“The eighth green is at the edge of the river, nearly a mile wide at that point. Next to the National War College. I suppose if you knew he was there and you were on the other side of the river and had a high vantage point—”

“He’s there now?”

“He would be. Arrived at one. Usually on the course about three hours on a Thursday afternoon. He’d be just getting to the eighth green about now.”

“Call your detail and get him off the course, and I mean this fucking second.”

“No detail. No iPhone. That’s the point, he enjoys being cut off, so it’s just him and the golf ball. I can get the guys in the clubhouse out there, but I don’t know if they can make it in time.”

“Do it, do it, do it!” said Nick.

He looked up.

“They knew some Saudi billionaire had hired him for a speech. Big dollars. They knew that would keep him in town this day, and since it was Thursday, he’d go to the course. Later, they found out about Mogul’s reaction, and Juba saw how he could run that as cover story.”

“Mrs. McDowell’s helicopter on the roof,” said Swagger. “I need a rifle.”

1502

It turned out the ball hadn’t quite made it to the green. It landed a few feet short, fairway all the way, far from any sand, but a few feet shy of the manicured grass. Good chance to work on the short game.

Hmm . . . Long putt or short chip? Decisions, decisions.

Why not both?

Do it, thought Juba. The tiny figure stood exactly against the red dot at the center of the scope, the adjustments perfect, everything as it should be, as Allah had willed it.

But he wouldn’t be 1,847, not just yet.

He’d be at about 1,865, a few yards off the edge of the lush green circle that sported its silly little flag, which, incidentally, was limp, testifying to lack of wind.

Do it! he told himself again.

But the target was not at 1,847. Everything was set for 1,847. Another few seconds, a minute perhaps.

The golfer elected to go with a chip. The drill—address, adjust, square up, bear down—all over again. Then a short, clipped backswing—more chop than swing—and he uncoiled, very much under control.

Whatever happened, it was not good.

He laughed—the man was enjoying himself—and waited until his assistant brought another club and another ball.

He dropped the ball to earth.

Address, adjust, square up, bear down, head still and down. No backswing, just a kind of controlled shove, and this time the result was better.

His assistant came to him, and the two men slapped hands.

Renegade walked onto the green.

1502.37

On the roof, under the thunder of beating rotors, Nick was leaning into the cockpit of the State Police helicopter, screaming at the pilot.