PROLOGUE

Thursday

I nodded to the rigid Marine sergeant standing by the door as I turned off the Pentagon's Eisenhower Hallway into the Office of the Secretary of Defense.

"Sir!" barked the Marine, his lips moving only barely, if at all.

Three good-size desks barely registered in the oversized reception area. The Secretary's executive officers, an Army brigadier general and a Navy captain, sat behind two of them. Both had phones stuck to their ears. A pleasant-looking woman in her thirties sat at the third desk. She looked up and smiled. I walked over and set my briefcase on the floor.

Before I could say anything, she glanced at the ID badge clipped to my lapel and asked, "May I help you, Colonel Jensen?"

I glanced at the nameplate on her desk "I need to see Secretary Baines, Ms. Donner. The matter is urgent."

She was already shaking her head before I finished. Lowly Air Force lieutenant colonels don't stroll in and expect to be granted an audience with the Secretary.

"I'm sorry, Colonel. Secretary Baines's schedule is quite full. "She looked toward the two officers. "Perhaps if you talked to-"

"No," I said sharply. "I must see the Secretary. Please, give him my name-Lieutenant Colonel Jensen, of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations."

Her mouth tightened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the brigadier general cradle the phone and begin to rise. "Colonel," he growled, "what the-"

I didn't listen to the rest. Grabbing my briefcase, I walked rapidly past the general's desk toward a set of double doors.

"Sergeant!" bellowed the general.

The general grabbed my arm just as I opened the doors.

Secretary of Defense Robert Baines looked up from an enormous desk. He stared at me, frowning, his glasses on the end of his nose.

The general pulled at my arm. The Marine arrived and pointed his M-16 at my chest.

I'd had a lot of people point guns at me lately.

"Charlie!" boomed Secretary Baines, breaking into a slow grin. "What the hell are you up to now? Testing my security?"

The brigadier loosened his grip. "You know this man, sir?"

"Call off the dogs, General," Baines said, waving his hand. "Come in, Charlie."

I gave the general a smug look. He glared. I shut the door.

Baines came from behind the desk with an outstretched hand. "Christ, Charlie. How long's it been?"

"Seven years, Mr. Secretary."

I wanted to say "General." I still thought of him as Brigadier General Baines, the ex-fighter pilot I'd worked for when he'd been the head of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. As we shook, I noticed his grip was still firm. And beneath his suit, he still had the athletic build, indicating he still found time to visit the gym.

"You look good, Charlie. Still have your hair, I see."

"You look good too, sir"

"Liar " He ran a hand over his thinning scalp. "Mine's been falling out by the handful ever since I took this damn job."

Baines nodded to a chair and took his seat behind the desk. He gave me a once-over with those slate-gray eyes I remembered so well. His face turned serious.

"Two years, sir"

Baines nodded. "Two years. Never known you to be impulsive."

I didn't say anything. I knew he wasn't referring to my barging into his office.

"You're in a lot of trouble, you know."

"You 'ye heard, then, sir?"

Baines snorted, "Not like you've been exactly subtle. "He shook his head. "You should have backed off."

I took a breath. Maybe I'd made a mistake coming here. "You know what happened at Cao Dinh?"

A nod. "I've seen the file."

"The file is a lie, sir"

Baines folded his hands. "Take my advice, Charlie. Let it go."

"General Watkins was murdered-"

"That's finished, Charlie."

"I know the truth, sir "I reached for my briefcase.

Baines's face turned hard. "Goddammit! You listening? No one wants to know the truth! We can't afford to know the truth!"

I slid a photograph across the desk.

"What's this?"

"The truth, sir"

Baines's eyes went down. He turned pale. "Is this…?"

I nodded.

"My God!" Baines sat back heavily. "Where'd you get this?" "A long story, sir"

Baines punched his intercom. "Lois, call Senator Burns. Cancel our lunch. And hold my calls." He looked at me. "Goddammit, Charlie! You just handed me a bucket of shit!"

"I know, sir"

Baines rose and walked to the portable black-lacquer bar in the corner, the same one he had when I'd worked for him. The bar was a trophy he'd collected flying F-4s out of Takli Air Base during the Vietnam War.

"Want a drink, Charlie?"

"Too early, sir"

"How long have you been my exec, Charlie?"

"Better say yes. We're going to be here awhile."

"A scotch, then."

He made two drinks, gave me one, and returned to his desk. "I want to know everything, Charlie. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out."

