Sergeant Erik Wegman squeezed off the shot and watched through his scope as Aarash Faydeen's head exploded.
A cloud of blood was all he could see, all that was left of the Taliban chieftain's skull and its seamy contents.
Now he had to get the two of them out of here, out of this cave – himself and the officer in charge of the hit, who shouldn't have been here in the first place, Major Karyn Trivers.
He pushed himself up onto his knees and looked down from the cave's mouth, across the river that ran through this deep Hindu Kush canyon. A dirt road was cut into the cliff over there, the road Faydeen's convoy had driven in on. The vehicles had had to pull up at a bridge a U.S. air strike had blown apart, dumped into the river, which was what had set up the situation for him to get his shot.
The Taliban chieftain's entourage of twenty or so guards, and the small crowd that had gathered at the bombed bridge, were hunkered down and pointing up this way, knowing where the shot had come from. It was where Faydeen himself had meant to wind up, Wegman realizing this after he'd found that stash in a side cave back there that branched off this one.
Trivers came over and stood next to him, raised her binoculars and zeroed in on where Faydeen's head had been, bits of it clinging to the tribal pakol he'd been wearing and was now upside-down on his chest. "Nicely done," she said.
"And you're outta here," said Wegman. "When you get clear, you call in that chopper."
"I'll say it again – what about you?"
"We've been through this, Karyn." He jerked his head toward the rear of the cave. "You go out like we came in." Then he nodded toward the river, toward the Talibans who'd started wading across it, coming this way, automatic weapons held over their heads. "I'll pick off as many as I can, slow them down and catch up to you."
"They fire an RPG up here, you're toast."
"Karyn, this is what I do, for chrissake. I've got my own grenades. Now beat it."
"Sergeant Fucking Stubborn."
"Just go."
She knew his ways from another time, from when they'd had a thing at West Point. He'd dropped out when she dropped him for another cadet, him leaving as a way to give her the finger, as she'd put it, never mind how he'd tanked his officer career. Now fate and a little maneuvering on her part had brought them to this Hindu Kush cave. They'd had no choice but to talk while they waited for Faydeen, had gotten to where there might be a chance for some kind of reconciliation.
But no time for that now.
"Keep your mic on," she said, stepping closer to him and touching his earwig headset.
"I will," he said. "Now go."
She held his gaze – then leaned in and kissed him. Held it for a moment – then stepped back and looked down toward the river.
"Here they come."
The first of the hostiles were pulling themselves up onto the near bank. Wegman raised his M110 rifle and opened up, sending two Talibans spread-eagle back into the water. The others ducked down behind the bank and started firing this way.
"Go," he said to Trivers, and cocked his head behind him. "There's only room for one of us to fire here anyway." This was bullshit, but it got her going.
She slung her own rifle over her shoulder and, with shots pinging off the granite entrance, turned for the back of the cave.
"Hey," he called after her.
She stopped and turned.
"Take this," he said, and tossed her a brick of gray, putty-like substance. "In case we get separated."
He'd found it in that side cave when he'd gone in back to take a leak.
Morphine base.
It hadn't really surprised her when he'd shown it to her. It was why she'd insisted on coming on this outing in the first place, she being Special Ops coordinator. Thought at first he might be part of the outfit she suspected her commanding officer of pulling strings for. Him and the diplomat weasel Carmichael, who had tried to call off the hit. Had tried to save Faydeen's duplicitous ass because all of them were in it together. The Taliban chieftain was funneling millions back to some black ops scheme run by who knew who in Washington. And, of course, Carmichael and the C.O. would be skimming as much as they could.
She was going to have to face them now for going through with the hit.
She stuck the brick in one of her cargo pockets, could put it in her backpack later. Her leg still hurt from where that snake had bitten her, an Afghan cobra protecting its turf, Wegman maybe overdoing it when he sucked the venom out. She was careful now not to bump it as she made her way back through the murky cave, back toward the rear entrance – which she realized those Talibans down there had to know about. Could only hope Wegman realized it and didn't get himself trapped. Heard him pick up the pace of his firing.
She came to where the cave branched and quick decided to check out what he'd found. She flicked on her phone's flashlight and stepped around a bend, stepped around another, and followed the beam to where he said the side cave would be. And, Jesus, there it was.
Faydeen's vault.
There had to be at least a truckload of it, a multi-million dollar uncut truckload – stacks and stacks of morphine bricks, drums and drums of opium gum. It was way beyond what she'd imagined.
