DavidBaldacci.com

Chapter 1

Roger Seagraves walked out of the U.S. Capitol after an interesting meeting that, surprisingly, had had little to do with politics. That evening he sat alone in the living room of his modest suburban home after arriving at an important decision. He had to kill someone, and that someone was a very significant target. Instead of a daunting proposition, Seagraves saw it as a worthy challenge.

The next morning Seagraves drove to his office in northern Virginia. Sitting at his desk in a space that was small and cluttered,and looked exactly the same as other work spaces up and down the corridor, he mentally assembled the critical pieces of his task. Seagraves finally concluded that he would do the deed himself, unwilling to trust it to a third party. He'd killed before, many times in fact; the only difference now was he wouldn't be doing it for his government. This one was all for him.

He spent the next two days in careful, decisive preparation efficiently conducted around his day job. The three imperatives of his mission were embedded in every action he performed: (1) keep it simple; (2) provide for every contingency; and (3) never panic no matter how much your plan goes awry, which it occasionally did. However, if there were a fourth rule, it would have to be: exploit the fact that most people are fools when it comes to things that actually matter, like their own survival. He had never
suffered from that shortcoming.

Roger Seagraves was forty-two, single and childless. A wife and brats would certainly have complicated his unorthodox lifestyle. In his previous career with the federal government he'd adopted false identities and traveled across the world. Fortunately, changing identities was stunningly easy to do in the computer age. A few clicks of the Dell, a server somewhere in India hummed, and from one's fancy laser printer out popped a new you with all the official bells, whistles and available credit.

Seagraves could actually buy all that he needed on an Internet site that required a carefully guarded password. It was akin to a Macy's department store for criminals, sometimes dubbed by its felonious clientele as "EvilBay." There one could purchase everything from first-rate ID packs and stolen credit card numbers to the services of professional hit men, or sterilized weapons if you were inclined to commit the murder yourself. He usually obtained the necessary materials from a dealer who had a 99 percent approval rating from his customers and a money-back guarantee. Even killers liked to go with quality.

Roger Seagraves was tall, well built and handsome with thick blond wavy hair; on the surface he seemed carefree in his ways and possessed an infectious grin. Virtually every woman in his vicinity copped a second look, as did some envious men. He often used this to his advantage. When you had to kill or deceive, you used whatever tools you had as effectively as possible. His government had taught him that too. Though he still technically labored for the United States, he also worked for himself. His "official" pension plan fell far short of giving him the quality retirement he felt he deserved after so many years of risking his life for the red, white and blue. For him, though, it had been mostly red.

On the third afternoon after his enlightening visit to the Capitol Seagraves subtly modified his features and put on several layers of clothing. When it grew dark, he drove a van up into the expensive fringes of northwest D.C. where the embassies and private mansions all had paranoid guards patrolling their compounds.

He parked in a small courtyard behind a building across the street from a very exclusive club housed in an imposing brick Georgian that catered to wealthy and politically obsessed persons, of whom Washington had more than any city on earth. These folks loved to gather over passable food and average wine and talk polls, policies and patronage to their hearts' content.

Seagraves wore a blue jumper suit with "Service" stenciled on the back. The key he'd made earlier fit the simple lock of the vacant building that was awaiting extensive renovation. His toolbox in hand, he took the steps two at a time until he reached the top floor and entered a room facing the street. He flashed a penlight around the empty space, noting the single window. He'd left it unlocked and well oiled on an earlier visit.

He opened his toolbox and quickly assembled his sniper rifle. Next he attached the suppressor can to the muzzle, chambered a single round -- he was nothing if not confident -- crept forward and drew up the window a bare two inches, just enough to allow the can to fit in the opening. He checked his watch and looked up and down the street from his lofty perch without much worry of being spotted, since the building he was in was completely dark. In addition, his rifle had no optics signature and sported Camoflex technology, meaning it changed color to match its background.

Oh, what the human race had learned from the humble moth.

When the limo and lead security car pulled up to the club, he drew his bead on the head of one of the men who got out of the stretch, but he didn't fire. It wasn't time yet. The club member walked inside followed by his security men sporting ear fobs and thick necks sticking out of starched collars. He watched the stretch and the security car pull off.

