Murder in the Park

Chapter One

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday, July 20, 1993

Paul Knight was about to have an accident. The kind of accident he hadn’t had since he was four years old. As the bumper-to-bumper George Washington Parkway traffic crawled to a stop, the fire in Knight’s bladder grew, making him bitterly regret his decision to stay and drink the second beer. If he hadn’t stopped at the bar, he’d probably have escaped the regular nightly exodus, made worse by a five-car pileup.

Inching his pickup truck forward, he saw the sign: Fort Marcy Park. Parks usually meant restrooms, and if not, in Knight’s present predicament, with a two-hour drive ahead of him, a tree would have to do.

There were only two vehicles in the small parking lot. At the top of the lot, he could see someone behind the wheel of a dark sedan, and not wanting to attract attention, he stopped beside an empty old Honda.

As he locked the pickup, a man in a business suit got out of the sedan, and from his stance and overall demeanor, Knight was very tempted to drive away. But the pain was now so bad, he only changed his mind about the route he’d planned on taking, and instead, he hurried down the nearest footpath.

Taking the left fork, Knight stopped at the first tree, seventy-five feet away, and finally emptied his bladder.

On his return to the parking lot, the dark sedan was still there, but the man was nowhere in sight. Half expecting him to be laying in wait, Knight was very relieved to reach his pickup unscathed.

Without looking back, he quickly left the park and headed home to Virginia.

He didn’t give the incident any further thought until the following day. Along with millions of other Americans, he was surprised by the news that a prominent member of the president’s White House staff had committed suicide. Knight’s surprise multiplied when he heard that the body of the deputy legal counsel was found the previous evening in Fort Marcy Park.

Feeling obliged to do his patriotic duty, Knight didn’t hesitate to call the Park Police. After the call was made, it didn’t take him long to realize that his troubles were just beginning. And with what followed, he often wished he’d never heard the name Victor Fallon.

PART ONE

Chapter Two

Eagles Nest, Somewhere off Route 301, the Eastern Shore, Maryland

Wednesday, February 28, 2001

Colonel Joshua Collins, director of Special Operations Group, or SOG, stopped his car by the side of a small ranch-style house, just inside the gate to a crushed stone private road. As he got out, a tall, wiry-looking man with a beard and long gray ponytail approached.

Morning, Tom, Collins said.

Morning to you too, Colonel. Michael expecting you, sir?

Not exactly. How is he?

Master Sergeant Tom Morgan shrugged. Antsy.

Collins grinned. Excellent. How about you?

I keep busy, sir.

Collins scanned the immaculate house. I can see that. He turned back to the car. We’ll talk later.

Tom watched the Lincoln getting smaller on the single width driveway, flanked on both sides by fenced fields, before it disappeared through a thick screen of trees and undergrowth that perfectly hid the main house from view.

I hope the colonel’s got good news, he thought. If this extended leave goes on much longer, Michael’s going to fuckin’ kill someone he shouldn’t.

Instead of following his father Francis to the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, Michael Correa surprised everyone who knew him by accepting an appointment to equally prestigious West Point. In his mind, the Army offered him more opportunities. After graduation, and under the watchful eye of his father’s longtime friend Joshua Collins, Michael eventually became the eyes and ears for Washington. They called him the mind or the snoop because he could provide the final go, no-go on any action. Then, when it looked as though his career was heading straight to the top, Michael uncovered a presidential plan to illegally obtain Russian oil that almost ignited World War III. Having survived a harrowing ordeal, plus several attempts on his life, he eventually told Collins, I’ve had enough.

But Collins had no intention of letting Michael actually retire. And it was now time to put his plan into action.

After ringing the doorbell, and getting no reply, the colonel began his search.

At the end of the dock, Collins eventually found him on his knees beside a storage box on the sundeck of a large sport fisherman, surrounded by the contents.

Michael!

He looked up. Colonel?

Permission to come aboard?

