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“Is he still involved with the organization?” asked Harvath.

Sloane searched farther in the article until she found it. “He heads the NATO Defense College Foundation based in Rome.”

Jasinski looked back up at the terrible images unfolding on TV. “A popular restaurant, on the Piazza Navona, on a Friday night. The list of dead and injured civilians is going to be staggering. All to get to a former diplomat who now runs an NGO. It makes no sense.”

Harvath looked at her. “It’s horrible, but it makes perfect sense. This is what no rules looks like. This is how you create chaos. The people in Italy are going to be up in arms. And it will spread. Portugal, Spain, Greece—those countries that already lost diplomats—will be next. Then the rest of Europe will begin to bubble over. But that’s not the worst part.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You don’t dial your operation down after an attack like this. You dial it up. If the “PRF” didn’t have the world’s attention before, they do now. Their attacks are going to start getting worse.”

CHAPTER 32

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was never a good thing to be unexpectedly summoned to the White House. It was even worse when you had been out drinking.

Lydia Ryan didn’t need to defend her behavior to her former boss. He had worked with enough spies on both sides of the Iron Curtain (before and after its collapse) to know how much alcohol was part of the espionage business.

“We’ll keep it informal,” Bob McGee, Director of Central Intelligence, said. “I’ll ask President Porter to see us in the Residence. In the meantime, start hitting the black coffee.”

“You know that coffee doesn’t counteract booze, right?”

“Do it,” McGee instructed. “And leave your car where it is. Grab a taxi. I’ll have another cup waiting for you when you get here. Use the East Executive Avenue Gate.”

When she arrived, McGee was on the other side of security waiting. In one hand was a coffee and in the other was his briefcase. After hanging her badge around her neck, she joined him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, as he handed her the coffee.

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“This isn’t professional.”

“Relax, Lydia,” he said. “Do you have any idea how many times advisors have been summoned to the White House after hours? Tons. They’ve had to leave dinner parties, birthday parties, you name it. You’re not the first person to have set foot on the grounds after having had a couple of cocktails.

“Look at it this way. When you eventually write your memoir, this’ll make for one hell of a chapter. All I ask is that you wait until I’m retired before you publish.”

Ryan grinned. “Deal,” she said as she fished a tin of Altoids from her purse and popped two into her mouth.

Together they entered via the East Wing and proceeded to the Residence. President Paul Porter was waiting for them on the second floor in the Treaty Room, just down the hall from the master bedroom.

The Treaty Room functioned as a less formal office for the President. Near the windows was a large, leather-topped rectangular desk stacked with briefing books. At the other end of the room a large television hung on the wall, tuned to a cable news channel, but with the volume muted.

A fireplace with a white marble mantel occupied the room’s west wall. Above it hung an enormous gilded mirror.

Reflected in the mirror was the sitting area on the other side of the room—a pair of leather club chairs, a coffee table, and a very long couch. Hanging over the couch was a vibrant expressionistic oil painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware by American artist Steve Penley. The pops of color and splatters of paint gave the room a much more modern feeling than was present in the rest of the White House.

As Ryan and McGee were shown into the room, President Porter stood up from behind his desk and walked over to greet them.

“Bob, Lydia,” he said, shaking their hands. “Thank you for coming.”

Porter was a lean, rugged outdoorsman with a perpetual tan. Glossy profile pieces often compared him to Teddy Roosevelt. He enjoyed entertaining heads of state at Camp David, where he took pride in showing off the hiking trails he had helped clear.

The President showed his two guests to the seating area, where he had them sit on the couch while he took one of the chairs.

He wasted no time getting to the point. “How sure are we that the Russians were behind the bombing tonight in Rome?”

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