Death was coming. It had been, of course, since the day he was born on his parents' farm outside Stoneville, South Dakota, in 1920, but now it was upon him. Death had its bony fingers wrapped around his small, frail body and wasn't about to let go. It was the natural progression of things. A beginning and an end. Surprisingly, this didn't bother him. He had lived a long life. Much longer than most. He had seen and heard things that very few others had. The sacrifices he had made for his country would be remembered by few, and again this didn't bother him. His life had been lived in the shadows, and as the Information Age exploded, he had grown increasingly comfortable with his relative anonymity.

Thomas Stansfield was a private man, as was fitting for the person who ran the world's most famous, and infamous, intelligence agency. He had chosen to die at home surrounded by his daughters and grandchildren. The doctors had tried to talk him into surgery and radiation therapy, but Stansfield declined. The best they could give him at his age was another year or two, and that was if he survived having three-quarters of his liver removed. There was a good chance that he would never recover from the surgery. His wife, Sara, had passed away four years ago, and Thomas missed her dearly. Her death, more than anything, probably contributed to his decision not to fight. What was the sense? He had lived seventy-nine good years and was for the most part alone. The other big reason not to fight was his daughters. He did not want them to have to put their lives on hold for two years to watch him gradually wither away: If he were younger, things might be different, but he was tired. He wanted to die in privacy, with his mind and dignity intact.

A hospital bed had been moved into the study on the first floor of his home. The modest three-thousand-square-foot colonial sat on two wooded acres overlooking the Potomac River. In the spring, they could sit in the backyard and watch the water rush over Stublefield Falls, but now, in the fall, it was barely a trickle. Stansfield sat in his favorite leather chair, and looked admiringly out the window at the fall colors. How appropriate it was to die this time of the year, he thought. At least, Robert Frost would think so.

Sally, his eldest daughter, was in town from San Diego taking care of him. His other daughter, Sue, was to arrive on Wednesday from Sacramento. Their plan was to stay with him to the end. The five grandkids had been out two weekends before to spend some time with Grandpa before he was too far gone to enjoy it. The oldest was seventeen, and the youngest was five. The weekend had been painful but necessary. There had been a lot of tears.

Today Sally had helped him get dressed for a visitor. He was wearing a pair of tan slacks, a light blue button-down, and a gray cardigan. His white hair was parted to the side and combed back. Iowa was slugging it out with Penn State on the TV; but Stansfield wasn't paying attention to the game. He was worried about a phone call he had received. He wanted to put everything in order before he passed. The grandkids were taken care of. Trusts had been set up for college and grad school if they chose, but nothing else. There would be no sports cars or boats, no toys to make them weak. The house would easily fetch a million, not bad considering he had bought the land for two thousand dollars back in 1952. And there were other investments, of course. A person would have had to be a fool not to have capitalized on some of the information that had come across Thomas Stansfield's desk over the years. The daughters would get the bulk of the estate, and he didn't worry for a moment about whether the money would be used wisely.

What did worry Thomas Stansfield was the CIA. Things were not in order, and they were beginning to show signs of being worse than he had thought. No one outside Stansfield's family had been allowed to look behind the curtain he had pulled across his life. There was one exception, and that was Irene Kennedy. Stansfield thought of her as his third daughter. She was, he believed, the most talented and crucially important person working for the CIA. This made her a big target for a lot of people, and Stansfield was worried that when he was gone, his enemies would do their best to destroy her.

SALLY ESCORTED DR. Kennedy into the study and then closed the door on her way out. Irene approached Stansfield's chair and kissed him on the forehead. This was a new thing for them, since the cancer had been discovered. At the time, they had quietly mused over death's habit of bringing one's true feelings to the surface. Kennedy took the chair across from her boss and asked him how he felt.

«Pretty good, but let's not worry about me. There's nothing we can do about that.» Stansfield studied her for a moment and asked, «What's wrong?»

Kennedy wasn't exactly sure where to start, and after a brief hesitation, she said, «The operation we were running in Germany last night…»

«Yes.»

«Things didn't go exactly as planned.»

«How bad?»

«Mitch hasn't reported in yet, and the BKA has put out a continentwide bulletin on three individuals they believe are responsible for the death of Count Hagenmiller.»

«This was expected.»

«Yes, it was, but some other things have transpired.» Kennedy went on to describe the fire and the strange piece of information they had intercepted from the BKA – that it appeared Rapp left the mansion after the Hoffmans and had to steal a car to get away.

When she was done, Stansfield said, «It sounds to me as if something didn't go according to plan. My guess is that Mitch told the Hoffmans to make a break for it and he'd lay down a diversion.»

Kennedy nodded. «That's what I thought at first, but Mitch hasn't checked in, and I just recently received a message- from the Hoffmans. They» – Kennedy shook her head – «said the target was achieved, but an asset was lost in the process.»

«Mitch.»

With a sad, slow nod, Kennedy said, «Yes.»

«What about this third individual the BKA has on tape?»

«We haven't been able to get any further information on that.»

Stansfield sat back, a little surprised. He would have thought Irene fully capable of verifying the report through several channels. «Why?»

«There's another problem that has arisen. When I arrived at the CTC this morning, Tom Lee informed me that Secretary Midleton was looking for me.»

This caused the frail Stansfield to sit up a bit in his chair. The secretary of state had no business calling his director of counterterrorism without going through him first. «What did Mr. Midleton want?»

«It appears he and the count shared the same passion: fine art.»

Stansfield looked out the window, making the connection. He knew that the arrogant secretary of state was very proud of his private art collection. Stansfield remembered a profile that had been done by the New Yorker discussing the renaissance man's fifty-million-dollar collection. «Why would he call you?»

«The message said that he knows we had the count under observation and that any information we can give the German authorities would be greatly appreciated.»

«How would he know we had the count under surveillance?»

Kennedy shrugged at the obvious. «It would appear we have a leak.»

«Or a mole.»

«Yes.»

«Any ideas?»

«Not at the moment, but Tom Lee was as disturbed by it as me. He said he was going to look into it.»

«Can you trust Mr. Lee?» asked an always cautious Stansfield.

«I think so, but I will, of course, do some checking on my own.»

«Good. Have you told the president about Mitch?»

«No. I'd like to know exactly what's going on first.»

«I agree. I assume you haven't used our contacts at the BKA because you don't want to draw any more attention to the CTC.»