Dressed in jeans and a turtleneck under his windbreaker, Michael got to his feet. Permission granted, sir. It’s good to see you.

After a warm handshake, Collins sat on the gunwale. You look good. This temporary civilian life seems to suit you.

Temporary, sir?

Collins was typically direct. We’ve got to finish a certain conversation. Remember?

Michael thought it would sometimes be nice to forget.

Almost two months after his ordeal ended, on January 22, 2000, an ABC News Special Report interrupted programming as a grave Peter Jennings told the American public that the president had surrendered himself to representatives of the Justice Department. The charges were believed to be murder and treason.

Jennings continued . . . The nation’s capital and the country were still reeling this morning after last week’s unprecedented resignation speech that finally put an end to months of scandal and speculation. While many thought the president would fight for reinstatement, in the end, he did not. In his address to the nation, on the eve of the last American troop withdrawal from Kazakhstan, President Pearson apologized for the acute embarrassment he had caused the American people.

Jennings looked briefly off camera. ABC News will continue to cover this event. Now back to your regularly scheduled…

The telephone rang.

Did you hear? the voice asked.

I heard, Michael replied.

See? There is justice.

Maybe.

Oh, trust me on this. You realize the man has to go?

No trial?

Sure, there’ll be a trial. We want the bastard to suffer. Then—Well, let’s just say we thought you’d like the assignment.

I’m retired.

Nonsense. Take a long vacation. Enjoy yourself. You’ll know when to come back. By the way, Michael, we thought, when all this is finally over, some comfortable, well-paid government post would be a very good way for us to say thanks.

You were serious? Michael asked now.

Of course. It’s a total waste to have my best covert ops specialist on permanent leave.

I keep busy.

That’s what Tom said. We know.

But a bureaucratic pencil-pusher? If I really piss off the brass, maybe you’ll leave me alone?

As I am ‘the brass,’ it’s highly unlikely.

A strong gust of wind suddenly buffeted the forty-six foot Viking against the fenders, forcing Collins to grab the railing of the ladder to the flying bridge.

This way, sir, Michael said, opening the door to the salon. It’s warmer in here, too.

Collins gratefully sat in a tub chair and looked around. This’s some boat. Is it new?

I bought it used. After handing his mentor and commanding officer a can of soda, Michael sat opposite. Keep talking, sir, he added.

Collins cleared this throat. As we promised this new position will be created for you… he began.

Michael listened without interrupting.

It’s a civilian job? he asked when Collins finished.

Officially, yes.

And unofficially?

Collins took another swig of the soda. Nothing’s changed. You’ve still got your Army career. And a promotion. Long overdue, Lieutenant Colonel. Congratulations.

If Michael was surprised, it didn’t show. Thank you, sir. But if it’s a civilian job, how are you going to explain that?

The Reserves. Which means you can officially get dirty on weekends, etcetera.

And if I need help?

Yours for the asking. As this comes under SOG’s operational mandate, we’ve got a very generous budget.

Really?

Really.

Back at Collins’ car, he opened the passenger door and reached inside.

Almost forgot, he said, handing Michael a gift-wrapped bottle. Happy birthday.

Thank you, sir.

Things have changed with Makepeace in the White House, Collins continued, sliding behind the wheel. He wants you. I can’t say it any plainer than that.

I’ll think about it, sir.

Do that, Collins replied, before driving away.

With Collins gone, Tom found Michael back on the Viking, re-packing the contents of the storage box.

Seems like old times, seeing the colonel again, Tom said.

Did he talk to you?

Only to say hello, sir.

Michael studied him. That’s all?

Yessir. Did he bring good news?

Like what?

That it’s time to go back to what you do best. Tom looked around. Some folks might think that all this and the free time was the perfect life. I know better. At this rate, we’ll be playing golf next. Now there’s a real good use of your skills.

Tom’s sarcasm did not go unnoticed.

So what did the colonel say? he added.

He offered me a job.

