“His what?” Herbert asked.

“His board. Surfing.”

“You’re right,” Herbert said. “But if they shoot at us, we’ll know one thing for sure.”

“What’s that?” Leyland asked.

“We found the right boat.”

FIFTY-TWO - Washington, D.C. Saturday, 11:00 A.M.

FIFTY-TWO

Washington, D.C. Saturday, 11:00 A.M.

The phone beeped, and Hood snapped it up. He had just finished talking to Stephen Viens, who was rushing to the office. In his absence, weekend surveillance staffer Mary Timm was starting up the GPS sweep. It was not a complex operation, and the exchange officer was from the Communications Security Establishment of Canada’s Department of National Defence. That was the branch of government that analyzed and catalogued intercepted radio and various electronic emissions from other nations. The CSE liaised closely with both the United States and Great Britain’s SIGINT services.

“R. Clayton Herbert,” said the deep and smoky voice on the other end of the phone. “That’s Bob Herbert. He’s on your staff, isn’t he?” There was a hint of a Louisiana accent.

Hood did not like calls that opened with questions. Especially when the voice was not familiar. But the caller had access to Hood’s direct line. That meant he had high-level security clearance.

“Who is this?” Hood asked.

“Bruce Perry,” the caller replied.

Perry was the special assistant to the president for democratic elections. It was a post that monitored voting activities in foreign nations. Hood could not understand what Special Assistant Perry wanted with Herbert, or why he used that form of Herbert’s name. He did a GovScan search of Perry’s name. Those personnel files were little more than glorified résumés. They were available to officials who might need assistance in highly specialized areas.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” Hood said, stalling while he scanned Perry’s file.

“You may be correct,” Perry replied. “But then, it isn’t my job to keep track of peoples’ activities.”

Oh, Hood thought. It’s going to be one of those kinds of conversations. And then he spotted the reason Perry was calling. The sixty-four-year-old was a former ambassador to Australia.

“All right, Mr. Perry,” Hood said. “Yes, Bob Herbert is an officer here. You already knew that, or you wouldn’t be asking. What’s on your mind?”

“Mr. Herbert has just been to see Mr. Jervis Darling at his home,” Perry said. “You’ve heard of Jervis Darling?”

“I read newspapers,” Hood said. Darling had obviously wasted no time getting his puppets onstage.

“Newspapers do not tell the full story of this man,” Perry said.

“I’m sure of that.”

“Mr. Darling has put a substantial portion of his personal fortune into countless unheralded charitable activities, which include democratic advocacy programs,” Perry went on. “He is a rock in that region, and Mr. Herbert had no right to call on him.”

“In a democratic society we have all kinds of rights,” Hood pointed out.