Seagraves checked his watch again: two hours to go. He continued to scan the street below as town cars and cabs dropped off serious-faced women outfitted not in carats of De Beers and yards of Versace, but in smart off-the-rack business suits and tasteful costume jewelry, with their social and political antennae set on high. The serious-faced men accompanying them were hunkered down in pinstripes, bland ties and what seemed to be bad attitudes.

It won't get any better, gents, trust me.

One hundred and twenty minutes dragged by, and his gaze had never once left the club's brick façade. Through the large front windows he could see the efficient swirl of folks who cradled their drinks and murmured in low, conspiratorial tones.

Okay, it was time for business.

He gave the street another quick scan. Not a soul was looking his way. Over his career he'd found they never were. Seagraves waited patiently until the target walked through his crosshairs for the last time, then his gloved finger edged to the trigger. He didn't particularly like firing through a windowpane, though it wouldn't interfere with the flight of the ordnance he was using.

Thwap! This was followed instantly by a tinkle of glass and the heavy thud of a pudgy dead man hitting a highly polished oak floor. The Honorable Robert Bradley had felt no pain at all with the impact. The bullet had killed his brain before it could tell his mouth to start screaming. Not a bad way to go, actually.

Seagraves calmly laid down the rifle and peeled off his jumpsuit, exposing the D.C. police uniform underneath. He put on a matching hat he'd brought with him and marched down the stairs to the rear door. When he exited the building, he could hear the screams from across the street. Only nineteen seconds had passed since the shot; he knew because he'd counted the ticks off in his head. He now moved rapidly down the street as he continued to time the action in his head. The next moment he heard the powerful whine of the car engine as the carefully choreographed scene was played out. Now he began to run all out, pulling his pistol as he did so. He had five seconds to get there. He turned the corner in time to almost be hit by the sedan as it raced by him. At the last instant he leaped to the side, rolled and came up in the middle of the road.

People across the street shouted at him, pointing at the car. He turned, gripped his gun with both hands and fired at the sedan. The blanks in his gun sounded sweet, just like the real thing. He placed five shots and then sprinted hard down the asphalt for half a block and slid into what appeared to be an unmarked police cruiser parked there; it raced after the fast-disappearing sedan, its siren blaring and grille lights flashing.

The car it was "chasing" turned left at the next intersection, then right, and headed down an alley, stopping in the middle. The driver in the car jumped out, ran to the lime-green VW Beetle parked in front of his in the alley and drove off.

Once out of sight of the club, the other car's grille lights and siren stopped as it peeled away from the hunt and headed in the opposite direction. The man next to Seagraves never once looked at him as he climbed into the backseat and stripped off the police uniform. Underneath the cop clothes he wore a tight-fitting one-piece jogging outfit; black sneakers were already on his feet. In the floorboard of the car was a muzzled six-month-old black Lab. The car whipped down a side street and turned left at the next corner, stopping beside a park deserted at this late hour. The back door opened, Seagraves climbed out and the car sped off.

Seagraves held the leash tightly as he and his "pet" commenced their "nightly" jog. When they turned right at the next corner, four police cruisers flew past the pair. Not one face in the cop convoy even glanced at him.

A minute later, in another part of the city, a fireball raced into the sky. It was the rented and fortunately empty town house of the dead man. Initially, it would be blamed on a gas leak that had ignited. Yet combined with the murder of Bob Bradley, the federal authorities would seek out other explanations, though they wouldn't come easily.

After running for three blocks Seagraves abandoned his pet, a waiting car was climbed into and he was back at his home less than an hour later. Meanwhile, the United States government would have to find another Speaker of the House to replace the recently deceased Robert "Bob" Bradley. That shouldn't be too hard, Seagraves mused as he drove to work the next day after reading of Bradley's murder in the morning newspaper. After all, the damn town is full of bloody politicians. Bloody politicians? That's an apt description.He pulled his car to the security gate, displayed his ID badge and was waved through by the armed guard there who knew him well.

