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    The large chateau-style home was located in the prestigious Wesley Heights neighborhood just off Foxhall Road. Ivy covered the entire front of the house with the exception of the windows and main entrance. Four chimneys jutted above the hipped slate roof, two at each end. The estate sat on three perfectly landscaped acres and was surrounded by an eight-foot black wrought-iron fence.

    In the study, located in the southern wing of the house, Senator Hank Clark was relaxing in a well-worn leather chair, his shoes off, his necktie loosened, and a drink in his hand. In his other hand was the remote control for the TV: It was eight in the evening, and Hardball with Chris Matthews was about to start. Clark enjoyed watching the blond Irishman run at the mouth. He had a knack for pinning down people and making them take a position. Sitting on the floor next to Clark were Caesar and Brutus, the senator's golden retrievers. The names had raised more than a few of his colleagues' eyebrows over the years. Clark, of course, loved the names. The assassin and the assassinated. They were a daily reminder of the importance of keeping tabs on friends and foes alike.

    Clark's study was filled with expensive western art and antiques. Balanced on two pegs above the fireplace mantel was an 1886 Winchester.45-70 lever-action rifle with not a scratch or a smudge. It had been given to President Grover Cleveland as a wedding present. On top of the mantel were two Frederic Remington sculptures, the Bronco Buster on one side and the Buffalo on the other. And above it all was one of Albert Bierstadt's breathtaking originals depicting a group of Indians on horseback riding across the plain. Across the room, the top shelf of the glass bookcase contained a first edition of each of Ernest Hemingway's novels, all 9f them signed by the old salt himself. Clark admired Hemingway greatly. He lived life hard. He saw and did things that all but a few only dreamed about. Rather than live as a fallen angel, as a shadow of his former self, he decided to check out. Not a bad way to go when you considered his life in its entirety.

    The room was Clark's favorite in the house. It was where he went at the end of each day to unwind. Wife number three was not allowed to enter before knocking, and even then, she was not encouraged to stay long. Clark loved to collect beautiful objects. He had grown up in trailer parks and slept in the same bed with his brother until the morning he left for college. He would never again be deprived of the finer things in life.

    Over the intro music for Hardball, the senator heard the doorbell. Caesar and Brutus didn't even bat an eye. They had grown soft over the years and were no longer interested in finding out who was entering the castle. Clark, however, was. He turned down the volume and slid his feet back into his shoes. He was very interested in talking to his visitor. With more effort than he would have liked, he slid his aged athlete's body to the edge of the chair and pushed his two-hundred-sixty-pound frame up. One of the other things Clark liked was good food. He'd have to head down to his compound in the Bahamas and spend a week eating nothing but fresh fruit and fish. He'd take hikes, swim in the clear blue water, and do some deep-sea fishing, just like Papa. With any luck, he'd shed some weight.

    The door to the study opened, and the butler showed Peter Cameron into the room. The senator met him halfway across the parquet wood floor. Sticking out his hand, he said, "Good evening, Professor. May I get you a drink?"

    "Please."

    Clark turned for the bar. He wished Cameron would shave his ridiculous-looking beard. It made him look unkempt.

    Cameron walked over to the fireplace, and his eyes fell on the Winchester rifle as they did every time he entered the room. The gun was beautiful. A real piece of craftsmanship and, at the time, cutting-edge technology.

    The senator returned with a drink in each hand. "Here you go.”

    "Thank you.” Cameron grabbed the drink.

    "I was expecting to hear from you this morning. What happened?"

    "We had some problems.” Cameron took a drink of his chilled vodka.

    "How serious?"

    Cameron rolled his eyes in an exaggerated gesture. "It could have been very serious, but I took care of things."

    "Details, please." The senator placed one hand on the mantel.

    "The Jansens screwed everything up. They missed Rapp. It appears he's alive, and I presume he's on his way back to the States."

    Clark looked confused and displeased. "I don't understand. The message I received on Saturday said that everything had gone according to plan.”

    "That's what I thought. That's what they told me when I met them at the airstrip in Germany, but they were wrong. I don't know how Rapp survived, but he did."

    Clark was enraged that Rapp was still alive, but he wasn't about to show it in front of Cameron. After taking a drink, he said, "The Jansens are a liability.”

    "Not anymore. That's where I've been the last few days. I grabbed Villaume and a few of his people and flew out to Colorado where the Jansens live… or I should say lived.”

    The senator nodded. "Details, please."

    "It went very smoothly. I put a bullet in both their heads as they were leaving their house on Sunday morning. No witnesses. I went through the whole house and checked for anything that might link them to me and came up empty. It could be weeks before the cops suspect anything.”

    "You took the shot?" the senator asked, a little surprised.

    "Yes. It was my mess to clean up.” Cameron was very proud of himself.

    "Did you collect their fee?"

    Cameron had, in fact, retrieved the fifty thousand dollars in cash, He was hoping the senator wouldn't bring it up, but there was no such luck. Hank Clark was not a man to lie to, "I got the money back."

