KNOX WATCHED the earth disappear from underneath him as the tri-engine Falcon Dassault jet shot skyward with enormous thrust. The luxurious, wood-paneled interior of the plane only held three occupants, other than the two pilots up front—Knox, Macklin Hayes and a uniformed steward who’d discreetly disappeared as soon as the plane leveled off and the coffee and continental breakfast was served. When Knox had called Macklin at seven a.m. he’d been told to report to a private airstrip near Front Royal, Virginia, that he had no idea even existed. Five minutes after he’d pulled up in his Rover, the plane had lifted from the tarmac.

Hayes had an office in some building in some undisclosed part of Washington, Knox knew, but the man obviously preferred conducting his meetings at thirty-five thousand feet, as though the altitude made for better decision-making, or at least fewer opportunities to be spied on. Knox knew that just the fuel burn for this flight would have paid for some really nice digs in the heart of D.C. Yet it should have come as no surprise that some high-up government folks treated the U.S. Treasury as though it would never run out of dollars. At least it kept gainfully employed the feds who sold T-bills to the Chinese and the Saudis to keep America running.

The former general was dressed in civilian government standard issue, namely a boring suit and an equally boring tie and black wingtips on the feet. His socks were too short, Knox noted, and revealed pale ankles and the bottom of a hairless calf. The man had definitely not scaled the walls of power based on his fashion sense. He’d done it, Knox was well aware, on nerve and brains. The only sign of his former illustrious military career were the three stars on his tie clip.

They made casual conversation while munching an overabundance of carbs, and then the white-haired Hayes took a final sip of coffee and sat back in his leather seat looking expectant.

“Impressions from your reading session?”

“Many. None of them crystallized. I have to say the record is about as garbled as any I’ve seen. There’re enough holes to fly a jet five times the size of this one right through it without even nicking a wingtip.”

Hayes nodded approvingly. “I had the same initial reaction.”

Knox didn’t bother asking about the significance of the emphasized word because he knew from past dealings with Macklin that he would get zip for his troubles. “And I have to say I’m still not clear on the agenda. Where do you want this to go?”

Hayes spread his long, bony arms. “Where? To the truth. I suppose.”

“You don’t sound convinced of that,” Knox said warily.

“But that could change, depending on what you find out. You know how this drill works, Knox.”

“Gray and Simpson are dead. Do we let sleeping dogs lie?”