He strode through the front door of the sprawling building in Langley, Virginia, passed through additional security gauntlets and then headed to his eight-by-ten-foot cluttered cookie-cutter office. He was currently a midlevel bureaucrat whose main work consisted of being a liaison between his agency and the incompetent and brainless on Capitol Hill who'd somehow been voted into office. It was not nearly as taxing as his old job here, and represented a bone thrown his way for meritorious service. Now, unlike decades ago, the CIA let its "special" employees come in from the cold once they'd reached the age where reflexes slowed a bit and enthusiasm for the work diminished.

As Seagraves looked over some tedious paperwork, he realized how much he'd missed the killing. He supposed people who had once murdered for a living never really got over that bloodlust. At least last night had given him a bit of the old glory back.

That was one problem out of the way, but another one would probably soon take its place. Yet Roger Seagraves was a creative troubleshooter. It was just his nature.

Chapter 2

Great belches of black smoke -- probably packed with enough carcinogens to vanquish an unsuspecting generation or two -- were propelled from ancient brick factory stacks into a sky already dark with rain clouds. In an alleyway of this industrial town that was dying an irreversible death due to penny wages paid in far more polluted cities in China, a small crowd had gathered around one man. This was not a crime scene with a dead body, or a street Shakespeare honing his acting chops, or even a big-lunged preacher hawking Jesus and redemption for a modest contribution to the cause. This man was known in the trade as a "broad tosser," and he was doing his best to relieve the crowd of its money in a game of chance called three-card monte.

The "shills" supporting the tosser were adequate as they won staged betting rounds at timed intervals to keep the marks hopeful for their own streak of luck. The "wall man," or lookout, was a bit lethargic. At least the woman watching them from across the street deduced this from his body language and listless eyes. She didn't know the "muscle" that was also part of this con team, yet he didn't look overly tough, just doughy and slow. The two "ropers" were young and energetic and, as their title implied, it was their job to keep a steady supply of innocents coming to play a card game they would never win.

She moved closer, watching as the enthusiastic crowd alternately clapped and groaned as bets were won and lost. She'd started her career as a shill for one of the country's best tossers. That particular con could run a table in virtually any city and walk away an hour later with at least two grand in his pocket, the marks having no idea they'd been the victim of anything more than poor luck. This tosser was excellent and for good reason: He'd been trained by the same man as she. To her informed eye he was using the double-card queen-up-front technique that would substitute the back card for the queen at the critical moment of delivery, for this was the entire key to the game.

The simple object of three-card monte, like the shell game it was based on, was to pick the queen from the trio on the table after the tosser had mixed them around with blurring speed. That was impossible to do if the lady wasn't even on the table at the time the guess was made. Then a second before the queen's "correct" position was revealed, the tosser would smoothly replace one of the cards with the queen and show the group where it had supposedly been all the time. This simple "short con" had lifted money from marquises and marines and everything in between for as long as playing cards had been around.

The woman slipped behind a Dumpster, made eye contact with someone in the crowd and put on a pair of large tinted sunglasses. A moment later the wall man's attention was completely distracted by a cute miniskirted bettor. She'd bent straight over in front of him to pick up some dropped cash and gave the lookout a nice view of her firm butt and the red thong that made little attempt to cover it. The wall man no doubt thought he'd gotten incredibly lucky. However, just as with three-card monte, there was no luck involved. The woman had earlier paid the miniskirt to perform the "drop and bend" when she signaled her by putting on the shades. This simple distraction technique had worked on men ever since women had started wearing clothes.

Four quick strides and the lady was right in their midst, moving with a swagger and energy that parted the crowd immediately as the stunned lookout watched helplessly.

"Okay," she barked, holding up her creds. "I want to see some ID from you," she snapped, pointing a long finger at the tosser, a short, pudgy middle-aged man with a small black beard, bright green eyes and a pair of the nimblest hands in the country. He studied her from under his ball cap, even as he slowly reached in his coat and pulled out his wallet.

"All right, folks, party's over," she said, opening her jacket so they could see the silver badge attached to her belt. Many of the people gathered there began to back away. The intruder was in her mid-thirties, tall and broad-shouldered with a sleek pair of hips and long red hair, and dressed in black jeans, green turtleneck and a short leather jacket. A long muscle in her neck flexed when she spoke. A small, dull red scar the shape of a fishhook was perched under her right eye but remained hidden by the sunglasses. "I said party's over. Pick up your cash and disappear," she said in a voice notched an octave lower.

