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get to know you.” Then he added, “I have a hunch this won’t be the only visit we make out here.”
    * * *
    â€œThe president cannot be allowed to run for a second term,” Gene Dawson opened the breakfast meeting in the back room of a Washington restaurant. The room was used frequently for highly secret and clandestine meetings. It was electronically “swept” before each meeting and was as secure as man could make it. “The sooner we start making plans to get him out of office, the better. I wish to hell he’d drop dead tonight.”
    â€œWishful thinking,” a United States senator spoke up. “But that would be nice. However, the Speaker is the man causing the trouble. If we could get him out of the way, it would rip the guts out of the opposition and put them into a panic.”
    â€œI personally think a terrorist attack is the way to go,” a United States representative said. “We know the Republicans are planning a strategy meeting in a couple of months. Over in West Virginia. Get rid of the whole damn bunch. We could blame it on Libya or Syria or the Palestinians and be rid of those right-wing bastards once and for all.”
    â€œOh, get real, Paul!” Senator Holden quickly spoke up. “Good Jesus Christ. I don’t want to hear any more talk about such nonsense. Murder? Impeachment? You’re all crazy!”
    â€œIf we don’t do something and do it damn quickly, our party is going to be a thing of the past,” Paul Patrick came right back. “And I for one am prepared to do anything, anything, to prevent that from happening.”
    â€œMurder, Paul?” another senator whispered. “Murder?”
    â€œI agree with Paul,” a woman spoke. “We’ve got to disarm the right-wing nuts in this country. We’ve got to disarm everybody. We’re in a war for our party’s very survival, and for the welfare of every good, decent American citizen. And in a war, anything goes.”
    â€œYou would go that far, Madalaine?”
    â€œYes. I think the time has come for drastic steps.”
    â€œI wouldn’t even know where to begin,” Gene Dawson said in a subdued tone.
    The woman smiled. “I do. I’ve already contacted a man.”
    * * *
    Robert Roche hurled his coffee cup across the room and cursed at the news just delivered him. He turned to face the man. “Gone? Gone where?”
    â€œHe’s here in the United States . . . somewhere. Our sources in the State Department say he entered the country just a few days ago. He may still be here in the city.”
    â€œSomeone, some group, hired him?”
    â€œFrom all indications, yes.”
    â€œFind out who hired him and why.”
    â€œI will do my best, sir.”
    The billionaire fixed the man with a cold stare. “Do better than that, Ray. Or hunt for another job.”
    After Ray had gone, Robert poured a fresh cup of coffee and sat down behind his desk. Slowly, he calmed himself and began thinking rationally. He knew from years of quiet investigation—which had cost him several million dollars—that John Ravenna hated the man who was born Vlad Radu. John Ravenna was the pure personification of evil; Vlad Radu was just the opposite.
    If John Ravenna was in the States, he had been hired to kill someone, or do something equally nefarious, for the man had been a killer for hire for nearly a thousand years. He had been killing for kings and queens and potentates and generals for all his adult life.
    But who hired him, and why?
    Robert felt sure that Ravenna would never take a contract on Vlad, for that would be pointless. No, something very big was about to go down here in America. Something earth-shaking in magnitude.
    But Robert was certain of one thing: whatever it was, the man now living under the name of Barry Cantrell was somehow involved. He might not know it yet, but he had a part to play in this little