She was about to take a picture with her phone when a sudden Boom! roared through the cave.
Fuck!
They must've fired a grenade through the entrance, like she knew they would.
She groped for her throat mic and pushed in her earwig.
"Erik?" No response. "Erik!"
Silence.
Moments passed. Bad moments. She started to hear voices on the earwig. Men speaking another language. Pashto.
Then footsteps and the long loud clatter of automatic weapon fire.
Theirs, not his, she could tell.
Then more Pashto. Laughter.
She slipped silently out of the opium cave and made her way out the back.
She knew that Wegman wasn't going to be catching up to her.
# # #
He was given a military funeral at Arlington National Cemetery, that beautiful sweep of Virginia hillside overlooking the Potomac. Trivers stood graveside in full-dress uniform. She'd been living these past days with serious guilt, knowing that the only reason he hadn't left after he'd made that shot was to protect her.
She faced the gathering of military and government people on the other side of the flag-draped casket, took a deep breath, and read from a citation she was holding.
"The Army Silver Star has been awarded posthumously to Master Sergeant Erik Wegman for valor while engaged in action against an enemy of the United States of America. Accepting this honor for her father is Miss Ella Rose Wegman."
Fifteen-year-old Elly Wegman stepped up and stood at attention. She was the product of an ill-fated marriage that her parents had rushed into when her mother found she was pregnant – part of the turmoil following Erik Wegman's exiting West Point. Trivers knew that he had deep feelings for his daughter and she for him, had overheard part of a cell phone message he'd gotten from her in that Hindu Kush cave.
Trivers tried to keep her hands steady as she draped the beribboned Silver Star around Elly's neck. She stepped back and saluted the tear-stained young lady in black, then turned and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, the two facing the casket.
The Sergeant-at-Arms called out to the Honor Guard:
"Ready – fire!"
The guard raised their rifles and three sharp volleys echoed across the long rows of white Arlington headstones.
In the stillness that followed, a young Marine bugler in dress blues began to play Taps. Trivers took Elly's hand as the casket was lowered into the ground.
The American flag had been removed and folded into the traditional triangle. As the last note of Taps faded, the Sergeant-at-Arms presented the folded flag to Elly and gave her a crisp salute.
There was another moment of silence – and then Trivers touched Elly's shoulder, turning her toward a gravel path that led to the staff car that had brought them.
The military and government people stood respectfully aside as the two women passed. One of them, a United States Senator named Stuart Roegner, leaned toward the man standing with him and said quietly, "It should never have gotten this far." Roegner's eyes met Trivers' as she went by. He bowed his head respectfully, waited until she'd moved on, and continued. "Except she called in that fucking chopper to get his body out. And pushed through that Silver Star."
The other man had a hard look about him despite his dapper appearance – the Savile Row suit, the perfectly brushed silver hair, the trim beard. He was known in the dark corners of the intelligence trade simply as D.
"She could still make things awkward," D said.
"Tell me about it," Roegner said. "Let's walk."
They kept themselves separate from the rest of the gathering as they followed the gravel path back to the cars. Roegner checked over his shoulder, saw that his two security men were far enough back that they couldn't overhear him.
"What happened to that stash that was there?" Roegner asked.
"Carmichael took care of it."
"How?"
"They had to mule it overland, that bridge being down."
"To where?"
"Carmichael said it's safe."
"So now he knows where it is and we don't."
"We couldn't leave it there," D said. "She could have blown the whistle anytime she wanted."
"We're lucky nobody else found it when they came for that body."
"It was dumb bad luck he chose that place to shoot from."
"It was sloppy work on your part is what it was."
D's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about not making sure she called off that hit." Roegner indicated a path perpendicular to the one they were on. "Let's go this way."
They turned and walked under an archway of shade trees, the two security men keeping the same distance behind. No sound but the gravel crunching under their feet until Roegner dropped his bomb.
"I'm closing down the unit."
D gave him a sharp look. "Excuse me?"
"It's gotten out of hand. It's no secret I'm about to go after the nomination. I don't want your dark little unit biting me in the ass."
"That dark little unit was your idea."
"After a lot of arm-twisting by you," Roegner said. "That opium and those under-the-counter arms that paid for it also made for a nice lifestyle."
"They still are. For both of us."
"It's time to move on. I'm sure you've put enough away for a tidy retirement."
