Just the thought of Cameron caused Clark to grimace. He had recruited him personally. As the trusted chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, there wasn't much that Clark couldn't get his hands on. He had chosen Peter Cameron after several years of studying the mans every move. Cameron was a twenty-four-year veteran of the CIA's Office of Security; the CIA's own little private Gestapo. One of the Office of Security's chief jobs was to watch the watchers, to spy on the spies.

Cameron knew things and had contacts that the senator was more than willing to compensate him for. After more than two decades of mediocre pay, Cameron leapt at the chance to become a well-paid mercenary for the senator. It had been Camerons idea to kill Rapp and leave him in Germany for all the world to discover.

Despite all of his suppressed anger Clark had to be honest with himself. The plan had been a bold one. Clark had shadowed Rapp and Kennedy and intercepted the orders. Cameron had used his contacts inside the Agency and paid them well. Clark was sure of that, for he had been the one handing over the suitcases of cash. If the plan had succeeded, Chairman Hank Clark would have presided over the most sensational hearings this country had seen in decades. The facts Clark was prepared to slowly unearth would have destroyed President Hayes, and wounded the Democratic Party for at least the next two general elections. It would have allowed the senator to virtually hand pick the next director of the CIA. A director who would be more than willing to open up the treasure trove of secrets formerly known as Echelon. And more important than all of it, the entire affair would have allowed Hank Clark to launch his bid for the White House. He would have had the money from Ellis and his associates in Silicon Valley, the nationally televised committee hearings would have given him the all important face time and name recognition, and his party would have been beholden to him for bringing the Democrats to their knees. It was a lock. They had come so close. If only Peter Cameron had succeeded.

Clark had failed to listen to Freidman and he was now paying for it. When the Germany operation blew up in their faces Cameron assured Clark that he could handle the CIA's top killer, Clark had given him one more chance, and Cameron had screwed that up too. Disguised as FBI special agents, Cameron and his cronies had picked up Anna Rielly and brought her to Rapp's house. Once again, Cameron underestimated his target, and before the night was over more men had died at Rapp's hands.

That was when the senator had decided to cut his losses. In a brief coded e-mail to Freidman, Clark had arranged for Peter Cameron to meet his maker. Twenty-four hours later Cameron was dead and Mitch Rapp had run into a brick wall in his pursuit to find out who had ordered the hit on him in Germany.

If Clark had learned anything from his experiences of the last month it was to be extra careful. The lure of ultimate power had caused him to make some poor decisions, and he was not going to let it happen again. He would heed the advice of Ben Freidman, and from this point forward he would be more careful.

Leaning back in his chair, Freidman gestured with his hands, telling his friend to unload his burden. "How can I help?"

Clark hesitated briefly and then said, "The woman you sent to take care of Cameron?"

Freidman raised an eyebrow."I never told you it was a woman."

"The CIA has tapes of her."

"When you say the CIA, who do you mean specifically?"

"Kennedy."

"What do the tapes show?"

"They show her coming and going."

Freidman noticed that Clark seemed very disturbed by this bit of news. Always with one eye on the end game, he decided to play the whole thing off as unimportant. "She's a pro. I doubt they will find anything on those tapes."

"But what if they do?"

Freidman acted as if he were giving the senator's words serious concern. He scratched one of his muscular forearms and said,"I'm not worried. Even if they got lucky and found her, they would never get anything from her."

The thought of the CIA finding the woman caused Clark's chest to tighten. He reminded himself to keep breathing and stay calm. "I'm worried," he said flatly. "I would like this potential problem to go away. No loose ends. Rapp got close enough last time."

Freidman grimaced at Clark's words as if he were wrestling with an idea he didn't like. "This woman is very good. One of my best. I have put years and years of training into her."

"Five hundred thousand."

Freidman liked the number. It was easily double what he had expected. That was another thing he really liked about Clark and his cowboy attitude. There was no dicking around when it came to money. After considering the issue for a bit longer, Freidman nodded and said, "I'll take care of it, but it will have to wait until I return. This is too delicate to handle from America."

Clark felt as if a heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Relieved, he asked, "When are you heading back?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

Smiling, Clark said, "Ben, I can't thank you enough for coming all this way. I really appreciate it. I should have listened to you when you warned me to steer clear of Rapp."

"Don't worry." Freidman shrugged off the comment as if it were trivial. "You have been a good ally, and when you are President," the director of the Mossad raised his glass in a toast, "you will be an even better ally."

Maryland, Monday evening

The stars were bright even with the fire. Anna had given him a portable wrought iron fire kettle for his birthday, and Mitch had put it to good use. The temperature was around fifty and dropping. Rapp sat on the deck of his small cottage overlooking the Chesapeake. A slight breeze was coming in off the water, just enough to keep the smoke from billowing into his face. He was dressed warmly in jeans, a beat up sweatshirt and an old brown Carhartt jacket. He was sitting all the way back in a white Adirondack chair with his feet up on a footstool that was barely a foot from the flames. Shirley was lying at his side quietly. All he needed to make the night perfect was for Anna to get home.

Ten minutes later he got his wish, or at least he hoped. Shirley heard the car first. Her head snapped up, which alerted Rapp. He listened carefully to the sounds with his eyes closed for a moment. The dog leapt to her feet and scampered off the deck and around the side of the house to investigate. Rapp continued to listen while his left hand slid between the folds of his jacket in search of the cold hard comfort of his 9mm Beretta. The harsh reality of Rapp's life was that people wanted to kill him. During the first ten years of his career in counterterrorism he could always count on coming home and letting his guard down. His job required it. The weeks and sometimes months that he spent abroad on missions was absolutely draining. The sheer amount of information he had to memorize for a mission was sometimes overwhelming: maps, codes, specifics on his target, the local authorities, political groups and competing terrorist groups. It all had to be memorized, and that was before being inserted.

Once he was in the country it got even worse. Without letting others see, he had to be hyper aware of everything that occurred around him. Imagine walking through a sea of people in the vibrant city of Damascus. Not only did he have to track those he had been sent to kill, but he also had to constantly look over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. This was no easy task in a part of the world where ninety plus percent of the men had black hair and mustaches and most of the women were covered from head to toe in the traditional Muslim wrap. If his true identity were discovered he would be painfully stoned to death without a tribunal, and that would be the easy way out. If he were caught by the police, or a foreign intelligence service, he would be brutally tortured. And not just slapped around and screamed at. This was the Middle East. No part of his body would remain un violated He would be forced to endure the most inhumane conditions imaginable. Rapp regained control of his wandering imagination and pushed the horrible thoughts from his mind.