others. The remaining pair took stations, protecting the Lincoln and the side door.
Nathaniel Frederick ("Fred") Klein, the rumpled chief of Covert-One, sat behind a cluttered metal desk in his compact office inside the marina building.
This was the new Covert-One nerve center. In the beginning, just a few years ago, Covert-One had no formal organization or bureaucracy, no real headquarters, and no official operatives. It had been loosely composed professional experts in many fields, all with clandestine experience, most with military backgrounds, and all essentially unencumbered-without family, home ties, or obligations, either temporary or permanent.
But now that three major international crises had stretched the resources of the elite cadre to the limits, the president had decided his ultrasecret agency needed more personnel and a permanent base far from the radar screens of Pennsylvania Avenue, the Hill, or the Pentagon. The result was this "private yacht club."
It had the right elements for clandestine work: It was open and active twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with intermittent but steady traffic from both land and water that followed no pattern. Near the road and the rail spur but still on the grounds was a helipad that looked more like a weed-infested field. The latest electronic communications had been installed throughout the base, and the security was nearly invisible but of cutting-edge quality. Not even a dragonfly could cross the periphery without one of the sensors picking it up.
Alone in his office, the sounds of his small nighttime staff muted beyond his door, Klein closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his longish nose. His wire-rimmed glasses rested on the desk. Tonight he looked every one of his sixty years. Since he had accepted the job of heading Covert-One, he had aged. His enigmatic face was riven with new creases, and his hairline had receded an inch. Another problem was on the verge of erupting.
As his headache lessened, he sat back, opened his eyes, put his glasses back on, and resumed puffing on his ever-present pipe. The room filled with billows of smoke that disappeared almost as soon as he produced them, sucked out by a powerful ventilating system installed specifically for the purpose.
A file folder lay open on his desk, but he did not look at it. Instead, he smoked, tapped his foot, and glanced at the ship's clock on his wall every few seconds. At last, a door to his left, beneath the clock, opened, and a man with a Sig Sauer strode across the office to the outer door, locked it, and turned to stand with his back against it.
Seconds later, the president entered. He sat in a high-backed leather chair across the desk from Klein.
"Thanks, Barney," he told the guard. "I'll let you know if I need you."
"But Mr. President-"
"You can go," he ordered firmly. "Wait outside. This is a private conversation between two old friends." That was partly true. He and Fred Klein had known each other since college.
The guard slowly recrossed the office and left, each step radiating reluctance.
As the door closed, Klein blew a stream of smoke. "I would've come to you as usual, Mr. President."
"No." Sam Castilla shook his head. His titanium glasses reflected the overhead light with a sharp flash. "Until you tell me exactly what we're facing with this Chinese freighter - The Dowager Empress, right? - this one stays between us and those of your agents you need to work on it."
"The leaks are that bad?"
"Worse," the president said. "The White House has turned into a sieve.
I've never seen anything like it. Until my people can find the source, I'll meet you here." His rangy face was deeply worried. "You think we have another Yinhe?"
Klein's mind was instantly transported back: It was 1993, and a nasty international incident was about to erupt, with America the big loser. A Chinese cargo ship, the Yinhe, had sailed from China for Iran. U.S. intelligence received reports the ship was carrying chemicals that could be used to make weapons. After trying the usual diplomatic channels and failing, President Bill Clinton ordered the U.S. Navy to chase the ship, refusing to let it land anywhere, until some sort of resolution could be found.
An outraged China denied the accusations. Prominent world leaders jawboned. Allies made charges and countercharges. And media around the globe covered the standoff with banner headlines. The stalemate went on for an interminable twenty days. Finally, when China began to noisily rattle its sabers, the U.S. Navy forced the ship to stop on