"Fuck retirement. This is absurd."
"The locks to your offices are being re-coded as we speak. Any files are being hacked out and secured."
Which was why D didn't trust computers in the first place, for that very reason. The truly important information, the kind that could get people disappeared, was on discs at home.
"You can go down there tomorrow with an escort," Roegner continued, "and clean out your things."
"You are... What the hell is going on here?"
"It's over. The Senate Committee on Clandestine Ops is opting out."
"This is nuts. You're nuts. What about staff?"
"Watch your tone. Most of your operatives are freelance. They'll be reassigned."
D was furious, looked around in disbelief, trying to control himself. He looked back at Roegner.
"Can I at least tell them myself? I mean, fucking Christ. "
"I'd rather you didn't. I'll clean things up with Carmichael."
They'd come out from beneath the trees and had intersected with another path. Roegner stopped and D turned to face him.
"I know this is difficult," Roegner said. "But if I win the nomination and things work out, I won't forget your... talents."
D stayed silent, just stared at Roegner, no attempt at disguising his malice. The two security men sensed it was time for their presence. They stepped forward and stood at Roegner's back.
"Don't do anything you're going to regret," Roegner said. "I've still got the other services I can call in." He kept his gaze level with D's to let that sink in – then glanced at his watch. "I have to get back to vote on a bill. I'm sure we'll be talking soon."
He turned around and walked briskly between his two men, them moving aside and then giving D an intimidating look before falling in behind their boss.
D wasn't one to be intimidated. It was usually the other way around. He watched with wintery eyes as the threesome walked off, the man in front already trying to look presidential as he strode between the rows of headstones.
# # #
Karyn Trivers had seen him before, the natty guy with the cold eyes who'd been standing graveside with Senator Roegner. Only he hadn't looked so natty when she'd seen him in Afghanistan. He'd been there for wet work, she was sure, and when a U.S. journalist went missing – a journalist she'd heard was snooping into a black ops tie-in with the local opium heavies – she'd more than suspected that this guy had been involved.
Now, after seeing that stash in the cave, she was sure.
She was sure, too, that there was a way here to balance the books for Wegman getting killed. She owed him. They had a past.
She'd sent Elly Wegman back to the hotel in one of the other cars, had retraced her steps and followed Roegner and the other guy when they'd gone for their walk. And now here she was tucked behind a civil war statue, staring across a field of headstones, catching glimpses of the two men as they walked that tree-lined path, them having what looked like a difference of opinion. When they came out in the open, she saw the senator turn away and head off with his two security guys. She could tell that the man they'd left standing there was pissed. Like he'd gotten seriously unpleasant news. Or been given the shaft. Or both. She'd check him out with her CIA contacts, who she'd kept in touch with after they'd taken that interrogation course together.
But she'd have to have some info to give them to work with. Like she didn't even know the guy's name.
And then she had another thought.
She took out her cell and aimed it toward him.
Took his picture and looked at the screen.
Shit.
Too far away and he'd turned his head.
She looked over there again. Gone.
So go and find him. Go.
# # #
By the time D's car pulled up at the bookstore just off Dupont Circle, he had his plan. Told his driver to wait for him while he went inside.
When he came back out, he was carrying a hardcover romance novel he had no intention of reading. He got into the front seat and told the driver to head for an address on the outskirts of the District.
The driver pulled the SUV away from the curb and worked his way into traffic. He checked the rearview mirror. Checked it again.
"You know we're being followed?"
D looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"There's a black Chevy back there looks like a staff car. They've been on us since Arlington."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"I thought it could've been another car from the funeral, heading back into town. But they double-parked when you went in the bookstore and now they're on us again."
"Shit."
"You want me to lose them?"
D thought about it. "No, not yet. Let me know if they turn off."
Some asshole from Roegner's office. Keeping tabs. All the more reason to put that sonofabitch in his place.
But that's not who it was.
Karyn Trivers was in the back seat of the car that had taken her and Elly Wegman to the funeral. She was studying her cell phone screen, had gotten a pretty good shot of the guy when he'd come out of that bookstore, the silver hair, the trim beard. (She'd gone back to where they'd parked at Arlington just in time to see him drive off.) Now she had to put this to work.
She scrolled down the phone's contact list, found the number she wanted, speed-dialed it and waited.
