With that in mind, he set about securing the cabin, locking up and making ready for the drive back home. They could come back for Helen's car another time, when she was safe and sound. If something happened to it in the meantime, he was perfectly prepared to write the damned thing off. Brognola's first priority was the recovery of three people who meant the world to him, and nothing less would put his tortured mind at ease.

The President could not assist him now, but that did not preclude obtaining help from other quarters. Once he spoke to the abductors, once he learned precisely what they wanted, there was still a chance of rescuing his family, of bringing down the predators without conceding anything of substance. It was chancy, but there just might be a way to pull it off.

With luck.

And with a little help from friends.

Just save the hero bullshit for the movies.

Fine.

But if Brognola was required to play the pacifist, it didn't mean that others might not take the field on his behalf. One other, in particular. One man.

One hero who had never saved it for the movies.

"He'll see you now."

Brognola had been waiting twenty minutes, and he didn't care for Chatsworth's tone. He followed the aide past the secretary's desk and on through tall familiar doors that opened on the Oval Office, waiting as they closed behind him silently. Brognola waited stoically while Chatsworth crossed the navy carpet that was decorated with a giant presidential seal, and stood before the desk.

The President was winding up a phone call, speaking in monosyllables, his face set in a stormy frown. Whatever he was hearing, it had not improved his temperament.

"Keep me informed," he said at last, and hung up. He swiveled his chair toward Chatsworth and stood up.

"Brognola, Mr. President."

"I see him, Emil."

He was circling the desk when Hal moved forward, grateful for the outstretched hand, but still alert to the apparent weariness — the sadness? — etched in his commander's face.

"Sit down, Hal."

The sweeping hand included Chatsworth, and they settled into chairs positioned near the desk. The President was silent for a moment, drifting toward the windows where he stood, arms folded, staring off across the White House gardens and the broad expanse of lawn.

"How are you, Hal?"

Brognola searched for hidden meanings in the question, came up empty. "Well enough, sir."

"And the family?"

It took a moment for Brognola to respond. A sudden tightness in his throat was threatening to strangle him, but he was more concerned with studying the President, his tone. It wasn't like the Man to play at cat and mouse. Brognola felt himself beginning to relax. He didn't know. The early-morning summons was concerned with something else.

"They're well."

Please, God.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Silence stretched out between them like a steel garrote, uncomfortable, tense. Beside Brognola, Chatsworth made a show of studying his wing-tip shoes.

At length the President declared, "We've got a problem, Hal. I need your input."

Chatsworth snorted, covering belatedly with an exaggerated coughing fit. Brognola didn't waste the energy to glance in his direction.

"Yes, sir?"

"We've received persuasive circumstantial evidence to indicate you've got a leak at Justice. A mole. High placed."

Brognola's mind was racing, trying to digest the President's announcement. Always on alert for leaks, for any vestige of corruption, he was not aware of any ongoing investigations. There had been some trouble — plenty of it — with the FBI and NSA last year, but that had been wrapped up by Christmas, all the leaks securely welded tight. Or all the leaks they knew about, at any rate.

The President returned to sit behind his massive desk, eyes locked with Hal's, ignoring Chatsworth for the moment.

"Word is that it touches Phoenix."

Something dark and dangerous was stirring in the shadows of Brognola's mind. If there was a connection with his family's abduction, something to provide him with a handle...

"Sir, I have to say this comes as a complete surprise. I've had no indication from my staff of an investigation under way. If you could let me have specific information..."

"Chatsworth?"

Seated on Brognola's right, the aide de camp was riffling through a thin manila folder, nodding to himself and clearly looking forward to the game now that the coach had called him in to play.

"Let's call our suspect 'Mr. X'," he said dramatically. "We were apprised of his alleged involvement with a leak by an informant who has furnished reliable information in the past."

Brognola knew the line by heart. "Reliable informants" might be bugs or wiretaps, documents obtained through shady means, or any one of countless snitches trading in the vital currency of information. Confidential sources were the backbone and the lifeblood of the vast intelligence establishment. Access to their secret information was the key to power, sometimes to survival.

It would do no good to ask for the identity of Chatsworth's source. Brognola knew the presidential aide would keep the information to himself and lie, if necessary, to preserve the source's confidentiality. A name would not add anything of substance to his understanding of the case, Hal realized. The President seemed satisfied, or very nearly so, and for the moment that was good enough.

"Our source relates that Mr. X has been in contact with a list of ranking orgcrime figures, under circumstances that remain unclear." As Chatsworth spoke, his eyes were fixed upon Brognola. He did not consult the folder in his lap, and Hal surmised that he had found the information interesting enough to memorize. "Pursuant to his information, an investigation was initiated, and..."

"I should have been informed," Brognola said, ignoring Chatsworth, speaking to the President.

"We didn't think it wise, all things considered."

Brognola was chewing over that as Chatsworth cleared his throat, resuming as if Hal had never interrupted his report.

"Pursuant to his information, an investigation was initiated, and material collected implicates our Mr. X in covert dealings with the syndicate."

"What kind of information?"

"Stills and videos. Accumulated phone logs. Affidavits from recipients of classified material. The whole nine yards."

Brognola frowned. "I'd like to take a look at what you've got."

"It's classified at present."

"I've got clearance."

"Not for this," Chatsworth replied smugly.

"Since when?"

"Since your department has been compromised."

"Goddammit, Chatsworth..."

"Gentlemen."

They both turned toward the President and found him leaning forward, elbows planted on his desk, his dark eyes boring into each in turn.

"Excuse us for a moment, Emil."

Chatsworth seemed about to protest, but he reconsidered instantly, unwilling to let momentary anger pull the plug on job security. He spent another moment glaring at Brognola, then retreated from the Oval Office, the manila folder tucked beneath his arm.

"I'm sorry, sir."

The President was not concerned with his apology. "I understand your feelings, Hal. There were compelling reasons for excluding you from the investigation."

"I'd be very interested in an explanation, sir."

"Security was paramount."

Alarms were going off inside Brognola's brain now, but he forged ahead. "You indicated that the problem touches Phoenix?"

"Intimately."

Hal made no attempt to mask his rising irritation. "Mr. President, I cannot hope to offer any meaningful advice if I am kept in ignorance."

"I didn't call you in to ask for your advice."