What kinda job?

"A new division attached to DoJ [¹]. Director of Contracts and Evaluations."

Sounds nicely ambiguous.

That’s what he said.

Are you going to take it?

I don’t know.

Don’t think too long, sir. Tom began to climb off the boat. If they’ve created some fancy job for you, seems to me that you can write your own meal ticket. That’s gotta be worth something.

Michael watched him amble back along the dock. Want to crack a bottle of ten-year-old Glenfiddich? he called out.

Tom stopped, and turning slowly, he silently held up a thumb.

By the time Michael reached him, Tom was back on the large rear deck.

Guess the colonel wasn’t the only one, he said, handing Michael another wrapped bottle. Happy birthday, sir.

Thanks, Tom. Time to celebrate with decent liquor.

And let’s hope it’s more than just your birthday, Tom thought, following him into the house.

The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

Later that evening

The private line for Alexander ‘Sandy’ Clark, the new White House chief of staff, rang at 6:30 p.m.

Clark immediately recognized Collins’ voice. How did it go? he asked.

He said he’ll think about it.

That’s the best you could do?

Collins sighed. You’ve got no idea who you’re dealing with.

Clark thought quickly. A meeting with the president?

Might work. It can’t hurt.

I’ll fix it, Clark said, and hung up. Who the hell is this guy?

He was about to unlock a bottom desk drawer when his phone rang again.

Clark’s reputation for burning the midnight oil was well founded. He was last to leave the offices at night and first there in the morning. His staff was already beginning to wonder if he ever slept. And tonight was no exception. By the time he finally retrieved the envelope marked Classified from the drawer, it was very late. He pushed the empty supper tray to one side and finally began to flip through the photocopied pages.

Damn it, he thought, after scanning only a few. I should have looked at this, weeks ago.

At 2:00 a.m., a Secret Service agent couldn’t fail to notice that Clark was at his desk, his office light still burning.

The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

Thursday, March 1, 2001

. . . and one more thing, sir, Clark said, handing the president a file marked Classified. You need to read this.

Makepeace closed the Daily Briefing. What is it? he asked.

Michael Correa’s military record. I think you’ll find it interesting.

Reason?

It concerns an item on the agenda from February.

Chester Adam Makepeace, forty-fifth president of the United States, had stared through a window in the Oval Office, as sleet blanketed his view of Washington, D.C., and compounded his already gray mood.

I made an election promise to the American people to clean all that SOB’s dirty laundry, he said. Where the hell do I start, Sandy?

Clark eyed the new president, wondering how long it would take the touch of silver at his temples to spread. At the beginning, sir.

And where would that be exactly?

Victor Fallon.

Makepeace glanced at a square impassive face. That can of worms? You’re not serious? He didn’t give Clark time to reply. You are serious, goddamnit. Why?

It’s a can of worms that needs to be dealt with. Once and for all.

And how am I supposed to do that?

The president’s friend and confidant for fifteen years, early on, Clark chose to stay in the background, knowing that he didn’t have Makepeace’s honesty and integrity. But more than a few Beltway insiders shuddered at the thought of Sandy Clark becoming the White House chief of staff. Another power behind the throne was how some of them phrased it.

I’d start by calling someone you can really trust, Clark replied. A particular someone with power and influence would be my choice.

He began to leave. If there’s nothing more, Mr. President? I’ve got a staff briefing to attend.

Nothing, Sandy. Thanks.

Makepeace remained deep in thought, before dialing a number that only very few knew. He wasn’t sure why he’d always felt so inferior to the man who now made his home in a secluded Spanish-style villa atop a mountain overlooking Santa Fe, New Mexico. Conner Brookfield avoided the limelight at all costs, but his enormous influence and power were almost as legendary as his fortune. Not many men could say they were on a first-name basis with every president since Johnson, although Makepeace doubted that Conner would have had any involvement with Pearson.