"Hi, it's Karyn Trivers. Remember me?" She listened, nodded. "I'm fine, thanks. Listen, I need a favor. I'm going to send you a picture right now that I need an i.d. on."
# # #
Twenty minutes later when the driver pulled the SUV up to the address D had given him, away from the government buildings and monuments downtown, the black Chevy staff car was nowhere to be seen. D had had him drive around the block of sooty industrial buildings twice before stopping, was now satisfied they were clear.
D got out, romance novel in hand, and stepped up to the metal door of a three-story factory building. He rang the buzzer, turned his face toward the security camera and was buzzed in.
The door clanked shut behind him and he took the steel stairs up to the second floor, his footsteps reverberating between the dull gray cinderblock walls. He was buzzed through another metal door, went into a barebones reception area and was given a friendly but formal nod by the black security guard at the desk.
"I told him you were here," the guard said, D knowing that the man was a relative of the man he'd come to see.
"Thank you," D said.
"You know the way," said the guard, indicating yet another door.
"I do."
D opened the door and stepped into a wide, high-ceilinged room crowded with machinery and workbenches that were busy with men putting together or taking apart a variety of high-tech devices. The majority of these devices, D well knew, had to do with surveillance.
Off to one side, a white-haired black man looked up from a workbench, peered over the rims of his glasses and smiled. "Mr. D, always a pleasure."
D walked over and shook the man's hand. "Hello, Jonas. How's business?"
"Active as always," said Jonas Reem, owner and chief development officer of the thriving but clandestine Anacostia Optical Research. "People either want to snoop or keep from getting snooped on."
D's eyes went to the piece of equipment Reem had been working on. "What's this?"
Reem patted the complex-looking device that had a large lens embedded in one end.
"Prototype for a little number NSA wants to fuck up our privacy with."
"Uh-huh. But it pays the rent."
"Oh, yes."
D held up the hardcover romance novel.
"Speaking of which..."
Reem looked at the book.
"What about it?"
"I need you to work some of your magic."
# # #
Lila Burman was one of Washington's most exclusive escorts, a stunning woman who knew the ways and eccentricities of the world's political elite. She was still naked from an afternoon in bed with an embassy official from one of South America's rising economies when her cell phone chirped.
She reached for it on the bedside table. "Hello?"
It was D, still at Anacostia Optical. "I have a little assignment for you."
# # #
Trivers had kept herself in shape in Afghanistan, but not so much the running. She tried not to let that show the next day when her friend Josh upped the pace for them here on the old C&O Canal Towpath. It had been his idea they should meet here.
"Bottom line, Karyn, we have next to nothing on him. His file was sanitized years ago, and there've been almost zero entries since."
"You're saying there's no name?" She was keeping the pace but the breathing was starting to get heavy.
"He's called D," Josh said. "That's all he wants to go by."
"That's bullshit. There has to be a name."
"Hey, what can I tell you?"
Not what I want, that's for sure. She'd gone through that CIA training with Josh, part of her fast-track officer program. But apparently the old school tie didn't bind. He was probably uptight about losing his clearance. Or maybe more. She knew how hard the game could be played.
"There is one thing, though," Josh said. "But you have to promise it stays with us. No way it can come back to me."
"Of course. What is it?"
"I'm serious. This is heavy shit."
"Josh, I promise, my lips are welded."
Josh turned his face away from a pair of runners, a too-thin girl and a guy in sweats, coming their way. When they'd gone far enough past he continued.
"The image recognition program came up with a double, that picture you took."
"A double?"
"A dualist. Could be that's what the D is for."
# # #
That afternoon, D, in his tailored suit and perfectly knotted tie, was seated at the antique writing desk in the den of his bachelor apartment just off Capitol Hill. He held up the hardcover romance novel he'd bought yesterday and pointed to the spine.
"The lens is in the binding, motion-activated." He made a show of laying the book on the desk. "You leave it by the bed, the senator comes in tonight."
The man sitting across the desk from D, save for his watch cap and black sweater, and his slightly longer beard, could have been his twin.
"Suppose the senator wants to read before bedtime?" the man, the Dualist, said.
"He won't," D said with confidence. "Our young lady there will have him plenty occupied."
"And we watch them from here."
"We record them from here." D tapped the book. "Every lewd move."
"Uh-huh," said the Dualist, his voice having some gravel in it, the only real difference between him and D. "Lemme ask you something."
"What's that?"
"You enjoy doing this?"
"What? Blackmail?"
