She heard muffled voices and then the word “snipers”
and stopped in her tracks. Quietly, she moved closer to the
disguised servant’s entrance to the meeting room. With her
ear against the door she could hear them.




“We will be ready on time. Recruitment has gone well and
training has begun,” said a bold voice. “I’ve got the senator
all set, and he assures me that the leadership of the House
is on board.”




“How many casualties are we talking about?” an unsteady
voice asked.




“We’ll start early next year. The total could easily reach
two thousand or more,” the bold voice answered.




There were gasps in the room.




Her heart was pounding as sweat began to bead on her
forehead. Frozen in the dimly lit hidden entrance, she wanted
to run away but her feet wouldn’t move. She leaned into the
darkened corner, trying to disappear into the woodwork.
“I need to know that this ends up the way we want,”
another voice said.




“Sniper teams loose in American cities frighten me. How
can you be certain we can stop them when it’s time?” another
voice asked.




“I have already handled that. There is no risk there,” the
bold voice answered.




“What happens if some of our supporters get cold feet?”
another voice asked.




“The senator has the full support of the necessary cabinet
members, congressmen, and others required to do this. He
guarantees it,” the bold voice reassured them.




She forced herself to move, stumbled, and caught herself.




“What the hell was that?” a voice asked loudly.




There was commotion in the room. People were moving
in her direction. She was trapped.


She stood tall, tried to collect herself, and opened the
door . . .

It was late July and Ken was settling into a routine at The
Village. It had taken a month, but he was getting comfortable.




He was sipping his morning coffee and reading the
newspaper when his phone rang. It was George Larsen, an
old friend and former colleague. He asked Ken to pick him up
at a local convenience store.




Ken looked at his watch. It was about ten thirty.




What in the hell is George doing here? Ken wondered.




George Larsen worked as an administrator for the CIA,
handling logistics for people like Ken. A middle-aged desk
jockey, George was not in shape and never had been, but
he excelled elsewhere. He was never in the field but was
very good at the nonglamorous details that could make or
break the people who were. Among his extraordinary talents,
he had a photographic memory and could solve any puzzle
quickly. Ken marveled at his ability to do the Sunday New
York Times crossword puzzle in fifteen minutes or less—in
ink. Ken had always gone out of his way to let George know
how much he valued him. Over the years, they discovered
that they both liked fly-fishing and football. Those interests
had just added more bonds to their relationship. Ken truly
liked George and had written to him before he moved to The
Village to give him his new contact information.




As Ken pulled into a parking space in front of the
convenience store, he saw George Larsen dressed in jeans
with a hooded sweatshirt covering his head. George was
talking to two young men who Ken guessed to be in their
early twenties. They were dressed in tank tops and covered
in some kind of cheap-looking tattoos that Ken thought were
some form of gang markings. One was tall and muscular, and
the other was short and round but solid looking.




As Ken got out of the car, he saw the tall one push George
to the ground.




Ken’s assessment was quick––hooligans looking for
trouble.




As Ken got closer, they all looked up. Ken could see that
the young men’s eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled the
stench of rancid alcohol. The short one was eating a cupcake
and had a plastic shopping bag holding a large bag of chips
and some other munchies—the deadbeat’s breakfast.




The tall one was focused on Ken as he walked closer.




“What do you want, old man?” he asked. He clenched his
fists and scowled.




Ken stopped and briefly exchanged glances with
George but said nothing. He pointed to George, who was
still on the ground, and said calmly and softly, “That man’s
my friend.”




The tall one laughed. “Yeah—me and BoJack friends too.”




BoJack laughed as well.




The tall one stopped laughing, and a menacing look came
over his face. He advanced on Ken. “Want some o’what yo
friend got, old—”




Before he could finish, Ken’s right hand shot out to the
tall man’s neck. A second later, the tall, muscular man was
unconscious on the ground.




BoJack threw down his bag of munchies, spilling them
all over the ground. He pulled a large knife from under his
superlong tank top.




Ken had instinctively moved into a balanced stance. He
spoke in the same steady voice. “Nice knife. Marine KA-BAR.
One of my favorites.”




“Fuck you, man!” BoJack shouted. He was having
difficulty understanding the scene before him—his muscular
friend unconscious on the ground and an old man standing
tall before him, apparently unafraid.




“Do you know how to use it? Because I certainly do.”




“I’ll cut you up, mutha’fuka!” BoJack screamed.




Ken raised his voice a little and challenged, “You
have a choice. You can put the knife away and help your
friend—”




“Or what?” BoJack moved the knife back and forth.




Ken’s brow furrowed and the edges of his mouth turned
down. “Or I’ll take it away from you and shove it up your ass
until it comes out your dick.”




After a long moment, BoJack put the knife away and
began to lift his friend, muttering, “Cap yo ass when I get to
ma car—”




Ken’s right hand came down hard on BoJack’s left
temple, rendering him unconscious on the ground next to
his friend.




