "Your bed and shower are definitely nicer, but I'm reserving judgment on your kitchen. Besides, I'm not quite ready to commit to the RV life."

"So you're really ready to move on?" I said earnestly.

"Of course I am. Jeremy's killer is dead and the accomplices will be going to prison. Nothing we do will ever bring him back, but at least justice is being served."

"Don't discount the fact that your new foundation will be carrying on his philanthropic investments in deserving people," I said proudly.

"And it'll be guided by an amazing board of directors," she enthused. "Millie has declined due to her failing health, but Felicia said she'll be with us as long as she's able. I still need one more strong woman to balance out Eddie Moskowicz, Pete Martinez and Carl Wong."

"What about Nicky or even Sophie Richards?" I suggested.

"They've agreed to be our technical advisors. With such great entrepreneurial experiences it would be a shame to only limit them to board meetings."

"Do you have any regrets?" I asked.

"No, I think I've worked through my vindictiveness," she said. "Who knows what might have happened if the Director had been healthier. I feel so sorry for him."

"I hate to point out that the seeds of this debacle were sown back in 2001, long before the Director's tumor emerged. He could have fought against Conklin's appointment then and might have won. Either way, we'll never know for sure."

"You're right, but I can't blame him for everything," she said kindly. "The fact that he's carrying the guilt to his grave is punishment enough."

"Maybe his successor will do a better job," I hoped. "It looks like most of the former executives will be returning after all. That should go a long way toward restoring the integrity of the Agency."

"Don't kid yourself," she scoffed. "You haven't seen the last of interference from people who prefer to operate from behind the curtains. Those returning executives are going to be tested from the very first day."

"That goes without saying, My Dear. Our public servants cannot sidestep confrontation and simply go with the flow. They must be courageous and uphold the law no matter what the personal cost may be."

"Your eloquence never ceases to amaze me," she said admiringly.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Dear Heart. Those values are instilled in every Agency officer from the very first day of training. The eagle on the CIA seal symbolizes strength and courage, not fear. It stands atop the shield of defense, not cowering behind it. The irony is that the emblem is embedded in the floor of the lobby at Langley where everyone can trample on it."

"Now that would make a terrific lead-in for your book. The Company can't stop you from telling the truth, can they?"

"Why bother. Who would ever believe it?"

####

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoy Harry & Company Mysteries, look for these titles at your favorite retailer:

Triple Towers draws Harry into a frantic search for suspected terrorists. Barred from acting on U.S. soil, the CIA hires him to locate the missing subjects as well as their unknown target. Harry and his Company friends push to find the answers, only to discover that the terrorist ploy is part of a much bigger plot. When the CIA shuts them out of the investigation, Harry and company must take matters into their own hands. Their diligence pays off in a surprising revelation that explains the Agency's obsession with absolute secrecy.

Disappearing Queen involves Harry in the search for his friend's wife, affectionately known as 'Queen Mary', just as his own girlfriend faces major surgery. While struggling to maintain his commitments to Brenda's recovery, Harry and his Company friends trace Mary's many identities back to her pending testimony against the Russian Mafia. Intent on learning about the mob's plans for revenge, the team realizes that many more lives are at risk. When the federal authorities finally close in, the psychotic mob leader escapes and Mary's fate is sealed in a violent confrontation at the Mexican border.

J. J. MacLeod