She'd already noted that the bets left on the table had vanished the moment she started speaking. And she knew exactly where they'd gone. The tosser was good, reacting to the situation instantly and taking control of the only thing that mattered: the money. The crowd fled without bothering to argue about their missing cash.

The muscle took a hesitant step toward the intruder but then froze as her gaze cut into him.

"Don't even think about it, because they just love fat boys like you in the federal swamp." She looked him up and down lasciviously. "They get a lot more meat for their dime." The muscle's lip began to tremble even as he fell back and tried to fade into the wall.

She marched up to him. "Uh-uh, big boy. When I said clear out, I meant you too."

The muscle nervously glanced at the other man, who said, "Get out of it. I'll look you up later."

After the man had fled, she checked the tosser's ID, smirking as she handed it back to him and then made him stand against the wall for a pat-down. She picked up a card from the table and turned it around so he could see the black queen. "Looks like I win."

The tosser stared unfazed at the card. "Since when do the feds care about a harmless game of chance?"

She put the card back on the table. "Good thing your marks didn't know how 'chancy' this game of chance really was. Maybe I should go and enlighten some of the bigger guys who might like to come back and beat the crap out of you."

He looked down at the black queen. "Like you said, you won. Why don't you name your payoff?" He took a roll of cash from his fanny pack.

In response she took out her creds, slipped the badge off her belt and dropped both on the table. He glanced down at them.

"Go ahead," she said casually. "I have no secrets."

He picked them up. The "creds" didn't authenticate her as a law enforcement officer. Behind the plastic shield was a membership card for the Costco Warehouse Club. The badge was tin and engraved with a brand of German beer. His eyes widened as she slipped off her sunglasses and recognition instantly came. "Annabelle?"

Annabelle Conroy said, "Leo, what the hell are you doing cooking monte with a bunch of losers in this crappy excuse for a town?"

Leo Richter shrugged but his grin was wide. "Times are tough. And the guys are okay, a little green, but learning. And monte's never let any of us down, has it?" He waved the wad of bills before stuffing them back in his fanny pack. "Little dicey pretending to be a cop," he scolded mildly.

"I never said I was a cop, people just assumed. That's why we have a career, Leo, because, if you have enough balls, people assume. But while we're talking about it, trying to bribe a cop?"

"In my humble experience it works more often than not," Leo said, fishing a cigarette out of a pack in his shirt pocket and offering her one. She declined.

"How much you making on this gig?" she asked matter-of-factly.

Leo glanced at her suspiciously as he lit his Winston, took a drag and blew smoke out his nostrils, neatly matching at least in miniature the fetid clouds coming out of the smokestacks overhead. "The pie's split up enough as it is. I've got employees to take care of."

"Employees! Don't tell me you're issuing W-2s now?" Before he could answer, she added, "Monte's not on my radar, Leo. So how much? I'm asking for a reason, a good one." She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the wall waiting.

He shrugged. "We usually work five locations on a rotation, about six hours a day. Clear three or four thou on a good one. Lotta union boys 'round here. Those guys are always itching to lose their cash. But we'll be moving on soon. Another round of factory layoffs coming, and we don't want people remembering our faces too well. It's not like I have to tell you the drill. I get the sixty split of the net, but expenses are high these days. Saved up about thirty Gs. I'm looking to double that before winter. It'll hold me for a while."

"But just a while, knowing you." Annabelle Conroy picked up her beer badge and Costco card. "Interested in some real money?"

"The last time you asked me that I got shot at."

"We got shot at because you got greedy."

Neither one was smiling now.

"What's the deal?" Leo asked.

"I'll tell you after we run a couple shorts. I need some seed for the long."

"A long con! Who does that anymore?"

She cocked her head and stared down at him. In her high-heeled boots she was five-eleven. "I do. I never stopped, in fact." He noted her long red hair. "Weren't you a brunet the last time I saw you?"

