-7-

    Irene Kennedy awoke to strange sounds that could only be coming from one thing: cartoons. This had become a Saturday morning ritual. Young Thomas, or Tommy, as he was called by most of his peers, was six. The days of him calling for her when he woke up were gone. In a strange way, she missed it. He was always at his best in the morning, affectionate and cuddly. She preferred the extra hour of sleep on Saturdays, but every once in a while, she wouldn't mind having to get out of bed and rub his back and kiss him until he was ready to get out from under the covers. He was too old for that stuff now; he had told her. He had an independent streak that no doubt had come from Kennedy herself.

    She sat up in bed and swung her feet onto the floor. The bedside clock told her it was 7:58. Kennedy was simple in most regards. Her pajamas for as long as she could remember were either flannel pants or boxers and whatever large T-shirt happened to be available. She was thin, maybe too thin. It wasn't intentional; she just wasn't a big eater.

    In the bathroom, she turned on the water and pulled her straight brown hair into a ponytail. After scrubbing her face with a washcloth and soap for a good three minutes, she brushed her teeth and went down the hall to find Tommy right where she thought he'd sitting four feet in front of the TV in his pajamas, completely entranced by the Power Rangers blowing buildings apart. Kennedy walked around the couch and kissed the top of his head.

    "Good morning, honey."

    Tommy mumbled something that his mother couldn't quite understand and kept his eyes focused on the screen. Kennedy rubbed his head, picked up his empty cereal bowl, and headed into the kitchen. On her way past the table, she grabbed the milk and put it back in the fridge. After placing her son's bowl and spoon in the sink, she started the coffee maker and grabbed a banana.

    As she leaned against the counter, her thoughts turned to Rapp. The anonymous tip to the German authorities about the freighter had gone as planned. For good measure, they had also alerted the media. That way, the BKA wouldn't be able to downplay the story. As far as what had happened with Hagenmiller, Kennedy was in the dark. The Counterterrorism Center had the ability to monitor events from afar, and with the help of the Global Operations Center, there wasn't a news story that could break without them being informed in fifteen minutes or less. The problem with this particular story was that Kennedy had to play dumb. She couldn't let even her closest people in the CT know that she had any idea that Hagenmiller was going to be taken out.

    Kennedy finished the banana and told Tommy to turn off the TV and get dressed. He reluctantly obeyed, and fifteen minutes later they were out the door - Kennedy with two cups of coffee and Tommy with his football and rubber Godzilla. Waiting for them in the driveway was a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria with their driver, Harry Peterson, from the Agency's Office of Security. Irene and Tommy got in the back seat and said good morning. Kennedy handed Harry the fresh cup of coffee, and they were on their way.

    Kennedy had resisted getting a driver. She lived less than ten minutes from Langley and at first saw it as an intrusion into her private life. Unfortunately, though, the previous summer the Washington Post had done a profile on her titled "The Most Powerful Woman in the CIA." Kennedy had not cooperated with the interview, and the president himself had asked them not to pursue the story; But the Post went ahead and did it anyway: She wanted nothing to do with the limelight, and more directly she wanted the people she was hunting to know as little about her as possible.

    The fallout from the story was predictable. The threats started to roll in. Thomas Stansfield moved decisively. He ordered a security system for Kennedy's home and gave her a driver. The CIA monitored the security system, and at least once a night, a CIA security team would drive by the house and check things out. Kennedy was also given a pager with a panic button. She was ordered to have it on, or next to her, twenty-four hours a day.

    Tommy was at that age where there was no such thing as an inappropriate question. He had glimpsed Harry Peterson's gun one day while the two of them were playing catch in the driveway, waiting for Irene to come out. Tommy had asked to see the gun, and Harry resisted his natural instinct to say no. Harry was fifty-one and had learned that the last thing you wanted to do with a young boy was to make something taboo. It only served to pique their curiosity. Harry showed him the gun, gave him a very stern lecture about safety, and let him touch it. Later on, during the drive into Langley, Tommy had blurted out the question, "How many bad guys have you killed?"

    Irene had wondered the same thing many times but had, of course, never asked the question. Men like Harry Peterson didn't fall into this line of work when they grew bored with selling copiers. They were typically former military types, cops, or covert operators who were a little too old to be crawling around rooftops in some Third World hellhole.

    The car pulled up in front of the Old Headquarters Building. The OHB was completed in 1963, and the New Headquarters Building was finished in 1991. The two buildings combined had more than 2.5 million square feet of office space. Irene and Tommy entered the building and stopped at the security checkpoint. Irene signed Tommy in, and the guard gave him a visitor's badge that restricted him to the common areas down one level. After she scanned her own badge, mother and son went through the turnstile and downstairs.

    Like all of the other modern government agencies, the CIA had become sensitive, inclusive, and caring. Full day- care services were offered six days a week. Kennedy only used them on Saturday mornings, and Tommy actually liked it. He had gotten to know some of the other kids, and they typically enjoyed their Saturdays together building and then destroying things. Kennedy signed him in with Joanne, the weekend den mother, and then resisted the urge to kiss Tommy on the head. His friends were watching. She had been severely reprimanded on several occasions for committing this egregious act of affection in front of the guys. Instead, she waved and said she'd be back down for lunch.

    Kennedy went back to the elevators and took one up to the sixth floor. In 1986, Ronald Reagan signed a presidential finding that authorized the CIA to identify terrorists who had committed crimes against American citizens and help bring them to the United States to stand trial. Later that year, the Counterterrorism Center was born. Its purpose: to coordinate the fight against terrorism, not just within the CIA but also with other federal agencies. Cooperation with other agencies, especially the FBI, was not something that had been encouraged throughout the CIA's history; This was a first, and there were many individuals among the old guard who saw this new relationship with the FBI as a sign that the end of the world was near.

