THE JINX
by
LARRY KAHN


THE JINX

THE

JINX

LARRY KAHN

RED FIELD PUBLISHERS Atlanta Copyright 2000 by Larry Kahn ISBN
0-9673077-4-0

First Edition

All rights reserved.  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part,
in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including 
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval 
system now known or hereafter invented without written permission from 
the publisher.

Published by RED FIELD PUBLISHERS P.O. Box 888870, Atlanta, Georgia 
30356

This novel's story and characters are fictitious.  Any character's 
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 
Any actions attributed to actual persons of historical significance, 
living or dead, are, to the best knowledge of the author, imaginary.

Epigraph apposite Chapter One reprinted with permission of Scribner a 
Division of Simon dr Schuster, Inc."  from THE GREAT GATSBY (Authorized
Text) by F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Copyright 1925 by Charles Scribner's 
Sons.  Copyright renewed 1953 by Frances Scott Fitzgerald Lanahan. 
Copyright 1991, 1992 by Eleanor Lanahan, Matthew J. Bruccoli and Samuel
J. Lanahan as Trustees u/a dated 7/3/75 created by Frances Scott 
Fitzgerald Smith.

Book design by Rivanne, Brooklyn, NY

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-64171

Printed in the United States of America To Elite, my fellow dreamer,
my best friend, my true love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

One of my favorite characters in literature is Don Quixote, a man whose
dreams were so fanciful that his name has become synonymous with 
fantasy.  Writing fiction has been a dream since my college days, a 
dream that became more and more quixotic as my responsibilities as a 
lawyer and a family man consumed my life.  As the 2000 presidential 
election approached and my story idea, formulated over the course of 20
years, was fast becoming obsolete, I realized that my dream was on the
verge of being quashed.  Rather than let the windmill beat me, I 
entered an agonizing period of mid-life crisis that has produced The
Jinx and a list of many people who I would like to thank.

My wife, Ellie, has been an unfailing source of encouragement, 
inspiration, love and, of course, proof-reading.  She gave me the 
courage to take time off from work to pursue my dream despite the 
financial risks involved and the imminent threat of having me hanging 
around the house for a year.  It has been a special year, and she is a 
very special person.

My two boys, Matthew and Michael, have also been a source of 
inspiration in more subtle ways.  The pride in their voices when they 
introduced me to their friends as a writer was something I had never 
experienced in fourteen years as a lawyer.

The Jinx is very much about emotional legacies handed down from parent 
to child, and the support of my own parents.  Bill and Florette Kahn, 
and my in-laws, Milton and Lillian Brownstein, in this venture was 
important to me. That being said, the emotional baggage carried by my 
characters is solely a product of my imagination and is no reflection 
of them.  Perhaps it was their open-mindedness that sparked my interest
in racism in the first place. Linda Klaitz provided a friendly ear
during a critical period in my  life.  She helped me voice my dreams
and reach the insight that no  tombstone ever read: "He was a great
worker."

Even with my family's encouragement, it would have been difficult to 
take the risk of leaving my job without the support of the Bell South 
Legal Department.

Associate General Counsel Mark Hallenbeck agreed to hold my job open 
during my one year leave of absence, and Dan Bradley and John O'Connor 
have shouldered the extra burden without complaint.  Whether they will 
admit to it or not, these were as much acts of friendship as corporate 
responsibility for which I am grateful.

The production of a novel is not as easy as it looks.  Writing is a 
craft, one that I have learned on the fly by studying the works of 
accomplished authors, reading literary magazines and guides and making 
my own painful mistakes.  I have been fortunate to be blessed with 
several readers who have been willing to gently (for the most part) 
point out my mistakes.

My wife, Ellie, has been a vigilant reader throughout the process.  My 
parents, Bill and Florette, my brother, Howard, Carol Grinnell and 
Marina and Mark Nonnenmacher have provided excellent comments on 
various drafts.  Mark Houghton and Worth Weller have also offered 
helpful advice.

I owe a special debt of gratitude to Patricia Sarrafian Ward, an 
award-winning writer, who took time out from her busy schedule to 
review an advanced draft of The Jinx.  Her comments were 
thought-provoking, and the final version is much better because of 
her.

Thanks also are due to my editor, Joanne Sherman, who helped me with 
the finishing touches.  After ten drafts, I have to admit to being 
blind to some of the flaws her watchful eyes detected.

Due to the magic of the Internet, I was able to do most of my technical
research on my own.  However, I would be remiss if I did not thank Dr. 
David Bregman for certain medical insights and Tony Turner of the 
Atlanta law firm of Mazursky & Dunaway for help with the details of 
trusts and estates law.

Finally, I owe a special thanks to Amy and Suzanne Feigenbaum of 
Rivanne Advertising, whose extraordinary production and design efforts 
have made this book a work of art. In my younger and more vulnerable
years my father gave me some advice  that I've been turning over in my
mind ever since.

--F.  Scott Fitzgerald (opening line from The Great Gatsby)

ONE

ADAMS THOMPSON could not shake thoughts of The Assassin from his mind. 
New York was on fire, a fire he had started, yet the impassioned words 
of the young woman coiled in his guest chair were losing the battle for
 his attention.

"We're at the epicenter of what could become the worst race riots in 
thirty years, and you're gonna let us get scooped," Christy Kirk 
said.

"Dammit, Mr.  T, this could be the story of the century."

Thompson's gaze connected with her blazing brown eyes, the only hint 
that this tiny elf of a woman had the hardened soul of a reporter.  She
was so slight that Thompson was tempted to blow out a breath and watch
her float away.  But Christy Kirk was not so easily dismissed.  Not by
her sources, not by her editor at the City Desk and not even by the 
publisher of the Herald Times.  Beneath that pixyish face and tangle of
 auburn hair lay the heart of a tiger.

Thompson broke Christy's Svengali-like stare, turning to face the 
window behind his desk.

"Sunday's editorial triggered this mess," he said absently.

"We're too involved to be objective."

He ran his fingers through the wisp of sandy hair that circled the 
lower reaches of his scalp.  The view of the Hudson River usually 
calmed him, but not now.  He could ignore the angry mob milling about 
on the street ten stories below.  He could even deal patiently with 
Christy Kirk.  But the frightening riddle that had plagued him since 
Wednesday, when he received the cryptic e-mail from The Assassin--a man
long thought dead--made his head throb.  What does this impostor want 
from me?

"This story is bigger than your opinion on the Board of Education's 
proposal to create a metropolitan area school district," Christy 
said.

It would have been easy to mistake her for one of the college interns 
employed by the New York Herald Times, Thompson thought, dressed as she
was in their habitual uniform of brown suede jacket and blue jeans,
but  her voice resonated with a confidence that comes with experiencing
 success for hire.

"Black and white paramilitary groups are arming themselves," Christy 
continued. "There's been an increase in racial violence all across the
country.  Two dozen incidents were reported in the Army alone in the
past six  months.  This is not racism as usual."

Thompson sighed.  If she only knew.  Christy Kirk was right.  This 
story had to be written.  But in one year, not now; in his words, not 
hers.  With some more fanning of the flames by the Herald Times, his 
cousins--seven descendants of a common ancestor now dead more than 160 
years--would have the inferno of racial hatred for which they lusted. 
The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight, as they called their secret 
familial society, was a runaway train that he desperately wanted to get
 off, but setting Christy Kirk loose on them was not the ticket.

Until Wednesday, when he was contacted by The Assassin, Thompson was 
sure that there was no way out.  Now there was hope.

"The white supremacy groups are all bluster," Thompson said calmly, 
turning to face Christy.

"They've been arming themselves for years.  And the Army has always 
attracted a violent element.  That crowd outside is hot about my 
editorial and nothing more. They'll cool off, and then we'll go back 
to reporting the news, not making it."

Christy sprang from her chair with an intensity that startled Thompson.
She fumbled with the window locks.  A blast of crisp November air 
ushered in the sounds of the street.  At first the chants of the throng
of angry black men, women and children were difficult to distinguish, 
but the message they repeated soon became clear:

"Thompson lies, he must die!  Thompson lies, he must die!"

"Look at the anger, the pain, on those faces," Christy said, thrusting 
her arm forward for emphasis.

"Your last editorial may have been the trigger, but rage like that 
doesn't arise overnight.  Each racial incident in the military, each 
editorial sanctioning segregationist practices, each promotion that 
goes to a white candidate over a black man or woman and--" "I admire 
your passion, but there's nothing new about racism," Thompson 
interjected brusquely.

"Maybe you were never exposed to it growing up in Minnesota, but--"

"Don't patronize me, Mr.  T," she said.

"I've been a New Yorker since I was eighteen.  My background is not the
issue. Racial hostilities have risen to a new level.  We've got to 
cover this story. Dammit, we are the story." Thompson glowered at
her.

"Good newspapermen report the news, young lady, they don't make it." 
Despite everything else he had become, he was still a newspaperman.

"I'm sorry.  I was out of line," Christy said, chastised but not 
beaten.

"The fuss over this editorial may blow over, but sooner or later 
something is going to set off this powder keg.  That kind of passion 
you're seeing down there can inspire ordinary people to extraordinary 
action."

Thompson and Christy were distracted by a flurry of activity in the 
crowd on the street below.  Two men had taken a rope and were hanging 
an unflattering likeness of Thompson in effigy over a lamppost.  The 
mob roared as the bloated mannequin was lit afire.  The police 
maintained their distance.

Thompson wrinkled his face and subconsciously ran his hand across his 
flabby midsection.

"That crowd wants blood," he said.

"Maybe we can offer them Roger as a human sacrifice," Christy said,
straight-faced.  Ordinarily, Thompson would frown at a young reporter's
disrespect for the City Editor, Roger Martin, but he knew that Roger 
was Christy's lover as well as her boss.

He snorted.

"You think you're joking," Thompson said.

"They want my blood, I wrote the editorial, but they might take whoever
 we offer them.  Even you."

"All the best stories carry risk," Christy said, her eyes--those 
smoldering eyes--locking on Thompsons.

"I'll never be a great reporter if you won't let me take risks.  Why 
are you--" A knock on the open door to Thompson's office interrupted 
her.  A bespectacled young clerk with slicked back hair peeked in 
nervously.  Christy's glare shot daggers at him.

"Watcha got, Pete?"  Thompson asked.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," the clerk said.

"Three more death threats in the morning mail.  Anderson in Security 
wants to call the cops, maybe hire a bodyguard." "Just three?" 
Thompson asked.

"You see, Christy, the situation is already cooling down."

Pete shook his head uncertainly.  ""Fraid not, sir.  We tossed out 
hundreds of hate letters.  Security just asked for the ones that 
threatened violence," Pete said.

"But don't feel too bad--there's lots of fan mail, too."

Thompson slumped into his executive chair and swiveled to face the 
window.  He became aware, again, of the angry chants rising up from the
 street.  Fan mail.

Sometimes he disgusted himself.

"Mr.  Thompson," Pete said awkwardly.

"What should I tell Security?"

Thompson whirled abruptly to face the clerk.

"No police.  No bodyguards."  He waved Pete off, then turned to 
Christy.

"No story."

"Aren't you worried about the death threats?"  Christy asked with 
genuine concern.

"Like you said, that mob sounds like it's out for blood."

Thompson looked up in surprise.  Concern and tenderness suited Christy 
Kirk as badly as a pink party dress.

"I appreciate the thought, but I'll be fine as long as I don't try to 
mingle with them--a lesson you'd be wise to learn yourself."

Christy ignored the thinly veiled reproach.

"You've exposed a raw nerve with that editorial," she said, gesturing 
towards the window.

"There are a lot of angry black people in New York City, and their fury
 seems to be directed at you this week."

Thompson could almost visualize the tug-of-war between his mind and his
heart, a contest fought every day for the last twenty-one months.  His
sworn obligation to The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight was to
provoke racial rebellion, a task that was in grave conflict with his 
natural sentiments.

"My intention was not to belittle African-Americans," Thompson lied.

"Integration seemed like a noble goal thirty years ago, but experience 
has shown that the experiment failed.  Our cultures are like oil and 
water.  I stand by my editorial.  The Board of Ed's proposal to bus 
children between suburban and city schools is unnatural."

Christy filled her cheeks with air, then expelled it.

"Mr.  T, whatever your intentions, using the word 'unnatural' conjures 
up an image of animals in a zoo.

You could have made the case against the proposal by arguing that it's 
too costly and burdensome.  You've ticked off a lot of people 
unnecessarily."

Thompson stifled a smile.

"Well, maybe I should ask all the cub reporters to review my word 
choices before I run my editorials," he said.

Christy blushed.

"Oops, looks like I've crossed the line, again."

The corners of Thompson's mouth turned up weakly.

"Maybe you should take that as your cue to give up the race story and 
take an assignment from Roger at the City Desk," he said softly.

"I'm not conceding that easily," she said.

"There's an important story here, and I'm the one to write it.  I've 
already--" "You've already what?"  Thompson said.

"Already offended the Fire Department?"

"That wasn't my fault," Christy said.  She fidgeted in her chair 
defensively.  A small fire had been set in the basement of the Herald 
Times building shortly after she wrote an investigative piece about 
corruption in the New York City Fire Department.

"Nobody ever proved who set that fire."

"Before that it was the Sanitation Department," Thompson said.

"Garbage on our front steps every day for a week.  And before that it
was the longshoremen.  Face it, Christy, you rankle people.  The 
perfect person to do a piece on race relations."

"Look, I'm not out there to make friends," she said.

"I'm out there to get the story--and I always get the story."

"Maybe now, but a good reporter cultivates contacts," Thompson said.

"Some day you'll need the Fire Department, and they won't be there for 
you. You've got to work with people, respect their position and their 
personal space.  You've got the political instincts of a buffalo.  You 
stampede over everyone."

"Maybe that political crap works for a middle-aged, Ivy League, WASP," 
she said angrily.

"But it sure as hell doesn't work for me.  People see this little... 
little--" "Leprechaun," Thompson offered.

Christy scowled.

"People think they can walk all over me because I'm so small.

I'm tough because I have to be tough.  I bite and I don't let go until 
I've got my story.  That's what rankles people."

"Maybe a pit bull would have been a better analogy."

"You pick the analogy.  I just want the assignment."

Thompson looked at his watch.  Six-fifteen.  The Assassin had 
requested--no, commanded--a meeting tonight, but had yet to set the 
time and place.  The mob outside showed no signs of breaking up.  He 
needed a drink.

"You're not going to let go of me until I give in or fire you, are 
you?" Thompson asked.

She grinned.

"You'd never fire me.  I've heard the stories.  You were a pit bull 
once, too."

Her smile was infectious.  And her words rang true.  They had called 
him a bulldog back then, but, like Christy Kirk, he had learned 
politics the hard way.

Thompson viewed her as his special project. "What have you got so
far?"  he asked.

"I'm ready to rock 'n roll as soon as you say the word," she said.

"I've got contacts with most of the white and black groups.  The Klan, 
the Skinheads, the Dark Nation, the NOMAADs--" "I haven't heard of the 
NOMAADs," Thompson said.

"And I think the politically correct term is African-Americans these 
days."

"You're hearing the NOMAADs chanting right now," Christy said.

"The National Organization for Mutual African-American Defense.  They 
organized the rally outside."

"Mmm-hmmm."  Thompson was distracted by a beep from the computer on his
desk, alerting him that a new e-mail message awaited.  Christy 
continued talking while Thompson attended to the computer.  He tapped a
 key on the keyboard.  The new message popped up on screen:

Nine o'clock.  Your apartment.  Alone.  No tricks.

The message was signed once again with the horrifying cyber-name:

"The Assassin."

Christy stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

"Bad news, Mr.  T?"  she asked.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It's nothing," Thompson said, regaining his composure.  He glanced at 
his watch.

"I almost forgot about an appointment.  I've got to run."

"And the assignment?"  Christy asked.

Thompson was weary of battling.  He could kill the story later.

"Be careful," he said.

"The African-American groups may smell blood when they see the 
Herald.

Times coming.  And white supremacists aren't overgrown Boy Scouts."

"I suppose it's more politically correct to call them Anglo American
supremacists," Christy said, smiling on the way out the door.

"And they won't even know what bit 'em."

A MAN SAT IN THE BACK of an unmarked van behind the Herald Times 
Building, away from the chanting hordes.  He was eating potato chips 
while monitoring the sophisticated surveillance equipment that 
surrounded him in the van's dimly lit cargo compartment.  Empty soda 
cans and moldy cartons from a Chinese takeout joint down the street 
littered the cramped area.

The man stopped chewing when Thompson opened The Assassin's cryptic 
message.

Finally.  His boss had been waiting for this one.  He wiped his greasy 
hands on his pants, punched a number into his cellular telephone, then 
said: "Let me speak to the Director."

SAUSOLITO'S WAS NOT ADAMS THOMPSON'S usual Friday night haunt.  He 
preferred a cigar and a few single malt scotch whiskeys at one of the 
gentlemen's clubs on the Upper West Side to wind down after another 
hectic week at the Herald Times.

But Sausolito's was in Greenwich Village, and he did not want to stray 
far from home before his meeting with the man who claimed to be The 
Assassin.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and Sausolito's was quiet.  Adams 
sipped a Dewars, watching the Knicks game on the television in the 
corner.  A scrawny NYU student with bright orange hair sat at the other
end of the bar.  The basketball season was only a month under way, but
Thompson could tell that the 1999-2000 season was to be a rebuilding 
year for his beloved Knicks.

God, "1999-2000."  Even saying it to himself made his head swim.  One 
of his earliest memories was his seventh birthday in 1960.  He 
remembered his father bringing home a rubber stamp kit that the Herald 
Times had tried to market the previous Christmas.  The kit included a 
date stamp that went up to 1972.  He recalled thinking at the time that
 1972 seemed like forever.  He ordered another Dewars.

Adams saddened as he thought about his father.  It was almost two years
 since George Thompson had died.

A tall, well-built young man entering Sausolito's caught Adams's 
attention, interesting only in his remarkable resemblance to the 
Marlboro Man.  He had a weather-beaten face and wore a suede jacket, 
cowboy hat and work boots.  Adams observed him for a moment, then 
looked away as Marlboro sauntered towards the bar.  Marlboro placed his
hat on the counter, claimed the stool two down from Adams, and ordered
a beer.

"Cold night, huh pops," Marlboro said, looking in Adams's direction.

"Hmmph.  November in New York," Adams said.

Marlboro looked up at the television.

"You a Knicks fan?"  he asked.

"Uh-huh," Adams said.

"How they doin'?"  Marlboro asked.

"Celtics are up by five," Adams said, frowning.

"It doesn't look like they're "The Team for the Next Millennium."" 
Marlboro chuckled.  He slid over one stool, next to Adams, and extended
 his hand.

"I'm Stone.  Van Stone," he said.

Adams shook his hand.  Firm grip.

"Adams," he said hesitantly, reluctant to identify himself to this 
outlandish stranger.

"Mighty pleased to meet you, Mr.  Adams," Marlboro said.

"What brings you out alone tonight?  You seem a little down, if you 
don't mind my sayin'."

Adams hesitated, again weighing the risk of revealing much of himself 
against the horror of dwelling on his own nightmarish thoughts.

"I was thinking about my father," Adams said.

"He passed away almost two years ago."

"I'm sorry.  Were you close?"

"Hmmph.  Not really," Adams said.

"Not until he got sick.  Prostate cancer."

"Nasty stuff," Marlboro said.

"My dad died recently, too."

"My condolences," Adams said. "I hope you had a better relationship
with yours."

"He wasn't around much.  I spent some quality time with him before he 
died, though," Marlboro said.  He sipped his beer.

"Tell me about your dad.  What kept you apart?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't know," Adams said.

"My mother was killed in an accident when I was three.  He sort of 
withdrew after that.  Put all his energy into his work."

"What did he do?"

Adams sipped his drink.  It had been a long time since he had trusted 
anyone. But he was enjoying the attention from this attractive young 
man.

"Same thing as me.

He was the publisher of the Herald Times."

Marlboro slapped the counter.

"You're Adams Thompson?"  he said.

"Man, you are one unpopular son of a bitch tonight!  No wonder you're 
drinkin' alone."

Adams lifted his glass in a mock toast.

"Thank you for reminding me, young man."

"Aw, hell, I don't care about any of that shit," Marlboro said.

"I leave politics to the politicians.  So, things between you and your 
old man couldn't have been too hostile if you followed in his 
footsteps."

"I think I took up journalism to impress him," Adams said.

"I finished at the top of my class at the Columbia School of 
Journalism--the goddam Columbia School of Journalism--but that bastard 
wanted to hire me as a copy boy, the same way he started out."

"Did you do it?"

"My pride got the better of me," Adams said. "I took a job as a beat
reporter at the Daily News.  He hired me a  couple of years later after
I made a name for myself."

"Geez-us, will you look at that!"  the scrawny orange-haired student 
said in a piercing, nasal voice.  Adams and Marlboro looked up at the 
television to see the Knicks fall prey to a series of dazzling 
three-point shots by a young Celtics guard that Adams had not noticed 
before.  The Knicks were down by twelve.

"I've got to ask you this," Marlboro said.

"You seem like such a nice guy.  Do you really believe the shit you 
write in those editorials?  I mean, come on, it's been almost fifty 
years since Little Rock."

Adams glanced at the clock on the wall.  Eight-thirty.

"As much as I'd love to debate my politics, I've got an appointment," 
he said.

"Son, it's been a pleasure."

Adams opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty.  The slip of paper 
that his father had given him the night before he died caught his eye. 
It was a list.  He kept it as a frightening reminder of the magnitude 
of what his family had achieved.  These powerful men, his cousins, had 
made their ancestors' unlikely plan work.

"The Heir Apparent.  The Speaker.  The Senator.  The General.  The 
Spy.

The Publisher.  The Doctor.  The Caretaker.  The Assassin."  Adams 
returned the list to his wallet.

"I've enjoyed talkin' to you, too," Marlboro said.

"Are ya lookin' for company tonight?"

Adams looked Marlboro straight in the eyes for a fleeting moment.  A 
rush of thoughts filled his head.  Could he trust this man?  Did he 
have AIDS?  What would George Thompson think about his 46year old son 
cavorting with the Marlboro Man wearing nothing but his cowboy hat?  It
had been a long time since he had been intimate with anybody, but The 
Assassin awaited.

"No thank you, son," Adams replied.  He dropped the twenty on the bar, 
slid off his stool and grabbed his tweed sports coat from the back of 
the chair.  He caught a glimpse of his flabby countenance and balding 
head in the mirror behind the bar and scowled.

"Have a good evening."

Adams walked out into the chilly November air.  He glanced southwards, 
the brightly lit twin towers of the World Trade Center rising in the 
distance above the colorful, low-rise buildings of Greenwich Village, 
then strolled north on MacDougal Street, towards his Fifth Avenue 
apartment just beyond Washington Square.  There was nobody else on the 
street.

Vivid memories flashed through Adams's mind as he marched towards his 
date with The Assassin.  His eyes moistened as he recalled that solemn 
night two years earlier when he had finally gained his father's trust, 
and maybe even his love.

At first Adams had listened in disbelief as the story unfurled that 
evening over a bottle of Scotch whiskey, probably not unlike the 
evening when his ancestors hatched the conspiracy of all conspiracies 
to avenge the murder of their brother 160 years before.  Adams was so 
horrified by the plot that his first impulse was to disclose it to the 
authorities if he could not persuade his father that the scheme was 
insane.

Surely, Adams had argued, reason must have intervened at some point 
during the past 160 years?  But, no, the elder Thompson had convinced 
the younger that, indeed, the family had taken its vengeance like 
clockwork for a century and a half and was prepared to complete its 
mission as the millennium turned.

As he had listened to the tale and felt the passion of his father, 
seven generations removed from the grievous event, it had slowly dawned
on him how this conspiracy had survived.  The hate had been emblazoned
in the hearts of each generation, each father to one son.  Fathers 
share so few passionate moments with their sons.  Until that night, 
Adams had experienced none.  He could understand how such a moment at a
 tender age could shape a lifetime.

Even at his advanced age, Adams had caught some of the spirit of his 
infuriated clansmen from his own father that night.  His yearning for 
George Thompsons love had been so great that it had overcome reason. 
With the eloquence that only a pint of fine Scotch can muster, he had 
sworn his eternal allegiance to The Royal Order of the Millennium 
Knight.  It was a moment that he had come to regret.

As Adams replayed that night in his mind's eye, he did not observe the 
young man who had so eagerly engaged him in conversation emerge from 
Sausolito's.  The man stopped and turned to light a cigarette with his 
back to the wind.  He waited until Adams reached the corner of West 
Third Street, then followed, a half block behind.

The street lamps near the southwest entrance to Washington Square, at 
West Fourth Street, were broken.  Adams shook his head.  In the heart 
of New York University, the Square was once the soul of Greenwich 
Village.  It had been alive at all hours.  Now, at night, the Square 
had become a macabre haven for drug dealers and the homeless.  Barren 
oaks danced in the dim light like monstrous skeletons in a graveyard.

Adams continued north, around the perimeter of the Square, rather than 
risk the shorter walk through it.  His heart pounded.

Adams had fallen into the role of The Publisher almost by happenstance.
His father had never encouraged him to choose a career in journalism. 
George Thompson had always assumed that he would be alive when the 
millennium turned, and he had not seen the need to involve his son. 
But  Adams's contemporaries had been brought into the fold at an early
age.  Miraculously, they had positioned themselves even better than
their  ancestors could have imagined in their wildest, drunken
dreams.

The group had never actually met, but they had assembled under the 
direction of The Caretaker via the Internet.  For the past four years 
The Royal Order had refined their clandestine plot in weekly online 
chat sessions.  All but The Assassin.

The Assassin had proven to be a weak link in the conspiracy.  It had 
never been intended that he join the others; his task was to be 
completed in grim isolation.  But as the details of the conspiracy were
engineered, the role of The Assassin changed, and his participation
had  been required.  Unfortunately, he was a reluctant accomplice.  He
had  joined their Internet meetings only under duress.

Eventually, after three years, he renounced The Royal Order.

The Assassin's punishment was swift.  The Spy, whom Adams had 
identified as a malevolent force among the Knights, had eagerly 
undertaken the execution of The Assassin as his personal project.  The 
murder was made to appear accidental.

There was no investigation.  The

Assassin had been long divorced, and his estranged family had not 
questioned that his death was anything but an alcohol-related mishap. 
All evidence of his involvement with The Royal Order had been erased. 
There were no male heirs who could have assumed The Assassin's role 
upon his death.  The Spy had assured the others that all loose ends had
 been tied.

Until Wednesday, Adams had no reason to doubt The Spy's claims.  After 
the initial shock had subsided, Adams had debated with himself whether 
to tell the other Knights about his contact with The Assassin. 
Concealing information from The Spy was dangerous, but it was worth the
 risk.

Perhaps he was not as dedicated to fulfilling his ancestors' vengeful 
dream because he had learned of the plot later in life than his 
cousins.  For whatever reason, the inspiration that had come to him on 
that fateful night with his father had faded.  He hoped that The 
Assassin might prove an ally who could offer a graceful exit from this 
insanity.

In a few minutes he would have the answer.  If The Assassin was of like
mind, together they would reveal the plot to all the world.  If not,
he  was too cowardly to face his cousins' wrath alone.  The Presidency
of  the United States would fall.  The nation would be plunged into
civil  war.  The grand Final Vengeance for his ancestor's death--the 
vanquishment of the Negro race in America--would become a hideous 
reality.  It was in the hands of the gods.  It was in the hands of this
 man who called himself The Assassin.

Adams strolled alongside Washington Square, lost in thought.  He did 
not see the figure lurking in the shadows of the apartment building on 
the corner of Washington Place, across the street to his left. 
Marlboro, still a half block behind, near the entrance to the Square, 
saw the trenchcoat-clad wraith leap out from the darkness, but it was 
too late to shout a warning.

Adams turned with a start at the sound of rapidly approaching 
footsteps.  He felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized the 
attacker barreling towards him not ten feet away.  He stood paralyzed, 
resigned to his fate.  He closed his eyes a moment before a long, thin 
blade plunged into his belly.

Adams gasped, and his eyes jerked open as the gut-wrenching pain cut 
through him.  He looked into his executioners eyes.  Had the message 
from The Assassin been only a ruse?  The eyes of the devil yielded no 
answers as the knife was yanked upwards into his heart.

The assailant raced away, west on Washington Place, as Adams fell limp 
to the sidewalk.  He felt the warm trickle flowing from his wound.  He 
knew that his would not be the last blood to spill.  There would be 
war.

Then Adams heard more footsteps.  It took a Herculean effort to open 
his eyes. He saw Marlboro hovering over him, but his vision was 
already fading to gray. One last chance.

Adams summoned all of his remaining strength.  Breathing was 
difficult.

"President," he gasped.

"Assassination."

Marlboro knelt by the dying man's side.

"Who?"  he asked urgently.

"Knight," Adams whispered.

"You can't go to sleep on me yet.  Pops," Marlboro said.

"Give me a name."

Adams opened his mouth, but the words would not come.  Then his world 
went blank.

Marlboro cursed, closed Adams's eyes, then looked around.  No other 
witnesses. He carefully reached into Adams's slacks, prying out his 
wallet.  He slipped it into his suede jacket, cautiously scanned the 
scene one more time, then walked briskly away, turning east on 
Washington Square North.

TWO

BEN KRAVNER strolled into the law offices of Kramer, Fox, Levy, Johnson
& Blum in his navy blue jogging suit at the stroke of ten o'clock on 
Monday morning.

His scraggly black hair was moist with sweat.

"Fritz wants to see you," Carol, Ben's secretary, said without looking 
up from her breakfast.

"What does he want?"  Ben asked mockingly, as if, of course, Fritz Fox,
the Grand Old Man of the firm, would have confided this to Carol.  He 
and Harry Kramer formed the firm in the 1930s.  Kramer died more than 
twenty years ago, but Fritz was still going strong.  He was no longer 
the captain of the ship, that job now belonged to Leo Goldman, the head
of the Corporate Department, but Fritz still maintained his stable of 
rich Trusts & Estates clients.

"He probably wants you to carry his briefcase to a client meeting," 
Carol wisecracked.

"Ouch."  Ben winced, clasped his hands over his heart, and recoiled his
 sturdy six-foot frame, as if mortally wounded.

"The truth hurts.  I need a shower.  Tell Agnes I'll be up to see Fritz
 in a few minutes."

Fifteen minutes later, Ben bounded up the internal stairwell, his long,
wet hair parted on the left and combed back behind his ears.  Kramer, 
Fox, as the firm was known in the trade, leased four floors at One 
Water Street, a 56-floor office tower at the foot of Manhattan.  The 
Trusts & Estates Department was located on the 28th floor, but Ben's 
office would remain on the 25th floor until he accepted a permanent 
assignment.

Fritz was sitting with his back to the doorway, his feet resting on a 
credenza, enjoying his panoramic view of New York Harbor.  Ben adjusted
a brightly colored tie that would have made Picasso proud, then
knocked  on the open door.

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Fritz chortled.  With
his thick Yiddish accent, it sounded like: "Veil, veil, veil."  His 
voice was weak; he looked pale.

"So, how is our Marathon Man?"

"Mornin', Mr.  Fox," Ben said cheerfully.

"Six and a half miles in forty minutes today." "This is good, this is
very good," Fritz said, his nearly bald head  bobbing knowingly.  A few
stray tufts of white hair flew off in the  direction the wind happened
to be blowing that morning.

"Now, your hair, if we could get you to cut it, we would make a mensch 
out of you yet."

Ben flashed his trademark crooked grin.

"Every six months, whether it needs a trim or not."

Fritz chuckled, as he searched among the stacks of paper piled high on 
his mahogany desk for an item that eluded his shaky hands.  Finally, he
 found a copy of the Herald.  Times and tossed it across the desk.

"You have seen Saturday's newspaper?"  he asked.

A glaring banner headline screamed of Adams Thompson's demise.

"I saw the headlines on the newsstand when I was running this weekend,"
Ben said, as he sat in one of the two Queen Anne chairs opposite 
Fritz's desk.

"Is Thompson your client?"

"The firm represents the Herald Times in corporate and litigation 
matters," Fritz said.

"I handled George Thompson's personal matters until he died two years 
ago. Young Adams, he seemed to view me as pan of his inheritance."

Ben tugged gently at his neatly trimmed, black mustache.  He had been 
lobbying Fritz for weeks to let him handle an estate on his own.  This 
one would surely raise his standing within the firm.  Ever since he had
rotated into the Trusts & Estates Department eight months ago, he had 
toiled in relative anonymity, drafting wills and trusts, while his 
colleagues in the Corporate and Litigation Departments worked on high 
profile mergers and acquisitions, the firm's bread and butter.  He was 
falling behind in the game.

"Is Thompson's estate complex?"  Ben asked.

"A will, a charitable trust.  Interesting, maybe, complex, no," Fritz 
said, staring directly at Ben with his piercing blue eyes.  His large 
aquiline nose gave him a proud, eagle-like appearance.

"This is an important estate, though.  I will be taking the lead."

Ben's jaw dropped.  Fritz had read his mind.  At ninety, he had not
lost even a step mentally.

"I've been watching you for eight months now, Mr.  Fox.  I'm ready to 
do one on my own."

"Soon enough, Mr.  Ben, soon enough," Fritz said.

"You are still--" He was interrupted by a brief coughing fit.

"Excuse me.  You are still on rotation.  Most of the work, you will do.
 The clients, I'll make sure they see your face."

"You convinced me that I'd learn more lawyer skills here than in 
Corporate," Ben said.

"I'm still doing research and drafting."

"Patience, Mr.  Ben, patience," Fritz said.

"Your friends, they are not getting the training you get from me.  You 
want to revise merger agreements and review contracts, you can join the
 Corporate Department with my blessings.  So be it."

Ben knew Fritz was right.  His experience in the Corporate Department 
had been a disaster.  Six months wasted reviewing contracts for a 
merger that was scuttled at the eleventh hour.  No useful skills 
learned.

"I know, I know," Ben said impatiently.

"But I want to be a lawyer, not a bag carrier."

"Soon enough," Fritz said.

"But--" "When?"  Ben interrupted.  An estate like this would not come 
around again any time soon.

"What do I need to do to let you know I'm ready?"

Fritz straightened himself in his chair, then leaned forward.

"Look, Ben, the tools, you have them all.  But the edges, they are 
still a little rough," Fritz said evenly.  He coughed, again.

"My job is to round off those edges before I send you out to meet 
clients."

Ben blushed.  Until now, he had not heard any criticism from the Old 
Man. "What do you mean?"  he asked defensively.

"You told me I was doing well."

"You soak up the law like a sponge.  Like a sponge!"  Fritz said.

"And your drafting, flawless."

"Then what?"

Fritz stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger as he contemplated
 his next words.

"An example, maybe it will help," he said.

"Clyde von Oster, you drew up those trust agreements for him last week.
 Rush job.  Very complex.  Excellent work."

"Yeah.  And then the bastard left us sitting in his office for an hour 
while he took a personal call."

"Exactly!  This is my point, you've proven it," Fritz said.

Ben frowned.

"How?"

"Attitude.  Von Oster, yes, he was rude.  But he is the client," Fritz 
said.

"Your face betrayed your anger."

"So?  Our time is valuable, too," Ben said.

"You're an important man, and he was flaunting his power over you."

"We are in a service business, young Ben," Fritz said.

"We save this indignation for the courtroom."

"Von Osier--" Fritz cut him off.

"There are many von Osters on our client list.  Your temper, control 
it.  Always strive to appear unruffled no matter how rude the client, 
no matter how big the ego."

Fritz Fox was the last of a dying breed, the gentleman lawyer.  It had 
been that quality that attracted Ben to him.  Ben had tired quickly of 
the child-like fits of the spoiled, young partners in the Corporate 
Department.  The law was all business to them.  Clients were bank
accounts to be sucked dry.  Associates were workhorses to be worn to 
the point of exhaustion, then sent to pasture.  Ben did not care for 
these people.  He feared becoming one of them.  He wanted to be like 
Fritz Fox.

"Okay, Mr.  Fox," Ben said.  He forced a smile.

"You win.  I'm ready for the next lesson."

"Good!"  Fritz said.

"Then shall we piece together the puzzle that was Adams George 
Thompson, Jr.?"

Ben took a pen out of his shirt pocket and opened his notebook.  In 
stark contrast to corporate law, T&E practice was about people.  You 
were admitted to the inner sanctum of your clients' lives.  You saw 
their achievements and their failures, their happiness and their pain, 
their pride and their prejudice.  They were forced to share their 
existence without inhibition.  Fritz Fox had drawn Ben to T&E practice;
it was Ben's voyeuristic tendency that kept him there for a second 
rotation.  He was curious about what went on in people's minds.  A
complete picture of the client slowly emerged as the executor uncovered
 the pieces of his life one by one.

"Did Thompson have a large family?"  Ben asked.

"No living relatives," Fritz said.

"Specific monetary bequests to various charities, a few former 
servants, none more than $10,000.  The balance, it all goes to the 
charitable trust for Calhoun College, a small universLy near 
Atlanta."

"What was his connection to Calhoun?"  Ben asked.  Fritz shrugged.

"One of the puzzle pieces, I suppose," he said.

"Is there someone I should call?"  Ben asked.

"Tompkins James Frederick, Jr.," Fritz said, reading from a legal 
pad.

"He is the clean.  Tomorrow, we'll call him together.  This morning, 
I'm feeling a little under the weather."

"What should I do to get up to speed?"  Ben asked.

"Debby will--" Fritz closed his eyes and grimaced. "Oy vey."

"Are you okay, Mr.  Fox?"  Ben asked.

"Do you need a drink of water?"

"No, no.  I just need to rest," he said.  He paused to catch his 
breath.

"Debby, she will show you all the files you need and do all the things 
that paralegals do."

Fritz shifted his weight in his chair.  He looked uncomfortable.

"Tomorrow, I will be in if you have any questions," he said.

Ben saluted the elderly lawyer fondly and took his leave.  He slid down
the hall to the paralegal's office, stopping briefly to ask Fritz's 
secretary, Agnes, an elderly woman who had been with Fritz for about 
forty years, to keep an eye on the Old Man.

Debby's office was a glorified cubicle, really, enhanced only by a faux
leather chair and a rectangular marker with brass letters spelling out
"Deborah Colleen Barnett" pinned on the outside wall near the
entrance.  Ben figured Debby was about his age, 26, give or take a
year.  She had  only joined the firm this past summer, but he found her
to be pleasant  looking, with a ready smile, long, frizzy, brown hair
and a quiet  confidence that had made her the present object of his
infatuation.

"Hey, Debby C.," Ben said as he fake knocked on an invisible door. 
Debby was sitting at her desk reviewing a will.

"Hi, Ben," she responded in a neutral tone.

"What can I do for you?"

"Fritz wants me to help him with the Thompson estate.  Can you show me 
the files?"

"Sure.  That's a pretty big estate.  Are you handling it on your own?" 
she asked, now sounding slightly impressed.

"Yeah," Ben replied.

"Mostly."  That's it, dazzle her with your brilliance.

"Cool.  Let me pull some things together from the file room and the 
vault, and I'll get you a package in an hour or two."

"Thanks, Debby." "Sure thing," she said, smiling.

/ wish, Ben thought to himself as he exited her workspace.  It had been
too long since he had been with a woman.  Four months.  He envisioned 
Debby's petite body snuggled next to his for a fleeting moment, then 
wondered how much time was spent at this firm and law firms all across 
the land thinking about sex instead of matters legal.  And how much of 
that time was billed to clients.  Way too much on both counts, he 
concluded.

"Help!"  A woman's scream jolted Ben from his daydream.  It was Agnes. 
Ben raced down the hallway.

Agnes was kneeling over Fritz's body beside his desk.  She looked up, 
her eyes wide, the color drained from her face.

"He's not breathing," she said.

"Call 9 II!"  Ben shouted.

Agnes scrambled to the telephone.  Ben checked Fritz's pulse.  Nothing.
No respiration.  Shit!  Ben's heart pounded.  He was trained in CPR, 
but he had never been called upon to administer it.  A small crowd was 
gathering inside the office, pressing forward for a glimpse of their 
fallen leader.  Ben scanned their eyes.  Panic everywhere.

"Everybody stand back!"  Ben shouted.  There was no time to wait for 
the paramedics.  He knelt beside his dying friend and mentor.  He 
loosened Fritz's bow tie and shirt collar, then tilted his head back to
 clear the airways.

Ben placed his mouth over Fritz's blue lips, then breathed five slow 
breaths.

Then he clasped his hands above Fritz's heart, locked his elbows and 
pressed down slowly, repeating for fifteen compressions, about one per 
second, then two more breaths.  Still no pulse.

"Dammit, Fritz, breathe!"  he said.

Ben repeated the procedure.  He started to compress his chest.  Fritz 
belched up a mouthful of bile.  No pulse.  Ben cleared Fritz's mouth of
the foul-smelling fluid.  He took in a deep breath, then breathed the 
life-preserving air into Fritz's lungs.  Ben gagged from the odor of 
Fritz's vomit, but continued.

Ben repeated the procedure, again.  Nothing.  He felt hope slipping 
away.  He looked behind him.  A dozen lawyers and staff looked on in 
horror.  One more time. Ben said a silent prayer to a God in whom he
did not believe.

"C'mon, Fritz," he said softly.  It's not your time.  Old Man.  He 
began to compress the frail lawyer's chest.  One... two... three... 
four... five... six... "I've got a pulse!"  Ben shouted.

Murmurs of relief filled the room.  But Fritz still was not breathing. 
Ben continued to provide mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until the 
paramedics rushed in three minutes later.  Ben sat with his back 
against the paneled wall, watching the paramedics work.  They 
administered oxygen on the scene, then strapped Fritz to a stretcher 
and wheeled him out.

Ben was in a daze.  He saw and heard the people around him, but it was 
as if they were actors in a play that he was watching from afar. 
Someone slapped him on the shoulder.

"You did your best," another said.  It was all a blur.  He did not know
 whether Fritz was dead or alive.  He fought back tears.

Ben hid in the men's room for awhile, rinsing out the acidic aftertaste
of Fritz Fox's digestive tract.  He looked in the mirror.  His shirt 
was untucked on one side.  His Picasso tie was askew.  His mop of black
 hair was tossed about wildly.

He straightened himself out a little, but he could not bring himself to
 care about anything so trivial as his appearance.

Ben wandered aimlessly through the halls in this semi-catatonic state 
until he found himself outside the closed door of his friend, Buzz 
Herzog, a second-year associate in the Corporate Department.  He 
knocked.

"Enter!"

A thick-necked, soft-bellied young man with a crew cut was busily 
marking up a large document with a red pen.  He did not look up.

"Hey, Buzz," Ben said.

"Got a minute?"

"Tender offer, big guy.  No time," Buzz said, his head still lowered. 
Buzz was not a risk-taker, and he was determined to make partner at 
Kramer, Fox.  He figured the only sure-fire way to fulfill that 
ambition--only one out of fifteen new associates made partner--was to 
make the existing partners at Kramer, Fox rich.  He billed more hours 
than any other associate--over three thousand in his first year.  He 
achieved that dubious distinction by making Kramer, Fox his home and by
billing almost every minute he was there to clients' accounts.  He
even  took work with him to the men's room.

"I need to talk.  Buzz," Ben pleaded.

"Fritz had a heart attack."

Buzz looked up.

"Serious?"  he asked.

Ben nodded.

"Yeah.  I feel like shit."

"You look like shit, big guy," Buzz said.

"Is the Old Man dead?"

"I don't know," Ben said.

"I'm in a daze, man.  I was talking to him one minute, then five 
minutes later I'm pumping his chest and giving him mouth-to-mouth.  The
 paramedics took him away."

'"What happens to you if he croaks?"  Buzz asked.

Ben was stunned.  Did corporate lawyers even have hearts?

"Geez, I don't know," Ben said.

"He's been like a grandfather to me.  I haven't thought about how it 
affects my career."

"Think about it, big guy," Buzz said.

"The only reason Leo tolerates the T&E Department is out of respect for
the Old Man.  It's not a money-maker.  If he's dead, you may have 
wasted the last eight months."

Ben closed his eyes.  Was it only eight months he had wasted?  It was 
not even five years since he had entered Harvard Law School with grand 
ideas and a naive dream of changing the world.  He had cared about 
people and the issues that affected their daily lives.  Now, he was 
drowning in a heartless money pit, pursuing an intense desire to win a 
game he cared little about.  Fritz Fox had somehow made the place feel 
human.  Now he might be gone.

"Do you see yourself doing this your whole life?"  Ben asked. "This is
what I do," Buzz said.

"You're not gonna get all sentimental on me now, are you?"

"I dunno," Ben said.  This is what I do.  An hour ago he had been 
focused on taking his career to the next level, desperately trying to 
wrangle another chip in the game from Fritz Fox.  What would happen if 
he won, made partner, and discovered that his life was an empty 
shell?

"I mean, does all this make you happy?"

Buzz scrunched his face.

"Happy?"  he said.

"Ask me again in six years.  If I'm alive, still married, and a partner
here, I'll be happy.  Maybe even two out of three.  Right now I'm 
paying my dues. Nobody really gives a shit if I'm happy."

Buzz allowed Ben to vent his sorrows for another minute, then ejected 
him before another six-minute billing interval was lost.  Ben returned 
to his office.

"Ben!"  Carol said.

"I heard about Fritz.  Is he okay?"

Ben shrugged.

"I don't know," he said.

"The paramedics took him away about an hour ago."

'"Well, Leo wants to see you in his office right away," Carol said.

"Maybe he has news."

Ben's heart sank.  Leo Goldman did not appear to be wasting any time in
disbanding the Trusts & Estates Department.  Fritz was dead.

The door to Leo Goldman's office was closed.  Ben timidly approached 
Leo's secretary, a pretty Latin woman with a round face.  Leo made Ben 
anxious.  He made everybody anxious.  He was one of the foremost 
experts on hostile takeover defenses in the industry, cleared five 
million dollars a year and ran Kramer, Fox like his personal fiefdom.

"I'm Ben Kravner.  Mr.  Goldman left a message for me to see him."

"He's expecting you, Mr.  Kravner," the secretary said. "Go right
in."

Ben knocked and entered.  Leo was sitting on a sofa, his six-foot, 
five-inch frame stretched out in front of him.  Myra Rosenberg, a dumpy
young partner in the Corporate Department, looked unhappy sitting
caddy  corner from Leo on the couch.

"Ben!"  Leo boomed.

"We just got good news.  Fritz Fox is going to make it."

Ben felt his body relax some, but his heart still pounded in the 
presence of the great man himself.

"That's terrific news," Ben said.

"He had me worried for a few minutes."

"He's a tough old bird," Leo said.

"An asset to the firm."

"He's been a great teacher," Ben said.

"That's good, that's good," Leo said.

"Because Fritz is the Trusts & Estates Department.  He's going to be
out-of-pocket for a few weeks, and we're going to need you to take on 
some extra responsibility.  The other associates in the department are 
all part-timers, and, frankly, they're going nowhere."

"I can do that," Ben said eagerly.  He felt guilty that his 
breakthrough was coming at Fritz's expense, but the prospect began to 
lift him out of his post-trauma funk.

"Anything for Fritz."

"Excellent," Leo said.

"Myra will be the partner in charge of the T&E group in Fritz's 
absence.  She'll handle assignments and will run client meetings. 
Bring  her up to speed on the issues in all pending matters.  We need
to  convince the clients that Kramer, Fox is still providing top notch 
legal service.  It'll mean extra work for you, but I think you can 
handle it."

Myra rolled her eyes.  Ben grimaced.  Myra Rosenberg had a reputation 
among the young associates as a first class bitch.  She had made 
partner by working Buzz Herzog-like hours, then began delegating and
leaving the office at six o'clock every night after she grabbed the 
prize.  That did not seem to discourage her from claiming credit for 
her team's hard work.

Ben trudged dejectedly towards the stairwell after the meeting. 
Despite  Leo's words, the arrangement with Myra sounded like more work,
but less responsibility.  Myra probably would not even let him near a
client.  Thankfully, it was only a temporary arrangement.  The
important thing  was that Fritz was alive.

"Hang on, Ben."  It was Myra.

"My office.  Now."

Ben followed.  Her office was only two doors down the hall.  Here it 
comes.

Myra closed the door.  She clenched her teeth.

"I don't know what the fuck Leo thinks he's doing," she said in a 
screaming whisper.

"But I can't handle a tender offer and baby-sit you at the same 
time."

"B-but--" She stomped behind her desk.

"You're on your own," she said.

"Call me if you have an emergency."

"Do you want me to call you for client meetings?"  Ben asked, 
wide-eyed.

"On.  Your.  Own," she said.

"What part didn't you understand?  You can waste your life in T&E, but 
there's no money and no glory.  Just don't fuck anything up."

Debby hustled down to the 25th floor within moments after Ben called. 
A  large red folder was tucked under her arm.  She gave his small,
spare  office the once over.

"Nice digs," she said, her frizzy hair bobbing slightly out of synch 
with her head.

Ben found her smile infectious despite his fragile mood.

"If you like early-American prison," he said.

The furnishings, a contemporary wooden desk and matching credenza, were
a notch or two below first rate.  Sundry folders and books were 
scattered across the credenza.  His desktop was a sea of paper.  The 
walls were bare.  Ben's framed diplomas leaned against the base of the 
back wall waiting to be hung.

Ben motioned for Debby to sit in one of two matching green upholstered 
chairs opposite his desk.  He caught a whiff of her perfume floating 
across the room.

Stick to business.

"You were great up there," Debby said.  Ben sensed a new respect in her
 voice.

"You saved Fritz's life."

"I was running on instinct," Ben said sheepishly.

"I don't even remember most of what happened."  He hesitated, 
subconsciously tugging on his mustache.

"Listen, Leo put Myra Rosenberg in charge of T&E while Fritz is out, 
but she doesn't want anything to do with us.  She said I'm on my 
own."

"Wow," Debby said.

"Can you handle that?"

"Well, you know most of the administrative rules and procedures," Ben 
said.

"And I've been watching Fritz.  We should be able to bluff our way 
through an estate or two before the Old Man gets back."

"Cool.  I'm game," Debby said.  She handed him the thick red folder. 
There were several manila sub folders inside.

"Here's the file I promised you.  I rushed to finish when you called, 
but the documents should be in order.  The will and charitable trust 
are in the first sub folder Then general correspondence, personal 
documents, old drafts and that fat one at the end is full of memos from
 the tax lawyers."

"Gotta love those tax lawyers," Ben said.

She smiled.

"They do tend to get long-winded," she said.

"So, what else can I do to help?"

Ben glanced down at the list he had quickly scribbled.  At the moment, 
it was short.  That would change after he had some time to think.

"There's no next-of-kin.  Can you handle funeral arrangements?"  Ben 
asked.

"The Herald Times called Mr.  Fox this morning and said they'd arrange 
a memorial service," Debby said.

"Thompson left instructions for his body to be cremated."

"Okay.  Maybe call the crematorium, then, and find out what we need to 
do," Ben said.

"Sure thing," Debby said.

"I'll check in with the police and Calhoun College to introduce 
myself," Ben said.

"We should both review the will and the charitable trust, then we can 
work up a plan to marshal the estate's assets."

"Thompson had a safe deposit box at Chase," Debby said.

"I'll file the paperwork to get you access."

"Great," Ben said, then paused reflectively.  Fritz Fox had been Ben's 
safety net.  They only spent a small part of each day together, if any,
but just knowing that Fritz was there gave him a confidence that he 
suddenly felt lacking.  He wanted Debby to stay a bit longer to help 
fill the void, but truth be told, the practice of law was a solitary 
sport.

Before long had passed, Ben said: "That should keep us busy for a day 
or two while I get my bearings.  Can you think of anything else that 
needs to be done right away?"

"Nope.  You seem to be on top of things," Debby said, as she stood to 
leave.

"But I'm here to help.  Let me know if you need anything."

Ben called the Sixth Precinct in Greenwich Village first.  Detective 
Johnson, the officer assigned to the Thompson case, informed Ben that 
there were no leads.

Arrangements were made to pick up Thompson's personal effects.  His 
wallet was still missing.

Ben was not familiar with Calhoun College.  A quick Internet search on 
his desktop computer revealed that it was a small, private university 
just outside of Atlanta.  The school's web site provided Dean 
Frederick's telephone number.

"Buddy Frederick," a man's voice answered after the first ring.

The nickname caught Ben off guard.

"Um.-Dean Frederick?"  he asked.

"Yes.  Who's this?"

"This is Ben Kravner.  I'm a lawyer with Kramer, Fox in New York. 
We're administering an estate that has named Calhoun College as its
primary beneficiary.  I was wondering if I could make an appointment to
speak  with you about it."

Dean Fredericks drawl became more pronounced as he spoke at length.

"Of course," he said.

"We've been trying to develop our estate giving program without much 
success, I'm afraid.  Was it one of our alumni?"

"No, the donor is Adams Thompson, the publisher of the New York Herald 
Times," Ben said.

"He was killed on Friday night."

Dean Frederick paused momentarily.

"Adams was a close friend," he said.

"I read about his passing in the local paper and was deeply 
saddened."

"I'm sorry," Ben said.

"What was his connection to Calhoun College?"

"Nothing really," the Dean replied.

"I'm surprised.  We shared a love of history and the north Georgia 
mountains.  He spoke to me about donating some historical documents he 
had collected and some personal essays, but we hadn't talked about 
money."

"It'll take some time before the College actually sees the money," Ben 
said.

"But I need to visit Atlanta to examine Mr.  Thompson's vacation home, 
and I'd like to go over the details of the estate administration with 
you on the same trip.  Do you have any time available next week?"

After they agreed on an appointment for the following Monday, Ben swung
his chair toward the window behind his desk.  He looked out over the 
grays and browns of Brooklyn.

His world had changed today.

The man he most admired and respected had almost left his life and a 
ghost he knew nothing about had entered it.  He reflected on the 
puzzles that were Fritz Fox and Adams Thompson.  Both men were driven 
by a passion that had lifted them to the top of their professions.  Bur
Fritz Fox was much beloved--by family, friends, colleagues and 
clients;

at first blush, Thompson appeared to be one of the most hated men in 
New York, his life an empty shell.

Ben hoped that this life, so abruptly ended, would take shape as he 
reviewed every aspect of its existence.  He might be the only person on
 the planet to ever really know Adams George Thompson, Jr.

But, for Ben, there was more to this odyssey than plumbing the depths 
of Thompson's soul.  There was an element of self-discovery.  Ben 
believed that he was motivated by the same passion that had driven 
Fritz Fox to greatness and Adams Thompson to notoriety.  It was time to
piece together the puzzle that was Benjamin Franklin Kravner.  It was 
time to be great.

THREE

THE NEWSROOM at the Herald Times was still a somber place on Tuesday 
afternoon.

Christy Kirk sat slumped at her workstation, one of fifty identical 
plain metal desks that lined the newsroom like an oversized classroom, 
sad about the loss of her mentor, resentful that she was alone in her 
knowledge of their special relationship.

Almost alone.  She peered across the sea of desks and computers to the 
City Editor's office.  Roger knew, and he was fuming.  As the City 
Editor, Roger Martin expected reporters assigned to the City Desk to 
report to him and only to him.

As Christy's lover, he expected an even higher degree of loyalty.  He 
claimed that he wanted to be the experienced hand that guided her 
career, but Christy thought it more likely that he envied her special 
access to Thompson.

The issue would have been mooted by Thompson's death, except that Roger
was in a snit about the story she had wrangled from Thompson on
Friday,  and he had been avoiding her all weekend.  Roger professed to
be upset  because he was losing a reporter off the City Desk for
several weeks.  But Christy knew it was more than that.  She had
flaunted her  relationship with Thompson to nail a story she did not
deserve.  The  story belonged to a more senior reporter.  Roger thought
the story  belonged to him.

Christy caught Roger's eye through the glass window in his office that 
allowed him to look out over the newsroom.  She waved.  He gestured 
solemnly for her to join him.  She sighed.  Maybe this was the big 
breakup.

Christy entered Roger's office without knocking, closing the door 
behind her.

Roger was editing a piece, his shirtsleeves rolled up around the 
elbows, his tie loosened around his neck.  He was a handsome man--tall,
wavy brown hair, full beard masking a freckled face, and, at 35, ten 
years older than Christy.

Roger put down his pencil.

"Sit," he said sternly.

The snit continued.

"I know you're ticked off," Christy said, flopping into an armchair.

"But let's talk about it over a drink after work, not here."

He rolled his eyeballs.  It was an annoying habit.  Christy suspected 
that it was not a conscious act, but the contempt it revealed, whether 
directed at her or womankind generally, infuriated her.

"This is about work," he said.

"I'm taking you off the race story."

"I'll drop it right now if you tell me you'll write it yourself," 
Christy said.

"Look, I showed you my clippings file because I wanted to share my 
ideas with you," Roger said.

"I'll bet you were scheming to pitch the story to Thompson yourself the
 whole time."

"I knew that you'd never go back to reporting," Christy said.

"And that story has to be written now.  There are a zillion small 
organizations arming themselves."

"So why not come to me and ask for the file?"  Roger asked.

"Why sneak around behind my back?"

"Because you're a thinker, not a doer," she said.

"You'd think and think and think until somebody else grabbed the glory.
 I kinda hoped that you'd be happy that I took the initiative."

"Oh, bullshit.  You'll say anything to get what you want," he said 
angrily.

"Enough talk.  Thompsons dead.  So is the story."

"You can't do that.  It's not a City Desk assignment.  Only the new 
publisher can kill it."

"You're still assigned to the City Desk," Roger said.  Then his 
expression changed, as if he suddenly realized the hopelessness of 
trying to overpower her.

His voice softened.

"It's too dangerous.  I don't want you to do it."

She glared at him.

"Now who's full of B.S.?"  she asked.

"You thought of the idea, and you want to coddle it.  Dare to do it or 
get off my back."

"Thompson was probably killed over that editorial," Roger said.

"What kind of reaction do you think you'll get when you show up at 
NOMAAD headquarters with a Herald Times press card?  It's too risky.  I
 care--"

Christy stood abruptly.

"Dammit, you just don't get it!"  she said.

"No great story is without risk.  This is the story of the year--maybe 
of the century--and I'm going to write it, either for the Herald Times 
or for some other rag.  Unless I get a pink slip in the mail, I'll 
assume I'm still on the job."

Roger sputtered a response, but Christy was already out the door.  She 
stopped at her desk only to collect her purse, then made a beeline for 
Roger's apartment.

She had lied to Adams Thompson.  She had no contacts, no research--only
 the items in Roger's folder.  Her folder.

Christy left the key to Rogers apartment on his kitchen table.  She did
 not leave a note.

FOUR

IT WAS A RISKY APPROACH, but one that had produced surprisingly good 
results in recent weeks.  He decided to take the plunge.

"Strip for me," Master Ben commanded.

Betsy paused for a moment before responding.

"That sounds like an interesting proposition, darling'," she teased, 
with a hint of a Southern accent.

"Play a sexy song on the stereo."

"I'll put on something by Clapton.  How 'bout Layla?"  he asked.

"Perfect."  Betsy began to sway from side to side, in time to the 
music, giving Ben her sexiest look.  She was a goddess--tall and 
slender, with long, blonde hair and blue eyes.  He tensed with 
anticipation.

Betsy ran her hands down her silky, white blouse, then along her short,
black skirt.  She began to undress slowly, her hips swinging in time
to  the music, in a routine of strutting and preening that had
doubtlessly  entertained many men before Ben.

"Click."  Ben felt the blood rush to points south as Betsy unclasped 
her bra, and it fell to the floor.  She turned her back to him, raised 
herself up on her toes, arched her back, and slid her white lace 
panties over her hips.

"I can feel you leaning forward to get that first glimpse of my 
backside, darling," she said, smiling.  Ben had a raging hard-on. 
Betsy gave Ben a sexy look, lowered herself to her hands and knees, and
 cooed softly: "Do what you want to me."

The shrill ring of the telephone almost knocked Ben off his chair. 
Damn!  What incredible timing.  He debated with himself whether to 
answer it.  He glanced longingly at the computer screen before him, 
knowing Betsy sat poised at the keyboard in front of her computer in a
dormitory at the University of Texas two thousand miles away waiting 
for his response to her seductive wordplay.  He quickly typed in "brb,"
the universal code of on-line computer service users for "be right 
back."

Ben picked up the telephone on his kitchen wall.

"Hello," he said.

"Ben?  Fritz Fox here."

Ben's eyes widened.  He went limp.

"Mr.  Fox!"  he said.

"How are you?  They told me not to call."

"Thanks to you, much better," Fritz said.  He sounded weak.

"Agnes, she told me that you saved my life.  For this I am very 
grateful."

"It was all instinct," Ben said.

"I'm just glad I was there."

"Well, if you need my help--" His voice trailed off.

"Oy, I'm getting dizzy."

"Mr.  Fox?  Mr.  Fox?"

"Hello?"  It was a woman's voice.

"I was talking to Mr.  Fox.  Is he okay?"  Ben asked.

"He's fine," the woman said.

"Just tired.  Is there a message I can write down for him?  I'm his 
private nurse."

"No.  No, that's fine," Ben said.

"When is he expected to go home?"

"He'll spend another week in the hospital, then a few weeks at home 
before we let him think about returning to the office."

"Just tell him Ben said that everything is under control at work." Ben
hung up the telephone, then returned to the computer.

"You bastard..."  was Betsys parting message on the screen.  He tried 
to send her a message, but she had already signed off the service.

Ben frowned.  It was getting late, nine-twenty.  Time flew by when he 
was playing on RealTime, a live chat feature of the CyberLine computer 
service.  Countless on-line encounters had taught him that it would 
take hours to romance another balky young cyber-maiden out other 
britches.

Few women leaped at the opportunity to reveal their bodies and their 
minds even behind the cloak of anonymity provided by the computer 
perhaps thousands of miles from the man trying to use them for his own 
stimulation.  They wanted to feel beautiful, to be seduced with 
chivalry, wit and romance.  They wanted their fantasies.  And if a guy 
provided them with Mel Gibson, Richard Gere and Robin Williams rolled 
into one super-Cyberman, the psychic panties dropped and the sex could 
be without inhibition, raw and passionate.  Ben had learned that sex
was in large part in the mind.

Converting that knowledge into finding a living, breathing 
girlfriend--never mind true love--was a different story.  The problem 
was not a lack of desire. The crushing schedule of an associate at a 
New York City mergers and acquisitions firm simply left him with little
time or energy for such pursuits. Unlike many of the other young 
associates at Kramer, Fox, he did not have the good fortune, or 
foresight, to get married before signing on.

His mother constantly reminded him that there was no shortage of 
available women lawyers at Kramer, Fox, and it did not escape Barbara 
Kravner's eye that most of them were Jewish.  But religion was not 
important to Ben; warmth, humor, and trust were.  Pushiness seemed to 
be a quality required for a woman to succeed in the aggressive world of
mergers and acquisitions; Ben did not find it desirable in a 
girlfriend.  Debby Barnett was an intriguing possibility, but he was 
still working up the courage to ask her out.  Soon.

Ben wistfully logged off CyberLine and powered down the computer.  He 
had opened Adams Thompson's safe deposit box that afternoon, and its 
contents were now spread across a coffee table in the living room of 
his Upper East Side apartment.

Ben wanted to know, roughly, the size of Thompson's estate before he 
met with Buddy Frederick on Monday, and he had already fallen behind 
schedule.  Most of Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoon had been 
spent responding to what Fritz Fox's wealthy clients thought were 
routine questions.  To Ben's dismay, he had discovered that what was 
routine to Fritz Fox was not routine to Ben Kravner.  It was only after
he had found himself researching the simplest questions that Ben
appreciated the enormity of the legal knowledge stored in Fritz Fox's
ninety-year-old mind.

Ben plopped his lean runners body onto the couch, his muscles rippling 
beneath a gray T-shirt and blue gym shorts.  He set an open beer bottle
on the naked hardwood floor, then surveyed the material on the coffee 
table with little enthusiasm.

The contents of the safe deposit box appeared uninspiring at first 
glance. There were deeds to Thompsons condominium apartment on Fifth 
Avenue and his vacation home in Ellijay, Georgia, title to his 
Mercedes, and a collection of stamps, presumably rare.  A large red 
accordion-style folder labeled "Personal Documents" raised Ben's hopes,
 but there were no exotic pictures, diaries or amendments to

Thompson's will, a "codicil" in the parlance of the Trust and Estates 
lawyer.

For a man who had lived alone for twenty-five years, Thompson appeared 
to have surprisingly few secrets.

Ben sprawled out on the couch and began to read the random collection 
of bad poetry and tedious essays that filled the folder.  He logged 
each item on a yellow legal pad.

It became apparent to Ben that Thompson had harbored secret passions 
that he could not reveal through his journalistic writing at the Herald
Times.  The poetry was unremarkable, inspired more by places and
things  than by people and experiences.  But there were several
liberal,  possibly even radical, essays that were inconsistent with the
hard-driving conservative editorials that Thompson approved or wrote
in  his role at the Herald Times.

Ben guzzled the last of his beer and returned the papers to the 
"Personal Documents" folder.  Just as he was about to close up the 
folder for the night, Ben noticed a compartment that was sealed shut, 
almost imperceptibly, with clear cellophane tape.  His heart rate 
quickened as he pried it open.

The compartment held a single manila envelope.  It was marked 
"PERSONAL--DO NOT OPEN (DELIVER TO FRITZ FOX, TRUSTEE)" in black ink, 
and there was a wax seal over the flap.

Ben's mind reeled as his legal training dueled his curiosity.  As the 
executor of the estate, he had the legal right to review all of 
Thompson's property.  He had the responsibility to marshal the estate's
assets and collect all relevant papers that might effect the 
administration of the estate.  The envelope could contain legal 
documents that might supersede the current will and trust on file at 
Kramer, Fox. But the envelope requested delivery to Fritz Fox,
Trustee.  Ben was  empowered to act on Fritzs behalf, but he wondered
if Thompson had left  special instructions with Fritz for dealing with
the envelope.  Maybe  he had intended that only his beneficiaries view
the contents.  But Ben  did not recall seeing any such instructions in
the trust agreement.

Ben pulled the Thompson file from his briefcase.  He re-read the 
charitable trust, but it said nothing about the envelope or any other 
specific items of property.  But why had Thompson addressed it to Fritz
 as trustee instead of as executor?  Maybe there was another trust.

Ben rummaged through the folder Debby had prepared.  Only the will and 
the Calhoun College charitable trust were in the first sub folder There
were no prior versions of any other trust documents included with the 
old drafts, either.

The envelope taunted him.  Unless there was a specific restriction in 
the trust agreement, he was permitted, maybe even required, to open it.
But he still had doubts.  He thought about Fritz Fox.  As much as he 
wanted to be independent, he once again realized how much he leaned 
upon the Old Man.

Ben dialed Buzz Herzog's number at the office.  Buzz picked up the 
phone on the first ring, cheerfully announcing himself with his 
signature "This is Buzz," tacitly proclaiming to all the world that, 
"Yes, it's ten o'clock at night, but of course I'm still working."

"Buzzman!"  Ben greeted his comrade.

"This is Ben Kravner."

"Ben!  How's it going, buddy?"  Buzz returned the greeting with the 
vigor of one who had not heard from his friend in months.  They had 
eaten lunch together that afternoon.

"I would have thought you T&E guys would be in bed by now."

"Funny.  I was just doing some work at home, and I've got an issue I 
need some quick advice on," Ben said.