"I'm anything I need to be."

A grin eased across his face. "Same old Annabelle."

Her gaze hardened slightly. "No, not the same old. Better. You in?"

"What's the risk level?"

"High, but so's the reward."

A car alarm erupted with eardrum-shattering decibels. Neither of them even flinched. Cons at their level that lost their cool under any circumstances became either guests of the penal system or dead.

Leo finally blinked. "Okay, I'm in. What now?"

"Now we line up a couple other people."

"We rolling all-star on this?" His eyes glittered at the prospect.

"Long con deserves nothing but the best." She picked up the black queen. "I'll take my payment in dinner tonight for pulling the lady out of your 'magic' deck."

"Afraid there aren't many restaurants worth eating at around here."

"Not here. We're flying to L.A. in three hours."

"L.A. in three hours! I'm not even packed. And I don't have a ticket."

"It's in your left jacket pocket. I snaked it there when I was feeling you up." She eyed his flabby midsection and raised an eyebrow. "You've put on weight, Leo."

She turned and strode off as Leo checked his pocket and found the plane ticket. He grabbed his cards and raced after her, leaving the card table where it was.

Monte was on vacation for a while. The long con was calling.

Chapter 3

Over dinner that night in L.A. Annabelle laid out parts of her plan to Leo, including the two players she was looking to bring on.

"Sounds good, but what about the long con? You haven't told me about that."

"One step at a time," she answered, fingering a wineglass, her gaze wandering around the swanky dining room automatically searching for potential marks.

Take a breath, find a chump. She flicked her dyed-red hair out of her face and made momentary eye contact with a guy three tables down. This jerk had been ogling and overtly signaling Annabelle in her little black dress for the last hour while his humiliated date sat silently fuming. Now he slowly licked his lips and winked at her.

Uh-uh, slick, you couldn't even come close to handling it.

Leo interrupted this thought. "Look, Annabelle, I'm not going to screw you. Hell, I came all this way."

"Right, you came all this way on my dime."

"We're partners, you can tell me. It goes no further."

Her gaze drifted over him as she finished her cabernet. "Leo, don't bother. Even you're not that good of a liar."

A waiter came by and handed her a card. "From the gentleman over there," he said, pointing to the man who'd been ogling her.

Annabelle took the card. It said that the man was a talent agent. He'd also helpfully written on the back of the card a specific sex act he'd like to perform on her.

Okay, Mr. Talent Agent. You asked for it.

On the way out she stopped at a table with five stout guys in pinstripe suits. She said something and they all laughed. She gave one of them a pat on the head and another, a man of about forty with gray temples and thick shoulders, a peck on the cheek. They all laughed at something else Annabelle said. Then she sat down and talked with them for a few minutes. Leo looked at her curiously as Annabelle left the table and walked past him toward the exit.

As she passed the talent agent's table, he said, "Hey, baby, call me. I mean it. You are so hot, I'm on fire!"

Annabelle swiped a glass of water off the tray of a passing waiter and said, "Well, then let's cool you off, stud." She dumped the water in the guy's lap. He jumped up.

"Damn it! You're gonna pay for that, you crazy bitch."

His date covered her mouth to hide her laughter.

Before the man could reach out to grab her, Annabelle shot out a hand and clutched his wrist. "You see those boys over there?" She nodded at the five suits that sat staring at the man hostilely. One of them cracked his knuckles. Another slid his hand inside his suit jacket and kept it there.

Annabelle said smoothly, "I'm sure you saw me talking to them, since you've been staring at me all night. They're the Moscarelli family. And the one on the end there is my ex, Joey Junior. Now, even though I'm no longer technically in the family, you never really leave the Moscarelli clan."

"Moscarelli?" the man said defiantly. "Who the hell are they?"

"They were the number three organized crime family in Vegas before the FBI ran them and everybody else out. Now they've gone back to doing what they do best: controlling the garbage unions in the Big Apple and Newark." She squeezed his arm. "So if you have a problem with your wet pants, I'm sure Joey will take care of it."

"You think I'm buying that crap?" the guy shot back.

"Well, if you don't believe me, go over there and talk to him about it."