They’d first met as West Point cadets. Makepeace was the first member of his middle-class family ever to attend the prestigious military academy, while Conner Brookfield was just continuing family tradition.

The Brookfields had been in the intelligence business for generations. Some said they were infamous for it. It was now so far back that no one could remember when it was quietly suggested that the Brookfield family motto should read ‘We came. They never saw. And we conquered as usual.’

Conner answered his own phone. Brookfield.

Conner, it’s Ches.

Good to hear from you, Mr. President, Conner replied. Helen and I thoroughly enjoyed the Inaugural Ball. Thanks for the invitation.

Makepeace was smart enough to know that omitting the Brookfields from the guest list would have been a huge blunder.

I need your help, Makepeace continued. This Victor Fallon business. There’s still too much talk and speculation about a cover-up. I want the slate wiped clean.

How in the hell did a madman like Pearson ever get elected President? He made us a goddamn laughingstock, and worse. I’ll work on it and get back to you. Congratulations again. It’s about time we had a decent man in the Oval Office.

Thanks, Conner.

You’re welcome, Mr. President.

After hanging up, Brookfield wasted no time in dialing a number to a secure line that went directly to an office within the Pentagon.

It’s time to make good on our promise, he said when Collins answered. Hope your guy’s as good as you say?

Better.

No need to tell anyone where the directive came from.

Affirmative, sir.

Excellent, Colonel. Then I’ll leave this in your capable hands.

Consider it done. Collins replaced the receiver, wondering if there was anything that didn’t reach Conner Brookfield’s ears. Presidents came and went, but a call from Santa Fe was the closest thing America had to a royal command.

After now reading only a few pages of Michael Correa’s file, the president again reached for the telephone, but this time he hit the Do Not Disturb button. He was still reading as the dawn finally broke.

A few hours later, Clark was again in the Oval Office.

I want Michael Correa, Makepeace said.

I thought you would.

Then fix it.

Clark hesitated. Colonel Collins already tried.

And?

Correa’s reluctant. Better coming from you.

Makepeace laughed. A direct order from the commander-in-chief?

Something like that.

Then get him here. Sooner rather than later.

Yes, sir.

Eagles Nest, Somewhere off 301, the Eastern Shore, Maryland

Friday, March 2, 2001

Michael’s phone rang.

He glanced at the bedside clock. 5:30 a.m. Correa.

This is Sandy Clark, the White House chief of staff. Sorry to…

Sure you are, Michael interrupted and hung up.

Seconds later, the phone rang again.

I really am Sandy Clark, the voice said again. Please don’t hang up, Colonel.

Oh, shit! I won’t, Michael replied, sliding naked out of bed, and grabbing a robe, he quickly left the room.

Sometime later, and already dressed for work, Kathryn entered the kitchen to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

You’re up early. Did I hear the phone?

Wrong number, Michael replied.

Silently, Kathryn drank her coffee, before picking up her briefcase.

As she left the house for her daily commute to D.C., she wasn’t sure why she didn’t believe him.

Chapter Three

The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

Monday, March 5, 2001

At 8:30 a.m., dressed in an expensive gray suit, Michael was escorted to the Oval Office. If he was in awe of his surroundings, or surprised when the president warmly shook his hand, he hid it well.

Take a seat, Colonel, Makepeace said, pointing to a chair away from the impressive executive desk. The promotion was well deserved. Congratulations. Help yourself to coffee.

Thank you, Mr. President, Michael replied, waiting until Makepeace sat, before reaching for the pot between them.

I’ve read your military record, Makepeace continued. What little there is to read. I’m surprised the requisition order for black Magic Markers wasn’t doubled when they compiled it. So I made a few phone calls. Including one to a four star at the Pentagon. He paused to see if there was a reaction. There wasn’t.

But from what I’ve been able to glean, I’m beginning to understand your reluctance to accept our offer. Makepeace took a sip of coffee and then got to his feet. Damn wimpy little cups. Might be great for visiting heads of state. But we’re both Army guys. Want a decent sized mug?

