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  As he sat by the river thinking about his future, he noticed some movement among the trees. A short man in a drab gray suit walked out onto the lawn. Few people besides Striker would have even noticed the two figures that remained behind in the shadows of the trees. Striker recognized Dick Simmons by his gait even before he could make out his face. Simmons looked like a mildly successful businessman on his way to the office early, not too happy, not too sad, the suit not too sharp but not embarrassing,- he was a man whom no one would remember. Striker knew that was the way he liked it. Striker also knew it was a rare occasion for Simmons to leave the confines of Langley, and this cloak-and-dagger stuff wasn't really necessary. His days as a spy had been over for a long time. Still, even though it no longer mattered who did or didn't notice Dick Simmons, old habits died hard. Striker supposed that under the same circumstances, he would be the same way.

  Simmons sat down beside Striker without saying anything, and Striker turned to face the river, leaning his back against the bench and stretching his long legs comfortably out onto the path. He knew there was at least one automatic weapon trained at the back of his head, but that didn't faze Striker.

  "How are you. Striker?" Simmons asked quietly without moving his eyes from the water.

  "I like to think I'm excellent," Striker said.

  Simmons glanced over at Striker and gave him a quick once-over. "You look well. The good life always agreed with you, though."

  "When you've tasted the bitterness of the bad," Striker mused, "you can appreciate the sweetness of the good. But you know me, I adjust."

  Simmons nodded. Striker, he knew, had lived everywhere from squalid mud hovels in the Middle East to insect-infested bamboo huts in Southeast Asia, and never looked much worse for the wear. He was one of those rare individuals who could thrive almost anywhere, even under the harshest conditions. Striker was like a weed.

  "And you," Striker said, "I can always tell how important you're getting by the shadows you cast. First it was just me, but I wasn't really a shadow, was I? Wouldn't you say we were more like partners? Then, hmm, you had a driver who was also a bodyguard. Then it was a driver and a bodyguard, *nd of course there are two of them now lurking out there, probably aiming at the back of my head as we spfiak,- but we haven't actually seen each ocnoi face-to-face in quite a while, Dick, and I know you never trusted me. Stiii. it must be ... constricting. I mean, two or three spooks hovering around you all the time. I like to wipe my ass in total privacy, but that's me."

  Simmons shook his head and sighed. The comment on trust didn't even merit a response. No one trusted Striker. He was too effective to be trusted. And, Simmons had to admit to himself, it was Striker's effectiveness over the years that was partly responsible for his own advancements. He had been Striker's contact with Langley, a place Striker had rarely seen. They had started together years ago in Southeast Asia and had worked well together. Simmons was a language expert with an IQ of 180. Striker had the same IQ and a willingness to do dirty work. There was no assignment they hadn't completed and left without a string of dead bodies in their wake.

  Together they went from special forces to Military Intelligence. After the war Simmons made the move to the CIA, and it wasn't long before he had asked Striker to sign on as well. Striker had no ambition to rise within the agency. He only wanted the flexibility and the challenge, and, he would later find, to live well. Except for the living well part of it, Simmons wanted the exact opposite. Together, with Simmons pulling the strings from within the agency, providing assets and personnel, and Striker in the field, utilizing people and money, they had rarely failed at an undertaking. As the years went by, however, Simmons climbed higher and higher within the agency and found himself less and less in direct contact with Striker. Still, he had ensured Striker's comfort and thrown an occasional challenge his way to keep him placated like a big dog chained out back. And, as always. Striker had proved quite useful.

  Dick Simmons had recently been appointed to Deputy Director of Operations. He was the number-one man in charge of all CIA clandestine services. He reported directly to the CIA executive director. His recent boss, the former DDO, had been asked to step down shortly after the Aldrich Ames scandal. Ames had been the head of the counterintelligence division and had systematically sold out agents and double agents around the globe to the Soviet Union and later to Russia. Ames had grown rich, but many of the agents he had betrayed had been executed once exposed. The catastrophe had resulted in the intense scrutiny of the DDO. It was well that Simmons at the time was only the assistant DDO rather than the DDO himself. As assistant, he was high enough to be able to step in and ran the operations directorate, but not too high to have had to take blame for the scandal.

  As a result, covert operations, its influence waning, had fallen drastically out of vogue. Heads were going to continue to roll. Dick Simmons had been in the right place at the right time, and he intended to keep it that way. Simmons wanted to keep climbing, but he knew that covert operations, once the jewel of the agency, would soon be nothing more than heavy baggage. The future in the agency was all about technology, not people. Satellites and other means of electronic surveillance were becoming so advanced that the number of field agents the agency needed would only continue to shrink.

  "I'm leaving operations, Striker," Simmons said, looking intently at his old acquaintance for some kind of reaction. There was none. Striker merely looked up at the sky as if trying to figure the weather for the day.

  "I've been offered Deputy Director of Intelligence," Simmons said. It was a lateral move for Simmons, but a smart move.

  "That's great, Dick," Striker said. "I'll come with you."

  This threw Simmons off balance. There was no place for a contract agent like Striker in the intelligence directorate. Intelligence was for scientists, mathematicians, and linguists.

