We would like to acknowledge the assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Larry Segriff, Robert Youdelman, Esq., Tom Manon, Esq." and the wonderful people at Penguin Putnam, including Phyllis Grann, David Shanks, and Tom Colgan. As always, we would like to thank Robert Gottlieb of The William Morris Agency, our agent and friend, without whom this book would never have been conceived. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

-Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

PROLOGUE

Washington, D.C.

Sunday, 1:55 p.m.

The two middle-aged men sat in leather armchairs in a corner of the wood-paneled library. The room was in a quiet corner of a Massachusetts Avenue mansion. The blinds were drawn to protect the centuries-old art from the direct rays of the early-afternoon sun. The only light came from a dull fire that was smoldering in the fireplace.

The fire gave the old, wood-paneled room a faintly smoky smell.

One of the men was tall, stout, and casually dressed with thinning gray hair and a lean face. He was drinking black coffee from a blue Camp David mug while he studied a single sheet of paper resting in a green folder.

The other individual, seated across from him with his back to the bookcase, was a short bulldog of a man with a three-piece gray suit and buzz-cut red hair. He was holding an empty shot glass that, moments before, had been brimming with scotch. His legs were crossed, his foot was dancing nervously, and his cheek and chin bore the nicks of a quick, unsatisfactory shave.

The taller man shut the folder and smiled.

"These are wonderful comments. Just perfect."

"Thank you," said the red-haired man.

"Jen's a very good writer." He shifted slowly, uncrossing his legs. He leaned forward, causing the leather seat to groan.

"Along with this afternoon's briefing, this is really going to accelerate matters. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course," the taller man said. He put his coffee mug on a small table, rose, and walked to the fireplace.

He picked up a poker.

"Does that scare you?"

"A little," the red-haired man admitted.

"Why?" the taller man asked as he threw the folder into the flames. It caught fire quickly.

"Our tracks are covered."

"It's not us I'm worried about. There will be a price," the red-haired man said sadly.

"We've discussed this before," the taller man said.

"Wall Street will love it. The people will recover. And any foreign powers that try to take advantage of the situation will wish they hadn't." He jabbed the burning folder.

"Jack ran the psychological profiles. We know where all the potential trouble spots are. The only one who's going to be hurt is the man who created the problem.

And he'll recover. Hell, he'll do better than recover.

He'll write books, give speeches, make millions."