    "Good, Use it to cover your other expenses, and pocket the rest.”

    "Yes, sir," Cameron couldn't have been more pleased.

    "What did you do with their bodies?"

    "I took them straight from Colorado down to the island on the plane, then loaded them onto the boat, brought them out about ten miles, and fed them to the sharks," Clark owned a compound on Williams Island in the Bahamas with its own lagoon and private marina.

    "Did anyone see you on the island?"

    "Yeah, but I had the bodies folded up in two large duffel bag. I made sure your caretaker wasn't around when I loaded them onto the boat. I went out early this morning like I was going fishing. Came back five hours later with a few catch-and-release stories. No one was wise to what I'd done."

    "What about the pilots?"

    "I loaded the cargo myself. They never saw it."

    Clark thought it over for a second. It appeared the Professor had cleaned up after himself. The question of Irene Kennedy and her still intact reputation remained, though, and possibly the more serious issue of Mitch Rapp on the loose.

    "Any chance you could be tied to the Jansens by Kennedy or Rapp?"

    Cameron shook his head. "No."

    "Peter, did you know that most criminals think they'll never get caught, right up to the moment that they get caught?"

    Cameron tried not to be offended by the word criminal. He knew the senator didn't mean it in the common sense. "What would you like me to do, sir?"

    "I'd like you to tie up this loose end. From everything I've heard, Mitch Rapp is not a man to be taken lightly. I would prefer it if he was out of the picture permanently."

    "I'll take care of it," replied Cameron with confidence.

    "Villaume and his people?"

    "Yeah?"

    The senator looked Cameron in the eyes. "They know too much."

    Cameron nodded. "Okay, but that's going to take some money."

    "Let me know how much, and I'll get it to you."

    "What about Kennedy?"

    The senator looked over at the TV for a moment. Chris Matthews was flirting with some attractive reporter. Looking back to Cameron, he said, "I'm going to have to think about that for a little bit. I'll let you know as soon as you take care of these other things."

    Peter Cameron nodded and took a drink of his vodka. He strained to hide his smile of excitement. He would get his wish. He would lay a trap for Mitch Rapp, and d1en he would kill him.

    ANNA RIELLY WASN'T doing so well. As NBC's White House correspondent, she couldn't let her personal life get in the way of her duties. She had just finished giving her last live update during the nightly news for the people on the West Coast. Israel's prime minister was meeting with the president in the morning to discuss yet another impasse in the implementation of the peace accords. Standing under the bright lights just outside the West Wing, she took off her earpiece and handed it and her microphone to the camera-man who was packing the rest of the gear away. They would be back in the morning to say virtually the same thing, first to the people in the East and Midwest, and then again to the mountains and the West Coast.

    Her mind was barely up to the task, and her heart was elsewhere. Thank God Brokaw hadn't thrown any impromptu questions at her. Anna thanked the cameraman and told him she'd see him in the morning. She couldn't stop worrying about Mitch. They hadn't heard a word from him since Saturday, and that had been nothing more than a cryptic message. On top of that, she also felt horrible for putting the O'Rourkes in such a bad spot. Liz was pregnant and deserved some peace. In a way, though, worrying about Liz's pregnancy had helped her get control of herself after her Saturday evening meltdown. She had apologized to Michael the next morning, and he had apologized for his lack of sensitivity. Liz had given her husband the cold shoulder for much of the day, until Anna told her to knock it of. "None of this was Michael's fault," Anna had explained, "and he shouldn't be the one taking the heat." Anna had tried to leave and go to her apartment, not wanting the O'Rourkes to have to get any more involved in this than they already were. This was her problem, her's and Mitch's. Poor Mitch. She didn't know whether she should be worried about him or mad. It was about ninety percent the prior and about ten percent the latter. She wanted him home safe, but there had been moments when through her tears she swore she was going to kill him for putting her through this.

    Mitch was good at what he did. That much she knew; She had seen him in action during the White House hostage crisis. He was a one-man SWAT team, but in the end he was human. He bled like everyone else. Rielly's father was a cop, and so were two of her brothers. They all worked for the Chicago PD. Rielly had seen invincible men go down. They were all stubborn just like Mitch. If she was lucky enough to see Mitch again, she would show him what stubborn was all about. He would retire whether he liked it or not, and they would walk down the aisle together. She had come too far and gone through too much to lose him.

    Rielly was still seething as she yanked open the door and entered the main-floor foyer of the West Wing. The Secret Service officer sitting behind the desk smiled at her, but she ignored him. She'd been faking her mood for the last two hours as she talked to the producers in New York, and enough was enough. As she turned to her right, she heard her name called from behind.

    Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the president's Secret Service detail, rounded the corner with a file in his hand. "How are you tonight, Anna?"

    Rielly brushed a wayward strand of her auburn hair off her face and said, "Not so good, Jack. What are you still doing here?"

    "The president is working late tonight."