“Thanks for the warning, BoJack.”




Ken turned to help George to his feet.




George was shaking.




Ken looked around the parking lot. “Where’s your car?”




“I don’t have one.”




Ken looked at him in disbelief. “OK. Let’s get out of here
before BoJack and his buddy wake up.”




They got into Ken’s car, and he began to pull out of the
parking space. “Well, I see why you called me, and I’m always
glad to see you, but what are you doing here?”




George, hyperventilating, said, “We need to talk
somewhere private.” He nervously panned the parking lot and
its entrance and exit.




“Of course. We’ll go back to my place.”




They knew each other well, and the silence they
maintained during the ten-minute drive back to The Village
was deafening.




Ken’s mind was crawling with questions. What the hell are
you doing lying on the ground with two thugs standing over
you at a convenience store next to The Village? Why are you
dressed like this? Where’s your car?




He suddenly winced from a shooting pain in his right hand
and shoulder from the confrontation. He opened and closed
his fist a few times and fought back a groan.




They entered Ken’s building through a side entrance to
avoid the main lobby and limit any contact with residents or
staff. George kept his hood up and head bent forward to hide
his face.




As Ken shut the door to his apartment, he showed George
to the couch.




“Want some coffee?”




“Can I have something stronger?”




Ken walked to the Victorian sideboard in his dining room
to retrieve a bottle of scotch—Glenfiddich—George’s drink of
choice. He poured three fingers, neat, into an elegant yellow
crystal cocktail glass rimmed in gold, part of a set he had
purchased years ago in Prague.




After a few minutes and a few sips, George began to
speak. “Ken, I didn’t know who to turn to. I’m sorry to barge in
on you like this, but I felt that calling you was too dangerous. I
took a train to Baltimore and an assortment of cabs and buses
to get here.”




“George, what the hell is going on? Who were those two
guys?”




George took a long sip of his drink.




“First, those two guys were loitering when I got there to
use the phone. They’re probably some gangbangers that
were looking for a little bit of trouble,” he said breathlessly.
“Second, yesterday morning, I got a call from a dear friend of
mine, Carla Rob . . .” Tears started down his cheeks.




Ken handed him some tissues from the coffee table.




George slowly continued. The alcohol was doing its job.
“Carla Robbins was the food and beverage manager for
the Mayflower Hotel in DC. She called me with panic in her
voice; I mean she was scared shitless. I’d never heard her
like that be . . .” More tears. Another sip. “She asked me to
meet her at her condo in Old Town. Carla is . . . was great
at her job because she saw to every little detail. Periodically,
she’d personally check on small gatherings to see if there
was anything they needed, no matter how small. She did
that yesterday before she called me.” He hung his head.




After a long pause, Ken moved next to him on the couch
and placed his hand on top of George’s, which was shaking.
“What happened?”




“This group was in the Roosevelt Room— ”




“What’s that?” Ken interrupted.




“It’s a small meeting room at the hotel. It’s been
reconfigured over the years, and the main entrance now is
through double doors at the base of the room. At the other end
is the former entrance that’s now concealed behind a wooden
screen. It allows staff to enter and exit without being disruptive
so they can put out fresh coffee and that kind of stuff. Well,
Carla went to check on this group, and she decided to use the
service entrance . . .”




“What happened?”




“As she went for the handle, she froze when she heard
the conversation that was going on.”




“What was the conversation about?”




“She should have left, but she didn’t. I think she was like
a deer in the headlights.” George blew his nose into a tissue
and then continued after another sip of scotch. “She could
hear some of it. They were talking about snipers going into
cities and shutting them down.”




“What cities?”




“American cities.” George was shaking periodically.




“Did they know she could hear them?”




“I don’t know. When she got up her nerve to move, she
stumbled a little and made some noise. She heard people
moving toward the service entrance. She thought they’d catch
her if she tried to run, so she entered the room like she had
just arrived to do her hospitality thing.”




“What did she say?”




“She told them who she was and asked if there was
anything that the hotel could do to make their experience
more pleasant. They said everything was fine, and she left.”




“That’s it? Sounds OK so far.”




George shook his head. “She isn’t an actress, and she
probably looked just like she felt—terrified. At least that’s what
she said she was afraid of.”




George stared blankly into space.




Ken’s elbows were propped on his knees as he leaned
forward. “What happened next?”




“We met at her condo and talked about what had
happened. She said she wanted to go jogging along the river
to clear her head. I said OK, but only if she agreed to meet me
for dinner later that night.”




George drank some more.




“Did you meet her for dinner?”




“We agreed to meet at the Monaco. I waited for her at the
bar, watching the news on their TV. That’s when I saw it. . . .”
More tears.




After a moment, he went on. “The reporter said that she
was killed by a mugger on the bike path near Mount Vernon.
She always ran along the path between the Lincoln Memorial
and Old Town—never toward Mount Vernon. She thought it
was too dangerous.”