I began with the phone call.

MONDAY

We'd just finished dinner at home and I has helping my wife, Jean, with the dishes, half listening to the evening news from the portable TV on the fridge, when the phone rang. Tony, my fifteen-year-old, took the call in the living room. "For you, Dad!" he yelled.

My boss, Brigadier General Romer, Commander of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, was on the line. That surprised me, since General Romer was supposed to be enroute to Brussels for a NATO conference on terrorism.

"Hope I didn't interrupt dinner, Charlie," General Romer said.

"Just finished, sir."

"How are Jean and the kids?"

"They're fine, sir."

I braced myself. I knew the news was bad when General Romer engaged in small talk.

"Good. Look, my flight leaves in eight minutes, so I'll be brief. General Watkins was just found dead in his quarters at Fort Myer. Get your team over there ASAP."

I stiffened. General Watkins was the Air Force Chief of Staff, a member of the Joint Chiefs. "My God, sir! How-"

"Preliminary reports indicate a homicide."

"Jesus!"

Jean was watching me from the sink, shaking her head. Not again, her eyes said.

"I already talked to General Ferris at CID. I want you in charge of the investigation. As commander of the P-Directorate, this thing is right up your alley, but Ferris balked. Tippett's going to be primary. You watch him, Charlie. We can't mess this one up."

"Sir, Colonel Tippett is one of the best. He'll do fine."

"Was one of the best, Charlie. Look, I know you two are buddies. But you know damn well he's been slipping. The word is the guy's a drunk. Am I right?"

I was stunned. Romer wasn't someone normally tuned in to office gossip. "Look, sir, Colonel Tippett might have a drink every-"

"Yeah, I thought so. Watch Tippett, Charlie. Make sure he keeps that damned temper in check. We can't afford to have him pissing off any of the four-stars."

Me ride shotgun on Tippett? Fat chance. "I'll do my best, sir."

"You do that.... Damn, they're making the final boarding call. My office has the number where I'll be staying in Brussels. I want to know of any problems. Good luck, Charlie. You'll need it."

The phone went dead.

Jean started to say something. I held up a finger and punched the preset for the P-Directorate duty officer. Jean rolled her eyes in exasperation.

The P didn't stand for anything in particular, just one of those confusing military designations like D-day. The P-Directorate had been created a year before to handle the OSI's high profile and most demanding cases. We didn't worry about the routine stuff most OSI investigators were stuck with: the kid shoplifting a baseball mitt at a BX, the airman smoking a little weed in the barracks, or my personal favorite, the male fighter pilot who liked to sneak into his jet at night wearing panties and a bra.

"P-Directorate. Lieutenant Rickers."

Rickers was at the duty desk in the P-Directorate offices in a renovated BX building at Bolling Air Force Base. I told him to initiate a recall for the Response Team, staying on the phone as he ran the drill. Jean kept giving me disapproving looks as she finished stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. I sighed. The sudden call-out was what bothered Jean. After eighteen years of marriage, she still wasn't used to me running off at all hours.

My daughter Stacy was dancing that night in the annual teen talent show at the community center. The winner would get a five-grand education grant. I'd promised to attend. Now I'd miss her performance.

Stacy had been studying ballet since she was five, and she was quite good. A senior in high school, she had recently auditioned for Julliard. We were still awaiting word on whether she'd been accepted for the following year.

"Everyone is notified, sir," Lieutenant Rickers said three minutes later.

"Thank you."

Jean was wiping her hands with a towel as I hung up. "You'll have to tell Stacy, Charles."

She always called me Charles when she was annoyed.

"I know, honey."

Jean hung the towel over the sink. "She'll be so disappointed, Charles."

At six-four and 210 pounds, I'm almost a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Jean. I bent down, brushed blond strands away from her forehead, and planted a kiss on the tip of her pixie nose. "I love you."

"Hmm." After a moment, she smiled. "Get out of here, you big ape."

I grinned. Those three words were magic. I went upstairs to change, stopping by Stacy's room first. She was sitting on the floor in a blue spandex bodysuit, legs splayed in a painful-looking split. She looked up with a nervous smile, and I marveled again at how much Stacy resembled her mother. They both had long honey-blond hair, high cheekbones, and clear, green eyes. The main difference was their height: Stacy stood five-nine, with long fluid lines honed from her years of dedication to ballet.

"Hi, Dad."

I told her about the call. Her face fell. I, of course, felt terrible.