"Just curious."
"The man wants to shut us down. Dump our dark little unit he says," D doing an unflattering parody of Roegner. "That's not going to happen."
"So we dump his political ass."
"To keep your undercover ass in play." He gave the Dualist a faux quizzical look. "We getting some kind of a conscience here?"
"No. Not at all. I don't think conscience is in our DNA."
"Good." D picked up the romance novel and tossed it across the desk. "You do your thing," he said as Dualist caught the book, "I'll do mine."
Dualist turned the book over in his hands.
D pointed to it. "And wipe our prints off."
# # #
From her window table in the coffee shop across the street, Trivers saw him come out of the apartment building, the guy she'd seen in Afghanistan who she was sure had iced that reporter, the one sniffing out the opium scheme. And here he was now, same watch cap he wore back then, same beard like his double upstairs.
And he had that same book in his hand that D bought yesterday.
What the hell was that about?
She'd leaned on Josh to get her D's address, Josh having to triple-trace that license plate she'd copied from the SUV – the SUV that had dropped D off at that building in Anacostia – the one he'd taken the book into. She'd made it appear that D's SUV wasn't being followed, when actually she knew exactly where he'd gone, had taken a route of parallel streets, had kept out of the way when they'd circled the block.
She'd used another friend at CIA. to get her info on the company that was at that address – an outfit that made surveillance goods for government agencies.
Book. Surveillance... Interesting.
She got up from her window table and left enough cash to cover the cheesecake and coffees she'd nursed. She'd been here a while, added a nice tip. Nodded thanks to the waitress and went outside.
She turned in the direction she'd seen the guy go. Thought about the name Josh had called him.
The Dualist.
# # #
The man's double upstairs went into the living room and crossed over to one of the bay windows. Looked down on the street and saw his man coming out of the building. Should have given him a bag to put that book in. Could call and tell him to take the cover off, get rid of the prints that way. He watched him turn and head in the direction of the Metro stop three blocks away.
He started to turn from the window when something across the street caught his attention. Someone coming out of the coffee shop that he ate breakfast at most mornings.
He couldn't be sure, her wearing jeans and a sweater now, but it looked like that officer woman they'd gone to check out at the funeral yesterday. Trivers. Major Trivers. Back from screwing up their deal in Afghanistan. D watched her start walking in the same direction his man had taken.
What the fuck was she doing here?
Then it hit him: It was her in the black Chevy coming back from the funeral.
He took out his cell and speed-dialed a number.
# # #
She let him get half a block away and then walked at the same pace he did, making as though she was heading for the Metro stop like he seemed to be. He was subtly checking his surroundings, the reflexes of a man who always watched his back. There were enough people on the street that she shouldn't be noticed, and it wasn't likely he'd remember her from Afghanistan. She'd probably been wearing fatigues and a hat.
She thought again about what he could be up to with that book. D had had that set-to with Roegner just before he went and bought it, so there's a good chance it had to do with that. And it wasn't any secret that Roegner was prepping himself for a run at the White House, so maybe there was some serious shit going on here. She would definitely like to connect the dots.
Wait a minute, the guy just took out his cell. Was checking the caller i.d. like he'd gotten a call. He didn't seem to be talking, just listened as he kept walking. Couple seconds later he nodded and put the phone back in his pocket. When he got to the next corner he went inside an old newspaper store. She stopped in front of a dress shop a few doors back, made like the outfit on that mannequin in the window deserved serious consideration.
She kept one eye on the paper store until he came back out. He unwrapped a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth, flicked the wrapper at a trash can.
She could see he still had the book.
Which he disappeared with around the corner.
She quickstepped away from the dress shop and up to the corner, slowed down and stepped carefully around it. Looked down the street toward the Capitol Building, couldn't see him.
Then she did, crossing the street, halfway down the block. On the other side he stepped around a woman curbing her dog, walked with no hurry past some of the old restored buildings that were pricey condos and boutiques now. A city bus rumbled between her and the Dualist and by the time it passed she thought she'd lost him again.
But no, there he was, ducking between those two brick buildings. Had he made her? She started to cross, jumped back from a taxi hitting its horn, waited for a break in the traffic and jogged over to the other side.
She hustled down to where he'd disappeared, saw it was a pedestrian pass-through. She stopped just short of the entrance, hoped he'd kept walking and wasn't waiting right around the corner. She had to make a decision, do it or screw it. She counted to ten and eased her head around the corner. A non-event. Just a murky tunnel that led through to a municipal parking lot. Saw no sign of anybody in there.