The man looked over at the table again. Joey Junior was holding a steak knife in his beefy hand while one of the other men was attempting to keep him in his seat.

Annabelle gripped the man's arm tighter. "Or do you want me to have Joey come over here with some of his friends? Don't worry; he's out on parole right now, so he can't bust you up really bad without ticking off the feds."

"No. No!" the alarmed man said as he tore his gaze from murderous Joey Junior and his steak knife. He added quietly, "I mean, it's no big deal. Just a little water." He sat back down and dabbed at his soaked crotch with a napkin.

Annabelle turned to his date. The woman was trying and failing to hold back her giggles. "You think it's funny, sweetie?" Annabelle said. "This is a case of where we're all laughing at you, not with you. So why don't you try finding some self-respect, or little shits like him are the only slime you'll be waking up next to until you're so old nobody will give a crap anymore. Including you."

The lady stopped laughing.

On the way out of the restaurant Leo said, "Wow, and here I was wasting my time reading Dale Carnegie when all I needed to do was hang around you."

"Give it a rest, Leo."

"Okay, okay, but the Moscarelli family? Come on. Who were they really?"

"Five accountants from Cincinnati probably looking to get laid tonight."

"You're lucky they seemed pretty tough."

"It wasn't luck. I said I was practicing a scene from a movie with a friend of mine in public. I told them it happens all the time in L.A. I asked them to help out, that they were to look like the mob; you know, to give us the right atmosphere to deliver our lines. I told them if they did well enough, they might even get a part in the film. It's probably the most excitement they've ever had."

"Yeah, but how'd you know that jerk would collar you on the way out?"

"Oh, I don't know, Leo, maybe it was that tent pole in his pants. Or did you think I just threw the water in his crotch for the hell of it?"

The next day Annabelle and Leo cruised down Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills in a rented dark blue Lincoln. Leo intently eyed the shops they were passing. "How'd you get a lead on him?"

"Usual sources. He's young and doesn't have much street experience, but his specialty is why I'm here."

Annabelle pulled into a parking place and pointed to a storefront up ahead. "Okay, that's where gadget boy screws the retail consumer."

"What's he like?"

"Very metrosexual."

Leo looked at her quizzically. "Metrosexual? What the hell's that? New kind of gay freak?"

"You really need to get out more, Leo, and work on your PC skills."

A minute later Annabelle led Leo into a high-end clothing boutique. Inside the store, they were greeted by a lean, good-looking young man dressed all in chic black with slicked-back blond hair and a day's worth of fashionable stubble on his face.

"You here all by yourself today?" she asked him, looking around at the other well-heeled customers in the store. They'd have to be wealthy, she knew, since the shoes here started at a thousand bucks a pair, entitling the lucky owner to stumble around on four-inch golf tees until her Achilles snapped.

He nodded. "But I enjoy working the store. I'm very service-oriented."

"I'm sure you are," Annabelle said under her breath. After waiting until the other customers had left the shop, Annabelle put the Closed sign on the front door. Leo brought a woman's blouse to the cash register while Annabelle wandered around behind the checkout area. Leo handed over his credit card, but it slipped out of the clerk's hand and the man bent down to retrieve it. When he straightened up, he found Annabelle standing right behind him.

"That's a really neat toy you have there," she said, eyeing the tiny machine the clerk had just swiped Leo's card through.

"Ma'am, you're not allowed behind the counter," he said, frowning.

Annabelle ignored this comment. "Did you build it yourself?"

The clerk said firmly, "It's an antifraud machine. It confirms that the card is valid. It checks encryption codes embedded in the plastic. We've had a lot of stolen credit cards come in here, so the owner instructed us to start using it. I try to do it as unobtrusively as possible so no one gets embarrassed. I'm sure you can understand."

"Oh, I completely understand." Annabelle reached by the clerk and slid out the device. "What this does, Tony, is read the name and account number, and the embedded verification code on the magnetic stripe so you can forge the card."

"Or more likely sell the numbers to a card ring that'll do it," Leo added. "That way you don't have to get your metrosexual hands really dirty."

Tony looked at both of them. "How do you know my name? You cops?"

