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Chapters (88)
  1. Titles by Mark Greaney
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  6. CONTENTS
  7. Epigraph
  8. CHARACTERS
  9. PROLOGUE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
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  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. 32
  42. 33
  43. 34
  44. 35
  45. 36
  46. 37
  47. 38
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
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  58. 49
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  60. 51
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  64. 55
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  72. 63
  73. 64
  74. 65
  75. 66
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  77. 68
  78. 69
  79. 70
  80. 71
  81. 72
  82. 73
  83. 74
  84. 75
  85. 76
  86. 77
  87. 78
  88. EPILOGUE

CATHERINE KING: Senior investigative reporter for the Washington Post

ANDY SHOAL: Metro (cops) reporter for the Washington Post

DENNY CARMICHAEL: Director of National Clandestine Service, CIA

JORDAN MAYES: Assistant Director of National Clandestine Service, CIA

MATTHEW HANLEY: Director of Special Activities Division, CIA

SUZANNE BREWER: Senior Officer, Programs and Plans, CIA

ZACK HIGHTOWER: Call sign Sierra One, former CIA Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) paramilitary operations officer—Court Gentry’s former team leader

CHRIS TRAVERS: Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) paramilitary operations officer, CIA

JENNER: Special Activities Division (Ground Branch) paramilitary operations officer, CIA

MAX OHLHAUSER: Former Chief Council, CIA

LELAND BABBITT: Director of Townsend Government Services

MENACHEM AURBACH: Director of Mossad—Israeli Intelligence

YANIS ALVEY: Senior officer in Mossad—Israeli Intelligence

MURQUIN AL-KAZAZ (“KAZ”): Washington, D.C., Station Chief—Saudi Arabia General Intelligence Presidency (Saudi Intelligence)

“DAKOTA”: Joint Special Operations Command—Special Mission Unit team leader

PROLOGUE

The host of the garden party accidentally left his phone in the kitchen, so when it all went to hell he was the last to know.

Seconds before the debacle he stood on the patio with his wife, chatting with guests over the music from a four-piece jazz ensemble set up by the pool. It was late evening and too cold for an outdoor event like this, but the host and his wife had erected a dozen flaming gas heaters, and enough red wine had been consumed to warm the blood of everyone in attendance.

Denny Carmichael was in his sixties but lean and tan, with a deeply lined but razor-sharp face and a formidable bearing. One of his wife’s friends had once confided in her by saying he looked like Abraham Lincoln’s evil twin. Denny and his wife traded gossip with a couple who lived in D.C. but weekended in nearby Easton, Maryland. Denny was wholly uninterested in the petty chitchat but his wife lived for this shit, so he stood there and faked it, swigging pinot noir that did little to ameliorate his boredom.

While his guests droned on about the cost of their neighbor’s new swimming pool, Denny looked around his property, regarded the Italianate patio, the opulent saltwater pool, and the meticulously maintained lawn sprinkled with their well-heeled friends. Eleanor liked to flee D.C. and drive out here to their estate in rural Maryland every week or two. It was expensive as hell, but his wife came from money, and this was what she wanted.

Denny thought of this place as his wife’s house.

And these friends were hers, as well.

Carmichael didn’t “do” friendships. He barely did marriage, for that matter. He lived for his work, and while everyone around him partied, he would much rather have been back at the office.

The jazz band finished a sedate rendition of “Sentimental Journey” to polite applause, but before the four-piece could fire up their next song, heads began turning towards several sets of headlights racing up the driveway.