With his pen pressed down hard, he ran it across the seam on the packing tape. He yanked the top open and reached into the sea of packing peanuts until he found the duffel bag. As he pulled it out, quite a few of the peanuts spilled onto the floor. Gould unzipped the duffel bag and gave it a quick check to make sure everything was in order. He then grabbed a garbage bag from his suitcase and put all the Styrofoam peanuts in it. After that he broke down the box, tore off the air bill, and brought both the box and the garbage bag down to the service room and placed them where the other bags of garbage were.

Back in his room, Gould took a shower, shaved, and laid everything out on the bed. His old identity was on the left, his new identity was on the right, and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash was in the middle. He double checked to make sure he'd accounted for everything that said he was Moliere and placed it all in a brown bag. His first order of business was to burn the bag before he reached the border. Gould methodically repacked his belongings and put everything by the door. After messing the bed up to make it look like it had been slept in, he left his room key on the dresser and left the hotel through the side door. Unless he ran into some unforeseen problem, he would be in America by mid-afternoon.

The offices for the director of National Intelligence were temporary for a variety of reasons. Like any new department in Washington, it was evolving. Which in Beltway speak meant it was growing. The original plan called for a staff of approximately twenty-five to help support the new director. The idea was that the organization would act as a clearinghouse. A filter between the various intelligence assets and the president, designed to both coordinate and streamline the process. Within six months the organization doubled in size, then tripled, and then doubled again. At last count it had shot past the two-hundred-person mark, and had no sign of slowing. It was a fledgling little bureaucracy, growing in size and scope and each day becoming a little less efficient. It was quickly becoming exactly what its detractors had feared.

Until the new organization was on its feet the Secret Service had been given the job of protecting the director. This was good for Rapp. He had friends at the Secret Service who were more than willing to do him a favor. Rapp called Jack Warch, the Special Agent in Charge of the Presidential Protective Detail, and asked him if he knew the guy running Ross's detail. Warch did. The Secret Service was a tight group. Rapp told Warch what he needed, and the man in charge of guarding the president's life knew Rapp well enough to not ask any questions.

Rapp had to park on a ramp a half block away and across the street. The place was only a stone's throw from the White House. Rapp entered the main door of the building and flashed his credentials to the uniformed Secret Service officer manning the desk. He asked for Agent Travis Small and then walked over to the corner of the lobby to wait. He stood near a large potted plant with his back to the wall, hoping to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He didn't want Ross to know he was in the building. He wanted to return last week's favor.

Rapp didn't have to wait long. Travis Small was anything but. He looked like a power forward for the Washington Wizards. Rapp liked the team better when they were named the Bullets. It was more honest that way. More representative of the murder capital of America.

Small half-walked, half-shuffled across the terrazzo floor of the sunny lobby. He was six foot six and had to go at least 250. He had probably played basketball or football or both. His knees were undoubtedly less than perfect. He had short black hair and skin the shade of burnished walnut. Rapp guessed he was in his early forties. His eyes swept the lobby as he approached. He was an imposing man. All business. You'd have to be one spectacular badass to want to take this guy on. Either that, or crazy. Small was just the type of guy the Secret Service liked. Surround the president with a half dozen guys like Travis Small and he'd be pretty damn safe.

The big man drew close and extended his hand.

"Mitch…Travis Small. Real honor to meet you."

Rapp took his hand. It was dwarfed by Small's. "Likewise, Travis."

"No." Small flashed a perfect set of teeth and a surprisingly warm smile. "I mean it. I was on the president's detail back when they hit the White House. I was on the evening shift, so I wasn't there when it went down."

Small was referring to a terrorist attack on the White House. The president had narrowly escaped capture, and would have probably died if it hadn't been for Rapp.

"Sorry about that," said Rapp. "You must have lost some close friends."

"Yeah." Small got quiet for a second. "But I would have lost more friends that day if you hadn't put your ass on the line like that."

Rapp wasn't real good at stuff like this, so he just nodded his head a few times and looked around. He felt like a midget standing next to this mountain of a man.

"So how do you like working for Ross?"

Small eyed Rapp and carefully considered his answer. "I try not to have opinions about the people I'm charged with protecting."

Rapp grinned. "Bullshit."

Small shifted his girth from one foot to the other. "He's probably a little on the high-maintenance side."

"I bet. He strikes me as the type of guy who might not be so nice to the hired help."

"No…it's not that really. He's nice enough. Remembers all of our names. Asks about our kids and stuff, but he's a politician." This was one man who carried a gun talking to another man who carried a gun. There were certain things they could communicate without speaking.

"He asks the questions, but doesn't listen to the answers."

"Yeah. He's on the move. Bigger and better things to tackle. The way I see it, he was a senator who wanted to be president. Senators don't become presidents. It's rare. The road to the Oval Office goes through the state governorships or the vice presidency. So Ross knew he needed to either go run for governor back in New Jersey, or get on the president's cabinet and starting angling for a VP slot. Senators don't like going home and running for governor. It's more work, less national notoriety…unless you're talking New York or California. Definitely not New Jersey. So he takes the appointment from the president, and before he's a year into this job he'll be looking to move on to State or Defense. His rйsumй will be spectacular at that point and he'll be a shoo-in for the VP slot on his party's next ticket. Hell…he might even run for president."

Made sense to Rapp. "What about the little guy who works for him?"

"Jonathan Gordon."

"Yeah."

"He's a sharp one. He kind of balances the director out. Ross has a bit of a temper, but he keeps it real close. He blows up around Gordon and that's about it. Gordon is real good at taking it, and then pointing out why it might be a bad idea to do whatever it is that the director wants him to do."

"So Ross has a temper?"

Small nodded. "Real bad. Never loses it in public, though. Always behind closed doors."

"Where is he now?"

"Up in his office with Gordon."

"All right. Let's go."

The two men walked across the lobby. Small gestured for Rapp to pass through the metal detector first. Both of them set off the alarm, and they both ignored it. They stepped into the elevator and started up.

Rapp looked up at Small and said, "You want a little career advice?"

"Sure."

"Ross is not going to like the fact that I just walked in here like this unannounced."