"Oh, much better than that," Annabelle said, putting her arm around his slender shoulders. "We're people just like you."

Two hours later Annabelle and Leo were walking down the pier in Santa Monica. It was a bright cloudless day, and the ocean breeze delivered waves of deliciously warm air. Leo wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, took off his jacket and carried it over his arm.

"Damn, I'd forgotten how nice it was out here."

"Beautiful weather and the best marks in the world," Annabelle said. "That's why we're here. Because where the best marks are..."

"Are where the best cons are," Leo finished for her.

She nodded. "Okay, that's him, Freddy Driscoll, crown prince of bad paper."

Leo stared ahead, squinting against the sun, and read the small sign over the outdoor kiosk. "Designer Heaven?"

"That's right. Do it like I said."

"What other way is there to do it but like you said?" Leo grumbled.

They reached the merchandise display where jeans, designer bags, watches and other accessories were neatly arranged. The older man next to the kiosk greeted them politely. He was small and plump with a pleasant face; tufts of white hair stuck out from underneath the straw hat he wore.

"Wow, these are great prices," Leo commented as he looked over the items.

The man beamed proudly. "I don't have the overhead of the fancy stores, just the sun, sand and ocean."

They looked through the merchandise, selected a few items, and Annabelle handed the man a hundred-dollar bill in payment.

He took it from her, put on a pair of thick glasses, held the bill up at a certain angle and then quickly handed it back. "Sorry, ma'am, I'm afraid that's a forgery."

"You're right, it is," she said casually. "But I thought it was fair to pay for fake goods with fake money."

The man didn't even blink; he just smiled at her benignly. Annabelle examined the bill in the same way the man had.

"The problem is that not even the best forger can really duplicate Franklin's hologram when you hold the bill at this angle, because you'd need a two-hundred-million-dollar printing mill to get it right. There's only one of them in the States, and no forger has access to it."

Leo piped in, "So you take a grease pen and do a nifty sketch of old Benny. That gives anyone smart enough to check the paper a little flash and the illusion that he saw the h-gram when he really didn't."

"But you knew the difference," Annabelle pointed out. "Because you used to make this paper about as well as anyone." She held up a pair of jeans. "But from now on, I'd tell your supplier to take the time to stamp the brand name on the zipper like the real manufacturers do." She put the jeans down and picked up a handbag. "And double-stitch the strap. That's a dead give-away too."

Leo held up a watch that was for sale. "And real Rolexes sweep smoothly, they don't tick."

The man said, "I'm really shocked that I've been the victim of counterfeit merchandise. I saw a police officer just a few minutes ago farther down on the pier. I'll go and get him. Please don't leave; he'll want your full statements."

Annabelle gripped his arm with her long, supple fingers.

"Don't waste your cover story on us," she said. "Let's talk."

"What about?" he asked warily.

"Two shorts and then a long," Leo answered, making the old man's eyes light up.

Chapter 4

Roger Seagraves looked across the conference table at the mouse of a man and his pitiful comb-over consisting of a dozen strands of greasy black hair that vainly attempted to cover a wide, flaky scalp. The man was skinny in the shoulders and legs and fat in the belly and butt. Though still in his forties, he probably would've been hard-pressed to jog more than twenty yards without collapsing. Lifting a grocery bag would no doubt have taxed the limits of his upper body strength. He could be a poster boy for the physical degradation of the entire male race in the twenty-first century, Seagraves thought. It irked him because physical fitness had always played paramount importance in his life.

He ran five miles every day, finishing before the sun was fully up. He could still do one-handed push-ups and bench-press twice his own weight. He could hold his breath underwater for four minutes and sometimes worked out with the high school football team near his home in western Fairfax County. No man in his forties could keep up with seventeen-year-old boys, but he was never that far behind them either. In his previous career these skills had all served one purpose: keeping him alive. His attention turned back to the man across the table from him. Every time he saw the creature a part of him wanted to place a round in the man's forehead and put him out of his lethargic misery. But no sane person killed his golden goose or, in this case, golden mouse. Seagraves may have found his partner physically lacking, but he needed the man nonetheless.

