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Pyotr Legere. Who the hell is he? I’ve never heard of him.”
    “It appears that he was Dennis’s private contact.”
    “Off the books of homeland security.”
    “Off the books of all the clandestine services.”
    “Which is why he didn’t tell anyone—even me—about Legere.”
    Malone nodded. “He didn’t know whom he could trust.”
    “I’ll bet he told McClure. He told McClure everything. Every. Fucking. Thing.”
    Malone gave him a look, but Dickinson was too busy with his thoughts. “Truthfully, had Dennis come to me with his suspicion, I would have been inclined to disbelieve him. After all, this isn’t the Cold War. It’s far too difficult these days to turn high-level personnel.”
    Malone pointed to a section of the interview where Paull asked Legere the identity of the mole. “But now Dennis is dead—shot to death by one of his most trusted men. You ask why Jack McClure would turn on his mentor. This is why, Henry. McClure is the mole. The moment he learned what Dennis was up to, he killed him. In order to escape from the house, he had to kill the security guards, as well.”
    Dickinson tapped a forefinger against his pursed lips. “This is a transcript of the interview. My people didn’t find a tape or CD. Did yours?”
    Malone shook his head. “There was nothing of the kind. Dennis was too canny to leave the original lying around. My guess is it’s someplace safe outside his house.”
    Dickinson had come to the end of the dossier. “How well do you know this man known as the Syrian?”
    “Not well at all. No one knows who he is. We have no photos of him, we don’t know his background. He’s a ghost, or maybe a straw man Al Qaeda or another terrorist group has created for us to follow.”
    Dickinson tapped the dossier. “It says here that the mole is being run by the Syrian.”
    “That’s what Legere believed—or what he told Dennis, at any rate.”
    “At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter who’s running the mole, the Syrian, Al Qaeda, or some other cadre,” Dickinson said, “just that we shut the leak down.”
    Dickinson blew air out of his pursed lips. “Any idea where this Pyotr Legere is at the moment?”
    Malone shook his head. “But we do know from his debriefing that he was last in Bangkok.”
    “That’s where I should start looking for him.”
    “I don’t see why. We need to concentrate on running McClure down.”
    Dickinson looked thoughtful. “You may be right, but knowing McClure as I do, it’s likely to be a helluva lot easier finding Legere than—”
    “With all due respect,” Malone interrupted, “you don’t know McClure at all. Let’s focus on him.” When no immediate response was forthcoming, he added, “Listen, Henry, you start sniffing around in Bangkok, Krofft’s going to get wind of it. Then he’ll want to know what you’re doing and why you haven’t briefed him on it.”
    “Because the minute he finds out, he’ll take over. That’s Krofft’s way.”
    “Precisely. I mean, he had his boys at my crime scene. What the hell.” The flat of Malone’s hand cut through the air. “No, Henry, we leave this strictly domestic, we keep Krofft out of our hair.”
    Dickinson sighed, then, reluctantly, nodded. “Right you are, Tim.” But he was already thinking of the best person to send to Bangkok in search of Dennis Paull’s elusive contact.

 
    T HREE
    “D ULLES C ARGO,” Jack said to Nona the moment he ended his second call to Ben King.
    Nona pulled over, drew a stained hoodie out of her bag. “Put this on,” she said. Then she cuffed him. “Now just keep your face averted and we’ll be okay.”
    When he was settled, she put the SUV in gear, changed direction, and headed off.
    Jack said, “My sense is we’ll only have one shot to get into the foreign trade zone, which will gain me access to the cargo runways without going through the terminal. An InterGlobal Logistics aircraft is due to take off in just under fifty