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Congress and the DNI. In doing so, I will welcome any of your questions, and I invite you to hold me accountable, because our objective ought to be the same: to give the intelligence community all that it needs to succeed within the confines of our laws.”
    Senator Ackerman graces him with a smile. “Your superiors have no doubt about that. In fact, let me read this letter from the outgoing Director of Intelligence, who has given you his full endorsement—I’m so sorry, I mean ‘ had ’ given. Unfortunately, General Benjamin Overton met with an unfortunate accident on his ranch this morning. The country, as a whole, mourns his loss deeply.”
    Game. Set. Match.
    Following her reading of the dearly departed’s letter, the rest of the committee—that is, everyone but C. Bright Kuley—applaud enthusiastically. Heck, why not? It’s easier to let loose with a joyous huzzah in front of the cameras than to actually read the damn report, let alone poke holes in it.
    They are joined by nearly all of the hearing’s attendees.
    Jack and I both need some fresh air. He pulls me off the floor, and out the back door, grumbling, “I can’t wait to get my hands on that report.”
    I can, but I don’t say that to him. If Carl’s fantasy version has him wearing a humongous ten-gallon white hat, I can only imagine who will be portrayed as the bad guys.
    He always did love me in black.

Chapter 3
    Strangers on a Train

    “I still think it would be wonderful to have a man love you so much he’d kill for you.”
    —Patricia Hitchcock, as “Barbara Morton”

    The tight halls, intimate cabins, curtained sleeping berths. The gentle clickity-clack and rhythmic thrusts of your iron horse’s steel wheels, as it makes its way down the tracks and into another tunnel of love. All of this has you shouting, “Yes—yes—YES!” to the question: “Can you still find romance on the rails?”
    Of course—just like in the movies!
    So that your journey is as satisfying as any you’ve seen on the big screen, make sure your ticket to ride includes:
    1: An overnight journey. Sure, you could do the down-and-dirty in the time it takes the Capitol Limited to go from Washington D.C.’s Union Station to Baltimore’s Penn Station, but half the fun is getting there (the other half is the treasure chest of sex toys you’ve brought along) so sit back and enjoy the ride!
    2: A private cabin. Sorry, but two coach seats on the subway just won’t cut it. No matter how much you loved  Risky Business , let’s face it: he’s no Tom Cruise and you, madam, are no Rebecca De Mornay, so get a room—on a real train.
    3: A little roleplaying. For example, the man in your life can be Cary Grant helping you—his Eva Marie Saint—up into the top bunk berth. Too tame? Then assign him the role of “Stern Conductor” and you can be “Naughty Stowaway.”
    Better yet, switch roles. Even he’ll concede that you look much better in that railway insignia cap and jacket when you’re also wearing fishnet stockings and stiletto heels.
    And if you get into your roles, you can make your own movie.

    The text message on my cell purrs,  Last train from L’Enfant to Farragut West. Alone. —CS (The One And Only)
    No. Oh, no….
    Somehow Carl has hacked my cell phone, and now he wants to see me.
    Now that he’s a shoo-in for full senate confirmation for the position of DI (apropos, considering he’s such a DICK to begin with), I presume he wants to wipe the slate clean between us.
    “Is that Ryan?” Jack comes over from the couch, curious as to why all the blood has drained from my face.
    We are in our room at the L’Enfant Plaza hotel. It’s now nine o’clock. We elected to have room service instead of going out to dinner, but neither of us has touched the food on our trays. The last seventy-two hours have been gruesome. Between the Yemen mission and today’s follies, we’re both dead on our feet.
    “It’s not Ryan, but…er, Jeff. He wants to know if he