Hartsburg, like most senators, was a lawyer by training and he did not like to be on the receiving end of questions. "Stop pussyfooting around, and tell me what's on your damn mind."

Rapp admired the man's tenacity. "Mark Ross is on my mind."

"The new director of National Intelligence." The senator had a frown on his face. "Why?"

"He's taken a sudden interest in a colleague of mine."

"I'm not following."

"There's someone who we use from time to time to handle delicate matters. We'll call him a consultant. The other day this consultant came out to Langley to sit down with Dr. Kennedy and myself so we could discuss our new venture." Rapp pointed to Hartsburg and then himself. He wanted the senator to take ownership. "Right in the middle of the damn meeting Mark Ross comes barging in unannounced. He introduces himself to the consultant, he leaves, and the next thing you know, Ross's people are calling up the Pentagon asking for this consultant's personnel file. Then the next day the IRS shows up on this guy's doorstep, bends him over, and starts to give him an anal cavity search."

A pleased smile formed on Hartsburg's face and he got a faraway look in his eyes. After a moment he said, "That's why I put him there."

The answer surprised Rapp. "What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Ross is a detail guy. He's extremely controlling and curious. That's why I pushed him on the president."

Rapp was missing something. "And why is this good…"

"The whole idea behind creating the new cabinet position of director of National Intelligence is to consolidate all of these far-flung agencies. We need someone who will get into the minutiae and reform from the top down."

Rapp shook his head and set his beer down. "Listen, for the most part, I could give a rat's ass what this guy does. Just keep him away from me, and the people I deal with."

"I don't see how I can help you here."

A disbelieving expression formed on Rapp's face. "The whole reason why I agreed to sit down with you and Walsh was that you guys were willing to offer me some serious funding, and that you'd keep people off my back. I've got enough enemies out there without having to worry about people who are supposed to be on my own team. If you can't rein in a clown like Ross, we might as well end this right here and now."

Hartsburg was smiling. He waved to the bartender. "Charlie, another beer for my friend."

My friend, Rapp thought. I wouldn't go that far.

Hartsburg made Rapp retell, in detail, what had happened when Ross popped into Kennedy's office unannounced. By the time Rapp's second beer arrived he'd told the senator the entire story.

"I assume you've seen the movie Patton," said Hartsburg.

"Of course."

"Remember the scene where they're celebrating and the Russian general gives a toast and Patton refuses to drink."

"Yeah."

"And then the Russian calls him a bastard and Patton laughs and says, 'All right, from one bastard to another…I'll drink to that.' "

Rapp took a swig of the dark brown Guinness. "It's one of the best scenes in the whole movie."

"Well," Hartsburg held up his glass, "you're one of the biggest bastards in a town filled with bastards. So…from one bastard to another."

The two men clanged glasses and drank. "Just so we're clear," said Rapp, "I'm Patton and you're the commie."

Hartsburg laughed. "That is my point exactly. You are Patton. You are this politically incorrect warrior who is good at only one thing and that is fighting terrorism. You've saved the president's life on one occasion, and you had a very big hand in making sure this city wasn't nuked. I have never agreed with your tactics, but that close call last Memorial Day woke a lot of us up. These are drastic times and they call for drastic measures. We need to isolate these radicals, and we need to turn their own people against them. It needs to be done covertly and it needs to be off the books. You," the senator pointed to Rapp, "are the perfect man for the job."

"You still haven't solved my problem."

"Maybe we need to bring Ross in on this?"

Rapp shook his head. "No way. Too many people are already involved."

"Then that leaves only one option."

"What's that?"

"You act like Patton."

Rapp frowned.

"Let me explain what makes Mark Ross tick, and then let me tell you how to handle him."

Gould took the overnight flight from Paris to Montreal and arrived early morning. He was traveling with a French passport under the name of Marcel Moliere. His stated purpose was business-pharmaceutical sales, to be more precise. He hailed a taxi at the airport and headed for the Hyatt downtown. A haven for international businessmen who visited the largest French-speaking city outside of France, the Hyatt suited his needs perfectly. It was upscale, with over 300 rooms and a very well staffed business center. Claudia was several thousand miles away en route to the island of Nevis to make sure their fee was secure from the army of snoops and hackers now employed by the U.S. government.

Louie Gould had many secrets, and one of them was that he had worked briefly for France's Direction Gйnerale de la Securitй Exterieure or DGSE. The DGSE was France's main intelligence arm for industrial and economic espionage and for penetrating terrorist organizations. Gould had done his time in the Legion and had been looking for new challenges. As an officer, and a citizen of France, he was a priority recruit for DGSE. What sealed the deal was the fact that his diplomat father detested the spy agency and everything it stood for.

During Gould's one year with the spy agency, he worked almost exclusively on industrial espionage and had absolutely nothing to do with terrorism. It was during his year with the DGSE that he realized two important things-freelancers got paid far better than government employees, and they had to put up with a fraction of the bullshit. And Gould was sick of putting up with bullshit. As romantic as the French Foreign Legion may have been portrayed in the old movies it was anything but. The pay was atrocious, the facilities were run-down, and the duty was often grueling. What made it all bearable was the esprit de corps, the brotherhood, and the pride that went along with training at such a high level. After one complete tour, however, Gould was done. He wanted something that he had grown accustomed to in his youth, and that was money. Too prideful to ever go back to his father, he saw the DGSE as a way to make double what he was making in the Legion and still stay in the action. He knew from the day he took the job, though, that it was merely a stepping stone.

Gould knew fellow Legionnaires who were making big bucks working corporate security. While the money sounded great, he knew the job would bore him to death. He needed something that would both pay well and test his skill. He found it one day when they discovered that one of their DGSE informants was playing both sides of the fence. Due to this informant's duplicity a fellow DGSE agent had been picked up by the Syrian secret police and had gone missing. There was little doubt within DGSE headquarters that the agent was sitting in a Syrian jail getting beaten with rubber hoses. Gould wanted to kill the informer himself, but his superior, who also happened to be a former paratrooper, told him that was not how they handled things.

What he saw next opened his eyes to a whole new world. His boss called a contract agent and in less than two minutes arranged to have the informant disposed of. Gould's job was to deliver the cash to the contract agent. On his way to the dead drop he pulled over and counted the money. The attachй was filled with twenty thousand francs, more than half of what he earned in a single year. All for killing some worthless, self-serving asshole.