"Can you do a fly-by on the 28th floor and see if any of the T&E 
associates are working late tonight?"

"Fat chance, but I'll look.  Call you back in five."

Buzz called back faithfully within minutes.

"No luck, Ben.  All good T&E lawyers are tucked in by now," he said, 
repeating his earlier insult. "That paralegal you've been eyeballing
is still typing away in her  cubicle, though."

Ben ignored Buzz's attempts to draw him into a duel of wits, one that 
he was sure to lose.  Any attempt to defend himself would be met by a 
multi-flanked retort and an instant victory for Buzz.  And if he 
returned the barbs, Buzz would turn vicious, either doubling his attack
or launching a stealth campaign against him personally or T&E lawyers 
generally over the next several days.  He had seen Buzz in action 
enough to simply wave the white flag immediately.

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll give her a call," Ben said.

"Go home and get some sleep, big guy."

"You got it, buddy," Buzz chuckled, secure in the knowledge that he was
sharing a mutual joke, that the possibility of Buzz Herzog, superstar,
leaving the premises before midnight on a weekday was so unfathomable 
as to reduce the mere suggestion of it to humor.

Ben's heart began pounding as soon as he set down the receiver.  Would 
Debby think his late night call an awkward romantic advance and brand 
him a fool?

Nonsense.  He was being prudent.  Just making sure that he had not 
missed something obvious.  That's what lawyers do.

"Hello," Debby answered.  There was a twinge of surprise in her voice. 
As a paralegal toiling on an hourly wage, she enjoyed the overtime pay,
 but had little need to brag about her late hours.

"Hi, Debby, this is Ben Kravner."

"Uh-huh.  What's up, Ben?"

"Buzz Herzog told me that you were the only one still around.  I'm 
going through the Thompson file, and I found a sealed envelope that's 
marked "PERSONAL--DO NOT OPEN, DELIVER TO FRITZ FOX, TRUSTEE."  The 
trust agreement doesn't refer to the envelope.  Are there any other 
files?"

"Nope, I gave you everything," Debby said.

"Maybe the instructions are inside the envelope."

Ben was skeptical.

"Why would he do that?"  he asked. "Sometimes clients do dumb stuff,"
she said.

"We're tuned in to the difference between trustee and executor, but 
they're not."

"So you think I should open it?"  Ben asked.

"Don't see why not," she said.

"You're the executor.  How else are you going to figure out what to do 
with it?"

"Yeah, maybe you're right.  Thanks, Debby, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Righty-oh," she said and hung up.

Ben's anxiety morphed into excitement as he carefully sliced open the 
seal with a kitchen knife.  What would his prize reveal?  What could be
so important that it needed to be sealed even within the security of 
Adams Thompson's safe deposit box?  This last thought raised doubts in 
Ben's mind once again, but there was no turning back now.

Ben slid a single piece of tattered, yellow paper out of the envelope. 
His excitement gave way to both disappointment and relief.  There was 
no codicil leaving Thompsons fortune to a secret lover.  There were no 
instructions for Fritz Fox.  But the paper did not appear 
controversial, either.  It was a handwritten poem--perhaps one of the 
historical documents Dean Frederick had mentioned.

The poem contained several references to the millennium--a source of 
much excitement these days, but an odd topic in a document written so 
long ago.  The Poem appeared to contain a riddle:

Seven grieving brothers and sisters two Forever curse the Office of 
Tippecanoe

Vengeance is ours for the falsely condemned From now 'til the coming of
 the Millennium.

Our pasts now clouded, our futures clear Shrouded names mask the secret
we bear, From mouth to mouth the Key shall descend The final object 
unlocked only in the end.

Each one strike at Vengeance pure, The next to come in twenty more;

Each a task 'fore the Millennium Meeting, Then Vengeance shall be much 
less fleeting.

Scattered to the winds for eight score year Our progeny, unmasked, will
reappear; Midnight of the Great Year's dawn, First meet upon the Old
Schools  lawn.

And the Final Vengeance will be ours When they claim the cursed 
Office's powers;

A pestilence rained upon the wretched people Who watched our Jimmy hang
 from a steeple.

We, The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight Swear to bring to bear our
collective might To avenge our departed brother's restless soul And 
once again make our family whole.

Two clues immediately struck Ben as critical to deciphering the poem's 
mystery.

First, there was an incident long ago that triggered the passionate 
rage so vividly expressed in the poem, and it involved the Office of 
Tippecanoe

"Tippecanoe" sounded familiar, but recollection failed him.

The second important clue was the reference to The Royal Order of the
Millennium Knight.  If such an organization existed and planned to 
exact some form of vengeance at the turn of the millennium, there would
probably be evidence to that effect.  Ben wondered when the millennium
actually turned, on January 1, 2000 or January 1, 2001.  Since there 
was no year zero, he figured it was 2001, but questioned whether the 
grieving and raging brothers and sisters had thought the matter 
through.

Ben logged back on to the Internet.  There were several good search 
engines that returned a list of sites on the World Wide Web using key 
words specified by the user, ideally in some order of relevance.  With 
the rise of the Internet to prominence in the last five years, a search
could produce thousands of hits. Ben entered a single word: 
"Tippecanoe."

This search produced only thirty web sites, most with some connection 
to Tippecanoe County, Indiana.  There were sites for the Tippecanoe 
Ancient life and Drum Corps, the Tippecanoe Door & Window Company and 
the Tippecanoe County Emergency Management Agency.  Bed and Breakfasts.
 Computer management companies.

The history of Lafayette, Indiana.  He tried the life and Drum web 
site.  It contained a history of the French presence in the region, but
 nothing that struck Ben as even remotely interesting.

He tried a different search engine.  Because of the vastness of the
World Wide Web and the unique way in which each of these programs 
worked, they almost always produced different results.  The second 
search produced almost two thousand hits.  The program sorted these by 
likely relevance, though, and Ben perused the first several web sites 
on the list.  Again, most of them were related to Tippecanoe County, 
Indiana.

He brought up the web page for the Tippecanoe County Historical 
Association.

Tippecanoe County had been the site of a major battle in 1811 between 
the United States and a confederation of Indian tribes that was 
attacking western settlers.

A small army organized by the governor of the Indiana territory, 
General William Henry Harrison, repelled the Indians in a bloody battle
 and destroyed their settlement.

Then the story got interesting.  General Harrison was the unsuccessful 
Whig Party candidate for president in 1836.  He ran again for the 
presidency in 1840, and the Tippecanoe Battlefield was the site of a 
massive rally.  Harrison and his vice-presidential nominee, John Tyler,
capitalized on the political slogan, "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too!"  to 
win the presidency, but Harrison died after only a month in office.

The campaign slogan was the snippet of information that eluded Ben's
recollection earlier, an item of trivia from a junior high school text 
book stored in deep memory.  Tippecanoe was almost certainly William 
Henry Harrison, unless Adams Thompson had taken an unusual interest in 
Tippecanoe County politics.  Was the "Office" of Tippecanoe the 
presidency, the governorship of Indiana, or one of the many other 
offices held by Harrison over the years?

Probably the presidency.  Why else would this poem have captured Adams
Thompson's interest?

It was already midnight, but Ben was hooked.  The final paragraph of 
the poem sounded like bluster, but if The Royal Order of the Millennium
Knight existed, there might be clues on the Internet.  Ben recalled 
seeing several chat rooms catering to millennium watchers.

He clicked an on-screen button with his mouse, and his Pen Pal list 
appeared on the monitor.  The list indicated whether each Pen Pal was 
logged on to CyberLine.

Blue Sating had initially presented herself as a statuesque blonde, 
with blue eyes and a figure to die for.  But Ben was not in the mood 
for cybersex on the night he first met her, and further probing 
revealed a stocky young brunette desperately in need of affection.  She
lived in a small Ohio town and worked in a tire factory.  They
frequently commiserated about their loneliness and exchanged ideas for
improving their social lives.  She was not logged on tonight.

Peggy Sue was a 32-year old ski instructor in Colorado, a single mom 
and a frustrated artist.  Ben had only recently befriended her, but the
 relationship seemed promising.  Peggy Sue was not logged on, either.

"Quixote" was logged on, but they had not spoken for over three years. 
Quixote was a ghost from Ben's past, his mentor, his friend, his 
soulmate.  He might not have survived his first year at Harvard Law 
School without her.  But then she had graduated, and he had ruined the 
friendship.  Ben had seen love in her eyes, and he had panicked.  Three
and a half years had passed since then, and he still had not found
that  kind of love again.  He wistfully monitored Quixote's on-line
presence  using the Pen Pal list, but never had the nerve to reconnect
with her on CyberLine.

"Lisa C" was not logged on.  Like Ben, she had a quick wit, and the two
of them could talk for hours about nothing or about the problems of
the  world with equal facility and enjoyment.  At 27, she was a year
older  than Ben, and often used that as the clinching argument in their
debates.  Their chats were laced with that undercurrent of sexual 
tension that situation comedies on television seem to strive for 
nowadays.  In a way, he was infatuated with her--at least as much as 
one could be with someone who might be a figment of someone else's
imagination.

That was the problem with CyberLine, he thought.  It was a wonderful 
tool to release one's inhibitions and explore alternate selves.  But 
everybody else in cyberspace was exploring, too.  Ben never knew who he
was dealing with, man or woman, friend or foe, sincere or deceitful. 
Sometimes he did not even know who he was, anymore.  Was he the kind, 
honest, hard-working gentleman that he tried to present to the outside 
world or the sexual predator who roamed cyberspace like an untamed 
lion?

He had always thought a person was defined by how he presented himself 
to others.  Everybody had crazy impulses.  Character was determined by 
the ability to control those urges.  Others judged you by your choice 
of behavior, not the decision-making process that you endured 
privately.  Did acting out alternative behaviors on-line change who he 
was because he was showing other people the inner workings of his mind?
Or was cyberspace just a new medium for testing behavior before 
displaying it in the real world?

Ben was pleased to see that the one person in cyberspace he was certain
 he did know was on-line.

"WoodythePecker" was a young lawyer in San Francisco, three years older
than Ben, who was going through much of the same turmoil as Ben in
starting a career in the big city.  But Woody was gay and in the 
closet, in mortal fear of exposing his inner self to his family, 
friends and co-workers, as well as exposing himself to AIDS.

Woody had revealed himself without fear to Ben, not in search of a 
cyber-lover, but in search of a friend.  Ben and Woody had shared 
horror stories about experiences at their law firms and had confided 
about personal relationships that were or might be.

Woody was the only cyber-friend that Ben had met in person.  They had 
known each other for over a year, and Ben had spent a weekend with him 
this past summer.

They had attended a Giants baseball game, toured underground San 
Francisco and talked.  By the end of the weekend, Ben considered 
Woodrow Barnsworth Taylor III his closest friend in the world.  He 
trusted him completely and often consulted him on legal as well as 
personal issues.

Ben sent Woody an instant message:

Master Ben Woodman!

WoodythePecker: Ben!  How's it hanging, man?  We haven't talked in 
ages... Master Ben Life has turned upside down, Woody.  WoodythePecker:
Tell me more, dear... Master Ben My boss had a heart attack today I 
helped revive him, but he'll be out for weeks.

WoodythePecker: You must have been freaked out!

Master Ben It was like an out-of-body experience.  Like somebody else 
was controlling my actions.  Anyway, guess who's running the T&E Dept 
in his absence?

WoodythePecker: No way!

Master Ben Way!  Did you hear about the Thompson murder?  I'm handling 
that estate.

WoodythePecker: That's a huge project for any lawyer ... for a second 
year associate to get a case like that, they are sending you a nice 
message, my friend... Master Ben I'm not sure they've thought about it 
that much--nobody else wants the job smile) Anyway the plot thickens...
 WoodythePecker: He gets the girl, too?  :)

Master Ben Nah..."the" girl still eludes me ... But I found a 
mysterious poem locked in Thompson's safe deposit box.  It has several 
references to the millennium even though it seems to have been written 
over 150 years ago.  Have you heard of a group called The Royal Order 
of the Millennium Knight? WoodythePecker: The millennium is the hot
topic these days, but I  haven't heard that one before ... sounds a
little creepy ... what are  they up to?

Master Ben I don't know if Thompson's poem is real or imagined, but it 
seems to be written by this group.  The poem says that they're planning
some dire act of vengeance as the millennium turns... WoodythePecker: 
Well, there are a lot of wackos out there.  I've heard worse.

Religious fanatics who think the world is coming to an end.  We live in
 strange times.

Master Ben (Laughing) Well, if they're an underground organization, the
web would be a way for them to meet discreetly... WoodythePecker:
Could  be worth taking a flier ... Good luck, my friend, and
congratulations  on the big assignment!

Master Ben Thanks, Woody... Ben scanned the RealTime rooms for topics 
relating to the millennium.  There was no shortage.  He started in a 
room created by CyberLine entitled "Millennium Chat."  There were 24 
members in the room; none of the names struck Ben as distinctive.  He 
observed the discussion for several minutes.  He found these public 
chats to be boring for the most part.  There were frequently long 
pauses before anyone spoke.  Most of the activity occurred behind the 
scenes in private messages between members.

One participant in the room, Wily Coyote was unsuccessfully trying to 
solicit a date for the millennium, offering dining and dancing in the 
Rainbow Room, a posh restaurant atop Rockefeller Center with gorgeous 
panoramic views of Manhattan.

Another, Reverendjim, warned that "The End is Near" and demanded that 
all sinners repent before the judgment day, which he thought, not 
surprisingly, was to come at the turn of the millennium.  A few others 
shared their plans for the millennium, with their sparse conversation 
broken up by the occasional age sex check"--a request for all members 
in the room to disclose their age and sex.

After he could stand it no more, Ben took his chance.

Master Ben Has anyone heard of The Royal Order of the Millennium 
Knight?

Jock69: KKK branch?

Master Ben I don't think so.  Have you seen any chats discussing 
anything like that?

Jock69: Nah.

Ben waited a few more minutes, but the discussion degenerated back to 
minutia.

He exited the room and went to the list of member-created rooms.  A 
separate list was devoted to millennium chats-Millennium Parties, 
Millennium Prophecies, Millennium Predictions and other similar 
headings.  Ben entered several rooms, learning nothing new, before he 
came upon Millennium Prophecies Uncensored.

There were eleven others in the room.  A member named Doomsayer666 
seemed to be leading the discussion.

Doomsayer666: I believe in the asteroid theory and that there is 
nothing that we can do to save the world.  We need to devote resources 
to developing a space colony to preserve some small remnant of the 
human race after it hits.

Freddy2000: Neat!  How long to develop one?

Doomsayer666: I have friends in the defense industry that say that 
NASA's already building one and may be in the testing phase.

Whit sEnd How many people can it hold?  (And do they have room for me!)
 :)

Doomsayer666: My sources say that the prototype can accommodate about 
10,000 people.  It's like a small town.

Dreamweaver35: Hey, y'all.  Joined in late--explain this asteroid 
hokum.

Doomsayer666: There are two parts to the theory.  The first is the 
growing body of scientific evidence that suggests that it's only a 
matter of time, under the laws of probability, that an asteroid will 
collide with the earth and destroy it.  The second part is a prophecy 
supposedly hidden in code in the Bible that predicts that the earth 
will be destroyed in either the year 2000 or 2006.

Dreamweaver35: Heard about that Bible thang a ways back.  Supposedly 
forecasted the assassination of the Israeli prime minister a few years 
ago.  My bet:

hokum!!!

Doomsayer666: I'm more concerned about the statistical probability of 
getting slammed.

Whit sEnd So how many of these space colonies are they planning to 
build?  (And will they have room for me!) :)

Doomsayer666: They'll cost billions.  They'll probably only build one. 
It would take months to ferry 10,000 people out to deep space.  They'll
need a new transportation system before they can get serious about 
fully populating that thing.

Whit sEnd How will they decide who gets to go?  Doomsayer666: I don't 
know-how would you do it?  BeamMeUp: Bev Hills 90210 cast 4 sure 
Doomsayer666: Very mature, Beamer Whit sEnd A lottery... Freddy2000: 
The president should decide ... set up a commission to do it fair, you 
know?

Doomsayer666: But limiting the pool to only the best and the brightest 
perhaps?

Whit sEnd No way!  That rules me out:) BeamMeUp: Me, too Freddy2000: 
Me, three Doomsayer666: I'll take my chances... Freddy2000: I'm not so 
sure that Beamer was on the wrong track ... a few attractive specimens 
to breed future generations sounds cool to me... Tom Tom24 You guys are
 scary!  Tom Tom24 Can you spell HiTLER

Doomsayer666: Come now, Tom, surely you can see the difference between 
mass genocide and a process of selecting the survivors of a 
catastrophic event?

Tom Tom24 But why should any one person or group of people get to pick 
the criteria?  Random sampling would be more fair.

Doomsayer666: But on the theory that 90% of the country is average or 
below, a lottery would probably result in only a small portion of the 
pool being even above average and true genius may be totally excluded 
... If only 10,000 lives can be saved, we should focus on preserving as
 much of society's accumulated knowledge as possible.

Freddy2000: Yuk!  Sounds like a place run by eggheads!!  Save the 
artists, athletes and beauty queens and throw the nerds overboard!!!! 
;)

Master Ben This discussion is fascinating, folks, but could I possibly
interrupt with an unrelated question?

Doomsayer666: Fire away, Ben.

Master Ben I've heard about a group that calls themselves The Royal 
Order of the Millennium Knight... Nobody seems to know about them ... 
any ideas? Doomsayer666: Can't say that I've seen anything like
that...  Freddy2000: Sounds like a serious group... let me know if you
find  them.

Master Ben Okay ... thanks anyway guys.

Ben exited the room and was ready to quit for the night.  It was almost
one o'clock in the morning.  Within seconds, though, Ben received a 
private message.

Whit sEnd Hi Ben.  I don't know if these are the guys that you're 
looking for, but there's a group that meets regularly in a private room
 called Millennium Nights.  They were there about half an hour ago.

Master Ben What do they talk about?

Whit sEnd I don't know.  Password protected.  I sent messages to these 
guys asking for the password, but they either ignored me or got 
nasty.

Master Ben Do you remember the names of any of the guys that hang out 
there?

Whit sEnd They all had similar names, like some kind of club.  One of 
them was The General.  He's one mean sumbitch.

Master Ben Yeah, I don't know if those are the guys I'm looking for, 
but thanks anyway, Whit.

Whit sEnd Happy hunting.

Ben was not hopeful, but he left the millennium chats and entered the 
private rooms.  This area was set aside for members to create their own
rooms on any topic.  Private rooms had the advantage of accommodating 
more than two members if a group wanted to carry on a private meeting, 
like a family get-together, a club meeting, or, more often, a virtual 
orgy of one form or another.

The private rooms were easy to use if you knew where you were going and
were an invited guest.  But it was difficult to find a room if you
were  just randomly snooping into the affairs of the cyber elite.  In
fact,  it was almost pointless to do so, because most rooms were
password  protected, and the casual surfer could not view the
discussion.  The  member on the outside could view a list of members
inside, though, and  private messages could be sent in a typically vain
effort to gain  entry.

It took Ben ten minutes to find the Millennium Nights room.  As 
anticipated, the room was password protected.  He tried to enter a few 
standard passwords, like "sesame" or "enter," on a whim, but without 
success.

Ben called up the list of room participants.  Whit sEnd had been right.
They did seem like a club, but none of the names indicated to Ben that
he had fallen upon The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight.  The Heir
Apparent.  The Caretaker.  The Spy.  The General.  The Senator.  The 
Speaker.  The Doctor.

Ben logged off CyberLine without attempting to contact them, frustrated
 with his night's work.

FIVE

'"pHE SEVEN REMAINING MEMBERS of The Royal Order of JL the Millennium 
Knight were in the Millennium Nights room that night, as they were 
every Thursday beginning at midnight.  Of course, The Assassin was 
absent.

And now The Publisher was gone, too.  The Publisher's activities at the
Herald Times had been critical in promoting a mood of racial 
divisiveness across the country, and he and his father had also been an
important factor in the rise of the political fortunes of The Heir 
Apparent, The Senator and The Speaker.  But those were not the primary 
concerns of The Royal Order now.

The Heir Apparent: Spy, was there anything among The Publisher's 
personal effects that could compromise The Royal Order?  Was his copy 
of The Poem recovered?

The Spy: NY apt and GA house searched.  No record of Royal Order. 
Computer clean.

Poem probably in safe deposit box-lawyers control.

The Senator: Has contact with the lawyers been established?  We cannot 
have them nosing around in our affairs.

The Caretaker: A NY lawyer called me.  We're meeting on Monday in 
Atlanta.

Assuming The Publisher followed our rules, the lawyers will not be 
permitted to read the Poem.  It should be in a sealed envelope held in 
trust for Calhoun College, but we might not get it until they sort out 
the estate.  I'll ask him about it when we meet.

The Heir Apparent: Hell, do we know anything about this lawyer?

The Spy: Name: Benjamin Franklin Kravner.  BFK graduated Harvard Law 
School 1998.

Smart kid.  Unconnected.  Middle class.  Background clean.

The Heir Apparent: Caretaker, was there any indication that he found 
The Poem?

Was he nervous or evasive?

The Caretaker: We only spoke briefly.  The boy seemed a little nervous 
and excited.  You've all seen young kids when they first enter business
 or politics.

They try to sound important, like they belong, but they don't quite 
have the act worked out yet.

The General: The Publisher's death is a major security breach.  Don't 
dismiss anyone.

The Heir Apparent: What do you suggest, General?

The General: Make sure that the envelope was not unsealed.  Caretaker 
should test the lawyer on Monday.  If he thinks the kid knows too much,
 we eliminate him.

The Senator: That's a little harsh, General.  If our plan unravels now,
there is still no evidence of any crime.  If we start killing 
outsiders, we're all facing the death penalty

The Heir Apparent: Let's let The Caretaker evaluate Mr.  Kravner on 
Monday and talk about how to proceed next week.  We'll probably 
retrieve The Poem without incident.

The Speaker: I suggest that we burn all remaining copies.  At this 
point, they're historical relics and more trouble than they're worth.
The Heir Apparent: Agreed.  Any objections?  Other business?

The Spy: Security issue #2: Pub's death may not have been random act.

The Speaker: The black militant groups?

The Spy: 3 possibilities: (1) Blacks militants: violent protests in NY,
 and Pub received death threats

The Spy: (2) random act (NY is NY)

The Spy: (3) Pub contacted last week by somebody claiming to be 
Assassin.

The Heir Apparent: That's impossible!

The Senator: You told us that The Assassin was eliminated last year. 
The San Francisco newspaper confirmed it.

The Spy: Pub received e-mail.  They set up meet at Pub's apt Friday 
9PM.  I arranged to be there, but no Pub or Assassin.

The General: Why are we first hearing about this now?

The Spy; Didn't want to alarm.  And if Assassin did pass on mission to
confederate, I wanted to determine how connection missed last year.

The Speaker: Is there anyone who could have assumed the duties of The 
Assassin?

The Spy: Only known child was daughter.  Assassin divorced and out of 
touch.

Unwilling participant, anyway--wouldn't inspire child or anyone else to
participate.

The Senator: Could any information have passed through his estate?

The Spy: Poem recovered.  Computer disk clean.  Apt searched.  No safe 
deposit box.

Estate administration monitored.  No documents escaped us.

The General: Could Publisher have concocted this story?  I've had my 
doubts about his resolve.

The Spy: Conceivable.  Or another leak from within.  The Doctor: A 
rogue Knight?

The Spy: We've all provided evidence of our allegiance over last 5 yrs,
but the pressure mounts.  Like Senator implied, we've yet to cross 
point of no return.

Maybe fear of death penalty will boost our courage.

The Senator: I hope that you are not questioning my loyalty to The 
Royal Order!

The Spy: I question everybody's loyalty.

The General: If one of us wanted to hunt Publisher, or any of the 
others, there would be no reason to set up a meeting.  This Assassin is
an outsider--either an angry confederate of the true Assassin or a 
willing accomplice whose attempt to join us was thwarted by Publisher's
 murder.

The Speaker: Well, we may have passed the point of no return after all.
 If this Assassin is out for revenge, we're all targets.

The Heir Apparent: But if this person has assumed The Assassin's role, 
but doesn't know our identities, I'm at risk.  The next president was 
supposed to be The Assassin's target.

The Senator: Your likely opponent has not proposed a vice president 
yet. Perhaps I should start throwing my rather considerable weight 
around to get on the short list--just as a back-up plan, of course.

The Heir Apparent: That's premature.  Hell, as much as I loathe any 
alternative that leaves me exposed with a target painted on my forehead
for four years, I'm not about to throw the election because there's a 
remote chance that some jackass has assumed The Assassin's role.  Spy, 
what are the odds of tracking down this imposter?

The Spy: Needle in haystack.  No leads.  E-mail to Pub from phony 
account.

The Heir Apparent: Does anybody else have any cheerful news?

The Knights fell silent.  The Heir Apparent adjourned the meeting in 
the customary way: "May God Bless Jimmy MacDougall and each of his 
descendants and may his Persecutors suffer eternal Damnation."  Each of
the other Knights responded, "Aye," as was their ritual, and then they
exited the Millennium Nights room.  It was half past one o'clock on 
Friday morning.

SIX

DEBBY WAS LINGERING outside Ben's office on Friday morning when he 
returned with his third cup of coffee.  It was eleven o'clock.

"Good morning, Ben," she said.

Her voice was laced with disappointment.  She was wearing a loose 
fitting, white knit sweater and a tan skirt.  Ben gave her the once 
over and had approving thoughts.

"Hi, Debby," he said, with all the cheer he could muster, aided by his 
standard blend of caffeine and adrenaline.  The sacks under his eyes 
felt like lead weights.

"How's it going?"  she asked.

"You look awful."

"Thanks," Ben said, feigning a scowl.

"Its my Friday look--if your eyes are droopy enough, you might not get 
that weekend assignment."

"I thought for sure you'd come by and tell me what you found in your 
secret envelope last night," she said.

"You piqued my curiosity.  You did open it, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm sorry," Ben said.  The exotic scent other perfume wafted
 through the air.  He squirmed almost undetectably.

"I ran this morning.  Got in late, then had a few messages to handle 
first.  The envelope turned out to be nothing--just some weird poem. 
I'm getting the impression that Adams Thompson was a bit of a flake."

"I wonder why he sealed that up," Debby said.

"Well, it's not as sexy as a codicil or a diary, but it seems to 
contain a cryptic riddle," Ben said.  He got another whiff of Debby's 
perfume and felt his loins stir.  He forced himself to think of fat 
naked men, reversing his instinctive reaction before it could take its 
full course.

"It smacks of a conspiracy."

"Wow," Debby said.

"Can I see it?" "Sure," Ben said.  He set his coffee down on his desk
and sat down.

Debby positioned herself beside him rather than taking one of the 
chairs on the other side.  Ben felt her warmth.  His mind began to lose
focus as the blood rushed to points south, depriving his brain of 
oxygen.  He fished through a pile of papers awkwardly, searching for 
the poem.

"Here it is," he said trying not to betray his state of emotional 
disarray.  He held the paper up for Debby to take.

Debby shifted her weight towards him and read without grasping it.  The
barely perceptible movement sent a plume of perfume in Ben's
direction,  further stoking his inner fire.  He silently marveled how,
no matter  how sophisticated we became as a culture, no matter how
formal and  business-like we behaved, we were still basically animals,
ready to act  on our basest instincts at any time, any place.

Fat naked men.

"This is amazing," Debby said.

"Have you figured out what it means?"

"I have some ideas," Ben said hesitantly.

"Like what?"

Ben peered out the window at the East River for a split second. 
Caffeine.

Adrenaline.  Perfume.  Testosterone.  His bloodstream was a living, 
breathing chemical factory.

"I think it has something to do with William Henry Harrison," Ben said 
calmly.

"He was elected president in 1840 and his nickname was Tippecanoe.  He 
must have done harm to the brother of the people who wrote the poem. 
Or  maybe not.  Maybe Thompson made it all up."

"So why all the references to the millennium?"  Debby asked.

"I haven't figured that out yet.  It sounds like the descendants of 
this guy were supposed to carry out a vendetta at the turn of the 
millennium.  Do you see the reference to The Royal Order of the 
Millennium Knight at the end?"

"Uh-huh." "Last night I tried to see if anyone on the Internet had
heard of a  group with that name.  I only spent about an hour, but
didn't have any  luck."

"Cool idea.  Do you spend a lot of time on the Net?"  she asked.

Ben blushed.

"A bit."

"Don't be embarrassed," Debby said.

"I'm addicted.  I hang out in the CyberLine chat rooms almost every 
night."

"What name do you go by?"

"Different names.  I get worried about stalkers so I change it every 
now and then.  Lately I've been using "DebbyDoes' if you want to chat 
some time."

Ben smiled.

"Hmm.  I'm not going to walk into that trap and ask what it is that 
Debby does."

"Thank you very much.  I'll leave it to your imagination."  Her eyes 
twinkled. Fat naked men.  Fat naked men.

"So did you find anything interesting last night?"  Debby asked.

"Not really.  Just a bunch of wackos.  The 'end is near' type of crap. 
I don't know what all the fuss is about.  If there is a God, I doubt he
planned for the Earth's destruction based on the Roman calendar.  And 
if he did, why not the year 1000?  What's so special about 2000?"

Debby laughed.

"Good point.  I'd argue about the existence of God and whether God is a
he or a she, but somehow I think that's a discussion for another 
time."

"How about over lunch?"  Ben asked without missing a beat.  He 
surprised even himself.

"Very smooth," she grinned.

The wind off New York Harbor made the December chill even more bracing 
as Ben and Debby ventured out from the warmth of One Water.  The pair 
were bundled for the nippy weather, Ben in a gray, herringbone coat and
Debby in a bright blue down ski jacket and an orange wool scarf.  They
hunched their shoulders in the cold, and turned right, down State 
Street, with Ben leading the way.

"Where to?"  Debby asked.  Her long, frizzy hair blew wildly in the 
wind.

"We can grab a hot dog in Battery Park," Ben said.

"Then maybe take a walk on the esplanade near the World Financial 
Center."

"Cool.  I've never been there."

"Really?  How long have you lived in the city?"  Ben asked.

"Just a few months," she replied.

"I was working out West, in San Francisco, and I needed a change.  I 
moved here after I got this job."

"I love San Francisco," Ben said.

"It's nice.  I lived there all my life, though, and it was time to move
 on."

"You know, I was in San Francisco the day Jerry Garcia died," Ben 
said.

"I was on a bus passing by the corner of Haight and Ashbury when I 
heard the news.  All the old hippies were out there crying and 
dancing."

Debby laughed.

"You don't strike me as the Dead Head type," she said.

"Ah, there are many things about me that you don't know," Ben said
mysteriously, raising his eyebrows with a suggestive double pump.

Debby punched him in the shoulder playfully.

"Aw, Ben, cut it out."

They turned into Battery Park at the Bowling Green entrance and ordered
two hot dogs and two knishes from a vendor with a cart near the gate. 
Ben picked up the seven dollar tab.  He found those situations awkward,
 but with Debby it was easy.

No feminist banter about splitting the check.  No half-hearted reaching
for her purse.

The park was quiet in the winter months.  Most of the people of the 
street sought out warmer environs.  There were still some tourists 
waiting for the ferry ride to tour the Statue of Liberty and Ellis 
Island and a few other business people braving the cold, but the park 
was an escape from the bustle of downtown Manhattan.

Ben and Debby walked with their food down close to the waterfront and 
sat on a bench overlooking the harbor.  The scent of hot dogs, the sea 
air and Debby's perfume proved a tantalizing combination.

"So, what made you join a big New York firm?"  Debby asked, as she 
wiped a speck of mustard from her lower lip.

"It was the thing to do," Ben said.

"I went to Harvard Law School.  The big firms were lining up to recruit
 us, and my family lives in the New York area."

"The 'burbs?"  she asked.

"Yeah.  Westchester," Ben said.

"Middle class neighborhood."

"Any brothers and sisters?"

"Nope.  Just me," he said.

"I call once a week, but the conversations are always the same.  My mom
 and dad are dying for grandchildren."

Debby laughed.

"Can't help you there."

Ben grinned.

"That wasn't a proposal," he said.  Although not the craziest idea I've
 heard today.

"Some day, but I'm not sure enough about what I want to do with my life
 to settle down."

"Making partner at Kramer, Fox isn't part of the master plan?"  she 
asked.

Ben looked out across the harbor.  The sunlight danced off the choppy 
blue water. Two yellow Staten Island ferries passed in opposite
directions about a  mile out.  His feelings about Kramer, Fox were
still in turmoil.

"Who knows?"  he said reflectively.

"The partners don't seem terribly happy."

"They're filthy rich," Debby said.

"I help Mr.  Fox with his accounting.  Some of these guys are making 
millions."

"Moneys not everything," he said.

"Some people thrive on the lifestyle and love the pressure of the deal,
 but I grew up in a more relaxed world.  I miss it."

"Didn't you know what you were getting into?"  she asked.

"With eyes wide shut," he said.

"Nice Jewish boys are taught at an early age that they're destined to 
become doctors or lawyers, and I get sick at the sight of blood."

Debby laughed.

"That's it, when all else fails, blame your parents."

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that," Ben said sheepishly.

"But somehow the law became the default career path and nothing 
inspired me enough to vary from it."

"So have you figured out what you really want to do?"  she asked.

Ben shrugged.

"I wish I knew," he said.

"Some days I delude myself into thinking I can be great.  That I can 
take my Harvard degree and my big ideas and make a difference in 
people's lives.  Other days I hear my mom's voice in my head and wonder
 if life is about raising a happy family."

"That's pretty heavy.  Most guys just recite the party line," she said,
then furrowed her brow and mimicked a gruff, male voice.  '"Anything 
for the team."" Ben grinned.

"I guess I'm still in shock over the Fritz thing," he said.

"Maybe I speak too much."

It was not a small concern.  He had become so accustomed to discussing 
his personal thoughts and dreams on CyberLine, behind the veil of 
anonymity, that he occasionally found himself revealing more of himself
 than was perhaps appropriate.

"Not at all," Debby said.

"It's refreshing."

"Enough about me," Ben said.

"Tell me about your family."

"I much prefer happy family stories like yours," Debby said.  Her eyes 
grew distant.

"My dad was killed in a car accident about a year ago and my mom is in 
a nursing home with Alzheimer's."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Ben said.  He looked away.

"Yeah, me too," she said.

"I never knew my dad.  My mother left him when I was five and 
remarried.  He was driving drunk.  Crashed his Ford into a concrete 
barrier at the bottom of one of our famous hills."  She sighed.

"Let's start walking, okay?"

They strolled along the waterfront, quietly, to the north entrance of 
Battery Park, past the parking lots along the West Side Drive and on to
the high-rise apartment towers of Battery Park City, a community of 
upscale condominiums built on the western tip of lower Manhattan.  Ben 
led Debby towards a playground.

Several preschoolers ran amok while their mothers and nannies huddled 
with their takeout coffee mugs along the sidelines.

"This is my special place," Ben said.

"Sometimes when it gets hectic at the office I come out here and watch 
the kids play at lunchtime."

"I can see how that could turn your day around," Debby said.

"There's no sound more heartwarming than kids laughing and playing."

"Yeah," Ben agreed, then, smiling, pointed at one particularly 
energetic little boy, who was gleefully evading his harried mother.

"Unless they're your own."

Debby giggled.

"I wouldn't know."

"I should hope not."

"Oh, why's that?"  Debby asked.

"Would you think less of me if I had a child?"

"No, I guess not.  I was just being flip," Ben said defensively.

"Have you ever been married or had a kid?"

"No," she said, hesitating slightly.

"I was in a serious relationship before I left San Francisco, but we 
were never engaged."

They walked north along the esplanade, an asphalt roadway that 
connected Battery Park City and the World Financial Center with 
spectacular views of the Hudson River along the way.  A few joggers 
braved the icy winds whipping off the water.

Ben instinctively turned his back to the wind, walking backwards about 
a step in front of Debby.

"Did you break it oft?"  Ben asked.  He realized that the question 
might have been too intimate when Debby glanced down at the ground.

"I'm sorry--is that too personal a question?"

"No, I don't mind talking about it," Debby said.  Her smile appeared 
forced.

"We'd been going out for about three months.  I broke it off when I 
left for New York."

"How did he take it?"

Debby cast her eyes downwards, again.

"I didn't tell him I was leaving."

"What!"  Ben said, louder than he had intended.

"I was upset with him.  Haven't you ever left a relationship by just 
not calling?"

It did not take Ben long to mentally check off his relationships with 
women.

"Yeah, once, I guess," he admitted.  A wave of guilt rippled through 
him as he recalled the incident with Quixote, his old friend at 
Harvard.  He had behaved badly and regretted it ever since.

"But we were just close friends.  I mean, we never slept together. 
What  did this guy do?"

Ben's eyes met with Debbys, as she contemplated one of the many split 
second decisions faced in any budding relationship.  She turned and 
withdrew to the wrought iron fence overlooking the Hudson.  Ben joined 
her at the rail.  They stood quietly, listening to the gentle, rhythmic
 sound of water lapping against the sea wall.

"It's kind of hard for me to talk about," Debby said, finally.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Ben said.  He smiled and changed the
 subject.

"How 'bout those Knicks?"

Debby laughed.

"Believe it or not, I'm a Warriors fan.  One of a handful."

"You like basketball?"  Ben asked.

"Sure.  Does that surprise you?"

"I guess it shouldn't.  I must be one of those mythical male chauvinist
 pigs."

Debby laughed, again.  Ben was glad that he had so smoothly changed the
mood back to upbeat, but was curious about what Debby's old boyfriend 
had done to deserve such an abrupt and final brushoff.

Debby also appeared relieved to put the topic of her past romances 
behind them.

"The unicorn was mythical; the male chauvinist pig is very real and not
 even approaching extinction," she quipped.

"True enough," Ben chuckled.

"Along with its close cousin, the Feminazi."

"I was actually into feminism at San Francisco State," Debby said.  She
 put a hand on Ben's arm before he could react.

"But don't get all defensive on me.

I've reformed.  I think that a woman should be independent, but in a 
kinder, gentler way.  Like a partner, not a competitor."

"Kinder, gentler, huh?  You're not a closet Republican, are you?"  Ben 
joked.  He knew that it was a much safer question than might first 
appear.  Kramer, Fox was a well-known Democratic institution.  Fritz 
Fox himself had close ties to President Norton.  He had been offered 
the ambassadorship to Germany during Hank Norton's first term, in 1992,
 but had declined.

"Yeah, right.  Fritz would have a baby before he hired a Republican 
paralegal. He was not very discreet in the interview on that topic," 
Debby said.

Ben tried out his new Fritz Fox imitation.

"Veil, veil, veil, vat a surprise."

Debby flashed a toothy grin.

"Not bad," she said.

"You even have your hair flying all over the place like the Old Man."

Ben smiled, and looked down at his watch.

"We should head back," he said.

They continued their small talk as they meandered through the narrow 
lanes on the west side of the tip of Manhattan.  As they approached One
Water, Debby broached the subject that had been on their minds for the
 last half hour.

"Ben," she started hesitantly.

"Thanks for not pressing too hard about my old boyfriend.  It's an 
emotional subject for me.  I'll share it with you some time, but not 
just yet."

"It was rude of me to ask about it," Ben said.

"I'd like for us to be friends, but, hey, if you don't ever want to 
talk about it, that's okay, too."

The issue made him a tad wary, but Ben was energized by how well he and
Debby had clicked.  The conversation had flowed almost as easily as on
CyberLine.  So often his real life infatuations ended in 
disappointment.  He paused as he summoned courage from his reserves. 
Rejection was easier to accept on-line.

There was no risk when you were anonymous; then, again, the payoff was 
not nearly as great, either.

"Listen," he said.

"I'm going to look through Thompson's apartment tomorrow afternoon. 
It's right near Washington Square.  Do you want to get together 
afterwards for some Mexican food in the Village?"

"Hmmm... sounds like a date," Debby said, smiling.

"Something like that," Ben grinned.

"Would it be okay if I came earlier and went through the apartment with
 you?"

Debby asked.

"That poem is weird.  I'd like to stay involved if you don't mind."

"Not at all.  I'd like that," Ben said sincerely.

"I need a sounding board on some of this crazy stuff.  I can't talk to 
Myra or any of the other partners.

They'd think I'm either a pain in the ass or unprofessional."

Ben started to shift topics, again, as they climbed the steps of the 
concrete podium on which One Water rested, but Debby was distracted.

"Hold on a second," she said.  She approached a man of the street who 
was standing on the low cement wall that lined the perimeter of the 
podium.

He was a tall, black man with long, matted hair and an overgrown beard.
His powerful build was wrapped in a tattered army overcoat and capped 
with a black beret.  He was shouting religious aphorisms to passersby 
who, with the sole exception of Debby, ignored him.  He stopped when he
 recognized Debby.  Ben warily followed.

"Merry Christmas, Hubert," Debby greeted the man warmly.  He stepped 
down from the wall and smiled broadly.  His large teeth were stained 
yellow.  Ben guessed that he was about forty.

"And Merry Christmas to you.  Miss Debby," Hubert said, bowing 
theatrically.

"What brings you out on this cold afternoon."  He blew on his hands and
 rubbed them together.

"Just walking with my friend, Ben," she said, pointing back to Ben. 
Ben acknowledged the introduction with a friendly salute.  Hubert
tipped  his beret.

Debby fumbled through her purse for a moment.  She took out a twenty 
dollar bill from her wallet and slipped it into Hubert's hands 
discreetly.

"Buy yourself some gloves for the winter," she said as she turned 
towards the building.  Hubert thanked her, then climbed back up onto 
the wall, resuming his religious banter.

When they were out of earshot, in the building lobby, Ben asked, "Why 
did you give him so much money?  He's just going to get drunk with 
it."

She shrugged.

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't.  He always says 'hello' to me.  I 
usually give him small change when I see him, but it's Christmas."

"Is he a drunk?"  Ben asked.

"I don't think so.  He just dropped out from society in the Sixties," 
she said.

"He's a bright and funny guy who chooses to be homeless.  I think he 
lives somewhere beneath the South Ferry subway station."  She pointed 
across the street, to a building adjacent to the Staten Island Ferry 
terminal.

Ben was tempted to come back with a sly retort, but he let it go.  She 
could hardly be faulted for her generosity.  They crammed into a 
crowded elevator, with Debby's bundled body nestled snugly against Ben.
The subtle aroma other hair and perfume wafted upwards.  Fat naked 
men.

SEVEN

THE VICE PRESIDENT'S low-profile leather chair was tilted back, his 
arms were folded behind his head, and his feet rested on the enormous 
partners' desk that had once been used by his hero, Theodore 
Roosevelt.

"Be the voice of Black America," Tony Fabrizio said.

"That's exactly the role I've been trying to avoid for the last three 
years," La Rosa Smith said from her perch on a black Windsor chair 
opposite Fabrizio. The workspace was one of three distinct areas in 
the Vice Presidents cavernous office in the Old Executive Office 
Building.  A casual sitting area was on the far end of the room, and a 
long mahogany conference table occupied the middle.

"I want to be your advisor, not your black advisor."

"C'mon, Rosie.  Everybody's an equal in my world, you know that, but we
 each bring a different perspective to the table," Fabrizio said.

"If I need to peer into the minds of men, Italian-Americans or homely 
folks, I'm the guy.  If I need insights into women, African-Americans 
or the beautiful people, I count on you."

La Rosa smiled broadly; her face was all cheekbones.

"You could charm the coat off a mink," she said.

Fabrizio winked.

"It comes with the job," he said.

"Okay," La Rosa said.  She pondered what the Voice of Black America 
should tell the next President of the United States.  She unconsciously
played with the freshly cut hair on the back other neck.  It was a new
look for her--short in the front, tapered in the back--and she was not
 yet accustomed to the bristly feeling.

"I think African-Americans are losing their patience," she said.

"It's been more than thirty years since Dr.  King was killed, and 
racial discrimination is still an issue, a very big issue.  Black 
America expected more, faster, but recently it seems as if we're 
drifting backwards."

"How do you think that will impact the election next November?" 
Fabrizio asked.

"Honestly, I think race is going to be the issue in the election," she
said.

"And not just for African-Americans.  It's a tense situation out on the
 streets.

African-Americans are becoming increasingly willing to engage in 
violent protest, and mainstream America finds that threatening. 
Everyone will be looking to the candidates for solutions."

"It's like a chess match, though," Fabrizio said.

"Every move we make will be countered by JJ Alexander."

"JJ's tough," La Rosa agreed.

"His record on civil rights is excellent.  With a Republican candidate 
like him, we don't own the race issue."

"It's frustrating," Fabrizio said.

"How do you run a campaign when you agree with your opponent on most of
 the issues?"

"I hate to say it, but it'll probably come down to superficial issues 
and traditional territorial voting," La Rosa said.

"Abortion will be a big one.  JJ's probably locked up the South with 
his pro-life stand.  Texas might have been a toss-up, but since it's 
JJ's home state, it's almost not worth campaigning there."

"But New York and the northeastern states are my backyard," Fabrizio 
said.

La Rosa thought that it sounded more like a question than a 
statement.

"I agree," she said.

"There are other smaller states that can still have an impact, but I 
think this election is going to be decided in California.  And that 
worries me."

"We're only running slightly behind in the polls there," Fabrizio 
noted.

"There's a young, conservative demographic emerging on the West Coast 
that JJ may be able to tap into big time," she said.

"They're into youth and beauty, and--" "And I'm on the All-Ugly Team," 
Fabrizio interrupted, grinning.  He jutted his large, square chin
skyward and mugged for the nonexistent cameras.

"A face only a mother could love."

La Rosa laughed.

"Let's just say we might need a run offing a beauty contest between 
you, Joe Torre and Rodney Dangerfield," she said.

Fabrizio winced.

"Ouch."

La Rosa enjoyed the relaxed relationship with the Vice President.  Many
politicians preached about racial and sexual equality; Fabrizio 
practiced it. He said what was on his mind, but his mind was naturally 
disposed to valuing people for their talents, not their physique or 
their pedigree.  He never gave the impression that he was censoring his
 thoughts to avoid offending the sensitivities of those around him.

"Seriously, it doesn't seem right, but JJ will win votes in California 
with that Heisman trophy and his All-American good looks," La Rosa 
said.

"We need to play a little defense, if you'll pardon me stealing one 
ofJJ's football puns.  I think its time to choose your vice president. 
Someone who'll help you win California."

"I already have a few ideas," Fabrizio said cautiously.

"But you sound like you have a suggestion."

La Rosa had given this a lot of thought.

"Tom Stevenson," she said without pause.

Stevenson was the Democratic senator from California, the minority 
whip.  He was the antithesis of the swarthy, thick-boned Fabrizio, who 
looked like a hoodlum and occasionally lapsed into the language of the 
streets.

"He's blonde, he's got those wonderful square Scandinavian features, 
he's articulate--" "And he's got great hair," Fabrizio said 
sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

La Rosa smiled sympathetically.

"I know, I know.  It's superficial as hell, but he's made for TV, and 
he's made for California," she said. "Politically, you two are a good
fit, though, and he's got the best  civil rights profile in
Congress."

"I don't know, Rosie," Fabrizio said.

"We're from different worlds.  I like his politics, but he's a blue 
blood.  I want a VP I can think out loud with.  I don't want someone 
who's going to joke about my dumb-ass ideas with his bridge buddies at 
the end of the day."

La Rosa hesitated before responding.  She had hoped, maybe 
unrealistically, that Fabrizio would buy into Stevenson without a 
fight.

"There's another reason I think you need Stevenson," she said, averting
 his gaze.

"But I had hoped to avoid this discussion."

"You know my rules--everything on the table," Fabrizio said.

"No secrets, no lies."

No secrets, no lies.  Just spit it out, girl.  La Rosa knew that 
confidence was as important in politics as in sports.  Think like a 
winner, the public sees a winner; think like you're on the ropes, the 
public sees a loser.  Fabrizio thought he had a mandate from the 
Democratic party, and he was projecting the image of a presidential 
front runner She did not want to deflate that confidence.  But the 
signs were in the tea leaves, and she was Fabrizio's resident seer.

"Did you read the Op-ed piece Stevenson wrote in the Post last week in 
response to the Herald Times editorial?"  La Rosa asked.

"You mean the one that got that Thompson fellow killed?"  Fabrizio 
asked.

"Yeah.  The Herald Times argued that the New York Board of Education's 
proposal to create a metropolitan area school district to force 
integration of the public schools was 'unnatural,"" she said.

"Stevenson replied that--wait, let me read it exactly."

La Rosa reached into her purse and pulled out a folded newspaper 
clipping.  She unfolded it, then read: "While I personally applaud the 
Board of Educations efforts, I can respect the opinion that forced 
school bussing across district lines is too expensive and burdensome to
students.  However, I find it intolerable that a respected institution
such as the Herald Times could imply that the mixing of the races is 
unnatural." "Yup.  He handled it well," Fabrizio said.

"But I have other ideas that might position us even better on the race 
issue. I'm no slouch on civil rights, either--I don't want Tom 
Stevenson."

"It's more than the issue itself.  Tony.  It's the tone of Stevenson's 
response, the timing," she said, then hesitated.  No secrets, no 
lies.

"He's leveraging his reputation as the civil rights guy in Congress in 
a year where civil rights is going to be the issue in the presidential 
election.  He's going to make a run at you in the primaries.  I can 
feel it in my bones."

Fabrizio's jaw dropped.  He swung his feet off the desk and began 
pacing along an imaginary line.

"No way, Rosie.  There's no love between us, but he's a party man.  We 
need to present a united front to beat JJ in November.  No way."

"I'm as sure about this as I was about Illinois," La Rosa said.

Illinois had elevated La Rosa from political greenhorn to legend in 
1996.  Fresh out of Harvard Law School, she joined Hank Norton's 
presidential re-election campaign as a low-level staffer.  She proved 
herself amazingly astute at gauging public opinion, and she rose 
through the ranks to become a key advisor to Norton's campaign managers
by the end of the summer.  Many on the staff credited her personally 
with carrying Illinois by orchestrating an all-night vigil by Norton in
 a South Chicago housing development on the eve of the election.

Norton carried Illinois by less than 20,000 votes, and Illinois turned 
out to be the difference in the election.  When La Rosa Smith talked, 
Tony Fabrizio listened.

"Shitfuck," Fabrizio said.  He tended to combine his two favorite oaths
 when he was upset.

"Calm down, Tony, Stevenson's not that bad," La Rosa said.

"Fuckshit," he said.  La Rosa fought the urge to laugh.  With his bushy
eyebrows, dark sacks under his eyes, and droopy jowls, Tony Fabrizio 
was a human cartoon.

She had sat in the same chair for three years--at first stunned, then
amused--watching him cuss and stomp back and forth like a target in a 
carnival shooting game.  A path was worn in the rug behind his desk 
from seven years of pacing.

"You'll still have me to bounce ideas off," La Rosa said.

"You can send Tom to funerals and put him in charge of the environment 
after you win the election."

Fabrizio glanced skywards.

"I had ideas, Rosie.  This changes everything."

"Well, who did you have in mind?"  La Rosa asked, wondering why he had 
not discussed his plans with her before today.

Fabrizio stopped pacing.

"I wanted to do something big--really big--for the millennium 
election."

"An African American

Fabrizio grunted.

"Maybe.  Maybe a woman."

La Rosa shut her eyes.  She had abandoned her teaching career and 
attended Harvard Law School to advance the causes of AfricanAmericans 
and women.  She had already exceeded her expectations by becoming Tony 
Fabrizio's right hand, his sounding board on critical issues.  But now 
she had an opportunity to influence history.

Her next words might determine whether America elected its first woman 
or African-American vice president.  Shitfrick.  No secrets, no lies. 
Fuckshit.

"You know that no one would love to see an African-American or woman 
vice president more than I would," she said.  You can still shift 
gears, girl.

"But Tom Stevenson could beat you in the primaries, and JJ Alexander 
will beat you in November if you can't carry California.  You need Tom 
Stevenson as your

VP."

La Rosa fidgeted with her hands, observing Fabrizio's reaction.  He 
resumed pacing.  He projected the image of a thick-skinned tough-guy, 
but La Rosa knew that he was trying to hide the hurt.

She looked at her watch.  Seven-fifteen.  La Rosa had promised to cook 
Friday evening dinner for her mother.  She had been ailing of late, and
 La Rosa tried to visit at least twice a week.

"Can I go ahead and put out some feelers with Stevenson's staff, 
Tony?"

"You think he can beat me?"  he asked.

"Yes.  Even if he doesn't, a nasty campaign will hurt you against 
jj."

"Then what's in it for Stevenson?"

"Together you'd make a great team.  He'd be better positioned for a 
presidential run in eight years."

"And you don't think a black or woman candidate will help me beat 
them?"

La Rosa shook her head.

"Nope.  Might even hurt."

Fabrizio paced the imaginary line, back and forth, back and forth. 
Finally, he stopped and simply said, "Set it up, Rosie."

EIGHT

BEN'S EYES DRIFTED between the computer screen on Adams Thompson's desk
and stolen glances at Debby as she browsed through Thompson's book 
collection.  It had been an enjoyable Saturday afternoon, mixing 
business with pleasure.  They had inventoried the contents of Thompson 
plush apartment together, all the while engaging in the idle banter of 
new found friends.

Ben tried to focus on the financial data on the computer, a top-of 
the-line IBM Thinkpad laptop housed in a docking station.  Thompson had
demonstrated himself to be well-organized in his financial affairs,
and  it had soon become apparent to Ben that Calhoun College was about
to  receive a substantial windfall.  He pressed a button on the
keyboard to  copy the data files on to a floppy disk.

"It's getting late," Ben said.  It was almost half past six.

"Are you hungry?"

"You bet," Debby said.

"It looks like Thompson's a CyberLine subscriber," Ben said.

"All you have to do is guess his password, and then we can go."

"Okey do key she said.

"What's his screen name?"

"The Publisher," Ben said.

"Try "Herald Times,"" Debby said.

Ben entered it.

"Nope."

"How about his middle name or his initials?"

Ben tried them both.

"Nope, again."

"I don't know.  Try "Sesame' or "Open Sesame."

"One step ahead of you, d'Artagnan," Ben said with his best French 
accent.

"I

already tried them."

Debby smiled back and touched his shoulder.  She tried our her own 
accent.

"Ah, I love it when you speak zee French to me."

"Oo-la-la!  My pet, my sweet!"  He puckered his lips in an exaggerated 
way.

She laughed.

"Stick to the Musketeers, Ben.  They're far sexier than Pepe Ie Pew," 
she said.

There was an extra bounce in Ben's step as they strolled the short 
distance down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square in the glow of the 
streetlights.  There was something about connecting with a live friend,
 a psychic energy, that could not be replicated on CyberLine.

"Have you spent much time in the Village?"  Ben asked as they passed 
under the giant Washington Arch, which marked the northern entrance to 
the Square.

"Not much," she said.

"I still haven't met too many people in New York yet.  I hang out 
mostly near my apartment on the Upper West Side."

"You should check out the city," Ben said.

"I've only been down here a year and a half, but it feels like my 
backyard already."

"You didn't spend much time down here when you were growing up?"  she 
asked.

"No, we stuck pretty much to Westchester," he said.

"You know.  Cub Scouts.

Little League.  Neighborhood picnics.  Newspaper routes.  Nintendo. 
Cutting grass.

Grass growing."

Debby giggled.

"You make it sound so exciting." "I guess you don't know any better
when you're a kid.  It was safe,  predictable.

Everybody had their quirks, but basically everybody was the same. 
White.  Middle class.  Not quite the living dead or the Stepford Wives,
 but essentially boring."

"I see.  So now I take it you're leading the life of the daring young
sophisticate?"  she said, smiling.

"Hardly.  I love the city, but I've been too busy to take advantage of 
it," Ben said.

"I think I was intoxicated by its finer points when I was a summer 
intern.

The bright lights.  Broadway.  Bars.  Parties.  Perpetual motion. 
Every  time you go out you don't know what or who will catch your
interest.  There's always an element of unpredictability, of danger. 
It makes life  interesting."

"I'd love to see more of it," Debby said.

"Stick with me, kid," Ben said.  His Humphrey Bogart imitation was 
passable.  At least Debby recognized it.

"I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," she shot 
back.  They both laughed.  Debby caught Ben off guard with a hip-check,
knocking him off balance for a moment, but warming him to his core 
nonetheless.  He found her playful habits endearing.

The smell of Middle Eastern food permeated the air as they exited 
Washington Square at the corner of West 4th and MacDougal Streets.  An 
assortment of restaurants and bars occupied the brightly colored 
storefronts along MacDougal.

Ben stopped in front ofSausolito's.  Instead of walking in, he led 
Debby down a short stairway below street level.  A dozen wooden picnic 
benches lined the right wall of the dining area.  The only lighting 
came from orange glass candle holders on the tables.  About half of the
benches were filled, mostly with college students.  A handful of older
men sat at the bar off to the left.  Ben and Debby opted for a table
in  the back corner.

A waitress brought them menus.  They ordered a pitcher of margaritas, 
no salt.

Debby leaned over and whispered, "How did you ever find this hole in 
the wall?" "A friend," Ben replied.

"It isn't much to look at, but a starving wetback would kill for their
guacamole."

Debby looked away.  Ben sensed that he had offended her.  The waitress 
brought the pitcher of drinks and took their order.

"Did I upset you?"  he asked after the waitress left.

"Don't get me wrong, I can cuss with the best of them," she said with 
an awkward smile.

"But I don't like ethnic slurs.  I never found bigotry to be an 
attractive quality."

"I'm sorry.  I'm really not a bigot, at all," he said.

"I guess I was trying to be a little more colorful to impress you in my
 own humble way."

She smiled.

"Humility," she said.

"Now that's one of your most impressive characteristics."

"Hmmm.  And what might my other impressive characteristics be?"  Ben 
asked.

She paused as if deep in thought.  Ben held his breath.  She spoke in a
 slow, measured cadence.

"You're intelligent.  You have a great sense of humor.  You're not bad 
looking."

Ben exhaled and laughed.  It was more of a snort.

"I can live with that," he said.

"Okay, now I'll put you on the spot, Mr.  Wiseguy.  What do you find 
impressive about me?"  Debby asked.

The waitress returned with their appetizer.

"Saved by the guac!"  Ben said.

"Oh, you're not going to get off that easy, Benny boy," she chuckled.
Ben grimaced.

"I've always wanted a nickname, but Benny brings to mind an image of an
 old Jewish guy with a Yiddish accent," he said.

Debby chuckled.

"So what did your friends call you when you were a kid?"  she asked.

"Just Ben," he said.  He paused to scoop some guacamole with a tortilla
 chip.

"I

was one of those kids who couldn't find a nickname that fit."

"What would you want to be called if you could pick one?"  Debby asked.
 She followed his cue and began eating as they spoke.

"You'll laugh."

at me.

"Hawkeye."

She laughed.

"Hawkeye Kravner.  King of the wild frontier.  How did you come up with
 that one? Last of the Mohicans?"

"Nope.  I was actually named after the lead character in the TV show 
MASH," he said.

"Do you remember Hawkeye Pierce?"

"Sure.  I watched the re-runs all the time."

"His name was Benjamin Franklin Pierce.  He was nicknamed Hawkeye after
his father's favorite character in literature, Natty Bumppo, from The 
Last of the Mohicans," Ben said.

"I'm a child of the Seventies.  My father named me after a TV 
character, but without the cool nickname."

"Believe it or not, I know what you mean," Debby said while munching on
 a loaded chip.

"There's something about being tagged with a nickname that means you've
been accepted.  Mom moved around a lot after the divorce.  At first I 
made new friends every time we moved.  But it hurt so much to leave 
them each time, I stopped trying to make new ones."

"That's tough.  What did you do?"  Ben asked.

"I spent a lot of time alone.  I like to draw, and I got pretty good at
 it," she said.

"Maybe some time you can show me your etchings."

"Very funny, Hawkeye."

Ben grinned his crooked grin.

"I like it.  I like it," he said.

The waitress delivered two pewter trays piled high with tacos, 
burritos, retried beans and rice.  Debby looked at the plate 
uncertainly.  Ben sensed that she might be wary about using her hands, 
so he hoisted a taco to his mouth. Debby eagerly followed suit.

"So what about you?  Did you have a lot of friends?"  Debby asked 
between mouchfuls.

"Until junior high," Ben said.

"A string of best friends all moved away over a two-year span.  I 
started to grow a hard shell after that, too."

"Really?  You seem to have so many friends in the office," she said.

"We joke around," he said.

"Did you have a lot of girlfriends in high school?"  Debby asked.

"A few good friends, but not too many dates," Ben said, blushing.

"I didn't date much until college."

"Me, neither," Debby said.  She smirked.

"But I made up for lost time then."

Ben felt a surge of warmth.  Say something you idiot.

After not too long had passed, Debby pushed her plate aside, crossed 
her arms and leaned forward on the table.

"Sooo, you were going to tell me my impressive characteristics?"

"You're finished already?"  Ben asked.

"Just taking a break," she said, smiling.

"But don't you try to change the subject, again.  Tell me about me."

Ben exhaled deeply.  Think before you talk.

"Well, you're intelligent.  Confident.

Down-to-earth.  You have a quick wit.  A beautiful smile," he said, 
gazing into her eyes.  He hesitated just a split second.  Testosterone.
 Take a chance.

Adrenaline.  What if she rejects me?  Alcohol.  Take the path with 
heart.

"And eyes I could stare into forever."

Debby smiled brightly.

"That's such a sweet thing to say," she said softly.

A feeling of controlled euphoria overtook Ben.  She didn't reject me.

"It's all true," he said.

They continued eating and talking until both of their plates, and the 
pitcher of margaritas, were empty.  As Ben paid the check, it occurred 
to him that it had been a very long time since he could remember 
speaking so comfortably with a woman.  But this was not the time to 
allow Quixote to haunt him.  Three and a half years of pain and guilt 
was enough.  It's time to move on.

The cold blast of air that hit them when they stepped outside took some
of the edge off their after-meal stupor.  Ben's euphoric feeling 
remained, enhanced by the margaritas.  Debby stretched and yawned.

Ben wanted to kiss her.  She patted her stomach.

"Full belly, empty head," she said.

"Me, too.  Feel like walking it off?"  he asked.

"You bet," she said.

They walked and talked, down MacDougal Street, right on Bleecker.  In 
and out of shops.  It seemed so natural when Debby gave Ben her hand to
hold as they turned up Sixth Avenue.  A short time later, in a 
bookstore, was the moment love overtook him.

They were simply standing close, near the magazine rack, each flipping 
through pages of a different magazine.  The bookstore was crowded. 
There were people on either side of them and behind.  He could feel her
heat.  They silently began to breathe more deeply, rhythmically, in 
unison.  The room became larger, the other people distant, as if an 
invisible stage had suddenly, slowly, mystically lifted them above the 
fray to a place of their own.  Ben's mind was blank.  They stared at 
the pages in front of them, but the flipping had ceased.  For a magical
moment, Ben did not know how long it lasted, they were joined by a
force that he had never before experienced.  It was electric.

Someone dropped a book with a loud bang.  Ben blinked.  The stage 
lowered.  Ben and Debby flipped the pages of their magazines almost in 
unison.  He still felt her warmth.  His nerves still tingled from the 
residue of the energy that had surged through him.  He was happy.  Did 
she feel it, too?

Their hands were magnetically drawn together when they stepped out on 
to the street.  They walked, in comfortable silence, towards West 
Fourth Street.  It was almost eleven o'clock.

"It's getting a little late for me, Ben," Debby said.

"I think I should grab a cab and call it a night."

Ben did not want the night to end.  He hesitated awkwardly.  Tell her 
how you feel.  The alcohol was wearing off.

"Okay, I'll flag one down," he said.

She frowned and looked away.  A flash of panic whipped through Ben's 
being.

"What's wrong, Deb?"  he asked.

"I can see in your eyes that you're way ahead of me," she said, her 
voice cracking.

"Can we go someplace quiet for a cup of coffee?"

Ben's heart sank.

"Sure.  There's a 24-hour diner right around the corner," he said.

The short walk was uncomfortable for Ben, the apparent connection 
broken.  They sat in a booth in the back of the diner and ordered 
decaf.  Debby seemed to have trouble finding words.

"What did you mean when you said I was ahead of you?"  Ben asked.  He 
tried not to let his hurt show.

"You had a look I've seen before," Debby said.

"A puppy dog look."

A puppy dog look.  Ouch.  This was why CyberLine was so safe.  There 
were no faces to read.  Instinct was irrelevant.  If you got rejected, 
you logged off, no regrets, no pain.  Face to face, your soul was 
bared.

"I felt something tonight," Ben said sadly.

"I thought you did, too."

She averted his eyes.

"Ben, I'm not ready to be courted, again," she said.

"I

could use a friend now, but I'm not looking to fall in love."

But I felt your heat.  You want me as badly as I want you.

"It wasn't just me," Ben said.

"I like you a lot, Ben.  But I'm not ready for another relationship 
yet."

"Does this have something to do with that boyfriend you left behind in 
San Francisco?"

t(-}7 Yes.

"Are you married to him?"

"No!"

"Then what?"

She looked away, again.  She peered out the window for what seemed an 
eternity to Ben.  She turned back and stared directly into his eyes. 
Resolute.

"I had an abortion."

Ben let the words sink in.  It was an issue he had debated with Quixote
in the lunchroom at Harvard.  They had both believed in a woman's
right  to choose, but he had angered her because his view of this
painful,  emotional issue for a woman was too academic.  Now he saw the
grief in  Debby's features, and he understood.

"Did he support you through it?"  Ben asked gently.

Silence.  She cast her eyes down.

"Oh, God," Ben said.

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

Silence.

"How could you not tell him?"  Ben asked softly.

Finally, Debby spoke.

"I was angry.  I wanted to get out of San Francisco and leave 
everything behind."

"Were you in love with him?"  he asked.

"I don't know.  Maybe.  Who knows?  I'm not, anymore," she said.

"That's not the issue."

"So what is the issue?"  Ben asked.

"I can't have any entanglements at this point in my life," she said.

"I need to son out my emotions without creating a lot of new ones."

"What are you feeling?"  Ben asked.

"Guilt.  Anger.  Confusion."

Why did women have to be so damn emotional about everything.  They 
needed to take a more academic view if they wanted a choice.  It was a 
survival tool. People would never eat if they thought about the cow's 
sad, droopy eyes before they gobbled down a cheeseburger.

"A fetus in the early stages isn't a life," Ben said.

"The Supreme Court has basically said so."

The tears welled up in Debby's eyes now.  She paused for several 
seconds before speaking.

"I've always believed in a woman's right to choose," she said, avoiding
 Ben's gaze.

"And I never once was concerned that a life was being taken.  But then 
I felt something growing inside me, and it was alive.  Maybe it didn't 
have thoughts or emotions, but it was growing and it had life."

"Sometimes we have to make hard choices," he said, his voice cracking 
slightly.

Be a man.  No tears.

"What kind of a life would the baby have had if you didn't want it? 
You  would we blamed it for ruining your life."

"Maybe, maybe not," she said.

"I could have put it up for adoption.  It was a selfish choice."

"I don't see it that way," Ben said.

"You fixed a mistake before it could have a major impact on your 
life."

"It was alive, Ben," she said tearfully.

"I killed it."

"It may have been growing, but it wasn't alive," Ben said earnestly.

"Not in the way we care about.  A plant grows.  It has life, but it has
no soul. The same with animals that we kill for food.  There's 
something distinctly human that we're trying to protect."

