It was almost two in the afternoon when Rapp's phone I finally rang. Rapp pressed the talk button.

«Hello.»

«Is this the Man of Iron?»

«It is. Is this the Frog?»

«I'm afraid it is.»

Rapp wasn't sure how to play it. He had worked with Villaume and Lukas on three separate occasions, all of them in France, and he had been impressed by both men. They were proficient and dependable. They had helped Rapp hunt Rafique Aziz, a Palestinian terrorist who was one of the men responsible for the downing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. Villaume and Lukas had been there on a night when Rapp had come within inches of losing his life. In fact, if Lukas hadn't arrived when he had, Rapp probably would be dead.

«I'm sorry to hear about Mario. He was a good man.»

«I appreciate that.» There was a pause. «Mario liked you. He believed you were honest.»

«He was, too. Very dependable.»

Slightly overcome with emotion at the loss of his old friend, Villaume said nothing for a while. «I hope you will forgive me, but in light of Mario's incident the other day, I'm a little skittish.»

«I don't blame you, but we need to talk.»

«In person?»

«That would help.»

«I'm afraid that's out of the question.»

Villaume's position did not surprise Rapp. He would do the same. «That's too bad, but I understand.»

The NSA captured literally every cellular and digital call made in the metro area. The cellular calls were analyzed almost instantly. The digital calls took more time because they had to be deciphered. The massive computers out at Fort Meade sifted through them searching for key words such as gun, bomb, assassinate, and thousands more. If the computers came across a word that was flagged, they would kick the call up to the next level of programmed analysis. If a call contained enough flagged words, it eventually garnered the attention of a real person. Conversations that took place in Arabic, Chinese, or Russian received extra attention. The easiest way to defeat the system was to talk like a normal businessperson.

Rapp formulated his next sentence carefully. «I think we might have a common problem.»

«What would that be?»

«I was across the pond on business last week, with your friends from Colorado. Do you know the ones I'm talking about?»

«I think so.»

«They screwed me on a deal.»

«How do you mean?»

«They were supposed to be working with me, and they, ended up working for someone else.»

«I'm not sure I follow.»

Rapp's voice took on an angry tone. «They double-crossed me and tried to send me into permanent retirement.»

«Oh… I see. Were they following company orders?»

«I can assure you they were not. I went to the top to find out, and they were in the dark as much as me.»

«I'm not sure where I fit into all of this.»

«Someone hired you to make that trip to Colorado. I have a pretty strong idea that same person interfered with my business deal across the pond.» Rapp waited for a second and added, «I would also bet that same person had something to do with Mario's accident the other day.»

There was a long pause, and then Villaume asked, «How did you know I had business in Colorado?»

Rapp looked at Coleman. «There were some people there watching you.»

«Were they with the company?»

«No… but they were sent by the company.»

«I'm not sure I believe you.»

Rapp switched the phone from his left ear to his right. «Listen, I know you're in a tough spot. I was there just a few days ago myself. If you can't meet, I understand. But I need to know who hired you.» Rapp sat there and waited for a response. He knew how Villaume felt. He could trust no one. After five seconds of tense silence, Rapp added, «Mario saved my life. I owe him. Give me the goods on whoever hired you, and I’ll make sure the guy pays for what he did to Mario.»

Villaume was tempted. Iron Man would be a powerful ally. The Professor would shit his pants if someone like Iron Man was onto him. It would be the easiest form of revenge he could dream up. Maybe too easy. The timing was a little too convenient. Villaume needed to think about it.

«We've been on the line too long. Let me think about this and get back to you.»

«Hey… I understand your reluctance. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't want to meet, either. All I need is for you to point me in the right direction.»

«I'll think about it.»

Rapp started to speak, but the line went dead. Looking over at Coleman, he said. «Fuck! I sure hope he stays alive long enough to tell us what he knows.»

KENNEDY WAS ALONE in her office, thinking about Rapp and the traitor in their midst who had almost gotten him killed. Marcus Dumond was keeping her informed on the progress he was making with Rapp and Coleman. The deputy director of Central Intelligence had stopped by to pepper her with questions about her testimony to the House Intelligence Committee. It was surprisingly easy to lie to Jonathan Brown, despite the fact that he was a former federal judge. Stansfield had taught her well. Once you learned to control your emotions, it was nearly impossible for an adversary to discern if you were telling the truth. As with a great poker player, the name of the game was to keep a straight face whether you were holding a royal flush or a pair of twos. Under Stansfield's tutelage, Kennedy had mastered the skill. The only person in the world who could consistently get a reaction out of her was her son, Tommy. Not even her ex-husband had been able to do it. He sure as hell had tried, but he had failed miserably; Kennedy didn't harbor any ill will toward him. When she looked back on the marriage, it was easy to see it was destined for failure from the moment she took the job as the director of the Counterterrorism Center. There weren't enough hours left over after running the CTC to be both a good mother and a good wife.

The phone on her desk emitted a soft tone, and then a voice came over the intercom. «Irene, Congressman O'Rourke is here to see you.»

Without looking up, Kennedy said, «Show him in, please.»

O'Rourke entered Kennedy's office with a slightly troubled look on his face.

«Hello, Irene.» O'Rourke sat down in one of two chairs across from Kennedy's desk. He was wearing a three-button brown suit with a white shirt and tie.

«Good afternoon, Michael.»

Never one to waste time or words, O'Rourke said, «I'm sorry about this morning. Chairman Rudin is a real ass.»

«I hope you'll forgive me if I don't expand on that.»

«No… I understand.» O'Rourke crossed and then uncrossed his legs. «About that name I brought up this morning?»

Kennedy wasn't going to make this easy. She stared back at O'Rourke with her brown eyes, waiting for him to expand.

«You do remember the name I mentioned?»

«Yes.»

«Well, what can you tell me about him?»

«Absolutely nothing.»

O'Rourke leaned forward. «Come on, Irene. I deserve an answer.» Kennedy continued to sit calmly behind her desk. «Can you at least tell me if you know him?»

Kennedy had thought this through thoroughly. «Michael, let me ask you something. If someone, let's say one of your colleagues, were to come to me and ask if I knew your grandfather, how would you want me to answer them?»

O'Rourke began fidgeting with his wedding ring. He knew Kennedy would bring this up, and that was why he had dreaded coming here. He had hoped to get a quick answer from her while they were on his home turf, but he should have known better. The story was long, twisted, and bloody. When O'Rourke left the Marine Corps, he went to work for Senator Erik Olson. His best friend, roommate, and fellow staffer during those wild years had been Mark Coleman, the younger brother of Scott Coleman. Mark had been tragically killed just two blocks from the Capitol one night on his way home from work. His assailant was a strung-out crack addict who had been released from the D.C. jail because of overcrowding. The effect it had on O'Rourke was devastating. It was during this time of grieving that O'Rourke had learned of a cover-up involving a prominent senator and a blown covert operation that had cost a dozen SEALs their lives. The commander of those SEALs was none other than Scott Coleman, the older brother of Mark. Michael had labored over telling Coleman that it was Senator Fitzgerald who had blown his operation in northern Libya. It was O'Rourke's grandfather Seamus who had convinced him he should tell Coleman. The reasoning was simple: if Michael were still in the Corps, and it was his men who had been killed, he would want to know.