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could not help memorizing every number in it. He punched in a local number, and when Ben King answered, he said: “It’s Jack. I need to get out of the States.”
    “Right,” King said. “I’ll get the plane ready.”
    King was the pilot of Paull’s government plane that Jack had used over the past three years. King had already gotten him out of several tight spots.
    “No,” Jack said. “I need a more clandestine type of ride. No one can know I’m leaving, or even that I’m at the airport.”
    There was a silent moment while Jack held his breath. Then he said, “Look, Ben, something’s happened to the Skip. I need to set it right.”
    “Is he okay?”
    “No,” Jack said. “He’s dead.”
    There was an elongated silence during which Jack’s ears were filled with the trip-hammer beat of his own heart.
    “Jack,” Ben said at last, “is this the only way?”
    “Yeah,” Jack said heavily, “I’m afraid it is.”
    “Okay. Let me make some calls.” Ben’s voice was crisp and sharp now, a military man carrying out his orders. “I’ll phone you—”
    “No,” Jack said firmly. “I’ll call you.”
    “That bad, huh?”
    “Worse. Ben, I don’t have a lot of time.”
    “Fifteen minutes,” Ben said, and disconnected.
    *   *   *
    Dickinson, filing out of the situation room with the others, paused at Tim Malone’s side, and together the two men went slowly down the corridor. They watched President Crawford talking with Rogers and Alix Ross. The three stepped into the elevator by themselves, the bulletproof reinforced steel doors closed as the others milled about, waiting for it to return for them.
    “This way.”
    Malone led Dickinson through a fire door on their left into the bare concrete stairwell, and they began their ascent up to the White House’s ground level.
    “I’ve sent out a BOLO and an all-points on McClure,” Dickinson said. “With the help of the Metro police, I’ve deployed agents and detectives at all rail and bus stations and airports in the D.C. metro area. Everyone has his photo. Also, we’re canvassing every rental car office.”
    “And if he chooses to steal a car?” Malone said.
    “I’ve sent patrol cars rolling everywhere. We’ll catch him, Tim. That’s a promise. Dennis and I went way back. He was the one who recruited me out of Georgetown.”
    “I know.”
    Dickinson shook his head. “I’m not going to let this fucker get away with killing Dennis.” He licked his lips. “I screwed the pooch. I won’t make director if I don’t make it right.”
    “I feel for you, Henry. But if you get this job done quickly and efficiently, you can turn sentiment in your favor.”
    After that charged exchange, the two men kept their own counsel, each seemingly plunged deep in thought, as they passed out of the White House, through the various security checks, and into Malone’s waiting car. Dickinson signaled to his security team, which had been doubled the moment Dennis Paull’s body had been identified, and they vanished into their vehicles to take up position behind their boss. Before he ducked into the FBI director’s car, he saw Krofft watching him from the steps of the White House.
    “This is turning out to be a helluva morning,” Dickinson said morosely as he settled in beside the FBI director. “I can’t fathom how this could happen. It’s unthinkable. Dennis was McClure’s mentor, scooped him up when President Carson died in Moscow four years ago, gave him carte blanche. Why in the world would McClure betray him?”
    Malone considered a moment. “That’s what a good mole does: burrows in, gets close, then goes about his business.”
    Dickinson’s gaze dropped. “This dossier is the most damning bit of evidence.”
    “I did us all a favor, Henry. We’re lucky Krofft’s agents didn’t get their paws on it. You know his rep for sharing nothing.”
    Dickinson laughed ruefully. “My boss seems to have been good at that, too. The dossier names