LITMIR.BIZ

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a pair of prize dicks if it doesn’t. We only got the go-ahead because of our input. All the intelligence is ours.”

      “And it’s sound.” Schofield swung his seat around. “Arnie, what’s wrong? Why the jitters?”

      “This isn’t the first time we’ve tried to catch that bastard Townsend with the goods. Every time he’s slipped through the nets free and clear. We can’t touch the guy without evidence that’s one-hundred-and-one-percent solid. I don’t see that happening. The guy is laughing all the way to the bank, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

      “Patience, my boy, patience. We’ll catch him. Even Townsend has to slip up sooner or later. When he does, it’s payday.”

      The third member of the observation team snapped his fingers.

      “We got contact,” he said. His name was Zach Jordan. He was younger than both Trickett and Schofield, with only a few years’ field experience. “Looks like Riotta. Yes. Confirmed. Joseph Riotta.”

      Trickett leaned over to scan the monitor.

      He saw that a dark sedan had parked outside the deserted warehouse where the exchange had been arranged. A man was already out of the vehicle, standing beside the front passenger door, gazing around the abandoned industrial site. Jordan zoomed in with the camera and brought the man’s face into full view. Even in the gloom Trickett was able to recognize Joseph Riotta. He had looked at dozens of images of the man over the past few weeks, along with other members of the group Riotta was in with.

      “What’d I tell you,” Schofield said. He leaned forward to open a switch and spoke into his headset mike. “First contact made. Stay alert, people. We should be getting more visitors anytime now. Will advise. Nobody moves until I give the word. Let’s get these people in one spot before we net them.”

      There was more to it than that. Getting Townsend’s people and the sellers in one place was nothing on its own. They needed an actual exchange to take place, with goods and money in evidence before a conviction could be guaranteed. Schofield’s years with the Agency had taught him one thing: total, unbreakable evidence was required before any case could progress. They needed more than simple knowledge of a crime. They had to have the whole package, which was why he understood Trickett’s nerves were strung so tight. His partner was a born worrier. He liked every detail nailed down before he could relax. That wasn’t a bad thing in their line of work. It was only that it made life difficult for anyone working with him. Trickett’s insistence on overplanning sometimes bordered on the irritating.

      “Hey, this looks like what we’ve been waiting for,” Trickett said, pointing at one of the monitors. It showed a dark-colored SUV cruising along the service road that would bring it to the warehouse where Riotta had parked.

      “Be advised,” Schofield said. “Second party has shown up. Be ready.”

      He left his mike open to avoid any delay when he gave the order to move in. Now he turned his attention back to the monitors, studying the people under the eye of the CIA cameras.

      “They going ahead?” he asked.

      Jordan shook his head. “All they seem to be doing is standing around talking.”

      Something stirred the back of Schofield’s mind. Both parties were present. There was no logical reason why they should stand around passing the time of day. Unless they were waiting for something else to happen.

      But what?

      The faint stirring took on an uneasy edge as Schofield allowed his mind to permutate the options, and even as he did, a disturbing thought entered his consciousness.

      In was then that he heard the door to the surveillance truck click as the handle was turned. He felt a rush of chill air and he turned to look over his shoulder…. T HE PEOPLE LISTENING to the tape later heard Schofield say, “What are you doing here? I didn’t see your name on the roster for—”

      There was a subdued cough of sound, easily identified as the chug of 9 mm bullets exiting the muzzle of a sound suppressor. It was stated in the written report that the weapon had most probably been a 9 mm Uzi on full-auto, expending its entire magazine in seconds. The end result was inevitable. Arnie Trickett, Jack Schofield and Zach Jordan were all killed in those fleeting moments. They weren’t given a chance to draw their own weapons, and from the way Schofield had greeted the assassin, it was obvious he knew and recognized the individual.

      What the killer hadn’t realized was that Schofield had left his com line open and everything said in those final moments was relayed back to the field office and caught by the tape machine monitoring the entire operation.

      By the time the office contacted the tactical team waiting for Schofield’s go and ordered them to check out the truck, the killer had left the scene, the buyer-seller had been alerted and fled. Nothing was found at the rendezvous point, but at the surveillance truck the tactical team found bloody slaughter.

       White House—three days later

      “I’ M REACHING THE POINT when I don’t trust my own shadows,” the President said. “Trust. Hal, that word is becoming a joke around here. I get a new version of events depending on who I talk to. The CIA excludes the FBI. The NSA has the lead when it comes to paranoia. None of them wants to cooperate with the others, and they only give me versions they believe I can handle.”

      Brognola waited in strained silence. He knew what the President’s final request would be. He wouldn’t have been summoned to the White House if it didn’t need the attention of the Sensitive Operations Group.

      The Man sat heavily, the weight of his burden showing for a moment on his face. Then he gathered himself and directed his gaze at the man seated across the desk from him.

      “I truly believe you’re the only man in the damn country who wouldn’t betray me,” the President said, studying the big Fed closely. “Tell me I’m right, Hal.”

      “No problem, Mr. President. You know how I feel about this office and you especially. I work for you. No one else. The SOG is your security arm. We don’t compromise on our mandate and that goes down the line.”

      The President relaxed a little. He reached out and placed a hand on a file.

      “Are you up to date on this?”

      “I read your memo.”

      This time the Man managed a laugh.

      “Memo. Well, that cuts it down to size. Then you’ll know the defense community has been losing top-secret electronic hardware. Computer software has gone, too, specifically items developed for current and developing missile applications. Guidance and stabilizing systems. Inflight circuitry boards. God knows what else. From what I’ve been able to gather, the suspicion is the stuff has been stolen to order and sold to the end user—namely the Chinese.

      “I have been reliably informed that the Chinese are currently engaged in an all-out program being developed so their military can keep pace with the latest in missile capacity.”

      “China? Our emerging Asian trading buddies?” Brognola asked.

      “Exactly. Don’t let all that twenty-first-century business expansion fool you, Hal. The Chinese will play the market for what it’s worth. They’ll build our TV sets, washing machines and DVD recorders. Automobiles, too, if we let them. And they’ll undercut prices, sell by the shipload and collect their pay in dollars. Then they will use those dollars to buy military know how by the back door.”

      “What’s behind all this?” the big Fed queried.

      “Survival. Our defense program has always been ahead of theirs, because we put in the money and the time. No one has the capacity to match the Slingshot satellite system, and once we get the Zero platform fully operational, that will put us even further ahead. The Russians only pushed the knife in deeper when they announced they were going to update their own ballistic missile arsenal again. For home defense, they quoted,” the President stated.

      “And

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