But our investigation led us into the middle of a very sensitive and vital CIA operation, and I was dragged into this same building and had my arm nearly twisted out of its socket. The CIA wanted to protect its operation, I wanted everybody involved in my friend's death to pay They thought they had a deal, I didn't, and everybody I wanted to pay, paid. Happy ending, right?

Right-there are no happy endings with the federal government. The CIA was impressed with my cleverness, my deviousness, and particularly my ruthlessness. My Army boss was not, notes were compared, and here I am.

In short, Clapper got what he wanted-me out of his hair.

The CIA got what it wanted-an employee on somebody else's dime. And nobody cared to ask what I wanted. But there are worse places to be, I guess. At least the work seems fairly interesting.

Also, I got the girl, Janet Morrow, and for her role in this affair, she got to be a big celeb up in Beantown and was elevated to deputy district attorney, so her life and mine have gotten quite busy. She now has to oversee the combined caseloads of some thirty criminal attorneys. I supervise only myself, but that's an exhausting and full-time job. So we see each other on the occasional weekend, and we've both got a foot on the brake, because we know this is no way to build a relationship.

Also, I ended up with a full rack of Brooks Brothers suits and sports coats-courtesy of the law firm-so I look richer and classier than I am, and I blend in really well at the CIA.

Anyway, now a CIA employee awaited at the front entrance, a suave and polite gentleman who even opened the door for Agent Margold, smiled at us both, and said, "Hi. I'm John, from the Director's office."

Margold said, "Hi, John."

And he paused for a moment, until I also said, "Hi, John." How did I get involved with these people?

He nodded. "I hate to rush you, but things are chaotic topside." But John was also curious and he asked me, "How bad was it?"

"How bad was what?"

"The killings. You just left the Belknap murder site, right?"

"Well… how are things over here, John?"

"Hectic. Everybody's bouncing off walls, rumors flying. So what'd you see?"

"Dead people."

"Yeah, right. How'd they get it? Shot?… Gassed?… What?"

I looked John in the eye and said, "Six good people are dead and it is absolutely none of your fucking business how."

Margold smiled.

John scowled. But he swiftly cleared Margold and me through security and then escorted us through the lobby to the elevator, up three floors, and down a hallway and into an empty conference room.

"Wait here," he informed us. "The bosses are meeting in the Director's office. The other participants should all be here shortly."

He departed without saying who they were, which was annoying and probably intended to be. I have that effect on people. But the Director John referred to was James Peterson-head tuna of my food chain. And you can bet that what was happening upstairs in his airy top-floor suite was a food fight, though the particular genre of this game was dodge the banana. To continue with the bad food metaphors, Belknap's assassination was the hot potato the bosses were flipping from lap to lap, hoping it would stick to somebody else's department, service, agency, bureau, or whatever. For sure, everybody was going to get a piece of the action, but in D.C. it is called getting The Lead. When things go south, as so often happens, The Lead has the center seat at the congressional inquest and everyone else shovels the crap in their in-box. I smiled at Margold. "Five bucks says it's yours."

She shrugged but did not take my bait. After a moment she did say, "Tell you what. Let's make a deal."

"Bad idea."

"Why?"

"Because you have nothing I want."

"Not a trade. A deal."

"Go on."

"I'll watch your ass if you watch mine."

"It takes a deal to watch your ass?"

She stared at me, and I wondered for a moment if I was about to be reported to the PC Bureau for Impure Ribaldry or something. But she said, "Come on, Drummond, we could be good together."

"Good at what together?"

She smiled. "Well, you strike me as a guy who knows how it works. You keep me apprised of what's happening here, and I'll fill you in on our side. I'm not looking for glory or credit. I just want to survive this thing."

Could I trust her? Absolutely not. But in these situations you don't say no, you play all sides against the middle. I said, "You've already seen how good I am. How good are you?"

"I'm… well, I'm a little out of my depth on this one."

"There is no depth on this one"

She held out her hand. "Jennie, from Columbus, Ohio, thirty-five years old… Ohio State undergrad, psych major, master's and Ph. D. in Applied Psychology from Johns Hopkins."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm very smart." She smiled again. "Eleven years on the job. .. three in Detroit working the bricks, three more years on the bricks in the Big Apple… the last five I worked in the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico as an instructor and profiler."

"Is that why you're involved in this case? Profiling?"

"No. Three months ago, I was promoted to Senior Agent in Charge, or SAC, for National Security, at the D.C. Metro Office." She looked to see if I had any further questions. I didn't, and she said, "Now, you. Quickly."

But before I could reply, the door burst open and a line of people began filing in, two women, the rest men. Everybody had their game faces on, like they had all been airbrushed of emotions, self-doubts, or confusion. Facial expressions aside, you knew their sphincters were the size of pinheads.

First to enter were the heavies, Mark Townsend, Agent Margold's esteemed Director, and behind him the aforementioned James Peterson, ringmaster of this gathering of egos.

I took a moment to examine these two. Townsend was tall and slender, stringy-looking actually, with a long narrow face, a gray brush cut, and an odd, wide-eyed, unblinking stare. Peterson was short, chubby, dark-haired, blubbery-lipped, and a bit sanguine in appearance.

Actually they looked a little like Abbot and Costello, though neither man was to be taken lightly, and you knew at that moment neither was in a jovial, lackadaisical, or chummy mood.

Townsend, to his credit, was not a political hack, but had actually scaled the ranks on hard work, merit, and performance. Thus he personified the full corporate ethos of his Bureau: incorruptible, humorless, a stickler for details and punctuality, lacking compassion or forgiveness for sins, oversights, or errors. Understandably, the White House and the Bureau field hands were terrified of Mark Townsend. This had something to do with Agent Margold's bitchiness that morning, I surmised.

Peterson was more relaxed, more personable, more reasonable, and certainly more amiable. But he had spent six years as the incumbent honcho of the Agency, a near record of survival, so his charm was illusory and his footwork was mythical. Mr. Peterson did not evoke terror, but he did promote coyness and a healthy sense of insecurity.

Anyway, I was so distracted by the entrance of Les Grand Pooh-Bahs that I entirely failed to notice the gent who followed three steps behind them, before Margold elbowed me and whispered, "My boss."

So I looked, and it turned out I knew the guy, George Meany.

In fact, George was the former fiancй of my current squeeze, Janet Morrow, and he and I had worked together on the murder of her sister Lisa Morrow. More precisely, George Meany had been conducting the government cover-up, so "worked together" is a term with interesting and generously loose ends. Also, I had gotten in the way of his attempt to rekindle his romance and passion with the lovely Miss Morrow. I had the impression George held some resentment about that.