  Simmons stammered and said, "I--I . . . you know that's not possible, Striker."

  Striker showed his old partner an evil smile. Simmons realized Striker was having fun with him, but he didn't share the laugh.

  "You're an important man, Dick," Striker said in a bored tone of voice. "I always told you you'd be running the whole company one day."

  Simmons shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He was a man who was used to making others squirm, but Striker unsettled him.

  "It's a far cry from running the company, but I wanted to tell you, and I wanted to warn you," Simmons said.

  Striker waited patiently.

  "Garbosky is going to be the DDO."

  Striker snorted a contemptuous laugh. Garbosky was a young agent who had quickly moved from station manager in Tel Aviv to the CIA top man in the Near East. He had a reputation for doing everything by the book, a perfect man for the "new and improved" CIA. It was bad news for Striker, but he certainly wasn't going to let on how bad.

  "Well, this should be fun," Striker said.

  "He's going to be watching you," Simmons said flatly.

  "Oh," Striker said casually. This was no surprise to Striker. He had bet-n :n Tel Aviv several years ago, brokering the sale of some land-to-air missiler, when he'd run into Mrs. Garbosky. It was no big deal to Striker, but the young lady, obviously frustrated with her husband and her life, had made much more of their brief affair than Striker had ever suspected she would.

  Simmons pursed his lips and nodded. "He's going to reassess the status and the integrity of everyone in covert operations. I'm not even supposed to know about it."

  "What does Russell have to say about this," Striker asked. Walt Russell was Dick's boss, the CIA executive director, the link between the director of central intelligence and the four working directorates of the agency: operations, intelligence, science and technology, and administration.

  Simmons sighed, "You know, Russell is old. He wants to please the new boss. He's on thin ice after the Ames thing. He barely kept his head above water. The new boss loves Garbosky, or he loves that Garbosky's uncle is on the hill. Either way, Garbosky
it is, and I wanted you to know that he's going to be sniffing around."

  "Worried that he might find something that stinks, Dick?" Striker said casually.

  "No, Striker, I know you don't leave a mess behind in anything. I just don't want you to do something that might reflect badly on all of us."

  "Who exactly is 'us'?"

  "'Us,' Striker, is us," Simmons said, "you, me, and every other guy that's worked our whole lives for this country. Things are changing, but it won't stay this way forever, so lay low and ride it out."

  "You're wrong about that, Dick," Striker said, gazing at the moving water.

  Things are going to stay changed. It's never going back."

  Simmons shrugged. "Still, you'll have to expect that things will be different."

  'Things are already different," Striker said. "I haven't been able to operate freely for the past three years."

  "I don't know about that."

  "I do," Striker said. "What about Turkey?"

  "Striker," Simmons said incredulously, "you wanted to sell a plane-load of cluster bombs."

  "In the old days," Striker countered, "that wouldn't have raised an eyebrow, Dick. I've made a lot of money for this agency."

  "You've made some for yourself too."

  Striker laughed in a short burst. "I haven't kept more than what amounted to sales commissions on those deals. I could have been stashing millions if I'd been even a little corrupt. I played the role for years, funded projects all over the world for the agency, then when things get rough, I get cut off. I get squeezed, Dick. 1 don't like getting squeezed. Now I'm expected to work for Garbosky, and he's got a hard-on for me that goes beyond my lifestyle. How do you think that makes me feel? What am I supposed to say about all this?"

  "I think you were the one with the hard-on," Simmons said with a terse smile, unable to help himself.

  "You know what I mean," Striker chimed in.

  Simmons sat quietly nodding.

  "I know," he finally said. "I know all this. Striker, and I know what you've done for me. I can't change the way things are. Like I said, I think they'll change back again. 1 do. In the meantime, that's why I'm here, because of all you've done. I just don't want you to have any surprises. The way you live is no problem with me; I know you've earned it and more. I'm just telling you that Garbosky's not going to like it. He's heard about your condo and your cars and your vacations, like most people have. He doesn't like the James Bond image. He wants accountants and lawyers. He wants numbers crunchers and sycophants. He's going to be coming after you, Striker. 1 wanted you to know."

  "I may have to call it quits then," Striker announced.

  "I wouldn't do that," Simmons replied. "I would wait, Striker. Let his goons follow you around for a little while, sniff in your garbage, listen to you flush the toilet, and then after things settle in and you've come up with a clean bill, then walk and go into business for yourself. Let him clear you first, Striker. He's going on a witch hunt. He wants to prove something. If you leave right away, he'll close in on you like a bug in a web. He'll make business bad, or impossible. I know him. Just wait. Wait and call me before you do anything. I'll let you know when it's clear."

  Simmons stood up and held his hand out to his longtime associate. Striker took the hand and held it firmly. Striker's grip was that of a man who could kill with his hands. Simmons's hand felt like he'd have trouble hammering a nail. Striker looked up at Simmons. Even though Simmons was five years younger than Striker, he looked ten years Striker's senior. Striker liked it that way. It was confirmation that the path he'd chosen was the right one. He'd never 'un the agency. He'd never have a directorate. But Striker lived better, felt be iter, screwed better, and looked a hell of a lot better than the man many people would say was the more successful between the two of them. And soon he'd be rich, cashing in the way he should have long ago.