He reached across the table and took both of her hands into his.  There
 was nothing academic about what he was feeling now.

"We have life," he said.

"I can feel your emotion, your soul.  A fetus has no thoughts, no 
emotion, no life.  It doesn't know that anything is being taken from 
it."

Debby tried to smile.  Her lips moved in all the right ways, but her 
eyes betrayed her sadness.

"Thanks for talking to me," she said.

"I

haven't told anyone else about this.  It helps to talk, but I just need
 time."

"If that's what you need, then I'll support you," Ben said.

"I'll be there whenever you need a friendly ear."

"Or a hug?"  she asked.

"You bet," he said.

She smiled.

"Hey!  That's my line."

They hailed two cabs.  One took Debby up the West Side, the other took 
Ben up the East.  Ben hugged Debby tightly before they parted.  There 
was hope.

NINE

IT WAS MONDAY MORNING in Atlanta, but Ben did not have Georgia on his 
mind.  In fact, little but thoughts of Debby passed through his 
consciousness since Saturday night.  He was disappointed that their 
romance had taken an abrupt detour, but he would be a friend until she 
was ready for the relationship to blossom into something more.  He kept
replaying the scene in the bookstore and wondered how he could
possibly  have misread her feelings.

Ben's taxi arrived at Calhoun College promptly at nine o'clock.  The
Administration Building was a former plantation house in the 
traditional Southern style, a white clapboard mansion that could have 
been a stand-in for Tara in Gone With the Wind.  A dozen other 
buildings, added over the years, were scattered among the dogwoods and 
pines that dotted the expansive campus.

Dean Frederick's assistant, Kimberly, met Ben at the reception desk and
accompanied him to an interior conference room on the third floor of 
the Administration Building.  Kimberly was Ben's image of classic 
southern beauty.

She had long, blonde hair and wore a short, pale green dress that clung
to her shapely figure.  Ben could feel her aura of sexuality from 
several feet away. Her lips screamed to be kissed.

Ben felt guilty about his reaction, albeit involuntary.  He was 
physically attracted to Debby, but the feeling that swept over him in 
the bookstore on Saturday night was the result of a longstanding 
infatuation, strengthened by the emotional bond that had developed over
the past week.  There was no emotional connection with Kimberly.  It 
was pure animal instinct, unaided by unnatural scents.

"Buddy will be right in," Kimberly said with a drawl that made Ben's 
heart melt.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee or a lemonade?"

"A lemonade would be just fine," Ben said.  Idiot.  His inflection no 
doubt sounded like a feeble attempt at a southern accent.  He sometimes
felt like Woody Alien's chameleon-like character, Zeiig.  A man whose 
average ness was made even more so by his innate capacity to adopt the 
salient characteristics of the people he was with at the time.

Ben meandered around the massive cherry conference table that occupied 
the room while he waited for Kimberly.  The decorator had worked hard 
to create a dramatic impression.  The table was surrounded by ten 
high-backed, black leather chairs.

Ten portraits, framed in gold leaf, were hung inside large oak panels
on three of the windowless walls.  A framed glass enclosure was 
suspended in the center of one panel behind the head of the table; it 
contained a coat-of-arms, a Scotch plaid kilt--orange background with 
wide black and blue bands and a thin white stripe--and what appeared to
be medieval weaponry.  A built-in oak cabinet, with bookshelves on
top,  comprised the fourth wall, near the door.

Ben was thumbing through a picture book of Southern art he had selected
from the shelves when Kimberly returned with a tall glass of 
lemonade.

"Buddy should be up any minute now," she said, leaning over next to Ben
and placing the glass and a coaster on the table beside him.  Ben 
bathed in her aura.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"  she asked.

"No, thank you," Ben said, hoping that his manner did not betray his 
thoughts of all that she could, do for him.

The door to the conference room swung open moments after Kimberly left,
and a tall, wiry man with a full head of sandy hair plowed in, smiling
 broadly, his arm extended in greeting.

"Good mornin, Ben," he said.

"I'm Buddy Frederick.  I'm glad you could make it down here today."

"Hello, Dean Frederick, it's nice to meet you," Ben said, rising to 
shake the Dean's hand.

"Please, call me Buddy--everybody does."

"Fair enough."  Buddy Frederick was a good-looking man, Ben guessed 
that he was in his early forties, yet there was something about his 
presence, an insincerity, that made Ben uneasy.  His body language did 
not match his words. He was like someone at a cocktail party who did 
not want to be there.  A smirk seemed permanently etched on his face.

"Is this your first visit to Atlanta?"  Dean Frederick asked.

"It's my first visit anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line," Ben 
said.

Dean Frederick gave Ben another one of his well-practiced winning 
smiles.

"Maybe after we finish our business I can take you to lunch and show 
you some of our fine town," he said. "That would be great," Ben said,
practicing his own winning smile.

"Will I have time to visit Mr.  Thompson's summer home in Ellijay?"

"That's a bit of a haul, about two hours northwest of here," Dean 
Frederick said.  He paused.

"I have a meeting this afternoon, but let me ask Kimberly if she can 
look after you instead."

"Super."  Ben offered another winning smile.  His jaw ached.  He was at
the same time panicked, excited and guilt-stricken about the prospect 
of spending the afternoon alone with Kimberly.

"You're all set," the Dean said when he returned, motioning Ben to 
sit.

"So let's get down to it.  Tell me about Adams Thompson."

Ben glanced at his notes, then launched into the short presentation he 
had prepared, borrowing liberally from the repertoire of Fritz Fox.

"I'm prepared to tell you about Mr.  Thompson's will and the bequest to
Calhoun College, but I was hoping to gather some information, too,"
Ben  said.

"I didn't know Mr.  Thompson personally, and I like to piece together 
the various parts of my client's life as I administer the estate.  I 
may be the only person who ever has that opportunity, and I think of it
 as a tribute to his life to review it in its entirety."

"Adams would like that," Dean Frederick said.

"In fact, I chose to meet in this room because it had some significance
 to my old friend."

"How so?"  Ben asked.

"Let's deal with the dry stuff first, then I'll give you a history 
lesson that fascinated of' Adams," the Dean said.

"Fair enough," Ben said.

"Well, let me start by saying that the will does not become effective 
until it's probated by the Surrogate's Court for New York County as Mr.
Thompson's last will and testament.  We'll prepare a probate petition,
which will set out the interests in the estate of Thompson's 
beneficiaries and any other persons adversely affected by the probate 
of the will.  Mr.  Thompson had no living relatives.  If he had died 
without a will, the sole beneficiary of his estate would we been the
State of New York.  We'll serve legal process on the New York State 
Attorney General.  If there are no irregularities in the will and the 
State doesn't contest its validity, the Court will issue letters 
testamentary to our firm, as the executor, and we'll proceed with the 
administration of the estate under the supervision of the Court."

"Which means we get the money," Dean Frederick said, his smirk 
threatening to break into a full-fledged grin.

"You get the money."

"Any chance the State will challenge the will?"  Frederick asked.

"Most challenges are by disgruntled family members," Ben replied.

"It's unlikely that the State would contest a bequest to a charity or 
an academic institution."

"How large an estate did of' Adams have?"

"Marshaling the estate's assets will be our most time consuming task. 
We've gathered some documentation and started--" "Ballpark it for me," 
Frederick interrupted.

Ben pushed his legal pad to the side and leaned back in his chair.

"Thompson's Fifth Avenue apartment and the furnishings will probably be
 valued at well over one million dollars," he said.

"I don't know the value of the house in Ellijay.

He has a Mercedes.  My preliminary and unofficial estimate of his 
liquid assets is about five million dollars."

"Mmm, mmm.  There's a lot of fine work we can do with that kind of 
money," the Dean said.

"We'll do my old friend proud.  When do you think the College will see 
any of it?"

"It's hard to say.  Probably a few months."

"What about any historical documents?  Did you find anything in Adams's
 papers?"

Dean Frederick asked.

Ben shifted in his chair.

"What do you mean?" "Adams and I shared a love of history," the Dean
said.

"He was a collector of historical documents.  He also told me that he 
had written some essays.  I'd like to get those items as soon as 
possible so that we can set up a memorial exhibit.

If his writings are significant, we might even consider establishing a 
program of study based on them."

Ben considered whether he should say anything about the sealed envelope
 or the poem.  Better not.

"He had some personal papers in his safe deposit box," Ben said 
warily.

"I don't know if I'd recognize anything of historical significance if 
it hit me in the face, though."

Dean Frederick chuckled.

"Maybe not.  But if you can send me those documents, I sure would 
appreciate it," he said.

"Adams mentioned something about leaving some of the more valuable ones
 in trust for the college."

Don't panic.  Ben wondered if he had missed something in the trust 
document.  Did Dean Frederick know about the poem or was he just 
fishing?

"I'll have to check into that," Ben said as calmly as he could.

"Fritz Fox, my boss, had a heart attack last week, and we're a little
disorganized.  But I don't think we can distribute anything from the 
estate until the Court issues the letters testamentary."

"I understand," Dean Frederick said, the disappointment evident on his 
face.

"I'm sure you'll do your best for us."

"There's one other request that Mr.  Thompson made in a letter 
accompanying the will," Ben said.  He reached into his briefcase and 
pulled out an urn.

"He asked that we give you his ashes.  The letter said that you'd know 
where to scatter them."

"I'm sure he meant the lake behind his home in Ellijay." "Would you
like me to do that for you this afternoon?"  Ben asked.

"No, it's a personal tribute that I'd like to pay to of' Adams myself,"
Dean Frederick said.  He took the urn and held it up sideways, in both
 palms, bouncing it gently.

"Well, you wanted to know about Adams Thompson?"

Ben felt the tension flow from his body at this signal that his first 
public performance was over.

"Very much so," he said.

Ben prepared to listen politely, but images of the lovely Miss Kimberly
were already teasing the fringes of his conscious mind.  He knew from 
experience that those fantasies would soon consume him, reducing the 
Dean to nothing more than a talking head.

Dean Frederick jumped up and retrieved a jug and two glasses from the 
oak cabinet.

"This Scotch whiskey is almost 170 years old," he said, pouring about 
two fingers' worth into each glass.

"And there's a marvelous story that goes with it.  One that fascinated 
Adams.

"We call this room the MacDougall Room," the Dean continued.  He 
circled his arm around the room in a sweeping gesture.

"These portraits are of the ten children of James Earl MacDougall, II 
and his wife Ann.  That's Jimmy, the oldest, to the right of the 
coat-of-arms.  Alex. Freddy.  Kate.  Tommy.  Glenn.  Andrew.  Danny 
Boy.

Stewart.  And little Colleen.  Georgia was settled by the Scots, and 
the MacDougalls immigrated here around 1830.  This jug was one of 
several that they brought with them from Scotland."

In the blink of an eye, Ben's mental picture of Kimberly was snuffed. 
Something was definitely wrong.  The math was easy.  Jimmy.

Seven brothers and sisters two.  The Dean knew about the poem.  He 
tried to maintain a relaxed and interested look while he calculated his
 quickest escape route.

"They staked a claim to three hundred acres of prime north Georgia 
farmland and turned it into one of the most productive cotton and 
tobacco plantations in the South," Frederick continued. "James died in
1838, and young Jimmy took over the leadership of the  MacDougall clan.
Are you familiar with the history of the South around  these times,
Ben?"

"Not the details," Ben replied.

"Everybody knows that slavery was a big issue then."

"It was a passionate issue for Jimmy MacDougall.  They had a problem 
with runaway slaves, and he dedicated himself to preserving slavery as 
an institution.  His activities caught the attention of none other than
John Calhoun, the legendary senator from South Carolina, the leading 
proponent of slavery in Congress and the benefactor of this fine 
college.

"Calhoun had presidential aspirations," the Dean said.

"But he supported Martin Van Buren's bid for re-election in 1840 to 
maintain Democratic party unity.  Van Buren was a Yankee, a New Yorker,
but he defended the Southern States' right to permit the institution
of  slavery.  William Henry Harrison was the Whig Party candidate."

Ben noticed Frederick scrutinizing his reaction to the mention of 
Harrison.  He forced himself to maintain his composure.

"What was Harrison's position on slavery?"  Ben asked.

"That, Ben, was precisely the question on John Calhoun's mind," Dean 
Frederick said, waving his right index finger in the air.

"Harrison was a Yankee with southern roots.  He was careful not to take
a stand on the slavery issue.  He sought support by offering food,
hard  cider and catchy campaign slogans rather than intelligent
positions."

"I remember that from one of my high school history classes," Ben 
said.

"They called it the Hard Cider Campaign."

"I'm impressed," Dean Frederick said, pressing his lips together 
tightly.

"Well, Calhoun realized that Harrison was winning the hearts of 
Americans with the fervor of his campaign, and he was certain that deep
down in his Yankee heart Harrison was an abolitionist.  At Calhoun's 
bidding, a band of about two hundred Southern Democrats, including 
Jimmy MacDougall and two of his brothers, trekked on horseback to a 
massive rally at the site of Harrison's greatest military victory--the 
Battle of Tippecanoe Ben once again thought he noticed the Dean
studying him.  Gotta throw  him off.

Ben snapped his fingers.

"Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too," he chuckled.  I nearly drove my parents 
mad repeating that slogan.  I couldn't get it out of my mind."

"Well, Old Tip drove the Southern Democrats mad, too," the Dean said, 
smiling.

"And they were determined to force him to take a stand on the slavery 
issue at the rally."

"Were they successful?"  Ben asked.

"No," Dean Frederick said.

"In fact, the day ended in tragedy.  Harrison moved through the crowd 
all afternoon, pausing to shake hands and sip cider with his 
well-wishers.  Jimmy and his boys prepared to taunt Harrison as he 
approached, but Jimmy recognized a Negro man standing near Harrison as 
a runaway slave from the MacDougall plantation.  He rushed towards the 
slave, and Harrisnn, with his knife bared, then stabbed the Negro to 
death."

"My God," Ben said.

"Did Harrison think it was an assassination attempt?"

"If Harrison knew that his life had never been in jeopardy, he didn't 
say," the Dean continued.

"He presided over a kangaroo court that convicted Jimmy of murder and 
sentenced him to die by hanging."

Ben swallowed hard.  There could be no doubt.  Jimmy MacDougall was the
subject of the poem found in Adams Thompson's safe deposit box.  But 
what did it all mean?

Why was Dean Frederick telling him this story?

"When Jimmy's brothers returned to the MacDougall plantation and 
related their misadventure to their mother, she fainted from grief," 
the Dean continued.

"She died a week later, some say from a broken heart, others say she 
took her own life.  In either case, the MacDougall clan was never the 
same." Dean Frederick shook his head.

"I have this vivid picture in my mind.  The nine remaining siblings 
gathered at the grave site, dressed in the family tartans," he said, 
pointing to the frame on the wall that held the plaid garments.

"The sounds of Amazing Grace' playing on the bagpipes, wafting in 
mournful elegance through the forest."

"That's such a haunting image," Ben said.  He wondered why the 
MacDougall family portraits and tartans were displayed here.  He tried 
to recall the words to the poem.  In his present state, he could only 
remember that it was about vengeance and the millennium.

"They all left the plantation some time after that.  Nobody knows 
exactly why or what became of them.  Adams and I have tried to track 
them down, but records were not great back then, and we could not find 
a trace of them.  There is an uncorroborated story that all of the 
MacDougalls' slaves were killed in a fire that was intentionally set, 
and the MacDougalls fled under false identities to escape 
prosecution."

So that was it!  They had murdered their slaves to avenge Jimmy's 
death. Helpless men, women and children.  Killed in the most gruesome 
manner imaginable.  Ben clenched his teeth.

"How many people did they murder?"  Ben asked.

"There were over fifty," the Dean said.

"None survived."

"Why are you honoring these people as if they were heroes?"  Ben asked
incredulously, gesturing at the ring of portraits around the room.

"And why was Adams Thompson so fascinated by them?"

Ben realized that his tone had been sharper than he had intended by the
expression of surprise on Dean Frederick's face.  An image of Fritz Fox
shaking his head disapprovingly suddenly appeared in Ben's mind's eye.
 We save this indignation for the courtroom.

The Dean rocked gently in his chair.

"I think Adams Thompson was mesmerized by the sheer emotion that 
overwhelmed an entire family," he said calmly.

"They gave up their wealth and somehow disappeared without a trace. 
Did  they become outlaws in the Wild West?  Or run off to Europe or
South America?  Nobody knows."

Ben stroked his mustache.  Could the poem have been Thompson's 
fictional account of the legend of the MacDougalls?  That would be a 
rational explanation for it.

Perhaps the only rational explanation.  Still, something strange was 
happening.

The Dean was testing him.  He wanted to know if Ben had seen the poem. 
Why?

"As for these portraits 'honoring' the MacDougalls," the Dean 
continued.

"The plantation was deeded to John Calhoun on the condition that it be
converted to an institution of higher education with the objectives of
developing new agricultural techniques and perpetuating the institution
of slavery.  The slavery clause was illegal after the Civil War, of 
course, and was annulled.  A second condition was that these portraits 
be hung in a prominent location to forever preserve the MacDougall 
name.  We hardly ever bring guests up here, but I felt the occasion of 
Adams's death warranted it.  I hope I haven't caused you any undue 
embarrassment."

Ben blushed.  He had offended his first client.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I have a tendency to shoot off my mouth at the first sign of perceived
injustice.  I didn't mean to be disrespectful."

"No worries here," Dean Frederick said.

"The MacDougalls are an interesting story, but no great source of pride
 for us."  He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees.

"Shall we drink a toast to our friend Adams?"

"I could use a drink," Ben said with a crooked grin.

The Dean slid one of the Scorch glasses to Ben and lifted the other.

"To Adams George Thompson, Jr.--may his name go down in history side by
 side with the legends he loved," the Dean said.

Buddy Frederick drained the Scotch in one gulp.

"Hear, hear," Ben mumbled, then followed suit. Kimberly was waiting
outside in her red Jeep with a packaged lunch when  the meeting ended. 
Ben was drained.  Kimberly still held an allure to  him, but the sexual
energy that had initially overcome him had petered  out.  He looked out
the window and ate his sandwich quietly as they  drove.  The silence
seemed to make Kimberly uncomfortable.

"How do you find Atlanta?"  she asked.

As tired as he was, Ben could not resist.

"I usually go to Savannah and make a right," he said, smiling.

Kimberly rolled her eyeballs skyward, shook her head and grinned.

"Everybody's a comedian."

"Sorry.  You led with your chin," he said.

"Actually, I think Atlanta's beautiful.  I love the way the forest 
comes right up to the city."

"Yeah.  I've lived here all my life and wouldn't think about living 
anywhere else," she said.

"It's different than I anticipated," Ben said.

"Most of my expectations were formed from TV and the movies."

"Well I hope your first southern encounters were more like scenes from 
Gone With the Wind than Hee Haw."

Ben laughed.  He tried on a southern accent.

"Frankly, Miss Kimberly, I'm finding the South to be quite charmin."

She snickered.

"Well, Mr.  Ben, I never, ever would have figured you for a snake oil 
salesman. You New York lawyers seem like all business.  Always so 
serious."

Ben looked out the window, as Kimberly steered the Jeep onto the 
highway.

"I

feel like a kid playing a grown-up game sometimes," he said softly.

"What do you mean?"  she asked.

"One day you're a kid goofing around with your friends, the next day 
you're in a suit and tie.  You feel as if you're supposed to be serious
and business-like, but inside you're still this goofy guy," Ben
said.

"Like I'm staying at the Ritz-Carlton this trip.  The first thing I did
was bounce on the bed a couple of times and then stood there grinning 
like an idiot when I peed in that shiny marble bathroom.  I don't know 
why I'm telling you this."

Kimberly smiled.

"It's because I'm easy to talk to."

"Maybe so," Ben said.

"So, how do you like Atlanta?"

"It's the only place I've known," she said.

"I've got my little apartment in Buckhead.  Lots of restaurants and 
night clubs nearby.  It's easy to meet people.

I can't complain.  What about you--do you have your own place in New 
York?"  she asked.

"Uh-huh.  I live in a high-rise in Manhattan.  Buckhead sounds similar,
 except we've got forty levels stacked on top of each other."

"I couldn't live like that," she said.

"I need space.  Sometimes I take my Jeep and drive to the Chattahoochee
 River and just hike along the trails by myself for hours."

"That's cool.  I think we all need space.  That's probably why New 
Yorkers are so cranky," Ben said.

She laughed.

"Well, you're not so bad for a cranky New Yawker."

"Not a bad accent for an amateur.  By the time you get home tonight 
you'll be speaking New York like a native."

"Oh, God help me, no," she said.

"I'll have to watch Andy Griffith and Dukes ofHazzard re-runs for a 
week!"

They chattered on for the next hour and a half.  They exited the 
highway as the mountains approached, and drove along the fringe of the 
Blue Ridge for about forty miles before reaching Thompsons Ellijay 
home.

The cabin was small.  It had only one level.  The front door opened 
into a living room, with a blue plaid sofa facing a fireplace.  A 
striped oval area rug covered the hardwood floors between the sofa and 
fireplace.  A glass sliding door on the back wall opened to a deck 
outside.  The kitchen was off to the right; a single bedroom was to the
 left.

A desk in the bedroom revealed nothing of value.  A copy of the 
CyberLine software was loaded on a computer, but there was nothing else
 of interest.

Kimberly was watching television on the sofa when Ben emerged from the 
bedroom.

"Find anything interesting?"  she asked.

"No, it looks like we both wasted our time," he said.

"It was just something that needed to be done."

"Well... it doesn't have to be a total waste," Kimberly said coyly, as 
she slunk towards Ben.

He felt her aura coming.  A surge of testosterone restored his earlier 
energy. He tensed.

"What do you mean?"  he asked.  Idiot.  Be a man.  Don't make her spell
 it out.

"I saw a hot tub out back.  We could fire it up for a bit, then come 
back in and warm up."

The blood rushed from his brain and elsewhere to a single point.  Not 
even thoughts of fat naked men could help now.  What about Debby?  He 
smiled weakly.

"I

didn't think to bring swim trunks," Ben said.  Idiot.  You're not 
committed to Debby.  She said she's not ready to fall in love.

Kimberly giggled.  She came up close to him.  Real close.  He was 
consumed by her sexuality.

"This is the South, silly; y'all won't get arrested for some good 
old-fashioned skinny-dippin'."

She leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips.  His body was on fire.
 She slid her hand up the inside of his leg.

"C'mon, let's have some fun, Ben.  I can feel you want to."

He did not pull away.  But I'm in love with Debby.  Kimberly kissed him
again, this time firmer, longer.  But she doesn't love me.  He placed 
his hands on her back and pulled her closer.  It's been four months. 
He  could feel her panties and her warmth through the thin green dress.
Their tongues met, their breathing quickened, his hard-on pulsated. 
Kimberly pressed her pelvis into him gently.

Ben's psyche became a battlefield as the passion escalated.  God, I 
want her.

Lift up her dress and be a man.  But Debby.  Just fuck her.  Debby will
 never know.

Were just friends, anyway.  But there's still hope.  It's been four 
months---fuck her, dammit.  I need to build trust.  Now or never, fool,
 make your move.

Ben pulled away.

"What's the matter, Ben?"  Kimberly said with an exasperated, almost 
desperate tone.  Her hair was disheveled.

"I'm sorry, Kimberly.  I just can't.  I want to.  God, I want to.  But 
I'm starting a new relationship with someone and I can't start it like 
this.  I'm so, so sorry."

Kimberly sat down on the floor, leaning against the back of the sofa.

"Oh Lord, I'm so embarrassed.  I thought we had a connection."

Ben sat down next to her.  They were both still breathing heavily.

"I've never felt so connected to anyone in my life," he said.

"You turned me on the second we met."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"This doesn't happen very often."

"You're perfect.  A guy would have to be nuts not to want you.  I'm 
nuts!  Hell, I'm a fucking raving lunatic."

"Yes you are.  But you're a sweet fucking raving lunatic."  She 
smiled.

The ride back to Atlanta was quiet.  Kimberly asked some questions 
about Debby.

Ben asked some questions about Atlanta.  They were both knocked out 
from the battle between their hormones and their minds.  Kimberly 
kissed Ben sweetly on the cheek when she dropped him off at the Ritz, 
and he promised to call her if he was ever back in Atlanta.  It was a 
quarter past five o'clock.

There was a message for Ben to call the office.  Quitting time for the
secretaries at Kramer, Fox was five-thirty.

"Ben!  Geez, Louise!  Where have you been?"  Carol, his secretary, 
said.  It was unusual for her to be so excited.

"Just taking care of business down here," Ben said calmly.

"What's up?"

"Your office was trashed this morning!  We've been trying to get you 
all day."

"What happened?"  Ben asked.

"Somebody broke in over the weekend.  It's a mess.  There are papers 
everywhere."

"Shit!  Who did it?  What were they looking for?"

"The police were in there," Carol said.

"We can't tell what they took yet.  The police want to talk to you."

"Okay.  I have an early flight tomorrow morning.  Can you transfer me 
to Debby Barnett?"

Debby was eager to talk.

"Ben!  Are you okay?  Did you hear about your office?"

"Yeah.  Carol told me.  I'm fine.  Did you get a chance to look in 
there?  Could you see if they were going after anything in 
particular?"

"It's a mess.  They wouldn't let me in until about an hour ago.  Leo 
was down there, but nobody else," she said.  She lowered her voice to a
 whisper.

"Was the poem on your desk?"

"No.  I have it with me in my briefcase," he said.

"Good," Debby said.  She sounded relieved.

"You've got to put it back in the envelope."

"What?"  Ben said.

"I started cleaning up the mess in your office," she said hesitantly.

"I found the second trust agreement you were looking for.  I must have
accidentally filed it with the tax memos when I was rushing to put 
together the package for you."

Ben closed his eyes.  This was big.  He had breached his duty as 
trustee.

"Fritz will be livid," Ben said.

"I know," Debby said.

"I'm really sorry.  I'll tell him it's all my fault."

"We'll figure out how to deal with it tomorrow," Ben said.

"Strange things are happening down here, too.  People care about that 
poem a little too much.  I can't wait to talk to you tomorrow."

"I've been thinking about you all day today," she said.

"Were your ears ringing?"

"More than you can begin to imagine."

TEN

AT THE SAME TIME KIMBERLY FREDERICK left Ben Kravner at the 
Ritz-Carlton on Monday evening, Cal Stewart sat at his squeaky clean 
desk admiring her likeness in a series of photographs that he had 
received from a private investigator.  He was amazed at what The 
Caretaker would ask his daughter to do in the name of The Royal 
Order--although she seemed to be enjoying herself in these pictures. He
slipped the photos into a manila envelope and sealed it.  He printed 
the name "Dr.  Raymond Allgood" in block letters on the front.

Stewart glanced at the wall clock and clenched his teeth.  It was only 
a short walk across the campus of the National Institutes for Health to
the Director's office, but Allgood was late once again.  Stewart was 
going to enjoy watching him squirm.  Last time that uppity Nigra shows 
me up.

He rotated in his chair and glared through the wall of glass that 
overlooked the expansive NIH grounds.  In one year they'll all be 
squirming.  It was a prospect that was at the same time gratifying and 
troubling.

Cal Stewart learned of his role in the fate of the Negro race in 
America on his thirteenth birthday.  It had been an exciting moment. 
One that still resonated in his mind, still made his heart pound.  His 
father's eyes had been ablaze, his voice filled with pride.  The 
Stewarts, the entire MacDougall clan, were destined for greatness.

Francis Stewart had evoked the memories of the great Scottish heroes of
generations past.  William Wallace, Robert Bruce, the Stuart kings and 
all of the brave Highlanders who perished at Culloden fighting for 
justice.  The MacDougalls would have their own justice, he had 
proclaimed.  The presidency would fall.  The Negro race would be 
vanquished forever.

Vanquished.  It was the word that had been passed down to each of the 
members of The Royal Order by their fathers.  But the concept made him 
uneasy.  He feared that his more powerful cousins had a far different 
vision of the Final Vengeance than he had.

He would be satisfied if blacks were simply put back in their place. 
Eliminate affirmative action.  Permit discrimination.  Just let nature 
take its course.

Their natural inferiority would assure that justice prevailed in the 
end.  Let them start the civil war.

But some of the others advocated a stronger approach.  The General 
seemed eager to initiate war.  And The Spy, who Stewart perceived as 
the most unbalanced of the lot, fervently believed that nothing short
of the racial cleansing of the land would satisfy the spirits of their
forefathers.  He could not read the thoughts of The Speaker, The 
Senator and The Caretaker.

Stewart took some comfort that The Heir Apparent, their leader, 
appeared to take a more moderate view.  Ever cautious not to break the 
alliance that had been crafted over a century and a half, The Heir 
Apparent had advocated triggering a brief war, with blacks accepting a 
subordinate role under the terms of surrender.  At least he was not 
calling for the butchering of innocent men, women and children.

Dr.  Allgood arrived fifteen minutes late.  He smiled and gripped Dr. 
Stewart's hand heartily.  The tall, broad, black man towered over 
Stewart, whose scholarly hunch made him appear even shorter than his 
five-foot, seven-inch frame.

"Cal, good to see you.  Sorry I'm late," Allgood said.  His deep, 
booming voice enhanced his commanding presence.

"I had a call from Dr.  Hobert in Paris that I had to take.  It's late 
there. They're doing some exciting research on the role ofretrovlruses 
on the etiology of AIDS, and they've made some discoveries that may 
provide a link to identifying the role of viruses in the development of
human cancer.  They want to know if we can still get funding to 
participate in the research next year."

"You know the budget has been fixed for some time now, Ray," Stewart 
said.

"This sounds like a real break-through project, though.  I don't think 
we want to miss out on it."

"Write up a proposal, and we'll talk about it."  Stewart was irritated.
 This was supposed to be his meeting.

"Listen, have a seat.  I called you because I have a personal favor to 
ask."

Dr.  Allgood sat.  He ran his hand through his close-cropped hair, 
which had only recently begun to gray at the temples.

"Sure.  What's up?"

"A friend of mine runs a small college in Atlanta," Stewart said.

"They're trying to develop their medical program, and he asked me if we
can throw some extramural research funds their way to finance a cancer
 research study next semester."

"What's the objective?"  Allgood asked.

"They're investigating the long term carcinogenic effect of certain
FDA-approved pharmaceuticals."

"So they want to track case studies?"  Allgood asked.

"No.  Their theory is that there are too many uncontrolled variables in
the general population.  They want to use life prisoners at a Georgia 
penitentiary."

"You know as well as I do that we can't support potentially dangerous 
research on prisoners," Dr.  Allgood said.  He leaned forward.  His 
eyebrows furrowed downward.

"Are you testing me, Cal?"

Stewart leaned back in his chair.  He raised his open palms in a 
gesture intended to soothe.

"Calm down.  Ray.  I think this is important research.  We may have to 
run a little wide of the rules, but we can pull it off."

"No way, Cal.  If they wanted to start in January, they should have 
applied last February like everybody else."

"I can use the Discretionary Fund," Stewart said.

"If you make the request, I'll grant it."

"The application still needs to pass through OPRR," Allgood said.  The 
Office for Protection from Research Risks was charged with protecting 
humans and animals from overzealous research scientists.

"But I make the final judgment as to whether an activity is covered by 
the policy on human experimentation."

"There are special rules for prisoners," Allgood said.

"There's no way you can approve this project."

"We both know there are shortcuts.  Help me out here, and I'll see what
 I can do to fund your virus research."

Allgood folded his arms and stared at Stewart angrily.

"That's not fair," Allgood said.

"My project is cutting edge; yours is illegal.  Plain and simple."

"Ray, I'm afraid you have to help me on this one," Stewart said.

"Look, I'll find another way to get in on the virus research," Allgood 
said.

"I'm sorry, Cal.  I take the law seriously."

"This is not about tit-for-tat," Stewart said.

"You're going to help me whether or not I help fund your precious 
research."

Allgood looked stunned.

"I will not participate in this conversation any longer," he said, 
rising from his chair.

Uppity Nigra.

"Sit down.  Dr.  Allgood!"  Allgood froze in his tracks.  Stewart knew 
that the sharpness in his voice was out of character; it felt good. 
Allgood glowered at Stewart.  He did not sit.

"If you want my resignation, you'll have it in the morning," Allgood 
said.

Stewart slid the manila envelope across the desk.

"You'll want to see this before you do anything rash," he said.

"You have a family to think about."

"What's this?"  Allgood asked.

"Take it back to your office and think about it," Stewart said.

"You'll get an application in the mail this week from Calhoun College. 
Approve it, then send it to me.  I'll work it through the process. 
Before you sign it, though, I want you to make one change.  The prison 
population in Georgia is disproportionately African-American.  We can't
risk having a nearly all-white institution like Calhoun College doing 
experiments on blacks with all of the racial unrest we've seen lately. 
Limit the test group to white prisoners.  They can use blacks in the 
control group."

"You're insane.  You'll have my resignation in the morning."

"You may tender your resignation if you desire, but I strongly suggest 
that you review the contents of the envelope before you make your 
decision."

Allgood's jaw was firmly locked.  Fire danced in his eyes.  He snatched
the envelope from the desk and stormed out of the room, slamming the 
door behind him.

It was after six o'clock.  In a bad movie, Cal Stewart thought, his 
sinister laugh would have echoed through the empty hallways of the NIH 
displacing the fading echo of the slamming door.  But he was not a 
theatrical man.  Instead, he just smiled.  It was a sinister smile.

ELEVEN

A VETERAN REPORTER STEPPED FORWARD from the pack gathered outside the 
Russell Senate Office Building, the most prestigious of the three 
Senate office buildings in the Capitol Hill complex.

Aw, hell.  JJ Alexander cursed to himself.  His thinning, 
gray-streaked, blonde hair billowed in the frigid breeze as he crossed 
Constitution Avenue.  It was five o'clock on Monday afternoon, and the 
56-year-old former football star was in no mood to talk to the press.

"Senator Alexander, can you comment on the rumor that Tom Stevenson 
will be announced as Tony Fabrizio's running mate within the next few 
days?"  the reporter asked.  The pack encircled Alexander.

Goddam wolves.

"I have time for two or three questions," Alexander said.  A bouquet of
microphones and tape recorders were thrust in his face.

"Do you fear a Fabrizio-Stevenson ticket?"  the same reporter asked.

Alexander laughed heartily.

"Hell, I'm no stranger to fear," he drawled.

"I

played quarterback in the NFL against the Purple People Eaters in 
Minnesota.

feared Karl Eller and Alan Page.  I fought in the jungles of Vietnam 
and was a POW for two years.  I feared the Viet Cong.  But Tony 
Fabrizio and Tom Stevenson?

Naw, I don't fear them.  They're pussycats compared to the demons I've 
faced."

He pointed to a middle-aged woman in a red parka.

"Senator Alexander, there's been speculation that Fabrizio's staff 
might be the source of the Stevenson rumor in an attempt to cut off an 
ambush," she said.

"Who do you think would be a more formidable opponent next November, 
Fabrizio or Stevenson?

Alexander resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  That's right, 
sweetheart, you're so smart you're going to make me look like a dumbass
 country boy on national

TV.

"Tony Fabrizio and Tom Stevenson are both fine gentleman, and either 
would be a worthy adversary," Alexander said.

"But, hell, the American people are ready for real change--a Second 
American Revolution--and I'm prepared to give it to them.  Fabrizio and
Stevenson represent Democratic politics as usual.  Spend, spend,
spend,  spend, spend.  You give me any Democrat you want in November,
and I'll  kick his ass."

The press corps erupted in laughter; they had their clip for the six 
o'clock news.

"Last question, folks," Alexander said, then pointed to an older man in
 a wool overcoat.

"Senator, would you consider Governor Hodges or Senator Gibbons as a 
running mate to neutralize the Stevenson factor?"  the man asked.

Alexander was skeptical of the value of any woman on the ticket, but he
viewed Cindy Hodges as an insincere bitch.  The thought of sharing the
Republican ticket with her turned his stomach.  Harley Gibbons was a 
space cadet.  That might help in California, but would cost him the 
rest of the country.

"I've had informal conversations with several candidates for the
vice-presidential slot, but I can't comment on that right now," he 
said.

"Thank you very much, folks.  I've gotta run."

Alexander hurried up the steps, ignoring the flurry of questions that 
ensued, then rushed through the metal detectors just inside the door. 
An alarm sounded.

"Damn.  Must be that metal plate in my head from Vietnam," Alexander 
said.  He winked at the Capitol Police officer stationed at the 
security checkpoint, then stepped back through the metal detector.

Alexander knelt down and lifted up his right pants leg.  He pulled a 
Smith & Wesson .22 caliber revolver out of a black leather ankle 
holster, and handed it to the officer.  He purchased the weapon after a
Congressman, Bert Rice, a kid from Oklahoma, was held up at knife
point  three weeks earlier.  The pistol was light on firepower, but it
gave  Alexander a sense of control in a town that seemed to be spinning
out  of it.

"Sorry, Phil," he said to the security officer.

"Sooner or later I'll remember I'm carrying that damned peashooter."

"No problem, Senator," the officer said, returning the weapon to
Alexander after he passed through the metal detectors without 
trigger

N

ing The alarm.  Congressmen were permitted to carry firearms in federal
buildings; staff and visitors were not.

Alexander climbed the marble staircase to The third floor.  He waved a 
hasty greeting to his clerical staff, then closed the door to his 
office, Russell 315, one of the largest in the building.  The room was 
lavishly decorated, befitting the Senate Minority Leader.  The Texas 
state flag was displayed prominently by the door.  An entire wall was 
devoted to photographs of Alexander with distinguished colleagues and 
guests.  A royal blue sofa was strategically placed opposite the photo 
gallery.

Alexander plopped into his worn leather chair.  An antique walnut desk 
abutted the window, offering an unobstructed view of the Capitol 
Building across Constitution Avenue.

The weary senator stroked his chin.  Powers greater than nature seemed 
to be forcing his hand.  Perhaps the spirits of his departed ancestors 
were sending him a message from the great beyond.  Within the same 
week, the troubling rumors about Tom Stevenson had emerged, and he had 
learned of the unexpected reappearance of The Assassin.

JJ Alexander had learned that his destiny was to be president on his 
thirteenth birthday when his father crowned him as The Heir Apparent. 
Everything he had done since then--Green Beret, star quarterback, 
Congressman, Senator--had been carefully crafted to achieve that 
glorious moment for his father.  George Alexander was almost ninety 
now, in poor health, but he was determined to live to see The Royal 
Order claim their ancestors' Final Vengeance.  And, dammit, JJ
Alexander was not going to fumble the ball in the closing minutes of 
the game!

It was funny, he thought, how our fathers made the rules and each of us
played out the game no matter how at odds with our basic nature.  He 
had overcome an intense fear of death, by sheer force of will, to 
return home from war a hero.

He had played football to build his popularity on a national scale 
despite a loathing of physical violence.  He had excelled in the world 
of politics even though his natural quiescence and intellectual 
curiosity would have better suited him for a career in academia or 
science.

He had transformed himself into what his father wanted him to be.  And 
by the time The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight convened in 1995,
Alexander had been well-situated, as the Senate Minority Leader, to 
land the Republican vice-presidential nomination in 2000-at least as 
well-situated as anyone could have been.

But when the Knights had begun to fill in the details of the rough game
plan envisioned 155 years earlier, they had realized that their 
ancestors had not thought this conspiracy all the way through.  It was 
difficult enough to place a candidate in a position to win a 
presidential election; it was nearly impossible to arrange a successful
vice-presidential nomination.  There were too many factors outside of 
their control.  The nomination depended on the political needs and whim
of the presidential candidate, and the ticket's success depended upon 
his strength, not his running mate's.

The Knights had desired more certainty.  They had agreed that The Heir 
Apparent should run for the nation's top job in 2000 rather than seek 
the vice-presidential nomination.  Only The Assassin, who was supposed 
to be prepared to murder the incoming president--and had no way to 
identify friend from foe--had stood in his way.  It was only after The 
Assassin had been neutralized that JJ Alexander formally had declared 
his candidacy.

Alexander balled up a piece of paper and squeezed it in his right hand.
Now, with The Spy's announcement that The Assassin's role may have
been  assumed by a person unknown, Alexander faced a difficult
decision.  He  was not a risk-taker.

Life in the White House would be intolerable knowing that at any moment
The Assassin's bullet could be whistling through the air, bearing down
 on his skull.

But this risk was different than the one he had faced in 1995.  The 
stakes were the same, his life, but in 1995 the probability that The 
Assassin would strike had seemed high; now the odds were difficult to 
assess.  Who was the person who claimed to be The Assassin?  It was 
only remotely possible that The Assassin had passed down his duties to 
an accomplice before his death.

Alexander wondered if one of his brother Knights was trying to frighten
him into abdicating his role, so that the scoundrel could steal the 
glory and make a run for the presidency himself.  The Knights were 
passionate, ambitious men. They wanted to make the plot work.  For 
Jimmy.  For their fathers.  For themselves.

Perhaps one of them had the same surreal fantasy that Alexander played 
over and over in his mind like a motion picture.  A shot rings out. 
The  new president falls.  Fade to black.  A single bell chimes
ominously.  Cut to The Heir Apparent triumphantly taking the oath of
office on the  Capitol steps clad in the traditional tartan of Clan

MacDougall.  As the bagpipes play in the background, that powerful 
image yields to flashbacks of historical scenes, one fading into the 
next in a hazy slow motion.

Alexander pounded his fist on his desktop as the vivid images flashed 
through his mind.  He wanted the fantasy.  He wanted that moment of 
triumph in which he would feel the fiery blood of Jimmy MacDougall 
coursing through his veins.  But he did not want to play Russian 
roulette.  The re-emergence of The Assassin was a new variable and 
called for a new plan.

There were only two options--maybe a third, but that alternative was 
bold and unprecedented.  The other Knights could encourage another 
Republican candidate to challenge for the presidency, with Alexander 
accepting a vice-presidential nomination late in the primary season. 
Or  he could continue his campaign, running the risk that The Assassin
was  a real threat, relying upon The Spy to eliminate the peril as he
had so  ably done once before.  Neither alternative offered the
assurance  Alexander craved.

He cocked his arm behind his ear, then launched the ball of paper 
across the room directly into a small trash can.  Touchdown!  The third
option tugged at his heartstrings, but the window of opportunity was 
closing.  It was bold, but that made it beautiful.  It was 
unprecedented, but the millennium milestone cried out for change.

He could almost hear the whispers of his ancestors' spirits, 
challenging him, cheering him, emboldening him.  He needed more time to
ponder such a daring step, perhaps consult with his cousins, but the 
Stevenson rumor was forcing his hand.

Alexander continued to churn these thoughts in his mind, unconsciously 
running his hand through the remnants of his hair.  At about five 
minutes to six o'clock, almost quitting time for his staff, he called 
in his top aide.  Trey Wallace, over the intercom.  Alexander barked 
out a simple command: "Trey, get me a meeting with Tony Fabrizio 
tomorrow afternoon."

TWELVE

BEN KRAVNER was something of a celebrity when he waltzed into the 
offices of Kramer, Fox at eleven o'clock Tuesday morning.  He had 
enjoyed a relatively low profile at the firm for his first year.  Now 
people stared.  They whispered.  He shut the door to his office until 
the police arrived.

The police were clueless.  The Kramer, Fox offices were protected by 
electronic key locks.  The firm's central computer system logged the 
comings and goings of all personnel.  Any one of two hundred employees 
who dropped in over the weekend could have slipped into Ben's office 
undetected.  Any one of them could have held a door open for an 
outsider without a trace of a memory.

Ben and Carol worked feverishly all morning to return his files to some
semblance of order.  It was not until mid-afternoon that he was able to
 see Debby.

She gave Ben a warm hug behind closed doors.

"I was so worried about you all day yesterday!"  Debby said.

"It was one crazy day," Ben said.  "Do you think that the break-in is 
related to the Thompson case?"  she asked.

"Last week I thought the poem was a dead man's folly," Ben said.

"But Dean Frederick told me a wild story yesterday that has me looking 
over my shoulder."

"What did he say?"

Ben reviewed the notes on his legal pad and related a shorthand version
 of the tale of Jimmy MacDougall.

"Spooky," Debby said.

"So you were right about the Harrison connection.  Did the Dean know 
about the poem?"

Ben pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he reflected 
on the question that had been plaguing him for the past twenty-four 
hours.  Why did the Dean tell him that story?

"I'm not sure," he said.

"He asked about historical documents found among Thompson's belongings,
then used some of the buzz words from the poem.  I sensed that he was 
trying to gauge my reaction." "You didn't tell him about it, did you?"
 she asked.

"No.  I thought about it, but decided not to," Ben said.

"Lucky thing, too, since it turned out that I shouldn't have broken the
 seal."

"I'm so embarrassed about that," Debby said sincerely.

"What are you going to do?"

"Its a difficult ethical issue," Ben said.

"If a lawyer knows that his client plans to commit a crime, he has an
obligation to disclose that information.  The poem talks about acts of
vengeance.  Thompson may have written it as a fictional explanation for
the MacDougalls' disappearance, but I'm not satisfied yet.  I want to 
approach this poem like a legal document.  Analyze it line by line.  If
we think a crime is contemplated, we're obligated to disclose it.  If 
not, I'm not sure about the ethics.  We made a mistake.  Maybe we can 
find the seal in Thompsons apartment and re-seal the envelope."

"I'm game," Debby said eagerly.  She settled into one of Ben's guest 
chairs.

Ben read the first verse of the poem aloud:

"Seven grieving brothers and sisters two Forever curse the Office of 
Tippecanoe Vengeance is ours for the falsely condemned From now 'til 
the coming of the Millennium."

"We already know that Tippecanoe was William Henry Harrison," Debby 
said.

"And Dean Frederick's story confirms that the Office of Tippecanoe is 
the presidency," Ben added.

"Did Jimmy MacDougall have seven brothers and two sisters?"  she 
asked.

"Yeah.  Portraits of the ten MacDougall children were hanging in Dean
Frederick's conference room," Ben said.

"What do you think the 'vengeance' line means?"  Debby asked.

"The Dean mentioned a rumor that the MacDougalls set fire to their 
slaves' bunkhouses," Ben said.

"Maybe they blamed the runaway slave that Jimmy killed for the whole
incident and punished the others for it," Debby said.

"Hmmm.  But the line before suggests that they're cursing the Office of
Tippecanoe," Ben said.

"The vengeance seems directed at the presidency."

"From now 'til the coming of the Millennium," Debby said.

"A 160-year curse if it was written in 1840."

"The Dean made a big deal about the MacDougalls' Scottish ancestry.  We
drank from a jug of Scotch whiskey that he told me the MacDougalls 
brought over from Scotland when they immigrated," Ben said.

"Weren't the Scots big into curses and spiritual things?"

"You think this is all about hocus pocus?"  Debby asked.

Ben shrugged.

"I don't know," he said.

"People vent steam in different ways.

Some people kick the cat, others hit a golf ball really hard.  If 
writing poems and placing curses stops a guy from shooting up a 
schoolyard, God bless him.

Let's read on:

"Our pasts now clouded, our futures clear Shrouded names mask the 
secret we bear, From mouth to mouth the Key shall descend The final 
object unlocked only in the end.

"The Dean said that he and Thompson tried to track the MacDougalls 
down, but couldn't find a trace of them," Ben said.

"They must have adopted false identities."

"Maybe they were embarrassed by the incident and wanted to start new 
lives," Debby suggested.

"Or maybe they were running away," Ben said.

"If they killed their slaves, they'd be fugitives."

"Would they be?"  she asked.

"If slaves were property, couldn't they destroy them without being
guilty of a crime?"

"Interesting question," Ben said.

"That might explain why they thought Jimmy was wrongly condemned.  If 
he killed his own slave, it might not have been murder in their 
eyes."

"Okay.  So we don't know why they ran away and changed their names," 
Debby said.

"What was 'the secret we bear'?  The shame of Jimmy's crime?  The 
murder of their own slaves?"

"Could be the curse that they put on the presidency," Ben said 
sarcastically.

"This does sound far-fetched," Debby said.

"Maybe they had a wee bit too much of that Scotch whiskey when they 
wrote the poem."

Ben laughed.

"Now that's the most logical explanation I've heard yet."

"But it wouldn't be any fun," she said, smiling.

"True enough," Ben agreed.

"A real mystery would be more exciting."

"Can you read the last two lines of the verse again?"  Debby asked.

"From mouth to mouth the Key shall descend The final object unlocked 
only in the end," Ben read.

"Yeah.  That's where it gets mysterious," she said.

"What's the "Key' and the 'final object'?"

"Listen to the next verse," Ben said.

"It smacks of conspiracy:

"Each one strike at Vengeance pure, The next to come in twenty more;

Each a task 'fore the Millennium Meeting, Then Vengeance shall be much 
less fleeting." "It sounds like each of the MacDougall brothers and
sisters was to get  one chance at personal revenge," Debby said.

"But the weird thing is that it was supposed to be spread out from the 
time the poem was written until the millennium," Ben said.

"They couldn't have expected to live that long--unless they're vampires
 or planned to wreak vengeance from beyond the grave."

"The Scottish curse thing again."  Debby made a spooky sound.

"Ooooooo."

Ben did not laugh.  He was already reading ahead.

"Or maybe they were leaving it to their descendants."

"Spoken like a true trust and estates lawyer."

"No, really," Ben said.

"Listen to the next verse:

"Scattered to the winds for eight score year Our progeny, unmasked, 
will reappear;

Midnight of the Great Year's dawn, First meet upon the Old School's 
lawn."

"You're right," Debby said.

"Their progeny, their descendants."

"Their progeny unmasked," Ben said.

"They weren't just hiding from mankind, they were hiding from each 
other!"

"What do you mean?"  she asked.

Excitement was beginning to enter Ben's voice.

"Let's go back a couple of verses," he said.

"Their names are shrouded.  They're 'scattered to the winds' for 160 
years.  Then they're 'unmasked' as the millennium turns.

"From mouth to mouth the Key shall descend."  There's some sort of code
for them to find each other.  That's 'the Key!" "Do you think the Old
School is Calhoun College?"  Debby asked.

"It's gotta be," Ben said.

"They're supposed to meet at Calhoun College, their old home, on 
December 31, 2000."

"To do what?"

"Party!"  Ben bobbed his head and rocked his arms in an exaggerated 
dance move.

Debby rolled her eyes.

"C'mon, Ben.  The poem was cryptic.  What was that last line?"

"First meet upon the Old School's lawn?"

"No, the last line from the verse before."

"Then Vengeance shall be much less fleeting?"

"Yeah," she said.

"It sounds like they had something big in mind."

"You're right," Ben said.

"Here it is.  Second to last verse:

"And Final Vengeance will be ours When they claim the cursed Office's 
powers;

A pestilence rained upon the wretched people Who watched our Jimmy hang
 from a steeple."

"Jesus," Debby said.

"They were plotting a coup!"  Ben said.

"From 160 years before?"

"It's insane," Ben said.

"You may have been right--they must have been drunk when they wrote 
this."

"Or, like you said, the poem may have been written by Thompson or 
another amateur historian with a vivid imagination," Debby said. "More
likely," he agreed.

"Nobody could carry off a conspiracy for 160 years.  No way."

"Well, if anybody could do it, it would be the Scots.  They're 
stubborn, and they're passionate," Debby said.

"I've got a little Scottish blood myself.  It wouldn't be easy, but I 
could see a strong Scottish clan passing down a curse from generation 
to generation."

"Even if they could inspire future generations to execute a conspiracy,
how could they possibly be in a position to pull off a coup 160 years 
later?"  Ben asked.

"We're talking about nine separate families here.  Seven generations.

Maybe three to five kids in each generation on the average.  You'd 
think that at least one person out of three hundred would realize the 
insanity and end it!"

"It does sound far-fetched," Debby said.

"But isn't it fishy that Dean Frederick knew about this story and was 
testing you?  Or that Adams

Thompson would give five million dollars to Calhoun College without any
real connection to it?  Yeah, it's nuts.  But would it be the most 
insane thing that you ever heard?"

Ben thought for a moment.

"Yes.  It would be," he said.

"Let's try the last verse:

"We, The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight Swear to bring to bear 
our collective might To avenge our departed brothers restless soul And 
once again make our family whole."

"It doesn't add anything," Debby said.

"Just the cool name for their group," Ben said.

"Let's recap and see if we can make sense out of nonsense."

Ben reviewed his notes.

"A man named Jimmy, perhaps Jimmy MacDougall, was executed around 
1840," he said. "His siblings were convinced that he was wrongly
condemned, and they  blamed William Henry Harrison.  They planned an
act of vengeance  directed at the presidency every twenty years, maybe
one act for each  sibling or their kin.  The siblings' families were to
act independently  until the millennium, when they're supposed to
identify each other by  deciphering the Key and meet at Calhoun College
to carry out their  Final Vengeance."

Debby twisted in her chair.

"It doesn't sound so impossible when you put it all together like 
that," she said.

Ben leaned back and placed his feet on his desk.

"Something's bothering me," he said.

He did not speak for two or three minutes.  Debby doodled on her legal 
pad.

Finally, Ben spoke.

"If the conspiracy was real, we should be drowning in evidence of it," 
he said.

"But we're not.  It's possible that someone is orchestrating the racial
conflicts we're seeing lately, but we're not on the brink of war."

"But they have over a year," Debby said.

"They could be setting up for a coup when the millennium turns, and we 
wouldn't necessarily know about it until it happens."

"And Thompson has been right in the middle of this race crisis with his
 racist editorials," Ben said.

"You're right.  We can't rule out that something is being planned now. 
But what have they been doing for the last 160 years?  If they were 
targeting the presidency, wouldn't we know about it?"

"A few presidents have been assassinated," Debby said.

"But there's no connection," Ben said.

"And it hasn't happened every twenty years."

"Well, which presidents were assassinated?"  she asked.

"Kennedy, Lincoln.  I think there were a couple of others, too," Ben
said.

"But Lincoln was killed in 1865 and Kennedy in 1963.  John Wilkes Booth
 and Lee Harvey Oswald.  Almost 100 years.  No connection."

"Can you do an Internet search to find the others?"  Debby asked.

Ben logged on to the World Wide Web.  He entered a search:

"Presidents."

The search engine returned 864 hits.  The first web site on the list 
was exactly what he was looking for--short biographies of the American 
presidents, from George Washington to Hank Norton.

"Let's start with Harrison," Ben said.  He skimmed the biography on the
 computer screen, summarizing for Debby as he read.

"He was elected in 1840 and inaugurated in 1841.  Wow.  He died after 
only a month in office."

"Was he assassinated?"  Debby asked.

"Nope.  He died of pneumonia.  Caught a bad cold at his 
inauguration."

Debby smirked.

"A likely story," she said.

"Zachary Taylor was the next president to die in office," Ben said.

"He was elected in 1848 and died in 1850 after eating cherries on July 
4th at the Washington Monument."

Debby shook her head in disbelief.

"Where do they come up with this stuff?

Cherries?"

"It's in the book.  You can look it up," Ben said.

"Lincoln was next.  Then James Garfield.  Garfield was elected in 1880 
and was assassinated only six months after he was sworn in."

"A pattern emerges."

"Not so quick," Ben said.

"Let's see.  William McKinley was assassinated in 1901, less than one 
year into his second term.  Okay, the pattern breaks apart here.

Warren G. Harding died of a heart attack in 1923, three years into his
presidency."

"It could have been made to look like a heart attack," Debby said,
straight-faced.

"Okay, wise guy," Ben said.

"FDR was next.  Can they fake a cerebral hemorrhage, too?"

"You never know," she said sweetly.

"Anyway, Kennedy was the last president to die in office."

"But Reagan took a bullet in the chest."

"True enough."

"Okay, oh Skeptical One," Debby said.

"Look a little harder at the pattern.  Just look at dates; forget about
 whether it was an assassination or an alleged natural death."

"Okay, Commander," he said, bowing his head and raising and lowering 
his arms rhythmically in mock reverence.

"Okay, okay.  I forgot you're the boss," she said.

"Pretty please let's look at the pattern."

Ben jotted some notes on his legal pad.  "1841, 1850, 1865, 1881, 1901,
 1923, 1945, 1963," he said.

"Let's check the years between deaths.  Nine, fifteen, sixteen, twenty,
twenty-two, twenty-two, eighteen."

"But there were eight deaths.

"Each one strike at Vengeance pure."  Seven brothers and two sisters. 
Maybe one more death after the millennium," Debby said.

"Kind of scary, huh?"

Ben stared out the window thoughtfully.  The sun had set.  He scribbled
 some more notes.

"Okay, I'm intrigued," he said.

"Look at the election years of the dead presidents instead of the year 
of death.  1840, 1848, 1860, 1880, 1900, 1920, 1940, 1960.  Let's say 
ZacharyTaylor died a natural death from bad cherries and Ronald Reagan 
somehow escaped destiny.  Reagan was elected in 1980.  Eight 
presidents.  Twenty-year cycle."

"This is freaking me out now," Debby said.

"Let's not be too hasty," Ben said.

"There are still holes in this theory.  It could be coincidence."

"It's a little too neat for me," Debby said.

"What holes do you see?"

"Well, for starters, three of the deaths were natural deaths," Ben 
said.

"Pneumonia.  Heart attack.  Cerebral hemorrhage."

"Let me play devil's advocate here," Debby said.

"A role that suits you well."

"Ha.  Ha.  A heart attack could be simulated by poisoning.  A cerebral 
hemorrhage could be caused by poisoning or a blow to the head," she 
said.

"Or maybe the powers-that-be knew the presidents were murdered and 
covered it up.  Political cover-ups have been known to happen."

"What about pneumonia--can that be simulated?"  Ben asked.

"It's harder to come up with an explanation for that," Debby 
admitted.

"But then again Harrison was the first president to die in office.  If 
he was murdered, maybe they used his bad cold as an explanation to 
avoid alarming the public."

Ben shook his head.

"Okay.  I can't believe I'm saying this, but a conspiracy is within the
 realm of possibility," he said.

"Not very far inside, but I can't say it's totally absurd.  But let's 
say that the mission of the descendants of each MacDougall sibling was 
to kill a president elected every twentieth year.  Lincoln and FDR were
elected in the twentieth year, I860 and 1940, but they didn't die
until  their next term.  If they hadn't been re-elected, the would-be 
assassins would've failed."

"I don't have an answer for that one," Debby said.

Ben tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"I guess it can't be easy to arrange an assassination," he said after a
 long pause.

"Maybe it's not so surprising that one or two failed.  If this is real,
they did fail in 1981.  If we're looking only for plausibility, those 
failings don't rule out the possibility of a conspiracy.  Hell, it was 
wartime during both the I860 term and the 1940 term.  The killers could
 have been drafted."

"So what next, my captain?"

"Dinner."  It was after seven o'clock.

"Can you order some Chinese?"

"You got it," Debby said, unfazed by the request.  There was nothing 
unusual about asking a paralegal to order dinner from one of the dozens
 of takeout restaurants serving the owls of Wall Street.

Debby was gone for about ten minutes.  Ben was focused intently on the 
computer screen when she returned.

"What are you looking at?"  she asked.

"I'm hunting for connections," Ben said.

"I was researching vice presidents."

"Find anything?"  she asked.

"I don't think so," Ben said.

"It's so hard to tell because we don't know the identities the 
MacDougalls assumed.  John Tyler was Harrison's vice president.

Andrew Johnson succeeded Lincoln.  Then Chester Arthur, Theodore 
Roosevelt, Calvin Coolidge, Harry Truman and Lyndon Johnson."

"LBJ I could believe," Debby said.

Ben snickered.

"Maybe so.  But I can't see Teddy Roosevelt being involved.  He's 
related to FDR. There's also no way that the MacDougalls could have 
infiltrated the vice-presidency in 1841 or as soon as 1861."

"What about the known assassins?"  she asked.

"Let's check."  Ben scanned through the biographies again, jotting down
 notes as he read.

"John Wilkes Booth killed Lincoln.  Garfield was shot by Charles J. 
Guiteau. Leon Czolgosz killed McKinley.  Lee Harvey Oswald was 
presumed to have shot Kennedy, but the conspiracy theorists have had a 
heyday with that one.  John Hinckley, Jr.  shot Reagan.  There's more 
research we could do, but my intuition tells me that we're not going to
 find any links."

Ben's skepticism was returning.  Was this all coincidence?  Could the 
poem have been written after the fact in an effort to support fact with
 fiction?

"Ben?"  Debby said hesitantly.

"What about next year's presidential campaign?"

"Tony Fabrizio is a lock for the Democrats," Ben said.

"There's little chance that he's descended from Scots.  And his record 
speaks for itself.  If racial unrest is part of this conspiracy, 
Fabrizio is not involved.  Same for JJ Alexander."

"What about Stevenson?"  Debby asked."

"I saw that rumor on the news," Ben said.

"He says all the right things, and his civil rights record is top 
drawer.  But there's something slimy about him that I don't like.  That
 doesn't make him likely to lead a coup, though."

A messenger knocked on the door.  Their food had arrived.  They broke 
off their discussion and moved to a conference room to eat.  They 
rehashed their thoughts about the poem and the conspiracy.  No further 
progress was made.

Ben turned quiet as they were cleaning up and preparing to quit for the
 night.

The episode with Kimberly had confirmed what he had already begun to 
suspect.

His feelings for Debby were more than infatuation.  He wanted to share 
that revelation with Debby, but he no longer trusted his instincts in 
matters of the heart.

"Penny for your thoughts," Debby said, as if she could read his mind.

"I was spacing out," Ben said.  Coward.  Great men visualized their 
dreams and made them reality.  If she rejected him, the world would not
stop spinning.  They would still be friends.  There would still be 
hope.  If he remained silent-"No. There is something on my mind," Ben 
said.

"Shoot."

Ben peered out into the hallway.  He closed the door to the conference 
room even though nobody else seemed to be around. "I was thinking
about Saturday night," he said.  His heart pounded.

"I really enjoyed your company."

She smiled and touched his arm.

"I had a great time, too."

"I want you to know that I understand what you're going through, and I 
want to be there for you," Ben said.  The words swirled through his 
mind, but fought mercilessly to avoid the perilous leap from his 
tongue.  He swallowed hard, opened the window of his brain's inhibiting
 wall, then let his soul pour out.

"I'm falling in love with you.  I'm willing to settle for being your 
friend until you work out your issues.

But I want you to know how I feel."

She kissed him softly on the cheek.

"You're a good friend, Hawkeye Kravner," she said.

"We'll just have to take things as they come."

BEN ARRIVED HOME SHORTLY before ten o'clock, after stopping to run some
errands.

He was relieved to find that his apartment had not been broken into 
over the weekend.  He was tired, but thoughts, emotions and images 
flashed through his mind.  Could the conspiracy be real?  It was 
insane.  Debby.  Jimmy swinging from a steeple.  Nine drunken 
MacDougalls.  I told her I love her.  Shit.  Harrison, Lincoln, 
Garfield, McKinley, Hording, Roosevelt, Kennedy, Reagan.  Alexander and
Fabrizio.  Vice Presidents.  Stevenson.  Do I really love her? 
Kimberly.  Her lips.

Damn.  Why do I act from my heart instead of my head?  She called me 
Hawkeye.

No, sleep was not imminent.  He knew that he could convince Debby to 
follow the passion she felt on Saturday night, if he could only 
articulate the words.

Visualize the dream, make it reality.  It had been difficult enough to 
tell her he loved her; it was too hard to tell her that she should love
him back.  It was so much easier to think of all that he could have, 
should have, said now that he was in the solitude of his apartment.

Then Ben had an idea.  He composed an email.

Dear Debby, I know you said you want to take things as they come, but I
felt something magical between us last Saturday and I know you must 
have, too. Whether it's convenient or not, our paths have crossed at 
this time in our lives.

I saw you reading a book of Robert Frost's poems in Thompsons apartment
on Saturday.  One of my favorites is The Road Not Taken.  I'm sure you
know it.  Like Frost's lone traveler, the choice we make at this 
crossroads in our lives can make all the difference in our future.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and II took the one less traveled by, And
that has made all the difference.  Wont you follow your passion, your 
heart, and take the road less traveled by with me?  Ben

Ben read the message again and again.  Finally, he sucked in a deep 
breath, said a silent prayer to a God in whom he did not believe, and 
clicked the send button.

Satisfied that he had done all that he could to relieve the pressure on
his left brain, Ben's attention shifted to his right brain problem. 
He  was not at all convinced that the Poem was evidence of a crime. 
Yet  his intuition told him that Dean Frederick was hiding something. 
If he  expected a sealed envelope, then a sealed envelope he would
get.

Ben dug the envelope with the broken seal out of his desk drawer, He
transcribed the Poem onto a legal pad.  He opened the package of manila
envelopes he had purchased on the way home, and carefully wrote the 
words "PERSONAL--DO NOT OPEN (DELIVER TO FRITZ FOX, TRUSTEE)" on the 
front of one in black marker, exactly as printed on the envelope he had
found in Thompson's safe deposit box.  Then he inserted the original 
Poem.  He would have to find the wax seal in Thompson's study and 
finish the job tomorrow.

Ben tossed the old envelope back in the desk drawer and placed the new 
envelope in his briefcase.  Tomorrow it would be tucked safely in the 
firm's vault.

Ben still needed to talk.  He logged on to CyberLine and took the 
shortcut directly to RealTime.  It never occurred to him to pick up the
 telephone.  There was nobody to call.  Woody was online. ?

Master Ben My head is spinning... WoodythePecker: The millennium thing?
 A babe?

Master Ben Two babes, the Millennium Knights, everything... 
WoodythePecker: Two babes!  Tell me details, dear

Master Ben This never happens to me.  I haven't gotten laid in four 
months.  I was alone with this beautiful blonde in Atlanta yesterday 
and she started coming on to me.

WoodythePecker: Did you do her?

Master Ben I wanted to so badly, but I started dating another woman 
this weekend.

WoodythePecker: Oh really ... how was your date?

Master Ben We had a great time...!  think I'm falling in love... 
WoodythePecker: Cool deal!  Did you do her?

Master Ben Nope.  She really turns me on, but I think we need to take 
it slow... WoodythePecker: An old-fashioned girl?  I think I'm going to
 cry.

Master Ben (Laughing out loud) No ... I don't think that's it ... she 
has some issues to work through... WoodythePecker: That sounds like 
trouble.  Maybe you should have porked the southern belle.  It may be 
awhile before you have another chance!

Master Ben It didn't feel right ... We were already going at it hot and
heavy and I had a bout with my conscience... WoodythePecker: I hear 
that.  It's like the little cartoon devil on one shoulder and the angel
 on the other smile

Master Ben (Laughing) Exactly.  Fuck her!  No!  Fuck her!  No!

WoodythePecker: (Rolling on the floor laughing)

Master Ben Anyway, if you can pick yourself off the floor, let me 
change the subject just a little ... what do you know about dead 
presidents--ones that died in office?

WoodythePecker: Uh oh, history test ... let me think ... Lincoln, 
McKinley and Kennedy were killed.  Did any others die in office 
besides

FDR?

Master Ben Not bad.  Garfield was also assassinated.  William Henry 
Harrison, Zachary Taylor and Warren G. Harding died naturally... Do you
 see any pattern in their deaths?

WoodythePecker: Let me think... WoodythePecker: Not really ... you have
 a theory I take it?

Master Ben Think about when they were elected... Harrison in 1840, 
Lincoln in 1860, Garfield in 1880, McKinley in 1900, Harding in 1920, 
FDR in 1940, Kennedy in I960... WoodythePecker: You know, I did hear 
about that ... in high school... I had a civics teacher who called it 
the 20-Year Jinx ... he joked that Reagan only had a few months left in
his second term ... gee, I haven't thought about that in years, 
especially since Reagan seems to have broken The Jinx... Master Ben I 
never heard about it until I read that poem I told you about.

