"That's bullshit, Tom." The president looked around the room, stopping at each of the eight men in turn. "Congressman Parsons was onto something, wasn't he? It had to do with his subcommittee looking into the supposedly dead South African bioweapons program and the questioning of this Dr. Merriman Foxx. I'm guessing that that program or some offshoot of it is not dead at all. And whatever it is, somehow we, or rather you and your 'friends of trust,' are involved with it.

"You thought Mike Parsons as a strong conservative would go along with it but he wouldn't and threatened to bring it to me if you didn't back away from it. The result was you killed him."

There was a long silence and then National Security Adviser Marshall spoke. "He couldn't be trusted, Mr. President."

The president suddenly became furious. "And his son and everyone else on board that plane?"

"It was a matter of national security." Marshall was cold and unemotional.

"His wife, too."

"Who knows what he might have told her? Her doctor gave her a little something to take care of the problem."

"Dr. Stephenson."

"Yes, sir."

"Her reward was that somebody cut off her head."

"Unfortunately she became frightened afterward and that put her into the category of 'liability' and she had to be terminated."

The president's eyes left Marshall and swung to the others. Every one of them stared back at him in silence. And that included his long-time political adviser and close friend, Jake Lowe, and his dear host, Evan Byrd.

"Jesus, God," he breathed. He had no friends here, none at all. Again he heard Jake Lowe's words. Before… our people were not yet in place. Now they are.

And before they didn't have the weapons they needed.

Now they did.

"What you are planning is some kind of biological warfare. Against what, the Muslim states?"

"Mr. President." Vice President Hamilton Rogers crossed in front of Marshall. Rogers was blond with dark savage eyes, ten years his junior and far more conservative. The truth was he had fought against having him as a running mate, feeling he was much too conservative, but had finally given in to the pressure of Lowe who had convinced him Rogers was the man to push the vote over. Now he knew why. Rogers was one of them. Whoever they were.

"For the security of the nation we are asking you to authorize the physical elimination of the president of France and the chancellor of Germany. Please give us that authorization."

In that instant President Harris knew that if he didn't go along with everything they wanted, they would kill him. And then, by law, the vice president would become president and authorize the killings anyway. Looking at them-who they were, the offices they represented, the vast connections they had-he realized that from top to bottom there was no one he dared trust. No one. Even his private secretary, who had been with him for nearly twenty years, had to be suspect. The same with his Secret Service protectors, and that included his SAIC, Hap Daniels. What he needed was time to find some way out, to find some way to stop them and whatever horrifying Armageddon they were planning.

"Where and when do you want to carry out this 'removal'?" he said.

"At the NATO meeting in Warsaw. When the whole world is watching."

"I see," the president nodded, then once again looked around the room at the faces of the men watching him, waiting for his answer.

"I need time to think about it," he said quietly. "Now, I'm tired. I would like to go back to my hotel and get some sleep."

• MADRID, HOTEL RITZ, 1:25 A.M.

Jake Lowe took the call in the dark in his private fourth floor suite.

"Yes," he said, moving up on an elbow in bed, then instinctively glancing around, making sure he was alone.

"I have a mosquito that needs swatting," a middle-aged female voice said calmly. "His name is Nicholas Marten. He pretended to be an associate of Representative Baker. How he found us I don't know. He was asking very 'enlightened' questions. He was also with Mrs. Parsons in the last hours before she died."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"I would like to find out who he works for, what he knows, and if anyone is working with him before we call in an exterminator."

"Where is he now?" Lowe asked.

"Malta. The Castille Hotel."

"When are you leaving?"

"Shortly."

"I'll be in touch."

There was a click as the caller hung up. Lowe hesitated for a moment, then turned on the bedside lamp and picked up his BlackBerry. The voice had come over a secure phone and had been altered and then digitally scrambled, making it virtually impossible to identify, let alone trace. Only one person had the equipment and the necessary code to use it-Merriman Foxx.

• VALLETTA, MALTA, BRITISH HOTEL, 6:45 A.M

"Come back in five minutes!" Demi Picard barked in answer to a knock on her door. She fastened the last buttons of a blue-striped man-tailored shirt, slipped a woven leather belt through her tan slacks, then, one, two, clipped on a pair of small gold hoop earrings.

The knock came again. She sighed in annoyance, then went to the door.

"I told you to come back in-" she said as she opened it, then stopped in mid-sentence.

Nicholas Marten stood there.

"I was expecting a porter," she snapped in the same infuriated tone she'd used the night before. Immediately she turned and went back into the room to take a blue blazer from the closet. Her all-but-packed suitcase was open on the bed, her camera gear in a hard case next to it.

"You're leaving."

"Like everyone else, thanks to you."

"Me?"

She glared at him. "Yes."

"Who is everyone?"

"Dr. Foxx left early this morning. So did Reverend Beck a short while later. So did Cristina."

"For where?"

"I don't know. I found a note under my door from Reverend Beck saying he had been called away unexpectedly and that our trip to the Balkans had been canceled."

"What about the other two?"

"I called Cristina's room to see what she knew about it and was told she'd already checked out." Abruptly Demi went into the bathroom. A moment later she came back with a small bag of toiletries. "I made the same call to Foxx's apartment. His housekeeper said he'd gone as well." She put the toiletry bag in her suitcase and deliberately zipped it closed.

"And you have no idea where any of them went."

She glared at him again. "No."

"Porter." A man in hotel uniform stood in the open doorway.

"Just the one bag," she said, then pulled on her blazer, threw her purse over her shoulder, and picked up her camera case. "Good-bye, Mr. Marten," she said, and with that brushed past him and walked out.

"Hey!" Marten said and went after her.

Forty seconds later Demi, Marten, and the porter rode the elevator down in silence. Demi stared at the floor. Marten stared at her. A full minute, two elevator stops, and three hotel guests later, the elevator stopped. The door opened and Demi led the group toward the main lobby. Immediately Marten fell into lockstep with her.

"What did you mean last night when you said to stay away before I 'ruined everything'?"

"Don't you think it's a little late for explanations?"

"Okay, let's change the subject and try 'the witches.' "

Demi ignored him and kept walking. They reached the lobby and started across it.

"What witches? What were you talking about?"

Still she ignored him. They went three strides farther then Marten took her arm and pulled her around. "Please, it's important."

"What do you think you're doing?" she bristled.

"For one thing, asking you to be civil."