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much.
        Carver said, “Commander Day was head of the FBI’s Organized Crime Unit for several years. During that time, many of the top people in the major New York families were arrested, and half of those were convicted and put away. Genaloni’s father and older brother were among those imprisoned. The mob wouldn’t lose any sleep over Steve’s death. And they tend to have long memories.”
        “ ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,’ ” the President said. “Isn’t that a Sicilian proverb?” He looked a bit more relaxed than he had. The mob wouldn’t be gunning for him.
        He stood, glancing at his watch. “I hate to cut this short, gentlemen, but I have pressing matters elsewhere. It looks like this is some kind of mob thing, and while I regret the loss of Commander Day, I can’t see that national security is at risk here.” He glanced at Reed, who shook his head.
        Or their own asses, Michaels thought.
        “Okay, Walt, I would like to see this cleared up. Keep me apprised. Gentlemen. Mrs. Upton.”
        With that, the President and his Chief of Staff left.
        Carver moved over to where Michaels stood near the computer. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
        “No, sir.”
        “All right. We’ll start some heat Genaloni’s way,” Carver said. “The man won’t be able to pee without somebody watching him from inside the bowl. I want you to get your computer people digging.”
        “Yes, sir.”
        “Talk to Brent Adams at OC. He’ll be told to cooperate. We aren’t going to have a turf war here-I’m giving this one to you. The President of the United States has just told us he wants to see this cleared up, and it did not sound like a request to me.”
        “No, sir.”
        “That’s it. I want situation reports daily, sooner if anything breaks. Anything else you can think of?”
        “No, sir. We’ll keep you in the loop.”
        “Good man.”
        Not until he was back in his car and well away from the White House did Michaels allow himself to relax. This high-level stuff was risky. He would rather be in the field, training new agents, anything, than playing with politicians and security advisors. Here, a misstep, one word out of place, and you’d be counting paper clips the rest of your career. So now, aside from his personal agenda, he had it straight from the top: Find out who killed Steve Day.
        Find out-or else.
        Fine. No problem. That was exactly what he planned to do, and he had the resources to do it.

4

        
         Wednesday, September 8th, 9:30 a.m. Quantico, Virginia
        Toni Fiorella was in the small gym practicing djurus when two members of the newest class of FBI mainline recruits came in. There were maybe a dozen people already working out-lifting weights, using the flywheel bikes or punching the heavy bag, but most of them were regulars, instructors or people assigned to Training HQ. The trainees tended to stay in their own gym, which was just fine with her. Newbies, most of them fresh out of law or accounting schools, tended to think they knew everything, and that the Bureau should feel honored they had chosen to grace it with their wonderful presence.
        She shifted into a right-front stance, most of her weight on her forward foot, knee bent, did the windshield-wiper-like two-handed block to control the center, left, right, then shot her right elbow upward in a short, tight strike to an imaginary opponent’s head. She slapped the elbow with her left hand to simulate the hit, slid the left hand under the right arm, where it stood ready to sweep away an opponent’s return punch, then shot the straight right and left punches that followed.
        This was the first djuru , and a very simple sequence.
        One of the newbies, a tall, muscular man in blue spandex bike shorts and a matching FBI-trainee T-shirt, looked at Toni, then chuckled and said something to his buddy.
        The second