    Rielly paused and looked down the hall past Warch, in the direction of the Oval Office. There was a good chance f the man behind that door knew where Mitch was. Whether he would admit to that was a whole other matter. After the terrorist attack on the White House had ended, President Hayes had personally pleaded with Rielly to remain silent about the identity of Mitch Rapp. The president didn't want the press, the politicians on the Hill, and the militia nuts to find out that a covert operative for the CIA had been the driving force behind the successful rescue of the hostages. In return for her cooperation, the president had agreed to grant her unusual access. As she and Mitch became close, he had made it very clear that she was never to use her access to the president to dig for information about what he did for the CIA. Considering what she'd gone through over the last two days, breaking that promise seemed minor.

    "Who's he with?"

    Warch smiled. "You know I can't tell you that."

    There was no smile on Anna's face. "I need to see him."

    The Secret Service agent could tell she was serious and looked back down the hall for a second. Looking back to Rielly, he said, "Stay right here. I'll see what I can do."

    Rielly waited in the foyer and took off her black raincoat. She thought about calling the O'Rourkes. Michael had dropped her off at the White House this morning, and she had promised Liz that she would call when she was done with the nightly news so Michael could come pick her up. She was about to pick up the handset on one of the house phones when Warch came back around the corner.

    "Come with me, Anna." The agent turned around and started back down the hallway, Rielly on his heels.

    PRESIDENT HAYES WAS sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office when they entered the room. Jazz music was playing softly nom a stereo that Rielly could not see. The president was sandwiched between two stacks of manila files, busily scanning documents and signing his name. As Warch and Rielly approached the desk, he grabbed a new file, read the note that was paper-clipped to the front, opened the file, and signed his name on four separate pages. The folder was closed and placed on top of the pile on his right. Hayes took off his reading glasses and stood, putting on his suit coat.

    Walking around the desk, he said, "Good evening, Anna." Hayes extended his hand. He really liked Rielly. Like all reporters, she could be tough on him, but she had kept her word when he'd asked for it, and that was not something to be taken lightly, considering her profession.

    "Good evening, Mr. President."

    Hayes knew that Rielly had been seeing Rapp. How close they were he didn't know and wasn't about to ask. It had been a very long day, the first lady was out of the country, and he was bushed. He wanted to tune out, not to have to carefully measure every word that left his lips. The president looked at Warch and said, "Thank you, Jack." When Warch had left the room, Hayes brought Rielly over to the couches and sat next to her. He silently hoped this would be about anything other than Mitch Rapp. "What's on your mind, Anna?"

    Rielly stared down at her fingers for a moment. "Sir." She hesitated not knowing quite where to start. "This is all off the record. Very far off the record. It will never be on any record."

    Hayes grinned. "All right."

    "Where is Mitch, and what kind of trouble is he in?"

    The grin on Hayes's face vanished. He began to cautiously consider his reply." Anna, you already know more than you should. What Mitch does for - " The president paused. He was going to say "the government" but decided that would be too much of an admission. "What Mitch decides to do on his own is something that I am not at liberty to discuss."

    "So you know where he is right now?" Rielly stared at the president with her green eyes, watching every little expression.

    Having his law degree and working in Washington for several decades allowed Hayes to focus on the words right now. The president shook his head. "I have no idea where Mitch is."

    "Do you know why he left the country on Thursday?"

    Hayes blinked several times and said, "No… I don't."

    Rielly studied him. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't think you are being entirely honest with me."

    "Anna, I don't think we should be talking about this."

    "Sir, I did you and your administration a huge favor by not going public with my story after the hostage crisis was ended."

    "Yes, you did, but this has nothing to do with that."

    Rielly's voice took on a more confrontational tone. "It has everything to do with it."

    Hayes held up his hands. He didn't want this to get heated. "Anna, for your loyalty, you have been given phenomenal access. The fact that you were able to get in here to see me at this hour speaks volumes."

    Rielly cut him off." And that has been greatly appreciated, sir. But that was the deal you made so I would stay quiet."

    "That's not the only reason you've stayed quiet."

    "What do you mean?"

    "Anna, Mitch saved your life. He saved mine. He saved a lot of people's. His wish to keep his life private deserves our respect and continued commitment."

    "I owe Mitch my life. A day doesn’t go by when I don't think about it.” She frowned. "Please don't confuse the issue here. This is not about keeping Mitch's life private. I'm not going to tell anybody about what he does for the CIA. This is about me being worried sick that something has happened to Mitch. It's about me needing to know if he's all right.”

    Hayes sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He couldn't believe he was discussing something with a reporter that he wouldn't even discuss with his own national security advisor.

    Rielly reached out and touched his arm. "Sir, all I want to know is if he's all right. As far as I'm concerned. we never had this conversation.”

    "As far as I know" - Hayes shook his head - "he's fine. But that's all I'm going to say."

    Rielly's face lit up. She reached out and grabbed the president's hand. "Thank you, sir.”