Despite the death here, hope flared in Gray.

Director, could the assassination ?

Painter held up a hand as his brows pinched with worry. He sank to one knee beside the homeless man and gently turned his face. After a moment, he sat back on his heel, his eyes narrowed. He looked more worried.

What is it, sir?

I don't think you were the target, Gray.

Gray glanced to the sidewalk and remembered the sparking strikes at his heels.

At least not the primary target, the director continued. The sniper may have tried to eliminate you as a witness.

How can you be so sure?

Painter nodded to the dead body. I know this man.

Shock rang through him.

His name is Archibald Polk. Professor of neurology at M. I. T.

Gray cast a skeptical eye upon the man's jaundiced pallor, the grime, the scrabbled beard, but the director sounded certain. If true, the fellow plainly had fallen on hard times.

How the hell did he end up like this? he asked.

Painter stood and shook his head. I don't know. We've been out of touch for a decade. But the more important question: Why would someone want him dead?

Gray stared down at the body. He readjusted his own internal assessment. Gray should have been relieved to learn he wasn't a target of an assassin, but if

Painter was correct, then Gray's investigation had nothing to do with the attack.

Anger surfaced again along with a certain sense of responsibility.

The man had died in Gray's arms.

He must have been coming here, Painter mumbled and glanced to the Castle. To see me. But why?

Gray held out his hand, remembering the man's urgency. The ancient coin rested on his bloody palm. He may have wanted you to have this.

2:02 P. M.

As sirens sounded in the distance, the elderly man walked slowly down

Pennsylvania Avenue. He was dressed in a dusty gray suit. He carried a beat-up traveling valise on one side and held the hand of a girl on the other. The nine-year-old child wore a dress that matched the older man's suit. Her dark hair was tied back from her pale face with a red ribbon. The polish on her black shoes was marred by a drying splash of mud from the playground where she'd been playing before being picked up a moment ago.

Papa, did you find your friend? she asked in Russian.

He squeezed her hand and answered in a tired voice. Yes, I did, Sasha. But remember, English, my dear.

She shuffled her feet a bit at the reprimand, then continued. Was he happy to see you?

He flashed back to the sight through the sniper rifle's scope, the fall of the body.

Yes, he was. He was quite surprised.

Can we go home now? Marta misses me.

Soon.

How soon? she asked petulantly and scratched at her ear. A glint of steel flashed through her dark hair where she itched.

He released her hand and gently pulled her arm down from her ear. He smoothed her hair with a pat. I have one more stop. Then we'll head home.

He neared Tenth Street. The building rose on his right, an ugly box built of slabs of concrete that someone attempted to decorate with a row of flags. He turned toward its entrance.

His destination.

The headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

3:46 P. M.

A rattling buzzed from inside Gray's locker.

He hurried forward, half slipping on the wet floor. Fresh from the shower, he wore only a towel around his waist. After debriefing Director Crowe on the details of the shooting, he had retreated to the locker room in the lowest levels of Sigma's bunkers. He had already taken one shower, followed by a rigorous hour in the gym working free weights then showered again. The exertion had helped settle his mind.

But not completely.

Not until he had some answers about the murder.

Reaching his locker, he tugged the door open and caught his BlackBerry as it rattled across the bottom of the metal locker. It had to be Director Crowe. As his fingers closed on it, the vibration ceased. He'd missed the call. He checked the log and frowned. It was not Painter Crowe.

The screen read: R. Trypol.

He had almost forgotten.

Captain Ron Trypol of Naval Intelligence.

The captain had been overseeing the salvage operations at the Indonesian island of Pusat. He had a report due today on his assessment of raising the sunken cruise ship, the Mistress of the Seas. He had two navy submersibles on site, searching the wreckage and surrounding area.

But Gray had a more personal interest in the search.

The island of Pusat was where his friend and partner, Monk Kokkalis, had last been seen, spotted as he was dragged under the sea by a weighted net, tangled and caught. Captain Trypol had agreed to look for Monk's body. The captain was a good friend and former colleague of Monk's widow, Kat Bryant. This morning, Gray had gone over to the National Maritime Intelligence Center in Suitland,

Maryland, hoping to hear any word. He had been rebuffed, told to wait until after the full debriefing. It was why he had been storming back here, prepared to demand that the director pressure the navy.

Flushed with a twinge of guilt for having set aside his cause, Gray hit the callback button and lifted the phone to his ear. As he waited for the connection to NMIC, he sank to a bench and stared at the locker on the opposite side.

Written in black marker across a strip of duct tape was the name of the locker's former owner.

KOKKALIS.

Though Monk was surely dead, no one wanted to remove the tape. It was a silent hope. If only sustained by Gray.

He owed his friend.

Monk had climbed through the ranks of Sigma alongside Gray. His friend had been recruited from the Green Berets at the same time as Gray had been pulled from

Leavenworth prison, where he'd been incarcerated after striking a superior officer during his stint with the Army Rangers. They had become quick friends, if not a bit of an odd couple at Sigma. Monk stood only a few inches over five feet, a shaven-headed pit bull compared to Gray's taller, leaner physique. But the true difference lay deeper than mere appearance. Monk's easygoing manner had slowly tempered the uncompromising steel of Gray's heart. If not for Monk's friendship, Gray would have certainly washed out of Sigma, as he had the Army

Rangers.

As he waited, Gray pictured his former partner. They'd been through countless scrapes together over the years. Monk bore the puckered bullet wounds and scars to prove it. He had even lost his left hand during one mission, replaced with a prosthetic one. As he sat, Gray could still hear the barking bellow of Monk's laugh or the quiet intensity of his voice, revealing the man's genius-level

I. Q., disciplined in forensic medicine and science.

How could someone so large and vital be gone? Without a trace?

The phone finally clicked in his ear. Captain Ron Trypol, a stern voice answered.

Captain, it's Gray Pierce.

Ah, Commander. Good. I had hoped to reach you this afternoon. I don't have much time before my next meeting.

Gray already heard the dire overtones. Captain?

I'll get to the point. I've been ordered to call off the search.

What?

We were able to recover twenty-two bodies. Dental records show none of them to be your man.

Only twenty-two? Even by conservative estimates, that was only a small fraction of the dead.

I know, Commander. But recovery efforts were already hampered by the extreme depths and pressures. The entire bottom of the lagoon is riddled with caverns and lava tubes, many extending miles in tangled mazes.

Still, with

Commander. The man's tone was firm. We lost a diver two days ago. A good man with a family and two children.

Gray closed his eyes, knowing the ache of that loss.

To search the caves only risks more men. And for what?