She started walking toward the light at the other end, had to smile at the cliché of it. Had almost reached it when, shit, there he was. He'd stepped out of nowhere and was silhouetted against the light.
He stood there in silence staring at her.
She stared back. Then jumped when a voice spoke up behind her.
"Major Trivers."
She spun around and there was D, smiling coldly in his suit and tie. The smile didn't get any warmer as he started coming toward her.
"We have some talking to do."
# # #
On a sun-scorched patch of Middle-East desert, a man in an orange prison jumpsuit, his hands bound behind him, was kneeling in front of a man with a sword, that man dressed in black, a hooded executioner.
"Lower your head," the executioner said in a gruffly accented voice.
The man in orange did.
The crowd that had gathered for the grim ceremony, mostly jihadists festooned with grenades and automatic weapons, watched as the executioner tested the blade with his thumb, his eye on the back of the kneeling man's neck.
Five-hundred yards away, a man dressed in Bedouin tribal garb had his long-range rifle pointed out the window of a mud-brick house that stood at the edge of this desert village. He sighted the weapon just to the left of a TV crew that was covering the execution. He knew they'd be streaming it live to Al Jazeera, ratings for beheadings being what they were.
"I hope you timed it right," the man said to the woman in tribal garb next to him.
The woman was riveted on the event. "I couldn't have called them in any sooner," she said, "and caught his nibs there in the act." She touched the throat mic she was wearing. "Where are you now?"
The helicopter pilot she was talking to peered through the windshield of the stealth Blackhawk he was flying flat-out across the desert. "We have you in sight."
The woman could just hear them now, the faint whupping of the stealth rotor blades coming this way. She looked to where the executioner was raising his sword, about to bring it down on the man in orange.
"Do it," she said to the man with the rifle.
The man had pushed his Bedouin headdress back, revealing his face – the Dualist. He'd already been squinting through his rifle's scope and now squeezed the trigger. The rifle's suppressor kept the sound of the shot to a whispery Phutt!
Even from five-hundred yards away, the woman, Karyn Trivers, could see that the Dualist had scored. Now it was the executioner's head that was no longer where it belonged.
And now all hell broke loose.
Two U.S. Navy Blackhawks swooped in, and even before they landed, men in combat gear were leaping out of the hatchways and opening fire, spraying the jihadists who were trying to fire back through the dust whipped up by the rotors. The TV crew stayed where they were, keeping the cameras on the action, not about to miss this chance at glory. Any villagers caught in the firefight quickly scattered.
Two combat men drew their knives as they ran over to the man in orange, cutting his bonds and pulling him to his feet. One man shoved his boot under the executioner's body and flipped him over. Yanked off the black hood. A TV cameraman zoomed in on what was left of the executioner's blood-drenched face.
That image was showing in all its glory on a screen six-thousand miles away in the White House Situation Room. A group of men and women had gathered there to watch the operation, among them the impeccably dressed D.
"How ironic," he said to the man sitting next to him. "We have their TV people giving us world coverage."
The man was Stuart Roegner, senatorial thorn in D's side back when. "Let's just hope it goes our way," Roegner said.
"It seems to be so far," said D.
Suddenly there was Karyn Trivers onscreen, firing a burst from a machine pistol, covering the man in orange who was being hustled now through the swirling sand to one of the Blackhawks.
"There's your Major Trivers," Roegner said. "She seems to know her weapons."
"It's Lieutenant Colonel Trivers," D said. "She's our liaison with the Army and Navy."
"She does nice work."
"She'd be pleased to know you said that."
And now here came the Dualist, firing away with his semi-automatic sniper rifle. He and Trivers had shed their headdresses, didn't want to be mistaken for hostiles.
Roegner nodded at D's double on the screen. "They make a good team, in spite of his looks."
"They're working on it," said D, smiling at the jab.
They watched the show until all the American combat people had scrambled back aboard the Blackhawks. The Situation Room audience applauded as the helicopters lifted off, mission accomplished, the pair of them circling back the way they came in. The TV camera followed them as they grew smaller in the distance.
Finally D turned to Roegner. "Tell me something, Mr. President."
"What's that?" said the newly elected Commander in Chief.
D smiled and said quietly, "Aren't you glad you saw the light?"