WoodythePecker: Just one of life's great coincidences, I figure ... you
 can't find any real connection, can you?

Master Ben Nothing obvious, but the poem suggests that in 1840 the 
brothers and sisters of a wrongfully condemned man set out to wreak 
vengeance on the presidency over a 160-year period ending at the turn 
of the millennium... WoodythePecker: Freaky ... how does the poem say 
they do it?

Ben entered the poem on his computer and sent it, verse by verse, to 
Woody.

WoodythePecker: It seems a little over the top, man ... could Thompson 
have dreamed this up?

Master Ben I don't know ... the paper it was written on is tattered, 
but I really can't say how old it is... WoodythePecker: Have you ever 
read Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco?

Master Ben No, what's it about?

WoodythePecker: The book is dense, but the gist of it is that an 
intellectual and his cronies in modern Italy stumble upon a handwritten
poem supposedly written by a leader of the Templars, an elite band of 
knights that were forced underground during the Middle Ages.  The poem 
was barely legible in spots, but the intellectuals interpreted it as 
saying that the Templars had a plan to scatter and remain underground 
for hundreds of years only to emerge at a designated date and location 
to take over the world.

Master Ben Wow, when was the book written?

WoodythePecker: Late 1980s

Master Ben So did the Templars get outed?

WoodythePecker: It turned out that there was no conspiracy... the paper
was probably just an ancient grocery list ... but the cool plot twist 
was that by snooping around and investigating the legend of the 
Templars, the intellectuals aroused the interest of a group of 
pseudo-Templars that had formed a cult group.

The pseudo group then met at the place and time that the intellectuals
predicted, awaiting the arrival of the real Templars.  The intellectual
leader ends up getting killed at the scene.  Slow reading, but 
recommended.

Master Ben Well thanks for spoiling the ending, Woodman!  grin Is there
 a Cliff Notes version?

WoodythePecker: I don't THINK so... Master Ben So you think that my 
poem might be a hoax?

WoodythePecker: It seems incredible, don't you think?  I mean, maybe 
Thompson or somebody else dreamed it up after-the-fact to explain this 
wild coincidence... Master Ben I don't know ... I'm at a point where I 
think that there's some plausibility, but I don't know what to do next 
... The partners don't want anything to do with me.  Fritz is home, but
he'd think I'm nuts, anyway, and I don't want to tell him that I
opened  the sealed envelope... WoodythePecker: What makes you think
that it's  plausible?

Master Ben The reason I was in Atlanta yesterday was to talk to the 
clean of Calhoun College-the sole beneficiary of Thompson's estate. 
It's getting late and I don't want to get into all the details, but he
made me suspicious... WoodythePecker: Did you discuss the poem with 
him?

Master Ben No way..-but it seemed like he might know about it, and he 
was testing me... he made me very uncomfortable... my instincts told me
to shut up and listen... WoodythePecker: Got to go with those 
instincts, man.

Master Ben I'm getting tired.  I'll keep you posted on the babe 
watch... WoodythePecker: Please do!  You know I live vicariously 
through you, dear.  Let me know if anything intriguing turns up in the 
dead presidents caper, too.  If I don't hear from you next week, I'll 
send the authorities after your pal, the clean III wink

Master Ben You jest, but my office was trashed when I was in Atlanta...
WoodythePecker: Do you think it was related?

Master Ben I don't know ... my renowned instincts think it might be ...
I'm not working on any other high profile matters, but they didn't
take  anything and my apartment wasn't trashed when I got home
tonight... If  they were serious about finding the poem, they would
have broken into  my apartment... WoodythePecker: Makes sense, but I'd
still be careful.  It might have just been easier to break into your
office.

Master Ben I've got my guard up, but I'm thinking it might have been an
overzealous reporter looking for a scoop ... I'm sure he was 
disappointed... WoodythePecker: But still, there is much to be said in 
favor of zealousness!

Master Ben Uh-oh, Woody's got a new word ... look out

N

WoodythePecker: And I've got three extra hours to try it out!

Master Ben Buenos noches, mi amigo WoodythePecker: Adios"!

THIRTEEN

IT WAS SEVEN-FORTY-FIVE on Tuesday evening.  The Vice President was in 
his shirr sleeves his suit jacket slung over the back of his chair.

"What do you think JJ wants to talk about so desperately?"  Tony 
Fabrizio asked, as he paced back and forth behind his desk, carrying a 
25-year old "I Love My Dad" coffee mug in his right hand.

La Rosa Smith sat in one of the black Windsor guest chairs, her feet 
resting on Fabrizio's desk.

"I don't have a clue," she said.

"I'm sure he's heard the Stevenson rumor, but there's no reason for him
to discuss that with you.  But if he just wanted to talk about 
legislation or Senate business, he wouldn't have been in such a tizzy 
to set up a meeting on short notice.  Trey Wallace was insistent that 
we do it today.  Somethings up. Something unusual."

"Maybe he thinks he's dug up some dirt on me or Hank that could 
influence the election."

"Yeah, right," La Rosa said, grinning.

"The only bigger choirboy in D.C. than you is Hank Norton.  I wish you 
guys had a few small skeletons in your closet--it would make my job 
more interesting."

Fabrizio laughed.

"I'll bet you didn't know that I actually was a choirboy," he said.

"My parents wanted me to study for the priesthood, but I would sneak 
away to play baseball or flirt with the girls."

La Rosa knew just about everything about Tony Fabrizio, although that
historical nugget had escaped her.  Fabrizio had grown up in the 
Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn, a primarily Italian neighborhood and a
 breeding ground for the Mafia.

Fabrizio's father despised the "gangstas," as he had called them, and 
Tony was the heir to his father's moral outrage.

Fabrizio had put himself through night school, first at Brooklyn 
College and then Brooklyn Law School.  He had married his high school 
sweetheart, Emily, after he had obtained his law degree and accepted a 
job as an assistant district attorney for the Eastern District of New 
York in Brooklyn.  He had received favorable publicity for prosecuting 
a string of organized crime cases that resulted in the heads of three 
crime families receiving life sentences in federal prison.

The Mafia had first tried to corrupt Tony Fabrizio.  When that failed, 
they had terrorized him.  In 1970, two Mafia henchmen kidnapped his 
daughter, Christina, then only three years old, and had threatened to 
kill her if Fabrizio did not drop a federal racketeering case against 
Dominick Brunelli, a boss in the Petrillo crime family.

The kidnapping case became the top priority for the New York Police 
Department and the FBI, as well as Fabrizio's many friends on the 
streets of Bensonhurst.

With the assistance of a number of key informants, some from competing 
mob families that found crimes against children reprehensible, the 
kidnappers had been discovered within four days.  Fabrizio had 
participated in the raid, in which both kidnappers were killed.

Television cameras had caught a surprised and emotional Fabrizio 
carrying little Christina, tired, tearful, but safe, out of the 
wreckage.  The story had made the national news.  Fabrizio had gone 
from locally respected crime buster to national hero overnight.

Fabrizio had leveraged his fame to political advantage.  He had served 
as New York State Attorney General for six years, then successfully ran
for Governor of New York in 1976 at the age of 36.  He had remained as
Governor, and one of the most popular elected officials in U.S. 
history, until 1992, when Hank Norton pegged him as his 
vice-presidential running mate.  Throughout his political career 
Fabrizio had maintained the highest ethical standards and treated all 
of his constituents and colleagues with fairness, kindness and respect,
 whether Democrat or Republican, black or white, rich or poor.

Fabrizio's intercom buzzed.

"Senator Alexander is here to see you, Tony."

"Send him in, Claire," Fabrizio answered.  Protocol dictated that he 
put on his jacket to receive guests.  La Rosa saw him scowl at it as if
the jacket wrote the rules.  He left it folded over the back of his 
chair.  This was his turf; he wrote the rules.  The worried look that
he wore all after 9

noon disappeared.  His back stiffened.  His eyes narrowed as he focused
 himself on meeting any challenge presented by his old adversary.

La Rosa sulked towards the door.  This meeting was to be a private one,
at Senator Alexander's request.  She was miffed, and she gave
Alexander  a chilly greeting on her way out.

"THANKS FOR MEETING WITH ME on such short notice.  Tony," Alexander 
said.  His well-practiced Texan drawl was in high gear.  He would have 
followed protocol and addressed Fabrizio as "Mr.  Vice President" if La
Rosa had remained in the room, but Alexander knew that Fabrizio 
disliked the formality.  The two rivals had worked together for seven 
years, with Fabrizio presiding over the Senate and Alexander a key 
player in the Senate Republican leadership.  They had developed a level
 of comfort and personal trust that was rare among political foes.

Fabrizio motioned for Alexander to sit in the chair that La Rosa had 
just vacated.

"I have to admit to being curious about what could possibly be so 
urgent," he said.

"But I've known you long enough to know that you wouldn't have asked 
for the meeting if you didn't think it was important."

"I'm not going to beat around the bush," Alexander said, hesitating for
a moment in a way that he had practiced time and again over the 
weekend.

"You never do, JJ," Fabrizio said.

"You never do."

Alexander leaned forward and locked eyes with the Vice President.  This
 had to be perfect.

"Tony, I've got cancer.  Hell, I haven't even told Missy about it yet, 
and if you leak it to the press, damn it, I'll deny it."

Fabrizio's jaw dropped.  He shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

"JJ, I'm truly sorry, and you know that I'd never do that," he said 
sincerely. He foundered for a moment, trying to find words.

"How does this affect your plans?"

"It doesn't necessarily have to.  My doctor thinks he can keep it under
control in a way that I can maintain my privacy and my dignity.  Hell,
I could live for another twenty or thirty years."

"That's terrific," Fabrizio said, grinning.

"I'm looking forward to kicking your backside next November, and I 
don't need you running any half-assed campaign to do it!"

Alexander laughed, then returned to the serious tone that he had so 
carefully rehearsed.

"I'll give you a run for your money if you want it,

and, damn it, I think I can beat you, with or without Tom Stevenson," 
he said, pausing for effect.

"But I don't know that I'll beat you, and if you're honest with 
yourself I don't think you know that you'll win, either."

"You're right, JJ, I don't know it, but that's half the fun of the 
battle," Fabrizio said.

"I know what you mean.  I've fought a lot of tough battles in my time, 
on the football field and in the political arena, and there's no 
greater feeling of power than winning a close one," Alexander agreed.

"But the cancer has made me sit back and think about why I'm doing
this--running for president, I mean.  I enjoy the trappings of power as
much as anyone, but you know me--I'm not one of the old guard wheelers
and dealers or one of these young Turk right-wing fundamentalists who 
want to create a puritan society.  I've dedicated my life to public 
service and making this country safe and fair for everyone.  I love 
this country, and when I leave it, I want to leave a lasting legacy.  I
 want to be remembered."

"Nobody has created a greater legacy than you have, JJ," Fabrizio 
said.

"Name five great Americans who've made their mark in the Senate," he 
said.

"We work as a collective body.  Yes, I'm confident that I've provided 
sound leadership.  But at the end of the day I've produced nothing 
that's mine.  We've passed some good, solid programs, but the problems 
we face today are still pretty much the problems we faced thirty or 
forty years ago."

"Well, you've got your chance right now," Fabrizio said.

"Put together a package that people want and sell it, sell it, sell it.
If your platform is better than mine and the people buy into it, then 
God bless them and God bless you."

"I've done just that, Tony.  I'm calling it "The Second American 
Revolution." But I don't have the confidence in the American people to 
see beyond the catch-phrase.  Hell, I'll have my "Revolution' and 
you'll have your "New Deal' or "Square Deal' or "Real Deal,"" Alexander
 said.

"Even though I believe in my program and in myself, I don't know that 
I'll beat you.  And with this cancer thing, I don't know if I'll get 
another chance."

"JJ, I'm not sure what you're getting at here.  I agree with most of 
what you said, but the political process is what it is.  If you win, 
you have your chance to create your legacy, but I'm going to do 
everything fair that I can to beat you.  I'm truly sorry about your 
illness, but I can't let that influence the way I run my campaign."

"I don't want you to give up your legacy," Alexander said.  He knew his
 delivery had to be perfect.  He had to ooze sincerity.

"I'm proposing a red second American Revolution, I'm suggesting that we
use the occasion of the new millennium to usher in real change. 
Together, we can marshal the best resources from both political parties
and develop a program that makes a difference to the people of this 
country without the squabbling and posturing of politics as usual.  I'm
offering unification.  We run on the same ticket.  You're the 
president; I'm the VP.  We both get our legacies.  We both make a real 
difference in people's lives."

Fabrizio seemed stunned.  Alexander waited for a response, allowing the
 drama to build.

"I don't know what to say," Fabrizio said.

"I'm truly at a loss for words."

JJ grinned.

"I didn't expect you to respond immediately.  Hell, I wanted to think 
this through myself for a few more weeks, but the Stevenson rumors 
forced my hand," Alexander said.  He leaned forward and spoke in hushed
 tones.

"All I ask is that you keep this quiet.  Discuss it with your advisors,
but keep it close for awhile, turn it over in your mind a few times. 
Think what it means for you, and think what it means for the American 
people.  From my end, I'm prepared to move forward with this 
immediately."

Fabrizio stood and began pacing behind his desk.

"Tell me a little more about your Second American Revolution," he 
said.

Alexander sat back and crossed his legs.

"As a young man, and a Texan, I was influenced by Lyndon Johnson's 
quest for the Great Society," he said, following Fabrizio with his 
eyes.  He knew the Vice President well enough to realize that he was 
listening seriously.

"LBJ started to bridge the gulfs between the rich and the poor, blacks 
and whites.  Somewhere along the way we got lost.  Attitudes have 
improved some, but the gulfs have gotten wider."

Fabrizio stopped to face him.

"Have you thought about the details yet?"  he asked.

"I don't want to talk details," Alexander said.  Honesty was one thing,
 giving away the farm was another.

"Not yet.  But we need to think big.  We're trying to build a bridge 
with toothpicks.  We need to step back, kick the steel and put this 
baby together the right way."

Fabrizio stepped around the desk and extended his hand.

"I'll give it a good, hard think, JJ.  But this is not a decision to be
 made lightly, and I can't make any promises."

Alexander shook Fabrizio's hand firmly and looked him in the eyes with 
that practiced trust-me look.  He said, "That's all I ask."

Not ten seconds after the door closed behind Alexander, Fabrizio was on
 the intercom: "Rosie, get your ass in here!"

FOURTEEN

THE JINX was on Ben Kravner's mind as he rode the elevator to the 25th 
floor of One Water on Wednesday morning.  The mystery of the 20-Year 
Jinx was intriguing, but a conspiracy by one family over 160 years was 
too fantastic to believe. Even if the MacDougalls' rage had survived 
for a generation, maybe two, how could it possibly have meaning to 
their descendents seven generations removed?

Ben closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself in their place.  Paul 
Kravner was a gentle man, so it was hard to envision, but what would he
do if his father had told him at an impressionable age that it was his
destiny to kill? The same thing I did when he told me it was my 
destiny to be a lawyer.  Could it be possible?  Seven generations. 
Nine  family chains.  Was the bond between father and son that strong? 
Seven  dead presidents.

The more Ben thought about it, the less certain he became.  There were 
no apparent connections between the deaths.  But why did Dean Frederick
tell me about the MacDougalls7 Ben contemplated his next move."  He 
could not go to the police or the FBI.  His only evidence, the poem, 
had been illegally obtained. Even brushing that concern aside, the 
conspiracy theory was too wacky to bring to the authorities without 
hard proof.  It was simply a bizarre coincidence.

Fritz Fox was still out of the picture.  The Old Man probably would not
have much to add to the process, anyway, and he would doubtlessly
think  Ben foolhardy for wasting time on such trivial and nonlegal
pursuits.  He might even fire him for opening the sealed envelope.

Ben figured he would revisit Thompson's Fifth Avenue apartment later in
the morning.  He had inventoried the contents on Saturday, but a more 
thorough search for evidence of a conspiracy now seemed appropriate.

It was not to be.

"Ben!"  It was Carol.  He had almost slipped into his office 
undetected.

"Good morning, Carol.  How's it going?"

"Good."  She held up one finger while she finished chewing a bite of 
her bagel.

"You've got a message from the police.  Detective Johnson."

"Is that the cop I spoke with yesterday?"  Ben asked.

"I don't think so.  That was Detective Jamieson."

"That's right.  Johnson's the one in charge of the Thompson murder," 
Ben said.

"I'll call him.  Thanks."  Ben stopped for a cup of coffee and read the
 morning mail before calling the detective.

"Lawyers and bankers.  Gotta love 'em," Detective Johnson said when Ben
introduced himself on the telephone.  He had a heavy Bronx accent.

"Sure wish I could start work at ten in the A.M."

"I had a few other pressing matters to take care of before I returned 
your call," Ben said.

"Coffee, mail, you know the drill."

"Whatever.  Look, we've got a lead in the Thompson murder.  You're 
listed as the contact in the file."

Ben perked up.

"That's right.  What have you got?"

"We picked up a wino trying to buy booze with Thompsons canceled credit
 card.

Can you come down to the station?"

It was a gray, wintry morning.  Ben took a taxi for the short ride to 
the Sixth Precinct in Greenwich Village.  The uniformed officer manning
the metal detector in the lobby directed Ben to Detective Johnson's 
desk on the second floor.

The station house was relatively new.  The lighting was good, and it 
did not yet have that stale, dank smell that characterized most of New 
York's aging precincts.  Unlike the crowded police offices portrayed on
television, the desks were separated by partitions, affording the 
detectives a small amount of privacy.  Like the television precinct 
houses, there was a low din of background noise--telephones ringing, 
fluorescent lights humming, a drunken suspect shouting for his lawyer, 
some random laughter, and sundry conversations taking place at varying 
volumes.

Ben found Detective Johnson preparing paperwork and chewing on a 
sandwich.  His face was punctuated with a wide, red nose.  He was a 
large man, not fat.  His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular
 forearms.  He looked to be about fifty.

"Bologna?"  Ben asked, as he knocked lightly on the partition.

"Salami.  I just got promoted," Johnson said.  The Bronx accent suited 
him.

"You must be the wise guy lawyer."

Ben extended his hand.

"Ben Kravner."

Johnson wiped his hand on his pants and shook Ben's hand.

"Charmed, I'm sure.

Have a seat, Kravner."

"Do you think the guy you picked up killed Thompson?"  Ben asked.

"We're going to hold him as a suspect.  The guy's homeless.  A drunk. 
I  don't think we'll pursue the credit card charges if he doesn't look 
good for the murder.  That's him over there shouting for his lawyer.  A
 real sweetheart."

The man was black-skinned, rail thin, with graying hair, probably about
 sixty years old.  He was dressed in a tattered overcoat.

"He doesn't look like he could have overpowered Thompson.  Thompson was
 a hefty guy," Ben said.

"Yeah.  I don't think he's good for it, but we have to check it out," 
Detective Johnson said.

"He says he found the wallet in a dumpster on East 8th Street, a few 
blocks from the murder site."

"Did you find the murder weapon?"  Ben asked.

"Yeah.  Sure.  Mr.  Green did it in the library with a candlestick."

"I'll take that as a 'no."" "Good guess, Sherlock."

"Did he have the wallet or just the credit card?"  Ben asked.

"We found the wallet in his shopping cart.  We dusted for fingerprints.
 Nothing helpful.  I was about to tag it and bag it for evidence."

"Can I see it?"  Ben asked.

"I'll need it back, but I thought you might want to look through it." 
The Detective handed Ben the wallet and directed him to an empty 
desk.

The wallet was still intact.  No money, of course, but it still held 
Thompsons drivers license, a few credit cards, health insurance card 
and other standard fare.  There were a number of business cards.  Ben 
scanned the names, but nothing struck him as interesting.  There were 
no photographs.

A spare car key was hidden in a compartment in the back of the wallet 
along with the insurance identification card for the Mercedes.  The 
insurance card was stuck to the side of the compartment.  When Ben 
yanked it out, another slip of paper fell to the floor.

Ben picked it up and read it.  He then experienced what one of the 
partners at Kramer, Fox jokingly called a "clong."  A shot of 
adrenaline.  The bulging of the eyes.  The sickening feeling of one's 
stomach accelerating into the throat.  The moment when terror first 
strikes.  At Kramer, Fox a clong usually was immediately preceded by 
the realization that an irreversible error in judgment had been made. 
There was about to be one ticked off client.  Maybe a lawsuit.

Ben's client was dead.  But simultaneously with his clong came the 
realization that the Poem was not a dead man's folly.  The Jinx was 
real.

FIFTEEN

LA ROSA SMITH RARELY SHOWED EMOTION at work, but she was having trouble
containing her excitement.

"I've thought about it half the night," La Rosa said.

"JJ's proposal is a blockbuster!"

"It's just so ... unsporting," Tony Fabrizio said.  They were in 
Fabrizio's office on Wednesday morning.  He was in his customary 
repose, feet on desk, chair tilted back, arms behind head.  A Danish 
sat half-eaten on a plate atop his desk.

"I know the gamesmanship of politics is important to you.  It's 
important to all of us," La Rosa said.

"It's one of the few public arenas where those who are too old or too
uncoordinated or too female to play professional sports can compete.

But JJ is a formidable opponent.  You're not going to win big.  You may
 lose.  If you accept his offer, it's in the bag."

"I don't know, Rosie.  The two party system is such a basic component 
of our political heritage.  People want choices.  If both parties 
reject us, we could end up on a third-party ticket with twenty percent 
of the vote.  A lot of folks vote along party lines without 
thinking."

La Rosa thought Fabrizio was being too conservative.  If she did 
nothing else in her four-year stint as the Vice President's chief 
advisor, she had to convince him that this was the opportunity of a 
lifetime.

"As long as you don't go crazy and throw the incumbents overboard, the
Democratic Party will be thrilled," she said.

"We are the Democratic Party, and we're the big winners here.  We have 
a chance to influence Congress to adopt sweeping legislation that can 
make a difference in people's lives.  If we can avoid partisan 
politics, you and JJ may go down as the greatest leaders in American 
history."

"But can we avoid partisan politics?"  Fabrizio asked.

"How do you think the Republicans will react?"

"Privately, they might be angry," La Rosa admitted.

"But they'll have no political choice but to support you publicly. 
Nobody has stepped up yet to seriously challenge JJ in the primaries. 
You both have unbelievably strong ratings in the polls.  The 
Republicans will hop on your bandwagon rather than support a sure 
loser."

Fabrizio frowned.

"I still think people want choices," he said, shaking his head.

"What if the Republicans do something dramatic to create an exciting
alternative.  Maybe a woman or black candidate.  Cindy Hodges or 
General Maxwell."

"Cindy Hodges couldn't even carry California, her home state.  America 
may be ready to elect a woman president, but she's not it.  I don't 
know of any women who are ready for the office right now.

"General Maxwell's a good man," La Rosa continued.

"And he might have a chance against an extreme opponent, but you and JJ
aren't going to lose the African-American vote just because you're 
running against an African-American.

I'm not saying African-Americans are color blind, but you've both built
strong support over many years.  And even if this becomes a racially 
charged election, you still are in the majority."

"So you'd have me play the race card?"  Fabrizio asked.

"It's not playing the race card.  A lot of whites will support you 
simply because you're white and running against an African-American 
candidate, but that makes them racists not you.  I know you.  You won't
 pander to them."

"I don't think I've pandered a day in my life," Fabrizio said, 
smiling.

La Rosa grinned.

"I doubt you have."

"You keep avoiding the biggest issue," Fabrizio said.

"Are the American people ready to abandon the two-party system?  Will 
they view our collaboration as a ploy, some sort of breach of trust, a 
way to create a political monopoly?"

"With different players that would be a real risk.  But the message you
and JJ are sending is 'revolutionary change, nor evolutionary change,"
and you both have the political record and respect to sell it.  You're
not preachers, you're doers.  The American people are sick and tired
of  politics as usual.  All talk, no action.  Gridlock.  Damn it. 
Tony,  you pick the cliche.  This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. 
With  all of the excitement surrounding the millennium, this is the
perfect  time to sell a revolution."

"Keep going, Rosie, you're on a roll," Fabrizio said, grinning.

La Rosa relationship with Fabrizio had not always been so easy.  When 
she had first accepted the job as his Chief of Staff, she had been 
uncomfortable.  She had known that politics was still essentially a 
man's game, and a white man's game at that.  She had been defensive, 
always out to prove she belonged on her merits.  She had suppressed her
femininity and playfulness and accentuated her African American 
heritage.

She almost had lost her job.  Not because she was too black or not sexy
enough, but because she had not been herself.  Rather than fire her, 
Fabrizio had taken her aside for a heart-to-heart chat.  Fabrizio told 
her that for the relationship to work, he had to be able to trust her 
totally.  She had to be willing to let down her guard and be herself. 
He had to know that her advice came from her heart.  No secrets, no 
lies.

It had not been an easy transformation for La Rosa For thirty-two 
years she had fought for acceptance.  It had been hard to recognize 
when the battle was won.

While she had been slow in reaching the critical insight, she was a 
fast learner.  She let out her natural sense of humor.  She spoke her 
mind.  She abandoned the tribal dress in favor of more professional 
attire.  Occasionally, she dared to be sexy, not because she was 
flirtatious, but because her sexuality was a part of her.

The relationship with Fabrizio, once awkward, had become easy.  Their 
friendship had blossomed.  He had grown confident that her intuition 
was grounded in a strong heart as well as an astute political mind.

And now La Rosa intuition was telling her that Fabrizio was sitting on 
a gold mine.

"Sorry, boss," she said.

"This is an awesome opportunity for you and for the country.  It's the 
type of situation we dreamed about in lunchroom debates in law 
school.

"What would you change if you were president and you didn't have to 
deal with partisan politics?"" "Look, Rosie, I respect your instincts,"
 Fabrizio said.

"And I'm a dreamer, too.

But experience tells me that there's a catch.  We're not dealing with 
school kids here.  Cancer or no cancer, I'm not sure why he's giving up
 his one chance to be the Big Dog."

La Rosa stifled a smile.

"What's so funny?"  Fabrizio asked.

"Nothing really.  You reminded me of something an old professor of mine
 used to say.

"The view is pretty much the same whether you're the second dog on the 
team or the last.""

Fabrizio snorted.

"That's my point," he said.

"Why would somebody who has dedicated his life to being the best at 
whatever he does be willing to settle for a view of my backside in his 
final race?"

"Sometimes you just have to stop thinking," La Rosa said.

"Once he signs up as your running mate, it's over.  What does he 
possibly have to gain from throwing the election at that point?"

Fabrizio reflected on that thought for a moment.

"What about Stevenson.  Have we made any implied promises to him?"

"Absolutely not.  Like every other politician, he's probably 
overconfident and thinks he's got it.  But, look, he knows the give and
take of politics.  He'll sit back and marvel like everyone else in 
Washington how the hell you pulled this rabbit out of your hat."

"Do you still think he might make a run for the presidency this year if
 he's not myVP?"  Fabrizio asked.

"No," she said confidently.

"He couldn't beat the two of you together, and he's too smart to 
try."

"Hmmm.  Where have you left things with Stevenson's chief?"

"The next step is a personal meeting between you and Tom," La Rosa 
said. Fabrizio was rocking gently in his chair.

"So, what are you thinking?"  she asked.

"Let's hold off Stevenson and ponder it," Fabrizio said.

"We're in no rush."

SIXTEEN

BEN LOCKED THE DOOR to his office.  He pulled out the slip of paper 
from his pocket.  His hands shook.  It was a list.

"The Heir Apparent.  The Speaker.  The Senator.  The General.  The Spy.
The Publisher.  The Doctor.  The Caretaker.  The Assassin."  Names he 
had seen only briefly almost a week earlier in the Millennium Nights 
room on CyberLine.  The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight had 
convened.  The Jinx was real.

"Holy shit!"  Debby said, after Ben shared the details of his frightful
discovery.

"How could they possibly pull it off?"

Ben shook his head incredulously.

"I can't believe it," he said.

"But kids are easily influenced by their parents.  Usually, we think 
about unintentionally passing down bad habits to the next generation, 
but why couldn't somebody take advantage of that bond?"

"The Hatfields and the McCoys," Debby said.

"Huh?"

"The two hillbilly clans that fought for years," she said.

"I think that feud crossed a generation."

"But seven generations?  It's too fantastic to believe, but somehow 
they did it," Ben said.

"So now what?"  Debby asked.

"We need to figure out who these guys are and gather evidence of the
conspiracy," Ben said.

"We still can't disclose this to anyone else.  I'm the only connection 
between the List and the Poem.  I saw those names in the chat room.  We
 know the conspiracy is real, but we have no proof."

"When you think about it, the List isn't connected to the Poem at all,"
 Debby said.

"Adams Thompson is the only link between the two."

"And "Millennium Nights' is similar to "Millennium Knight,"" Ben
noted.

"But we'd get laughed off the planet if we brought this to the police. 
We've got to take our intuition and develop hard evidence."

"So how do you propose we do that?"  Debby asked.

"Maybe guess possible suspects based on the List," he said.

"We know The Publisher.  If the Knights were successful, then the 
Speaker of the House, John Daniel, must be The Speaker.  The Heir 
Apparent is probably a candidate for vice president."

"Stevenson is an obvious suspect," Debby reminded him.

"Right," Ben agreed.

"There are only one hundred senators.  We need to narrow that pool. 
There are too many generals to guess The General.  Doctors, too.  The 
Spy could be someone in the FBI or the CLA.  We should consider if any 
of their top officers could be involved."

"What about The Caretaker and The Assassin?"  Debby asked.

"I don't have a clue how to identify them," Ben admitted.

"Maybe the clean at Calhoun College?"  Debby asked.

"You said he seemed suspicious."

"He could be The Caretaker," Ben said.

"That's a good thought."  Debby's mind seemed to be clicking.

"And the List might be part of the "Key that the Poem mentions," she 
said excitedly.

"Maybe.  But I don't understand how knowing only the nicknames would 
help the Knights find each other, though," Ben said.

"We can't do it."

(t'-T-' I?

true.

"But you're right to think in terms of the Key," Ben said.

"That's probably how they found each other and set themselves up in the
Millennium Nights room."

"What did the Poem say about it, again?"  Debby asked.

Ben removed his transcribed copy of the Poem from his briefcase.  He 
had taken to locking it there whenever he was not using it.  He had 
stopped at Thompson's apartment on the way back from the police station
 and re-sealed the envelope. It was now in the firm's vault.

"Our pasts now clouded, our futures clear, shrouded names mask the 
secret we bear, from mouth to mouth the Key shall descend, the final 
object unlocked only in the end."

"It was supposed to be passed down from mouth to mouth," Debby said.

"That'll make it difficult.  It probably won't fall into our lap like 
the List did," Ben said.

"Maybe we can figure it out if we think like the MacDougalls," Debby 
suggested.

"They were about to scatter across the country.  They knew that they 
wouldn't make contact again for over 150 years.  How would you develop 
a code to permit their descendants to find each other?"

"Maybe a secret message in the newspaper," Ben said.

"No, it would've been hard to predict if there would be one newspaper 
that would be convenient for all of them."

"Maybe if they had picked a date in advance and agreed to use the 
largest newspaper in a big city, like Atlanta or New York," Debby 
said.

"That's possible.  We'd never be able to decrypt that," Ben said.  Did 
they have classified ads in the newspapers back then?"

Debby shrugged.

"Gee, I don't know," she said.

"Let's think of other possibilities," Ben said.

"Maybe an agreed meeting place on a specified date?"

"They would have to be confident that the place would still exist after
 150 years," Ben said.

"And it would have to be a place where they wouldn't get lost in a 
crowd."

"That rules out national landmarks, like the White House or the 
Washington Monument," Debby said.

"Calhoun College is a possibility," Ben suggested.

"But they already used that as the site of their Millennium Meeting."

"Yeah, that might be too obvious," Ben agreed.

"There's no way we're going to guess that, either.  I don't think we're
going to be productive trying to guess the Key without some other 
clues."

Debby smirked.

"Which will drop from the sky like manna from heaven?"

"You're starting to hang around me way too much," Ben said.

"The sarcasm thing is rubbing off."

"I'm trying it on, and I think it fits."

"Fair enough," Ben said.

"Anyway, the only other place that I can think of to find clues is the
Millennium Nights room.  Maybe we can figure out when they meet, and 
then try to find a way to observe what's going on in there or try to 
make contact with one of the Knights."

"When did you see them in the room?"  she asked.

"It was the day before we went out to lunch.  Thursday night, I think. 
It was after midnight."

"Maybe we can take shifts and monitor the room," Debby suggested.

"We'd need a 24-hour watch," Ben said.

"We'll need help."

Debby hesitated.

"I don't think we should talk about this with anyone else," she said.

"Do you?"

"Well, I've been talking on-line with a friend of mine," Ben said.

"On-line!  Are you crazy?"

"It's not like that.  Woody's my best friend in the world.  I've met 
him in person."

"You're the boss," Debby said.  She did not sound entirely convinced.

"Anyway, Woody's the only one.  I know he'll help us," Ben said.

"I have three other friends on-line.  I won't provide details.  I'll 
only tell them that I need help monitoring the room and that it's 
important.  They're good friends.  They'll help."

"That's the two of us, then, and four of your Net buddies.  Four hours 
each," Debby said.

"How do you want to organize this?"

Now it was Ben's turn to hesitate.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course."

He turned to his computer and double-clicked.

"I have a copy of CyberLine on my computer here."  The firm had a 
policy against installing personal software on the firm's computers.

Debby laughed.

"Ooooo.  Ben's been a bad boy," she said.  Ben blushed.

"Oh, Ben, it's no big deal.  Everybody does that.  I have CyberLine 
installed upstairs on my computer, too."

"These are my Pen Pals Ben said, pointing to the screen.  The list 
included WoodythePecker, Blue Sating Lisa C."  Peggy Sue and Quixote.

"Sounds like a motley crew," she said.

"I can count on them for help--except Quixote.  Let's divide the day 
into four-hour slots.  Since I saw them in the room around midnight, I 
want the 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift.  Do you have a preference?"

"I can monitor the room from my desk while I'm doing other busy work," 
Debby said.

"Is 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. okay?"

"It's yours.  I'll send e-mails to the others, and we'll see if they 
can help."

"Sounds like a plan," Debby said.

"Who's Quixote?"

Ben blushed, again.

"An old friend I haven't spoken to in a couple of years."

Debby started to ask another question, then stopped.  She started to 
leave, then she came back and shut the door.

"I got your e-mail last night," she said.

Ben tensed.

"I didn't feel like I said everything I wanted to say last night before
 we left," he said.

An uneasy smile crossed her lips.

"It's hard to talk about emotions, especially when we're both such 
sensitive people," she said.

"I love The Road Not Taken;

it's one of my favorite poems.  You're already one of the closest 
friends I've ever had, but I've got to work out my problems before I'm 
ready to take our friendship to the next level."

Ben forced a grin.

"You can't blame a guy for trying," he said.

"Still friends?"  she asked, "Still friends."

AS BEN HAD HOPED, his CyberLine Pen Pals were eager to help.  By the 
time he left work on Wednesday at eight o'clock, the arrangements had 
been made for a 24-hour watch on the Millennium Nights room.

Woody, a night owl by nature, needed no prodding to accept the 2 a.m. 
to 6 a.m.

shift, which ended at three in the morning San Francisco time.  Lisa 
C."  who was also in Manhattan, covered the Millennium Nights room from
six to ten in the morning, when Debby took over the watch.  Blue
Sating  was working a night shift at the tire factory, and she agreed
to take  the two o'clock afternoon watch.

Peggy Sue picked it up at six o'clock in the evening, and Ben rounded 
out the day from ten to two in the morning.

Ben was too excited to wait until his ten o'clock stint.  He logged on 
to CyberLine at eight-thirty and went directly to the RealTime private 
rooms. Since he did not have the password, he could not observe as 
users entered and exited the Millennium Nights room or the conversation
within.  However, the name of the room appeared on a list of private 
rooms, which indicated how many members were in the room at the time. 
It was currently empty.

If there had been members in the room, they could be identified by 
clicking on a button that provided a list of occupants.  Once the 
member was identified, a private message could be sent.  If any of 
Ben's friends found the room in use, they were instructed to try to 
engage one or two of the occupants in an innocuous conversation.  Ben 
was more interested in determining the times that they met, at this 
point, but thought it would be interesting to see how the Knights 
reacted.

Ben's Pen Pal list was active.  Woody, Lisa, and Peggy Sue were logged 
on.  Ben added DebbyDoes to the list, but she was not on-line.  Ben 
sent Peggy Sue a message.

Master Ben Hi Peggy Sue How goes the first watch?  Peggy Sue 8:45 and 
all is well.  Master Ben (Laughing) No activity?

Peggy Sue Nope.  I've been checking every five minutes.

Master Ben Fair enough.  Anything interesting going on in your life?

Peggy Sue Not really.  It's the busy season at the ski club and I'm 
exhausted.  I love my job, but I'm too tired to paint when I get 
home.

Master Ben That's too bad.  I'll pray for an early melt.

Peggy Sue (Smile) Don't do that!  The ski lessons pay the bills.  I'll 
get over it and paint in the spring.

Master Ben Since I'm on-line, anyway, do you want me to cover the rest 
of your shift?

Peggy Sue I don't mind doing this at all, but if you're doing it, 
anyway, a bubble bath would be nice!  smile

Master Ben Sounds good to me ... Wish I was there to wash your back 
devilish grin

Peggy Sue Good night, Ben ... you horny devil.

Master Ben "Nite, Peggy Sue ... thanks again for helping out with 
this.

Peggy Sue No worries.  I'll check in with you tomorrow.  Ben tried Lisa
next. Master Ben Hi, Lisa ... how goes the battle?  Lisa C.: Hey,
Ben!  How's your witch hunt going?

Master Ben Another friend is taking the first shift right now ... at 
least she was until a bubble bath called... Lisa C.: Some friend!

Master Ben I'm teasing ... she had a tough day on the slopes of the 
Colorado Rockies and I'm ready to start my watch early, anyway... Lisa 
C.: Sounds like a tough life ... skiing, bubble bath ... it would be 
just awful if she had to curl up by a roaring fire with something warm,
 too.

Master Ben (Laughing) She's a ski instructor... I'm sure she works very
hard ... and I already volunteered to be that something warm but got 
shot down smile

Lisa C.: So ... is your witch hunt business or pleasure?

Master Ben This one's all business ... I'll tell you about it when it's
 all over.

Right now I think it's better to play this hand close to the chest... I
 mean vest.

Lisa C.: (Laughing hysterically) You're incorrigible.  Master Ben But 
I'm cute.

Lisa C.: Like an iguana.

Master Ben Ow, that smarts ... We really should get together some time 
... just for coffee ... I'm not so bad looking and we already know we 
get along great ... We probably know each other better than a married 
couple... Lisa C.: We do know what the other likes sexually... Lisa C.:
And iguanas do make nice pets... Master Ben Oh, man ... you had me 
getting all hard there for a minute...grin Lisa C.: Now there's a 
challenge.  smile Master Ben So, will you at least think about it?

Lisa C.: C'mon, Ben ... we've been through this before ... what if we 
aren't attracted to each other?  I don't want to lose you as a friend 
... you're one of my best buddies in the whole world blushing

Master Ben (Laughing) I know, but you can't blame a guy for trying... 
I'm starting a new relationship and I want to give it a chance, 
anyway... Lisa C.: Someone from RealTime?

Master Ben No.  I haven't ever dated anybody from online.  She's from 
work.  A paralegal at my firm... Lisa C.: What's she like?  turning 
light shade of green

Master Ben She's cool ... you'd like her.  smart confident, good sense 
of humor, pretty... Lisa C.: Did you have sex with her?

Master Ben No ... she really turns me on, but she has issues... Lisa 
C.: A likely story smile Master Ben No, they're real ... but I promised
not to tell... Lisa C.: I don't even know who she is... Master Ben It 
wouldn't feel right... Lisa C.: Your call, Ben.  Your hand must be 
getting quite a work out while you wait... Master Ben blush Maybe I 
need a surrogate ... what are you doing Saturday night?

Lisa C.: (Laughing) Mouse at play while the cat's away?

Master Ben I'm very faithful puppy dog hurt look You should have seen 
the babe I turned down when I was in Atlanta on Monday... Lisa C.: Do 
tell... Master Ben She works for the client I was visiting... she was 
all over me!!!

Lisa C.: Literally?

Master Ben Yeah ... One step away from lifting her dress and it's a 
home run ... but I pulled away ... what an idiot... Lisa C.: That 
Jewish thing again?

Master Ben I think it was part guilt, part something else that I 
haven't experienced before... Lisa C.: Impotence?  grin

Master Ben Funny (not laughing) No, I think there's a bond between me 
and this other girl and I want to build trust between us ... if I had 
sex with Kimberly, I'd have a secret and there would be no trust... 
Lisa C.: I think I'm still going with my impotency theory grin

Master Ben Okay, you caugN me sheepish grin

Lisa C.: So it sounds like you're pretty serious about this gal?

Master Ben We had a moment on Saturday night when I knew I was in love 
and this thing with Kimberly on Monday confirmed it... Lisa C.: Does 
she love you back?

Master Ben I don't know for sure ... she's not looking for love because
of the issues in her life ... but there is a connection... I feel
it... Lisa C.: Cool ... I'm happy for you.

Master Ben In the meantime, I have all this excitement at work to keep 
my idle hands busy... Lisa C.: I almost forgot... Have you been 
checking the room?

Master Ben Yep ... Nothing doing ... I've got to check in with another 
buddy, though ... thanks for listening tonight, Lisa!  smile

Lisa C.: You bet, that's what friends are for ... sweet dreams, Ben

Ben returned a parting note, and then contacted Woody.  His mind was 
racing.

WoodythePecker: Benmeister!  You must have been making your rounds--I 
noticed you came online some time ago.

Master Ben You got it ... the information superhighway is lit up 
tonight... WoodythePecker: So are you going to keep me in suspense 
about your discovery today?

Master Ben The 20-Year Jinx is real!

WoodythePecker: Don't mess with me, man ... what did you find?

Master Ben The police found Thompson's wallet... There was a list of
names--they were the same nicknames that I saw in the Millennium Nights
room in RealTime last week... WoodythePecker: Are you sure?  These 
cyber-names tend to blend together after awhile... Master Ben I'm sure.
 You wouldn't forget these names if you saw them, either:

The Heir

Apparent, The Caretaker, The General, The Senator, The Spy, The 
Speaker, The Doctor and The Assassin.

WoodythePecker: Wow, nothing like a little melodrama... Master Ben I 
thought it was a bizarre club when I first saw them in RealTime ... but
tie it together with Adams Thompson, the plot described in the Poem, 
and the Millennium Nights/ Knights link and I think we've got ourselves
a conspiracy... WoodythePecker: Don't be too hasty... Maybe Thompson 
and his buddies organized the bizarre club based on the Poem.

Master Ben Like in that book you told me about... WoodythePecker: 
Foucault's Pendulum.  They may just be a group of conspiracy theorists 
waiting for the descendants of the MacDougalls to reappear at the dawn 
of the millennium.

Master Ben The voice of reason speaks... WoodythePecker: (Laughing) I'm
not saying stop investigating ... you're right, the odds that the Jinx
is real have increased ... but don't go making an ass of yourself ... 
keep it quiet for awhile... Master Ben That's my conclusion, too ... I 
can't go to my boss or to the police with the evidence I've got now ...
I want to monitor the Millennium Nights room with the help of you and 
some other friends and try to crack the Key ... we need to know who the
conspirators are to make any kind of case... Ben and Woody discussed 
the various ways that the MacDougalls might have created the Key.  They
did not come up with any new ideas.  Ben continued to monitor the 
Millennium Nights room as they spoke.  There was no activity.  Woody
took his turn at the helm when Ben logged off at two o'clock, Thursday 
morning.

SEVENTEEN

'-pHE FIRST 24-HOUR WATCH on the Millennium Nights room JL had been 
fruitless.

Ben anxiously began his second watch at ten o'clock Thursday evening. 
It was one week since first contact.

They began to appear one by one at the midnight hour.  The Doctor.  The
 Speaker.

The Heir Apparent.  The Caretaker.  The Senator.  The Spy.  The General
 was the last to arrive at ten past twelve.

Ben did not want to contact the Knights as Master Ben These were 
intelligent men.  If Dean Frederick was one of them, they might already
 be suspicious of him.

He signed off CyberLine, then logged on again using one of the other
cyber-names he had reserved, Curvy Carol He sent a message to The 
Doctor.

"What are you boys up to in that room?  It sounds so mysterious and 
sexy... There was no reply.  He tried The Speaker with the same 
message.  Again, no reply.

THE KNIGHTS HAD DISPENSED with formalities and were preparing to 
discuss the status of their plan.

The Speaker: Is there a woman bothering anybody else right now?

The Doctor; I ignored her and she seems to have gone away.

The Speaker: I know this happens from time to time, but I'm sensitive 
about security these days.

The Heir Apparent: Ignore her.  Nobody can see in here.  If anybody is 
unlucky enough to guess the password, The Spy can arrange another 
accident.

The Spy: Only too happy to oblige.

The Senator: We all appreciate your subtle and rather dark sense of 
humor, Spy, but let's remember what we spoke about last week.  So far 
no innocents have been harmed.  If we start arranging "accidents," we 
add a great deal of personal risk.

Let's be sure a security breach is real before we act.

The Spy: Point taken.  The General: Now she sent me a message. The
Heir Apparent: Like I said, ignore her.  We have several items we  need
to cover tonight.  Caretaker, tell us about your meeting with the 
lawyer.

The Caretaker: I played my little game with him in the MacDougall Room.
I'm not sure what to make of him.  He didn't mention the Poem.  Either
he hasn't found it or he realizes that he's stumbled on to something. 
He tensed when I was telling Jimmy's tale, but I couldn't tell if it 
was from recognition or general anxiety.

He's very young.  He's only been doing this for a year, and his act is 
not very smooth yet.

The General: What does your gut tell you?

The Caretaker: I'm sure my gut is not as finely tuned as yours, 
General.  He seems like a bright kid, but inexperienced.  Professional.
 He even resisted the charms of young Kimberly.

The Doctor: That's quite an accomplishment.

The Caretaker: Careful, good Doctor, she is my daughter.

The Doctor: And a lovely lass she is, sir.  And I believe her photos 
will be helpful in getting our little research project underway.

The Heir Apparent: That's good news, Doctor.  If all else goes as 
planned, you may have the honor of firing the shot that starts the 
war.

The General: I want to hear more about the lawyer.  Spy, have you 
discovered anything new?

The Spy: Office telephone tapped.  Nothing interesting.  Apt not wired;
 no tail.

Caretaker, do you think that's warranted?

The Caretaker: Yes.  The Heir Apparent: Why?

The Caretaker: Caution.  Like I said last week, The Publisher's copy of
the Poem should be sealed and subject to a trust.  The kid didn't say 
or do anything inconsistent with that and a case of the jitters.  But 
there's a lot at stake.  I don't have enough confidence in my 
instincts.  Let's keep an eye on him for a few weeks and see if he does
 anything suspicious.

The General: I agree with The Caretaker.  The Heir Apparent: Any 
problem with that, Spy?

The Spy: No.  Call it drug stakeout.  Report to detail comings goings

The Heir Apparent: Good.  Any progress in finding our friend, The 
Assassin?

The Spy: None.  If killed Pub, he disappeared.  Police picked up drunk 
trying to use Pub's credit card, but not killer.

The Heir Apparent: I think we all anticipated that The Assassin would 
not be found based on your last report.  In fact, I've acted based on 
that assumption. I met with Fabrizio on

Tuesday and made him an unusual proposal.  I suggested that we join 
forces. He'll be the president, I'll be the VP.

The Senator: Have you gone mad?  How did he react?

The Heir Apparent: Hell, I've thought deeply about this.  Hear me out. 
First, if I win the presidency, I'm The Assassin's target.  That's not 
an option that I relish.

The Heir Apparent: Second, Fabrizio seems to be leaning towards 
Stevenson as a running mate.  My candidacy is vulnerable if Fabrizio 
carries California, and Stevenson can help him do that.  Even if 
Fabrizio doesn't go for my proposal, he might delay announcing his 
choice.  Time is my ally in California.

The Heir Apparent: Third, I think the American people would leap at a
bipartisan ticket.  It's a bold and symbolic way to usher in the new 
millennium. Fabrizio's reaction was as expected.  He was stunned.  For 
now, he agreed to think about it.

The Heir Apparent: Finally, you have to appreciate the drama of it.  I
triumphantly assume the presidency after Fabrizio's tragic death.  It's
 the way our ancestors envisioned it.

The Senator: Perhaps "mad" was too harsh a word.  But don't you think 
you were a little hasty?  What will the Republican leadership think?

The Heir Apparent: The Speaker is a key member of the Republican 
leadership.  I expect his support.  The Republicans won't be thrilled, 
but they don't have many alternatives.  Once we're in power and 
Fabrizio is dead, I don't care if my working relationship with Congress
is difficult.  Our legacy will not be civil rights legislation, it
will  be civil war.

The Speaker: But what if The Assassin doesn't materialize?

The Spy: Wait six months, otherwise I'll handle it.  The Heir Apparent:
 My hopes exactly.

The Senator: What if Fabrizio doesn't agree to your proposal?

The Heir Apparent: Then we need to re-evaluate our plan.  I won't 
assume the presidency if The Assassin is not located.  I'll throw the 
ballgame.

The Spy: We've all worked too hard to give up at first sign of 
adversity.

Remember the penalty for treason... The Heir Apparent: Don't threaten 
me.  Let's not forget whose responsibility it was to eliminate The 
Assassin.  The objective chosen for me by our ancestors was to be 
elected VP in the millennium election. I've taken steps to make that 
happen.  If that's not possible, then we may have failed to achieve the
crowning glory our ancestors envisioned, but we can still claim their 
Final Vengeance.

The General: What are you proposing?

The Heir Apparent: We can still trigger the civil war even if I'm not 
the president.  We won't be able to stand and triumphantly declare our 
triumph from the presidential pulpit, but we may still be able to 
dictate terms if we're victorious.  It will take some planning, but 
we'll just have to roll with the punches.

The Doctor: I think learning with Fabrizio is a terrific idea.  I like 
the drama.

The final presidential assassination is such an integral part of the 
plan.

The Speaker: It adds a lot of pressure on me.  The Republican 
leadership will go ballistic.

The Heir Apparent: I'm sure you'll do your best.  We've all had to make
sacrifices and take risks.

The Senator: May I make a proposal?  The Heir Apparent: Of course.

The Senator: As one of the senior Democrats in the Senate, I may be 
able to use my influence to gain the inside track for the 
vice-presidential nomination.  Tom Stevenson is popular, but I have 
almost twenty years seniority.

The Heir Apparent: I appreciate your willingness to pinch hit for me, 
once again.  But I've already approached Fabrizio, and I feel that it's
my obligation to take my best shot at the presidency.  I do think that
 you can use your influence to help in another way, though, Senator.

It was about half past one o'clock on Friday morning.  The discussion 
in the Millennium Nights room continued for several minutes.  Ben had 
abandoned his early efforts to gain the attention of the Knights.  He 
maintained his watch to determine their quitting time.  The room 
emptied by the time Woody was ready to take over at two o'clock.  Ben 
suggested that Woody take the night off.

EIGHTEEN

"HRISTY KIRK PAID HER BREAKFAST BILL at the hotel restaurant.  The 
cashier smiled and thanked her with a sugary Southern accent.  Christy 
mocked her, replying "Yeah, y'all have a good day, too," with an 
exaggerated Brooklyn accent, which was all the more cruel in that she 
was born in St.  Paul, Minnesota and had developed only a slight New 
York twang after seven years in the city.

"Next time try decaf, darling,"" came the angry retort from the 
cashier.

Christy looked at her watch, standing outside the Dunhill Hotel on 
Tryon Street in downtown Charlotte--or "uptown Charlotte" as the local 
chamber of commerce had been promoting it.  Her meeting was in ten 
minutes.  She crossed the tree-lined street, passing the Nationsbank 
Corporate Center, the sixty-story monument to Southern regional banking
that towered over the quaint, low-rise cityscape like a giant 
phallus.

Christy's short auburn hair blew in the balmy December breeze.  She did
not think of herself as an unattractive woman, but she found that her 
intensity, often betrayed by her eyes without a spoken word, caused 
some people to take an instant dislike to her.  She could be charming 
when she wanted to be, but she had taken some delight in cultivating 
the image of the steely-eyed bitch.  It kept people at arms length.  It
 was safe.

Security was a feeling that Christy Kirk had rarely enjoyed in her 
twenty-five years.  Her father was a respected businessman in St. 
Paul,  an insurance salesman, who always seemed to have a kind word for
 everyone.  Until he came home.

Christy and her mother had been subjected to an almost endless barrage 
of physical and verbal abuse.  They could do nothing right in

Willie Kirk's eyes.  An "A" on Christy's report card should have been 
an "A+;" a "B" was an unforgivable offense.  Her friends were not good 
enough.  She was too thin.  The house was never clean enough. 
Something  was always wrong with dinner.

And his reaction was always loud or violent, regardless of the 
magnitude of the infraction.

Christy had sought escape, first in the fantasy world she had created 
in her journals, then in the real world of the Ivy League, courtesy of 
a scholarship to Columbia University.  She had arrived in New York 
determined to prove her father wrong, to show him that her life had 
value.  She had studied hard, played little, and graduated in the top 
ten percent of her class, earning her a place in the graduate program
at the prestigious Columbia School of Journalism.

It had been there that Christy had first captured the attention of 
Adams Thompson, Jr."  where he had been an adjunct professor.  A 
reporting job at the New York Herald Times was a prize that few college
 recruits snared, but Christy had set her sights on it.

Most Herald Times reporters had served long apprenticeships at 
newspapers in smaller cities and towns, learning their craft, the wheat
separated from the chaff.  Only the best even aspired to the Herald 
Times or the Washington Post or the handful of other top tier 
newspapers in the country.

But Christy had shown Thompson that she had the qualities of a great 
reporter, the tenacious ness to dig for the difficult stories and the 
courage to write them.  She had gotten the job.

Thompson had put on a gruff act, but Christy knew that he was fond of 
her.  He made sure that she was assigned stories that a rookie reporter
had no business writing.  When she had upset the wrong people, somehow
he made the problems go away.  She had initially thought of him as one
more instrument to help her achieve the fame that she craved, but now 
she missed him.  His interest in her had been almost paternal.  He had 
made her feel safe.

But now Thompson was gone, and Christy was determined to prove that she
could fend for herself.  In the week and a half since she had stormed 
out of Roger Martins office at the Herald Times, Christy had plunged 
into her story, at each step hearing Roger's dire warning echoing in 
her ears.

She had found that white supremacists made the firemen, sanitation 
workers and longshoremen she had toyed with seem like Boy Scouts.

They were the radical fringe, people with a predisposition towards 
violence and questionable mental stability.

Christy had started her research with Roger's folder, which contained 
several hundred newspaper clippings from around the country, apparently
the product of Roger's vast collegial network.  She had been
astonished  not only by the extent of the racially motivated activity,
but also by  its fragmentation.  Hate came in boxes of many different
shapes and  sizes.

She had categorized the white supremacy groups into four broad 
groups--Ku Klux Klan, Neo-Nazis, Skinheads and Christian Identity--but 
still others, like the enormous National Association for the 
Advancement of White People, an offshoot of the KKK, and the violent 
Army of God defied such classification.  The one common bond among most
of the groups, and even that was not clear to her, was their ties to
the Religious Right.  They almost universally justified their hatred
of  people of color and Jews as divinely ordained.

Roger's folder had included only limited material about the black 
separatist groups, the House of David and the Nation of Islam, but had 
included extensive clippings about the massive build-up of activity by 
the NOMAADs, the National Organization for Mutual African American 
Defense.  Unlike the other groups, the NOMAADs did not appear to be 
inspired by hate or religion.  They simply saw the increasing 
militarization of the white hate groups, and they were determined to
defend themselves.

Christy had then turned to the Internet to try to tie the material 
together, but she had given up in frustration.  She found hundreds of 
web sites devoted to individual hate groups.  Their propaganda was 
almost always difficult to understand and sometimes nonsensical. 
Nothing appeared to link the groups.  She had decided to talk with real
people first, form a general impression, maybe figure out their 
motivation, and then try to make sense of the white supremacy
movement.

Christy had focused her attention on three organizations, all with 
significant ties to the Carolinas, for no other reason than 
convenience.  She was not sure whether she was still employed by the 
Herald Times, and she did not want to run up a large expense account. 
If those interviews panned out, she could expand her contacts to higher
 levels.

The White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan had chapters in three small towns
in central North Carolina within a fifty mile radius ofWinstonSalem, 
all of which appeared to have unusually active memberships.

The Aryan Alliance was a Christian Identity group with headquarters in
Charlotte and a paramilitary compound in the western part of the state,
southeast ofAsheville.  It had chapters in twenty-six states.

The NOMAADs were headquartered in Washington, D.C. and had chapters in 
all fifty states.  They had a major training facility ten miles north 
of Greenville, South Carolina, not far from the North Carolina border 
and the Aryan Alliance camp.  It was the closest NOMAAD facility to any
 major white supremacy compound that she had been able to identify.

Hate groups did not advertise in the Yellow Pages, but Christy had been
able to track down contacts from the newspaper clippings and the 
Internet sites.  She had started with what she hoped would be the 
easiest interviews, the leaders and members of the three rural KKK 
chapters.  Her plan had been to cut her teeth on them, learning the 
right questions to ask and the "hot buttons" to avoid when she reached 
the higher levels of the white supremacy movement, the contacts she 
ultimately hoped to quote to support her story. The Klan meetings had
been eye-opening.  She had expected hooded  rednecks with potbellies
and a handful of teeth among them.  But this  was the new Klan.  A more
moderate Klan.  A middle-class Klan.  At  least that was the way they
had presented themselves.  Christy had done  some digging, asked some
direct questions and discovered a different  story.

The Klan had been originally founded in 1866 in Pulaski, Tennessee by 
Nathan Bedford Forrest, a former Confederate general.  They had engaged
in lynchings and other tactics of intimidation, disguised in white 
sheets, to discourage Southern blacks from exercising their newly 
acquired voting rights.  The Klan had largely disappeared by the early 
1870s, only to reappear in ebbs and flows beginning shortly before 
World War II.

Membership had declined again in the 1970s as integration began to be 
accepted, spawning the more laid back Klan popularized by David Duke. 
This was the image the Klan was still trying to sell, but Christy 
discovered that they had in fact entered into a new era.

Today's Klan was distinguished by an increasing paramilitary presence 
within many factions and ties to the Christian Identity movement. 
While  they outwardly portrayed themselves as more restrained than the 
traditional Klan image, they were every bit as violent and then some. 
The National Association for the Advancement of White People had 
splintered from the Klan because of disagreements over ideology and 
Klan-sanctioned violence.

Still, even among the Klan factions, Christy found that there was no
centralized leadership.  Two of the three leaders that Christy had met 
claimed to be on a mission from God.  The other had claimed to be God's
son.  All three chapters engaged in paramilitary training, but even 
within that small region in central North Carolina there was no plan to
 combine their efforts.

Christy had left the Winston-Salem area more concerned about isolated 
terrorist attacks on black and Jewish targets, but less worried about 
unification of the white supremacy movement into a significant fighting
 force.

Christy found her destination, a four-story brick office building on 
West Tryon Street.  She was anxious about this morning's meeting. 
Franklin Verdant, the Chairman or the Imperial Wizard or the Grand 
Pubah of the Aryan Alliance, was no redneck.  The Aryan Alliance had 
chapters in twenty-six states and had doubled its membership in the 
past five years to more than fifty thousand men, women and children. 
Verdant had not risen to power by buying drinks and slapping backs.  He
was an intelligent, passionate man whose life was centered on hate and
violence. For once, Christy felt as small as she looked as she
stepped off the  elevator into the richly decorated offices of the
Aryan Alliance.  Then  she closed her eyes and slipped into
character.

The receptionist was expecting her, and she was hustled into a small 
conference room, no more than ten feet square.  Unlike the reception 
area, little attention had been given to the decor of this room.  A 
round, mahogany table surrounded by four padded swivel chairs filled 
most of the tiny space.  A glass pitcher of water and four cups were on
the tabletop.  The barren walls were painted an undistinguished shade 
of white.

Before Christy could become bored with her surroundings, the door burst
open, and a tall, imposing man with a deep, booming voice introduced 
himself as Franklin Verdant.  Verdant had a game face that made even 
Christy cower.  He was bald except for a ring of salt and pepper hair 
around the base of his scalp that drooped into a neatly trimmed beard 
and mustache.  His wrinkled brow and dark, bushy eyebrows were slanted 
downwards into a permanent, imperious scowl. He was elegantly attired 
in a navy blue suit, red silk tie and blue candy-striped shin with 
French cuffs and gold cufflinks.

Verdant glowered at her.

"I expected somebody more mature," he said.

Christy knew that this was a critical moment.  Her eyes locked with 
his.

"I can call the newsroom and get you a 45-year old, faggot-assed 
liberal if you really want one," she said.

"Or you can stick with the toughest bitch in New York.  Your choice."

Verdant sat down.  His expression, better suited for leading Mongol 
hordes into battle than polite conversation, remained unchanged.

"You've got fifteen minutes.  Talk, bitch."

Christy had been promised an hour.  She suppressed an urge to grumble. 
They could argue in fifteen minutes if he needed to flex his muscles 
again.

"How many chapters are there in the Aryan Alliance?"  she asked.

He leaned forward.

"Look, if you're half as good as you think you are, you know the answer
to that question.  It's on our web site.  Now skip the bullshit and
ask  me what you really want to know."

Okay.  So he was going to play it tough.  / can deal with that.

"You'll answer any question I ask you?"

"I'll answer any fucking question I feel like answering," he boomed.

"But I will not waste my time with bullshit."

Christy was unfazed.

"What are the basic principles of the Christian Identity movement?" 
she  asked.

"Web site."  He was not going to give an inch.  She knew the basic 
tenets--that Northwestern European whites are God's "chosen people" and
the true Israelites and the Jews and other non-Aryan peoples are the 
children and followers of Satan, intent upon taking over the world.  It
 made better copy if she could get him to say it.

"Can you just sum up how you understand those principles and how 
they've guided your life?"

He placed his palms on the edge of the table and raised himself.

"Do you think I'm stupid?  I'm not going to give you a quote that you 
can take out of context and make me look like an ignoramus.  You think 
that just because my beliefs aren't shared by the majority they're 
foolish.  Just remember this--Jesus was an outcast in his time, too."

"So, you think you're like Jesus?"  Christy asked.

Christy knew immediately that she had crossed a line.  Verdant's ears 
flushed and his eyes narrowed to little slits.

"Look, Princess Bitch, I can have you hog-tied, fucked and left for 
dead in the woods outside town within an hour.  Are you ready to take 
this seriously or is this interview over?"

Christy suppressed the wave of fear that tried to rock her 
self-assurance.

Verdant wanted her to be intimidated.  Fuck you, Nazi asshole.  Nobody 
bullies the Bitch.

"You seem to rely heavily on your web site," she said.

"What role is the Internet playing for your group?"

Verdant settled back into his chair.

"The Internet is the one medium where we can compete with the liberal 
national media," he said.

"We're constantly being portrayed as ignorant rednecks.  People can 
read our web site, uncensored, and see what we're about.  It's been an 
outstanding recruiting tool."

"If you're so concerned about the national media, why did you agree to 
this interview?"  she asked.

"The Herald Times is the only shop I would even consider talking to," 
Verdant said approvingly.

"That editorial on school integration took some guts."

Christy had wondered why it had been so easy to schedule the interview.
He expected a glamour piece.  Quote or not, that was not going to 
happen.

"Do you use the Internet to communicate with other like minded 
groups?"

Verdant poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the 
table.

"We use the Internet to communicate within our own group," he said.  He
 took a sip, then placed the glass on the table.

"We have a Rapid Response Team, a group of volunteers who are contacted
via email to respond to special situations, whether alerting members
of  an emergency or gathering information from them."

"What kind of emergencies have arisen?"

"Just as an example, an arrest warrant was issued for one of our 
members.  We used the Rapid Response Team to locate him and arrange for
safe passage from state to state.  He has eluded the authorities for 
over a year now."

Christy thought she knew who he was talking about, but that was not the
story she wanted.  Now that she had the Nazi talking, she needed to 
know if he was goose-stepping alone or in partnership.  She leaned 
forward and asked the real question on her mind, again, this time more 
directly.

"Does your group have close ties to other Christian Identity groups?"

Verdant made a steeple with his fingers.

"I speak with other leaders in the Christian Identity movement and 
similar organizations," he said cautiously.

Christy tapped her heel nervously against the leg of her chair.  It was
easier to bathe her terrier than draw information from Franklin 
Verdant.

"Has there ever been any discussion of merging the groups?"  she 
asked.

"There's always talk," Verdant said evenly.

"Sometimes I initiate those talks.

We'll need a strong centralized government to carry out our critical 
tasks during the first few decades of the Aryan world--the racial 
cleansing of the land, the eradication of racially destructive 
institutions, and the reorganization of society into a new world 
order."

Verdant spoke of genocide as if it was an item on a task list, right 
after washing the car.  Christy searched his eyes for a soul.  She 
found none.

"So why does there appear to be so little cooperation between the 
Christian Identity groups?"  she asked.

"Because I believe that I'm destined to lead--and so does Rolf Sanders 
of the World Church of the Creator, Sam Diggs of the Aryan Kingdom, and
Frank Sims of the National Socialists.  One day when the Apocalypse 
looms near, God will decide.  For now, I'm content to spread the word 
to as many true believers as I can."

Christy was getting close.  She could feel it.  He knew something.  And
this pit bull was going to get it out of him.  Bite and don't let
go.

"Is the Apocalypse coming soon?"

Verdant responded coldly and to the point.

"I'm a warrior, not a prophet."  He rose and stalked out without 
another word or gesture.

Christy looked at her watch.  Exactly fifteen minutes had passed.  She 
was drained.  And Verdant had been willing to let his guard down for 
the Herald Times.  She needed to prepare more carefully for her 
interview at the NOMAADs' South Carolina compound next Wednesday.  Who 
knew what hog-tying or mayhem they had planned for her.

NINETEEN

'"pHE VICE PRESIDENT was agitated.

"I hate that pompous old -L fart," Tony Fabrizio said.  He was in his
shirtsleeves, pacing back and forth behind his desk.  It was Tuesday 
morning. His customary half-eaten Danish lay on a plate on the desk.

"Calm down.  Tony," La Rosa said.  She was reclining in one of the 
guest chairs, her feet resting on Fabrizio's desk.

"It's probably just Senate business.  He might want to call in one of 
his chits for some prime Carolina pork."

"I doubt Andrew would waste a chit on pork barrel legislation," 
Fabrizio said.

"He's the Pork King.  Geez, we're cutting back on military funding and 
somehow he managed to attach a provision for a $40 million refurbishing
 of Camp Lejeune to the anti-crime bill last month."

"Every dog has his day."  La Rosa said.

"He was the Senate Minority Leader for twelve years.  You can't blame 
him for enjoying himself a little as the Majority Leader now that we're
 back in power."

"I can forgive his mastery of the art of politics," Fabrizio said.

