Duser approached Cameron with a new weapon in his hand. «Let's go get the girl.»

«No.» Cameron was appalled.

«Don't worry about the cops. They'll be busy enough with the first crime scene.»

«No. We're done for the day.» He rubbed his temples and muttered, «This is going to be all over the news.»

«Big deal. Reporters don't catch criminals, cops do, and we have nothing to worry about. Any evidence that might tie us to that hit just exited the other end of this warehouse.»

Cameron was tempted to ask where it was headed and then thought better of it. «Nope. We're done for the day.»

«What in the hell is wrong with you?» Duser took a step forward. «We have to keep moving while we've got surprise on our side.»

«No, we don't. For the last time… we're done for the day.»

Duser looked as if he wanted to choke someone. «Bullshit! We move now; and we keep moving. I'm telling you, man, we're going to have to deal with them sooner or later, and we're better off doing it right now.»

Cameron shook his head. He did not like the idea of further exposure. Duser sensed this might be the problem and said, «Listen, you stay here, and we'll take care of it. I want Villaume alone and on the run.»

He thought about it for a second and said, «No. Change of plans. I want Villaume, too, and the girl will lead us to him as soon as she finds out about Lukas. We keep Juarez under surveillance, and then we take both of them.»

Duser liked that idea. «Good plan. I'm sorry I got in your face. I'm just a little pumped up right now.»

It's probably all that speed you took, Cameron thought to himself. «That's all right, just make sure you don't lose Juarez. She's our only link to the Frog.»

A minute later, Cameron watched as Duser and McBride got into a Ford Taurus and left. Maybe he was having the wrong people killed. No, he thought to himself. Duser was unpolished and wild. but he could be controlled.

RAPP HAD SPENT the night on Marcus Dumond's couch with a 9-mm Beretta clutched firmly in his left hand. Any thoughts of keeping Dumond out of it were gone. Rapp had come to grips with the fact that he needed some help. One huge question remained. Did Irene Kennedy send the Hoffmans to kill him? All his instincts told him no. He'd known Irene for more than a decade, and she was the most trustworthy person in his life. But in this paranoid business, how well did you ever really know someone? Rapp wanted to believe that Kennedy had nothing to do with the mess, but it was a hard one to swallow. She was not only the most logical choice but really the only choice. She was the link between the Hoffmans and him.

The two men were sitting at Dumond's kitchen table. The apartment was a good-sized one-bedroom. The kitchen had a small breakfast nook, and the dining room had been converted into Dumond's office. An eight-foot solid oak door laid across stacked cinder blocks served as a desk. The surface was covered with three computer monitors, mouses, keyboards, scanners, and a few things Rapp had never seen. Framed posters of several X-Men Marvel comic book heroes adorned the walls. Rapp was only four years older than Dumond, but it was as if the two had been born in different centuries. Dumond was out there on the edge, riding the wild waves of cyberspace.

Dumond was shoveling Cap'n Crunch cereal into his mouth while Rapp gave him instructions. «Make sure you don't set off any alarms while you're digging around.»

Dumond looked up, a drop of milk running down his chin. «Relax, Mitch, it's what I do for a living.» Dumond's job was a fantasy come true. He was both sanctioned and paid by the United States government to spend his days hacking.

«Yeah, but this is different. This time you'll be hacking into files at Langley and the Pentagon.»

Dumond grinned, his mouth full of golden Cap'n Crunch. After he had enough of it swallowed, he said, «There ain't nothing different about that.»

Rapp eyed him for a moment. Dumond had a smart-ass streak in him a mile wide. «Don't jerk my chain, Marcus.»

«I'm not. I'm usually in the Pentagon's system at least once a day.»

«And Langley's?»

«I'm on the system.»

«But what about areas where you're not supposed to be.»

«Not every day, but I've been known to look around from time to time.»

«How often?»

«Every day.» Dumond shoved another spoonful in his mouth.

«Does Irene know that you do this?»

«No… not always.»

Rapp shook his head like a troubled father.» Marcus, I'm telling you for your own good, you'd better watch what you're doing. You open up the wrong person's file, and you might suddenly disappear.» Rapp snapped his fingers.

«How are they going to catch me when they don't even know I've been there? Hmm?»

«Marcus, I know you're good, but no one's perfect. You keep screwing around like this, and you're gonna get caught.» Dumond smiled and shook his head in disagreement. Rapp pointed his finger at the younger man and said, «Marcus, I'm not fucking around on this! You're playing a very dangerous game, and sooner or later someone is going to be on to you. And when that happens, you can kiss your ass goodbye, and I don't mean your job… I mean your life.» Rapp turned his finger on himself. «The CIA and the Pentagon, they have dozens of guys just like me. They don't know dick about computers, but they know a lot about killing people.»

Dumond heeded the warning. «All right… all right.» He got up and dumped the rest of his cereal down the garbage disposal. His appetite was suddenly gone.

A few minutes later, they left the four-plex, Dumond out the front and on his way to Langley, Rapp out the back and on his way to a storage shed in the sticks. Rapp walked eight blocks to Wisconsin Avenue and went underground, where he caught the Metro going north. He was wearing the same clothes from the night before – his baseball cap, a sweatshirt, his khakis, and blue tennis shoes. The outfit would be fine until he got to the storage locker. The train was relatively empty since most of the people were headed into the city to work, and he was headed out. Rapp's backpack was on the empty seat next to him, his arm resting on top of it. The train gently rocked as it rolled through the tunnel, and a short while later it was above ground, the bright sunlight spilling through the windows.

The only other person in the car pulled out a cell phone and started talking. Rapp's hand slid over to one of the outer pockets on the backpack and patted it. Dumond had given him a digitally encrypted phone. He told Rapp it was safe to use whenever he wanted and for as long as he wanted. But Rapp, always the skeptic, planned to use it sparingly and only for a few minutes at a time.

The desire to see Anna was overwhelming. He looked out the window as the train rolled north. He knew he shouldn't do it, but he had to. At the very least, he had to hear her voice. Rapp pulled out the phone and turned it on. He quickly punched in her work number and nervously counted the seconds. After three rings her voice mail picked up. Mitch listened to her voice and then, at the beep, he punched the end button on the phone. His spirits plummeted. It wasn't just about not finding Anna. For the first time in his life, Rapp was filled with doubt. Doubt over whether or not he should just walk away. Whether they would even let him walk away. He was so close to where he wanted to be. Why did he have to take that last mission? Why couldn't he just have called it quits? He took his baseball cap off and ran a hand over his short, bristly black hair. He knew the answer to all of those questions, but at this moment he didn't feel like admitting it. All he wanted was Anna. To put all of this behind him and live a normal life.

IRENE KENNEDY ENTERED the conference room on the seventh floor of the CIA's headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and set her notepad on the table. Lunch would have to wait. This meeting had been sprung on her. The rectangular room was adjacent to the director's office. Bland and functional, it contained a long mahogany table and a dozen leather chairs. The room was swept every morning by the Administration Directorate's Office of Security – the CIA's Gestapo, as it was affectionately referred to by some of the Agency's more than twenty thousand employees. Hidden behind the curtains were small devices that caused the windows to vibrate, making penetration by a parabolic microphone impossible. For obvious reasons, the CIA took its security seriously, and in very few places was it taken more seriously than the executive suite of the seventh floor.