• 3:27 A.M.

"Victor," Richard's soft and reassuring voice came through his headset.

"Yes, Richard."

"Are you in place?"

"Yes, Richard."

"Is everything alright? Are you warm enough? Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes, Richard."

"Any questions?"

"No, Richard."

"Then, good luck."

"Thank you, Richard. Everything will be fine."

"I know that, Victor. I know that very well."

Victor heard Richard click off, and he settled back into the leaves. He was at ease, even happy. The dark forest and night sounds around him, even the dewy dampness that had settled on everything, felt natural and inviting, as if this was a part of the world-so far away and so very different from the desert scrub of Arizona where he had spent his entire life until they'd found him-where he truly belonged.

• 3:30 A.M.

A moth fluttered down and touched his face, and Victor reached up gently and brushed it away, careful not to harm it. He cared deeply for living things and had all his life, and all his life he had been chastised for it; too sensitive, too emotional, a crybaby, a mama's boy he'd been called, even by his own family. The names hurt deeply and suggested a weakness a male should not have, and as a teenager and later as an adult he had tried to deliberately bury them. Fistfights and trouble in school; later, bar fights and assault-and-battery charges, now and again minor jail time. He didn't care-he was as tough and masculine as any situation called for, as tough and masculine as he needed to be. It was a pretense Richard had picked up on after their first few telephone conversations.

In doing so he had made Victor realize there was nothing wrong with how he felt and that those same emotions were shared by hundreds, thousands, even millions of other men. Certainly it was hurtful when people close to him criticized him for it, but it was nothing compared to the things others were doing in the world. Richard was talking about people who saw little value in life at all except as it furthered their own ends. Terrorists, killers, whom the world paid lip-service to fighting but with few exceptions had little effect in stopping, even with the use of massive armies.

It was then Richard had asked if he would be interested in joining an underground movement of freedom fighters dedicated to protecting the American homeland by defeating these people and their organizations around the world, and he had agreed immediately.

The man he had killed coming off the train in Washington, Richard had told him several days beforehand, was a young baseball player from Central America. But he was also a member of a terrorist organization setting up sleeper cells in the corridor between Washington and New York and was leaving the country the next day to report to his handlers in Venezuela to arrange to bring more of their people and money into the U.S. The authorities knew about it but, because of their bureaucratic system with its layers of authority, had done nothing to stop him. It was necessary something be done before he left the country, and Victor had.

It was the same in Madrid when Richard had insisted that he walk through Atocha Station and picture the horror the terrorists had done there. It was an act of terror that should have, and could have, been stopped long before it happened.

Following the president both in Berlin and Madrid had been a simple exercise. Richard wanted him to see firsthand how easy it was for anyone to get close enough to kill him despite the heavy security. It was why he was here in Chantilly now, not just to test his shooting skills but also because the jockeys were part of a terrorist faction setting up in northern France. The idea was to take them down, little by little, one by one and by whatever means. This was war, and if no one else could fight it properly, people like Victor and Richard would.

So far Victor had played his part well. They valued his skills and dedication and told him so. To him that was most important of all.

• 3:35 A.M.

Victor put out a gloved hand and drew the M14 closer, letting it rest comfortably in the crook of his arm. He had only to rest and wait until the horsemen came by just before seven.

• BARCELONA, POLICE HEADQUARTERS, 3:40 A.M.

In a storm of flying dust and a deafening roar the U.S. Army Chinook helicopter touched down on the Guàrdia Urbana helipad. Instantly the engines shut down and the doors slid open. Seconds later Hap Daniels, his deputy Bill Strait, Jake Lowe, Dr. James Marshall, and four other Secret Service agents jumped out. Ducking beneath still churning rotors they went to three unmarked cars, their doors open, waiting on the edge of the tarmac. In an instant the men were inside, the doors slammed closed, and the cars screeched off.

• RIVOLI JARDÍN HOTEL, 3:45 A.M.

Music and traffic filled the streets as if it were midday. Revelers came and went through the hotel's two main entrances as if the Rivoli Jardín were hosting a rolling citywide party, the center of which was the music pulsating from the Jamboree Club at the end of the lobby.

So far none of the six Spanish GEO special agents posted in the unmarked cars outside had reported seeing either the man identified as Nicholas Marten or his balding "uncle" leave the building. Nor had the assets on the roof of the building across the street seen any activity inside the drawn curtains of a darkened room 408. The only illumination coming from it at all seemed to emanate from a dim hallway or bathroom light that had been on since they arrived. Nothing had changed either for the CIA assets acting as Barcelona police detectives Tarrega and Leon stationed in the corridor outside room 408. The same was true for the female asset calling herself Iuliana Ortega on watch in the lobby. Bottom line, if their two "men of interest" had been in the room when they arrived, they were still there now.

The Jamboree Club was smoky and sweltering, packed wall to wall with mostly young and sweaty dancers. In the last hours the Cuban jazz had given way to Brazilian bossa nova and then to Argentine jazz.

"Vino blanco otra vez, por favor." White wine again, please. "Bob," as President Harris had introduced himself to Demi, smiled at the young waitress and motioned for her to refill their drinks, then watched as she twisted away through the dancers toward the bar.

At 3:07 A.M. Demi had alerted them to the police downstairs. By 3:08 Marten had shoved his electronic notebook, tape recorder, toiletries, and other belongings into his traveling bag and thrown it over his shoulder. At 3:09 they were out the door and down the fire stairs at the end of the corridor. At 3:11 they entered the hotel lobby from a side hallway near the Jamboree Club and stopped.

"There," Demi said, pointing out Iuliana Ortega, the woman she had seen enter the hotel with the two men at the same time she had. She was sitting in an overstuffed lobby chair with a clear view of both the front entrance from the street and the elevators as if she were waiting for someone.

"Do you see the two men that were with her?" Bob asked.

"No."

The president looked at Marten. "They aren't police," he said quietly, then nodded toward the Jamboree Club. "It's as good a place as any."

At 3:13 they found a table and sat down. Quickly the waitress arrived and the president ordered white wine for the three of them. As the waitress left he took a napkin and made a note on it, then folded it and looked at Marten and Demi.

"By now they will have learned which room Mr. Marten is in and where they assume I am, since the clerk who let me in will have told them. The men will have gone up and be covering it, but they won't go in until the big guns arrive."

Marten leaned in, "There's a side entrance on the far side of the lobby, why don't we just go out that way?"