The creature's name was Albert Trent. The man had a brain under the wretched body, Seagraves had to give him that. An important element of their plan, perhaps the most important detail, had, in fact, been Trent's idea. It was for this reason more than any other that Seagraves had agreed to partner with him.

The two men spoke for some time about the upcoming testimony of CIA representatives to the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, of which Albert Trent was a prominent staff member. Next they covered key bits of intelligence gathering undertaken by the folks at Langley and other agencies in the U.S. government's vast arsenal of spooks. These folks spied on you from outer space, through your phone, fax, e-mail and sometimes right over your shoulder.

Finished, the two men sat back and drank down their luke-warm coffee. Seagraves had yet to find a bureaucrat who could make a decent cup of coffee. Maybe it was the water they had up here.

"The wind's really picking up outside," Trent said, his eyes on the briefing book in front of him. He smoothed his red tie over his flab and rubbed his nose.

Seagraves glanced out the window. Okay, now it was code time, just in case someone was listening in. These days nowhere was safe from prying ears, least of all Capitol Hill. "Front's coming in, I saw on the news. Might get some rain later, but then again, maybe not."

"I heard a thunderstorm was possible."

Seagraves perked up at this. A thunderstorm reference always got his attention. Speaker of the House Bob Bradley had been such a thunderstorm. He was now lying in a plot of dirt back in his native Kansas with a bunch of wilted flowers on top of him.

Seagraves chuckled. "You know what they say about the weather: Everyone talks about it, but no one does a damn thing about it."

Trent laughed too. "Everything looks good here. We appreciate Central Intelligence's cooperation as always."

"Didn't you know? The 'C' stands for cooperation."

"We still set for the DDO's testimony on Friday?" he asked, referring to the CIA's deputy director of operations.

"Yep. And behind closed doors we can be very candid."

Trent nodded. "The new committee chairman knows how to play by the rules. They already took a roll call vote to close the hearing."

"We're at war with terrorists, so it's a whole new ball game. Enemies of this country are everywhere. We have to act accordingly. Kill them before they get us."

"Absolutely," Trent agreed. "It's a new age, a new kind of fight. And perfectly legal."

"Goes without saying." Seagraves stifled a yawn. If anyone was listening, he hoped they'd enjoyed the patriotic crap. He'd long since stopped caring about his country -- or any other country, for that matter. He was now solely into caring about himself: the Independent State of Roger Seagraves. And he had the skills, nerve and access to things of enormous value to do something about it. "Okay, unless there's anything else, I'll be hitting the road. Traffic will be a bitch this time of day."

"When isn't it?" Trent tapped the briefing book as he said this.

Seagraves glanced at the book he'd given the other man even as he picked up a file Trent had pushed across to him. The file contained some detailed requests for information and clarification regarding certain surveillance practices of the intelligence agency. The massive briefing book he'd left for Trent held nothing more exciting than the usual dull-as-dirt overly complicated analysis his agency routinely fed the oversight committee. It was a masterpiece of how to say absolutely nothing in the most confusing way possible in a million words or more.

However, if one read between the proverbial lines, as Seagraves knew that Trent would do that very evening, the briefing book's pages also revealed something else: the names of four very active American undercover agents and their current locations overseas, all in coded form. The right to the delivery of these names and addresses had already been sold to a well-financed terrorist organization that would knock on these people's doors in three countries in the Middle East and blow their heads off. Two million dollars a name in U.S. dollars had already been wired to an account that no American bank regulator would ever audit. Now it was Trent's job to move the stolen names on down the food chain.

Business was booming for Seagraves. As the number of America's global enemies continued to pile up, he was selling secrets to Muslim terrorists, communists in South America, dictators in Asia and even members of the European Union.

"Happy reading," Trent said, referring to the file he'd just given him. It was here that the encrypted identity of the "thunderstorm" would be revealed to Seagraves along with all the whys and wherefores.

At his home later that night Seagraves stared at the name and began plotting the mission in his usual methodical way. Only this time it would take something far more subtle than a rifle and scope. Here Trent came through like a gem with a piece of intelligence on the target that simplified things greatly. Seagraves knew just whom to call.

Copyright © 2006 by David Baldacci