"I love you, pumpkin. I'd be there if I could."

"It's okay, Dad." She stared at the floor. I never understood why those three words seemed to work only on Jean. I gave Stacy a bright smile. "Hey, you want to go look at cars this weekend?"

Her face immediately lit up. She'd been bugging me for a used car for six months, and I'd finally told her okay if she paid half. She had worked the summer as a checker at a nearby Giant grocery store, but she was still a thousand short for the red Ford Probe she wanted.

"You mean it?"

I nodded. "Knock 'em dead tonight, honey."

I went to my room and laid out a suit. In the OSI, we worked in civilian clothes because we found wearing our uniforms tended to hinder investigations. Enlisted men often felt intimidated if they knew the man questioning them was an officer, and officers under investigation often proved difficult if they knew the investigator grilling them was an enlisted man.

Frowning, I returned my suit to the closet and reached for my Air Force uniform. More than likely, the crime scene would be crawling with general officers. Experience told me they would want to know exactly whom they were talking to.

As I dressed, I realized that missing Stacy's dance recital was probably going to cost me about four thousand bucks.

Wetting a comb, I ran it through my hair, still mostly black except for flecks of gray just beginning to appear over the temples. A few years back, I might have been tempted to color it. But now, at forty-two with two teenage kids, somehow prolonging my youth didn't seem worth the effort.

I slid my 9mm pistol into my hip holster. As I left the room, I heard Stacy on the phone. She was describing the red Probe to someone.

Rush hour was winding down as I pulled onto 1-95 northbound. lived in Burke, Virginia, and the drive to Fort Myer, a few miles west of the Pentagon in Arlington, would take maybe twenty minutes. Settling back, I tried to recall what I knew about the dead man.

General Raymond Watkins, like most Air Force generals, was a pilot. Unlike most, he was also an ex-POW. He'd been the Air Force Chief of Staff for maybe six months, and had a reputation of being a real hard-nose type. I remembered Watkins had fired damn near everybody from the old chief's staff when he took over. I'd heard that Watkins thought his predecessor had run a loose ship. He figured the old staff would never adjust to his style. He'd also relieved three- and four-star generals from their posts during his first month. One three-star he'd canned was a longtime friend and ex-roommate from the Air Force Academy, which spoke volumes about Watkins.

A man like Watkins made enemies.

The publicity concerned me. The Washington press corps would scour General Watkins's death for any hint of scandal. But at least we didn't have the problems civilian cops had with leaks. We would be able to keep a lid on the story until we finished securing the crime scene.

I still held some hope that the prelim report was wrong and this would turn into a suicide. Sure would make life easier.

Truthfully, I was glad my office wasn't going to be the primary on the case. According to jurisdictional guidelines, where the crime occurred determined who ran the investigation. Since Fort Myer was an Army Post, the Army Criminal Investigations Division had the lead and the OSI would assist, which is why Tippett would call the shots. Contrary to what General Romer thought, as far as I was concerned Tippett was still the best.

Colonel Warren Tippett and I went back ten years. We'd worked dozens of cases together, and we got along like water and oil, always on each other's nerves. We disagreed on everything from the Redskins' chances each season to which service played the biggest role in ending the Gulf War. Tippett was ex-Special Forces, fiercely proud that he was one of the few colonels who'd never graduated from high school. He'd grown up dirt-poor, the oldest of something like ten kids. He had enlisted at age seventeen to get off his daddy's hog farm. He became an officer the hard way, going to night school between tours in Vietnam to earn a degree. I remembered the promotion party his wife, Dorothy, had given him four years earlier, when he'd pinned on the silver eagles of a full colonel. After everyone left, Tippett and I retired to his study with a bottle of Hennessy.

"I ever tell you what they called me at boot camp, Charlie?"

"No."

He leaned forward. "Pig fucker, Charlie. They called me a goddamn pig fucker." He took a large swallow, then looked at one of the silver eagles pinned to his shoulder. "I showed the bastards, Charlie."

I remembered thinking I finally understood Tippett.

Tippett gave me a crooked grin. "I'm gonna make fuckin' general someday, Charlie. Me, the pig fucker."

I nodded and smiled. Tippett was indeed on the fast track. His promotion to colonel had come a year earlier than normal. He was the commander of the Army's prestigious Washington, D.C., Criminal Investigations Division unit. I raised my glass in a toast. I knew nothing would stop him from getting a star.

I was wrong.