    Next to the door was a simple sign with black letters that read " Counterterrorism Center." Before punching her code into the cipher lock, Kennedy paused, collected her thoughts, and pushed. The room's main features were its projection screens and a large two-tiered rectangular conference table. The middle of the conference table was raised several feet. Underneath it sat a vast array of computer monitors, secure faxes, and phones. This mess in the middle of the room was the nerve center. This was where the case officers sat and coordinated information and activities with allies and other U.S. government organizations. The room was a cross between a network news control room and an air traffic control tower.

    The first face Kennedy saw was that of Tom Lee, the CTC's deputy director and Kennedy's number two. Lee was speaking with two of the case officers who had been working on the Hagenmiller case. When he saw her, Lee cut off the two case officers and crossed the room to Kennedy. Halfway there, he jerked his head in the direction of her office.

    The two converged outside Kennedy's door, and Lee gave his best "You're not going to believe what happened" look. Kennedy and Lee got along well. Both were quiet, even-tempered intellectuals. As was traditional with the deputy director slot at the CTC, Lee was not an employee of the CIA. He was FBI. This was the brave new world that the Counterterrorism Center had pioneered. Under Kennedy's command were employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Secret Service, the National Security Agency, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco arid Firearms, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Pentagon, the State Department, the Justice Department, and scientists from the Centers for Disease Control and Lawrence Livermore. Fifteen years earlier, not even the heads of these agencies would have been allowed to view the classified material that these mid-level analysts were able to.

    Lee closed the door and placed his hands on his hips. Bureau all the way, he was wearing a suit and tie, even on a Saturday morning, though at least he had taken his jacket off. The CTC tended to be a little looser on the dress code than the rest of Langley. Most of the case officers out in the pen were wearing jeans. Lee was a native of Seattle, though his parents had immigrated from Korea. He had graduated from the University of Washington with a double major in accounting and computer science.

    Kennedy set her bag down and asked, "What's wrong?"

    Lee shook his head slowly. "We think Count Hagenmiller was killed last night."

    Kennedy's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

    "Yes… really." Lee studied Kennedy for a sign that she might know more than she was letting on. He had his suspicions that Kennedy and her beloved Agency didn't always tell him what was going on. On a certain level he respected this, but there were times when it made him a little nervous. As was always the case, her expression betrayed nothing.

    After sitting down in her ugly government-issue chair that was covered in some mystery gray fabric, she asked, "What do you mean, we think?"

    "We are not entirely sure what is going on at this point. What we do know is that several Hamburg TV stations are reporting that a fire broke out at the Hagenmiller estate last night. The damage was extensive. We know from NSA intercepts that two bodies were discovered in the ashes. Both were badly burned. They presume that one is the count and the other is his bodyguard."

    "I assume we can rule out an accident?"

    Lee nodded. "As we've discussed… we're paid to be paranoid. Even with that in mind, the odds that a burning log rolled out of the fireplace and then tackled and killed the count aren't good."

    "I'd have to agree." Kennedy grabbed her coffee. "What's our early assessment?"

    "That's a good question. Our first thought was that Saddam ordered the hit for… take your pick of reasons. Hagenmiller screwed him somehow; maybe Saddam thought he blew the whistle on the heist. Maybe Saddam wanted all of the equipment for half the dough. Who knows? Saddam is the obvious candidate, but we have another interesting development." Lee pulled up a chair and sat." About an hour ago, our fax machine started humming. The BKA has put out a bulletin on three individuals. Two men and one woman, all Caucasian. Sally just got off the phone with her contact at the BKA, and they are' fuming." Lee was referring to one of the case officers who dealt with the European Union and the various law enforcement agencies that helped with counterterrorism. "Supposedly, these three individuals gained access to the Hagenmiller estate last night by posing as agents from the BKA. They have them on tape arriving in one car, and this is where it starts to get a little weird. Two of them get out of the car and go into the house. One man and one woman. A couple of minutes later, the woman comes running out and jumps into the car, and she and the driver leave. Now, about five minutes pass, and all of a sudden the fire starts. At about the same time, they have the third guy on tape leaving the house from a side door. He steals a car and leaves the estate by a back road. They found the car that he stole in the parking garage at the Hanover airport about two hours ago. They have him on airport surveillance catching a cab and have put out a nationwide bulletin for the vehicle."

    Kennedy tried to remain calm. "What about the other car?"

    "No word on it yet."

    She took a sip of coffee and focused on concealing the fear that was clawing at her gut. "Any other developments?"

    "One.” Lee's face took on an exhausted look. "The secretary of state called five minutes ago."

    Kennedy didn't like the sounds of this. She set her coffee mug back on the desk.

    "It appears that he and Hagenmiller are, or in the count's case I should say were, avid art collectors. They have many mutual friends… a list that reads like a who's who of foreign dignitaries and royalty. The secretary of state said that he knows we had the count under surveillance and that he would like us to cooperate with the German authorities in apprehending the assassins.” Lee leaned back and added, "Apparently, a very valuable collection of art was destroyed in the fire.”

    "You're kidding me?"

    "No. I guess some very well-known and valuable originals were lost.”

    "No.” Kennedy frowned in a rare show of emotion. "He told you he knows that we had the count under surveillance and that he wants us to cooperate with the BKA."

    "Yes."

    "And just how does he know we had him under surveillance?"

    "I don't know."

    "Do you have any ideas?"

    Lee thought about it for a second and said, "Maybe."

    "Make it a priority to find out, please." Kennedy reached for her phone. "In the meantime, I'd better see what I can do to head the secretary off before he does any more damage.”