"That's where you're wrong, Senator," Rapp said with anger creeping into his voice. "There is no bigger picture than National Security. You guys want to legislate social change…go do it over at the Department of Education or Health and Human Services, but don't fuck around with Langley."

Hartsburg tapped his finger on the table. "Have you seen Langley's budget lately? We're talking billions of dollars, and I'd like to know what in the hell we're getting in return."

Rapp threw his arms up in frustration. "You guys amaze me. You bitch about the money that's being spent, and then your solution to the problem is to add more bureaucracy…more layers…slow things down even more. Spend more money. Stovepipe the shit out of everything, so twenty different supervisors and department heads have to sign off on each bit of intelligence before the president even has a prayer of seeing it. You think that's going to solve our problems?"

"I think the CIA is a monumental waste of federal tax dollars, and something has to be done to wake them up."

A sudden calm came over Rapp's face. He leaned back and said, "Senator, this might surprise you, but I couldn't agree with you more."

Rapp's admission left both men silent. The two politicians shared a brief expression of confusion and then Walsh asked, "What's your biggest beef with Langley?"

"Three thousand people are killed in one morning and no one loses their job… Are you fucking kidding me?" Rapp looked at one senator and then the other. "Guilty or not, people should have lost their jobs. And I'm not just talking the CIA. I'm talking FBI, Pentagon, National Security Council, White House, Capitol Hill…across the board. The entire 'cover your ass' culture you guys and your politically correct cronies have created needs to be turned on its ear."

"Well, now it's my turn to agree with you," Hartsburg said to Rapp, giving Walsh an accusatory look.

"We made a decision," said Walsh defensively, "that we weren't going to scapegoat anyone for what happened. Nine-eleven was a long time in the works and both parties share the blame."

"I'm not talking about your precious political parties. I'm talking about the dead weight who got in the way of the people trying to do their jobs."

"I know that, and I know you don't have any stomach for politics, but that deal had to be made or the two parties would have destroyed each other in the aftermath."

Rapp frowned. "And that would be a bad thing?"

"Contrary to what you think, Mr. Rapp," said Hartsburg, "we care about this country. I can assure you that is the only reason I'm sitting in this room with you right now."

"If you could right the ship," said Walsh, sounding more eager than when the meeting had started, "how would you do it?"

Rapp studied the senior senator from Idaho with suspicion. "You're asking me…a person who has absolutely no experience in management, and no desire to join the club?"

"Yes, but you've got more practical experience in the field than perhaps anyone else in Washington."

Rapp considered the question carefully and said, "Well, it's not very complicated. You've got a top-heavy bureaucracy over there. An inverted pyramid. Less than one percent of the people on the payroll do real field work. Hell, before 9/11 you had more people working in the Office of Diversity than you had on the bin Laden Desk."

"So what's the solution?"

Rapp shrugged. "You do what IBM or GE or any other well-run corporation does. You get rid of the deadweight. You tell every department head their budget is going to be cut by ten percent. You offer early retirement, you give people severance packages, and you wish them good luck. And then you start to rebuild the Clandestine Service from the ground up."

"As much as it pains me to admit it…you and I," Hartsburg said as he pointed at Rapp and then himself, "see more eye to eye than I would have ever liked to admit."

"So what's holding you guys up? You run the damn committee… You hold the purse strings."

"We're working on it, but trying to change an entrenched Washington bureaucracy is not easy," Walsh said. "In the meantime we're more concerned with a short-term solution. A stopgap measure, if you will."

"Like what?"

Walsh shared an uncomfortable look with Hartsburg, started to speak, stopped, and then made one more effort at it before he looked again to his more blunt colleague for help. Hartsburg retrieved a copy of the Washington Post and laid it down on the table. Beneath the fold on the front page was a story about the brutal murder of an Islamic cleric in Montreal. The senator stabbed his stubby finger at the article and asked, "Did we have anything to do with this?"

Rapp's face didn't change a bit. "Not that I know of."

Hartsburg leaned in and with a look of fire in his eyes said, "That's too bad."

Rapp didn't show it, but he couldn't have been more shocked by the senator's words.

Kennedy was standing by the conference table, her arms folded across her crisp white blouse, one leg in front of the other, her front foot tapping the floor like a Geiger counter. The closer he got the faster the foot tapped. He closed the heavy soundproof door. This was not good. Kennedy was by far the calmest person he knew. She was unflappable. Professional to the core. This was the way his wife greeted him when she was mad.

Rapp decided to start the conversation out cautiously. "I went and met with those two like you asked me." He stopped well short of where she was dug in. He unbuttoned his suit coat and put his hands on his hips. The black handle of his shoulder-holstered FN pistol was visible.

"We'll talk about that later." She gestured to the conference table.

Rapp looked at it. Four newspapers were spread out on the shiny surface of the wood table. The New York Times, the London Times, the Montreal Gazette, and the Washington Post, which he had already seen. The murder of Khalil was on the front page of each newspaper.

"What in the hell happened?"

Rapp read the bold headlines. This was better than he had hoped.

"The Montreal Gazette says he was nearly decapitated."

Rapp glanced at his boss. "That's an exaggeration."

"And how would you know?" Kennedy had ordered Rapp that others were to do the dirty work.

Rapp decided that to say nothing was his best move.

"Left in plain sight for all the world to see," she continued.

"Well…that's true." Rapp nodded.

"I'm confused." Her face twisted into an uncharacteristic frown. "I thought we had come to an agreement. This"-she opened her hand and gestured toward the newspapers-"is exactly what I wanted to avoid."

"I know that, but let me explain myself."

She crossed her arms and began tapping her foot with renewed vigor. "I'm waiting."

Rapp let out a sigh and looked back at the papers. "The only one I've read is the Post. It didn't say anything about us. Made some reference to him being an international terror suspect and serving time in France, but that was it."

"That was today. Trust me, tomorrow morning, we'll be mentioned. The phone over in public affairs is ringing off the hook. I've already fielded five calls relating to it. This thing is going to mushroom."

"I don't think so."

"And why is that, Mr. Media Expert?"

"Because the press is playing catch-up right now. The Montreal police are keeping their mouths shut, but that won't last long. In fact I'd be willing to bet the specifics on the scene of the crime are already being leaked. This story is going to end up nowhere near us."

Her brow furrowed and she studied him for a moment. "What did you do?"

"Let's just say we made it look like a crime of passion rather than a professional hit."