  "Good luck, Striker," Simmons said.

  'Thank you, Dick," Striker said. "I'll miss you."

  Simmons shifted uneasily on his feet. He had never grown used to Striker's sudden emotional outbursts. The man was like blue steel, devoid of emotion, and then, without warning, he'd tell you he loved you or something weird like that. Simmons gave an awkward smile and half a wave before he turned and headed back toward the trees.

  Striker cranked his head around to watch Simmons go. He watched and he thought. Garbosky was a problem. If what Simmons said was true, and Striker knew it was, then completing his transactions between the general and his foreign plutonium investors could prove to be quite difficult. He would need some help, without a doubt. But it would have to be from someone outside the community. It had to be someone who couldn't turn on him even if-they1" wanted to. It had to be someone alone, someone isolated, and someone very smart. Intelligence was essential to Striker when he considered working with someone.

  He knew of agents over the years who preferred imbeciles because they were often easier to direct. They never got it into their heads that a fool was the most dangerous type of person. Sure, they knew you were smarter, and they accepted your authority, but imbeciles made mistakes, and mistakes got you killed. Smart people were more likely to succeed. They could figure things out on the first run. Intelligence made up for a lack of experience; and a smart person could be managed, so long as they weren't smarter than you. That was one problem that Striker had never really had to worry about.

  The idea of the girl came into his head like a bolt. It was perfect. He thought of the danger they could share. That would be good. The girl would like that. Danger would be like a drug to a girl like her. She was proud, and she was smart, but she was also greedy, not just for money but for excitement. Striker could see that in her by the way she performed in bed. She was a woman who needed excitement, who would be at her best when things were on the edge.

  The more he thought about it, the more Striker liked the idea. He could recruit her the way he'd recruited dozens of women before her, women who had slavishly done his bidding in dangerous places with dangerous people. Sometimes they made it, sometimes they didn't. Sometimes, like with the case at hand, Striker would have to eliminate them himself even if they succeeded, the same way he had with Peter.

  He thought about her, about her long, lean limbs, her soft skin, her icy blue eyes, her dark hair that flowed like silk. He thought about her proud, almost obnoxious way. She needed a lesson in the ways of the world. She needed to know that money and power only came from going where others would not go. She needed to see the abyss and walk on the edge. Then how arrogant would she be? Then she'd see him for what he really was. Not a suave sophisticated businessman who was blown away by her beauty and infatuated with her every word, but a reaper of souls. The Grim Reaper. Striker turned his head back toward the river and smiled broadly. He needed someone, and it was time for her to leam. He would teach her.

  Chapter Six

  Austin, like most major cities, and certainly every state capital, has a federal office building, home to hundreds of United States government employees and civil servants. Not the least important of these minions were the men and women of the Internal Revenue Service, who work diligently to extract the taxes that are, according to the government, each persons fair contribution to the workings of this great country.

  It's not surprising, though, that U. S. taxpayers are resentful. Over-spending and misappropriation, waste, chicanery, the savings and loan debacle, government corruption run amock, it was all so discouraging. But each year, the IRS employs new and more effective collection methods and a new breed of tax collector to implement them. The IRS makes its own rules and is accountable to who knows what other part of government,- and its interpretation of these rules is its own, and, not surprisingly, very difficult to challenge. Most IRS agents are simple, hardworking accountants, doing their best to meet quotas. Anonymous zealots working for the benefit of this country, who are rarely recognized for their service. And because of the unusual power that they command, occasionally an IRS audit
or becomes intoxicated by this power. There is always some group that, if squeezed just the right way, can actually yield some extra fat for the larder. Some years physicians are more carefully audited, other years it may be actors or people who own their own businesses or architects or car dealers or restaurant owners, and some years, the targets are professional athletes. This year, fourteen-year veteran IRS agent Jeff Board was going to put the squeeze on someone.

  In his late thirties, overweight, an accounting major whose grades and LSAT scores weren't good enough for law school, Jeff Board was a bitter man. His caustic personality, awful habits, and sloppy attire had made it hard for him to land a job with any of Austin's accounting firms. But with the help of an aunt who was high up in the civil service union, Jeff Board sought and found a job in government. He was underpaid for an accountant, but he believed that if one could only hang on in the paid service of the government, things got easier. The money got better, and soon he planned to name his own hours and vacation days without worrying about the higher-ups. Government advancement had almost nothing to do with productivity or merit, but rather length of service. So Board was in for the long haul and, not unexpectedly, desperate for recognition.

  Jeff Board knew that in the past the agency had singled out professional athletes, but he had never audited one himself. If there was one type of person that Jeff Board singularly despised, it was jocks. He knew how they ate. He knew how they smelled. He knew how they thought. When he was in college, they had tormented him. They lived like animals, squandered their education, and treated people around them with complete disrespect. But all the girls loved them. In Jeff Board's mind, athletes were spoiled and rude, and probably very corrupt--the worst tax offenders. When word came down that he would be reviewing the tax returns of every active member of the Texas Outlaws, Board laughed out loud.