Michael smiled. Thank you, sir.

When the mugs arrived with impressive speed, Makepeace picked up his. Follow me.

Over the weekend, Michael had done his homework on the new president. A genuine war hero, Makepeace had the medals to prove it. After graduating West Point, he saw two tours of duty in Vietnam, before leaving the military to serve his country in other ways. His political career had been as solid and unspectacular as the man himself. Of medium build, with a nose that had been broken and never fixed, his most outstanding feature was his cornflower blue eyes.

In the beginning, becoming President of the United States had never been part of his plan. But after John William Pearson, III, was elected, Makepeace was overheard privately to say, Give the man [Pearson] enough rope and hopefully the maniac will hang himself. When Pearson was eventually removed from office, his vice president took over. But the new president was already tainted with the same maniacal reputation as Pearson, and not likely to be remembered for reluctantly occupying the presidency for only fourteen months. With public opinion at an all time low, even the enthusiastic support he got from the Democratic Party to run in the 2000 election wasn’t enough. The landslide victory belonged to Makepeace. Gratefully withdrawing from public office, the forty-fourth president was soon forgotten.

With two Secret Service agents now following at a discreet distance, Makepeace didn’t speak again until they reached the Rose Garden. Sandy tells me you hung up on him. Not many people get away with that.

I thought it was a prank call, Mr. President.

Makepeace chuckled. Understandable. Now tell me what you really want to do?

Michael didn’t hesitate. Go back to active duty, sir.

You would. What do you know about Victor Fallon?

I thought he was dead?

He is. A supposed suicide. We need you to uncover the truth.

Why me, Mr. President? This sounds more like something for law enforcement.

Makepeace lowered his voice. It’s a covert operation. A Black Op to be precise. You’re the specialist. That’s why the Director of Contracts and Evaluations was created. The only difference is the jungle’s now concrete and the enemy wears suits.

The president sat on a bench and gestured for Michael to sit beside him. As this appears to be another Pearson legacy that needs to be cleaned up, and seeing who could be possibly be implicated in Fallon’s death, we thought you’d jump at the chance.

Michael was stunned.

Makepeace faced him. It would be a huge personal favor to me, if you’ll accept our offer.

Put like that, I can hardly say no, Mr. President. What the hell have I just agreed to?

Makepeace grinned. Excellent. He got to his feet, draining his coffee. Colonel Collins will be your liaison. But should you need me, I’ll always make myself available. Understood?

Understood, sir.

The president again shook Michael’s hand. Welcome aboard. Call Collins. He’ll work out the details. And, Colonel? Good luck.

Thank you, Mr. President. I think I’m going to need it.

Eagles Nest, Somewhere off 301, the Eastern Shore, Maryland

Later that night

You went where? Kathryn snapped.

The White House.

What for?

Michael ignored her hostility. The president offered me a job.

Kathryn kicked off her shoes and poured herself a glass of wine, before turning to face him again. When were you planning on telling me? What the hell’s the matter with you?

Graduating Yale with honors, it was difficult to tell whether it was Kathryn’s grandmother or her mentor, Malcolm Rubinovitz, who were the most proud. Kathryn’s dreams of offers from prominent and hugely profitable law firms were about to become a reality, she thought. Her hopes were soon dashed.

Forget the prestige, if you want to become a great lawyer, Malcolm said after the ceremony. Start at the bottom and work your way through the ranks. It’s all part of the process.

Her mettle was sorely tested as Kathryn turned down lucrative offers throughout that summer, but on a sparkling September day in 1992, she headed for Texas to begin her first job with the Dallas Public Defender’s office. The generous paycheck she’d once imagined was, in reality, barely enough to survive, and the Public Defender’s hours were long, and the work always harried and stressful. Kathryn quit smoking and ate instead. Forced to buy cheap looking suits, and appearing to hide her natural beauty, colleagues in the public defender’s office often whispered frump. On hearing that her very first homicide case was defending an accused killer in a high profile crime, she had just turned twenty-seven.

