“Maybe that's not as mysterious as it seems.” Most of Rowland's days were spent in the boring task of reading and analyzing newspapers, and he relished the chance for intellectual exercise. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.

“The protocol originally would have been recorded on paper, probably broken down into parts. It is never carried out. Then the agency goes from paper to computers. The protocol becomes encoded in the agency's database. It sits there for decades, until all the triggering mechanisms are in place to activate it. The director is supposed to be notified automatically, only the files have been declassified and the computer doesn't know that a lowly analyst will be reading a file meant only for the director.”

“Brilliant,” Browning said. “Now we have to figure out what could have set a fifty-year-old protocol in motion. I was looking at these same files yesterday. This was not there.”

“That means the protocol was activated in the last twenty four hours. Wait-” The e-mail was blinking. Rowland retrieved the message.

“Dear Rowland. Here's your message. Ho-hum. Please send something more challenging next time.”

The words on the screen simply said, “Sanction under way.”

“It's a coded reply from the hit man,” Rowland said. Browning shook his head. “I wonder who the poor bastard was.”

“I don't think we have to worry about the past; it's the future I'm concerned about.”

“Hey, c'mon, Jack, it's been half a century since this protocol was approved. Everyone involved must be long dead. Hit man and victim alike.”

“Maybe,” Rowland said. “Maybe not.” He tapped the words on the screen. “This reply has just been sent. It means the hit man is still alive, and so is his victim. At least for now.” “What do you mean?”

Rowland reached for the phone, a grave expression carved into the usual cheery face.

“The director didn't countermand the order, so it goes to the next step. The killing.” Rowland held his hand up to cut off Browning's question. “Please put me through to the director,” he barked into the phone. “Yes, it's urgent,” he said, his voice rising in a rare display of emotion. “Damned urgent!”

NUMA 2 - Blue Gold

CHAPTER 22

The blaze had been extinguished and the firefighters were mopping up when Zavala returned to Hanley's office building. Zavala bluffed his way past the yellow police tape with officious flashes of his NUMA identification card. He waved the laminated card with his picture close to the arson investigator's nose, then quickly tucked it back into his billfold. He didn't want to explain why someone from a federal ocean science agency was at a San Diego disaster scene.

The investigator, whose name was Connors, said witnesses had told him about the hovering helicopter and described a strange flash of light before the explosion, but he hadn't eliminated the possibility that the detonation was internal. Zavala couldn't blame him. It's not every day an armed helicopter at tacks an office building in San Diego.