K-One covered the middle microphone with his right hand and spoke into the third.

"Oh, " said K-One, "I'm terribly sorry. That's your cousin Ch'un. I didn't know, Kwang. Truly."

K-Two punched the last button and watched as K-One walked toward the CNN truck to make sure their feed from the press truck was secure.

He shook his head. One day he'd do it. He really would. He'd wait until the esteemed sound engineer said something really embarrassing and- The world went black and K-Two slumped over his console.

Eyepatch shoved the big man to the floor of the sound truck and stuffed the blackjack in his pocket. While he began unscrewing the top of the console, one man gingerly opened the duffel bags while the third stood inside the door, a blackjack in hand in case the other man returned.

Working quickly, Eyepatch lifted the metal faceplate, leaned it against the wall, and examined the wires. When he found the one he was looking for, he looked at his watch. They had seven minutes.

"Hurry, " he snarled.

The other man nodded as he carefully removed the brick of plastic explosive from each duffel bag. He pressed them to the underside of the console, well out of sight; when he was finished, Eyepatch removed two wires from the duffel bags and handed them over. The man inserted the end of a wire into each brick, then handed the other ends to Eyepatch.

Eyepatch looked out the small one-way window at the podium. The politicians had started to move in. The traitors and patriots both were chatting amiably among themselves; no one would notice that anything was amiss.

Punching off the three switches that controlled the microphones, Eyepatch quickly knotted the end of the plastique wires to the wires of the sound system. When he was finished, Eyepatch replaced the metal plate.

His two men each grabbed an empty duffel bag and, as quietly as they had entered, the three men departed.

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, 3:50 A.M.,

Chevy Chase, MD

Paul Hood rolled over and looked at the clock. Then he lay back and pushed a hand through his black hair.

Not even four. Damn.

It didn't make sense; it never did. There was no catastrophe in the offing, no ongoing situation, no crisis looming. Yet most nights since they moved here, his active little mind had gently nudged him from sleep and said, "Four hours of sleep is enough, Mr. Director! Time to get up and worry about something."

Nuts to that. Op-Center occupied him an average of twelve hours most days, and sometimes-- during a hostage situation or stakeout-- exactly double that. It wasn't fair that it should also hold him prisoner in the small hours of the night.

As though you've got a choice. From his earliest days as an investment banker through his stint as Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Treasury to running one of the world's most bizarre and intoxicating cities, he had always been a prisoner of his mind. Of wondering if there was a better way to do something, or a detail he might have overlooked, or someone he forgot to thank or rebuke or even kiss.