In the months that followed, Kathryn became an unwitting pawn, and then a very unwilling participant, in a series of events that included kidnapping and murder.

But since November 1999, a slim, stylish and blonde Kathryn had been living with Michael at Eagles Nest, and it hadn’t taken long for the physical and emotional wounds to heal. She referred to that time as our honeymoon stage, but like most honeymoons, it didn’t last.

By the end of the summer of 2000, tired of boating and generally bored, she went back to studying law. Michael made no comment. After easily passing the Washington, D.C. bar exam, Kathryn wasted no time in finding an office. With thousands of attorneys in D.C., her client list was still very small, but she considered the kings ransom she paid for her fully furnished, two room rented space on 16th Street to be worth every penny. She left early in the morning and rarely returned before 8:00 p.m.

Although she’d inherited millions when her grandmother died unexpectedly, she was still frugal. Refusing to hire a full time assistant, she spent many long hours doing her own research, which she secretly enjoyed.

But by the fall of 2000, Kathryn began to notice a definite change in Michael. On the few occasions they still had sex, he was as amorous as ever, but it wasn’t enough to curb what she considered to be an ever-increasing restlessness. He began to disappear, sometimes overnight, sometimes for days, and then refused pointblank to tell her why, or where he’d been. She’d learned in the past that when she pushed him for answers, he just shut down, and nothing appeared to have changed.

After some sneaky investigation, Kathryn did discover that at least one of the black canvas bags Michael usually kept under lock and key was always missing. It did nothing to ease her peace of mind.

When he returned in late January 2001 at the helm of the Viking, and announced he’d traded his old boat, she got so mad, she refused to speak to him for two days. And it wasn’t only the fact he could afford such an expensive boat that fueled her anger.

How could you exclude me? she eventually asked.

You didn’t seem that interested in boats, was his reply.

She now took a deep breath and tried to sound lighthearted. Will you be working in D.C.?

I don’t know, Michael said. The colonel said he’d let me know where and when.

Colonel Collins?

The same.

So it could be awhile?

Affirmative. He studied her for a moment. I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Katie. When I know, you’ll know. Dinner?

She slid her arms around his neck. Yes, please. You’re such a good cook.

Michael held her tighter. And what else am I good at? The seductive kiss he gave was the best she could remember in a long time.

She finally took his hand. Can dinner wait?

For you it can.

Chapter Four

The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

Tuesday, June 5, 2001

Makepeace closed the Daily Briefing. What’s going on with the CIA?

Nothing, Mr. President, Clark replied.

That’s my point. And I’m hearing all kind of nasty rumors.

Ashburn’s never been popular. Maybe it’s time to revisit the list, sir?

Although it had only been six months since they’d compiled it at the Makepeace family farm in Pennsylvania, to Makepeace, at that moment, it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Blizzard conditions were still in effect when they’d finally reached the last item on their first choice of cabinet and senior executive service appointees for the new administration. Makepeace was determined to have the right man or woman for the job. Politics and personalities didn’t enter into it. The real experts were all that interested him.

CIA director? Clark asked.

Makepeace yawned and stretched. I thought Ashburn was acting director?

He is. Since Reynolds blew his brains out.

Makepeace detected something in Clark’s voice. Ashburn’s not who we want?

Clark finally closed his eyes. Ask the expert, he replied. Right now, I’m too tired to think.

With the inauguration only weeks away, neither man realized just how hectic their lives were about to become, and in the months that followed, Ashburn’s name wasn’t mentioned again.

Until now.

As Clark left the Oval Office, Makepeace was already reaching for the telephone, grateful that Conner Brookfield was also a very early riser.

Brookfield.

Conner, it’s Ches Makepeace. I need your advice again…

Brookfield’s advice was to reinstate former CIA director, Francis Correa.