"I can't forgive his personal weaknesses.  He's a hypocrite, a 
womanizer and a bigot.  One minute he's out in front of the microphones
professing his support for civil rights legislation, the next he's in 
the Senate cloakroom with his Southern cronies telling racist jokes and
 bragging about his latest sexual conquest."

"That's not an image I need right after breakfast," La Rosa said, as 
she swung her feet off the desk.

"He's got to be the ugliest old goat in Congress.  He gives me the 
creeps.  I always get the feeling he's looking at my ass when I turn my
 back on him."

Fabrizio winked.

"Well, I'm not sure I would hold that against him."

La Rosa rolled her eyes skyward.

"Thanks, Tony.  I love you, too," she said, her voice laden with 
sarcasm.  She stood to go. "I think I'll leave you two good old boys
to do whatever it is that you  do when there are no woman folk
around."

Fabrizio snorted.

"That's me, the last of the good of' boys."

FABRIZIO ROLLED DOWN HIS SHIRTSLEEVES and put on his jacket after La 
Rosa left.

There would be no relaxation of protocol with the Senator from North 
Carolina.

"Mr.  Vice President," the Senator drawled, extending his hand and 
smiling, revealing his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

"Thank you so much for meeting with me this morning.  I know you are a 
very busy man."

"You know that my door is always open for you, Senator Andrew," 
Fabrizio said, smiling warmly.  La Rosa was right; Andrew was not an 
attractive man.  He was 69 years old, fifty pounds overweight, with a 
shock of dyed black hair combed from left to right across an 
ever-widening bald spot.  His large, wrinkled face was losing its 
battle with gravity.  He stank of body odor and tobacco.

"That's very kind of you, Mr.  Vice President.  And how is that lovely 
wife and daughter of yours?"

"They're doing wonderfully, thank you," Fabrizio said.

"And how's Mary Lou?  I was very concerned to hear that she was in the 
hospital last month."

"She's doing just fine, thank you.  She gave us a little scare, but she
is recovering nicely.  I will be sure to tell her that you were 
inquiring about her."

"Please do that.  Have a seat.  Senator."  Fabrizio waved him to one of
the Windsor chairs by his desk.  Fabrizio stood until the slow-moving 
Senator seated himself.

The chair strained under Andrew's weight.

Senator Andrew coughed and cleared his throat.  Then he pulled out a
handkerchief and blew his nose with several loud honks.  He carefully 
folded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket.

"Excuse me, Mr.  Vice President, I have been a little under the weather
lately."

"Of course."  Fabrizio glanced at his watch and resisted the temptation
 to roll his eyes.

Senator Andrew did not seem to notice Fabrizios impatience.  He 
continued to charm the Vice President with his highly cultivated gift 
of gab.

"It's been a little colder than usual this winter, don't you think?"

"Maybe so.  It's been damp."

"So true.  My arthritis has been acting up lately, too."

"Maybe a little sun would do you and Mary Lou some good over the 
Christmas recess."

The Senator chuckled.

"We don't travel much.  We will no doubt be spending the holidays in 
our cabin on the Blue Ridge surrounded by all of our grandchildren.

It's been a family tradition for as long as I can remember."

Fabrizio glanced at his watch, again.

"Well, Senator, as much as I would love to chat, I have another meeting
scheduled in about fifteen minutes."

"Of course.  I do appreciate your taking the time to see me this 
morning, as always.  I suppose that I could have waited to bend your 
ear in the Senate cloakroom, but I have been hearing some disturbing 
rumors.  Most disturbing rumors.  I thought that I should ask you about
 them personally."

"Fire away, Senator.  My life is an open book for you."

"I appreciate that.  I appreciate the trust that you and Hank Norton 
have shown in me as the principal liaison between the Democrats in the 
Senate and the White House," he said, seeming to take particular 
pleasure in distinctly pronouncing each syllable in the word 
"liaison."

"I think that we have a truly outstanding working relationship."

"I value that relationship, too, Senator Andrew."

"How long have we known each other, Mr.  Vice President?"

Fabrizio smiled instinctively.

"It's been almost seven years."

"I showed you the ropes in the Senate."

"You did indeed."

"We've made a good team.  That's why I am truly disappointed about the 
rumor that you are considering Tom Stevenson as a running mate.  Not 
that I have anything against Tom.  He's a fine man.  A good senator. 
But he's young.  He hasn't paid his dues.  I hoped that you would at 
least give me the courtesy of interviewing for the job.  I've served 
the party loyally for over forty years. I've taken some bullets for 
both you and the President these last seven."

Fabrizio squirmed.

"Senator, first of all, I haven't made any final decisions regarding my
running mate for next year, although I may make an announcement 
shortly.  You've been a loyal friend to the President and myself.  We 
consider you a powerful ally in the Senate.

Maybe I should have spoken with you as a courtesy, but I'd much rather 
have you in the Senate where you have done so much good work."

Senator Andrew leaned forward in his chair--Fabrizio thought that it 
might break under the strain of his shifting girth--and stared the Vice
 President in the eyes.

"We both know that's a truckload of happy horse shit."

Fabrizio recoiled from the sharpness of the Senator's reply.

"Senator?"

"Tom Stevenson's a pretty boy that might do you some good in 
California," the Senator said.

"I understand that.  But that's not the only factor that goes into 
these decisions.  You need to take into account stature within the 
Party.

Seniority.  Leadership.  The respect of the American people.  Loyalty. 
I'm not going to be around forever, son, and this is probably my last 
chance to pay tribute to the great Americans who have supported me 
throughout my long career.

I want you to give some serious thought to a Fabrizio-Andrew ticket in 
2000.

We'd make a fine team--and I could virtually guarantee you the 
South."

Fabrizio stood.

"Senator, you know I have great respect for your accomplishments, and 
I'll give your proposal serious thought.  In any case, whether you join
me on the ticket or not, I hope that we can continue to work together 
as a team and that I can count on you to deliver the South next 
November."

Senator Andrew continued to cajole the Vice President for another five 
minutes before making his slow--and for Fabrizio, painful--exit.  La 
Rosa hustled into Fabrizio's office moments later.  Fabrizio had 
already removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.  The pacing 
resumed, now with increased intensity. He was fuming.

"Fuckshit," Fabrizio said.

"I was right, Rosie.  That old fart is up to no good."

"What did he say?"  she asked.

"He says he's paid his dues.  He wants to be my running mate."

"He's crazy!  He's too old.  He's from the South.  He smells.  He'd be 
a liability rather than an asset."

"Plus I hate the old fucker's guts."

"That could be a problem, too."

"I didn't need this right now!"

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd think about it."

La Rosa looked concerned.  She picked up a paperweight from Fabrizio's 
desk and toyed with it.

"I know his kind.  He'll be leaking this to the press by this afternoon
 if his people aren't already doing it."

"This could tear the Party apart.  I cannot run with Ty Andrew.  That's
 not an option," Fabrizio said.

"But if I choose Tom Stevenson, Ty dropped some hints that he might not
fully support me in the election.  We need Ty Andrew to give us any 
hope in the South."

She fidgeted with the paperweight.

"He might make life miserable for you in the Senate, too.  He's a 
vindictive old snake."

"You've got something on your mind, Rosie.  Spit it out."

"I know you wanted to ponder JJ's proposal over the holiday break, but 
I think you need to respond more quickly," she said.

"Both Stevenson and Andrew would understand the enormity of this 
opportunity."

Fabrizio stopped pacing.

"Why do you think I need to move so fast?"

"If you let Ty Andrew get too far out in front of this train, it may be
hard to pull him back into the station.  Given just a little time,
he's  going to take his campaign to the press.  And you don't want to 
publicly bruise that humongous ego of his.  He'll start pulling strings
and calling in favors, and before you know it, you're going to have to
say 'no' to a lot more powerful people than just Ty Andrew.  I'm not 
saying you need to jump into bed with JJ.  You know that I think it's 
an incredible opportunity for you, but it's your call.  What you do
need to do is make a decision quickly.  You've got to do something 
before Ty gets rolling."

Fabrizio listened, then resumed his pacing, silently, stroking his 
chin.

Finally, he stopped and sat down at his desk.  He put his face into his
 hands.

But he could not rub out the stress lines.

"Shitfuck," he said.

"I'll sleep on it, Rosie.  I'll make a decision tomorrow."

TWENTY

THE ENTRANCE TO CAMP TUB MAN the NOMAAD training facility, was 
unmarked, and Christy Kirk almost drove past it in the Wednesday 
afternoon fog.  She had rented the dark green Chevy Cavalier that 
morning in Charlotte, where she had spent the last five days preparing 
for her interview with Colonel Thomas Hardy, the commanding officer at 
Camp Tubman.  The training camp was in the rolling hills that marked 
the fringe between the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Carolina Piedmont, 
adjacent to the Cowpens National Battlefield, part of the federal
National Parks Service.

It was already almost three o'clock, the scheduled time for the 
interview.  Camp Tubman was only an hour's ride from Charlotte, but 
Christy had taken a wide detour to sneak an unofficial peek at the 
Aryan Alliance compound, which was nestled in the mountains of western 
North Carolina only fifty miles from the NOMAAD facility.  She had been
disappointed, though.  Unlike Camp Tubman, the Alliance compound was 
surrounded by a security fence, eight feet high and topped with two 
feet of razor wire, and the main entrance had been guarded by armed 
sentries.  She had tried to find a safe observation point in the
mountains above the compound, but had been thwarted by rain and thick 
fog.

Christy drove quickly through the woods along the narrow dirt road 
leading into Camp Tubman.  A low chain link fence appeared off to the 
right amidst the trees, beyond which appeared to be an empty picnic 
area.  The road then banked sharply to the left, up a steep ridge, and 
the fence broke to the right following the base of the ridge in the 
other direction.  The woodlands transformed into brown pasture as 
Christy ascended the hill; the pastoral image dissolved the moment she 
reached the crest.

The ridge descended abruptly into a rolling valley about a half mile 
wide, bounded on both sides by a thick forest of oak, hickory, 
chestnut, and pine. The compound, which covered about fifty acres, 
buzzed with activity despite the gloomy weather.

Dozens of long, white shingled buildings dotted the valley, many still 
under construction.  The crack of rifle blasts and hammers slamming 
into wood reverberated throughout the encampment.  Several groups of 
men, all black, clad in gray cotton sweatsuits with the NOMAAD insignia
plastered across their chests, jogged in military formation across 
different sectors of the compound.

Puffs of purple smoke rose from the far side of the camp, on the other 
side of a meandering stream, presumably from a firing range.

Christy checked in at the main building ten minutes late.  Colonel 
Hardy had left instructions for her to find him on the firing range.
Christy was surprised when Thomas Hardy greeted her with a smile. 
After  her experience with Franklin Verdant, she had expected the
worst.  At  first glance there was little to distinguish Hardy from the
corps of  gray clad troops taking target practice.  But Christy had
done her  homework.  She knew that behind the smile and the fleece
facade lay the  fierce heart of a warrior more than the equal of
Franklin Verdant.

Hardy had graduated first in his class at West Point and had been 
routinely promoted from second lieutenant to colonel over a twenty-year
Army career.  The Army was desperate to promote black officers to top 
leadership positions, but Hardy had abruptly cut short his flight to 
stardom in 1996 when he joined the NOMAADs.  At forty-five years old, 
six-feet tall, buzz cut, straight back, no fat, he was still a military
 man.

"Miss Kirk, so good of you to join us," he said cheerily, pumping her 
hand vigorously.

"Let's sit over by the athletic fields so we can have some privacy."

"I'm sorry I'm late, Colonel Hardy.  I had a little trouble finding the
 place."

"Happens all the time.  The men call me Colonel Tom, by the way, and I 
kinda like it," he said grinning broadly.

Christy smiled.  There was an earthiness about Tom Hardy that 
instantly, and unexpectedly, put her at ease.  She made a mental note 
not to let her guard down.

"Not exactly text book military procedure," she said.

"These men are all volunteers," Hardy said.

"We don't even pay expenses.  We put them through an intense two-week 
basic training program and encourage them to come back for advanced 
training whenever they can make the time.  There ain't no reason to 
make this any harder on them by imposing ridiculous rules and 
procedures.  We try to keep it friendly."

"How many men can you accommodate at one time?"  Christy asked.

"Right now, about two thousand.  There are about five hundred recruits 
on the grounds today.  We have facilities under construction for three 
thousand more, and we're negotiating to acquire that pasture beyond the
 highway over there," he said, pointing south.

"We'd like to house ten thousand when we're all through." "Wow.  That
sounds like more than a training camp.  Are you planning to  recruit a
permanent army?"  she asked.

Colonel Tom hesitated before answering.  He looked directly at her. 
Christy had seen those eyes before--in the mirror.  Tom Hardy was a pit
 bull, the jovial packaging notwithstanding.

"I'm under instructions to talk straight with you," Hardy said.

"But I've got to admit that I disagree with that decision.  I'm very 
aware of your newspaper's editorial positions.  A few weeks ago we were
 organizing rallies against you."

"That editorial and all the ones before it were written by Adams 
Thompson, and he's dead," Christy said.

"Even if he were alive, I'd pull the story before I allowed them to 
turn it into a glamour piece for the white supremacy movement.

I'm collecting information on the paramilitary build-up by both white 
and African-American groups.  I haven't reached a conclusion yet, but 
if tensions have reached a new level and armed conflict is a real 
possibility, that's news, and I'll report it as I see it."

"That's fair, that's fair," he said, bobbing his head.

"The answer to your question is yes.  We've been growing our membership
at a fast pace.  Some are just financial contributors, most are eager 
to participate in protest rallies, and a high percentage are willing to
fight if necessary.  If the threat we see materializes, we're prepared
 to engage the white hate groups in war."

Christy's heart began to pound as she scribbled shorthand notes on her 
pad.  The story was real.  There were so many questions to ask.

"Is the threat imminent?"

"I'm just an old soldier," Hardy said.

"I can tell you that my orders are to train these men as fast and as 
well as I can, given the resources I've been provided.  General Collins
 and his staff are more focused on the big picture.

They're in a better position to tell you whether there's an immediate 
threat and how we'd respond to it.  Clearly, there's been an increase 
in the activities of the white hate groups, and we are concerned.  Very
 concerned."

"Can you help me set up a meeting with General Collins in Washington?" 
she asked.

"I can try."

Christy continued to fire questions at him, and Colonel Tom answered 
each one patiently and directly.  He was strong on factual questions, 
but deferred to General Collins on most strategic issues.

The NOMAADs' membership had recently crossed the one million mark, and 
training facilities were accessible to members from all fifty states. 
Over fifty thousand members had undergone basic training.  Camp Tubman 
was the second largest training facility; the largest was Camp Douglass
 in upstate New York.

Funding came primarily from the membership, but Hardy hinted, off the 
record, that they had a special relationship with the federal 
government.  Camp Tubman, which covered fifty acres, had been carved 
out of the 900-acre Cowpens National Battlefield, a Revolutionary War 
historic site, and was leased on favorable terms from the National 
Parks Service.

The Colonel walked Christy back to her car when they had finished.

"There's one other thing you can tell me," Christy said after he 
offered to make himself available.

((ip.  me away.

"Why are you doing this?"  she asked.

"I've done my research.  You were a highly decorated officer in the 
Army.  In five or ten years you could've been top brass.

Why did you give it up?  Why are so many African-American men giving up
 time away from their families and jobs to do this?"

He paused thoughtfully.

"People join us for different reasons.  We are not and never have been 
a 'black hate group."  The founders saw a threat from the radical 
fringe.  Since the mid-1990s, we're seeing large scale acts of domestic
terrorism, dramatic increases in the memberships of white supremacy 
groups, and a build-up of paramilitary activity by those groups.  We 
don't know if or when any of them intend to strike African-American 
targets, but we want them to know that we will respond with deadly 
force if they do."

Christy noted that he had deftly avoided answering the question from 
his personal perspective.  She sensed that he was holding something 
back, but forced herself to be patient.

"Go with the flow"-Christy Kirk's second rule of journalism, right 
after "Go for the jugular."

"So you're trying to create an army to deter them from attacking 
first?"  she asked.

"In a nutshell, yes.  But the NOMAADs have become more than that.  In 
trying to meet that challenge, we filled a void that existed since the 
death of Martin Luther King.  Many members joined because they saw us 
as an impassioned, organized force fighting for the rights of 
African-Americans, and we have become what our membership wants us to 
be.  We're Dr.  King with a stick. Nonviolent civil disobedience is 
still our first mode of operation.  But unlike King, we're willing to 
fight back if our protests are met with violent resistance."

"But the NOMAADs would never initiate an armed conflict?"

Hardy did not hesitate.

"Never."

"If African-American targets were attacked today, how would the NOMAADs
respond?"

"Focused counter-attacks.  We're not looking to start a race war. 
We're  not a racist organization."

"Isn't that just vigilantism?  Shouldn't it be left to the government
authorities to prosecute terrorists?"  Christy asked.

Christy felt an invisible wall go up between her and the Colonel.

"We'll do whatever it takes," he said, signaling with his manner that 
the interview was over.

Christy had her story, but her sixth sense told her to press on.  The 
real story was still buried in the recesses of Thomas Hardy's mind--no,
it was buried in his soul.  What had he seen or felt that motivated
him  to abandon a brilliant military career?  Surely he could have done
more  for his race as a leader and as a role model at the top of the
Pentagon  hierarchy than as a glorified drill sergeant for the NOMAADs.
Before  Hardy could politely excuse himself, she laid her suspicions
bare with  the political agility of a buffalo.

"What are you holding back from me?"  she said accusingly, her eyes 
striving to pierce directly into his soul.

"Pardon me?"  the Colonel said, his voice rising for the first time.

"I think I've been very open with you--against my better judgment."

"You have been, and I do appreciate it.  But there's a bigger story 
here.  I feel it.  There's more you want to tell me, but something is 
holding you back."

"And the truth will set me free--is that it?"  he asked.

"Something like that."

"Christy, old loyalties die hard," Hardy said.

"You've got a great story.  I'll get you in touch with Bill Collins. 
He's much more eloquent than I am.  You'll get some great quotes."  He 
shook her hand, then strode unwaveringly towards the firing range.

Christy's mind churned.  Old loyalties.  It was a clue.  There had been
a rash of racial incidents in the military in recent years.  Could the
military leadership have been infiltrated by white supremacists?  What
 did that mean if it was true?

She shouted after him.

"It's the military brass, isn't it?  You saw something that scared you,
 didn't you?"

Hardy stopped abruptly and took two steps back towards her.  It was a 
different man.  His nostrils flared, his eyes flashed with anger.  His 
voice was controlled but laden with suppressed rage.

"Nothing scares me, Miss Kirk.  I see a challenge, I meet it head on, I
 beat it."  He turned and stormed away, leaving Christy dumbfounded.

The rented Cavalier chugged up the steep eastern slope of the ridge 
that hung suspended over Camp Tubman like a giant wave primed to slam 
into a beach.  As the sounds of the NOMAAD compound faded into the 
distance, Christy wondered how the United States military could 
possibly be involved in the white supremacy movement and how she could 
possibly get the scoop.

TWENTY-ONE

BEN KRAVNER had been nervously checking the Millennium Nights room 
every few minutes for the last two hours.  His band of cyber-spies were
supposed to have secretly watched the room all week, but no activity 
had been reported.  His friends seemed to be getting bored with the 
project and were probably avoiding him.  He had barely even seen Debby 
all week.

It was just as well.  Ben's intuition told him that tonight was the 
night.  He had spent the week working long hours to keep the T&E 
Department afloat while he counted down the minutes until Thursday, 
midnight.

The Knights began entering the RealTime chat room one by one.  Same 
night, same time, three weeks in a row.  Once again, The General was 
the last to enter, at about ten minutes past twelve.

Ben did not attempt to communicate with any of them.  He continued to 
check the room from time to time to determine how long the meeting 
lasted, but he could not view the discussion.

The Heir Apparent: Gentlemen, I have some important news this evening. 
However, I'd like to defer that discussion until we've completed all 
other business. Spy, has your surveillance of the lawyer produced any 
results?

The Spy: Slow week for BFK.  Goes to work 9-1- am.  Runs to work most 
days.  Lunch in office, one day went for walk.  Leaves office after 
9pm.  Eats dinner in apt.

One telephone call all week--parents Sunday evening.  Nothing alarming.
Stayed home all week N

end, except for daily run.  Spends time on Internet in the evening, 
mostly womanizing.  Continue to monitor, but no reason for concern.

The General: Any further thoughts on the whereabouts of The Assassin?

The Spy: No leads.  Looking at Assassin's family.  Did last year, but
double-checking.  Ex-wife: mental institution.  Her husband:

working stiff in Oakland.  Daughter: S-F law firm.  Nothing unusual.

The Heir Apparent: Well, finding The Assassin is no longer of critical
importance... The Heir Apparent explained his remarks, and then the 
Knights adjourned.  Ben observed that it was a short meeting, pleased 
to be able to retire early, but frustrated with his inability to 
progress the case against The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight.

TWENTY-TWO

THE WHITE HOUSE PRESS CORPS was buzzing on Friday morning.  Tony 
Fabrizio had called a press conference for ten o'clock.  The word on 
the street was that he planned to announce a running mate.  The 
Stevenson rumors had been flying for two weeks, but there were whispers
that Ty Andrew might be under consideration. The Indian Treaty Room in
 the Old Executive Office Building was filled to capacity.

There was excitement in the air.  TV cameras waited to roll.

At exactly ten o'clock, La Rosa Smith emerged from Tony Fabrizio s 
office, two floors below the Indian Treaty Room.  She was dressed in 
her best suit, a form-fitting gray pinstripe jacket and skirt.  She was
wearing a little makeup, which she normally eschewed.  She enjoyed 
seeing a male intern do a double-take and nod approvingly as she 
hurried towards the stairs, her heels clicking on the black and white 
checkerboard marble floor.

She could hear the excited din from the waiting press corps as she 
climbed the grand, spiral staircase.  Bob Elfman, one of the Secret 
Service agents assigned to Fabrizio, and an incorrigible flirt, was 
guarding the door to the Indian Treaty Room.  He winked as he held the 
door open for her.

"Bet you're not wearing any panties under that skirt, Rosie."

La Rosa winked back at him.

"You win," she said without breaking stride.  Elfman's jaw dropped.

The television cameras started to roll as La Rosa strode into the room.
Light poured in through a skylight and three large windows overlooking
the White House.  The podium was set up along the right wall, in front
 of the doorway to an adjacent conference room.

This was La Rosa short moment to step out from behind the scenes, and 
she was savoring every minute.  She stood at the lectern,

silent, surveying the crowded room, waiting for the reporters to 
quiet.

Ordinarily, a press conference of this magnitude would be held in the 
roomier, more modern briefing room in the East Wing of the White House;
 however, Fabrizio preferred the historical setting.

The Indian Treaty Room was an exquisitely appointed, two-story room 
with a nautical motif.  Seahorses and dolphins were built into the 
black cast iron railing that encircled the second floor balcony; an 
old-fashioned compass face was imbedded in the mosaic tile floor; and
important stars for navigation were painted on the dark, 34-foot high 
ceiling. The echoes of one hundred voices bouncing off the stars 
slowly faded.

"Thank you," La Rosa said.  She was completely at ease.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today is an historic day, and I am proud to 
introduce to you the Vice President of the United States, Tony 
Fabrizio!"

Agent Elfman waved for the Vice President to enter.  La Rosa stepped 
down from the podium.  Cameras flashed.  Fabrizio was resplendent in a 
navy blue, double-breasted suit and a bright red tie.  He smiled 
radiantly.  The press corps applauded warmly.  Fabrizio gripped the 
sides of the lectern.

"Ladies and gentleman of the press, my fellow Americans.  When I 
announced my candidacy earlier this year, I had high hopes of bringing 
about real change. But I ask you, "What is real change?"  The phrase 
has become trite, just another buzzword for politics as usual in 
Washington," he said.  Then his voice deepened.

He became more animated, using his hands to emphasize his points.

"Politics as usual is not good enough for Tony Fabrizio, and it's not 
good enough for the American people."

La Rosa marveled at Fabrizio's skills as an orator.  She put the words 
on paper;

he made them sing.  She watched how he moved his hands, shifted his 
facial expressions, changed his tone of voice.  He was a magician with 
the spoken word.

"I receive thousands of letters and e-mails every week," Fabrizio 
continued.

"The single most important issue on the minds of Americans is the issue
 of race.

While opportunities for AfricanAmericans have improved over the last 
forty years, there is a climate of racial unrest in America today.  The
gap between educational opportunities available to White America and 
Black America is a wide one.  Our inner cities are crumbling.  Crime is
increasing.  While many African Americans are escaping poverty, for 
millions of others the cycle of poverty goes on.

"There is nothing inherently magical about the millennium," Fabrizio 
continued.

"But there is something about landmark dates that makes us reflect upon
where we have been and where we are going.  We want to do magical 
things to mark the moment in history."

Fabrizio paused, as if to let the words hang poignantly in the air.

"My fellow Americans, I ask you to make history with me.  I have a 
special friend waiting outside in the hall who will be my choice as the
next vice president of the United States.  Together, we hope to
abandon  evolutionary change in favor of revolutionary change.  To
bring people  of all races together as one nation, under God,
indivisible, with  liberty and justice for all."

La Rosa knew what was coming, but she still found herself holding her 
breath.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you the father of The Second 
American Revolution," Fabrizio said.

"Jefferson John Alexander!"

A collective gasp rose from the press corps.  JJ Alexander confidently 
strode into the room.  He smiled broadly and waved to the television 
cameras.  For a brief moment, there was total silence.  Then a cough at
 the rear of the crowd reverberated throughout the cavernous room.

Alexander's voice was powerful and full of emotion.

"I have a dream," he began.

"Words spoken by Martin Luther King just over thirty years ago.  Dr. 
King followed his dream with a rare intensity and passion, a fire that 
he breathed into a nation of his children, a passion that nearly took 
America to the brink of revolution, one small step short of the 
promised land.  A passion that has slumbered, if not died, in the years
 after Dr.  Kings tragic death."

La Rosa had not previewed Alexanders speech.  She felt the emotion 
building within herself as he spoke.  This was the right choice, 
girl.

"Tony Fabrizio and I share a dream.  We want to awaken that passion in 
each American.  We may never again find a leader who is a father to 
each of us.  We cannot wait for a solitary man to breathe fire into our
hearts and souls and lead us to the promised land.  We need to make
our  own promises.  We need to dream our own dreams.  We need to find
the  passion within ourselves to create the America of our dreams and 
breathe that fire into our children so that our dreams can become a 
reality.  One father to each son, each son an essential link in a 
chain,

Joining America together, one link at a time.  Ordinary men can 
together achieve greatness if driven by sufficient passion."

La Rosa choked up.  Was it really a Republican who was going to take us
to the promised land?  She looked across the crowded room.  The press 
corps was spellbound.  She wondered how mainstream America would 
react.

"Building this dream is not a task for politics as usual.  We need to 
focus on our common goals rather than our differences.  If we are to 
realize our dream of a truly united America, we need to shunt partisan 
politics aside and work together to achieve our objective.  We ask for 
the support of the American people and the Democratic and Republican 
parties in making this millennium election one that will go down as one
of the great moments in world history. Thank you.  I'm sure that you 
have many questions for the Vice President and me."

Tony Fabrizio stepped forward to join Alexander at the podium.  The 
press room erupted.  Cameras flashed.  Arms flew into the air.  A 
hundred voices shouted to be heard.  Fabrizio pointed to an elderly 
women in the front row.

"I believe the young lady from the Canfield News Service gets the first
question."

Harriet Canfield rose and looked down at her notes.

"Thank you, Mr.  Vice President, Senator Alexander.  Have you discussed
this announcement with the Democratic and Republican Party 
leadership?"

Fabrizio and Alexander looked at each other.  Alexander extended his 
open palm, inviting the Vice President to field the question.  Fabrizio
 stepped up to the microphone.

"We informed the party leadership of our plans this morning immediately
 before the press conference," Fabrizio said.

"We did not invite the party leadership to participate in this decision
for a number of obvious reasons.  Secrecy was paramount.  If this 
merger, for lack of a better word, fell through, we could not afford to
have it leaked to the public. We sincerely hope that both the 
Democratic and Republican parties will support our historic bid, but we
are committed to our program even if forced to run on a third-party 
ticket."

Fabrizio pointed to a reporter in a blue blazer and khaki pants in the 
middle of the room.

"Martin Haspel, Washington Post," the reporter said.

"What exactly is the program that you are proposing?"

Alexander stepped to the microphone.

"We're calling it The Second American Revolution.  We have not worked
out the details.  Our pro 3

gram will be based on our shared belief that the issues underlying the 
race problem in America run deeper than the overt discrimination and 
unequal opportunity existing today.  Our goal will be to bring real 
opportunity within reach of all Americans, regardless of their color or
 economic standing."

Alexander pointed to the next questioner.

"Thank you.  Senator.  Bob Belladonna, New York Herald Times.  The 
two-party system has been an important part of the American political 
process since its inception.  Aren't you concerned that a critical 
element of our system of checks and balances will be lost if there is a
 unification of the parties?"

Fabrizio stepped front and center once again.

"That's an excellent question.  JJ, jump in if I misstate your views on
 this," Fabrizio said.

"I don't agree that the two-party system is part of our system of 
checks and balances.  The Constitution provides for three branches of 
government--the Executive, Legislative and Judicial Branches.  Any 
legislation that we propose under The Second American Revolution still 
must pass both houses of Congress and must survive any judicial 
challenges to its constitutionality."

Alexander stepped up to the lectern.

"I also want to make it clear that we are not asking that the 
Democratic and Republican parties be merged.  There are still many 
ideological differences that we feel provide the American people with 
alternative voices in Congress. There'll be thousands of votes that 
Congress faces each term that will not affect our programs."

"That's exactly right," Fabrizio agreed.

"What we're asking for is the peoples mandate.  We think that as a 
nation we can agree that there is one single issue that demands to be 
the national priority. By joining our candidacies, we're asking the 
American people to set aside the thousands of smaller issues that we 
face and on which we differ, and focus on the single vision of a united
America that we share.  If we continued to run separate campaigns, we 
would without doubt begin to focus on our differences rather than our 
common goal, and America would suffer."

Fabrizio pointed to a blonde woman on the left side of the room.

"Sylvia Sanders, Los Angeles Times.  Which one of you first approached 
the other?"

Fabrizio and Alexander exchanged glances and a private wink.  They 
smiled, and each pointed at the other.

"He did," they said in unison.

The press corps erupted in laughter, and in one rehearsed moment the 
tension evaporated from the room.

The press conference continued for another thirty minutes.  La Rosa 
watched as the reporters filed out of the room at its culmination, 
apparently torn between gossiping with their colleagues about this 
unprecedented event and formulating a catchy lead for the story of a 
lifetime.

TWENTY-THREE

THE NATION WAS ELECTRIFIED by Tony Fabrizio's announcement on Friday 
morning.

But on Friday evening, Ben Kravner absently stared out the window of 
the "5" train, the Lexington Avenue Express, oblivious to the excited 
chatter around him.

The train was packed with commuters.  The voices of two Asian women 
standing beside him and babbling in a foreign tongue disrupted his 
thoughts.  Nine days had passed since his discovery of the List 
convinced him that The Jinx was real.

He had been frustrated by his inability to match names to the nicknames
on the List.  But the announcement ofJJ Alexander as the 
vice-presidential nominee fit.

It was the perfect way to assure election as the vice president.  JJ 
Alexander was The Heir Apparent.

He shot a dirty look at the Asian women.  He tried to push further away
 from them, without success.

Ben was sure that The Jinx was real, yet he had no hard evidence and no
reasonable prospects of uncovering any.  He was convinced that The 
Royal Order of the Millennium Knight met every Thursday night at 
midnight in the Millennium Nights room on CyberLine, and at no other 
time.  He had no way of observing the happenings in that room.  The 
Knights were not volunteering any information.  And he did not have the
 Key.

The train stopped at Union Square station at l4th Street.  More people 
tried to press onto the already overcrowded train.  Argh.  This train 
was never going to get uptown.  An old Hispanic man with booze on his 
breath pushed close to Ben.

Ben's nerve endings jangled.  He plunged his free hand into his pocket 
to protect his wallet.  He felt his key chain.

On impulse, Ben fought his way past the crowd plowing in and exited the
 train.

He carried the key to Adams Thompson's apartment on his key chain.  He 
and Debby had thoroughly reviewed the contents of the apartment, but 
perhaps Dean Frederick's tale might add relevance to an item that had 
seemed unimportant during the first search.  At least he would be able 
to hear himself think.

The apartment looked different at night.  The dark walls created an
eerie pall in the dim artificial light.  Ben's heart beat faster as he
tiptoed through the apartment.  Convinced that he was alone, except 
perhaps for the spirit of Adams Thompson, he hurriedly ate his dinner 
of takeout Chinese food in the kitchen before undertaking a more 
thorough search.

The significance of the painting over the fireplace, the burning of 
Atlanta, was clearer now.  Although born a Yankee, Thompson was a rebel
at heart.  Ben also spent more time in Thompson's bedroom, searching 
his personal possessions for secret hiding places and documents that 
might have escaped his eye on the first trip.  He was not hopeful, 
though, as he assumed that the apartment had been searched and stripped
bare of any incriminating evidence by the Knights or those in their 
employ.  He found nothing new.

The result was the same, not surprisingly, in Thompson's office.  The 
IBM Think Pad computer again caught Ben's eye.  He envied the docking 
station, the ability to take the computer on the road but have access 
to the best peripherals when at home.  Ben switched it on.  Friday 
night and nowhere to go.  He logged on to CyberLine as a guest, using 
his own cyber-name, Master Ben There was an e-mail message from Woody 
waiting for him.  Benmeister!

Did you see the press conference today?  I think I know the Key.  Be 
on-line at 10PM your time.  Woody Ben's mind spun.  It was nine 
o'clock.  Too late to try to get back to his own apartment.  He turned 
on Thompson's oversized television. CNN was running clips from the 
press conference.  He studied them carefully, but the insight he craved
eluded him.  He half-heartedly flirted with a number of uninspiring 
cyber-maidens as the minutes slowly ticked towards ten.

Anxiety and paranoia gripped Ben when Woody did not appear on time. 
Could the Knights be monitoring his Internet communications like in the
movie The Nefi Was that really possible?  No.  Only in the movies.  I 
hope.

His conviction that such high drama was reserved for the big screen was
confirmed fifteen minutes later.

WoodythePecker: Benmeister!  Master Ben You're late.

WoodythePecker: Well, don't get all surly on me, man.  Traffic was 
brutal.

Master Ben Sorry, Woodman... Paranoia is setting in.  I feel like I'm 
being watched.  Do you remember the movie The Net?  I started to wonder
if they had made you disappear... WoodythePecker: (Laughing) Sorry, my
friend.  All rumors of my demise to the contrary, I am very much
alive.  What makes you think you're being watched?

Master Ben I don't, really.  I'm just self-conscious about my big 
secret ... So, don't keep me in suspense--you figured out the Key?

WoodythePecker: I think so, but we need to fill in some gaps.  Did you 
see the press conference today?

Master Ben I watched some clips tonight.  It looks like JJ Alexander is
 a strong candidate as The Heir Apparent.

WoodythePecker: Right.  Now think about who our two primary suspects 
are... Master Ben Adams Thompson and JJ Alexander.

WoodythePecker: That's Jefferson John Alexander.  It clicked when Tony 
Fabrizio announced his name.  Adams and Jefferson.

Master Ben Presidents!

WoodythePecker: You got it, my friend.  I'm guessing that all of the 
Knights were named after presidents.  I did a little checking at work. 
Harrison was the ninth president.  There are nine names on the List. 
They probably used the first nine presidents.

Master Ben Washington, Adams, Jefferson.  Madison and Monroe, I can 
never remember which comes first.  Who's next?

WoodythePecker: John Quincy Adams, Andrew Jackson, Martin van Buren and
 then Harrison.

Master Ben Still, that's only first names ... That's not enough of a 
clue for them to find each other among millions of people... 
WoodythePecker: There's got to be more to the naming convention, but we
 have something to work with now.

Master Ben I'm not sure it works ... Dean Frederick at Calhoun College 
has to be involved in some way, probably The Caretaker... but his first
 name was Tompkins.

WoodythePecker: Hmmm.  And we thought The Speaker had to be John 
Daniel.  Let me look him up on the Web.

WoodythePecker: His first name is Johnson.  Johnson Martin Daniel.

Master Ben Our theory is starting to fall apart.  Andrew Johnson didn't
become president until 1865.  The naming convention had to be adopted 
in 1840.

WoodythePecker: Think about other prominent people with the right first
names--Washington, Madison, Monroe, Adams, Jackson, Van Buren and 
Harrison.

Master Ben Harrison must be a popular name, but I can't think of any
politicians with those other names.

WoodythePecker: Adams and Jefferson is just too big a coincidence.

Master Ben Our two suspects that don't fit the pattern are Tompkins 
James Frederick and Johnson Martin Daniel.  Their first names look like
 last names and their last names are common first names.

WoodythePecker: What else did Adams and Jefferson have in common?

Master Ben They signed the Declaration of Independence... 
WoodythePecker: True... But a lot of people signed the Declaration of 
Independence.  They were also both vice presidents.  Adams was George 
Washington's VP and Jefferson served with Adams.  That's still an 
exclusive club of nine!

Master Ben Let's take a ten minute break and check the Web for info on 
the VPs.

Ben hurriedly typed in the search terms he wanted.  He made several 
typing mistakes in his excitement.  And the Web seemed painfully slow. 
Finally, he collected the information that he sought.  A tone sounded, 
indicating that Woody had sent an instant message.

WoodythePecker: Holy shit!  Master Ben I think we have them, Woodman!

WoodythePecker: I saw something else when I wrote down the names.  Look
 at the presidents together with the vice presidents:

George Washington/ John Adams John Adams/ Thomas Jefferson Thomas 
Jefferson/ George Clinton James Madison/Elbridge Gerry and George 
Clinton James Monroe/ Daniel Tompkins John Quincy Adams/ John Calhoun

Andrew Jackson/ John Calhoun & Martin van Buren Martin van Buren/ 
Richard Johnson William Henry Harrison/ John Tyler

Master Ben Adams, Jefferson, Tompkins and Johnson were all VPs.

WoodythePecker: But look at the whole names.  Adams George Thompson, 
Jefferson John Alexander, Tompkins James Frederick, and Johnson Martin 
Daniel.  See the pattern in their first two names?  The first name is 
the last name of a VP, then the second name is the first name of the 
president that VP served under.

Master Ben You're a genius!  WoodythePecker: Let's put the rest of them
together... Master Ben Clinton Thomas, Gerry James, Calhoun John, Van 
Buren Andrew, and Tyler William.  And we're missing The General, The 
Senator, The Spy, The Doctor and The Assassin.

WoodythePecker: I'll bet The Senator is Ty Andrew.  His name was in the
newspapers this week.

Master Ben I can't associate any of the other names.  But all of the 
suspects have last names that are or could be first names-Thompson, 
Alexander, Daniel, Andrew and Frederick.

WoodythePecker: They must be connected to the presidents in some way. 
Maybe Alexander Hamilton ... I think he was the first Secretary of the 
Treasury. There must be a pattern.  Cabinet officers or something.

Master Ben I don't think so--I think I know where to find the other 
four names... Ben was ecstatic.  At last, progress.  He cleaned up 
quickly after he explained his theory to Woody, leaving everything in 
Thompson's apartment as he found it.

He took a taxi home.  He tore off his coat and immediately booked a 
flight with his travel agent for Monday.  It was late, but he was too 
keyed up to sleep.  He wanted to share his news with Debby.  He debated
whether to wait until Monday or call her on the telephone.  He could 
not wait.

"Hello," she answered.

Debby sounded tired, but not as if she had been asleep.  He was 
relieved that she was home and not in the arms of another man.

"Hi, Deb.  It's Ben.  I didn't wake you did I?"

"Hello stranger!  No, I've been up reading.  Have you been avoiding 
me?"

"I've been feeling a little emotional lately," Ben said.

"I know.  I've been confused myself."

"I think I've discovered something important in our little mystery," 
Ben said, the excitement evident in his voice.

"Really?  It looked as if we'd hit a dead end," she said.

"I don't want to talk about it on the telephone," Ben said.

"Can you meet me for a cup of coffee?"

Thirty minutes later Debby was at Ben's door.

"It's late for me, Ben," she said, handing Ben her coat.

"Just one cup of coffee and the scoop on your new discovery."

Ben had missed Debby's scent.

"Coffee's almost ready," he said happily.

"Have a seat in the living room and I'll tell you about the Key."

Ben brought the coffee in two minutes later.  Debby was sitting on a
contemporary sofa backed up against a window; Ben was suddenly 
conscious that it did not match the black leather recliner centered in 
the middle of the room. The top-of-the-line big screen TV looked cheap 
next to the inexpensive audio equipment stacked on a makeshift cinder 
block rack, a stale remnant of Ben's college days.  Ben's Aptiva sat on
an old--in the decaying rather than the antique sense--wooden desk on 
the left.  The walls were barren, save for a framed print of an Ansel 
Adams mountain scene over the desk.

"So, what's the scoop on the Key?"  Debby asked, apparently oblivious 
to the surroundings.

Ben poured her a cup of coffee.

"The Key is a naming convention.  My computer friend, Woody, cracked it
 after watching Vice President

Fabrizio announce JJ Alexander as his running mate on TV today," Ben 
said.

"Each Knight's first name is the last name of one of the first nine 
vice presidents.

His middle name is the first name of the president under which the vice
president served.  John Adams served under George Washington.  Adams 
George Thompson.  Thomas Jefferson served under John Adams.  Jefferson 
John Alexander."

Debby pressed her lips together.

"Impressive.  How did you figure out the Knights' last names?"  she 
asked.

"The names of the Knights that we think we know sort of fell into our 
lap.

Thompson.  Alexander.  Dean Frederick fits the pattern.  So does John 
Daniel, the Speaker of the House, and Ty Andrew, The Senator.  They 
were easy enough to guess once we saw the pattern in the first two 
names.  We're still missing four Knights.  The General, The Doctor, The
 Spy and The Assassin."

Debby shifted in her chair uncomfortably.

"So you still don't know how to identify them?  We can't take a 
half-baked theory like that to the authorities," she said.

"I think I know how to identify them."

"How's that?"  Debby asked.

"I think the last names are the first names of the nine brothers and 
sisters of Jimmy MacDougall."

Debby thought about that for a few seconds.

"Thompson.  Alexander.  Frederick.

Daniel.  Andrew.  You're right, all common first names.  Do you know 
the others?"

she asked.

"Not yet," Ben replied.

"But those portraits in the MacDougall Room at Calhoun College had name
 plates. I booked a flight to Atlanta for Monday."

TWENTY-FOUR

BEN COULD NOT SLEEP after Debby left on Friday night.  Her scent 
lingered in the apartment.  His mind darted between thoughts of romance
and the Key.  The answer to the riddle was in the MacDougall Room. 
Dean  Frederick had rattled off the names two weeks before in such
dramatic  fashion, but he could not remember them.

Seven brothers and sisters two.  Dean Frederick would be suspicious if 
Ben asked to meet in the MacDougall Room again.  Ben struggled 
unsuccessfully with a plan for a half hour, then left it to his 
subconscious to work it out, as his conscious mind drifted back to 
love.

Ben logged on to CyberLine.  Lisa C. was his only Pen Pal online. 
Before he could send her a note, a tone sounded.  Ben smiled.  It was 
Lisa.

Lisa C.: Hi Ben.

Master Ben Hi, Lis!  How's it going?  smile

Lisa C.: Okay.  You sound cheerful.

Master Ben Cheerful enough.  I finally got a lead in that case I'm 
working on at work!

Lisa C.: That's cool.  Master Ben So, what's new with you?

Lisa C.: I'm a little anxious.  I've got something on my mind.

Master Ben Do you want to talk about it?  You've been there for me when
I've needed a friendly ear... Lisa C.: Actually, it's about you... 
Master Ben Really..  How long do I have to live, doc?  smile

Lisa C.: I'm not so sure you'll be smiling after this... Master Ben 
Uh-oh ... what's up?

Lisa C.: You have to promise me that you won't abandon me.  I need 
you... Master Ben You're scaring me, Us ... what have you done?

Lisa C.: I haven't been completely honest with you... Master Ben Are 
you a guy?

Lisa C.: No!

Master Ben That's the only thing that would really tick me off... Lisa 
C.: You may change your mind.  I've been less than truthful about a few
 things--three to be exact.

Master Ben Okay, hit me ... I'm a big boy... Lisa C.: I love you.

Master Ben I'm stunned ... Flattered, actually.  In a way, I think I've
known that and I've loved you, too... Lisa C.: You'll understand
better  after you hear the second lie.

Master Ben Bracing myself smile

Lisa C.: I'm Debby.

Lisa C.: Say something, Ben!  Are you still there?

Master Ben I'm feeling several different emotions right now ... In one 
sense, I'm elated ... I've been in love with you for two weeks and have
been tearing myself up inside because you haven't returned my love... 
Lisa C.: I'm sorry hanging head down

Master Ben I don't know if that's good enough.  I've been open and 
honest with you, both as a cyber-friend and as a real life friend. 
You've been spying on me.

I've told you some of my deepest secrets, some of them about you, and 
you've just sat there behind the anonymity of the computer.  Probably 
laughing at me.

Lisa C.: It's not like that at all, Ben!  I never wanted to hurt you. 
It's much more complicated than that, and falling in love with you has 
made it more complicated still.

Master Ben You can't use that abortion crutch to justify anything.  I 
trusted you.  You betrayed me.

Lisa C.: There was no abortion.  Master Ben Was that your third little 
secret?

Lisa C.: No.  Lisa C.: There's no easy way to say this.

Master Ben Just spit it out.  It can't make things much worse.

Lisa C.: I am The Assassin's daughter.

TWENTY-FIVE

BEN STARED BLANKLY at his computer screen as Lisa C."  aka Debby, tried
to provoke a response from him.  It was an exercise in futility.  Ben 
was dazed.  The screen had become a blur.  He abruptly jabbed the power
button with his index finger as if the computer would bite it off if
he  allowed his finger to tarry a moment longer than necessary. 
Debby's  pleas evaporated into the cyber ether.

Ben sat at his desk, stunned, his face buried in his hands.  His mind 
was clicking at a dizzying pace.  One insight followed after another. 
Debby C.--her name plate at work.  Deborah Colleen Barnett.  Her mother
 had remarried.  Colleen.

Her father's last name was Colleen.  One of the sisters.  Debby had set
 him up.

He had known Lisa months before he had become involved with Debby.  She
must have found his CyberLine nickname on his computer at work.  Or 
through more nefarious means.  Who knows what she's capable of doing? 
Why was she setting him up?  She must have guessed that he would work 
the Thompson estate.  Or maybe she even suggested it to Fritz Fox.  The
Thompson estate.  She needed information from the Thompson estate. 
She  needed the Key.  And Ben had given it to her.

She had trashed his office--that's why no one had seen an intruder. 
She  had intentionally misplaced the trust document and tricked him
into  opening the sealed envelope.  She was The Assassin.  She had
assumed  her father's duties after he had died.  Now she could join the
others.  The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight.  The Thompson
estate.  Estate.  She killed Adams Thompson.  Was she killing them or
joining them?  Oh  God, she knows where I live!

Ben grabbed his coat and raced from his apartment.  It was dark.  An
icy rain was falling.  He looked up and down the street from the 
shadows of his building.  No sign of Debby.  The rain was coming down 
in buckets.  All of the passing taxis were full.  He kept looking, in 
fear, for Debby's frizzy hair bobbing in the distance.  His mind's 
image was different than the one that had come to fill his daydreams. 
Her blue eyes no longer sparkled; they pierced.

Black leather jacket.  Confident, purposeful stride.  Semi-automatic 
pistol tightly gripped in her right hand.  Demonic smile.  She was The 
Assassin.  She had become a nightmare.

Finally, a taxi stopped.  Ben told the driver to just drive.  He 
slumped in the back seat.

Ben tried to gather his thoughts.  Maybe he had enough information to 
go to the police.  The Poem.  Damn.  He had left that back in the 
apartment, in his briefcase.  The List.  The Key.  Thompson's murder. 
The Assassin.  He could tell a coherent story.  The worst they could do
was lock him up as crazy, an option that did not seem all that bad at 
this moment.  Detective Johnson would not be sympathetic.  He wanted to
 solve a murder.  He did not want to hear conspiracy theories.

The FBI.  They were educated.  They had federal jurisdiction.  They 
might listen.

Ben asked the driver to pull over near a telephone booth.  When he 
returned, he directed the driver to Federal Plaza in downtown 
Manhattan, the home of the FBI's New York field office.

The FBI does not sleep.  Maybe in Missouri, but not in New York.  A 
uniformed guard asked Ben to sign his name in a log book.  Ben 
hesitated, then signed in as "Benjamin Pierce."  It was 12:15 a.m. 
Ben's name was the only name on the page.

The guard directed him to the 23rd floor.

The elevator bank on the 23rd floor was separated from the FBI offices 
by a glass door.  It was locked.  The reception area on the other side 
of the door was unattended.

Ben tapped on the glass lightly.  He felt his heart beating.  Nothing. 
He looked around the elevator bank.  A doorbell on the right wall was 
partially concealed by a large plant.  He pressed it.  Thirty seconds. 
Nothing.  He turned to go, but stopped when he heard the sound of a 
door opening.

A young man, about Ben's age, signaled for Ben to wait.  The man 
reached behind the half-wall at the reception desk.  A buzzer sounded, 
and Ben pushed the glass door open.  The man smiled.  He was wearing a 
white shirt and black suspenders. He had the build of a linebacker.
Thick neck.  Broad shoulders.

"What brings you out on such a bleak night?"  the man asked.  His voice
 was friendly, reassuring.

Ben's heart was beating faster now.  He had trouble finding his 
breath.

"I need to talk to an agent," he said, his voice cracking.

"Come with me.  I'm Agent Franco.  Mike Franco," he said, extending his
 hand.  He directed Ben towards the door to the left.

"You seem agitated.  What's wrong?"

"You might think I'm crazy.  I think I've walked into the middle of an
incredible con--" The color drained from Ben's face.  A framed 
photograph on the wall of the reception area was now in full view.  A 
metal plate identified the man as the FBI Director--Gerry James Kate. 
The Spy.

"What's wrong?"  Agent Franco asked.

Ben hesitated.

"Nothing.  I made a mistake coming here."  He turned to leave.

Agent Franco put his large hand on Ben's shoulder.

"We can help.  Talk to me."  He sounded sincere.

Ben peered into Francos eyes, searching for a friend.  Then Ben looked 
away.  He walked towards the glass door.

"I'm sorry.  I made a mistake."

Ben strode purposefully through the lobby downstairs.  The guard called
for him to log out.  Ben kept walking.  The guard called again.  Ben 
ran for the door.  The guard rose from behind his desk, but did not 
give chase.  Ben ran from the building and disappeared into the dark, 
rainy night.

He did not stop running for ten blocks.  He found himself on Broadway. 
Not the bright lights and non-stop action of the Great White Way in 
midtown.  The dark, dank Broadway that connects the city that never 
sleeps to the hollow canyons of Wall Street.  Warehouses.  Seedy 
businesses.  Erie silence.  Ben was out of breath, soaking wet, and 
cold to the bone.  He bent over, hands on both knees, trying to catch 
his breath.

A loud noise broke the quiet, startling him.  He sprung up, primed to 
continue his flight.  It was only a street person; he had dropped an 
empty bottle.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when Ben approached his 
apartment building.  A car passed.  The street was empty.  He was 
tired.  Wet.  Cold.  Numb. His mind had ceased to function.  His only 
thought was of a hot shower.

Then a movement in the shadows jolted him back to an alert state.  A 
figure, clad in a trenchcoat, was lurking in the darkness near his 
building's vestibule.  Fear consumed him.  He turned to run.

"Ben!  Wait!"  It was Debby.  There was desperation in her voice.  Ben 
wavered.

Fight or flight.  Something made him look back.  She had taken a step 
toward him, into the light.  She looked sad.

"Ben, don't go.  Let me explain," she pleaded.

"Did you kill Adams Thompson?"  he asked.

"No!  Ben, please, I love you.  I need to talk with you."  Ben slung 
his wet coat over the shower rod in the bathroom.  He was confused.  It
 had been a long day. His emotions had run the gamut.  Love.

Fear.  Anger.  Hate.  Now he was just weary.  He changed his clothes in
 the bedroom.

Debby was still standing near the door when he returned.  Her 
trenchcoat was folded over a chair in the kitchen.  She was wearing 
only a plain black T-shirt and blue jeans and was trembling, fighting 
back tears.

"Are you cold?"  Ben asked.  She nodded.

"I'll heat up the coffee."  They sat down at the kitchen table.

"What can I say to get you back, Ben?"

She looked very small.  There was no sparkle in her eyes, but they did 
not pierce, either.  She looked afraid.  Lonely.  Desperate.

"I don't know.  Why don't you start with the truth?"  There was a 
sharpness to his tone that he had not displayed to her before.

"I deserved that," she said.

"The truth is a long story."

"I think I may have heard part of it already.  Give me the short 
version."  She sighed, then slumped in the chair.

"My father was Van Buren Andrew Colleen.  Everybody called him Andy. 
What I told you about him before was all true.  He was killed in a car 
accident about a year ago.  Drunk driving.  I had not seen him in over 
twenty years.  My parents were divorced when I was five, and mom 
remarried a few years later.  Her second husband, Philip Barnett, 
adopted me.  I kept Colleen as my middle name.  After you told me about
the naming convention today, I figured that you would probably make
the  connection once you learned that Colleen was one of the
sisters."

"You probably give me too much credit, but maybe so.  Go on."

"My mom is in an institution with Alzheimer's.  My father never 
remarried.  I was my father's only known relative when he died.  Not 
that there was much of anything to inherit, but I had to go through all
 his things."

"Did you find a copy of the Poem?"  Ben asked.

"No.  I didn't find anything to do with the conspiracy.  But I did find
some letters tucked away in an old book.  They were from my 
half-brother.  My father must have had an affair while he was married 
to my mother.  I don't think my mother ever knew about his son, but my 
father kept in touch and saved the letters.  My brother lives in LA.  I
tried to contact him, but his phone was disconnected.  When I tried to
find him at the return address on the letters, his landlord told me 
that he hadn't seen my brother for awhile, either.  He disappeared 
shortly after my father's accident.  I went through his things.

That's when I found photocopies of the Poem and the List."

"What's your brother's name?"

"Van Buren Andrew Stone."

"So he's The Assassin?"

"Yes.  I think so."

"Did your brother's letters say anything about it?"

"There was one letter assuring my father that he would complete his 
'mission."" "How did you figure the plot out?"  Ben asked.

"Same way you did," she said.

"But I couldn't figure out the Key, and I didn't know any of the 
history behind the Poem."

"What made you go after Adams Thompson?"

"My brother had scrawled some notes on his copy of the List.  I think 
he was trying to make contact with the other Knights, but didn't know 
how to do it.  He had written down Thompsons name and one other.  The 
publisher of The Washington Post, James Symington.  It made sense that 
one of them would be The Publisher.

The Publisher would need to run a newspaper established in a major east
coast political center to have any significant influence.  I ruled out
Symington.  I easily traced his roots back to the 1700s.  Thompson's 
trail ended in the mid-1800s."

"So what were your intentions?"  Ben asked.

"For God's sake, you set yourself up with Thompson's estate lawyer.  It
 doesn't sound like you were going to invite Thompson for tea."

"Look, Ben, you can look down your high and mighty nose at me if you 
want.  My brother is prepared to kill the next president of the

United States.  I'll do whatever it takes to protect my country and my 
family name.  My intentions were to talk to Thompson.  Believe it or 
not, I had set up a meeting with him on the night he died.  If he was 
uncooperative, I was prepared to kill him.  I never got that chance."

"How do I know I can trust you?"  Ben asked angrily.

"You pretended to be my friend.  You set me up months ago when we met 
'by chance' on CyberLine even before you were working at Kramer, Fox. 
I  told you things that I haven't told anyone else.  God, I even told
you  about you!  If I wasn't so completely drained I would be too 
embarrassed to face you."

Tears trickled down Debby's face.

"I never meant to hurt you," she said.

"I

needed to use you.  Can't you see that?  I needed to know everything 
about you so that I could manipulate you to help me.  I didn't know 
that I would fall in love with you."

Ben closed his eyes tightly.  He had so wanted her to be in love with 
him.  His nerve endings pulsated.

"It was supposed to be anonymous," he said.

"I gave you everything.  There's nothing about me that you don't know. 
I have never felt so exposed in my life."

"I know and I wish I could take it all back," Debby said sincerely.

"But I can't.  The only thing I can offer you is my heart."

She stood up awkwardly, brushed away a tear, then put her hands on 
Ben's shoulders.  She kissed him gently on the cheek from behind.

"Make love to me, Ben."

TWENTY-SIX

BEN RAN HIS HANDS down the curve of a naked body that was as beautiful 
as he had dreamed.  Only it was Kimberly's body, not Debby's.  It was 
Monday, not Saturday.

Ben kissed her.  Her lips sizzled with sexual electricity; their 
tongues jousted passionately, playfully.  He let his hand graze her 
inner thigh.  She moaned.

Their naked bodies danced, slowly, in unison, to the rhythm of love. 
She stroked him gently.

"Do me now," she whispered in his ear.

"I want them to watch," Ben said.  There was a firmness in his voice. 
He slapped her on the rump.

"Get up on the table.  On your hands and knees."

Kimberly smiled her naughty smile, then climbed up on the large cherry 
table, slowly, in a well-practiced routine designed to titillate.  Ben 
watched hungrily, then followed her up on the table top.  She arched 
her back, her tail tilting upwards.  Ben bent down to kiss her.

"Now," she said.

Ben put his hands on her hips and slowly entered her.  She moaned, then
he thrust himself into her with a force born of both passion and pain.
He closed his eyes and soaked in her sexuality.  He was already 
pulsating.  He knew he would not last long.  Ten strokes.  He wanted to
 last ten strokes.

"Harder," she pleaded.

Ben opened his eyes.  He scanned the room, as he pumped himself into 
her.  His eyes focused on the portrait behind the head of the table. 
Jimmy.  He pumped again, harder this time.  She moaned.  His gaze 
shifted to the next portrait.

Alexander.  And again.  Frederick.  He could feel his own anger and 
sexuality peaking.  He thrust himself into Kimberly again.  Kate. 
Again.  Thompson.  Again.

"I'm cam ming she groaned.

He pumped harder.  Glenn.  Ben groaned as he reached the moment of 
orgasm.  He pumped again, exploding into her.  Andrew.  Again.  They 
both moaned.  Daniel.

Again.  Stewart.  Again.  And little Colleen.  He had drained himself. 
His gaze lingered on the portrait of Colleen.

Ben rolled off Kimberly and lay face up on the table.  Ten names 
forever etched into his mind, forever associated with sex more potent 
than he had imagined possible.  Kimberly dropped to the table, prone, 
facing Ben with her head resting on her right hand.

"That was amazing," she said.

"I didn't think that I would ever see you again."

Ben rolled over to face her.  He smiled.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you.

That new relationship didn't work out and I was kicking myself for not
finishing what we started two weeks ago.  I had to see you again."

Kimberly looked into Ben's eyes with disbelief.

"You mean you came down here just to see me?"  she asked.

"Yep.  And it was worth it."  He kissed her breast and snuggled close 
to her.  He was getting aroused, again.

"Cool.  I thought you were down here to visit.  Daddy."

Ben looked confused.

"Who?"

Kimberly laughed.

"You didn't know that the Dean is my father?"

Ben did not know what to say.  He tried to maintain a calm demeanor, 
but he could tell from Kimberly's reaction that his horror was 
evident.

"Don't worry," Kimberly said coyly.  She seemed to be enjoying his 
discomfort.

"I

won't tell him you were here.  It will be our little secret."  The 
naughty smile came so easily to Kimberly's lips.

"Of course, there's a price for my silence."

She rolled over, on her back, bending her legs at the knees.  They made
love once more on the table under the watchful gaze of the brothers
and  sisters MacDougall and then twice at Kimberly's apartment.

Ben caught the early flight back to New York on Tuesday morning.  He 
slept soundly on the plane.

TWENTY-SEVEN

BEN HAD WAVERED between going into the office and going into hiding 
when he arrived in New York on Tuesday morning, but he elected to 
maintain his normal routine.  He was at risk, but so far the risks 
seemed manageable.  Just the same, he had taken the precaution of 
withdrawing five hundred dollars from the bank in case the urge to take
 flight suddenly overcame him.

The FBI had seen his face on Friday night, but they did not know his 
name because he had the foresight to sign in under an alias, Benjamin 
Pierce.

Kimberly, The Caretaker's daughter, could hurt him if she told the Dean
that Ben had been in Atlanta on Monday, but she had promised secrecy. 
He trusted her.  The Caretaker himself had seemed suspicious two weeks 
ago, but nothing had come of it.  Ben had spoken with him once since 
then on the telephone, and the Dean had been cordial and relaxed.  Only
 Debby and Woody knew that he had discovered the conspiracy.

Now, after spending the morning catching up on a few neglected matters,
Ben was daydreaming.  He reclined in his green swivel chair, his feet 
resting on the credenza.  The midday sun was obscured by a dense cover 
of clouds.  A dull ache in his abdomen was a pleasing reminder of the 
prior night's extended sexual activities.

Ben's once clear mind was now muddled.  A month ago his existence had 
been simple, bordering on pathetic, he thought.  He came to work;

he went home.  Some might describe his job as dull, but the newness of 
it provided a sufficient challenge for his understated passion.  He had
a perfectly acceptable fantasy sex life in cyberspace.  No 
complications.

Now he was in a quandary as two real life lovers competed for his 
affection.  He had not made love to Debby in the wee hours of Saturday 
morning, but he still had strong feelings for her.  Ben had sent her 
away, angrily, but with enough tenderness to leave open the possibility
of a reconciliation.  Her intentions that night had been good.  He 
questioned her motivation in stalking Adams Thompson, but he might 
never know that whole truth.

The answer was in Debby Barnett's mind, a complex labyrinth that she 
exposed to him bit by bit, as was convenient for her.

Ben's sexual escapade with Kimberly confused the situation.  She had a 
lack of inhibition that he had only before experienced in RealTime.  He
could have fun exploring his wild side with her.  A smile crossed his 
face as he relived a particularly vivid and memorable moment. And then
there was the small matter of the fate of the nation.  The  type of
serious business that should be left for the consideration of  great
men with white hair.  Twenty-six year old boys playing with adult  toys
should have the luxury of mentally replaying their sexual  adventures
during their lunch hours without interruption.  Images of  burly young
Scotsmen in kilts had no place invading visions of  Kimberly's lithe,
compliant body, but there they were, in Ben's mind's  eye, alternating
with likenesses of sweaty, cigar-smoking politicians  like JJ
Alexander, John Daniel and Ty Andrew.

Ben sat upright and swiveled to face his desk.

His dalliance in the MacDougall Room at Calhoun College had confirmed 
that the naming convention had indeed been applied to all of the 
suspected Knights.  The last name of each of them was the first name of
one of the brothers and sisters MacDougall.  Adams Thompson--The 
Publisher.  JJ Alexander--The Heir Apparent.

Buddy Frederick--The Caretaker.  Ty Andrew--The Senator.  Gerry 
Kate--The Spy.

John Daniel--The Speaker.  Van Buren Andrew Colleen--The Assassin.

It had been simple for Ben, with the assistance of the Internet, to 
fill in the two remaining gaps.  The descendents of Glenn and Stewart 
had not yet been identified.  The first names dictated by the naming 
convention were Clinton Thomas and Calhoun John.  Internet searches for
Clinton Thomas Stewart and Calhoun John Glenn had not been fruitful. 
But a search for Clinton Thomas Glenn had revealed the Chairman of the 
Joint Chiefs of Staff.  The General.  And a search for Calhoun John 
Stewart had produced the Director of the National Institutes of Health.
 The Doctor.

There could be no doubt.  The Jinx was real.  The question in Ben's 
mind now was how to save Vice President Fabrizio from his fatal 
rendezvous with The Assassin and the nation from The Royal Order's 
Final Vengeance, whatever that might be.

The Assassin was under deep cover.  The other Knights were powerful 
men.  The FBI was The Spy's house, and it had jurisdiction over federal
conspiracies.  The New York police would send him special delivery to 
the FBI.

No, Ben knew he had to set his sights higher.  He needed to go directly
to the White House.  But an anonymous young lawyer could never get an 
audience with the President or even his staff, especially if he was not
willing to disclose his intentions in advance.  They would laugh at
him  if they even listened long enough to find it amusing.

Ben knew that he needed help, someone who could bring him instant
credibility and White House access.  He had two choices.

The first was Fritz Fox.  He was a close friend of the President, one 
of a handful of Washington outsiders who could obtain an audience with 
Hank Norton without disclosing his agenda.  There was no shame in 
approaching Fritz now.  He had labored for three weeks to build his 
case while the Old Man convalesced.

Fritz was due back in the office in three days, on Friday, to attend 
the staff Christmas Party.

The case was not perfect.  The Poem supported the theory that the 
Knights were planning to kill the next president, but it did not prove 
it.  The naming convention, the Millennium Nights room and the ties to 
the MacDougalls chipped away at reasonable doubt, but proving those 
elements of the case might be difficult.  If the Knights thought they 
were under suspicion, they would probably hide as many vestiges of 
their plot as possible.  It would take a team of federal investigators 
to bring down The Royal Order.

Ben's primary doubt was the handling of the sealed envelope.  Under the
terms of the trust, it never should have been opened.  The Poem would 
not be valid evidence in court.  Debby's photocopy from her brother's 
apartment was useless, too.  They needed to tie the Poem to Adams 
Thompson and the List.

Still, if the President was made aware of the conspiracy, the Knights 
could be stopped.  Ben's worry was that Fritz would refuse even to 
review the illegally obtained evidence.  The President needed to know 
about The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight.

Ben sighed.  He turned to his computer and clicked on the CyberLine 
icon.  His Pen Pals had all been helpful.  Woody's insights in 
particular had been critical to solving the riddle of The Royal Order. 
But now Ben was focused on the one listed cyber-name that he had not 
called upon for assistance.  Quixote.  His old mentor and friend from 
Harvard.  And now a Washington insider.

If Ben could regain Quixote's trust, he could bypass Fritz Fox's 
unwavering ethical standards and alert the President to the imminent 
threat.  But he and Quixote had parted awkwardly and had not spoken for
over three years.  They had unfinished business that Ben was afraid to
revisit.  He stared at the computer monitor, frozen in a state of 
indecision.  No, Quixote was the option of last resort.

Debby crossed Ben's mind.  He missed having her as a sounding board. 
She had a good practical take on these issues.  He dialed the 
telephone.

"Hello," Debby answered.  She sounded weary.

"Hi, Deb.  It's Ben."

Silence.  Ben heard her swallow.

"Hey, Ben."

Ben detected sadness in her voice.

"We need to talk," he said.

"Okay.  Should I come down there?"  she asked.

"No.  Not here.  Let's meet after work for a drink."

They met in the bar of the restaurant in the lower lobby of One Water. 
Few of the lawyers from Kramer, Fox ever drank there.  It was too 
convenient, too easy to be spotted.  The lawyers only went there for a 
quick lunch with a summer intern or a prospect on a job 
interview-obligatory occasions, rarely pleasurable.  But at six o'clock
 on a Tuesday, it was sufficient for Ben's purposes.

