Chesapeake Bay covered 2,200 miles of coastline, far more if one counted the 150 tributaries along with all the coves and creeks and tidal rivers. The bay itself was shallow, ranging from ten to thirty feet. Janson knew that all sorts of creatures thrived here: muskrats and nutria, swans, geese, ducks, even osprey. The bald eagle itself bred around the lowlands of Dorchester County, as did the great horned owl. The profusion of wildlife, in turn, made it an inviting place for hunters as well.

And Janson was there to hunt.

Now he drove over the Choptank River at Cambridge, onto 13, and farther south, over another bridge, and finally to the long spit of land known as Phipps Island. As he drove the rented Camry along the narrow road, he could see the water through the salt-marsh grass, the sun glaring off its surface. Fishing sloops were moving slowly along the bay, hauling in nets laden with blue crabs and menhaden and rockfish.

A few miles farther down the road, he entered Phipps Island proper. He saw why Derek Collins had chosen it for a vacation home, a retreat from the pressures of his Washington existence. Though only a relatively short distance from Washington, it was isolated, peaceful; it was also, by dint of the land formation, secure. Janson, approaching the undersecretary’s bayside cottage, was feeling distinctly exposed. A long, skinny strip of land connected it to the main peninsula, making a surreptitious land approach difficult. An amphibious arrival would be impeded by the shallowness of the water surrounding the land, much of which had only recently been reclaimed by the steadily erosive sea. The wooden docks for boat landings extended far out, where the depth of the water was sufficient for safe navigation; and the length of those docks, too, rendered potential intruders exposed and vulnerable. Without the need to rely on fallible electronics, Collins had selected an area where nature itself assured him the advantages of easy surveillance and the attendant security.

Don’t count on leaving his company alive. The director of Consular Operations was a deadly and determined man; Janson had learned that from experience. Well, that made two of them.

The tires of the sedan kicked up dust—beach sand and dried salt—from the surface of the pale gray road, which stretched ahead like a discarded snakeskin. Would Collins seek to kill him before they spoke? He would do so if he believed Janson represented a mortal threat to him. More likely, he would summon backup—the Oceana Naval Air Station, outside Virginia Beach, could send a pair of H-3 Sea King helicopters to Phipps Island in fifteen minutes; an F-18 Hornet squadron could be scrambled in even less time.