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operated permanently in its
    shadows. Few Americans knew what he did or even knew his name. Sally had
    died of breast cancer ten years earlier, and the heady days of big
    defense spending were long gone. The industry had been devastated,
    thousands of workers laid off, the entire California economy thrown into
    turmoil. More important, Elliott believed America was weaker today than
    she had been in years. The world was a dangerous place. Saddam Hussein
    had proven that. So had a terrorist armed with a single Stinger missile.
    Elliott wanted to protect his country. If a terrorist could shoot down a
    jetliner and kill two hundred people, why couldn't a rogue state like
    North Korea or Libya or Iran kill two million people by firing a nuclear
    missile against New York or Los Angeles? The civilized world had placed
    its faith in treaties and ballistic-missile control regimes. Mitchell
    Elliott reserved faith for the Almighty, and he did not believe in
    promises written on paper. He believed in machines. He believed the only
    way to protect the nation from exotic weapons was with more exotic
    weapons. Tonight, he had to make his case to the President. Elliott's
    relationship with James Beckwith had been cemented by years of steady
    financial support and wise counsel. Elliott had never once asked for a
    favor, even when Beckwith became a powerful force on the Armed Services
    Committee during his second term in the Senate. That was all about to
    change. One of his aides knocked gently at the door. His phalanx of
    aides was drawn from the ranks of the Special Forces. Mark Calahan was
    like all the others. He was six feet in height--tall enough to be
    imposing but not so tall as to dwarf Elliott--short dark hair, dark
    eyes, clean-shaven, dark suit and tie. Each carried a .45 automatic at
    all times. Elliott had made many enemies along with his millions, and he
    never set foot in public without protection. "The car is here, Mr.
    Elliott."
    "I'll be down in a minute."
    The aide nodded and silently withdrew. Elliott drifted closer to the
    fire and finished the last of his whiskey. He didn't like being sent
    for. He would leave when he was ready to leave, not when Paul Vandenberg
    told him. Vandenberg would still be selling life insurance if it weren't
    for Elliott. And as for Beck-with, he would have been an unknown San
    Francisco lawyer, living in Redwood City instead of the White House.
    They both could wait. Elliott walked slowly to the bar and poured
    another half inch of whiskey into the glass. He went back to the fire
    and knelt before it, head bowed, eyes closed. He prayed for
    forgiveness--forgiveness for what he had done and for what he was about
    to do. "We are your chosen people," he murmured. "I am your instrument.
    Grant me the strength to do your will, and greatness shall be yours."
    SUSANNA DAYTON felt like an idiot. Only in movies did reporters sit in
    parked cars, drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup, conducting
    surveillance like some private investigator. When she left the office an
    hour earlier, she had not told her editor where she was going. It was
    just a hunch, and it might lead to nothing. The last thing she wanted
    her colleagues to know was that she was tailing Mitchell Elliott like a
    B-movie sleuth. Rain blurred her view. She flicked a switch on the
    steering column, and wipers swept away the water. She scrubbed away the
    moisture on the inside of the windshield with a napkin from the downtown
    deli where she bought the coffee. The black staff car was still there,
    engine idling, headlights off. Upstairs, on the second floor of the
    large house, a single light burned. She sipped the coffee and waited. It
    was awful, but at least it was hot. Susanna Dayton had been White House
    correspondent for The Washington Post, the pinnacle of power and
    prestige in the world of American journalism, but Susanna had loathed
    the job. She hated filing, every day, essentially the same story that
    two hundred other reporters