Debby seemed distant, small.  Her eyes were swollen from tears shed 
some hours ago.  Ben touched her arm when he pulled out a chair for 
her.  He wanted to hug her, to tell her that the events of the past 
weekend were all forgotten.  But he could not lie or lead her on.  It 
would take time if they were to become friends again.  But his abdomen 
burned.  No longer from the remnants of the prior night's sex, now with
the embers of another fire not quite extinguished.  It was a subtle 
emotion, not easily labeled.  A gust of wind could fan it or snuff 
it.

They talked about nothing while they waited for their drinks.  Ben 
initiated real conversation after the waiter left.  He looked directly 
into Debby's eyes.

"Look, Deb, I'm sorry about the other night.  You put me through the 
wringer. The last few weeks have been a heart-wrenching ordeal for me, 
and I couldn't handle all those emotions in one night."

Her eyes grew misty and searched for a point upon which to fixate.  She
 found a place beyond Ben's right shoulder.

"You pushed me away with such disgust," she said.

"It tore my heart out."

"I'm sorry."

She sipped her margarita.  She started to speak, but stopped herself. 
She tried again.

"What do you think of me now?"

"I don't know.  I really don't know," Ben said.

"I think I'm afraid."

She looked directly at him now.  A tear rolled down her cheek.  She 
choked up trying to get out the words.  When the words came, she 
pleaded for him to believe her in a sad, hoarse whisper.

"I'm not a killer, Ben," she said.

"I haven't spent my whole life training to be The Assassin.  I walked 
into this conspiracy just like you did."

"I did not walk into anything--you set me up," Ben said harshly.  He 
softened his tone.

"But that's not what I meant.  I feel like a part of our friendship is 
still there, and I'm afraid that if we talk too much about it, we'll 
lose it.

That something might be said that can't be taken back."

"I can understand that," Debby said.

"You do believe me then?"

Their eyes met.

"Yes, I do."

"Good," she said trying to smile and sound perky.  She wiped her eyes 
with a cocktail napkin.

"Then where do we go from here?"

Ben shifted forward in his chair.  He spoke softly, so as not to be 
overheard.

"I

miss you as a sounding board.  I think there's enough evidence to take 
our story to Fritz, but some things still bother me."

"Like what?"

"Like the sealed envelope.  The Poem is the only evidence of 
wrongdoing.

Otherwise, there's just two strange coincidences--presidents elected 
every twenty years dying in office and powerful men with names linked 
in an odd way.

There's no connection between the two."

"But you said that you have an ethical obligation to disclose the 
crime," she said.

"Yeah, but the evidence is still tainted," Ben said.

"It wouldn't be admissible in court."

"Do we care?"  she asked.

"We want to expose the conspiracy.  Stop them from killing.  So what if
 they don't go to jail?"

"Can anyone really be sure they won't do it if they don't get locked 
up?"  Ben asked.

"And what if Fritz takes a hard line?  He might not even look at the 
Poem if I tell him it was in the sealed envelope.  Or he might look at 
it and think it too fantastic to even consider."

"Well, you know what the practical answer is," she said.

Ben rolled his eyes.  The practical answer.  Non-lawyers were so quick 
to dismiss the law.

"You mean destroy the envelope and the trust document?"  Ben asked.

"That's not gonna happen."

"Why not?  Wasn't it unethical to re-seal the envelope?"  she asked.

Ben sipped his beer.

"I don't see it that way," he said.

"Oh, please.  You were just protecting your ass."

"To be honest, I don't know if there is a right way to handle that 
issue," he said.

"You deceived me.  The envelope never should have been opened.  I tried
 to make it right."

"But you copied the Poem," she said.

"Just fulfilling my obligation to confirm that a crime was 
contemplated," Ben shot back.

Debby leaned forward.

"You've got alt the answers, don't you?  If Fritz doesn't read the 
Poem, the next president will die and these monsters will be running 
the country.  But Ben Kravners precious ethics will be intact.  You 
have to destroy those papers. There's no other way.  You can be a hero 
or a coward.  Your call, Ben."

Ben felt his ears flush.  His tone became sharper, his voice still a 
whisper.

"So it's black or white?  What about the rule of law?  People have a 
right to privacy.

We can't just take the law into our own hands because we have a gut 
feeling that somebody did wrong.  That's why the Bill of Rights 
protects people against unauthorized searches.  That's why you hear 
about murderers getting released on technicalities.  Because the police
 acted on the basis of their intuition instead of their brains."

"We need to stop them from doing something terrible," Debby said.

"You need to stop them."

"Why does it have to be me?"  Ben asked.

"Why didn't you go to the police or send an anonymous letter to the 
President? You knew about the Poem all along."

Debby smirked.

"Fair point.  I was afraid, too.  I didn't know who was involved in the
conspiracy.  It was obviously powerful men, and I needed someone 
powerful and smart to beat them."

Ben shifted his eyes skyward.

"Right.  Second year lawyer.  Mighty Mouse is here to save the day."

Debby took his hand in hers.  He swallowed hard.

"Look, you were just a way to get to Fritz Fox.  He has the White House
connections," she said.

Ben's jaw tensed.  He looked away.

"But don't sell yourself short," she said.

"You put the pieces together.  You did more than I could do.  More than
I expected you to do.  You're easy to underestimate, Hawkeye Kravner, 
and it may be that characteristic that lets us pull this off."

Ben wondered whether he should tell Debby about Quixote.  No, while 
that path would avoid a confrontation with Fritz, the ethical issue 
would still need to be addressed.  And he would have to wrestle with 
the demons that had haunted him since they had parted.

Ben chewed on his lower lip while Debby patiently sipped her drink. 
Somehow, just lying about the envelope and the trust had not entered 
his decision-making calculus.  It came so easily to her.  But could she
 be right this time?

Ben recalled a favorite class in law school.  Tragic Choices.  The law,
life, was full of them.  Dilemmas that had no easy answers.  One 
kidney, two dying people in need of a transplant.  The rights of a 
fetus versus the rights of a mother. Pull the plug, or not.  Whose 
responsibility was it to answer the unanswerable questions?  Great men 
with white hair, not young lawyers.  Not Ben Kravner.

Great men.  Ben looked across the table into Debby's blue eyes and 
recalled a day not all that long ago when they had stared out at New 
York Harbor sharing their dreams.  Dammit, it was time to start being 
great.  This was his decision. He had opened the envelope.  He had 
pursued the investigation of the Poem.  The ethical judgment was his to
make.  It was unfair to place that burden on Fritz Fox.  It was unfair
to place it on the President of the United States.  These monsters had
 to be stopped.

"Okay," Ben said with some bitterness.

"I'll burn the papers.  You're right.  The fate of the nation is more 
important than a small thing like my honor and integrity."

"You're doing the unselfish thing, Ben.  There must be some honor in 
that."

Ben slumped into his chair.  Difficult decisions drained him of his 
energy.  He sipped his beer.  Tragic choices.  He hoped he had made the
 right one.

TWENTY-EIGHT

DISCOVERING THE PASSWORD to the Millennium Nights room had become Ben's
obsession.  He was desperate to find one incriminating item that was 
unrelated to the Poem before he met with Fritz Fox, and words from the 
mouths of the Knights themselves seemed like his only hope.

Ben had collected all of Thompson's passwords for his various accounts,
searching for patterns.  He had called his banks, his credit card 
companies and even CyberLine and some of the other computer services to
which Thompson subscribed.  The banks and credit card companies had 
been cautious, but had yielded the information when Ben personally 
appeared at their offices with Thompson's death certificate.  The 
computer services had been more lax about their security, but little 
was at stake.

By Thursday afternoon, Ben had assembled almost two dozen passwords 
and, working on his computer at Kramer, Fox, had tried thousands of 
letter and symbol combinations, some obvious, some following logically 
from the patterns evident in Thompson's known passwords, some obscene. 
None had worked.

The end of the business day was approaching, and he was running out of 
ideas. He sat staring blankly at his computer, deep in thought.  The 
Knights would be meeting that night in the Millennium Nights room.  He 
knew that this was his final opportunity to bolster his case before he 
spoke with Fritz Fox tomorrow morning.

Then he had one last idea.  He dialed the telephone.  He punched 
several keys on the telephone pad as he navigated through the maze of a
 voice response system.

Finally, a live person, a young woman, answered.

"CyberLine, may I help you?  This is Tina speaking."

Ben tried to sound important and confident.

"Yes, I spoke to a woman named Donna earlier today about a problem, and
she was very helpful.  Can I speak with her, again?"  Ben had enjoyed 
flirting with Donna while she helped him find Adams Thompson's 
CyberLine password.

"We have several hundred operators on duty today, sir.  Do you know her
 last name or her extension?"

"No, I'm afraid not.  Is there any way you can search your database by 
first name and cross-check against the operators on duty today?"

The operator sighed. "Hold on, sir," she said, crossly.

A local radio station played in the background while Ben was placed on 
hold. One full song and part of another were completed when the line 
began to ring.

"CyberLine, can I help you?  This is Donna speaking."

"Donna!  This is Ben Kravner.  You helped me earlier today." 
Silence.

"You helped me find a password for a man who had passed away."

"Right!  I remember.  Did you find what you needed?"

"Well, actually I need your help, again," Ben said.

"Mr.  Thompson left behind a letter requesting that we notify his 
on-line friends of his death.  One of the RealTime chat rooms that he 
had identified is password protected.  Is it possible for you to leave 
a message in the chat room for me or give me the password?"

"I'm not sure if you understand how the chat rooms work, Mr.  Kravner. 
You can't leave a message there.  You type a message and only the 
people in the room at the time will see it."

"Oh," Ben said innocently.

"Can you tell me the password so that I can pass on Mr.  Thompsons 
message tonight?  His discussion group meets at midnight."

"I'm not supposed to do that.  I wish I could help you."

"C'mon, Donna, this was a dying wish," Ben pleaded.

"It's only old war buddies getting together.  It's not like I'm trying 
to steal money."

"I don't know--" Ben sensed her resolve weakening.  He spoke softly.

"Look, I'm a lawyer.  I'm trying to do my job.  You sound very sweet, 
and I know you're trying to do your job, but what's the harm here?  I 
can try to talk to your boss or go down to the local CyberLine office 
with a copy of the death certificate, but it's the end of the day.  The
funeral is tomorrow, and I want to give these guys a chance to pay 
their last respects.  I have no other way of contacting them.  Can you 
please help me?"

There was a long pause.  Ben held his breath. "Okay.  But I could get
in trouble for this.  Please don't say anything  to anybody."

Ben's heartbeat quickened.

"I promise.  Scouts honor."

He heard her keyboard clicking.

"The password is Ti-p-Ty-2000."

Ben pounded the air with his fists.  TipTy2000.  Tippecanoe and Tyler, 
Too!  It made sense.  He had even tried similar passwords, but did not 
guess this abbreviated combination.  He had trouble containing the 
excitement in his voice.

"Thanks, Donna.  I never would have guessed that in a million years. 
You're a lifesaver."

Ben opened the CyberLine program on his computer.  His heart was racing
now.  He lightly pounded his desk with his fist while he waited for
the  program to load.

Every step of the program seemed to be moving in slow motion.  He 
mistyped his own password.  Finally, he reached the RealTime area.  He 
scanned the room list for the Millennium Nights room.  He clicked on 
it.  The program requested the password.  He typed in "TipTy2000."

The pop-up window for the room opened.  Ben let loose a jubilant sigh 
of relief.

The room was empty, as expected.  But it would begin to fill in six 
hours, at midnight, when The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight 
entered one by one.

Finally, he would be able to peer into the minds of the enemy!

But his jubilation was short-lived.  As he began to structure a plan, 
he realized that he could not invisibly observe the proceedings in the 
Millennium Nights room like a phantom Knight.  Once he entered the 
room, his cyber-name would be visible to all others in the room.  Once 
discovered, the Knights would abandon the room in favor of another or 
change the password.  Or worse.  If the Knights learned that he was 
aware of their plot, they would hunt him.

Ben realized that he would get only one chance to participate in the
proceedings of The Royal Order, and the stakes were high.  One wrong 
move, and he would put his life in jeopardy.  Maybe the lives of many 
others. The key was avoiding detection.  Ben had an idea.  He tried to
create a  new cyber-name, one that used a number of blank spaces and
then a  single typographic symbol, a dash.  The CyberLine program
accepted it.  He tried entering a chat room with the nearly invisible
cyber-name.

The chat room's electronic host announced that " -" had entered the 
room.  Damn.

He slammed his fist into his desk.  That was stupid.  Of course, the 
host would announce the entry of a new member into the Millennium 
Nights room.  The Knights would detect an intruder instantly.

There was not much room for creativity.  The only way to eavesdrop 
undetected would be to enter the room using one of the Knights' 
cyber-names or under the guise of a nearly identical name.  And that 
would be risky.  If one of the names was duplicated, he would be 
discovered.  The ruse would only work if he took on the identity of one
of the Knights and then arranged for that Knight to be detained.  At 
midnight on a Thursday night.  The odds looked long.

Ben glanced at the List, hoping that manna would fall from heaven, 
again.

"The Heir Apparent.  The Speaker.  The Senator.  The General.  The Spy.
 The Publisher.

The Doctor.  The Caretaker.  The Assassin."  He could try using a lower
case "t" in "the" for any of them.  But that might be too obvious.  He
 only had one chance.

There would not be much point in trying to detain the political 
honchos.  He did not have a hook.  Not even Quixote's political 
contacts could help him there.

That ruled out The Heir Apparent, The Speaker and The Senator.

He stared at the next name on the List.  The General.  He typed it on 
his computer screen: "The General."  The number "I" replaced the letter
"I."  It was virtually undetectable.  He sat there in awe of himself. 
Manna from heaven.

Now all that Ben had to do was detain the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs 
of Staff from attending what was probably the most important meeting of
his week at midnight on a Thursday night.  Ben looked at his watch. 
It  was already seven o'clock.  This would take more than divine 
intervention.

He struggled for ideas.  Maybe a family emergency.  He quickly 
researched Clint Glenn's profile on the Department of Defense web site.
He had a wife and two grown children.  It would be hard to manufacture
a family crisis that warranted his immediate attention.  And if Glenn 
had even the remotest suspicion that someone had intentionally kept him
away from the meeting, there was a high risk that the Knights would 
change the password.  Too risky.

Ben was too powerless to create a national emergency.  Too cowardly, or
too intelligent, to try kidnapping The General or killing him.  He ran
through a number of scenarios in his mind, none of which seemed 
promising or practical. Ben slammed the door to his office on his way 
out at eight o'clock.

The excess adrenaline pulsing through his bloodstream found a home in 
his nerve endings.  He felt every one of them.

Ben watched helplessly on his computer at home as one by one the 
Knights entered the chat room just after midnight.  The Heir Apparent. 
The Doctor.  The Spy.  The Speaker.  The Caretaker.  The Senator.  Each
appearing in seemingly random order within two minutes of the midnight
 hour.  Ten minutes later The General entered the room.

Ben pounded his right fist into his left palm.  Gotcha.  "A pattern had
 emerged.

Ben had observed the Millennium Nights room for three weeks now.  Each 
time The General had been the last to arrive.  Each time he had been 
ten minutes later than the others.  Coincidence?  There were too many 
coincidences.

Perhaps General Glenn had a standing appointment on Thursday nights 
that did not allow him to be home until ten minutes past midnight. 
More  likely he was an arrogant man, thumbing his nose at his comrades
by  making them await his arrival.  In any event, the pattern was Ben's
only hope.  Too late for this night, but an idea to test the following
week if none better sprung to mind. The Knights appeared to be in no 
hurry.

The weekly meeting of The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight was 
called to order upon The General's arrival, outside of Ben's view but 
within his grasp.

Ben wisely exited the program and went to bed.  There was no point in 
subjecting himself to temptation.

The Heir Apparent: Gentlemen, I gather that you have all seen that my 
plan is proceeding even better than anticipated.  Thank you, Senator, 
for what I suspect was an Academy Award-winning performance for the 
Vice President's benefit.

The Senator: I've got to admit it, you were right.  That Yankee pig 
fucker hates my guts.  I could see it in his eyes.  I don't know why I
had not seen it before.

The Heir Apparent: Hell, everybody else in the Senate could.  Whenever 
you would make one of your speeches from the middle podium on the 
Senate floor, Fabrizio would be rolling his eyes behind you on the 
upper podium.  Well done, Senator.

The Senator: Only too glad to be of service.

The Heir Apparent: Now that the key component of our plan appears to be
moving forward so smoothly, again, I'm hoping that this is a short 
meeting.  Are there any issues that need to be discussed this week? 
Spy, any word on The Assassin?

The Spy: I'm afraid so.  Major security problem:

Assassin's daughter turned up in NY working at Fox's law firm. 
Involved  with

BFK.

The Heir Apparent: What do they know?

The Speaker: Fox is a personal friend of the President.  This could be 
the end of us!

The Spy: Stay calm.  Let me recap, but assure you that the situation 
can be contained.  BFK's office phone tapped 3 wks, since Friday, 12/3.
Visual surveillance and home phone tap after our meeting on 12/9.  No 
suspicious communications or behavior 12/3 12/16.  On Friday, 12/17, 
BFK visited Pub's apt for 4 hrs.  No evidence of activities.  Returned 
to his apt and booked flight to Atlanta for Monday, 12/20.

The Heir Apparent: Caretaker, did he visit with you on Monday?

The Caretaker: No.

The Spy: Wait.  More activity over weekend.  BFK phones Deborah Barnett
midnight 12/17.  Deborah Colleen Barnett--Assassin's daughter.  BFK 
says he discovered something important in "our little mystery" and 
invited her to his apt.  No evidence of discussions at BFK apt, but 
believe he didn't know she's related to Assassin.  She's paralegal at 
Kramer, Fox assisting on case.  Romance developing.

The Senator: Has Miss Barnett taken on the role of The Assassin?  Did 
she kill The Publisher?

The Spy: Wait for all facts, then draw conclusions and develop rational
course of action.  After DB left apt, BFK on Internet.  DB interrupted
him using alias. She befriended him on-line under alias and carried
on both on-line and  live relationship.  For some reason, DB confessed
to BFK online.  BFK  terminated connection to Internet.  Agent reported
BFK ran out in  frenzy and hailed taxi.

Any guesses where he goes?

The Senator: The young lady's apartment?

The Spy: FBI Manhattan Field Office.  Agent says BFK nervous--he ran 
out, possibly spooked by my picture.  Guard says BFK failed to sign 
out.  Used assumed name, by the way.  Surveillance team picked him back
up at his apt.  DB there waiting.  BFK appeared frightened.  Entered 
apt together.  No evidence of activities in apt.  DB exited less than 
hour later.  Appeared upset.

The General: Have you been monitoring Miss Barnett's activities since 
then?

The Spy: Received report this AM.  My appraisal incorrect.  Saw no need
 for daily reports.

The Heir Apparent: We're only human, Spy No need to fall on your sword.
 Please continue.

The Spy: DB surveillance begins this PM.  Daily reports.  Notify you by
e-mail if special meeting required.  No unusual BFK activity Sunday. 
In  Atlanta Monday PM. BFK met by young woman later identified as 
Kimberly.

The Caretaker: What!  She didn't tell me anything about this.

The Spy: Agents report quite taken with each other.  Long dinner, 3 hrs
in Admin Building.  No evidence of activities, but agents have theory.
 Retired to Kimberly's apt late in AM.

The Caretaker: Gentlemen, I apologize for my daughter's behavior.  I'm 
going to take care of this myself tomorrow.

The Heir Apparent: Caretaker, we understand that you're embarrassed, 
but I think it best that you do nothing to alarm your daughter.  If 
you're too harsh, she's only more likely to run to Kravner and confirm 
any suspicions that he already has about our group.

The Caretaker: She knows nothing.  That said, I understand your point, 
and I will not confront her.

The Spy: BFK brief phone call with DB at office on Tues.  Reluctant to 
speak on phone.  BFK spent time on Internet visiting chat rooms etc." 
but report has no detail about random contacts that did not result in 
substantive discussion.

Those are the facts.  My conclusion: BFK and DB have identified our 
group and deduced at least part of our plan.  DB probably hostile. 
Recommendation:

eliminate risk immediately.

The Senator: I repeat my long-standing concern about killing outsiders.
 Once we commit murder, we all face the electric chair.

The Spy: You're behind the times, Senator.  They kill murderers--and
traitors--by lethal injection these days.  Treason is what we face if 
BFK and DB disclose their concerns to someone who'll listen.

The Doctor: Spy, most, if not all, of the evidence you presented could 
be explained by Mr.  Kravner's over-active libido, which would not be 
so unusual for a young man in his mid-twenties.  What makes you so sure
 that they're on to us?

The Spy: Events of Friday, 12/17 offer most support.  Heir Apparent
announcement.

Frenetic activity by BFK.  Several hrs in Pub's apt.  Books flight to 
Atlanta.

The Doctor: He might have been on the telephone having phone sex with 
Kimberly.

He books the flight to finish what they started.

The Spy: But calls DB.  Refers to "important discovery" about 
"mystery."  DB confides she's Assassin's daughter--assumes he already 
knew about Assassin.  BFK runs to FBI.  Then flees FBI when sees my 
pie.  BFK knows.  Heir Apparent's announcement triggered something in 
his mind.  Maybe he figured out the Key.

The Caretaker: If he was in the Administration Building with my 
daughter, he may have been using her to fill in the last part of the 
Key from the portraits. I'm with The Spy--put the Jew lawyer on ice.

The Doctor: I'm afraid you've convinced me.  The connection to Miss 
Barnett is too strong.  The fact that he ran to the FBI means he's 
looking for outside help.

He thinks he's solved the riddle.

The Speaker: What about Miss Barnett?  What do you think her role is in
 this affair?

The Spy: If she hooked up with Pub's estate lawyers, she probably 
killed him to gain access to his personal papers.  She was probably the
one who sent the e-mail to Pub claiming to be Assassin.  On-line 
relationship with BFK pre-dates her employment with law firm.  She set 
him up from the beginning.

The Speaker: Why would she need to do that?

The Spy: Our ancestors decided that The Assassin should not have the 
Key.  Maybe she somehow came across a copy of the Poem and nicknames, 
but could not determine our identities.  Figured out Pub's identity, 
then hoped to find the Key in documents left to his estate.

The General: But what do you think her intent is now that she has 
determined our identities?

The Spy: If she killed Pub, she must be considered a lethal enemy.

The Speaker: But what if she was just trying to link up with us?  We 
don't know for sure that she killed The Publisher.  Someone made the 
point a few weeks ago--she did not have to contact him to kill him.  He
was one of the most hated men in America after publishing that 
editorial--any Negro with a knife could have murdered him.

The Spy: That was before we knew she had contacts with Pub's estate 
lawyers. She was obviously setting up Pub to be killed.

The Senator: I've been listening patiently to all of the evidence, and 
I have to agree with The Spy's conclusions.  However, I repeat my 
reservations regarding killing these two young people.  Surely, such 
worthy conspirators as ourselves can devise a way to neutralize this 
security threat without killing.

The Spy: Senator, I wish you could see me rolling my eyeballs.

The Knights continued to deliberate over the fate of Ben and Debby for 
another half hour.  In the end, they all agreed.  The threat required 
immediate action.

TWENTY-NINE

N ICY BREEZE WHIPPED off New York harbor on Friday morning.  Ben 
scowled as he scurried up the stairs from the Bowling Green subway 
station.  Snow flurries had just begun to fall.  The television 
weathermen, with their annoying Santa caps and incessant cheeriness, 
were forecasting a white Christmas.

Ben glanced at his watch as he marched down Whitehall Street.  Five 
minutes before ten.  He would have to hurry for his ten o'clock meeting
 with Fritz Fox.

He was eager to see his old friend, and perhaps even more eager to 
share the burden that had weighed on his mind for these past weeks. 
Yet  he was nearly ill with anxiety.  He was still not sure if he could
lie  to Fritz Fox about the sealed envelope.

Ben took the elevator directly to the 28th floor.  The halls were 
quiet.  Most of the secretaries traditionally took a half day of 
vacation to prepare for the Christmas party, which began at noon.  It 
was the only time during the year when the lawyers and staff socialized
 together, and the secretaries enjoyed dolling up for the affair.

Ben stopped at Debby's cubicle.  She was not at her desk.  He thought 
it had been assumed that she would join him for the meeting with Fritz.
She was an integral part of this mystery, and he was counting on her 
moral support.  Her absence increased his edginess.

Ben, still clad in his overcoat, walked around the corner and down the 
South Corridor to Fritz Fox's office.  Fritz was on the telephone.  He 
looked like his old self.  Ben signaled with his hand that he would 
return in five minutes; Fritz acknowledged with a smile and a wave.

Agnes had not seen Debby all morning.  She had not called in sick.  Ben
 frowned.

She had probably taken the morning off.  Unbelievable.

Ben went back to Debby's cubicle.  He put his briefcase down in the 
corner and slung his coat over one of the guest chairs.  He punched 
four digits on her telephone keypad.

"Ben Kravner's office, Carol speaking."

"Hi, Carol.  It's me.  I'm in the office.  I have a meeting with 
Fritz."

Carol hesitated.  Then she spoke in hushed tones that could not hide 
her distress. "Geez, Louise, Ben!  There are two FBI agents down here
looking for  you.  Are you in some kind of trouble?"

Adrenaline jolted Ben's heart rate into high gear.  The FBI.  Gerry 
Kate.  Had he been identified when he visited the FBI field office? 
Had  Kimberly squealed? Did they have Debby?

"What do they want?"  Ben asked.  His voice cracked.

"They wouldn't say," Carol whispered.  Ben heard a man talking in the 
background over the telephone.  Then he heard Carol's muffled voice.

"Ben, they're going to come up to you.  Are you in Mr.  Fox's 
office?"

Ben slammed the phone down.  He grabbed his coat and briefcase.  He 
heard a commotion on the internal staircase down the East Corridor to 
his left, as he scrambled out of Debby's cubicle.  No time to think. 
He  ran to his right, around a corner and then down the South Corridor
past  Fritz Fox's office.

Agnes looked up, shocked.  Ben did not stop to explain.  He sped around
the corner to the West Corridor and ducked inside the T&E file room. 
He  closed the door quietly.  He heard heavy footsteps bearing down
around  the corner in the South Corridor behind him.  He was breathing
hard.  His heart was pounding.  The footsteps continued past the file
room  down the West Corridor.

Ben knew he did not have much time.  Carol said there were two agents. 
One of the agents would be watching the elevator bank and the other 
would be circling the floor.  It would only be minutes before the agent
would circle back, this time searching more carefully.  He cracked
open  the file room door and peeked out.  The West Corridor was empty. 
He  heard Agnes talking excitedly on the telephone.

The hallway containing the main elevator bank and the stairwell 
bisected the floor, running parallel to the North and South Corridors 
and intersected with the West Corridor about thirty feet from Ben's 
hiding place.  The stationary FBI agent would probably be guarding the 
center hallway, so that neither the elevator nor the stairwell was a 
viable escape route.

Then Ben remembered the freight elevator.  It served the bottom half of
the building, the first 28 floors, and rested on either the first
floor  or the 28th floor when it was not in use.  Ben would need to
cross the  center hallway, and the FBI agent's field of vision, to get
there, but  the agent would be on the other side of a glass security
door.

There was a fifty-fifty chance that the elevator would be on the 28th 
floor.

Even if it was, the agent would catch him if he could get through the 
security door quickly, either with an electronic card key or if the 
receptionist buzzed him through.  Ben could not remember if anybody was
 manning the reception desk.

In any event, it was his only option.

Ben tossed his coat and suit jacket into the corner behind the file 
room door--better to appear natural, like he was going to the men's 
room.  The agents had not seen him yet.  Maybe he could slip quietly 
out of the office.  Out of his worst nightmare.  He retrieved his copy 
of the Poem and the List from his briefcase and put them in his 
pocket.

Ben peeked out from behind the door, again.  The West Corridor was 
still empty.

He heard a strange man's muffled voice coming from the South Corridor. 
The second agent was in Fritz Fox's office around the corner.  Now or 
never.

Ben ventured out tentatively.  His heart raced.  He composed himself, 
then strode purposefully down the corridor.  He turned right, into the 
center hallway.  A light-haired man in a dark suit, about Ben's age, 
guarded the internal stairwell on the far side of the elevator bank. 
The reception desk was empty. The agent and Ben locked eyes through 
the glass door.  Ben tried to appear nonchalant, but to no avail.  The 
agent sprang to alert.

"Stop where you are!"  he shouted, drawing his gun.

Ben bolted into a narrow hallway to his left.  The freight elevator was
one hundred feet ahead, in an alcove off to the right.  Two seconds 
later he heard the agent rattling the glass door.  He did not have a 
card key.

Ben heard a shout.  Then pounding feet.  The freight alcove was ten 
feet in front of him.  He looked back.  The second agent, older and 
heavier than the first, had just entered the hallway.  He shouted for 
Ben to stop.  Ben had a five second lead.

Ben lunged into the alcove as he braced for the sound of a gunshot. 
Nothing.

Four seconds.  Ben pressed the elevator button and prayed.  Fifty/fifty
 chance.

The footsteps were getting closer.  Three seconds.

The doors opened.  Ben rushed in, pressed the button for the loading 
dock with one hand and smashed the "Close Door" button with the other. 
He heard the agent shout, again.  Two seconds.  The door started to 
close.  Ben slumped to the floor in the corner of the elevator, his 
knees to his chest.  He held his breath.  One second.  He saw the glint
of the agent's gun.  The door slammed shut with a loud clank.  The 
elevator hesitated.  Ben heard the agent smash the elevator button
repeatedly.  Ben did not let his breath go.

"Shit!"  Ben heard the agent's muffled voice say, followed by a loud 
bang on the door.  The elevator jerked and began to descend.

Ben let out his breath.  He felt beads of sweat rolling down his 
forehead.  Dark stains blotched the underarms of his white shirt.  His 
heart was still pounding.

He wiped his face with his sleeve.  The elevator descended slowly.  Ben
cursed out loud.  It was slower than the public elevators.  He was not
 free yet.

He thought about getting off at another floor.  No, there would only be
more agents later, not less.  He had only one chance at escape.  Now. 
His one advantage was that the agents did not know the building or 
where he was going to exit.

The freight elevator could stop on all floors, including the main 
lobby, the lower lobby, which was home to a number of small shops and a
restaurant, and the loading dock.  The loading dock was in the rear of
 the building on South Street.

Ben watched the light above the elevator door tick off the floors as it
descended.  He clenched his teeth tightly as the elevator approached 
the lobby.

It did not stop.

The doors opened at the loading dock with a loud clank.  The sound 
echoed for a few seconds, then silence.  He held the elevator door with
one arm and peered out.  The loading dock was empty.  The staff was
off  for the holiday.  He walked out hesitantly.  He had not been down
there  before.

It was a large room, about fifty feet square, with concrete walls and 
floor.  A metal desk and a folding chair were arranged to create a 
makeshift office adjacent to the elevator.  Various tools and a number 
of keys hung from a piece of pegboard that was attached to the wall 
behind the desk.  The foul odor of yesterday's trash lingered.

Ben searched for an exit.  The roll-up aluminum gate to the loading bay
was closed and locked.  There was a small metal door with a window
next to it.  It was locked, too.  Ben pressed his face against the win
N

dow.  South Street was empty.  Ben startled when he heard the freight 
elevator jerk into action, then panicked.  The dumpster.  He could hide
 in the dumpster.

But then what?  They weren't going to quit until they found him.

Ben scanned the keys on the pegboard.  There were dozens.  But each had
a tag. Ben glanced skyward and thanked a God in whom he did not 
believe for not limiting the ranks of the obsessive-compulsive to 
lawyers.  He tossed several aside until he found one labeled "Loading 
Bay Door."  He heard the freight elevator stop.

There was a pause for about two seconds, then it started again.

Ben ran for the door.  The lock was a double-sided deadbolt.  He 
rumbled with the key and the lock.  The key fit.  The freight elevator 
door opened with a loud clank just as Ben darted through the doorway 
into the frigid air.  He slammed the door and started to run, stopped, 
then ran back to lock the deadbolt with the key.  Curiosity made him 
look back in through the window.  He saw the light-haired agent 
sprinting towards him, only a few feet from the door.  Ben lost his 
balance and fell over backwards.

Ben righted himself, as the agent rattled the door.  Their eyes met 
through glass for the second time.  Ben's heart pounded, but he forced 
a crooked smile and dangled the key for the agent to see.  The agent 
scowled angrily and stepped back.  Ben saw the gun through the window 
and ran.

The sound of the shot and glass shattering exploded in his ears.  He 
leapt off the loading dock to the gravelly street, falling on his hands
 and knees.  Pain shot through him.

Ben crawled to the base of the loading bay and sat for a second with 
his back to the cement wall.  He rose tentatively as he heard the agent
cursing and breaking away the remainder of the shattered glass.  Ben 
was not shot.  No bones were broken.  His pants were ripped at the 
knees; his knees had only minor scrapes.  He pulled out his shirttails 
and wiped his bloody hands.

The agent was suspiciously quiet.  Ben peered over the top of the wall.
A shot rang out.  Chipped cement sprayed into the air six inches from 
Ben's head.

Ben had seen enough.  The agent was trapped in the loading area.  Ben 
sprinted down South Street towards the Staten Island Ferry terminal. 
The cement podium blocked the agent's view and his line of fire. The
icy breeze ripped into Ben's face.  His muscles tightened.  His  hands
and knees ached.  His bloody shirttails danced in the wind.

South Ferry was only a block away, across Whitehall Street from the 
main entrance to One Water.  There would be people there.  The Staten 
Island Ferry. The subway to the World Trade Center and points north. 
Ben looked over his shoulder.

Nobody followed.  He jogged into the street and ran behind a line of 
buses parked along the curb.

Ben emerged from behind the buses.  He ran towards the ferry terminal, 
across Whitehall Street, when a piercing shout froze him.

"Stop right there, Kravner, or I'll shoot!"

It was the older FBI agent.  He was on the podium in front of One 
Water, fifty yards away.  About a dozen people were milling around the 
plaza in front of the ferry terminal.  They all stopped, paralyzed, 
watching the drama unfold before them.  Ben raised his arms high.  The 
agent was approaching slowly, arms extended, gun drawn.

Ben felt the ground rumble below him.  A subway train was pulling into 
South Ferry Station.  The station entrance was twenty yards to his 
left, just beyond the ferry terminal.  He did not have long to react. 
He heard Fritz Fox's voice in his head.  Go for it, Marathon Man.

Ben dropped his arms and sprinted towards the entrance.  The people 
around him scattered.  The agent, unwilling to risk a shot with so many
bystanders, lowered his gun and ran, on an angle, to cut Ben off.  Ben
had a twenty-yard lead when he burst through the glass doors of the 
subway station.  He lost some ground scrambling to hop over the 
turnstiles.  The agent hurdled the turnstiles only moments behind 
him.

Ben dashed down the steps to the subway platform two at a time, 
shouting for the handful of arriving passengers to move aside.  He 
stumbled into the wall by the landing at the base of the first flight 
of stairs.  A large mosaic of a ferry boat decorated the wall.  Ben 
turned to see the open doors of the waiting northbound "L" train one 
flight below.

A chime sounded; the doors were about to close.  Ben began to move 
towards the stairs.  A shot rang out.  Ben dropped to the ground in the
 fetal position, knees to his chest, head buried in his arms.

The shot shattered a tile on the ferry boat mosaic above Ben's head. 
The FBI agent crouched at the top of the stairs, arms extended, gun 
pointed down at Ben. "Get up!"  he yelled.

Ben's heart pounded; his breathing was labored.  The stairs and the 
platform below were clear.  There was nowhere to run or hide.  The 
doors to the train closed, and it pulled out from the station.  It was 
over.

Ben scrambled to his feet.  Then, suddenly, a man's bloodcurdling shout
reverberated throughout the station.  The agent's head reflexively 
turned; he kept the gun trained on Ben.  A look of horror crossed the 
agent's face.  He tried to swing the gun around.

Ben stared in disbelief as a burly figure barreled into the FBI man. 
The agent's arms flew up into the air, a shot careened off the ceiling 
tile, then he reeled helplessly down the stairs, landing hard on his 
left side.  He screamed in agony.

Ben stood, horrified, his back pressed against the wall at the bottom 
of the stairwell.  The agent writhed in pain near Ben's feet, his left 
leg bent at an unnatural angle midway between his ankle and knee, both 
hands cupped over his left ribs.  He was breathing irregularly and 
coughing up blood.  The gun was perched four steps above, just outside 
the reach of the disabled G-man.

A hulking black man in a tattered army overcoat and a black beret 
stood, silhouetted, at the top of the stairs, both hands on his hips. 
It was Hubert, the man of the street whom Debby had befriended.  Ben 
saluted him and nodded his thanks.  Hubert tipped his beret and walked 
away, shouting: "Repent, sinners!

Repent!  The time has come to repent for all of your sins!  The end is 
near!"

The ground began to tremble.  It signaled not the imminent realization 
of Hubert's apocalyptic predictions, but rather the arrival of another 
train.  Ben stepped over the fallen agent and retrieved the gun from 
the steps.  He had never handled a firearm before.  The steel was 
colder, heavier than he expected. He climbed the stairs, tentatively, 
not sure what awaited him at the top.

The station was deserted.  There was a faint smell of gunpowder in the 
air.  A small crowd gathered outside.  Hubert was preaching to his new 
audience, which, for the most part, ignored him.  Ben heard a police 
siren in the distance.  He saw the light-haired FBI agent aggressively 
pushing his way through the crowd, his gun drawn.

"Stand clear of the moving platform," a recorded message warned.  The 
South Ferry platform was curved, a small part of a large loop of track 
that enabled the southbound "L" train to turn around and head 
northbound.  An electronic "gap filler" extended the platform to meet 
the train near the opening doors so that riders were not required to 
leap across the gaps between the curved platform and the straight 
trains.

Ben crouched below floor level on the first flight of stairs and peered
through the railing at the platform below.  He shook his head, 
wondering what surprises the arriving train held for him.  Probably a 
National Guard battalion on afield trip to Staten Island.  The gap 
fillers extended, and the doors opened.  Nobody exited the train, 
perhaps because it was so close behind the one before it.

Ben swallowed hard.  His survival instinct was taking over.  He did not
want a shoot-out.  Up until now he was at least standing on the moral 
high ground.  If he killed a cop or a bystander, there would be no hope
of reclaiming his life, a goal which he already felt slipping from his
 grasp.

He heard the chime from the "I" train.  He could catch it if he ran. 
But it was at least a five-minute ride to the next stop, Rector Street,
and the police or the FBI might have time to radio ahead for help.  He
would not be difficult to identify, coming off an empty train and 
running about in his bloodied shirttails in the snowy weather.

But the train was his only hope.  Fifty/fifty odds?  He had already 
been lucky twice today.  He hustled down the stairs, past the FBI agent
 still moaning on the landing, and bolted for the train.

"Wait!"

Ben froze.  He raised his arms up over his head, the gun dangling 
harmlessly from his index finger.

"Put yo' arms down, jackass."

Ben lowered his arms and sighed.  It was Hubert.  The "I" train pulled 
out.  The loud screech of metal on metal cut through Ben like the sound
 of fingernails on a blackboard.

"Cops'll be crawling' all over that train," Hubert said.

"You've gotta take the Lex."

"I can't get to Bowling Green without going outside," Ben said.

"The cops are already out there."

Hubert laughed.

"Stick with Hubert, man.  You're in my house now.  Ain't nobody gonna 
catch you in my house.  There's an old shuttle track 'tween South Ferry
 and Bowlin' Green. Nobody uses it but me."

"You mean we've got to get down on the tracks?"  Ben asked.  His eyes 
were like saucers.

"Unless you wanna do lunch with the cops, man."

Hubert lowered himself on to the tracks, avoiding the electrified third
 rail.

"No sweat," he said, extending his hand to Ben.

There was no other way out.

"Give me a second," Ben said.

Ben ran back to the stairs.  He glared at the FBI agent on the landing 
one flight above.

"I don't know what you were told, but I have not committed any 
crime!"

Ben shouted.

"I'm being stalked by your boss, Gerry Kate.  I'm going to toss your 
gun on the tracks, and then I'm going to disappear.  I am not armed! 
Do  you hear me?"

The agent grimaced, but signaled his understanding.  Ben retreated to 
the edge of the platform, then heaved the gun as far as he could down 
the tracks to the north.  Then he climbed down from the platform, 
rejecting Huberts hand.  He looked north, up the southbound track.  No 
sight or sound of an approaching train.  Then they sprinted in the 
opposite direction, around the loop, into the subterranean darkness.

THIRTY

THE CHIMES sounded.  The doors to the "5" train, the Lexington Avenue 
express, closed.  Ben stood, one arm grasping the steel pole running 
from the floor to the ceiling in the center of the aisle.  An elderly 
woman sat alone in front of him.

Ben saw fear in her eyes.  He tried to smile.  She stood up and 
staggered to the other end of the car as the train lurched forward.

Ben noticed several people staring at him.  He grimaced, and realized 
why, when he saw his reflection in the window.  There were streaks of 
soot on his face from his jaunt through the subway tunnels with Hubert.
His hair, already on the long side of business-like, was unkempt.  The
tension in his forehead forced his eyebrows to slant towards his nose,
combining with his mustache and intense brown eyes to give him an 
angry, almost evil, appearance.  It was a frightening image even to 
himself.

He suddenly felt vulnerable on the train.  His appearance, or a 
suspicious passenger, could draw the attention of a cop on a platform. 
Ben exited at the next stop, Brooklyn Bridge/ City Hall.

A blast of arctic air greeted him at the stairwell.  It was snowing.  A
thin white layer coated the lawn of City Hall Park.  He crossed 
Chambers Street and ducked into an abandoned storefront to shield 
himself from the wind.

Ben was disappointed that he did not feel relief after his dramatic 
escape through the subway system.  His adventure was only beginning. 
The FBI, with the assistance of the New York City police, would be 
looking for him everywhere.  He could not go back to his apartment.  He
could not stay with his friends or family; he could not even call
them.  The FBI would no doubt be tapping the telephones of everyone
that he  knew.

Then he thought about Debby.  His heart sank.  She had not let him 
down.  Somehow the FBI had caught on to them both, and now she was 
their prisoner.  Or dead.

For now, Debby's fate was beyond his control.  He had to find a way to 
survive and get his message to the White House.

Ben cupped his hands and blew on them for warmth.  He desperately 
needed a coat and gloves, but was reluctant to dip into his cash 
reserves.  He opened his wallet.  He still had the five hundred dollars
he had withdrawn from the bank on Tuesday.  Now he worried that it was
not enough.  He assumed that the FBI would be able to locate him the 
instant he tried to use his credit cards or a cash machine.  The five 
hundred dollars might have to feed, clothe and shelter him for longer
than he cared to predict.

Ben saw a pay telephone on the corner of Broadway and Chambers.  He 
dashed out from his protected alcove.  He thumbed through the Yellow 
Pages.

Ben jogged into the Salvation Army thrift shop on the northern fringe 
of Chinatown, breathless and beyond cold, fifteen minutes later.  His 
face was so numb that he could not feel it.  The clerk, a hefty, 
middle-aged, African-American woman, looked Ben over.  She had a lazy 
eye, so that it was difficult for Ben to follow her gaze.

"Are you in trouble, son?"  she asked.

"I'm cold," Ben said, rubbing his hands together.  It hurt his jaw to 
speak.

"I

need a coat and gloves."

She walked out from behind the counter.  She put her hands on her hips 
and shook her head with exaggerated displeasure.

"Looks like you need a new shirt and pants, too.  What sort of trouble 
have you got yourself into, son?"

Ben shrugged.

"I got into a fight.  My coat was stolen."

"Well, I suppose that's your story and you're sticking to it.  Let's 
see what we can find."

"Nothing too fancy," Ben said.

The woman laughed heartily.

"Well, I don't think that will be a problem."

They picked out a pair of light brown twill pants, slightly worn in the
knees, a white polo shirt with a small purple stain under the collar,
a  red ski jacket that had no apparent defects and a pair of black
leather  gloves with the fingertips worn away.

"You can change behind the screen in the back and then clean yourself 
up a bit in the washroom," she said.

Ben changed and washed, then returned to the counter.  The clerk was 
speaking with a poorly dressed, elderly man.  As Ben got closer, he
heard her giving directions to a shelter.  The man left, and the woman
turned back to Ben.  She put her hands on her hips and looked up and 
down at him with her exaggerated movements.

"Mm, mm, mm.  Now aren't you a fashion statement."

Ben smiled for what seemed like the first time in days.  He noticed 
with some relief that most of the feeling had returned to his face.

"What do I owe you, ma'am?"  he asked.

"Well, let's see," she said.  One eye looked directly into Ben's, the 
other looked over his shoulder.

"Two dollars for the pants.  One dollar for the shirt.

One dollar for the gloves.  That coat is in pretty good shape.  Let's 
say twenty dollars for the whole enchilada."

Ben looked in his wallet.  He hesitated.  Five hundred dollars.  It 
would not last long.  He pulled out two twenty dollar bills.

"Here's forty.  I put the old stuff in the trash in the back.  Thanks 
for your help."

"Well, thank you, sir.  Now you have a merry Christmas."

Ben pushed the front door open, then went back to the counter.

"I heard you giving directions to that old man.  Is there a shelter 
nearby?"  Ben asked.

"Well, there are two in lower Manhattan," the clerk said.

"The nearest one is on Spring Street, near Lafayette.  That's only a 
five minute walk.  The other one is a little bigger.  It's up in 
Gramercy Park--19th Street between Third and Lex."

She gave him an odd look.

"What's wrong?"  Ben asked.

"Well, son, our shelters do fine work, but they do get crowded this 
time of year, and they don't always attract the best element of 
society, if you know what I mean.  You might want to put that big, old 
wallet of yours in your shoe if you're planning to spend tonight in a 
shelter."

Ben sat down on the floor and put all but twenty dollars of the cash in
his shoes. "I'm not sure what I'm doing tonight, but better safe than
sorry," he  said.

"Thanks, again."

The mid-afternoon chill was bearable with the new coat and gloves.  Ben
felt less conspicuous in the old clothes.  In a city of eight million 
people, it would be next to impossible for the FBI to pick him out on 
the streets.  It would take a mistake for them to find him.  He could 
not afford even one.

It was time to formulate a plan.  Ben ticked off his objectives. 
Expose  the conspiracy.  Evade the FBI.  Find food and shelter.  Save
Debby.  The last thought surprised him.  The hollowness in his heart
confirmed  his suspicions--he still had feelings for her.  Was it love?
Whatever  the emotion was, he knew he could not let it control his
consciousness. Following the path with heart was satisfying, but led to
mistakes.

His top priority was to expose the conspiracy.  The options were the 
same as they had been that morning, but were now riddled with 
obstacles.  Fritz Fox was still his best alternative.  But the Knights 
knew that.  They would be waiting for him to make that mistake.  Did 
they know about Quixote?  Probably not, but it would be even more 
difficult for Ben to establish that connection now. Quixote's 
telephone number was unlisted.  He was a fugitive.  No credibility.  No
computer.

Sour history.  Fritz was still the better choice.  Ben had to find a 
way to contact him without detection.

Or did it really matter if he was detected?  Fritz would protect him 
and listen to him.  Ben just needed to stay alive long enough to talk 
to him.  Stay alive.

That thought sent a chill through his body.  The FBI agents had shot at
him.  He had information that could destroy some of the most powerful 
men in the country.

Their first defense had been to weaken his credibility, but that could 
not be their only defense.  Their mission and their lives were in 
jeopardy.  For the first time, Ben realized he was not running for his 
freedom--he was running for his life.  And he would jeopardize the life
 of anybody that he involved.

Ben knew that the FBI would be monitoring Fritz's telephone.  Fritz 
would be endangered if he called.  Fritz would insist upon a meeting 
with Ben to see all the evidence before he called the President.  He 
would want to look into Ben's eyes and know that this was not the 
desperate ploy of a fugitive.  If Fritz delayed, as he must, he would
die.  Gerry Kate would see to that.  A thought trapped in Ben's 
subconscious teased him, then took flight.

He was at the corner of Delancey and Lafayette.  He needed a place to 
think.  He jingled the keys in his pocket.  His apartment was out of 
the question.  He could not involve friends or relatives.  The 
Salvation Army shelter was a few blocks to the south, but it would be 
noisy and crowded.  He needed a quiet, safe place where he could focus 
on his thoughts and not be constantly alert to his surroundings.  He 
needed a library.

The New Amsterdam branch of the New York Public Library was a warm and 
welcome refuge.  The library's main room was divided into two areas. 
Directly across from the entrance, rows of low bookshelves encircled a 
magazine reading area with eight wooden tables, four chairs each.  A 
second area, to the left, was devoted to computers.  Two computers were
dedicated to the card catalogue, but there were six other computers 
available for public access to the Internet.  Ben filed that 
information away for later use.  First things first.  Coffee.

The coffee from the vending machine had a metallic taste, but the 
caffeine provided the anticipated jump start.  Ben settled into a hard 
chair in the magazine reading section.  It was a small area, about the 
size of his living room.  An elderly woman and a middle-aged man were 
seated, separately, at the tables; another two women circulated among 
the bookshelves.  No one took notice of Ben.

Ben's mind, now more focused than outside in the cold, returned to the 
problem of contacting Fritz.  He went over his options.  Telephone. 
The  FBI would be listening.  Best case: Fritz believes Ben, realizes
the  immediate danger and calls the President.  Unlikely.  Worst case:
Fritz  demands a meeting, the FBI tracks him and kills them both.  The
Royal  Order remains undetected and bad things happen.  Unacceptable
risks.

The thought that teased him earlier finally surfaced.  The FBI would be
listening, not Gerry Kate personally.  Kate was no doubt using the FBI 
as his personal tool, but his agents could not be privy to the 
conspiracy.  Could they?

When Ben spoke with Carol on the telephone that morning, she did not 
say what the agents wanted.  Kate must have created phony charges.

Ben sipped his coffee.  He could call Fritz and tell him enough about 
the conspiracy and the involvement of Gerry Kate to put the agent 
monitoring the call on alert.  It was risky.  The agent might think it 
was a ploy and report it to Kate.  But the agent would not kill Fritz. 
Would he?  What if Kate had recruited a special team to assist him in 
the conspiracy?  Ben frowned.  He could not take that chance.  Not yet.
There were still other options. E-mail.  Ben did not have access to
his computer, but he could sign up  for a free e-mail account on the
Web using the library's computers.

But the FBI would be monitoring Fritz's incoming e-mail.  Ben would be 
assured of saying everything he wanted to say, without being cut off, 
but Fritz would still be at risk.  The FBI could intervene before Fritz
acted on the message. Ben was not sure about the technology, but 
wondered if the FBI might even intercept the e-mail before Fritz read 
it.  The telephone seemed the better option of the two.

Personal contact.  Ben could not get near the office.  Fritz would be 
leaving for the day soon, anyway.  He would be out of the office for 
the weekend, maybe longer.  The FBI--no, Gerry Kate--knew that Fritz 
was the only way for him to connect with the President, probably the 
only person that could help him.  Kate would make sure that agents were
 watching Fritz around the clock.

But the agents would only be watching for contact by Ben.  What if he 
found someone else to make the contact for him?  Maybe Carol or one of 
his friends at the firm.  Could he trust them?  He was a fugitive. 
There might be a reward for information about his whereabouts.  He 
could all too easily imagine Buzz Herzog basking in the glow of the 
television lights, immodestly describing his role in the capture of the
 fugitive, Benjamin Franklin Kravner.  Too risky.

Ben sipped his coffee.  If contact was to be made with Fritz, he would 
have to do it himself.  Maybe he could disguise himself.  Fritz had 
walked in Central Park at six o'clock every morning before the heart 
attack.  Ben wondered if the doctors had allowed him to start his 
regular exercise regime, again.

He would find out tomorrow, Christmas Day.  The park would probably be 
empty. The FBI agents would likely maintain some distance between 
themselves and Fritz.  Ben could pass Fritz a letter describing the 
conspiracy in detail and include copies of the Poem and the List. 
There  was some risk of discovery, but it was the safest of his 
alternatives.

Ben's stomach rumbled.  His mind turned to food and shelter.  The 
Salvation Army had sounded better earlier in the afternoon when fear 
and frostbite consumed his thoughts.  With warmth and something of a 
plan, Ben's aspirations became loftier.

He would need privacy to transform himself into the new Ben Kravner, 
one that even his mother would not recognize.  He already had a mental 
picture.

A hotel was a possibility if he believed that his run from justice was 
to be short-lived, but even in the best case Fritz would need some time
to work his magic.  It would be hard to find accommodations in New
York City for less than one hundred dollars.  Paying cash might also
arouse suspicion, and Ben's picture would be splashed all over the
television  news that night.

An idea that had dashed in and out of his mind all afternoon lingered 
now.

Thompson's apartment.  No doorman.  Privacy.  Warmth.  A kitchen.  Big 
screen TV.

Free.  It also contained something he had long coveted and was now 
desperate to call his own--the IBM Thinkpad in the docking station on 
Thompson's desk.  It offered the opportunity for him to reconnect to 
the world.

But, like every other aspect of his life now, it was risky.  He would 
be a top priority for the FBI.  They would stake out his apartment, his
parents' house in Westchester, and Fritz Fox.  Did they know that Ben 
had access to Thompsons apartment?  There was too much at stake to take
chances.  Ben had to assume that the FBI knew everything and was 
prepared to devote all of their resources to his capture.  But even 
complete knowledge by the FBI would not make fortress Thompson 
impregnable.

Four inches of fresh, white snow blanketed the city streets.  Ben 
trekked through the concrete tundra from the library to Greenwich 
Village, staying clear of the main thoroughfares.  He remained alert 
for signs of the FBI or the police, but encountered no one to fear.  He
found what he was looking for on Bleecker Street, between MacDougal
and  Sixth Avenue.

Ben entered the second-hand clothing store.  The jangling bells 
interrupted the clerk, a young woman with long, dirty blonde hair, from
her reading.  She looked up grudgingly from behind the counter at the 
back of the store.

"We're closing early for Christmas," she said.

"Fifteen minutes."

Ben acknowledged her with a sheepish wave.  It was a deep, narrow 
store, with a single aisle.  Racks filled with women's clothing lined 
both walls.  The store reeked of incense.

Ben was uneasy handling the women's clothes, even though the store was 
empty. He quickly found the three items he was looking for and brought 
them to the back.

The woman reluctantly put down her book.  Her facial muscles twitched 
in an ambiguous attempt at a smile. "They're for my girlfriend," Ben
said awkwardly.

The clerk rang up the items on an old manual cash register without 
comment.  A long, brightly colored dress with a woven Aztec pattern.

K-ching.  A pair of white boots with fur lining.  K-ching.  The boots 
were small, but Ben would be able to squeeze into them.  And an olive 
knapsack.  K-ching.  The total came to $48.67.

The clerk's facial muscles twitched again after Ben paid her, then she 
returned to her book.  He stuffed the dress and the boots into the 
knapsack haphazardly, flashed his winning smile in the direction of the
back of the clerk's head, and left through the jangling door, content,
 for once, not to have made a lasting impression.

Ben made stops at a drug store and a sandwich shop, then wandered 
MacDougal Street looking for a place to change clothes.  Despite the 
snow, the Village was busy with high-spirited Christmas revelers.  Ben 
searched for a quiet place.

Finally, he came upon Sausolito's.  There were a dozen patrons inside. 
The room was dimly lit.

He went directly to the restroom in the rear.  There were two stalls. 
One was occupied; Ben slipped into the other.  He waited for the first 
man to leave, then placed the knapsack on the sink.  He took out one of
several disposable razors, a can of shaving cream and a woman's wig 
that he had purchased at the drug store and laid them out on the 
counter.  He looked in the mirror wistfully. He tugged at the mustache 
one last time in a rare moment of sentimentality, then lathered up.

Ben emerged from the men's room hesitantly.  He was wearing the woman's
wig, which was a similar shade of brown to his own hair but was 
slightly longer than shoulder length, the red ski jacket, the Aztec 
dress under it, and the white boots.  He carried the knapsack under his
 arm like a purse.  He felt like a jackass.  Nobody seemed to notice.

It was not a long walk from Sausolito's to Adams Thompson's 
apartment--up MacDougal, along Washington Square Park, and over to 
Fifth Avenue--but it was a painful one.  The boots were tight, but the 
physical pain was bearable.  More difficult to bear were the snickers 
from the passing revelers, which were frequent enough to confirm that 
his disguise was far from perfect.

Ben's heart raced as he neared the corner of Fifth Avenue and 
Washington Square North, one block from Thompson's apartment.  His 
impulse was to walk past the building while checking for lurkers in 
trench coats and sunglasses or other signs of surveillance.  But he 
knew that he had only one chance.  He was not going to fool anybody 
with his disguise if they had a close look at him.  Now or never.

He entered the semi-circular driveway in front of Thompson's gray brick
apartment building.  There was no one visible in the doorway or the 
lobby.  He discreetly glanced across Fifth Avenue.  A man was lingering
in the vestibule of the high-rise across the street.  No trenchcoat. 
No  sunglasses.  Maybe he was waiting for his date.  Ben's intestines 
liquefied, anyway.  Last chance to run.

He fumbled with the keys, but was soon out of the floodlights and into 
the lobby.  The elevator seemed to take forever.  His body tensed, as 
he waited breathlessly for the front door to swing open violently with 
a frightful shout from an armed G-man or for the glass to shatter as a 
sniper's bullet raced towards his heart.  The elevator chime sounded. 
The doors opened.  No shouts.  No bullets.  The doors closed safely 
behind him.

Ben tensed again as he entered Thompson's residence.  A search of the 
dark and gloomy apartment revealed no surprises.  Ben locked the 
deadbolt.  He left the lights off in case the apartment was being 
watched.  He changed out of the women's clothes.  He brought his 
shaving gear and a scissors from Thompson's office into the bathroom. 
The only window faced the back of the building.  He closed the shades 
and the door and turned on the light.

Ben ran his fingers through his hair as he looked in the mirror.  An 
odd sadness came over him, but he could not bear to dwell on it.  He 
hacked off large clumps of his long, black locks with the scissors, 
then completed the job with three disposable razors.  He was completely
bald when he finished, satisfied that even his mother would not 
recognize him.  And hopefully the FBI.

A wave of guilt overcame him as he thought of his mother.  His parents 
had to be petrified--their peaceful suburban existence thrown into 
turmoil by invading agents of the FBI, their only child a fugitive, 
alone in the bowels of New York City.  He wanted desperately to get 
them a message that he was safe, but he did not dare it.

Ben spent the next several hours drafting a letter to Fritz Fox.  The 
bathroom was the only room in which he felt safe to use the light.  He 
sat on the toilet, using a large coffee table book about the Civil War 
as a desktop.

His heart pounded as he relived the events of the past several weeks,
describing them in sobering detail.  The discovery of the Poem and his 
ethical breach in opening the sealed envelope.  The meeting with Dean

Frederick in Atlanta and the revelation of the story of Jimmy 
MacDougall and Old Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison.  The recovery of
Adams Thompson's wallet and the List.  The regular meetings of The 
Royal Order of the Millennium Knight in the Millennium Nights room on 
CyberLine.  The decryption of the Key upon the surprising announcement 
of the merger of the presidential candidacies of Tony Fabrizio andJJ 
Alexander.  Debby's disclosure other activities and her relation to The
Assassin.  Debby's brother, the potential successor to The Assassin, 
who remained at-large.  The late-night visit to the FBI field office. 
The confirmation of the Key by the first names found on the portraits 
in the MacDougall Room at Calhoun College.  The narrowly averted ambush
 by the FBI in the offices of Kramer, Fox.

He warned Fritz of the grave danger of delay, that the FBI was watching
his every move.  He urged him to contact the President immediately. 
He  knew that Fritz would be reluctant to act without a face-to-face 
meeting, but Ben pleaded for Fritz to draw upon their mutual respect, 
trust and friendship to find the faith to act decisively.  He wrote 
"Fritz Fox" in black marker on the front of a business envelope and 
inserted the letter and copies of the Poem and the List that he had 
transcribed.

Ben gathered his hair clippings, the wig and the women's clothes and 
walked them down to the building's incinerator.  He cleaned the 
bathroom of all evidence of his transformation.  He looked in the 
mirror curiously.  He was amazed at how much difference hair made to 
ones appearance.  He looked like a sixteen-year old.  A sixteen-year 
old skinhead.

It was almost midnight.  Ben peered cautiously out of the darkened 
window of Thompson's bedroom.  The man was still lingering in the 
vestibule across Fifth Avenue.  Ben's new look would be put to the test
 the next morning.  He undressed and lay in Thompsons bed.

His mind would not rest.  He recalled the layout of Central Park and 
visualized the exchange of the letter with Fritz Fox.  Fritz would not 
recognize Ben right away, but he would piece the puzzle together later 
when he read the letter.

Fritz would believe in him; the letter was from the heart.  The Royal 
Order of the Millennium Knight would be exposed.  Benjamin Franklin 
Kravner would save the world.

He smiled in the dark.  Benjamin Franklin Kravner.  Hawkeye.  He 
wondered where Debby was right now.  He had not thought about her since
early afternoon.  She was alive; he felt it in his heart.  He would 
save her, too.

He rubbed his bald scalp.  Like Samson, he had drawn power from his 
hair.  His confidence peaked when his hair was longest.  It was his 
small measure of civil disobedience against the Establishment.  But 
somehow, bald, he felt more powerful than ever before.  There was 
something about the element of danger, the size of the stakes, that 
made his heart soar.  He was daring to be great.

THIRTY-ONE

THE KNIGHTS HAD AGREED to meet in the Millennium Nights room at 
midnight on Friday to discuss the capture of Ben and Debby.  As usual, 
The General was the last to arrive, ten minutes late.  The Heir 
Apparent deferred to The Spy immediately.

The Spy: DB was apprehended this AM and held in Maryland safe house. 
BFK eluded agents and still at-large.

The Heir Apparent: It's difficult to convey anger in this medium, Spy, 
but I think that I speak for the group when I say that this bungling is
 getting tiresome.

The General: What measures are you taking to find him?

The Spy: He's on most wanted list.  Evidence planted on drug charges. 
Agents instructed shoot to kill.

The Senator: Isn't there any way we can avoid killing him?

The General: I think The Spy acted wisely.  Kravner knows his life is 
in danger now.  He's going to disclose the plot as soon as he can. 
Even  a suggestion of a conspiracy of this magnitude might attract
somebody's  attention.

The Spy: Exactly We can't take that chance.  We're too close.

The Heir Apparent: I agree.  Public response to a Fabrizio-Alexander 
ticket has been overwhelming.  The polls show almost 75% approval.  The
Democrats have endorsed us.  The Republican party leadership is
miffed,  but they meet next week and I don't think they have much
choice.

The Speaker: We have, of course, been discussing the matter, and you 
are correct--the top brass is irate.  I'm making some progress trying 
to convince my colleagues that it would be political suicide to try to 
oppose the ticket.

The Heir Apparent: I'm confident that you'll succeed.  Spy, how can we 
be sure Kravner won't find somebody to listen to his story?  Does Fox 
know anything?

The Spy: Interviewed Fox.  He knows nothing.  Still worries me.  Thinks
highly of BFK.  If BFK gets to him, Fox will listen.  Fox also
personal  friend of Prez.  Can go directly to White House.

The Heir Apparent: Can you put a surveillance team on Fox?

The Spy: Not enough.  We can't completely cut off his communications. 
BFK is computer literate.  He may get message to Fox.  Damage 
irreversible.

The Heir Apparent: Are you proposing that we murder Fritz Fox?

The Spy: No.  Silence him for a few days.  BFK captured soon.  Smart 
kid, but he'll make mistake.  They all do.

The Heir Apparent: Be careful.  Old men are brittle, and Fox had a 
heart attack a few weeks ago.  If he dies, people in high places will 
be interested in the investigation.  If the connection is made to 
Kravner's difficulties, the odds against us multiply.  Somebody might 
be willing to listen to conspiracy theories if The Publisher's lawyer 
is murdered so soon after The Publisher's death, especially if the 
lawyer is Fritz Fox.

The Caretaker: What if we frame Kravner for the Fox murder?  He won't 
be able to walk out on the street without getting lynched.  That would 
also make it less likely that anybody connects Fox's death to The 
Publisher.

The Senator; I'm sorry, but I have to put my foot down here.  I have 
had the pleasure of working with Mr.  Fox on a number of sensitive 
matters, and he is a remarkable gentleman.  He has one of the sharpest 
minds I have ever known, he's highly ethical, and he is a kind and 
compassionate man.  Even putting aside my objections to killing any 
outsiders, I would sooner betray this group than support the murder of 
Fritz Fox.

The Spy: Senator, those are dangerous words.

The Heir Apparent: I understand The Senator's point, and I have no 
doubt of his loyalty to The Royal Order.  Fox is an innocent, and any 
threat he poses can be neutralized without murdering him.  Spy, we'll 
leave the details to you.  If you can find a way to undermine Kravner 
in the process, that's all the better.

The Spy: I'm on top of it.

The General: Does Kravner have any other contacts that need to be 
neutralized?

The Spy: People have 10Os if not 10OOs of contacts.  Can't "neutralize"
 all.

He'll only communicate with someone if (a) they can help him, (b) low 
risk of detection and (c) he trusts them with his life.  You're all 
high-powered men.

Think how many people fall into that category for you. The Speaker:
Not many.

The Spy: Even fewer for BFK.  He's young and a loner.  Interviews with 
family, coworkers and neighbors this PM.  We have phone and e-mail 
records.  He has friends at law firm, but Fox is only concern. 
Colleagues unconnected.  BFK knows that FBI monitoring all 
communications into office, so high risk of detection.

Any employees contacted by BFK told to contact FBI pronto.  Warned that
 anyone assisting BFK prosecuted for harboring fugitive.

The Senator: What about family?

The Spy: Surveillance team monitoring BFK's parents.  Only child. 
Calls  every Sunday.  May try contact to let know safe, but won't share
details.  Knows they'll be watched closely and won't involve.  Police 
would contact FBI, anyway. Extended family:

middle class, no connections.

The Spy: BFK is a CyberLine user.  No record in RealTime.  However, we 
found e-mail communications with 4 people indicating disclosure of some
 information.

They were monitoring Millennium Nights room.

The General: They've been eavesdropping on our meetings?

The Spy: Can't view discussions, but can tell when room in use and 
who's in it.

The Speaker: Do we need to set up a new meeting room?

The Spy: Continue meeting here.  BFK can't view discussion.  If 
desperate, might try contact using alias.  Opportunity to pick up 
trail.

The Speaker: Can you trace him if he's in RealTime?

The Spy: Not instantaneously.  If know cyber-name, can access account 
through CyberLine.

Can determine POP, the point of presence, used to access Internet. 
Won't know phone number, but we'll know locality.

The General: Does he have a computer with him?

The Spy: No.  One of my hopes is that he uses credit card to buy 
laptop.  He uses computer every day.  He'll feel naked without it.

The Heir Apparent: Who are Kravner's Internet friends?  How involved 
are they?

The Spy: Two of them were DB.  She was duping him under alias.  3 
others treated as suspects in drug case.  Woodrow Taylor:

lawyer in S-F.  Peggy Sue Jenkins: ski instructor in Aspen.  Linda 
Pinter: works in tire plant in Akron.  Electronic and visual 
surveillance teams monitoring activities.  BFK probably only used them 
to monitor our room.  Not likely that he ever met them.  BFK not likely
to trust anyone over the Internet enough to provide details.  These 
people could be anybody.  He knows that.  It appears that he frequently
 adopted aliases, as well.

