"What's in the boxes?"

"Cases, this and that. You know the drill. Whatever's pending, plus a few selected oldies for comparison. And this."

From underneath his coat, DeVries produced an address book that might have been procured in any dime store, bound in imitation leather.

"So?"

DeVries looked pained.

"So, buddy, this is just his trick book here, that's all. It's full of names and places, dates. Amounts."

"You're saying you've got evidence of payoffs?"

"Hey, what can I tell you, Leo? Some jerks like to write it down. It's like the Nixon syndrome, eh? That Watergate fiasco might have had a happy ending if he hadn't got a tape recorder for his birthday."

When he laughed out loud, DeVries reminded Turrin of a braying jackass. Wincing, Leo forced a grin and waited for the moment of hilarity to pass.

"So what's the deal?" he asked when he could get a word in edgewise. "Is the guy already out, or what?"

DeVries dismissed the question with a shrug.

"Nobody's briefed me on the disposition yet. They'll have to wade through all this shit before they file, I guess, but if the bastard owed me money, I'd collect it while I could."

The braying laugh, abrading Leo's nerves like fingernails across a blackboard, was suddenly cut short as Hal Brognola crossed the threshold.

"Hey, I'll catch you later," DeVries mumbled, steering wide around Brognola, eyes averted as he navigated toward the door.

They stood alone in the reception room, deserted by the vultures now, communicating silently with eyes that never wavered. It was Hal who broke the ice a moment later.

"Perfect timing."

"Hal..."

Brognola raised a hand to silence him.

"In here," he said and nodded toward the inner office. Leo followed on his heels and closed the door behind himself.

"We might not be alone," Brognola told him simply, stooping to check beneath his desk, the swivel chair. There was no way to search a modern office thoroughly with naked eyes and empty hands, but they spent twenty minutes going through the basics, checking furniture and fixtures, lifting artwork off the walls and rummaging through drawers. Hal unscrewed the earpiece and the mouthpiece of his telephone receiver, slipped the base plate off and poked around inside before he satisfied himself that it had not been tampered with. He riffled through the sparse remaining files while Leo checked the heater ducts. When they were finished, Hal sat down behind his desk and motioned Leo toward a chair directly opposite.

"I'm in a bind," he said, presenting Turrin with the understatement of the year. "Somebody's got me marked as a mole."

"If I can help..."

"We'll get to that," Brognola interrupted. "First, I want to put you in the picture. When you've heard me out, if you're inclined to take the chance, at least we'll both be going into it with open eyes."

"All right."

There was no doubt in Turrin's mind that he would offer any possible assistance, but he recognized Brognola's need to fill him in before accepting a commitment. Hal would no more let a friend expose himself to unknown risks than he would sell out his own department. It was unthinkable.

In short, clipped sentences, the big Fed told him everything. The disappearance of his wife and children. The communication from their obvious abductors. His return to Washington, the Oval Office meeting, and his confrontation with the manufactured "evidence" of personal corruption. He was waiting for another call at noon, some thirteen minutes off.

"What have they got, exactly? Did you see this so-called evidence?"

Brognola shook his head. "I'll have to let the lawyers hassle that," he said. "Right now my top priority is Helen and the kids."

"It's got to be connected," Turrin said unnecessarily.

"Of course. I just can't bother with the job right now."

"Were you suspended?"

"Not exactly. I'm on holiday, through Monday."

"Well, that's something, anyway."

"It's all I'm going to get."

"Okay, so let's run down a list of possibles."

"I've got till Monday, Leo, not till New Year's."

"We can make a start..."

"No time," Brognola said again. "I'm going to hear the bastards out and play along with them until I find an opening."

"It's too damned risky."

"Well, I hadn't planned on going in alone."

"All right. Just tell me when and where. We'll roll these scumbags up and shake 'em till they rattle."

Hal was watching him through narrowed eyes. "Not us," he said. "I'm looking for a specialist."

Turrin had been half expecting it, and still the statement, voiced aloud, had come as a surprise.

"Well, sure... I mean, you've got some top-notch talent in the program."

"I can't touch it, Leo. Ground rules. I've got sixty hours, tops, and I'm required to go outside the house."

The answer had been looking at him all along, but Turrin was reluctant to suggest the only viable alternative. He waited for Brognola, letting him take the initiative.

"I need to get in touch with Striker."

Once spoken, it became a problem they could deal with logically, deliberately. Both men were fully conscious of the risks involved, the dangers to themselves, the precious hostages and to the man they called Striker. Turrin knew that he could walk out now, refuse to put his future on the line, and no one — least of all Brognola — would think less of him for his decision.

No one but himself.

The former capo mafioso understood his duty, as defined by printed guidelines, and he also recognized a deeper obligation to the man who faced him across the empty desk. Brognola had defended Turrin countless times, had saved his ass from the congressional investigators and from leaks inside his own department, keeping him alive while he fulfilled his mission in the syndicate. When he emerged to claim his rightful place at Justice, Hal had been his sponsor, fending off the others who believed that Leo was a risk, his motives suspect by the very fact that he had spent so many years inside the Mob. He owed Brognola everything he had, and short of sacrificing Angelina or the kids, he was prepared to pay that debt with any means at his disposal.

"I can make some calls," he said.

Brognola didn't answer for a moment. He was staring at the clock, as if he could advance the minute hand to noon by force of will alone. When Leo checked his watch, he found that five minutes were left before the scheduled call.

"I'd better get to work on it," he said, already on his feet before Brognola could respond.

"Take care."

The big Fed's voice was soft and faraway, the normal gruffness tempered by a sorrow that could never be described at secondhand. It had to be experienced — as Leo had experienced it for himself in Pittsfield during Bolan's early war against the Mafia. A faction of the Marinello Family had taken Angelina from him, looking for a handle that would make him crawl, ideally blow his cover and reveal Turrin as a mole. For a brief eternity he had been faced with the destruction of his life, the loss of everything he cared for in the world. There had been nothing Hal could do from Washington, no magic tricks tucked up his sleeves. The mission had required a specialist.

Like now.

A hellfire warrior who could bend the rules or break them as he chose, with the impunity of one who stands outside the system, looking in. A dedicated soldier who was ready to commit himself and risk his life on behalf of others without thinking twice about the costs.

Their situations were identical, and Turrin knew that Hal had used up his other options before he mentioned Striker's name. The guy was like a frigging doomsday weapon — you could not control him; you could only point him in the general direction, turn him loose and pray. There were no guarantees that he would finally succeed, no guarantees of any kind — except that he would do his best, use every means at his disposal to prevent unnecessary harm from coming to the innocent, to any noncombatant.