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man could speak, Stone said, “I don’t warrant a face-to-face?”
    A smile edged across the fellow’s face. “Afraid not, but you do get me .”
    Me was the new director of NIC, Riley Weaver. He’d taken over for the deceased Carter Gray. Those were big shoes to fill, and the word in government circles was that Weaver was slowly but surely finding his way. Whether or not that was a good thing for the country was as yet unknown.
    At the sound of Weaver’s voice, the door to the room opened and two other men filed in and leaned against the wall behind Stone. Stone never liked having armed men behind him, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. He was the visiting team and the home squad made the rules.
    “Debrief,” ordered Weaver, looking at Stone.
    “Why?” replied Stone.
    The smile slipped off Weaver’s face. “Because I asked, politely.”
    “Do I work for you? I don’t remember getting that memo.”
    “Just exercise your civic duty.”
    Stone said nothing.
    Weaver finally broke the silence. He leaned forward and said, “I understand you have fair winds and following seas at your back.”
    Weaver, Stone now recalled, had been a Marine. Marines were part of the navy, and his nautical reference showed that he was tighter in the loop than Stone had expected. The president of the United States represented Stone’s “fair winds and following seas,” which in nautical parlance meant very favorable navigatingconditions. But did Weaver know about his meeting with the president? About his being shipped off to Mexico to deal with the Russians? If not, Stone had no intention of enlightening him.
    “Civic duty,” said Stone. “Just so we understand each other. It goes both ways.”
    Weaver sat back. His features showed that while he might have underestimated Stone initially, that miscalculation had been quickly remedied. “Agreed.”
    Stone succinctly gave his account of the attack in the park.
    When he was done Weaver said, “All right. Now look left and observe closely.”

CHAPTER 7

    A MOMENT LATER S TONE WAS WATCHING the prior night’s video feed from Lafayette Park. They had slowed down the frame speed so that Stone could view every detail closely and unhurriedly. As the gunfire commenced, Stone watched as people started running in all directions. Perimeter security took defensive positions and looked for the source of the shots. The jogger started to run in the feeble way of a man unaccustomed to exercise. His strides were really short, increasingly weakened hops. His path carried him through the yellow tape and a few moments later he fell or he might’ve jumped into the hole where the big maple was being planted.
    Now Stone could make sense of what he had seen, namely the man seemingly vanishing into thin air. It was like a foxhole, thought Stone. To get away from the bullets.
    Then the explosion happened. Stone saw himself lifted off his feet and slammed into the ganger. They both went down. The tooth in his head. He rubbed the spot.
    A second later, the cameras went to static. The concussive force of the blast must have jammed the signal somehow. The wall became blank again.
    Weaver said, “Observations?”
    “Run it again,” Stone requested.
    He watched the feed twice more.
    Stone thought about what he’d just seen. The jogger had tumbled into the open hole around the maple and the explosion had happened seconds later.
    “So what was the source of the detonation? The jogger?”
    “Not sure yet. It may have been something in that hole.”
    Stone looked skeptical. “In the hole? No gas lines under the park?”
    “None.”
    “Then you know what you’re suggesting? A bomb planted in Lafayette Park?”
    Weaver’s expression grew even darker. “The implications of that are downright paralyzing, but we can’t discount the possibility.”
    “So you’re saying maybe the guy jumped into the hole to avoid the bullets and gets blown up instead by a bomb previously placed