Ashburn’s a weasel, he continued. If he’s dirty, Francis will find out. If he’s not, Francis will find a way to get rid of him. Regardless of the outcome, Ashburn’s gone, and everyone looks good.

Makepeace couldn’t argue with Conner’s summation. Will he do it?

Don’t see why not. Knowing him as I do, he must be getting really bored playing grape stomper. Even if it is Tuscany.

You know him well?

I know him.

Why did he quit?

He saw clearly what was going to happen. He wanted out. Pearson was only too happy to oblige.

Can you arrange it?

I’ll see what I can do.

The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

Two hours later

Collins’ secure line rang.

It’s Conner Brookfield, he said. I need another favor…

I’ll certainly make the call, Collins said when Brookfield finished.

Just back me up. It will sound even better coming from an old friend like you. And, Colonel? Make sure Francis knows how much we need him.

Dear God, Collins thought after hanging up. Two Correas in D.C.? That’s going to ignite some fireworks. I’d better make sure Michael gets here first.

Then he reached for the phone again.

By the time he eventually called Francis, it was 8:00 p.m. in Tuscany.

It’s good to hear from you, Francis said on hearing Collins’ voice. But this’s hardly a coincidence.

Coincidence? Collins thought quickly. No, you’re right. I’m assuming Conner Brookfield already called?

Caught me off guard. What the hell’s going on over there?

I’m not sure. But the new president’s a good man, and it appears a lot of strings are being pulled.

So it would seem. Brookfield basically confirmed my appointment. When I told him I’d be stepping on a lot of toes, he said that’s exactly what I was supposed to do.

As a friend, I’m telling you you’re needed here.

No promises. I’ll have to talk it over with Sheila.

Can’t ask more than that, Collins replied. But it will be good to have you back.

Have you talked to Michael recently? Francis asked.

Not for awhile. Why?

I was wondering how he was?

He looked fine the last time I saw him. You don’t stay in touch?

Rarely. I’m busy. He’s busy. You know how it is.

Collins finally replaced the receiver. So Michael hasn’t told his father about his new mission. This’s going to get interesting.

Maybe Conner and Joshua are right. I should never have quit, Francis thought, after the call ended. Now all I have to do is persuade Sheila that we should go home to what I do best.

Chapter Five

Michael Correa’s Office, G Street, Washington, D.C.

Monday, September 10, 2001

At 8:15 a.m., Michael opened one of the double mahogany doors inside the Department of Justice building. As he entered the large reception area, he couldn’t fail to notice the seating arrangement around a coffee table and the palace-size oriental carpet. The only clue that this was his new office was a small but tasteful number on the door.

Good morning, sir, a gray-haired woman in a navy suit said, getting to her feet from behind a huge desk. I’m Molly Davies, your executive assistant.

That was his first surprise.

Good morning, Molly, Michael replied. Like my desk?

She hesitated. Oh, no, sir. This is my desk. She pointed to her right. Your office is through that door.

When Michael stepped inside, he got his second surprise.

It’s nice, isn’t it? Molly added. That door in the corner is to your private bathroom. Would you like some coffee?

Yes, thanks. Milk, no sugar. In a mug, please.

Coming right up, she replied, and disappeared.

When she reappeared in record time, not only did she place the steaming coffee on his practically empty desk top, but also a stack of what appeared to be messages.

Those are mostly lunch invitations and a few requests for you to attend meetings, she said before Michael could ask.

He felt completely out of his depth.

We can go through them together if you’d like? she added.

Thanks, Molly. And bring your coffee in here. This could take awhile.

When she returned, he waved the stack at her. What time did you get here this morning?

Seven-thirty, sir.

And I’ve had this many calls?

Molly cleared her throat. I’ve been here on and off for weeks. News tends to travels fast in the District, especially when it’s someone like you, sir.

He decided to ignore her last comment. Why weeks?

The space had to be remodeled, and not all the furniture arrived on time.

"How