Leonard didn’t say anything.

“Carolyn, there are a lot of dead people in Paris right now-two of them cops. The guy behind it all is very likely a former CIA operative named Matthew Dodd who staged his own death and went to ground several years ago.”

Ozbek thought about mentioning Marwan Khalifa, but until he knew that Khalifa was actually dead and that Matthew Dodd had something to do with it, he thought better of it. “This guy Nichols,” he said, “is in a lot of danger. More than he may know.”

“Dodd is that good?”

“He was one of our best. I need to stop him, but I can’t do it without your help. And no matter how good an operator Harvath may be, he has no idea what he is up against with Dodd,” said Ozbek as he set the camera down in front of her.

Leonard looked at Anthony Nichols’ face on the camera’s display for several moments.

After asking a few more questions, she powered the camera down, and slid it into her pocket. Rising from her seat she said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Where are you going?”

“Keep your phone on,” said Leonard as she walked away from the table. “I’ll be in touch.”

Jack Rutledge set aside the file he was reading and removed his glasses as Carolyn Leonard knocked and entered the Oval Office.

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” said Leonard. “I know how busy you are today.”

“I’m never too busy for the head of my Secret Service detail,” said Rutledge as he stood and invited her to join him in one of the two chairs in front of the fireplace. “Please come in.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Once she was seated, the president sat down across from her and remarked, “I get lots of people every day who’d like to have five minutes with me. Not many of them are as cryptic as you are about their reasons. What’s going on?”

“Mr. President, I hope you understand how seriously I take my job.”

“Carolyn, if you’re bucking for a raise,” kidded Rutledge, “you’re going to have to take it up with the director of the Secret Service.”

“No, sir,” replied Leonard. “This isn’t about a raise.”

“Then what do you need?”

“Mr. President, my job is to protect you, and I take that job very seriously.”

“For which I am very grateful,” said Rutledge, as he noticed her removing a small digital camera from her pocket.

Leonard smiled politely before continuing. “I would never want to jeopardize our professional relationship by overstepping my bounds-”

“Carolyn,” interrupted the president. “If I think you are overstepping your bounds, I’ll tell you. What’s this all about? Do you need a photo for someone? You don’t have to be embarrassed by that. All you have to do is ask.”

The Secret Service agent glanced at the camera and then back at the president. “I wish it were that simple, Mr. President. I’m here about the gentleman you hired to be your archivist.”

“Anthony Nichols?” asked Rutledge, thinking it was odd that he hadn’t heard from him and yet here was the head of his protective detail bringing up the man’s name. The president sat up a bit straighter. “What about him?”

“Are you aware that Mr. Nichols is in Paris, sir?”

The president shook his head and lied. “No, but Mr. Nichols is free to travel wherever he wants. He’s a grown man. Why are you bringing this to my attention?”

“You were briefed on the bombing that happened there earlier today?” asked Leonard.

“Of course, but what does that have to do with Anthony Nichols?”

“He was there.”

“He was?” Rutledge exclaimed. “Was he hurt?”

“No sir, he was very fortunate. Someone knocked him down just before the blast happened.”

As the president took a moment to process what he was hearing, Leonard continued. “The person who knocked him down was Scot Harvath.”

Rutledge was shocked. “Harvath? What’s he doing in Paris?”

Leonard turned on the digital camera, selected the video clip of the shooting and handed it to the president. “This was taken at the Grand Palais in Paris several hours after the bombing.”

The president watched the footage all the way through and then replayed it.

“Two of the three police officers who were shot were pronounced dead on the scene. The third passed away in a hospital forty-five minutes ago.”

“My God,” replied Rutledge.

“The CIA believes-”

“The CIA?” exclaimed the president.

“Yes, sir. They believe that the shooter in that clip is a CIA operative named Matthew Dodd who faked his own death and disappeared off the grid several years ago after converting to Islam.”

“Islam?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do they know what Harvath was doing with him?”

“From the video,” said Leonard, “it looks like he was his prisoner.”

“Where is Harvath now?”

“According to my source, no one knows.”

Rutledge reminded himself to remain calm and more importantly, quiet.

“I made a couple of anonymous inquiries through contacts I have in Paris,” said Leonard. “Harvath’s picture along with those of the shooter, Anthony Nichols, and Tracy Hastings are being circulated to law enforcement officers throughout France.”

“Tracy Hastings is caught up in this as well?”

“Apparently, she had been at the Grand Palais with Harvath and Anthony Nichols shortly before the shooting.”

“Who’s the other man in the video; the man in the white suit?” asked the president.

“He’s a rare-book dealer with quite a sketchy background named René Bertrand.”

The book dealer? thought Rutledge. Everything was coming unglued. “Why am I hearing this from you and not the CIA?”

“The CIA has a unit responsible for hunting down intelligence agents who go missing. The man who heads the unit is an acquaintance of mine,” said Leonard.

“That still doesn’t explain why he came to you with this.”

“He knows Professor Nichols has visited the White House on several occasions. He also knows of course that Harvath worked here. He’s looking for information that might lead to the capture of his rogue operative and he thought I could help him.”

The president raised his eyebrows. “Which means what?”

“As I said, sir,” replied Leonard, “I take my job very seriously. I do not discuss what goes on inside your administration.”

Rutledge felt the knot in his stomach loosen ever so slightly. “I appreciate your professionalism, Carolyn. What else can you tell me about what happened in Paris?”

“My contact says the CIA has reason to believe that Nichols is involved in something that certain fundamentalist Islamic figures find very threatening; something they may be willing to kill for in order to keep quiet.”

“Does your acquaintance know who this Matthew Dodd is working for?”

“He wouldn’t say,” replied Leonard. “To tell you the truth, I think he might have been holding out on me.”

“Why?”

“From what I gathered, he has been putting his fingers into pies here at home, which is something that the CIA is forbidden to do. He did tell me, though, that Matthew Dodd is one of the most dangerous operatives the Agency has ever fielded. He doesn’t know what Harvath’s involvement is in all this, but he’s concerned that Harvath doesn’t know the seriousness of what he’s up against with Dodd.”

Rutledge took a second to let it all sink in and then stood. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Carolyn” he said. “I haven’t spoken with Scot Harvath recently-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” interjected Leonard politely, “but I actually heard a rumor that Harvath had a nasty run-in with someone and actually retired over it. Is that true?”

“I can’t comment.”

“I understand, sir,” said the Secret Service agent, who then shook her head and laughed. “Whoever would allow an operative like Scot Harvath to hang up his jersey has got to be a complete fool, right?”