The General: We can't take any chances, Spy.  We seem to keep 
underestimating him.

The Spy: Point well taken, and full surveillance teams assigned.  BFK 
needs to reach out to somebody.  My assessment: we have not been 
compromised yet.

The General: Are there any other contacts that warrant attention?

The Spy: All other contacts in past 6 months incidental.  He knows 
can't contact family and friends.  Girlfriend in custody.  Fox 
inaccessible by tomorrow.  No access to computer.  Picture plastered on
 every post office and precinct wall.

BFK has whatever money in pocket, and he's afraid to use bank and 
credit cards. He'll turn up frozen to death in back alley or he'll 
make a mistake.  It will not take long to apprehend

BFK.

The Heir Apparent: We're counting on it--but we need to develop 
alternate strategies, too.  If Kravner finds a way to get through to 
somebody with the right connections, everything would be lost.

The General: We could create a diversion.  Make sure that the White 
House is so preoccupied with other matters that nobody will have time 
to listen to wild conspiracy theories.

The Spy: Particularly from someone on FBI's Ten Most-Wanted list.

The Heir Apparent: What did you have in mind, General?

The General: We need to accelerate our plans.  We thought we had 
another year to let everything fall neatly into place, but that may not
 be true now.

The Senator: Intriguing thought, General.  There's no reason why we 
can't take the nation to the brink of war now, then push it over the 
edge when we're ready.

If all works according to plan, that will be after The Heir Apparent is
inaugurated.  But if the plan is foiled by Kravner or otherwise, our 
Final Vengeance can still be claimed.

The Heir Apparent: The only problem is that we risk losing control over
events if we leave time between them.  If I'm the president, I can 
control the government's reaction.  We can never be sure how Norton 
will react to a situation.

The General: That's the cost of gaining an option.  If we don't do it, 
we risk losing everything.  If we try something and it fails, we still 
have time to develop other alternatives.  We risk achieving nothing for
our life's work if we don't start taking risks to protect the 
mission.

The Caretaker: I agree.  It's time to prove our mettle.  If we take 
these next steps, we go beyond conspiracy and into treason.  We have to
ask ourselves: are we willing to die for The Royal Order of the 
Millennium Knight?

THIRTY-TWO

A STRANGE ALARM BLASTED, awakening Ben with a fright.  He leapt out of 
bed in a state of foggy-eyed confusion.  Then he remembered.  He was on
the run.  He smacked Adams Thompson's alarm clock.  The alarm stopped.
Five o'clock, Christmas morning.  He groaned.  Sleep had been short
and  fitful.

Ben peeked out the window.  A glacial river of pristine snow seemed to 
flow through the gray canyon of Fifth Avenue into Washington Square 
Park.  Light flurries gusted from the rooftops, illuminated in the glow
 of the street lamps.

There was no sign of the man loitering under the vestibule across the 
street the night before, but Ben was still wary.

Ben splashed water on his face and took one final curious look in the 
mirror at his strange new countenance.  The teenage skinhead.  His 
parents would faint.  He dressed quickly and packed the shaving 
materials and the Think Pad in his knapsack.  He wore the knapsack on 
his back, hoping to give the impression of a student on an excursion to
the library or a friends apartment to study.  On Christmas Day.  At 
five o'clock in the morning.  No turning back now.

Ben did not know if or when Fritz Fox would walk this morning.  Maybe 
he had stopped exercising after the heart attack.  Maybe he slept late 
on the weekends.

Maybe it was too cold or too wet.  But Ben knew that he might not get 
many more chances.  He had already decided that it was too dangerous to
spend another night in Thompson's apartment.  He had only planned his 
life as far as this one moment--handing off the letter to Fritz in 
Central Park.  It had to happen.  He would will it to happen.

Ben hesitated as the elevator doors opened into the building lobby, 
then lurched forward with an artificial determination.  He felt 
self-conscious His hair had been a meaningful part of his identity, 
and its absence created an odd sensation, like the war veterans who 
lost arms or legs but still reported feeling in the phantom limb.  He 
had phantom hair.  But his self-consciousness went beyond his baldness.
He was prey.  Like a deer alone and deep in a forest of eight million 
trees, he was statistically safe, yet knew that the eyes of a hunter 
could lie behind any one of them.  He heard every sound and was aware 
of every movement.

Ben exited the building, a wicked arctic blast slapping him across the 
face, the indescribable sensation of phantom hair replaced by a very 
real numbness. Ben rubbed his gloved hands together and stamped his 
feet to speed the circulation of blood to his extremities. Then,
suddenly, he heard a sound from across the street.  Ben froze and  shot
a furtive glance at the neighboring apartment building.  He saw a 
small movement in the shadows.  A man was in the alley across the 
street--and he was staring directly at Ben.

Their eyes met.  It was the younger FBI agent who had shot at Ben from 
the loading dock.  Act natural.  He can't possibly recognize me.  Ben 
forced an awkward grin and waved an embarrassed greeting.  The agent 
smirked and blew out a cold, misty breath.

Ben put his gloves in his pocket and made a snowball.  He fired it at a
street lamp.  Missed.  He danced through the snow, now accumulated 
eight inches high, kicking it and soiling its purity.  He threw another
snowball.  Slowly he worked his way the short distance down Fifth 
Avenue into Washington Square.  He looked back up Fifth.  The agent was
not in sight.  Ben ran through Washington Square and all the way to
the  West Fourth Street subway station.  It was half past five
o'clock.

The "D" train deposited Ben on Central Park West at 77th Street, 
adjacent to the Museum of Natural History, twenty-five minutes later. 
A  newspaper was tucked under his arm.  The street was deserted.

Ben could only guess where Fritz would enter the park.  He recalled 
Fritz saying that he walked around "The Lake," as if there was only 
one.  Central Park extended from 59th Street to 110th Street and 
contained 840 acres of wooded and landscaped grounds.  Ben knew of 
three lakes and a pond in the park.  The largest, which he thought was 
the one Fritz meant, extended from 77th Street to 71st Street.

Ben entered the park at 77th Street.  He walked south, along a path 
following close to the western shore of the lake, in search of a place 
to lie in wait.  It was dark, but the path was lit by street lights set
about one hundred yards apart.  Still, Ben was uneasy.  Central Park's
reputation as a haven for evil-doers loomed large on his mind, and the
shadows of the snow-covered trees cast an eerie pall.  Ben went on,
his  jaw set firmly and his eyes blazing, yet treading lightly and
flinching  at the slightest sound, an odd combination of temerity and
timidity,  man and mouse.

A small gazebo along the lakeshore offered a view of the walking path 
as well as shelter from the wind, but it was too close to the path. 
Ben  would not have time to arrange a chance meeting with Fritz, and he
 might arouse the suspicion of the FBI agent following him.

Ben passed through a long, vine-covered walkway.  It was like a covered
bridge, but served no function.  A thicket of maple trees separated
the  walkway and the lake.  Ben saw the perfect lookout spot when he
emerged  on the other side.

The southwestern corner of the lake was formed in the shape of a 
finger, bending slightly eastward.  The path around the lake diverged 
near the tip of the finger.

To the right, the main route continued due east, circling the lake.  To
the left, another trail led to a small, wooden gazebo nestled in a
cove  at the base of the finger, where the lake widened.  Ben jogged
towards  the cove.

He climbed carefully down the icy stone steps that curved through a 
rock outcropping, down an embankment, to the cove.  The gazebo offered 
him an unobstructed view of the main path in both directions.  He would
be able to see Fritz walking south along the west shore, from across 
the narrow waterway, where the path emerged from the thicket of maples 
near the vine-covered bridge. He could also see him walking west along 
the southern shore if he came around the lake in the opposite 
direction.

The gazebo, a small A-frame structure with four wooden pillars and two 
benches, was on flat ground, abutting the lake.  The roof was covered 
with snow.  An old oak tree leaned over the lake at a forty-five degree
angle, its spidery branches brushing against the gazebo roof.  A lone 
pigeon was perched on a limb. The high-rise apartment buildings on 
Central Park West rose above the urban forest in the distance.

Ben dusted stray flurries from the gazebo bench, then sat.  His eyes 
darted between the western and southern paths.  Only a few diehard 
joggers trudged through the snow.  From time to time he turned the 
pages of the newspaper, searching for any mention of the events of the 
prior day.

Seven o'clock came and went.  Ben was almost ready to quit the cold in 
favor of a cup of coffee someplace warm, any place warm, when his heart
 skipped a beat. His picture was on the "Local News" page.

Ben cringed.  It was a bad photograph, one that until then had graced 
only the lawyers directory at Kramer, Fox.  It got worse.  The story in
the Herald Times said that he was wanted by the FBI on federal drug 
charges and for assaulting an officer.  The officer was in serious 
condition after breaking a leg, a few ribs and perforating his lung in 
a fall during a shoot-out in the South Ferry subway station.  Kravner 
should be considered armed and dangerous.  A chill ran down his spine. 
His fears were confirmed--the FBI was out to kill him.

Ben folded the newspaper violently.  It made sense.  If they captured 
him alive, his tales of conspiracy could attract the attention of 
important people, especially with Fritz Fox by his side.  Just then he 
looked across the lake and saw a familiar figure emerging from the 
vine-covered walkway behind the thicket of maples.

It was Fritz.  He was bundled in a black coat and capped with a fur 
lined hat, but his small stature and brisk gait were unmistakable.  Joy
and relief tried to find expression on Ben's tired, numb face, but his
facial muscles were too stiff to accommodate the emotions.  He checked
the letter in his jacket pocket, needlessly, for the twentieth time. 
This was it, the beginning of the end of his travails.  If he timed it 
right, he would meet Fritz at the point where the paths diverged in 
five minutes.

Ben watched the thicket behind Fritz.  He expected to see an FBI agent 
shortly, lurking a respectful distance behind.  Ben was surprised to 
see a man follow almost at once.  He was walking briskly, almost 
running, with a large stick in his hand.  The stick could have been for
fending off stray dogs, but the man's stride contradicted a benign 
purpose.  He was hunter, not prey.

The man with the stick was too well-dressed to be a mugger.  The FBI 
was not going to give Ben the opportunity to contact Fritz.  Ben sprung
up from the bench, but was paralyzed by indecision.  If he ran, he 
might be able to reach Fritz before the FBI assassin could complete his
task.  But then what?  Ben was unarmed.  The agent would no doubt be 
pleased to accept him as a prize instead of, or in addition to, Fritz 
Fox.  And Ben knew that if he was captured, there was no one else to 
stop The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight's march to their Final 
Vengeance.

Ben watched helplessly as the distance between Fritz and his attacker 
closed, then was overcome with grief when the two figures disappeared 
behind a clump of trees near the southern tip of the lake.

Ben buried his face in his gloved hands.  He had opened the sealed 
envelope.  He had tried to be the hotshot lawyer, taking on the most 
powerful men in the nation on his own.  Why?  The answer sprang to his 
mind instantly--to impress Fritz Fox, a man who was more like a 
grandfather to him than a mentor.  He had saved him once; now he had 
killed him.

Ben sat there, stunned, motionless, contemplating his fate.  There was 
nowhere for him to turn.  His parents, his friends, his colleagues were
all incommunicado.  There were apparently no limits to what The Royal 
Order would do to stop him.

A siren pierced the morning stillness.  Surrender to the police was an 
option. He would be charged with various drug offenses, any remaining 
shred of credibility would be destroyed, but he would live.  It was not
his responsibility to save the world.  That was for great men with 
white hair.

Great men.  One had died today.  Would Fritz Fox have surrendered if 
faced with adversity?  No!  Fritz Fox would have dueled with the devil 
until justice was done or his last drop of blood had been spilt.  And 
he wanted to be like Fritz Fox.

Ben felt his despondency lift as an icy gust slapped him in the face. 
There would be no surrender.  Fritz Fox's death would not be in vain. 
There was still one last card to play.

Ben sucked in a deep breath, then metamorphosed as he expelled it, the 
steaming mist rising high into the air before dissipating.  His eyes 
blazed.  His nostrils flared.  His jaw set firmly.  The anger and 
sorrow that moments ago had almost conquered him were now the fuel that
stoked the fire within.  Passion overcame fear.  The Royal Order of
the  Millennium Knight beware--Benjamin Franklin Kravner, Hawkeye, was
on  the warpath.

Ben gave one final hard look at the clump of trees where he last saw 
Fritz Fox alive.

"They don't know the meaning of vengeance," he said out loud, then 
bolted east, along the lake's southern shore.

THIRTY-THREE

LA ROSA SMITH EMERGED from the bedroom of her Foggy Bottom apartment 
dressed only in a flimsy white night gown.  She let out a loud yawn, 
arching her back and stretching her lean, sinewy body like a cat.  Her 
head ached; her body was sore.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," a man's voice called out from behind the 
counter by the breakfast nook.

La Rosa jumped.

"I thought you left," she said.

She sat on a wooden stool by the counter, leaning on her elbows, her 
face in her hands.  A muscular man with skin the color of dark 
chocolate was reading the Sunday Post at the kitchen table, munching on
a croissant, wearing only purple boxer shorts.  La Rosa could not 
remember his name.

"You were terrific last night," the man said.

La Rosa shook her head.

"I don't feel terrific," she said.  He had short, kinky, black hair, an
undistinguished face, and a gorgeous, hairy chest.  Medical student. 
What was it with her and younger men?  And what did she do to warrant a
 "terrific" rating? You don't really want to know, girl.

"We had a lot to drink at the Christmas party last night," the Chest 
said.

"I

made coffee."  He went directly to the cup cabinet, then poured a mug 
full for La Rosa

"Thanks," she said.  What was his name?  Something with a "J."  Jack? 
James?  She sipped the coffee.

"Good," she said.

"Want a section of the 7W?  Can I make you a croissant?"  he asked.

Now she remembered what she liked about younger men.  They were so 
eager to please an older woman.  Older.  Another birthday was coming. 
Not over the hill yet.

"No.  Thanks.  I need to wake up a little," she said. "Was it a quiet
Christmas in the news?"

"Nothing dramatic on the political front--but you'd already know about 
anything big by now, anyway, wouldn't you?"  the Chest asked.

Was it Julian?  Jules?  Julian or Jules, she was sure of it.  Julie 
would be too familiar.

"Probably," she said.

"But I might have slept through an earthquake last night."

The Chest smiled.

"You rocked my world, baby," he said.

La Rosa smiled weakly.

"Anything happening in the world of sports?"  she asked.

The Chest pulled out the sports section of the Post.

"Georgetown beat Villanova big time," he said.

"How did GW do?"  she asked.

"Let's see.  George Washington.  That's your alma mater, right?  They 
lost to Delaware in overtime.  Sorry."

"I went to GW as an undergraduate," La Rosa said.

"Class of'88."

"Wow.  You look much younger than that."

La Rosa smiled a real smile, the one that transformed her face into all
cheekbones.

"Thanks.  A girl needs to hear that every now and then.  I'll be 
thirty-five in a couple of weeks."

The Chest did a mental calculation.

"Three years of law school ... so, you've been a lawyer for eight 
years?"

"No, I taught in the D.C. schools for five years," La Rosa said.

"Graduated from Harvard Law School in '96."

"No shit," the Chest said.  He fumbled through the scattered sections 
of newspaper, then skimmed an article on the front page.

"One of your fellow alumni was in the news today.  Did you know a guy 
named Benjamin Franklin Kravner?"

La Rosa choked on her coffee.  It had been over three years since she 
had last spoken with Ben Kravner.

"Ben?"  she said.

"What, did he win a big lawsuit or something?"

"No, he was arrested."

La Rosa eyes widened.

"Ben?  Are you kidding me?"  she asked.

"He's one of the most ethical people I've ever met."

"You knew him well?"  the Chest asked.

La Rosa looked away.

"We were friends," she said.

"What did he do?"

"It says that Kravner was believed to be the head of a nationwide 
organization of young professionals that was involved in illegal 
activities, including dealing in drugs, all managed over the 
Internet."

"No way," La Rosa said.

"Not Ben.  Let me see that article."  Time did not change people's 
basic nature. Money, maybe.  But not that much.

The Chest handed her the newspaper.  The article reported that Kravner 
had eluded the FBI in a gun battle, seriously injuring an agent in the 
process. Then, on Christmas Day--yesterday--he was believed to have 
attacked his boss, the internationally renowned Fritz Fox, a personal 
friend of the President, in Central Park, knocking Fox unconscious from
behind.  Fox was suffering from a broken hip and a concussion, but was
 expected to recover.

La Rosa put the newspaper down on the counter and ran her fingers 
through her short, black hair.  This was not the Ben Kravner she 
remembered from Harvard.

Intelligent.  Funny.  Somewhat shy and awkward, but pleasant looking. 
A  diamond in the rough.

"How did you know him?"  the Chest asked.

"Wasn't he a couple of years behind you at Harvard?"

La Rosa smiled.

"Yeah.  I was a third year; I was the teaching assistant for his first 
year Civil Procedure class," she said.

"He was my personal project that year."

The Chest's eyebrows raised.

"How so?"

"The professor--F.  Theodore Donald--was a prick," she said.

"He was looking to make an example of one of the new kids during the 
first week of classes to demonstrate the rigors of law school, and he 
picked Ben."

La Rosa closed her eyes.

"God, he was like a frightened puppy," she continued.

"His eyes were so wide that his eyelids looked like they were propped 
open with toothpicks.  Professor Donald used the Socratic Method to 
pick apart every one of Ben's responses."

"So you felt sorry for him," the Chest said.

"Yeah."  She smiled as the memory lingered.  She had wanted to hug him.
While Professor Donald had viewed his job as breaking down the new law
students and then toughening them up in his own image, like a drill 
sergeant in the Marines, she had seen her role as a nurturing one, 
providing support and building confidence.  Ben had been ready to quit 
law school; she convinced him to stay.

Not only had Ben turned out to be her best student in that class, he 
had become one other closest friends.  Ever.

"Was he your little trophy white boy?"  the Chest asked, unsmiling.

"What!"  La Rosa said, stunned.

"Never mind," the Chest said.

"Where did that come from?"  she asked.

The Chest hesitated, then spoke.

"I'm sorry.  It's frustrating, though, when all the fine black women go
 looking for white meat.  Are you ashamed of being black?"

he asked.

"What's with all this hostility?"  La Rosa asked.

"Ben was a friend.  I never said we were lovers.  And I was with you 
last night, wasn't I?"

"You were terrific," the Chest said, walking around to the other side 
of the counter and kissing La Rosa on the side of the neck.

"But I never got that dreamy look that came over your face when you 
were talking about that drug dealer friend of yours."

"That doesn't sound like Ben," La Rosa said.

"But you were lovers, weren't you?"  the Chest asked.

La Rosa felt her cheeks flush.  She turned away.

"No," she said.

"We never made love.  We were just good friends.  Not that it's any of 
your business."

The Chest raised his arms over his head in an exaggerated gesture of 
surrender.

La Rosa enjoyed the way his muscles rippled.

"Okay.  You win," he said.  He picked his clothes off the living room 
floor.

"I've got to get over to the med school library, anyway."

The Chest, Julian or Jules, dressed and left with an empty promise to 
call.

La Rosa curled up on her couch and read the Post article, again.  The 
Ben Kravner she knew could never have committed the litany of crimes 
this Ben Kravner was accused of, but that was his picture plastered on 
the front page.

La Rosa eyes saddened as she reminisced.  Just good friends.  Was that 
all they had been?  The lunch room debates.  The late night study 
sessions in their private corner of the Law Library.  The bull sessions
at Angelo's Pizza and in her apartment and at a dozen other spots 
around Boston.  A void in her heart that had long since been filled, or
 forgotten, re-opened.  She had fallen in love with him.

There had only been two white men--no, two white people--in her life 
who had not made her feel black.  Tony Fabrizio was one, Ben the other.
They had made her feel like a partner, an equal in every way, perhaps 
enhanced, but never detracted, by her womanhood, and never, ever, had 
she felt that they were conscious of her race.

That made them better than her, she thought, because she could never
seem to forget her race.  She dreamed of one day not being so self N

conscious, but it would take more than two color blind men to change 
that part of her world.

La Rosa had thought that Ben was color blind, but now she was not even 
sure of that.  Ben had agreed to join her and her family for a 
celebration dinner after her law school graduation, and she had planned
 to tell him that she loved him that night in her apartment.

But it had never happened.  Ben had not shown up at graduation or at 
dinner or at her apartment.  He had not picked up his telephone that 
night, either.

La Rosa had left the next day to start her job in Washington for the 
Norton campaign.  She had become engulfed in the war that was the 1996 
presidential campaign for the next five months.  There had not been 
time to dwell on the emptiness in her heart.  But when the campaign had
ended and she realized that she had not seen or heard from Ben in five
 months, she had cried.

Many times over the last three and a half years she had wanted to ask 
him why, obsessively wondering if it had something to do with her race.
She believed in her heart that it did not--it could not--but there was
 still the lingering doubt.

She had thought that he loved her, too.  If he had hidden his feelings 
so well from her, maybe he had hidden other character defects.  Maybe 
he was capable of organizing a nationwide drug conspiracy.  Maybe he 
was capable of attempting to murder Fritz Fox.

La Rosa sighed.  Ben Kravner was out of her life, and she was not going
to let him ruin her weekend.  Tony Fabrizio had taken a long Christmas
weekend off.  It was the first weekend in months that La Rosa had not 
spent time in the office. The Fabrizio-Alexander campaign was 
beginning to look like a juggernaut that could not be stopped, and even
 the compulsive Fabrizio was starting to relax.

La Rosa sat down at her desk and switched on the computer.  Christmas 
dinner with her family yesterday had been wonderful.  Not quite as 
exciting as the party her sister, Sydney, had dragged her to 
afterwards, but everybody was in a terrific mood because their mother's
 health and spirits had been much improved.

La Rosa opened her e-mail account to send a few Christmas greetings. 
She had a number of new messages, most of it junk mail.  She cursed the
purveyors of this nonsense and began to delete the incoming messages 
one by one.

Then one e-mail caught her eye.  It was not from one of her regular
correspondents, but the cyber-name "Sancho Panza" drew her attention. 
She clicked on the message, which had been sent the day before, and a 
pop-up window opened.  She gasped.  Quixote, Hi, Rosie.  Still tilting 
at windmills?  I've been meaning to write or call for a long time.  You
probably don't believe me right now--I know I hurt you very much--but 
it is true.  I wish you could look into my eyes and see the truth, as 
you always could, but as you by now know, I am a fugitive.

I am not a drug dealer.  I have uncovered a conspiracy that involves 
many powerful men, including those with influence over the FBI, and I 
am being set up.  This may sound like the depraved plea of a desperate 
man, but it is the truth, and you are the only one who can help me warn
the President now that Fritz Fox was killed.  These men are insane,
and  your boss.  Tony Fabrizio, is in grave danger.

We need to talk ASAP PLEASE e-mail me with a time and (discreet) place 
to meet.

I will try to be in Washington by Tuesday, December 28.  Please do not 
contact the authorities or discuss this with Fabrizio.  Ben Kravner

La Rosa was breathless when she finished reading the message.  Her mind
 churned;

her heart throbbed.  Ben's story made more sense than the one in the 
Post.  But the note was so vague.  A conspiracy?  It did sound very 
much like a desperate attempt at an alibi.

But why contact her?  He had to find a way around the FBI, Ben had 
hoped to use Fritz Fox to get to President Norton, but now he needed 
another contact in Washington.  He thought Fox was dead.  Why?  If he 
had meant to kill him, he would have made sure he completed the job. 
Ben was too smart to screw up like that.

La Rosa paced her apartment.  She knew that if she let Ben Kravner back
into her life, she would be re-opening a psychic wound that she hoped 
had long ago healed.  No--she knew that it had not healed when she had 
read the Post article that morning.  That wound could never heal until 
she learned why he had so abruptly left her.

She had experienced rejection before; some day she might let someone 
close enough to risk experiencing it again.  But her instincts had 
never failed her like they had with Ben.  She knew that he loved her as
much as she loved him. She had to find out if her instincts were 
fallible.

She sat down at the desk, typed a note, then sent it.  Maybe she would 
discover the truth on Tuesday.

THE SMELL OF FRYING BACON permeated the Bethesda home of Dr.  Raymond
Allgood.

Sunday brunch was both a tradition and a team-building exercise for the
Allgoods.

Stanton, a wiry fifteen-year old, washed, peeled and sliced potatoes. 
Diana diced onions.  She was fourteen, but almost as tall as her 
brother and had long, flowing black hair like her mother, Claire. 
Claire Allgood set the table, prepared a fruit cup of fresh melons, 
orange and grapefruit slices and cherries, and supervised a gigantic 
skillet of home-fried potatoes, always cooked to well-done.  Ray 
presided over a concoction of scrambled eggs, onions, bacon and 
Louisiana hot sauce that remained a carefully guarded family secret.

The clinking of stainless steel on stoneware was the only sound in the 
Allgood dining room.  It was noon when the last plate had been cleaned,
 and the current events round of the day's festivities began.

"Stanton, you get to pick first today," Ray said, handing him the front
 section of the Washington Post.

Stanton carefully scrutinized the front page.

"Not too many choices today," he said.

"Looks like black homeless family freezing to death in a car or crazy 
white lawyer dealing drugs."

"Probably good lessons in both stories," Claire said.

"I'll take Frozen Black Family for $500, mom," Stanton said.

"How did they die?"  Ray asked.

"It says here that they were evicted from their apartment and were 
living in a car," Stanton said.

"The heater must have broken.  The mother was only twenty-one, and her 
kids were one and three."

"That's terrible," Claire said.

"Didn't they have any family they could turn to?"

"Or a homeless shelter?"  Ray asked.

"It ain't clear from the story," Stanton said.

"Well, why do you think that they chose to live in a car rather than 
find help?"

Claire asked.

"And don't say 'ain't," Ray added.

"Yes, dad," Stanton said, glancing skyward.

"I don't know why they didn't look for help.  Pride maybe."

"Would you be too proud to ask for help if you were in trouble?"  Ray 
asked.

"No, but it's an easy question for me to answer because I know I can go
 to you guys for help," Stanton said.

"If you weren't around, I might sleep in a car before I slept in a 
homeless shelter."

"Why's that, sweetie," Claire said.

Stanton thought about the question for several seconds.

"I guess because I'd be embarrassed if my friends found out," he 
said.

"I like that everybody thinks I'm the smartest kid in class.  I feel 
like they look up to me.  I'd be afraid to lose that respect if people 
thought I couldn't take care of myself."

"It's good to have pride," Ray said.

"Especially if it drives you to work hard and succeed.  But sometimes 
good people fall on hard times.  You can't let your pride stand in the 
way of your health."

"And you shouldn't look down on other people who are having trouble," 
Claire said.

"It's that kind of attitude towards the homeless that may have killed 
that family.  They shouldn't have been afraid to ask for help if they 
needed it.  We not only need to help those who are less fortunate than 
us, we need to make them feel good about accepting our help."

Stanton slid the newspaper to Diana.

"I guess I'm stuck with the doofy white guy story," she said.

"Diana, we don't speak like that even in the privacy of our own home," 
Claire said.

"Racism goes both ways.  We don't want white families snickering and 
calling African-Americans names at their kitchen tables."

Diana cringed.

"Okay, mom," she said.

"But they all do."

"That's just not true, young lady," Ray said.

"I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with whites and blacks alike during the 
Sixties fighting for civil rights.  I've told you the story a dozen 
times about the white preacher that risked his life to save mine. 
There  are a lot of good white people out there.  What's the story
about?"

Diana skimmed the article.

"The FBI tried to arrest a lawyer in New York for dealing drugs on the
Internet, but he escaped," she said.

"Then he tried to kill his boss--Fritz Fox."  She giggled at the 
name.

"Why did he try to kill his boss?"  Claire asked.

"It doesn't say," Diana said.

"All of his co-workers were shocked.  Everybody thought that he was 
this really straight Harvard guy.  He was supposed to be tight with 
Fritz.  It says that he actually saved Fritz's life a few weeks ago 
when he had a heart attack."

"I've heard of Fritz Fox," Ray said.

"He's President Norton's friend.  I think he was nominated as an 
ambassador a few years ago.  Hard to believe anybody at his law firm 
would be dealing drugs."

"Well, these guys have great names, at least," Diana said.

"The lawyer's name is Benjamin Franklin Kravner.  I still think he 
looks like a doof."

"What type of law did he practice?"  Claire asked.

Diana scanned the article for the answer.

"Trusts and Estates," she said.

"What's that?"

"They're lawyers who prepare wills and estate plans so that people can 
pass on their property to their family or to charity when they die," 
Ray said.

"Does the article say how they caught the lawyer?"

"Nothing," Diana said.

"It says that the FBI believes Kravner is part of a nationwide ring of 
young professionals dealing drugs and conducting other illegal 
activities over the Internet."

"But nobody else was charged?"  Ray asked.

"Nope," Diana replied.

Ray raised his eyebrows.

"Strange," he said.

"Okay, let's wrap this up.  It's almost kickoff time.  Any lessons from
 this story?"

Diana and Stanton looked at each other and rolled their eyeballs.  They
 answered simultaneously: "Just say no to drugs."

THIRTY-FOUR

RAY ALL GOOD WAS IN A BAD MOOD on Monday morning.  The Redskins had 
been shellacked by the New York Giants, 42-6, in yesterday's football 
game, a mound of paperwork was scattered atop his desk at the National 
Cancer Institute, and a meeting he dreaded was scheduled in ten 
minutes.

Ray yearned for the days when he had toiled long hours in spartan 
laboratories doing the cutting edge medical research that he loved. 
His  assistants had pandered to the bureaucrats, like he had become,
while  he had devoted all of his energy to his life's passion.  Even
then,  despite the long hours in the lab, Ray had always managed time
for his  family.  He adored them.  He had even accepted an
administrative job he  abhorred to spend more time with them.  Twenty
years of marriage.  Four  beautiful, healthy babies who were not babies
any more. Only one slip  up.  And now it had come back to haunt him.

Ray grimaced as he replayed that evening in his mind.  He was to be the
keynote speaker at a conference sponsored by Emory University in 
Atlanta.  He had grown up in a working class African-American suburb in
the south side of Atlanta.  He had graduated at the top of his class
at  Morehouse College, a predominantly African-American college in
downtown  Atlanta that had been at the center of the civil rights
movement during  his stay there in the mid-Sixties.  His character had
been formed in  Atlanta, and his character had served him well.  He had
been proud to  come home.

He rarely drank, but he had sipped a little champagne at the reception.
The Hirting with Kimberly had started innocently.  She seemed
genuinely  interested in him, asking a lot of questions, listening
eagerly to his  answers, transfixed.  Or was it he who had been
transfixed with her?  She was stunningly beautiful.  Very blonde.  Very
white.  Was that it?  He remembered the feeling of power he had felt
laying on top other,  thrusting himself into her white body. His groin
stirred as the memory  unfolded.

He had not felt guilty.  Not too much.  He had obtained the 
unobtainable.  White culture bombarded the public with its ideal of 
beauty--blonde hair, blue eyes, tight little tits and ass--on 
television, in the movies and in magazines, taunting black maledom: " 
This is real beauty, but you can never have it."

Now he did have it.  A magnificent treasure forever locked in his mind.
Even Claire might be tempted to stand back and admire the beauty of
his  conquest.  It was art.

Or so it had seemed at the time.  The photographs that Cal Stewart had
graciously passed along were not so kind.  His face, contorted in some 
bizarre combination of pleasure, pain and pride, would not play well in
Peoria nor at home.  His erect sexual organ would not qualify as art
in  the social circles in which he traveled, even if its homelier half
was  buried in various points north and south on Kimberly's body in the
photographs.  His mostly white colleagues would not empathize with the
creative impulse that had inspired his mental picture of the forbidden
 fruit.

He glanced down at the paperwork in front of him, then at his watch. 
Five to ten.  Dean Frederick had requested a personal meeting.  He had 
seemed eager to move the application from Calhoun College along 
quickly.  Somehow Cal Stewart had fast-tracked the whole process, so 
that Calhoun College would have a check for one million dollars within 
a week or two--if the application was graced with the signature of Dr. 
Raymond Allgood.

Ray leaned forward on his desk with his face resting on his hands. 
There was nothing terribly dramatic about the research proposal. 
Calhoun College researchers would be testing the long term carcinogenic
effect of drugs that had already been approved by the PDA to treat 
other illnesses.  It was a worthy objective, and the proposal was 
well-stated.  But experimentation on prisoners was strictly regulated. 
Doctor Stewart was running circles around the regulatory process.  It 
was a clear abuse of power.

But it was Cal Stewart's power, and Ray Allgood needed to borrow that 
power, too.  The grant for his retrovirus research would be approved 
right away.  Fifty million bucks.  It would instantly make the National
 Cancer Institute the major player in a cutting edge project.

It was an exciting opportunity, but that alone would not be enough to 
push Ray over the edge.  It came down to the photographs.  Claire would
not understand.  He would lose her and the kids.  He had to sign the 
papers.

His intercom buzzed.

"Dean Frederick is here to see you, Dr.  AUgood."

"Thanks, Rosemary.  Send him in, please."

Ray rose to greet his guest, a tall, wiry man in his mid-forties, but 
did not walk to the front of his desk or extend his hand.  He forced a 
smile, but he found it hard to hide his disgust.

"Hello, Dean Frederick.  I was just finishing my review of your 
application."

"Please, call me.  Buddy--everybody does."

"Very well.  Let's get right down to it then," Ray said, motioning the
Dean to sit.

"I'm sure you're aware that this is a very unusual grant that Calhoun 
College has requested, both in its subject matter and in the 
accelerated application process."

Buddy Frederick smirked.

"Yes, sir, I understand that," he said with a pronounced Southern 
accent.

"But then again what good are friends in high places if they can't do 
special favors for each other?"

"I tend to do things more by the book," Ray said curtly; his flared 
nostrils now hinted more formally at his anger.

Dean Frederick crossed his legs and smiled.

"You're right, Ray.  Your technique in the missionary 
position--flawless."  He made a circle with his right thumb and 
forefinger to emphasize the point.

Ray stood, leaned forward, his hands on the desktop, and stared into 
the Dean's eyes.  He no longer tried to disguise the contempt in his 
voice.

"Look, Buddy," he said, sneering.

"I'm still wavering on this application.  I love my family, but I have 
my pride. I am an ethical man and I despise--despise--people who abuse 
power.  Now we can discuss this application like the gentlemen that we 
pretend to be or you can take your sorry ass back down to Atlanta 
empty-handed."

Dean Fredericks smirk remained intact, as if permanently etched on his 
face.

"I'm going to get that approval whether it's from you today or your 
successor tomorrow.  The only thing at stake here is whether I get the 
pleasure of destroying your life or not.  Your call.  Ray."

Ray suppressed a violent urge.  He sat down, his breath heavy, but his 
jaw clenched shut.  He was trapped.  Nothing would change if he 
martyred himself.  It was the system.  The damned system.  The abusers 
of power would keep on abusing people and he would be discredited, his 
marriage over, his beautiful children taken from him.  There was no 
choice.

Ray angrily scrawled his signature on a piece of paper, ripped off a
carbon copy, and pushed it across the desktop to Dean Frederick.

"It's approved.  Doctor Stewart will handle the rest of the paperwork. 
You'll get a check in about one week."

The smirk spoke.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Ray glowered at him.

"Did I forget to say 'thank you for shitting in my hat, BuddyY' "My, 
my, my.  I guess you can take the boy out of the street, but you can't 
take the street out of the boy," Frederick said.

"No, Doctor Stewart said something about a change you needed to make to
 the grant proposal."

Ray looked at the Dean quizzically, then experienced a flash of 
recognition. Dr.

Stewart was concerned about experimentation on African-American 
prisoners to avoid any charges of racially motivated selection of the 
subjects.  The Georgia prison system had a disproportionate number of 
African-American inmates, and Calhoun College was a predominantly white
school.  He wondered why Buddy Frederick had not addressed the issue 
himself in the application, but Ray was seething and in no mood to 
extend the conversation any longer than necessary.

"Right, I almost forgot," Ray said.  He took back the copy from the 
Dean, marked a note on the original and the copy limiting the subjects 
to Caucasian prisoners, and initialed the changes.  He slid the copy 
back to Dean Frederick's side of the desk, avoiding the Dean's smirking
 gaze, then swiveled in his chair, turning his back to the Dean.

Buddy Frederick reviewed the approved application, then Ray heard him 
fold the papers ever so carefully and place them in his pocket, 
procrastinating with an unabashed intent to infuriate, a skill long 
mastered by those masquerading under the guise of the Southern 
gentleman.  Ray silently gazed out the window until Dean Frederick took
 his leave with a mocking, but unacknowledged, parting remark.

BREAKFAST WAS LATE.  She looked forward to meals.  She had been locked 
in the basement of the house since Friday night.  Aside from the 
indignity of having been stripped to her undergarments and handcuffed 
to the center pole supporting the house, Debby Barnett had been treated
reasonably well.  Three meals a day. No mental or physical abuse.  It 
could have been worse.

Debby smiled as she pictured Ben doing his Fritz Fox impression, with
his goofy crooked grin and his sexy long, black hair flying about in 
the wind that day when they walked along the Hudson.  Then she saddened
as she wondered where he was and if they were treating him well, 
also.

She had never meant to fall in love with Ben Kravner, but how could she
 resist?

He was everything her father was not--intelligent, good-natured, 
sensitive, loyal and oh so loving.  He was a romantic searching for a 
kindred spirit, and she had let him down.  How-Debby startled as the 
door to the basement swung open abruptly and light rushed into the 
windowless room.  She squinted.  The silhouette of a man was framed in 
the doorway.

"Good morning, Miss Barnett.  I hope you have found your accommodations
suitable."

She was sitting on the floor, her hands chained around the pole.  She 
put her head close to the pole so that she could shield her eyes from 
the light, trying to connect a face to the voice.  The voice was one 
she had not heard before.  It was not a kind voice.  This man was not 
here to deliver breakfast.

"Who are you and why are you keeping me here?"  she said, trying to 
disguise her fear with bravado.

The door closed.  It was dark, again.  She heard the dull clap of 
leather shoes on the concrete floor.

"My name is Gerry James Kate.  I am the Director of the FBI and the 
descendant of Kate MacDougall.  You may know me as The Spy."

He stopped, about ten feet away.  Something in his voice made her 
tremble.  She was in the presence of evil.  The stark reality that the 
game she was playing had high stakes was sinking in.  There was no 
point in pretending that she was an innocent.

"What are you going to do with me?"  she asked.

"As you have already guessed, you and your friend, Mr.  Kravner, 
present a serious security risk to our group.  Some of my cousins are 
queasy about killing.

I have no such misgivings.  However, you intrigue me.  As long as you 
are cooperative, you will live.  If you become difficult, you will die.
 Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Debby said weakly.  Her eyes were wide.  She fought off a wave 
of dizziness and nausea to maintain her composure. "What have you done
with Ben?"

"Mr.  Kravner is none of your concern now.  You need to concentrate on 
keeping yourself alive," The Spy said.

"Now, tell me how you happened to learn of The Royal Order of the 
Millennium Knight."

Debby had thought about how to respond to that question for much of the
last three days.  Her half-brother, the true successor to The
Assassin,  was on the trail of the Knights, presumably to join them and
carry out  the MacDougall's Final Vengeance.  She could not let that
happen.

"My father gave me an envelope and told me not to open it until after 
he died," she said.

"The Poem was in the envelope."

She heard The Spy pacing, back and forth along an invisible line.

"I see.  Did he tell you he thought he was in danger?"

"No."

"What did he tell you to do with the contents of the envelope, the 
Poem, after he died?"

Debby hesitated.

"He said to take it to Adams Thompson, the publisher of the New York 
Herald Times and tell him that it was from The Assassin."

"Did you communicate with Mr.  Thompson?"  The Spy asked.

"I was supposed to meet him at his apartment the night he was 
murdered."

"How did you schedule this meeting?"

"I sent him an e-mail," Debby replied.

She heard The Spy walking closer to her, then felt his shadowy presence
 above her.

"What did the e-mail say?"  he asked.

"Before you answer, please keep in mind that e-mail messages leave an
electronic trail.  These things can be checked." "I don't remember
exactly what I said.  It was over a month ago."

She felt his palm gently touching her face.

"Come now, Miss Barnett, you're an intelligent young lady.  This must 
have been a very important event in your life.

Give me a rough idea.  Did you tell him your name?"

A lump formed in her throat.  His hand was cold and creepy.  She wanted
 to scream.

"No.  I requested a meeting and signed it "The Assassin.""

"Thank you, Miss Barnett.  That's a true answer.  Very smart."

"Do I get a cookie?"

"Sarcasm has no place when you're trying to impress someone holding 
your heart in his hands, Miss Barnett," The Spy said.

"Now tell me, if you only wanted to hand Mr.  Thompson a piece of 
paper, why did you so cryptically send him a message from a dead 
man?"

A dozen thoughts raced through Debby's mind, none of them falling into 
focus.

She felt The Spy's cold hand tracing a line down her neck from ear to 
ear.

"The perfect lie will not fall from the sky.  Miss Barnett.  Every lie 
begets several other lies and sooner or later every liar gets 
caught."

The Spy's open hand came crashing into Debby's face with a loud slap at
the instant he finished the sentence.  She let out a surprised yelp as
she sprawled to the floor, the handcuffs preventing her from sliding 
further than arm's length away.  The horrible taste of brain fluid 
filled her mouth; a warm trickle flowed from her nose.  She sobbed 
uncontrollably.

"There will be no food for you today, Miss Barnett.  I have a busy 
schedule, but I will be back to chat some more later in the week. 
Maybe  we can exchange happy little anecdotes about your father.  But I
may  not be so generous if you lie to me, again."

The Spy stalked out of the room, leaving Debby stunned on the floor to 
ponder her fate. CHRISTY KIRK SAT IMPATIENTLY in the Washington, D.C.
headquarters of  the NOMAADs.  She glanced at her watch.  Eleven
o'clock.  She had been  waiting an hour already.  She made her third
trip to the water cooler,  studying her watch in an obvious and vain
attempt to garner the  sympathy of the receptionist.

The NOMAADs occupied an entire floor of an office tower on 10th Street,
just south of Mount Vernon Square, where New York Avenue and 
Massachusetts Avenue intersect.  In contrast to the headquarters of 
Franklin Verdant's Aryan Alliance, the NOMAADs' offices appeared 
spartan.  The receptionist sat behind a large metal desk like the ones 
in the Herald Times newsroom.  There was no artwork in the small 
waiting area, which consisted of four steel-framed chairs with colored 
plastic seats.  The hallways were carpeted in institutional beige.

Still, Christy feared that the interview with General William Collins 
would be much like those with the other leaders, dripping with 
attitude.  General.  These people had incredible egos.  Grand Dragons, 
Imperial Wizards, Prophets, High Priests and Generals.  While the 
others had been less than hospitable, at least they had not kept her 
waiting.  Asshole.

She opened her notes and read through them for the fifth time.  It had 
been twelve days since her interview with Colonel Tom Hardy.  She had 
spent some of that time building her network of contacts within the 
Klan and the other white supremacy groups, but she had focused her 
attention on Hardy's implication that the white supremacists had 
somehow infiltrated the military leadership.  She had made polite 
inquiries through normal channels, resulting in an interview with the 
head of the Defense Equal Opportunity Management Institute, who had
inundated her with statistics and pamphlets demonstrating the 
military's prodigious commitment to equal opportunity.  He had 
vigorously denied any suggestion that the white supremacy movement had 
taken root in the armed forces.

All protestations to the contrary, it had been evident that the 
military was grappling with a massive race problem.  Christy's 
independent research had documented over one hundred racially motivated
assaults on U.S. military bases on American soil over the past two 
years, including five deaths.  Yet she had no way of determining 
whether these attacks were sanctioned or condoned by the military 
leadership, which was a tight circle that was virtually impenetrable by
 a civilian, particularly a female reporter.

The telephone rang at the reception desk.  The receptionist smiled at 
Christy.

"General Collins will see you now.  I'll walk you down the hall."

They passed several empty offices in the hallway.  There were none of
the usual office noises--clicking keyboards, telephones ringing, copy 
machines whirring, snippets of conversation.  The receptionist noticed 
Christy's curiosity.

"We're usually much busier around here," she said.

"Something's going on this morning.  Everybody's huddled in a 
conference room on the other side of the floor."

General Collins was in a corner office.  He was on the telephone when 
the receptionist ushered Christy in.  He motioned for Christy to sit.

"Uh-huh ... yes ... uh-huh," he rolled his eyeballs for Christy's 
benefit.

"Sounds serious," he said, continuing his telephone conversation.

General Collins was not as she had expected.  She had envisioned a 
large, broad man of military bearing.  He had a small frame and an 
intellectual appearance, an image he seemed to cultivate with a 
business suit and gold wire-framed glasses with small circular lenses. 
He had a deep, strong voice.

"Listen, Robert, this is our top priority.  By the end of the day we'll
have finalized our strategy and you'll have instructions ... 
Uhhuh.-Look, I've been keeping a reporter waiting for over an hour, and
she looks like she's ready to take a bite out of me.  We'll talk again
 at the end of the day.  Right He hung up the telephone.

General Collins stood and walked around the desk and extended his hand 
to Christy.

"Miss Kirk, I'm very sorry to keep you waiting.  A crisis is 
developing, and I may need to cut our meeting short."

"Well, I appreciate any time you can spend with me," she said, shaking 
his hand firmly.  General Collins motioned her to sit, and he sat in 
the second guest chair instead of returning to the power chair behind 
his desk.

"What sort of crisis is developing?"  she asked.

He frowned.

"It's the Army, again.  Another racial incident.  We have an 
unconfirmed report that there are serious casualties this time."

Christy's eyes widened.

"What happened?" "Let's wait for the official word on that.  I think
this interview with  you is important to our cause.  Let's focus on
that."

Christy suppressed a smile as a feeling of pride swept over her. 
Finally, a serious person.

"That's fine," she said.

"But this is not a propaganda piece."

He grinned.

"I understand that.  What's your angle on the story?"

General Collins rocked gently as Christy spoke, listening intently.

"The increase in membership in white hate and patriot groups and the 
rising tide of black militant groups.  I'm trying to determine if 
there's a threat of a real escalation in violence or if this is bluster
 as usual."

Collins continued to rock, carefully choosing his words before he 
spoke.

"Miss Kirk, you're sitting on a much bigger story than that," he said. 
Then he placed his forefinger a fraction of an inch from his thumb.

"We're this close to civil war.  We're sitting on dynamite.  I don't 
know if today's incident will be the spark that sets it off, but it's 
coming.  It may be a month, a year, or tomorrow, but it's going to 
blow."

Christy was stunned.

"How can that be?"  she asked.

"I thought combat was a possibility when I started my research, but I'm
finding that the white hate groups are too fragmented to mount a 
serious war.  Their leaders are all maniacs and egotists."

"A couple of years ago that was clearly true," General Collins said.

"But a few things have changed.  We've received new information just 
this week that has made us even more certain that the battle lines are 
forming."

He jumped up and walked to a white board on the wall to Christy's 
right.  He scrawled four words in large block letters in blue marker:
"TACTICS, YOUTH, INTERNET, ORGANIZATION."  Christy studied him, taking
down notes at the same time.  He was confident, smart.  He was drawing
her in, making her feel like a player.  She felt a growing 
excitement.

General Collins sat, pointing at the board as he spoke.

"Tactics.  All of the white hate groups initially had similar, maniacal
 goals. Holy war.  Holocaust.

Racial cleansing.  Coup d'etat.  They wanted everything at once, but 
they were the radical fringe--they never had the support to launch the 
large scale attacks to which they aspired.  They became all talk, no 
action.  They lost the young people who might have had the passion to 
carry out a holy war."

"So how has that changed?"  Christy asked.

"I've spoken to several of these leaders.  They still have the same 
goals. They're still the radical fringe."

"To some extent I agree with you.  Mainstream Americans will not 
support them after the fighting begins," General Collins said.

"What makes them so dangerous is that they don't see it that way.  They
think that all whites will take arms against African-Americans in a 
racially charged war.

"Their new tactic is to start small and wait for the groundswell of 
public support," he continued.

"They'll spread propaganda making a target appear to be in the wrong, 
then swoop in to save the day with a terrorist attack.  Its scary.

They've been practicing, and they can do it.  Oklahoma City.  The 
Atlanta Olympics.  The abortion clinic bombings all over."

Christy sat wide-eyed.  The professor had captivated his student.  He 
continued, pointing to the second item on the white board

"Youth.  The hate groups and the patriot groups have targeted their 
recruitment efforts at young people.  The Skinheads are particularly 
vulnerable."

Christy interrupted.

"I thought the Skinheads were already a neo-Nazi organization?"

"That's a misconception.  The Skinhead movement began in Europe in the 
1960s. Originally, it was not racially charged at all.  It was a
subculture  based on music and violence.  Lower class kids of all races
being  different.  But Nazi groups found many of the Skinheads to be
willing  recruits.  Hating Jews and blacks gave them some direction to
channel  their violence.  The Skinhead movement split.  Most of them
are still  in it for the music, the violent way of life.

Others formed the hate groups that you see on TV and in the press.  The
 march on Skokie.  The racial killings."

"So what's changed?"  Christy asked.

"The hate groups have realized what the Nazi extremists knew in the 
1970s. Young people are malleable and vulnerable.  They want to belong 
to a group, and they'll follow the leader of their group with a 
passion, even if they don't really understand what the group is about. 
They're trying to make it cool to belong.  A new wave of white hate 
rock music is surging across the country and the kids are like mice 
following the Pied Piper.  Not just the violent fringe. Middle class 
kids.  Intelligent kids.  Kids that know computers."

Christy smiled.

"Which leads us to item three."

General Collins grinned.

"So it does.  The Internet.  Do you use the Net?"

"Sure," Christy said.

"What do you use it for?"

"I do a lot of research for my stories on the Web," she said.

"Anything else?"

She blushed.

"The chat rooms."

"What do you find appealing about the chat rooms?"  General Collins 
asked.

"I think I see where you're going with this.  The privacy.  The 
anonymity."

Christy replied. "Exactly.  You can say whatever is on your mind
without fear of  repercussions.

Even if you would never think to call an African American in your 
office a nigger, you can call him nigger on the Net.  When people start
expressing those repressed thoughts, and find others agreeing and 
encouraging them, the ideas begin to become more acceptable.  The 
thoughts that we accept ultimately become our beliefs and our beliefs 
ultimately guide our actions.  The white hate groups have discovered 
this and have launched a massive campaign on the Internet."

General Collins shook his head gravely.

"They're socializing racism," he said bitterly.

"It took us thirty years to make it socially unacceptable for 
mainstream America to express racist thoughts in public.  It might have
taken us another thirty years to raise a generation that did not even 
think those thoughts, but we were on the way.  But now people all 
across the nation are sharing those repressed thoughts and a whole new 
generation may be tainted by bigotry."

"But how does that take us to the brink of civil war nowY' Christy 
asked.

"They're also using the Internet as a recruitment tool.  Again, they're
targeting kids.  Even young kids.  We found one web site that was like 
a Sesame Street for racists, teaching kids to hate.  But even the older
kids are susceptible.  You've seen the rash of shootings by high
school  kids over the last few years.  Who do you think is putting
those  thoughts into their heads? The white hate groups and the
paramilitary  patriot groups are taking on kids as members.  They're
all fascinated  by guns and violence.  If they have to say they hate
niggers to get to  play with them, that doesn't bother them.  They see
these web sites  with cool guns and music, and they're hooked."

"Can you support your assertions with facts?  Has membership in these 
groups been increasing?"  Christy asked.

General Collins shook his head.

"No.  Unfortunately, there is no official headcount.  But there is 
evidence.  The Southern Poverty Law Center monitors these groups under 
their Klanwatch program.  You can look it up on their web site.

There are now over six hundred hate groups or chapters of these 
groups."

Christy shook her head in disbelief. "I saw web sites for some of them
when I was doing my research, but I  didn't realize it was that
extensive."

General Collins looked grim.

"It's all that and worse."  He pointed to the last item on the list.

"Organization.  You were absolutely right when you said that these 
groups have been too fragmented to do any cataclysmic damage.  But 
they've always had ties to each other.  From time to time a few of the 
groups get together for conferences with racist speakers.  The 
memberships bond.  It's the egos of the individual leaders that prevent
the groups from planning a joint exercise. That's why nobody believes 
we're newsworthy yet."

"That's what my old boss told me when I was pitching the story," 
Christy said.

"He argued that the white supremacy groups are all bluster."

"Exactly," Collins said.

"But that may be changing.  We've heard rumblings about a "Super 
Conference."  We can't confirm it, but a significant number of these 
groups may be planning to get together.  A lot of their leaders are 
religious men.  There's been talk for years of a religious holy war at 
the turn of the millennium.  Prophecies.  The hate groups interpret 
this as a race war."

Christy, once again, was stunned.  She had seen the hyperbole about
millennialism on the web, but had written it off as more bluster from 
the radical fringe.

"But--" A man, about Christy's age, in a white shirt and a solid red 
tie knocked on the door.  He looked upset.  He gestured apologetically 
to Christy, then said, "Excuse me, Bill, there's something on CNN.  I 
think you'll want to see this."

"Bad?"  General Collins asked.

"Real bad," the man said.

General Collins leapt to his feet and motioned for Christy to follow. 
They jogged down the hallway to a large conference room.  The room was 
crowded, but silent.  A path opened for the General so that he could 
have a clear view of the television.

LA ROSA SMITH AND ANOTHER GROUP surrounded a television in a conference
room about a half mile away in the White House.  President Hank Norton
sat at the head of the conference table.  Tony Fabrizio, La Rosa and
Royce Monahan, the Secretary of Defense, were to his right; Glint 
Glenn, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Conrad Tucker, 
the President's Chief of Staff, were to his left.

Diane Beezer, the Press Secretary, was speaking quietly on the 
telephone, behind General Glenn, with her back to the group.

CNN was presenting a live report.  The reporter was a young man, his 
clean cut blonde hair waving in the wind.  There was a sense of urgency
 in his tone.

"Behind me you can see a large gray building, about eight stories high,
which is the Womack Army Medical Center, where I understand the 
fourteen wounded troops have been taken.  We cannot confirm the 
severity of the injuries, although we have an unconfirmed report that 
all fourteen soldiers are dead, killed by a rain of bullets from the 
shooter's automatic weapon.  This is Andrew Bradley, reporting from 
Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina.  Back to you, Frank."

CNN cut back to the news anchor, Frank Simpson.

"Thank you, Andrew, for that report," Simpson said, then looked into 
the camera poignantly.

"Once again for those of you just joining us, we have an unofficial 
report that a white soldier opened fire on a table full of African 
American soldiers in the mess hall at Fort Bragg in North Carolina 
during breakfast this morning in what appears to be yet another 
racially motivated attack in the military.  Fourteen soldiers have been
reportedly injured in the shooting; unconfirmed reports indicate that 
they may all be dead.  Hold on--we're going back to Andrew Bradley
outside Fort Bragg."

"Thank you, Frank.  I have with me John Daniel, a corporal in the 82nd 
Airborne Division at Fort Bragg.  I understand from John--" The camera 
panned to a young soldier dressed in military fatigues.  The black 
bristles on his shaved head hinted at a widow's peak.  He had deep set 
eyes and a pronounced chin.

"That's John Daniel's son," Royce Monahan said, with a thick Boston 
accent.  The Defense Secretary's round, wire-rimmed glasses gave him a 
professorial appearance, a look that he had cultivated in his teaching 
days at Harvard.  It was at Harvard that Monahan and Hank Norton began 
their friendship thirty years before.

"The Speaker of the House?"  Fabrizio asked, his bushy eyebrows 
furrowed upwards in surprise.

"Quiet.  I want to hear this," President Norton said.  Norton ran an 
informal ship, but it was clear that he was the captain.  At 61, he 
still maintained a youthful and vigorous appearance--a few stray white 
hairs in his chestnut hair were his only concessions to the aging 
process.  A long scar on his left cheek, a souvenir from the jungles of
 Vietnam, enhanced his tough guy image.

"Everybody's gonna say that of' Jimmy's crazy, but he knew what he was 
doing," the young soldier said to the reporter excitedly.  "01' Jimmy's
not crazy, he's a hero.  Those black boys were saying that they were 
gonna frag some white ass, but they ain't gonna frag anybody now." 
Daniel was fidgeting, obviously agitated.

The reporter put his hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him.

"Now, John, I served in the military and know what you're saying, but 
can you tell the people at home what you mean when you say that these 
soldiers threatened to frag other soldiers?"  the reporter asked.

Daniel nodded his head vigorously, still fidgeting.

"They were threatening us with friendly fire," he said.

"So now we've gotta watch the enemy and our backs.  No way I'm gonna 
fight alongside those boys now.  Well, hell, there ain't no way 
anybody's gonna fight alongside those boys, anymore."

"So, John, you heard these African-American soldiers threaten that they
were going to fire at white American soldiers in a combat
situation?"

"No.  I didn't hear it myself.  Jimmy said that some of the guys 
overheard a bunch of'em talkin' in the showers or something'."

Simpson interrupted.

"Andrew, can you ask Mr.  Daniel if he can tell us the full name of the
 shooter and if he can relate how the shooter was apprehended?"

The reporter repeated the questions.

"His name is James Waldren.  That's W-A-L-D-R-E-N.  A true American 
hero," Daniel said.

"How was he apprehended?"  the reporter asked.

Daniel looked grim.

"The MPs shot and killed him.  Right in the heart."

The station cut back to the anchor desk.

"An incredible story developing this morning, folks," Simpson 
chirped.

"A race war erupting in the military--" "Shut that damn thing off," the
President commanded.  Diane Beezer, a petite brunette in her 
mid-thirties with a pageboy hairdo, scurried to turn off the 
television.  The President looked at Secretary Monahan angrily.

"How the fuck did this happen, Royce?"

"Do you mean the shooting or the press leak?"  the Defense Secretary 
asked.

"Both, dammit," President Norton said.

"This is the United States Army.  Where's the discipline?  How can we 
rely upon these men to defend our country?"

La Rosa saw Monahan glance at General Glenn.  The General took the 
cue.

"Mr.

President, if I might answer the question," he said.  Clint Glenn was 
an imposing figure.  He was a tall, broad man, groomed for military 
service from an early age.  His silver hair was neatly trimmed, his 
taut face clean shaven.

"This is an isolated incident.  There are over 1.5 million men and 
women serving in the Armed Forces, over 100,000 at Fort Bragg alone, 
and there are bound to be conflicts.

The rank and file are not Boy Scouts.  We have some violent men.  It's 
remarkable that we have so few incidents."

Monahan joined in.

"Fourteen men were killed," he said.

"Obviously, this is a regrettable incident, but the Army is a risky 
business. We lose troops every week.  Training accidents.  Equipment 
failures.  Armed skirmishes throughout the world.  The most troubling 
thing about this whole episode is that we weren't able to control the 
press.  General, do we know how the information was leaked?"

"The Commanding General at Fort Bragg will report to me at noon," 
General Glenn replied.

"I'll have all the details then.  I intend to find out how that fool 
corporal was allowed to speak to that reporter, as well."

"General, there have been dozens of racial incidents in the Armed 
Forces over the past two years," Tony Fabrizio said.

"The corporal said that the African-American soldiers had threatened to
 shoot at other American soldiers.

Are we getting to the point where relations are so bad that soldier 
can't trust soldier?"

The General s expression was grim.

"You've gotten right to the heart of it, Mr.

Vice President.  The truth is that I don't know, and that's a very bad 
thing.  An army can't function without trust.  I'm meeting with the 
Joint Chiefs this afternoon.  I know that it would be an unprecedented 
step, but I want to speak with them about a contingency plan for 
segregating our forces by race.  This is a matter of national 
security."

The President slammed his fist into the table.

"Dammit, Clint, we're in the middle of a race relations crisis in this
country!"  Norton shouted.

"We can't go threatening to segregate the military.  National security 
or not, I don't even know if I can legally order that.  God, look what 
happened to the publisher of the New York Herald Times a few weeks ago.
He wrote that ridiculous editorial against school integration and he 
ends up dead a week later.  What's going to happen if we try to 
segregate the military?  We might have a mutiny on our hands."

There was a brief silence.  La Rosa cleared her throat.

"May I speak?"  she asked.

"Sure.  What's your take on this, Rosie?"  the President asked.

La Rosa felt all eyes turn to her.

"The only evidence that this incident was triggered by a threat made by
African-American soldiers is the television interview with an obviously
 racist white soldier," she said.

"And he based his accusation on third- or fourth-hand accounts of a
conversation in a shower.  I think we need to discover the truth before
 we start making policy decisions of this magnitude."

"That's a fair point," the President said.

"General, I want you down at Fort Bragg this afternoon, and I want a 
full report first thing tomorrow morning.  Talk to the other Chiefs and
the top brass from each of the Armed Forces.  I need to know if we 
still have a reliable Army. I want to hear what the officers on the 
ground think about race relations on their bases.  Tony, will you and 
Rosie work with the Justice Department to see if I have the 
constitutional authority to order the segregation of our military
forces in a national emergency?"

"Of course," Fabrizio said.

"Mr.  President?"  It was Diane Beezer, the press secretary.

"We'll need to make an official statement to the press."

"Royce, work with Diane on a statement," the President ordered.

"Keep it fuzzy.

Do your best to minimize the damage that was done by that idiot on TV. 
And Connie, get John Daniel over here before I have someone frag his 
Republican ass."

THIRTY-FIVE

BEN'S BUS ARRIVED at the Greyhound station in Washington on time at six
o'clock, Tuesday morning.  He preferred the train, but a one-way bus 
ticket was thirty dollars cheaper, and he was still hoarding cash.  He 
had hoped that today might be his last day as a fugitive, but after 
Saturday's fiasco in Central Park he had learned to lower his 
expectations.

At least Fritz Fox was alive and was expected to recover.  Ben assumed 
this was the Knights' intention.  He had been relieved to learn that he
was dealing with humane maniacs.  He held out some hope for Debby's 
survival.

Ben walked outside the dingy, red brick bus terminal.  The sun would 
not rise for over an hour.  He thought that the city would still be 
asleep; he was surprised to hear a distant cacophony of car horns. 
Washington's morning traffic problem was apparently even worse than New
 York's.

Ben yawned and stretched his limbs.  He was exhausted.  On Friday night
he had slept in the comfort of Adams Thompsons apartment, but had been
too restless to doze more than a few hours.  After the brutal attack
on  Fritz Fox on Saturday, he had spent the next three days dodging in
and  out of the shadows of New York City--the Public Library, the YMCA,
dark  bars and the Salvation Army shelter at night.  Sleep had not come
easy  in a strange bed with dozens of stranger bedfellows.  The four
hours of  sleep on the bus had been the best he had since Thursday
night.

The computers Ben had seen at the Public Library had been a godsend. 
The IBM Think Pad that he had coveted had proven, to this point, 
useless because he had nowhere to connect the modem.  The computers at 
the library did not have the CyberLine program loaded, but they had 
provided access to the Web.  Ben had opened a new email account on one 
of the hundreds of web sites that now offered free email.

He had sent an e-mail message to La Rosa Smith on Saturday and had been
thrilled to get her reply on Monday, when the library reopened.  Her 
reply had been brief:

"Lafayette Square at ten o'clock on Tuesday."  It had not been the warm
response he had hoped for in his best case scenario, but it was not
the  cold shoulder that he arguably deserved.  He trusted that she
would not  betray him even if she still held a grudge from their law
school days.  He had no other options.

Lafayette Square was across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House, 
two miles from the bus station--about a forty minute walk.  Ben was 
still hatless, figuring that his baldness was an asset in a world where
 recognition could mean death. Still, his head was cold.

Ben walked west along K Street, the most direct route to the White 
House.  The neighborhood near the bus station was seedy and the 
environs got progressively worse, as parking lots and warehouses gave 
way to collision shops and dilapidated low income housing projects. 
Automobile traffic along K Street was light, but the sound of car horns
remained constant off to his left, in the direction of Pennsylvania 
Avenue.

Ben walked amidst the projects, greeted by an occasional icy stare from
an unforgiving black face.  His nerve endings jangled, but he fought 
the urge to turn towards the perceived safety of Pennsylvania Avenue. 
He wondered whether his fear was rooted in racism or the unknown or the
animosity he saw in the eyes of strangers he passed.  He did not 
consider himself a racist, but, here, he found himself very aware of 
race.

Before he could decide the issue, he reached Mt.  Vernon Square and the
refuge of the high rise office towers along New York Avenue.  Ten 
minutes later he was at 15th Street, just north of the White House 
compound.

The White House was under siege.  Hundreds of cars and buses clogged 
the surrounding streets, horns blasting, not moving.  Thousands of 
people, mostly African-Americans--shouting, whistling, 
chanting--enveloped the White House compound, which included the 
Treasury Building along 15th Street, the Old Executive Office

Building along 17th Street and the White House in between.  The crowd 
at the rear of the White House lined the black, cast-iron fence that 
encircled the compound and spilled across Pennsylvania Avenue, which 
was blocked off from automobile traffic, into Lafayette Square.

The atmosphere was frenzied.  Men in yellow rain jackets, the acronym 
"NOMAAD" printed in large block letters on their backs, trotted through
the crowd, exhorting them to make their presence felt.  The noise was 
thunderous.  Many carried hand-made picket signs with frightening 
messages: "Death Match 2000," "Bash White Trash!"

"End the Slaughter,"

"Remember Bloody Monday,"

"Have You Fragged Someone Today?"

"Wake Up Hank!"  and countless others.

Ben tried to push his way through the mob in Lafayette Square.  It was
not even seven o'clock, but he was concerned.  The Square was packed
shoulder-to-shoulder.

Rosie would never be able to find him if the mob did not break up by 
ten.

Ben walked around the periphery of the rally.  A sea of humanity had 
completely encircled the White House compound, filled the Ellipse and 
the lawn surrounding the Washington Monument and was spreading to The 
Mall, the three-mile national park that ran from the Capitol Building 
to the Lincoln Memorial with the Washington Monument in the middle.

Pennsylvania Avenue had become a parking lot.  Buses continued to flow 
into the area and were starting to fill Constitution and Independence 
Avenues on either side of The Mall.

It was obvious that something big was happening, but Ben was in the 
dark.  He had not read a newspaper since Sunday, his world view reduced
to his own dire circumstances.  He walked down Constitution Avenue, 
towards the Capitol and against the flow of people hustling 
purposefully towards the White House.  Ben was curious about the reason
 for the hostile rally, but his overtures were met by angry glares.

He tried to stop a heavy set young black woman in front of the National
 Museum of American History, a windowless white marble building.

"What's going on here?"

he asked.

He saw hatred in her eyes.

"Fuck you, Skinhead!"  she answered, pushing Ben back a step.

There was a break in the steady flow of foot traffic; the woman's shout
alerted others to Ben's presence.  He was suddenly surrounded.  He 
walked backwards, slowly, in a tight circle, trapped.  A rush of 
adrenaline left him dizzy, the details of a hundred angry faces and 
voices blended into an anonymous ring of hate.  People shouted at him, 
but he could not hear the words.

A large man emerged from the ring.  He was wearing a Washington 
Redskins football jersey with the number "66" over a sweatshirt.

"What are you doing here.

Skinhead?"  he asked menacingly.

