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news crew.
    He’d just spent thirty minutes in a traffic jam on the Parkway as cars crawled past a mass of police cars and tow trucks, and drivers had craned their necks out of their windows to catch a glimpse of the circling police helicopters.
    Yes, he had failed to dispose of the courier, but he’d stopped at a pay phone, made a call, and requested that the film the biker had been carrying be taken care of. He didn’t particularly like having others involved, but he knew he should use his contacts when necessary, and this would be as effective as calling in an artillery strike. The film would simply disappear.
    Now it was time to deal with the talkative bookkeeper. He was certain the man was still home – lights were on in the first-floor windows and a car still sat in the driveway.
    Again, he sat patiently for exactly fifteen minutes as he checked for lights in neighboring windows, evening strollers, or anyone else who might notice anything unusual happening in the small Colonial. Once, he slid down a few inches when headlights came up from behind, but the car passed and turned left without a pause.
    Finally, he took off his hat, placed it on the seat next to him, and leaned back to pick up a white towel from the backseat. As a rule, he made a habit of staying at YMCAs in major cities whenever possible. They were cheap, anonymous, and no one counted the towels in the swimming pool area. He smiled briefly, thinking how odd it was that the Washington Y banned all bathing suits from the swimming pool – everyone went swimming naked. After that scandal with the old man in Eisenhower’s administration, you’d think they’d have learned.
    He slid out of the car, careful to close the door slowly, and only released the latch after it was shut, so that it engaged with an almost inaudible chunk .
    At the front door, he placed the towel over the porch railing, out of sight of the door, then patted his front pants pockets and, satisfied, rang the bell.
    Marshall Reese opened the door. He was only in his early thirties, but already his hair had retreated from the crown of his head to the sides and back with only a few carefully arranged strands pasted over the top. His eyes looked weak and nervous behind a pair of thick steel-framed glasses. He was still fully dressed with his necktie snugged up tight, and his collar buttoned.
    "Hello, I’m John Snyder with ABN. I’m working with Hadley. Can I come in?"
    Reese didn’t reply, simply turned and walked away, leaving the door open. The agent picked up the towel, followed him in, then turned and carefully closed the door. For a moment, he continued to stand facing the door as he pulled a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves from his pocket and pulled them on.
    Reese hadn’t noticed – he was walking into the kitchen. "You’re welcome to come on back and have a drink, but I can’t imagine what you could possibly want. I told that guy everything." Then he added, softly, almost to himself, "And now, I’ve got nothing. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to lose my job or go to jail."
    There was a third alternative that he clearly had never considered.
    The white towel flipped over Reese’s head and pulled tight against his face, completely covering his mouth and nose. A quick shove and the bookkeeper was face down on the floor with his visitor straddling his torso and pulling back hard with the towel, the ends wound around his fists.
    After a moment of stunned surprise, Reese began to struggle to get free and fought to draw a breath. But the pressure never ceased, and the towel remained cruelly tight. After a few moments, his body went limp.
    His attacker kept the pressure on for a full five minutes longer, then released the towel. He stood up and carefully inspected the body. There were no bruises on the back, Reese’s heavy wingtip shoes had protected his furiously kicking feet from injury, and he had given the