Marten shaded his eyes from the glare of the high overcast and looked up. Nearby were several old two-story buildings. On the roof of each were two two-man sniper teams, Polish or U.S. Secret Service or maybe NATO, he couldn't tell. Security everywhere was immense.

He turned back and walked on. As he did, a troubling thought passed over him. From what he could see the dais was set up in three distinct levels: the first, the podium where the president of Poland would introduce President Harris; the second, a raised level immediately behind it where the president, the chancellor of Germany, and the president of France would stand, and then a third level behind that, where the rest of the NATO representatives would stand before a sea of waving flags of the twenty-six member nations.

All to the good, except for one thing. There would be a short period of time when the president of Poland made his opening remarks and then introduced President Harris. Harris, the chancellor of Germany, and the president of France would be standing shoulder to shoulder in a perfect line behind him. That perfect line was what troubled him because it brought to mind the single-shot killings of the two jockeys at the Chantilly race track outside Paris just days before.

The president had told him the Covenant had planned to assassinate the chancellor of Germany and the president of France at the NATO meeting. More chillingly, he remembered the president's harsh words after Foxx's death-His plan isn't dead. Neither is theirs!

The president had survived everything to stand here today. He also knew everything. The heavy security aside, if a sharpshooter could hide in the woods and kill two jockeys on running horses from a hundred yards with one shot why couldn't he do the same here? Only instead of taking out two people he could take out three, especially if they were standing shoulder to shoulder in a line for the two or three minutes it would take for the president of Poland to make his introduction.

Marten looked quickly around. They were surrounded by old buildings and trees. And beyond those trees, more trees, like the forest bordering the Chantilly race track. Suddenly he remembered the weapon that had been used was an M14, the same type of gun used to kill the man at Union Station in Washington; both times the weapon had been left behind. The M14 was not only powerful and extremely accurate from even four hundred yards, it was probably one of the easiest weapons in the world for anyone to get hold of. Marten looked at his watch. It was 11:54.

"Jesus God," he breathed. He needed to find Hap and right now!

• 11:56 P.M.

Marten entered the Secret Service command post and alerted Bill Strait to his fears. In seconds Strait had contacted Hap, who was with the president.

Two minutes later, Hap, Marten, and Bill Strait were deep in the Secret Service command post, surrounded by a dozen agents and tech specialists and three commanders of the Polish Secret Service. They had no idea if Marten was right or, if he was, whom they might be looking for-man, woman, young, middle-aged, old-and how that person might have been able to smuggle an M14 or other rifle past the heavy security and onto the grounds. One thing was certain: whoever that person was, if they existed at all, had to have security clearance. No one else was inside the compound. Of that they were doubly certain.

• 12:00 NOON

Collecting the M14 was easy. Brought onto the grounds inside a television satellite truck and hidden among literally tons of broadcast equipment inside a long black tubular case used to carry camera tripods, it had been left in a pile of other camera equipment outside the truck. Victor's AP press pass gave him easy access to the media area and to the huge gaggle of satellite vans. The tripod case holding the rifle was to the left and near the bottom of the pile and marked with a singular piece of light blue masking tape. All Victor had to do was pick up the case and retreat to the cover of nearby trees as had been explained in the instruction packet the driver of taxicab #7121 had given him when he'd picked him up from the Warsaw train in Krakow.

• 12:10 P.M.

Inside the Secret Service command post Marten, Hap, and Bill Strait sat in front of computer screens, scanning the photo IDs of everyone who had been given security clearance and photographed upon entry-all six hundred and seventy-two of them-and that included the heads of state themselves, their families and entourages, other invited guests, every member of the security force, every member of the media.

Marten was there because Hap had asked him to be-because he had been with the president all the way from Barcelona and in that time he might have glimpsed a face in passing he would recognize here. Maybe one of Foxx's people from Montserrat or someone he had seen with Foxx or Beck or Demi in Malta or even on the television monitors inside the church at Aragon. It was a reach at best but it was better than nothing.

"Damn it," Hap snapped as the photos whirred by, "we have no idea who the hell we're looking for."

"I hope I'm wrong about the whole thing," Marten said. "I hope nothing comes up."

"Hap," Bill Strait said suddenly. "Everyone admitted to the grounds will have had a background check, otherwise they wouldn't have been given security credentials. Ninety percent were invited to the original summit in Warsaw which means the security checks on them would have been extensive. The remaining ten percent are here mainly because of the last minute change of location. Background checks on them would be less thorough simply because of the time factor."

"You're right. Let's isolate those sixty, seventy-odd people. Go over them in particular."

• 12:20 P.M.

Victor moved readily past a row of old stone buildings and toward a stand of budding trees that partially concealed a long run of what looked like original death camp concrete-post-and-barbed-wire security fence.

• 12:30 P.M.

Photograph after photograph whirred past Hap, Marten, and Bill Strait. So far they had seen no one who would give them pause, no one at all who seemed questionable or whom they might have seen before. Still, they had no choice but to keep on. In thirty minutes the president would step to the podium. If someone was out there, they had to find him.

• 12:35 P.M.

Victor moved through high grass toward a small pond twenty yards away.

"Testing. One, two. Testing. One, two."

In the distance he could hear the voice of a technical engineer testing the podium's sound system.

"Testing. One, two. Testing. One, two."

Victor smiled as he reached the edge of the pond and skirted around behind it. For some reason he had felt no emotion until now. He'd been calm all the way from Warsaw. Calm through the security check. Calm as he'd walked past the satellite trucks on the way to retrieve the tripod case with the M14 inside. Calm, even when he'd been challenged by a guard dog team; readily showing his ID, even patting one of the dogs on the head. Calm as he picked up the tripod moments later and walked away with it toward the woods. It was only now as he heard them testing the sound system that he felt his adrenaline come up. It was why he had smiled. This was not only dangerous, it was fun.