Ken said the obvious: “Why didn’t you call the police?”




“Carla thought she heard them talking about senators and
congressmen. She thought people in our government were
involved, and, if that was the case, I just plain didn’t know
where to go, so I came to see you.”




They sat for a moment in silence. Then Ken spoke. “Try to
remember exactly what she told you she heard.”




Ken refilled George’s glass.




“OK. As she approached the door, she heard one of
the men speaking to the group. He said snipers have been
recruited and are in training. They should be ready to start
early next year, and will expand once the body count reaches
some number or something like that.”




George took a few breaths. “It was hard for her to hear and
understand what they were saying. However, she did hear one
man talk about meeting a senator and that he had the support
of the House and key cabinet people. Somebody estimated the
death count to be over two thousand before it’s over.”




“George, did she say anything about where this was going
to happen?”




“Not really.”




“What exactly did she say?”




George caught his breath and tried to calm himself. “She
didn’t hear any city mentioned, just American cities. It could
be anywhere.”




He paused. “Then she made some noise and . . .” He
hung his head in silence.




Ken shook his head. “This just doesn’t make any sense.”




“Look, I know it sounds crazy, but whatever she heard got
her killed, and somehow our government is connected to it.”




“I don’t know how much an old man in a retirement home
can help you.”




Ken saw fear spread over George’s face, and then he
heard an old voice from within that he hadn’t heard in years.
He looked at his hands. They were old, spotted, and wrinkled
like the rest of him. He rubbed his day-old beard and thought
about the possibilities and how far he’d fallen since Ann died.




“George, if this sniper thing is being orchestrated by
people affiliated with or in our government, then nobody is
safe—nowhere, no way. In fact, until we get a handle on this,
you should stay right here and sleep on my couch.”




George had another drink of courage. “I’ll be OK as long
as I’m on the move, at least until we figure out what to do.”




“George, we have no idea how extensive this could be, or
what it is for that matter, so you should be on the safe side.
They killed her, and they’ll know she called you just by looking
at her phone records. Take every precaution and stay here.”




George was silent as the reality of the situation gripped him.
After some thinking, he said, “Look, I know I can handle
this. Besides, my mere presence could put everyone around
me in danger. Think about all the people around here. It really
is time for me to move on.”




Ken shook his head as he was reminded of just how
stubborn George could be.




“Well, don’t use your cell phone or credit cards. Buy a
phone card or prepaid cell phone. You can’t let them know
your location. You know they could have eyes everywhere.”




“I know. Remember what I do for a living?”




“What’s that they say about the shoemaker and shoes?”




They both laughed, trying to cover their fear.




“You call me tomorrow morning at ten. I’ll give this a lot of
thought between now and then.”




“I will.” He looked deeply into Ken’s eyes. “Let me
emphasize that I was careful coming here. Nobody can trace
my route or whereabouts. I know how dangerous these people
are. Also, I got rid of my cell phone. I stayed out of sight of
the camera monitors that I’m aware of in the train and bus
stations, and I paid for everything in cash. I’ll be careful. I’ve
never been truly scared like this before.” He paused for a bit,
and then continued in a soft, sincere voice, “Ken, I feel better
just knowing you are thinking about this.”




George was one of the few who knew how capable and
effective Ken had been, which was why, of all the people he
could turn to, he had chosen him.




“Can I get a lift?”




Reluctantly, Ken consented. “All right, but remember
everything that I said, and don’t forget to call me.”
Ken drove him to a local hotel, where George caught a
cab.




Back in his apartment, Ken reasoned that a conspiracy
like this would be hard to keep under wraps, but if it was
real, then the leaders would need a scorched-earth policy
to deal with risk. That meant no one was safe from pursuit
by death squads. He had seen operations of this nature in
other countries many times, but never in his own. The thought
of something like this being real—here—sent a chill through
him. He forgot about his woes and began to dwell on the
information he had just received from George Larsen.




The next morning, Ken had his coffee and toast while he
read the newspaper and patiently waited for his phone to ring.
Ten o’clock came and went. He was getting worried, so he
decided to try to distract himself by watching TV. As usual, it
was the same old crap on cable, but at least it would help him
pass the time.




He put on a news channel and went to the kitchen to fix
another cup of coffee. He ground some beans and loaded the
French press, then added boiling water and waited for the coffee
to be ready. The rich aroma distracted him as he walked back
into his living area and saw a picture of George Larsen’s face
on his forty-two-inch flat screen television. He was stunned for a
moment and dropped his cup, spilling the coffee and shattering
the mug. Shards of yellow, green, blue, black, and red clay
sprayed the wooden floor and his small oriental rug.




The reporter said that George Larsen had been shot to
death while trying to resolve a business issue with a drug
gang in Anacostia and that an unidentified source said that
Larsen was a heavy drug user.




Ken knew that George had never had any drug stronger
than aspirin or scotch.