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send him are encrypted. He doesn't have a clue."
    "Good . " Mr.
Meade took a sip of his alcohol. Then he snorted softly, shaking his head as if
suddenly finding humor in the situation. "It's insane, really. The CIA has
agents in every corner of the White House, frantically running about like
little ants, spying and counter-spying and making fools of themselves. They've
so many turncoats that they don't even trust each other. And the other branches
of the government, the State Department and the Department of Justice have
their own agents, though they pretend otherwise. If I had to guess, I'd say one
out of every three Secret Service agents was a double agent for someone else.
And then ... then there's us."
    Sheridan
shifted on his muscular legs; the Kenneth Cole shoes looked good but were
beginning to pinch. "The branch of the government that no one will admit
exists, yet we are stronger than the others could ever hope to be . " He
shifted again and began buttoning his raincoat. ''No one will admit there is
such a thing as the Core."
    Mr. Meade
cast him a long, beady glance. "Because we know more and do more than they
could possibly imagine," he said softly. "They're afraid of us, Colt.
We're like the fabled Minotaur, or the Loch Ness Monster. Elusive,
omnipotent... and terrifying. We've access to files and laboratories and
information that are beyond their realm of comprehension. We are, in fact the
government's worst nightmare because they have created something they can no
longer control."
    Sheridan
didn't have a reply. He stood silently, his coat buttoned, listening to the
driving rain pound the exterior of the old building. This meeting had gone the
path of a thousand others, full of threats and arrogance and subterfuge.
Sheridan had been a part of it for more years than he cared to admit, a tool
for old men who controlled the country like a parasite controls a host. When he
had been young, the spy business had been exciting and patriotic. But now, more
often than not, it was a burden.
    Finally,
Mr. Meade set his glass down. "Don't contact us, Colt, we'll contact
you," he said. Sheridan immediately turned for the door. "And
Colt?"
    Sheridan
paused, his hand on the doorknob. Mr. Meade glanced at a couple of his
colleagues before continuing, a sort of knowing glance passing between them.
Sheridan didn't understand their expressions until finally Meade spoke.
    "The
secretary," he said. "She has access to all of Talbot's records. She
might be a good place to start."
    Sheridan's
hand came away from the latch. Odd how a cold chill suddenly ran through him,
like anger and defiance and, strangely, self-protection. "How did you know
about her?"
    "Harrios
reports back to us on everything that happens in the President's office,"
Mr. Meade replied. "He said that Talbot's personal assistant and the new
special agent-in-charge met each other with a bang."
    For the
first time since his arrival, Sheridan showed some expression. Slowly, his e yebrows
lifted. The urge to downplay the situation was overwhelming, though he could
not understand why. "Bang? I’d say so. Hell, she made fun of
me."
    Mr. Meade
looked at him, pointedly. "I would suggest you change her mind. She'd be a
tremendous asset to your mission."
    "Take
advantage of her?"
    "Use
and abuse, Mr. Sheridan." Mr. Meade turned back to his drink. "Milk
her for everything she's worth and move on."
    Sheridan
was silent a moment, pondering the insensitive directives of an insensitive
man. But it was not his place to dispute him and he found it difficult to
restrain himself. Wisely, he shifted the subject.
    "If I
do, in fact, discover communication between Talbot and the Cartel, what then?”
he wanted to know. “Are we really going to bust the President of the United
States?"
    Mr. Meade
lifted his shoulders. “That remains to be seen."
    "How?"
    No one
would give him an answer.  It wasn’t his business, anyway. He was an operative
and nothing more. Sensing the conversation was over