by Mike Lawson
Angela returned home from Afghanistan. She had lost weight and had deep circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept for a month. Worse than her appearance, though, she couldn’t sleep after she returned to Washington and eventually began to see a CIA psychiatrist twice a week. DeMarco had no idea what she had done for the CIA in Afghanistan or what she had experienced. All he knew was he hated her damn job but she refused to quit.
DeMarco couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be responsible for keeping terrorists from attacking the country with nuclear bombs or anthrax or God knows what. And that’s what people like Angela and Dillon Crane did. DeMarco didn’t like the fact that Dillon had manipulated him and forced him to participate in his plan to bring down Bradford, but he privately thought the country was less safe with Dillon gone. As for monitoring phone calls without warrants, well, he certainly didn’t want his calls monitored, but when it came to other people, maybe…
Oh, to hell with it. It was too complicated. He cast all thoughts of Dillon Crane out of his head, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, hit the ball with his pitching wedge-and it landed within ten feet of the cup. Yes! His game had improved dramatically in the last few weeks because half the time when he was supposed to be talking to the president’s special prosecutor, he played golf instead. How was Mahoney supposed to know?
Mahoney didn’t have a satellite to keep tabs on him.
Alice walked into Dillon’s old office. There were no Picassos on the walls, no putter propped in the corner, no expensive topcoat hanging on the coat rack. The office was now as stark and functional as the person who occupied it.
“We picked up something important last night,” Alice said.
Smiling slightly, Claire repeated what Dillon had once said to her on a similar occasion. “I’m sure it’s important, Alice, or you wouldn’t be here. But is it interesting?”
A satellite orbits a blue planet, huge solar panels extended like wings
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