“Clancy, I went to war for my country in Vietnam when I was very young and full of ideals. I never really regretted it. Someone had to do it. Now, all these years later, we’re at war with the world – a world where global terrorism is the name of the game.” He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “And Clancy, I’ll do anything it takes. I took an oath to my President and I take that to be an oath to my country.” He smiled slightly. “Does that give you a problem?”

And Clancy Smith, once the youngest sergeant major in the Marine Corps, smiled. “Not in the slightest.”

At that moment, the door opened and Coffin entered, holding a plastic urn. “Henry Morgan, six pounds of gray ash.”

“Excellent,” Blake said, and Clancy took the urn.

“Many thanks,” Blake told Coffin. “Believe me, you’ve never done anything more important.”

“I accept your word for that, Mr. Johnson,” and Coffin went out.

“Let’s go,” Blake said, and added, “Bring the urn with you.”

He led the way out to the parking lot, where the rain poured down relentlessly. They walked to their limousine, which was parked by what, in season, would obviously be a flower bed.

Blake said, “I was going to put those ashes down the toilet, but let’s be more civilized and do something for next year’s flowers.”

“Good idea.”

Clancy unscrewed the top of the urn and poured the ashes over the flower bed.

“I believe it’s called strewing.”

“I don’t care what it’s called. Washington next, so let’s catch that plane.”

WASHINGTON

2

But a cold front moving in from the Atlantic had done unmentionable things to the weather, and in spite of the rain, or because of it, low clouds produced heavy fog and closed things down at Kennedy.

Blake and Clancy made the best of things in one of the VIP lounges, dozing fitfully, but were still there at six the following morning when they got word that their Gulfstream had managed to get in.