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with his Beatle hair and tinted glasses, cocked his head as his headset spoke softly. He looked up. All eyes were on the President. He caught the President’s eye and tapped his headset twice.
    “Murray?”
    “Folks, if you’ll tune your laptops to the in-house feed.”
    All turned their attention to their computers. Within seconds they had tuned to the Situation Room news feed. On screen: dozens of police and first responder vehicles arrayed in front of a nondescript office building in a commercial strip. One end was ablaze as firefighters maneuvered their hoses.
    The news scroll along the bottom streamed: “Office attack leaves four dead…building set on fire…Volt Media President Lewis Stark allegedly pulled a gun and began shooting his employees…developing…”
    ***

CHAPTER EIGHT
    “A Favor”
    Sunday night.
    Yee chose the restaurant at the Ritz-Carlton, The Brigadoon, for its anonymity. The intel meeting had gone well although she could feel the disdain rolling off Brubaker and MacCauley like cold off a glacier. The military mindset always wanted a military solution. Which was why terrorism existed--to deny the military solution.
    Brubaker had lost his only son in the Gulf War, which conferred on him a certain moral dimension. He had also been black ops. He was not one of those men who jumped from desk to desk until they reached the top. MacCauley saw Red Chinese under his bed. Panny was a good soldier and had no dog in this fight. Lubitch was in over his head.
    Yee had issued a memorandum last winter containing disinformation that eventually turned up on Wikileaks. Somewhere in the complicated cortex where NSA, FBI, CIA, and Homeland met there was a leak. Yee had taken it upon herself to track it down. The next couple of days would be interesting.
    She was seated in the back in a corner banquette sipping Merlot when she saw the maitre’ d escorting Stella Darling her way. An overweight tourist seated with his wife and two fidgety kids could not prevent his eyes from tracking Darling across the floor.
    Tall and shapely in a gray Ralph Lauren skirted suit that complemented her figure and cover girl all American perfection, she wore her honey blond hair in a pageboy and carried an old-fashioned Gladstone by its strap over one shoulder. Darling never carried a purse. It was all in the Gladstone, including, Yee had heard, a .38 revolver. A gift from her daddy.
    Yee rose to her full five one to greet the criminal defense attorney. “Thank you for coming, Stella.”
    Darling took her hand warmly. “Of course.”
    They both slid onto the red leather bench. A pale young man in black vest and white shirt appeared to take their drink orders. Yee ordered another Merlot. Darling ordered a Grey Goose vodka straight up with a twist. Darling’s dark and puffy eyes were the only indication of the strain she was under. Darling pulled out a contact lens lubricant and dumped an ounce in each eye.
    “These contacts.”
    “Don’t wear them, dear. Eyeglasses look good on you.”
    Darling chuckled ruefully. “I know. Sam always insisted I wear contacts. ‘Girls who wear glasses don’t often get passes,’ he told me. It’s an old habit. I’ve been thinking of having my eyes lasered, but too many people tell me horror stories.”
The waiter came with their drinks and discreetly withdrew. It was eight-thirty in the evening, the earliest Darling could get away after spending all day shepherding her client through the psychological evaluation procedure. It didn’t help that Lester Durant was kept chained and shackled.
    Yee held up her glass. “To Sam.”
    “To Sam.” They clinked. Yee sipped. Darling drained half the glass.
    She set it down and fixed her slightly bloodshot blue eyes on the NSA honcho. “How can I help?”
    “We’d like you to bring Otto White in.”
    Darling blinked several times. “For what?”
    “To head up a team to find and neutralize whatever it is that killed the Senator, and has killed at