“Which invitation I canceled on your advice a week ago. You said then you wished to handle this business yourself. No one from the FBI, no police, no military. Even the head of the Secret Service was excluded, which makes it puzzling that you got away with using Clancy in this affair.”

Clancy intruded. “I was served a presidential warrant, Mr. President, so I had to do as I was told.”

“I have a stack of them in my safe,” Blake said. “All signed by you.”

“Really. And you just fill in a name?”

“Correct, Mr. President. You know how the Basement works.”

During the Cold War, when it appeared the Communists were infiltrating at every level of government, the then-President had invented the Basement as a small operation answerable only to him. Since then, it had been handed from one President to another. It was one of his most valuable assets. All other agencies were tied up in rules and regulations, the legal system. This was not. The presidential warrant cut through the crap. People thought Johnson was a deskman. In fact, he had a file of names of ex-FBI and Secret Service men he could pull in on an ad hoc basis. He could connect at any time with General Charles Ferguson in London, who ran a similar organization for the British Prime Minister.

“I can, in effect, kill for you,” Blake went on. “I can have, for example, someone like Morgan disposed of without a trace, but only if I’m left alone to do things my way. The war on terrorism can’t be won unless we’re willing to fight back on our own terms. Fight fire with fire.”

“And where does that leave the rule of law?”

“I’m not sure. People at Al Qa’eda would have their own answer to that. All I know is that we won’t beat them by playing patty-cake.”

“Okay, I take your point. Tell me about this Morgan business. You said you didn’t want me to know too many details before. Tell me now.”