"I'm not a Skinhead," Ben said, raising his open palms to demonstrate 
his peaceful intentions. "I've been on a bus all night, and I don't
even know what's going on  here."

Number 66 scowled.  The crowd growing around them wanted a fight.  He 
pushed Ben.

"Bullshit!  You're not so tough without your posse now, are you?"  he 
said.

"Posse?  I'm a Jewish kid from New York here to see the Smithsonian!" 
Ben said, exaggerating his New York accent.

"I don't want any trouble."

Number 66 looked confused.  The mob taunted him.  The big man 
approached.  Ben stepped back.  Number 66 pushed Ben hard in the chest,
knocking him off balance, then kicked him in the backside, with enough
 force to topple him over.

"Outta my way, Jew boy!"  Number 66 shouted, then pushed his way 
through the ring.

A collective laugh went up from the crowd.  Ben stayed down, his hands 
covering his head.  The ring broke up.  A few people kicked him as they
 passed, then they were gone.

Ben sat on the sidewalk in front of the National Museum of American 
History, still breathless.  A wiry young boy, about fourteen or 
fifteen, approached him.

"Are you okay, mister?"  the boy asked.  He had a kind face.

Ben shook his head slowly from side to side.

"I thought that I was going to die," he said.

"I saw the whole thing," the boy said.

"This crowd is stoked.  They want some white blood on the ground 
today."

Ben started to push himself up; the boy offered him his hand.  Ben 
dusted himself off.

"Thanks.  Nothing broken," he said.  He walked over to a shallow 
amphitheater overlooking a disabled fountain in front of the museum and
 sat down on the granite steps.  The boy followed.

"So what is going on here?"  Ben asked.

"I

really did get off a bus this morning."

"Some crazy white Army dude killed fourteen brothers yesterday," the 
boy said.

Ben's jaw dropped.

"How?  Where?"  he asked.

"Fort Bragg.  North Carolina.  They were eating breakfast and 'barn," 
he shot them.  His own regiment."

"Geez.  Did they catch him?  Did he say why he did it?"  Ben asked.

"They shot that motherfucker dead," the boy said.

"He ain't saying anything.

Some guy on TV said that the brothers had threatened to frag the white 
boys, but he's full of BS.  Ain't no brothers that stupid."

"You're probably right," Ben said.

"So what's the rally for?"

"The NOMAADs think the Klan is looking for a war.  We're here to show 
them that if they want to fight, we're ready to fight back.  Men, women
 and children."

"Who are the NOMAADs?"  Ben asked.

"I saw the name on those yellow jackets for the first time today."

"The National Organization for Mutual African-American Defense.  It's 
like the NAACP with some firepower," the boy said with pride.

Ben's eyebrows shifted up.

"Really.  Are they armed today?"  he asked.

"Naw.  This is just for show.  But were ready."  The boy stood.

"My name is Stanton.  Stanton P. Allgood.  Remember that name.  Some 
day I'm going to be famous," he said, smiling, but with eyes as serious
 as the Grim Reaper.

Ben saluted him. "I don't doubt that for a minute.  I'm Ben," Ben
said, hesitating.

"Ben Pierce."

"I know who you are," Stanton said.

"I saw your picture in the Post on Sunday.

You shaved your head, but I recognized you after you said that you were
 a Jew from New York."

Ben tensed and glanced down the street, scoping out his escape route. 
Then he stared into Stantons eyes.  They were sympathetic, not 
threatening.

"We were talking about you at Sunday brunch.  You didn't do it, did 
you?" Stanton asked.

Ben shook his head.

"No.  I'm being set up."

"You have an honest face," Stanton said.

"That's why that big guy didn't pummel you.  He only kicked you because
 he had to save face in front of his friends."

"You're a perceptive guy, Stanton.  How old are you?"

"Fifteen.  My dads like that, too.  He's a doctor."

Ben smirked.

"Maybe he could sew me up and put me back together."

"Naw.  He's a research doctor," Stanton said.

"At least he used to be.  He's the director of the National Cancer 
Institute now.  He says he's just a paper pusher."

Ben's eyebrows shifted up, again, his interest piqued.

"The National Cancer Institute--isn't that part of the National 
Institutes of Health?"  he asked.

"Yep.  We live close to the NIH campus in Bethesda."

"Does your father work with Calhoun Stewart?"  Ben asked. "Dr. 
Stewart's his boss.  I don't think dad likes him very much.  Do  you
know him?"

Ben shook his head.

"Only in my nightmares," he said.  Stanton looked at him quizzically. 
Ben shrugged, stood up, then said, "Never mind.  I've got a lot of 
problems right now, and he's just a small part of them."  Ben extended 
his hand.

"Stanton, it's been a pleasure talking with you.  Thanks for the 
friendly ear.  I don't feel like I have too many friends right now."

Stanton looked like he wanted to say something, but decided against it.
 He just waved farewell.  Ben stalled towards the street.

"Ben, hang on," Stanton called out.  Ben turned.

"Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"I'm hoping to meet a friend later this morning," Ben said.

"I haven't planned past that."

"My mom and dad say that we should help people in need.  I think they 
would help you."

Ben shook his head.

"Adults aren't like that," he said.

"They don't want to get involved with people.  When they say they want 
to help, it usually means they want to throw money at a problem so that
 they can feel good about themselves.

Honest face or not, your folks aren't going to let a fugitive stay in 
their home."  He almost said something else, then stopped himself.

Stanton finished the thought for him.

"Especially, a white one," he said.

"That's what you were thinking, right?"

Ben was embarrassed by Stanton's directness.  He shrugged.

"My dad's not like that," Stanton said.

"He was active in the civil rights movement in the Sixties.  He's a 
doer, and he's teaching us to be doers, too." "He's taught you well,"
Ben said.

"I'm sure he's proud.  But I don't know who I can trust anymore. 
Thanks  for the offer, but I think it's better for me to stay flexible.
 I'll  probably just sleep in Union Station or a shelter tonight."

Stanton shrugged.

"Have it your way.  We're in the phone book if you change your mind. 
My  father's name is Raymond Allgood."

Ben watched Stanton jog down Constitution Avenue towards the White 
House, then he hobbled slowly in the other direction, towards the 
Capitol.  He wanted to get as far from this crowd as possible.  He 
would return to Lafayette Square at ten, but he already knew in his 
heart that Quixote had larger windmills to tilt.

LA ROSA SMITH WAS HUDDLED in a meeting with Tony Fabrizio, Dan Raskin, 
the Attorney General, and John McArthur, a senior lawyer in the Civil 
Rights Division of the Department of Justice.  They were in Pabrizio's 
office preparing for a scheduled nine o'clock briefing with the 
President.

"You need to keep in mind that the Constitution was written over two 
hundred years ago," Raskin said, his thick Midwestern twang still 
evident after twenty years in Washington.

Raskin, a tall, lanky man, just shy of fifty years old, with black 
hair, dark deep set eyes and thick eyebrows, was leading the 
discussion.  McArthur, a younger, shorter man, nearly bald, with impish
 blue eyes, appeared content with this arrangement.

"The drafters could not predict every situation that might arise," 
Raskin continued.

"We've done a very quick review of a morass of judicial decisions that 
are all over the board.  We--" "Dan, we're all lawyers here," Fabrizio 
interrupted.

"We know these are complicated issues.  But the President needs legal 
advice now.  Tell us what you know and what you don't know.  We're 
looking at a national security emergency, and we may have to make a 
decision without perfect knowledge."

"Fair enough," Raskin said.

"John's been up all night researching the issues.

There are three constitutional rights and powers that are in conflict.
The president's power as commander-in-chief of the armed forces; 
Congress' power to make rules for the government and regulation of the 
armed forces; and the right of the troops to the equal protection of 
the laws under the Due Process clause of the Fifth Amendment."

"Dan, this sounds a lot like the gay rights issues we faced a few years
 ago," Fabrizio said.

"Our solution then was the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell' rule."

"The issues are almost exactly the same, except that the courts are 
more suspicious of racially discriminatory actions than almost any 
other type of government action," Raskin said.

"The courts have upheld the constitutionality of the "Don't Ask, Don't 
Tell' rule because it's rationally related to achieving a legitimate 
government purpose--the need of the military to preserve unit cohesion.
The courts would apply a higher standard to a racially discriminatory 
practice--we would have to prove that the rule is necessary to achieve 
a compelling government objective."

"Do you think that we could satisfy that standard in this case?" 
Fabrizio asked.

Raskin rolled his tongue inside his cheek.

"Yes.  Yes, I do," he said.

"The courts give great deference to the Executive and Legislative 
Branches in military matters.  John, tell them about the cases you 
found."

McArthur blinked, as if jolted from a catnap.  He shifted himself 
upright in his seat.

"The courts have cited unit cohesion as the single most important 
factor in a military unit's ability to succeed on the battlefield," he 
said.

"Given the state of race relations in the Army right now, we think 
there's a strong chance that a court would uphold the Presidents 
decision to segregate the Armed Forces."

La Rosa shook her head in disbelief.

"So the President would not be doing anything clearly illegal if he 
chose to segregate troops based on national security concerns?"  she 
asked.

"That's our opinion," Raskin said. "That decision would be more
controversial than the gay rights decision  because of the sheer
numbers and the current state of race relations,  but the legal issues
are the same.  There would be a legal challenge,  but it would go all
the way to the Supreme Court to be decided."

"And racial tensions would hopefully cool down on the military bases in
 the meantime," Fabrizio observed.

Raskin joined La Rosa and Fabrizio for the President's briefing;

McArthur excused himself.  The conference room in the West Wing of the 
White House was empty when they arrived.  Conrad Tucker, the 
President's Chief of Staff, strode in a few minutes later.  Tucker was 
a short, arrogant man in his mid-thirties with a stylized haircut and 
an ever-present five o'clock shadow.

La Rosa could not stand him.

"We're waiting on Royce and Clint," Tucker said.

"Their helicopter just left the Pentagon."

"That's fine," Fabrizio said.

"Can you have someone bring in some coffee?"

La Rosa suppressed a smile.  Fabrizio despised Tucker, too.  She 
guessed that most of the staff was still stuck in the traffic disaster 
that had paralyzed the downtown area.  Sure enough.  Tucker returned 
five minutes later with a pot of coffee, four cups and a contemptuous 
expression on his face.

General Glenn and Defense Secretary Monahan entered the room on his 
heels.

"Well, well, they've finally got the Boy Wonder doing some productive 
work, hell Connie?"  Monahan said with a smirk.

"Can you rustle up a couple more cups, please?"

The rest of the high-powered group enjoyed a laugh at Tucker's expense.
La Rosa almost felt sorry for him, as he stomped out of the room.  The
incident was forgotten when President Norton stormed in.  His 
expression was grim.  He looked haggard.

Everybody sat--Tucker, Monahan and Glenn to the President's left, 
Fabrizio, La Rosa and Raskin to his right.

"Royce?  Clint?  What's the situation on the ground?"  Norton asked
gruffly.

Monahan deferred to the General.

"Mr.  President, the situation at Fort Bragg itself is bleak," General 
Glenn said.

"Racial tension is high.  The Commanding General has ordered all troops
confined to barracks except for meals and daily drills.  There have 
been fist fights, but no serious injuries.  Unfortunately, my 
conclusion is that the XVIII Airborne Corps situated at Fort Bragg is 
not combat ready.  Trust has completely disintegrated."

The President shook his head and expelled a long, slow breath.

"Dammit.  This is my worst fucking nightmare," he said.

"I've been up thinking about this all night.  There is no acceptable 
solution to this problem.  How bad is it elsewhere?"

"Racial tension is high everywhere, but not to the point of 
jeopardizing national security," General Glenn said.

"The top priority today on every base is damage control.  We're 
organizing open discussions led by trained counselors at the fighting 
group level.  Let the boys get everything out on the table and hash it 
out like men.  I think we can contain this problem to Fort Bragg."

"Well, that's good news," the President said sincerely.

"Have you determined the facts surrounding the incident at Fort 
Bragg?"

"We've taken statements from witnesses," General Glenn said.

"Unfortunately, the witnesses that we really need to hear from are all 
dead. Private Waldren, the shooter, was killed by the MPs.  Several 
white soldiers claim to have heard second- or third-hand reports that 
certain black soldiers were heard joking in the shower about 'fragging 
some white boys."  All of the black soldiers who were identified were 
among the fourteen men killed in the incident.  We have not found one 
soldier, black or white, who will step forward and admit to witnessing 
the incident in the showers personally.  The bottom line, Mr. 
President, is that we will never know whether the incident actually
occurred or was fabricated by racist antagonizers."

"Your recommendation, General?"  President Norton asked.

The General stared into the President's eyes.  His voice was 
unwavering. "We need to segregate the troops at Fort Bragg by race
immediately," he  said.

"The XVIII Airborne Corps is critical to our combat readiness."

La Rosa cringed.  She noticed similar reactions by the others around 
the table. At least the recommendation was limited to Fort Bragg.  A 
national policy of a segregated military would have been cataclysmic. 
Still, she thought the General might be overreacting.

"Dan, can I legally order the segregation of Fort Bragg?"  the 
President asked.

"Mr.  President, the order would probably be challenged in court, but 
we could make a very strong case.  If it's a matter of national 
security, my advice is to go for it," Raskin said.

"By the time the Supreme Court settles the issue, the crisis should be
defused."

The President filled his cheeks with air, then blew it out as he 
searched around the table for a way out of the worst crisis of his 
presidency.

"Rosie, you've looked like you wanted to say something for some time 
now," he said.

"What's on your mind?"

La Rosa hesitated, collecting her thoughts.

"I held my tongue because I was hoping that somebody else would make my
point," she said.  She glanced sideways at Fabrizio, then directed her
 gaze at the President.

"I want to be a good advisor, but I don't want to be thought of as a 
good black advisor.  I'm not the voice of Black America."

"Rosie, you know better than that," President Norton said.

"If you bring some insight into African-Americans with you, God knows 
we can use it, but you've got one of the great young minds in this 
Administration and your advice is always valued.  Now spit it out."  He
 smiled.

"Okay," she said, then swallowed hard.

"Any form of forced segregation, although evenly applied to all races, 
will be seen as a slap in the face to African-Americans.  It's a step 
backwards in what has already been a long, slow march towards equality.
Even if you take extraordinary measures to make the arrangements
equal,  something that was never done under the old separate but equal 
doctrine, AfricanAmericans will be infuriated.  That mob outside will 
seem like a backyard barbecue compared to what you'll see if the 
government appears to be sanctioning a return to the separate but equal
 doctrine."

The President frowned.

"I think we all understand that there'll be a negative backlash," he 
said.

"But we have a threat to our national security here.  I don't like it. 
I don't feel like I have any good alternatives to choose from, but 
that's what makes my job so tough.  I'm the one who has to make those 
difficult choices."

"I don't think Rosie is downplaying the difficulty of the decision," 
Fabrizio said.

"She's just warning that the reaction from the black militant groups 
may be a greater threat to national security than we're thinking. 
Right, Rosie?"

"Yes.  Have you looked at that mob out there?"  she asked.

"That rally was organized in less than a day by the NOMAADs.  This is 
an armed group.  Today they're showing you their strength.  Another day
 they may come to fight."

The President's eyebrows raised.

"Dan, does the FBI have a briefing paper on the military strength of 
this organization?"

"I'd have to check with Gerry Kate on that, Mr.  President," Raskin 
said.

"Do it," the President ordered.

"Let's assume for the moment that the two national security threats are
 equal. What other options do I have?"

General Glenn clenched his teeth.

"Mr.  President, we need to make an example of Fort Bragg," General 
Glenn said.

"We need to demonstrate to the troops stationed across the country that
we're dealing with this situation seriously.  If we take no action 
after fourteen black soldiers are killed in a racial incident, don't we
risk inciting the black groups, anyway?  What in God's name are they 
even asking for out there today?"

The President looked around the table.  Each of his advisors shrugged 
in turn as the President's gaze shifted from one to the next.  Finally,
 La Rosa spoke.

"I'm not speaking for the mob, and I have no inside information here," 
she said warily.

"But I think they're just sending out a warning today.  They're saying 
that they will not stand for terrorist attacks against African-American
 targets.

They're looking for a strong reaction from the White House, for 
evidence that serious steps will be taken to prevent racially-motivated
 attacks without punishing the victims."

"You sound like you have a suggestion," the President said hopefully.

"I think you need to get on national TV tonight and pacify the nation,"
 La Rosa said.

"You need to assure the people that this is an isolated incident by a 
lunatic acting alone.  Tell them about the counseling program 
instituted by General Glenn, that ensuring the combat readiness of our 
troops is our top priority this week.  Give everybody a few days to 
cool down.  Issue a gentle warning that the temporary segregation of 
Fort Bragg is being considered as a last resort if the situation cannot
be brought under control, but only if absolutely required to return
the  troops to combat readiness."

General Glenn was not pleased.

"We can't go telling the world that our troops are not combat ready!" 
he said, his arms flailing up into the air.

"We can tweak the words, General Glenn," La Rosa said.

"The idea is to soothe, let things calm themselves rather than dumping 
fuel on the fire."

The General scowled, but President Norton raised his palm in his 
direction.  He looked around the table.

"What does everybody else think?"  the President asked.

"I think Rosies point is a good one," Dan Raskin said.

"Nobody's thinking rationally now.  Any dramatic action you take will 
inflame one group or the other.  It's like the old legal tactic--when 
in doubt, get a continuance."

Fabrizio and Tucker agreed.  Royce Monahan, the Defense Secretary, 
appeared to be on the fence, perhaps torn between his loyalty to 
General Glenn and not wanting to be on the losing side of a vote that 
was probably already decided.

"It's worth a try," he said finally.  He turned towards General 
Glenn.

"Fort Bragg is locked up tight for now, Clint, and there doesn't appear
 to be any imminent threat of a combat situation."

The General glared at him, but remained silent.

"Connie, ask Diane Beezer to reserve a half hour of network time 
tonight," the President said.

"Tony, do you mind if I borrow Rosie for a few hours to work on my 
speech?"

Fabrizio grinned.

"Just as long as I get her back by tomorrow, Hank."  The President 
turned to General Glenn.

"Glint, would you like to work with Rosie on the national security 
angle?"

"I'll review it before you sign off on it.  Fax it over to the 
Pentagon, Miss Smith," the General said gruffly.

"I've got an army to run today."

He got up from his chair and stalked out of the room, his back ramrod 
straight, his ears flaming red.

BEN HAD CIRCULATED through the crowd in Lafayette Square for three 
hours before giving up hope of meeting with La Rosa He was 
disappointed, more in his bad luck than in her.  He knew the insanity 
of a law firm in the middle of a crisis and imagined that the situation
in the White House today had been far worse.  If what Stanton Allgood 
told him this morning was true, the nation was careening towards a 
civil war, desperately in need of a strong leader at the helm.  There
did not appear to be any easy answers.

Ben wandered about the Mall during the afternoon, then gravitated to 
Union Station as dusk approached.  It was not the sleazy train depot 
that he expected.

He entered through a cavernous, domed area, with an information counter
in the center and a gigantic electronic train schedule suspended from 
the ceiling.

There were only a few benches in the room, and small signs warned 
against loitering.  The station was crowded, mostly with businessman 
and other well-dressed urbanites.

Ben wandered to his left, discovering a plush shopping mall and an 
enormous food court one floor below.  Finally, after searching for 
twenty minutes, he found the passenger waiting rooms.  He looked for a 
place to lie down.

It was only seven o'clock, but Ben could barely keep his eyes open. 
The  seating was designed to discourage vagrants from setting up camp. 
He  found a relatively private stretch of bench near Gate A, three
attached  seats without armrests, and removed his backpack.  The steel
frames dug  into his sore body.

Ben recalled Stanton Allgood s generous but naive offer.  The notion of
calling crossed his mind, but there were a dozen reasons to reject it.
He could not trust anyone.  There was probably a reward for his 
capture.  The FBI had spread the word that he was a dangerous man, a 
drug dealer.  The man who turned him in would be a hero, his name in 
all the newspapers.  The good doctor, while no doubt a man of fine 
character to have raised a boy like Stanton, would not care if an FBI 
death squad snuffed out the life of a fugitive drug dealer.  A white
drug dealer.

Still, the idea was not without appeal.  A warm bed.  A shower.  A 
home-cooked meal.  Intelligent human contact.  The possibility of an 
ally.  That was the thought that nagged at Ben all day.  It might take 
days to schedule another meeting with La Rosa He needed an Internet 
connection to send her a message and check for her response 
periodically.  Even if he got lucky and found a way to send and receive
email, La Rosa might be preoccupied for days with the Fort Bragg 
situation.

Dr.  Allgood's connection to Calhoun Stewart intrigued Ben.  Stanton 
implied that there might be bad blood between them.  Without access to 
Debby or La Rosa or even Woody, he bore his secret alone.  He needed a 
sounding board.  Someone to tell him that he was doing the right thing 
and that it would all work out in the end.  Dr.

Allgood might be a friendly ear, someone he could trust.  He drifted 
off to sleep, weighing the pros and cons of calling the Allgoods.

"Wake up, son!"  Ben heard a muffled voice and felt a powerful hand on 
his shoulder.  He bolted to a wakeful state, expecting to see a police 
officer's gun trained on him.

"Calm down, boy.  I'm a friend."  The voice came from a large 
African-American man.  He appeared to be in his mid- to late-forties 
and was wearing a long, black pea coat.  There was something reassuring
 about the man's face and manner.

Ben squinted as his eyes adjusted to light.

"Who are you?"  Ben asked.

"I'm Ray Allgood.  My son, Stanton, told me I might find you here.  If 
you can look me in the eye and tell me you're innocent, I'm prepared to
 offer you sanctuary."

THIRTY-SIX

RAYALLGOOD'S MAROON BUICK pulled into the driveway at 441 Asbury Lane, 
his Bethesda home, just before ten o'clock.  Stanton rushed out of the 
large, brick house at the sound of the car door slamming shut.

"Hi, Ben!"  he said.  Ben saluted him.

"Dad, the President was just on TV talking about the Fort Bragg murders
 and the rally today!"

"Is he going to start a war?"  Dr.  Allgood asked with genuine concern.
 His expression alarmed Ben.

"I don't think so!"  Stanton said.

"Mom's thrilled.  She thought for sure he was going to do something 
stupid."

"Okay, son, that's great.  Let's get Ben inside and settled, and then 
you can catch me up.  Is your sister home?"  Dr.  Allgood asked.

"No, she's got a sleepover tonight," Stanton said.

Dr.  Allgood turned to Ben.

"Two of my girls are off at college.  Too busy to even come home for 
the holidays.  Diana, my youngest, is something of a gossip, but 
luckily she's out tonight.  You should be safe here."

"Thanks," Ben said, following Dr.  Allgood and Stanton up the front 
walk.  The prospect of accepting the Allgoods' help had both frightened
 and intrigued Ben.

He desperately needed an ally, but his margin for error was zero.  If 
his instinct about the Allgoods' motivations was wrong, he was a dead 
man.  He came to an abrupt halt.

"Why are you helping me, Dr.  Allgood?"  he asked.

Dr.  Allgood stopped and sent Stanton ahead, into the house.

"A couple of reasons.  But for now, let's just say I've been where you 
are now and somebody helped me," Dr.  Allgood said, putting a large 
hand on Ben's shoulder.

"I'll tell you about it when you're rested.  Let's just get you a hot 
shower and a meal."

They walked up the steps and entered the front door.  Dr.  Allgood
located his wife, Claire, and introduced her to Ben.  Claire Allgood 
had long, flowing black hair and a round face highlighted by wide, 
half-moon eyes.  She forced a smile and shook his hand nervously.

Ben assumed her anxiety stemmed from having a suspected violent drug 
dealer in the house, but wondered if her reaction would be any 
different if he was a clean cut white guy courting young Diana.  Was he
imputing his race consciousness to her?  Was he anxious because he was
in a black home or because the Allgoods were strangers or because he 
was exposing himself to risk of capture?

Ben thought that he would feel the same way sleeping in a white 
stranger's home under the best of circumstances.  There was something 
about Dr.  Allgood that inspired trust.  Ben was certain, almost, that 
Ray would not turn him over to the authorities.

Claire Allgood led Ben to the guest room upstairs, which had a private
bathroom, and gave him clean towels.  Ben thanked her profusely, and 
she smiled warmly as she excused herself.  Ben's tension eased with 
this brief glimpse at her soul.

These were good people.

Ben took a long time in the shower.  He found fresh clothes on the bed,
a black sweatshirt and gray fleece pants, with a plastic bag and a
note  to put his dirty clothes in it.  The sweats were a little small,
but it  was refreshing to be wearing something clean.  He found the
Allgoods  sitting at the kitchen table downstairs.  A sandwich sat on a
plate in  front of an empty place at the table.

"That's for you," Claire said, pointing at the sandwich.

"It's roast beef.  And give me that bag.  I don't know whether to wash 
those things for you or just burn them."

Ben laughed.

"So he does smile," Ray said.

"We were beginning to wonder."

"I haven't had much to smile about lately," Ben said, forcing a crooked
 grin.

"But right now you people seem like a godsend."  He munched on the 
sandwich hungrily.

"So what brings you to Washington?"  Ray asked.

"If the FBI is chasing you, this probably isn't the safest spot for 
you."

Ben waited to finish chewing a bite.

"I need to speak to somebody in the White House," he said.

"I was trying to meet a law school classmate of mine in Lafayette 
Square today, but we either missed each other in the crowd or she got 
tied up in the middle of the Fort Bragg crisis."

Ray looked interested.  Claire walked back in just before Ben finished 
his sentence.

"You're tied up in the middle of that mess, too?"  she asked.

"No, mom, he was just saying he couldn't hook up with his friend today 
because she's involved," Stanton explained.

"She works in the White House."

"Really, now.  What does she do?"  Claire asked.

"She works with the Vice President," Ben said.

"Why do you need to speak with someone in the White House?"  Ray 
asked.

"It's a long story," Ben said warily.

"And a dangerous story.  Powerful people want me dead.  If I involve 
you, you might be in danger, too."

Ray and Claire exchanged a meaningful glance.  Ray spoke.

"We were talking about you the other day at brunch.  There were things 
in the newspaper story that didn't make sense.  Harvard law degree. 
Bright future at a wealthy law firm.  No history of drugs or violence. 
That didn't sound like the profile of someone who would get involved 
with dealing drugs and try to kill his mentor.  Claire and I thought it
sounded like a subterfuge.  Are you involved in something else that
the  FBI doesn't want to talk about?  Espionage, maybe?"

Ben was taken aback.  The Allgoods were all leaning forward, waiting 
for his answer.

"No!"  Ben said, louder than he had intended.

"I walked into a conspiracy.  More like pushed into it, but that's 
another long story."

Ben paused, a momentary hesitation while he decided whether to plunge 
into the story, but it had dramatic effect nonetheless.  The Allgoods 
were wide-eyed.

"I'm hesitating again because someone you know may be involved in the
conspiracy," Ben said.

"Stanton told me that you know Dr.  Calhoun Stewart."

"Of course," Ray said.

"I report to him.  He's the director of the NIH.  Let's just say that 
there's no love lost between Cal Stewart and I. Bringing him down would
 be just one more reason to help you."

That was enough for Ben.

"Do you remember the murder of Adams Thompson just after Thanksgiving?"
 Ben asked.

The Allgoods were skeptical at first as Ben told his remarkable tale, 
but as the night wore on and all the evidence unfolded, they too became
 convinced that the Jinx was real.

"So there you have it," Ben said.

"Some very powerful people appear to be on the verge of toppling the 
United States government."

"This is incredible," Claire said.

"There has to be some way to stop them."

"That's why I need to get inside the White House," Ben said.

"The FBI and the police are off limits.  If I write a letter, it gets 
thrown on a pile with all the other conspiracy theories.  They've 
destroyed my credibility, so I can't go to the press."

Ray studied the copy of the Poem that Ben brought down from the guest 
room.

"Something really troubles me about all this," he said.

"Gee, no shit, dad," Stanton said.

"That's not what I mean," Ray said.

"I keep wondering about Cat Stewart's role in this plot.  The others' 
roles are more obvious."

"We're all getting tired," Claire said.  It was nearly three o'clock in
 the morning.

"Why don't we get some sleep and put our heads together again in a few 
hours to see if we can't figure out how we can best help Ben."

"That sounds about right to me," Ray said.

"Ben looks like he's about to fall off his chair."

Ben smiled.

"It has been a few days since I've had a good nights sleep."

They all walked up the stairs to the bedrooms together.  Before they 
parted, Ben turned to the Allgoods.

"I can't thank you enough for your help.  I was lost."

"And now you're found," Claire said.

"And Grace will lead you home.  You're safe here.  The Lord brought you
 to us, and he's watching over you."

"We won't speak a word of this to anyone," Ray added.  He looked at 
Stanton.

"Right, Stanton."

"I'm cool," Stanton said.

Ben gave him a playful punch in the shoulder.

"You better be," Ben said.

The Allgoods chuckled, and appeared to be feeling pretty good about 
themselves.

Ben collapsed on to the bed in the guest room, still dressed in the 
borrowed sweat clothes.  He was asleep before his head hit the 
pillow.

For the second time that evening, Ben was awakened by Ray Allgoods
large hand shaking his shoulder.  Ben emerged from his slum N

her with some difficulty, but without alarm.

"Ben, we need to talk," Dr.  Allgood said.

"Come with me to my study downstairs."

Dr.  Allgood shut the door to the study and took his seat behind an oak
desk with brass and leather accessories.  Ben dropped wearily into a 
chair opposite him.

Dr.  Allgood rumbled for words, unable to look Ben in the eyes.  He 
looked frightened.

"That thought I couldn't grab before ... about Cal Stewart ... I knew 
what it was, I just can't tell anyone about it, but I think it may be 
important," Dr. Allgood said.

"One of the reasons I came looking for you was that Stanton told me 
that Stewart might be involved in your troubles."

Ben was not sure how to handle the situation.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

he asked.

"I'm torn," Dr.  Allgood said.  His eyes met Ben's for the first 
time.

"You're a good man.  I can tell.  I've trusted you enough to take you 
into my home, but I haven't even trusted Claire with this secret."

"Let's talk a little and see where it goes," Ben said.

"You told me earlier that you were once in a similar situation to me 
and somebody helped you."

"I was a little younger than you," Dr.  Allgood said.

"I was active in the civil rights movement in Atlanta in the Sixties. 
Martin Luther King.  When I started out, Martin was like a god to me. 
We were college kids.  We would have followed him anywhere.  But the 
hatred and violence that we saw every day got to me.  The bombings. 
Those little girls that died.  Some of us could not control our rage.

Martin stood above it all like Gandhi.  But civil disobedience was not 
good enough for us.  We broke away and joined a radical fringe 
group."

"Did you attack white targets?"  Ben asked.

"No, we were more interested in organizing an armed defense against 
white hate, much like the NOMAADs are doing today," Dr.  Allgood 
said.

"We went from high school to high school across the South and recruited
 young blacks to join us.

The Klan got wind of our activities, and a few of their boys tried to
intimidate us.  They weren't ready for us to fight back.  We bruised 
them up pretty good."  He smiled at the memory.

"We were working a few towns away the next day when a mob armed with 
clubs came looking for us," Dr.  Allgood continued.

"They cornered us in a community church.

I will never forget the sight of that little pastor holding off an 
angry mob with a shotgun and the grace of God.  A white pastor.  He put
himself at risk to protect me and my colleagues from our 
persecutors."

"Well, I'm sorry that you were ever put in that situation, but I'm glad
 for the perspective it's given you," Ben said.

"It was a relief to share my story with a sympathetic ear tonight."  He
 paused, then changed the subject.

"Are you involved with the NOMAADs?"

"Not directly," Dr.  Allgood said.  His voice became stronger.

"But if the white hate groups start a war, I'll be one of the first to 
sign up to fight.  I'm happy to leave the planning to the younger men 
who still have the passion to devote their lives to such matters.  I've
 encouraged Stanton to get involved."

"Do you think a race war is a real possibility?"  Ben asked.

Dr.  Allgood did not hesitate.

"Yes, I do.  More so after tonight than before."

Ben was confused.

"I thought Stanton said that the President's speech helped to defuse 
the Fort Bragg situation?"

"The President walked through that minefield about as well as any man 
could," Dr.  Allgood said.  Ben saw him swallow hard.

"My concerns deepened while I was listening to your story tonight.  Two
things that didn't mean much to me before have taken on a far greater 
significance."

Dr.  Allgood paused, again.  Ben let the silence encourage him to 
confide his concerns rather than force the issue.

"The first thing was an interview on TV with a soldier at Fort Bragg," 
Ray said.

"A white soldier.  He accused the dead black soldiers of inciting the 
shooter to action when they threatened to 'frag' white soldiers in the 
heat of combat.  The accuser was John Daniel, Jr."

Ben's jaw dropped.

"The Speakers son," he said.

"It upset me, and no doubt all African-Americans, that this racist 
soldier could not support his accusation with any evidence," Ray 
said.

"I think The Speaker's son may have incited another soldier to murder 
those African-American soldiers."

"My god, it's their Final Vengeance!"  Ben said.

"They're trying to start a second civil war," Dr.  Allgood said 
grimly.

"A race war."

Ben was shaken.

"This keeps getting bigger and bigger," he said.

"They failed this time, but who knows what they'll do next."

Dr.  Allgood cast his eyes downward.

"I think I know," he said.

"This is humiliating.  My personal ethics and morals mean everything to
 me, and I've compromised them both."

Ben leaned forward and spoke reassuringly.

"Dr.  Allgood, I owe you.  Anything you say goes no further unless you 
tell me it's okay."

Dr.  Allgood breathed in a gulp of stale heated indoor air for 
strength, then put his life in Ben's young hands.

"Cal Stewart came to me about three weeks ago," Dr.  Allgood said.

"It's all so clear now, but then I had no idea what he was doing.  He 
asked me to approve a grant to Calhoun College.  They didn't follow the
application procedures, which would've taken several months.  The 
research project itself seemed innocuous, except that they were trying 
to circumvent the regulations against experimentation on prisoners. 
That's where he tricked me, dammit."

"What do you mean?"  Ben asked.

"He made me focus on the prisoner issue.  I got all bent out of shape 
about breaking the rules.  After he convinced me that I had to approve 
the grant, he was suddenly concerned about the racial implications of 
Calhoun College, a predominantly white school, experimenting on 
African-American prisoners.  He told me to limit the experiment to 
white prisoners.  It sounded like a reasonable request."

Ben tried to tug on his mustache, only to realize it was no longer 
there.  He stroked his upper lip instead.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," he said.

"But how did Stewart convince you to approve the application?"

Dr.  Allgood put his head in his hands.

"He had pictures.  The only time I ever cheated on Claire.  I love her.
I love my kids.  There was no way I could hurt them like that.  No way
 I could risk losing them."

Ben shook his head.

"Unbelievable.  The devious bastards got an African-American bureaucrat
 to authorize illegal research on white prisoners," Ben said.

"Then one day an anonymous source leaks it to the New York Herald Times
or the Washington Post-- " Dr.  Allgood finished the sentence for 
him.

"And I've triggered the Second Civil War."

THIRTY-SEVEN

LAFAYETTE SQUARE was once again peaceful on Wednesday morning.  La Rosa
Smith strolled along the red brick walkways, her mood exuberant.  The 
President had delivered her speech word for word, and the pundits had 
unanimously proclaimed Norton's performance a success.

"A political tour de force."

"President Norton pulls a rabbit out of his hat."

Part of that success had been attributable to the President's strong, 
soothing presence, but most of it had been her words, her cool thinking
 under pressure.

Even the African-American groups had seen the logic of the President's
conciliatory, understated reaction.  There would be no riots this week.
It was for moments like this that she loved politics.  Small acts with
 grand consequences.

She sat down on a park bench near a statue of Andrew Jackson on 
horseback.

Despite her personal triumph, she felt badly about leaving Ben Kravner 
in the lurch.  After the fiasco on Tuesday had settled down, she had 
sent Ben an e-mail offering to meet him in Lafayette Square at ten 
o'clock this morning.  She glanced at her watch.  It was ten now, and 
the only other people in the Square were a dozen homeless men and women
 and a handful of tourists.

Ben had not responded to the e-mail, and there was no sign of him.  She
was concerned.  Sancho Panza.  Grand quests.  She and Ben had shared a
running joke about tilting at windmills, pursuing the impossible
dream.  She had just beaten the windmill; Ben was fighting for his
life.  He  had abandoned her three and a half years ago--so why did she
feel so  guilty that her life was peaking when his had hit bottom?

"ARE YOU FEELING A LITTLE FEY this morning, Miss Barnett?"  The voice 
of The Spy pierced through the darkness like an invisible knife.  Debby
sighed.  The morning had started off so well.  After not eating at all
on Monday and sparingly on Tuesday, the agents had brought her a
hearty  breakfast this morning.  They had even let her use the bathroom
 upstairs.

She hated The Can.  Of all the indignities she had been subjected 
to--imprisoned in a dark basement, stripped to her underwear, shackled 
to a pole, beaten by Gerry Kate--The Can was the worst.  She had to 
call down an agent, and it was always a male agent, whenever she had to
relieve herself.  Her most private moments.  She cringed at the 
thought.  Now she wondered if they had raised her spirits only so she
would have further to fall.

"I don't know what that means," Debby said warily.

"It's an old Scottish word," The Spy said.

"It's the feeling of one who is doomed."

Debby felt the anger flash through her body.  Her jaw tightened, her 
backbone straightened.  She wondered if The Spy could sense her 
reaction in the darkness.

She barely suppressed a snarl.

"I am a survivor," she said bitterly.

"I will not give up hope until you snuff out my last breath."

"Very good, Miss Barnett."  The Spy clapped his hands, five times, 
slowly.

"Wonderful performance.  Bravo.  Much better than your fathers on the 
day he died."

"My father died in a car accident!  You can't rile me with your lies." 
She was not nearly as convinced as she tried to sound.  The police had 
found no evidence of foul play.  But this man was evil.  He was capable
 of killing--and enjoying it.

"Very well.  Miss Barnett.  Your courage is admirable.  If you don't 
want to hear how your father died like a sniveling coward, I can 
respect that."

Debby had felt little fondness for her father while he was alive.  Andy
Colleen had not been a model father, showing little interest even for
a  non-custodial parent.  For the first time, she realized the enormous
pressure that he had been under.  She wondered why they had killed
him.  It had to be true.  Or was The Spy just trying to confuse her?

"Why did you kill him?"  she demanded.

"Now, now.  Miss Barnett.  I'm not in the mood to talk about your 
father, anymore.

Let's talk about you.  I do hope you're ready to tell me the truth 
today."  She heard him walking towards her, then felt his cold hand 
grab her face.

"I would hate to put another mark on your pretty little face." She
tried to pull away, without success.

"Let go of me," she growled through clenched teeth.

The Spy released his grip.

"Very well, Miss Barnett.  You control your destiny.

Now tell me how you came into possession of the Poem.  The truth!"

Debby startled at the ferocity of The Spy's words.  She had never seen 
his face but could almost envision his wolf-like features in the 
darkness, sharp teeth, glowering eyes, a menacing smile that masked the
heart of a predator.  She could feel him prowling around her,
circling,  waiting to pounce on her first mistake.

"Miss Barnett, you've had two days to think of a better story," he 
said.

"But remember who you are dealing with.  I can smell a lie.  Maybe I'll
toy with you and let you trap yourself like on Monday, maybe not.  The
 truth, Miss Barnett.

The truth!"

Debby knew he was right.  But she also knew that if she gave him 
everything he wanted, she would be of no use to him.  His reaction 
would be violent--but better than the alternative.  She began to 
whimper.

"I told you the truth.  I received the Poem in the mail from my 
father."

"And were there any instructions?"  The Spy asked.  He was standing 
behind her.

"No," Debby muttered helplessly.  She braced herself.  The stiffness of
her body did not lessen the impact.  The Spy's closed fist smashed
into  her face with bone-crunching force as he shouted: "Strike two,
Miss  Barnett!"

Debby shrieked from the crushing pain.  She felt her nose break and the
harsh metallic taste of blood in her mouth.  Then her head bounced off
 the steel pole to which she was shackled and everything went black.

BEN FOUND CLAIRE ALL GOOD ALONE, washing dishes, when he plodded into 
the Allgoods' kitchen at ten-fifty-five.

"Good morning, Ben," she said cheerily. Ben was still groggy.  He
mumbled a greeting.

"Ray went in to the office and Stanton went to a friend's house," she 
said.

"We reminded him not to say anything about you."

Ben felt better after breakfast.  He needed to regroup, plan his 
strategy.  He was safe at the Allgoods' home, but the Knights were 
striking with a fury. Their first attempt to thrust the nation into 
civil war had failed, but it was only a matter of time before they 
struck again.  His life, Debby's life, were meaningless compared to the
 bloody destruction that would be wrought by a race war.

Ben became aware of the sad yearning that lingered just beyond his
consciousness.  He had become so accustomed to its presence that he 
only thought about it when something reminded him of Debby.  He felt 
guilty that he did not think of her more often.  He missed her terribly
and knew that her chances of survival diminished each day it took to 
bring the Knights to justice.

Dr.  Allgood had said the night before that the grant to Calhoun 
College would not be finalized for another week.  It would take another
week or two after that, maybe more, before the experiment could become
operational.  They would need to work with the prison warden, select 
the participants and the control group, and obtain consents from the 
subjects.

If the Knights leaked the details of the experiment before it was 
seriously underway, it would not be a credible reason to trigger a war.
Would it?  The Knights' original intent had almost certainly been to 
trigger the war after JJ Alexander became president, over a year later.
The hastily conceived and ill-fated attempt to start the war at Fort 
Bragg was strong evidence that the Knights had been forced to 
accelerate their plans without adequate preparation.

Still, the reaction to the experiment was largely in their control. 
Ben  was certain that the Knights had ties to the white supremacy
groups.  But he wondered how effective those groups would be in
launching a  full-scale war.  He always thought of the Klan and the
other groups as  vocal but ineffective.  They were run by psychos.  The
religious right. Egomaniacs.

But Ben was hesitant to underestimate The Royal Order of the Millennium
 Knight.

They had power, money and an evil passion.  Somehow the descendants of 
the seven brothers and two sisters of Jimmy MacDougall had taken an 
impossible, vengeful dream and transformed it into nightmarish reality 
over the course of 160 years. Fueled by hate and passion, they had
killed seven presidents.  They had  risen from obscurity to positions
of power over seven generations.  No,

he would be a fool to think that The Royal Order was doomed to fail 
based on their own incompetence.

Ben needed the Internet.  He wanted to try to reach La Rosa one more 
time, but he could not rely on her alone.  There was no time for 
another foul up.  It was time to start gathering supporting evidence on
his own.  If The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight was responsible 
for the deaths of seven presidents, the ancestors of the present day 
Knights would be connected to those presidents or their assassins. 
They  might be lurking on the periphery, but he was going to find
them.

Claire directed Ben to their second telephone line, in Ray's study. 
Ben  placed Adams Thompson's laptop, the sleek, black IBM Think Pad on
the  desk and sat in Dr.  Allgood's upholstered chair.  He signed on to
CyberLine using Thompson's cyber-name and password.  He bypassed the 
RealTime rooms, his usual haunts, in favor of a direct connection to 
the World Wide Web.  He checked the free e-mail account that he had 
established to communicate with La Rosa There was a message from 
Quixote from the night before.

Ben, sorry about today.  I'm sure you figured out the problem.  I'll 
try again at 10am Wednesday in Lafayette Square.  Rosie Ben cursed his 
luck.  It was almost noon.  He sent La Rosa another message requesting 
that she meet him at noon on Thursday.  He thought about sending Woody 
a note, but it was too risky.  The FBI had by now confiscated Ben's 
home computer.  If they had reviewed his email, they knew about Woody 
and would probably be monitoring his telephone line for incoming 
communications.  He frowned, hoping that no harm had come to his
friend.

Ben returned to the World Wide Web.  He was about to undertake a 
monumental task.

It was like researching a complex legal issue.  He needed a point of 
entry into the materials, something related to the topic that would 
point him to additional sources.  He revisited the web site with 
presidential biographies that he had reviewed a few weeks earlier.  The
site offered a brief account of each president's life, some highlights
of his Administration's accomplishments and a sentence, sometimes two,
 about his death.

Ben collected the names of the known presidential assassins and cabinet
members who had served the dead presidents.  Then he used the web 
search engines to find information on each known contact.  He wrote 
down the names of every person that was connected to the first group of
contacts.  After three hours of research, he had not found a single 
person with a name matching the surnames of the Knights.

Ben slammed his fist on Dr.  Allgood's desk.  He did not have time to 
collect volumes of information from obscure sources.  Frustration was a
feeling he often had when he was doing legal research.  An eager 
associate at a law firm could run up a substantial bill following up 
dozens of blind leads.  He recalled an incident in his first month at 
Kramer, Fox and smirked.  A partner had asked him to research what 
seemed like an obscure point of corporate securities law.  He had 
reviewed hundreds of cases and prepared a thirty-page memorandum.  He 
had spent 75 hours on the issue, which had cost the client over ten 
thousand dollars, only to find out that most of the research had 
already been accumulated in a law review article.  Kramer, Fox had 
billed the client, anyway. Nobody noticed.

Then an idea struck him.  Woody had heard of the 20-Year Jinx in high 
school.

Other people must have known about it, too.  Maybe somebody else had 
been intrigued enough to do the research.  It was a lark.

Ben entered the word "jinx" into the web search engine.  It returned 
4,766 hits.

The hits were sorted by relevance, so Ben was prepared to scan the 
first few dozen.  The first several items were about a musical group 
named JINX.  Hi-Jinx, a fictional super-heroine inspired another.  A 
few sports articles.  One site called "The Jinx" set Ben's heart 
aflutter, but it was only about a newsletter written by a very lonely 
man who collected odd bits of trivia.

Ben tried another search: "20 Year Jinx."  He thought that this would 
produce a narrower range of web sites, but the search produced almost 
eight million hits.

The first three hits were irrelevant--a car racing site, a sports 
story, another sports story.  Then his heart almost stopped.  The 
fourth hit was entitled: "The President is Dead."

Ben perused the short summary.  It was a link to an article written 
five years earlier about the 20-Year Jinx, which was described as a 
phenomenon that manifests itself when, about once every twenty years, 
the president of the country dies in office.

Ben clicked on the link.  His excitement grew as he started to read the
first paragraph: "You will learn more about the 20-Year Jinx in this 
publication than anyone has known to date."  The article went on to 
list the presidents who died in office and described, in detail, how 
they died.

But then the story went downhill fast.  The author was deranged.  Ben 
read the entire essay, which devolved into ran rings about how strange 
men visited the author during the night since he was a child and 
planted ideas in his head.  He claimed to have been an unwitting 
participant in the Kennedy assassination through telepathic 
communication.  Ben's heart sank.

Then he noticed a detail that had initially escaped his eye.  The last 
line of the article read: "If you have any other interpretation I would
be happy to listen."  The line was footnoted.  The footnote said: 
"E.g."  see the writings of Prof.  Maxwell Caldwell."

Ben entered a web search for "Maxwell Caldwell."  The search produced 
almost ninety thousand hits--capturing any site that used the words 
"Maxwell" or "Caldwell," but hopefully prioritizing any site that used 
both.  The very first one was an entry for West Plymouth State 
College.

The web site for the college was only a mouse-click away.  It was a 
small state college in the Berkshire mountains of western 
Massachusetts.  A list of faculty members included one Maxwell 
Caldwell, a tenured professor of history.  Ben tried to find additional
information about Professor Caldwell on the college's web site,
without  success.

Ben looked at his watch.  Half past four.  It was nearing the end of 
the academic day.  He found Claire preparing dinner in the kitchen.

"Would you mind if I made a long distance call or two?"  Ben asked 
meekly.

"Do you think that's a good idea?"  she asked.

"You said that the FBI would probably be monitoring calls to your 
friends and relatives."

"I'm just following up a lead I found on the Net," he said.

"No risk to me or you."

Claire told Ben to make all the calls he needed.  He called West 
Plymouth State College and asked for Professor Caldwell.  The operator 
connected him.

"Hello," a gravelly male voice answered.

"I'm trying to reach Professor Maxwell Caldwell," Ben said.

"This is he," the voice said.

"Who am I speaking with?"

Ben hesitated.

"My name is Nathan Pierce," he said.

"I'm doing some research on something called the 20-Year Jinx, and I 
came across your name."

"I haven't written about that for years," Professor Caldwell said, his 
voice laden with suspicion.

"That project destroyed my reputation.  People called me a crackpot. 
My  advice is to find another topic for your paper.  There's nothing 
there."

Ben wondered if the Professor was merely suffering from the 
disenchantment of a failed project.  Could the Knights have gotten to 
him?

"What was your research about?"  Ben asked.

"I tried to find an explanation for the deaths of seven presidents 
elected every twentieth year from 1840 through I960.  The pattern 
seemed too significant to be coincidental.  I collected data to support
 a conspiracy theory.  Reams of data.

But there's nothing.  I did not find one connection between any two 
deaths."

"Why did you stop researching?"  Ben asked cautiously.

"I became a laughingstock," Professor Caldwell said sadly.

"The fate of so many conspiracy theorists.  My colleagues didn't think 
it was serious research.  I was denied tenure at an Ivy League 
university the name of which I swore shall never again cross my lips 
and have toiled in relative anonymity for the past twenty-five 
years."

"Nobody ever threatened you?"

"Blast it!  If only they had," the Professor said.

"Then I would have known I was on to something."

Ben could not contain the excitement in his voice.

"Professor, you were on to something.  I've stumbled upon a conspiracy 
that would explain the 20-Year Jinx, and you may have the evidence to 
help me prove it!"

THIRTY-EIGHT

BEN WAS BLEARY-EYED.  It was only four o'clock on Thursday afternoon, 
but he had been driving for nearly ten hours.  He had wanted to leave 
for West Plymouth immediately after speaking with Professor Caldwell on
the telephone, but Claire Allgood had convinced him that he needed at 
least one more decent night's sleep before he attempted a long trip. 
Ben smiled.  Something about Claire reminded him of his mother. 
Everybody's mother.

The Claire-induced pause had given Ben time to reflect and plan rather 
than act impulsively.  Caution was critical when a solitary error in 
judgment could doom him.  He had sent an e-mail message to La Rosa 
canceling their meeting that morning and asking her to send him her 
schedule for the next few days.

Ray and Claire had been eager to participate in Ben's cloak and dagger
adventure vicariously through their car.  They had insisted that he 
borrow Claire's white Ford Taurus.  The trip had been uneventful, but 
it took longer than it normally might have because Ben had chosen a 
circuitous inland route, via Interstate'81, to avoid the heavily 
traveled northeast corridor on Interstate 95.  The pilgrimage had 
seemed even longer because Ben anticipated the holy grail at its end.

West Plymouth State College was nestled in the northwest corner of
Massachusetts in the town of West Plymouth.  The last hour of Ben's 
trip had been spent on narrow mountain roads that weaved dangerously 
along the steep precipices of the Berkshire Mountains.  Some of the 
vistas had been stunning, but Ben eyed the darkening sky warily.

Professor Caldwell sprang from his chair when Ben knocked on his open 
office door.

"You must be Mr.  Pierce," he said excitedly, emerging from behind his 
cluttered desk.  He shook Ben's hand vigorously.

"I expected you earlier.  I was afraid you weren't going to come."

The gravelly voice, laced with just a hint of a New England accent, was
the same one Ben had heard on the telephone, but the Professor was not
as Ben had envisioned.  He had expected an older man with stooped 
shoulders, thinning white hair, chiseled New England features and 
professorial dress.  Instead, he found before him a vibrant, muscular 
man of about fifty-five with thick brown hair, cut short in a military 
style, and a penchant for short sleeve dress shirts.

"It's a pleasure to meet you.  Professor Caldwell," Ben said, 
smiling.

"I may be more eager to hear your story than you are to tell it."
Professor Caldwell looked at Ben oddly.

"You look very familiar," he said.

"Were you a student here?"

"No," Ben said tentatively.  He had hoped to avoid giving the Professor
too many details, but he now realized that was not going to be 
possible.  There were so many emotions in the Professors 
eyes-excitement, curiosity, suspicion, fear.

Like a child about to embark on his first ride on the big 
rollercoaster.  This man had lived in exile from serious academia for 
twenty-five years, and now he was on the verge of redemption.  He 
wanted to know everything.  He deserved to know everything.

"Can we close the door?"  Ben asked.

The Professor shut the door, then sized Ben up, none too discreetly, 
top to bottom.  Ben was wearing the second hand clothes from the 
Salvation Army thrift shop, now fresh after a rigorous cleaning by 
Claire Allgood, but ragged nonetheless.  The Professors eyes lingered 
on Ben's shaved scalp.  His expression changed to serious.

"You're not one of those lunatics are you?"  the Professor asked 
warily.

"A few years ago some fool came in here and got me all excited again 
over nothing.  He sounded serious at first, then started talking about
extraterrestrials and psychic phenomena.  Blast it!  I can't take the 
highs and the lows like that."  He tapped his chest twice with his 
fist.

"Bad ticker."

"I'm deadly serious and as sane as they come," Ben reassured him.

"This is a real live conspiracy.  It involves some of the most powerful
 men in the country."

The Professor still looked skeptical.

"And how did you come to be aware of this powerful conspiracy?"  he 
asked.

Ben paused, inviting himself to sit in an unpainted oak chair facing 
the Professor's metal desk.  The Professor followed his lead, walking 
back behind the desk and clearing space on the cluttered desktop to 
obtain an unobstructed view of Ben's face before sitting. Ben realized
that his threshold for trust had lowered dramatically in a  world where
every human contact was fraught with risk.  He had no  choice.  He
needed Max Caldwell even more than Max Caldwell needed him.  As had
become habit, Ben instantly calculated alternate escape routes  in the
event the conversation took an unexpected turn.

"I'm a trusts and estates lawyer in New York City.  Do you remember the
 Adams Thompson murder just after Thanksgiving?"

And so Ben launched into his second retelling of his incredible tale in
as many days.  Professor Caldwell was spellbound.  The truth was more 
fantastic than any theory he had dared to construct in all his years of
research.  The Professor was skeptical at first, just as Woody and the
Allgoods had been, but his doubt melted away more quickly than the 
others, perhaps because of his burning desire for redemption.

When Ben was done telling the story and all of the Professor's 
questions had been answered.  Max Caldwell pulled out a file from a 
drawer in his desk.  The red binder was six inches thick.  He dropped 
it on the desktop, producing a dramatic thud.

"Eight dead presidents," he said.

"Seven years of work.  I haven't looked at this file in fifteen, maybe 
twenty years."

The Professor fondled the file preciously, hesitant to initiate the 
review of its contents, perhaps savoring the moment before years of 
ignominy were vindicated, perhaps fearing that the moment would be 
lost, his dream dashed once again.  Ben leaned forward like a starving 
man watching steak sizzle on a grill.

"I'm almost afraid to look," the Professor said with genuine 
apprehension.

Ben grinned his crooked grin.

"I have a good feeling about this, Max," he said.

They had become familiar during the course of the afternoon, now going 
into the early evening, perhaps even friends.

"A real good feeling."

The Professor ran his hand through his bristly hair, then smiled.

"Perhaps you're right, young Ben, perhaps you're right.  Let's dive 
in." The Professor removed several piles of paper from his desktop,
then  withdrew eight smaller manila folders from the red binder.  He
spread  them out across the surface of the desk in a fan fold
pattern.

"Pick a card, any card," he quipped.

The folders held a remarkable collection of data about each of the 
eight presidents who died in office, including Zachary Taylor, whose 
death fell outside the scope of the twenty-year pattern that had first 
intrigued Max Caldwell when he was a graduate student in history at the
still undisclosed Ivy League institution that spurned him.  The 
Professor had charted each president's family members, friends, 
business associates, cabinet appointees, political enemies, doctors, 
lawyers, household staff and any other acquaintances or contacts that 
he could find.  Then he had collected information about each of those 
contacts, including hometowns, schools and colleges attended, family
members and any other persons that might have exerted influence.  A 
similar collection of data had been assembled for each known 
assassin.

The precise circumstances of each president's death were set out in far
more detail than Ben had seen.  It was difficult to believe that one 
man had assembled all of this information without the benefit of the 
Internet.  The total amount of data was mind boggling and, to the 
untrained eye, completely unconnected.

But when Professor Caldwell and Ben scrutinized the records for links 
to the suspected Knights, the work was quick.  A man named Alistair 
Glenn was a cook in the White House during the short Administration of 
William Henry Harrison.

Harrison was reported to have died of pneumonia, but poisoning now 
sounded like a reasonable alternative.  They did not have the resources
to determine if Alistair Glenn was the ancestor of Glint Glenn, The 
General, but the emerging pattern suggested that this was merely a 
formality that could be confirmed by President Norton's analysts.

None of the Knights' surnames appeared in the Zachary Taylor folder. 
The diaries of John Wilkes Booth, Abraham Lincoln's assassin, indicated
that Booth had been a spy with the Confederate army and had
aspirations  of abducting or assassinating President Lincoln as early
as the summer  of 1864.  One of Booths Confederate army friends had
been Stephen  Andrew, a captain in a regiment of Carolina militiamen,
and probably an  ancestor ofTy Andrew, The Senator.

James Garfield had been killed by Charles J. Guiteau.  Guiteau had a 
long history of unstable behavior.  He had been an itinerant failure 
who had sought careers in law, theology and politics.  He purponedly 
had shot Garfield after several months of unsuccessfully lobbying for 
various high level government positions, including the ambassadorship
to Vienna, a position he had been unqualified to hold.

Barnaby Daniel, a State Department staff member, had lived in the same 
boarding house as Guiteau and had stated "despairingly" to inves 
tigarors that perhaps he had encouraged Guiteau's delusional behavior. 
Guiteau had pleaded insanity to the assassination, claiming that he was
"God's man on earth" and that the assassination was "divine 
inspiration."  The defense had failed, and Guiteau had been hung.

President McKinley had been shot by Leon Czolgosz at the Pan-American
Exhibition in Buffalo, New York.  Czolgosz was an anarchist.  None of 
his radical colleagues had appeared to be connected to the ancestors of
the Knights. However, one of the Secret Service agents guarding 
McKinley was Bryan Kate. Interestingly, Czolgosz had admitted that he 
had acted alone in the killing, although there had been confirmed 
reports that the Secret Service agent, Kate, had been distracted by 
another man in the crowd just before McKinley was shot by Czolgosz. 
That man was never identified.  Bryan Kate was present at Czolgosz's 
execution.

Warren G. Harding was thought to have died of either a heart attack or 
a stroke.

His wife had not permitted an autopsy.  President Harding was rumored 
to have had a number of sexual affairs, and there had been speculation 
at the time of his death that his wife had poisoned him.  This was 
never proven.  However, Mrs.

Harding's personal physician had been Dr.  Theodore Stewart.

A brain hemorrhage purportedly had felled Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 
and no potential links to any of the Knights could be found to support 
a contradictory theory.  Ben and the Professor found this hole in their
theory disheartening, but the balance of the data so overwhelmingly 
supported the conspiracy that they dismissed it.  It was not so 
difficult to imagine that one or two links in a chain 160 years old 
would be broken.

Professor Caldwell had not researched Ronald Reagan's Administration, 
but President Reagan had also survived two terms, despite having been 
shot early in his first term.  It was possible that a connection would 
be found between the Knights and John Hinckley, Jr."  Reagan's 
assailant, but, still, a second attempt had never been made.  The 
conspiracy was not infallible.

The pattern resumed in the Kennedy file.  Kennedy had been shot by Lee 
Harvey Oswald.  Caldwell's folder was filled with information gathered 
in support of the numerous conspiracy theories that had emerged after 
the assassination of JFK which had in fact been his original 
inspiration.  Caldwell's own research showed that Oswald had been
employed by a Dallas businessman, George Alexander, for a period
before  the assassination, suggesting that perhaps the Mafia, Fidel
Castro and  the military-industrial complex had indeed been innocent of
any  involvement.

Ben's stomach rumbled ferociously by the time they finished reviewing 
the files.

It was nearly ten o'clock.  He had not eaten since early afternoon. 
The Professor was elated.  He did not seem to notice that they had
worked  through dinner.

"This calls for a cigar," the Professor said, reaching into a humidor 
on the shelf beside his desk.  He slid the cigar back and forth under 
his nose, a look of pure joy locked on his face.

"My only vice," he said, winking.

"Do you smoke?"

"No, thanks," Ben said.  Ben was an ardent non-smoker.  But this was a 
day to make allowances for small peeves.

"But don't let me stop you."

The Professor took a long drag on the cigar.  The small office quickly 
filled with foul, blue smoke.

"This is incredible!"  he said.

"All that time I was right.  So many of my colleagues looked down their
 noses at me.  Blast it!  I can't wait to see their faces now."

The Professors exuberance concerned Ben.  There was still a long way to
go before this conspiracy was broken.  Ben had purposely neglected to 
tell Professor Caldwell about his discussion with Ray Allgood and the 
frightful conclusion that the Knights were pushing the nation to the 
brink of civil war. Caldwell was content knowing that the presidential 
deaths were linked.  But if he carelessly bragged about his new found 
success to the wrong person, the Knights might become alarmed and set 
their end game in motion immediately. Dammit, too many people know 
about the plot already!

"Max, I know you're excited about all this, but we still need to keep 
it quiet," Ben said.

"The FBI is after me, and they'll be after you, too, if this gets 
out."

"Well, blast it, we've got to tell somebody!  We've got to expose these
bastards!"  Caldwell said.

"I'm on top of it," Ben said.

"I have a contact in the White House.  But I need you to stay quiet 
until the President deals with this as he thinks best.  These are 
powerful, vengeful men. They may do something crazy if they think 
they're cornered."

The Professor took another long drag on his cigar.  He looked 
thoughtful.

"Well, then I'm going with you to Washington.  This is my baby, too. 
Let's go right now!"

Ben's mind darted.  He did not like this idea at all.  His luck had 
held out with him working alone and calling the shots.  He liked Max 
Caldwell, but he had an ego--an ego that might get in the way of Ben's 
instincts.  Ben glanced at his watch.  The Knights would be meeting in 
the Millennium Nights room in less than two hours.

"There's something I need to do tonight," Ben said.

"I have to make an Internet connection by midnight."

"Fine, fine," the Professor said.

"We'll go first thing tomorrow.  You can stay with me and my wife 
tonight."

The Professor was not going to let Ben out of his sight.  His 
adrenaline seemed to be pumping, maybe for the first time in twenty 
years.  He wanted to be the Hero.  Ben relented.

"Fair enough," he said.

The Professor's wife was already asleep when they arrived at the 
Caldwells' home, not five minutes from the college.  It was a quaint, 
two-bedroom house with yellow shingles and a white picket fence 
encircling the perimeter of the yard.

The front door opened into the living room.  The Professor hung their 
coats on a coat stand in the corner behind the door.

The room was sparsely furnished, the hardwood floors making it seem 
even more so.  A soft, blue and white plaid couch was to be Ben's bed 
for the evening.

Matching brass lamps stood guard over the couch, perched on two pine 
end tables, one of which shared the space with a telephone.  The
Professor told Ben to use the telephone line for his Internet 
connection.

The Professor retired for the evening after a brief meal of ham 
sandwiches and potato chips, and Ben immediately hooked up the laptop 
in the living room.  Once again he resisted the temptation to e-mail 
his friends and family.  He found an e-mail from Quixote waiting for 
him.

Ben, this is my schedule for the next few days.  Things seemed to have 
calmed down.  You can call me at my direct extension in the Old 
Executive Office Building at (202) 555-7679.

Thursday: In and out ofojfice (meetings) Friday: Meeting 9-12; free 
12-6; New Year's Eve Party @ Kennedy Center Saturday/ Sunday Family 
visits (e-mail me) Monday: No scheduled meetings Rosie Ben made a 
mental note of her schedule, then opened the CyberLine program using 
the cyber-name "The General," the last symbol being the number one 
rather than the letter "I."  It was almost midnight.

He entered the RealTime area and found the Millennium Nights room.

It was still empty.  His heart began to race.  He desperately wanted to
enter the room.  He had the password.  He needed to know their plans. 
Dammit, he needed to know!  They had already tried to trigger a 
rebellion once.  Was the Calhoun College research project their only 
other planned event?  Did he have a week to stop them?  A month?  A 
year?  Ben hated uncertainty.  If he knew the probabilities of the 
relevant events, he could make an informed decision.  Now he was
guessing.

The Doctor was the first to enter the room.  Ben's doubts returned. 
What if they detected him?  Did The General have a distinctive cyber 
style that Ben would not be able to mimic?  Did he participate actively
in the discussions or was he passive?  The Heir Apparent entered the 
room.  Then The Senator.  The Caretaker.

The Speaker.  The Spy.  Only The General was missing.

He had to make a decision.  What was the downside risk?  They would 
change to a new room or a new mode of communication.  Any hope of the 
authorities trapping them in the room would be lost.  But they could 
not locate Ben based on a RealTime chat communication.  They could only
track the cyber-name "The General" to Adams Thompson's account and
find  that the account was logged on from a remote location.  What was
the  upside?  He might learn a key fact or the status of the Calhoun
College  research project or another planned incident that he had not
yet  uncovered.

There was no choice.  He had enough evidence now to prove the Knights
were conspiring to commit treason.  Even if they adopted a new, secure
means of communication, they could not escape their fate.  The real 
risk was that Ben or the White House might be too slow to act--many 
people would die if the Knights incited the race-based militias to war.
He had already lost two valuable minutes.  He mouse-clicked on the 
Millennium Nights room.  A pop-up window requested the password.  He 
typed "TipTy2000."

Moderator: "The General" has entered the room.  The Heir Apparent: 
General!

You're early today.  The General: So it seems.

The Heir Apparent: Fine.  Let's get started.  We've had a busy week. 
Who wants to start?  General?  Spy?

The Spy: No communications from BFK since escape last Friday. 
Continuing to monitor close contacts.  DB remains in Maryland safe 
house.  Holding back info.

Will crack next session.

The Senator: Have you harmed her?

The Spy: A little battered and bruised.  She knows last chance is 
coming.  Let her think about it a few days.  I may do some skiing after
 Super Conference.

The Senator: And if she tells you what you want to hear?

The Spy: She'll stay alive at least until story confirmed.  We'll play 
by ear after that.

The Heir Apparent: General, why don't you brief us on the Fort Bragg 
affair?

The Caretaker: Before The General does that, I think that we should 
take a moment to recognize The Speaker's son for the outstanding job 
that he did in provoking the incident.

The Doctor: And for his performance on national TV.

The Heir Apparent: Hear, hear.  You'll slap young John on the back for 
us, won't you now, Speaker!

The Speaker: Thank you, gentleman ... Indeed I will.  I'm mighty proud 
of that boy.

Moderator: "The General" has entered the room.  Moderator: "The 
General" has left the room.

Ben's heart was in his throat.  He had known that his exit would not be
invisible, but he had hoped to leave the room before The General 
entered.  But he was hypnotized by the discussion as, breathless, he 
watched his theory confirmed beyond doubt.  Perhaps the momentary 
overlap, when there were two Generals in the room, would be attributed 
to computer error.

The Heir Apparent: What was that?  The Senator: It looked like a 
computer blip.

The Spy: Have you ever seen a computer blip like that in all the years 
we've been meeting here?  That was an intruder.

The Senator: But the program won't allow two people with the same name.
 I tested it once to make sure.

The Spy: Look carefully at the two names.  Last letter slightly 
different. Number "I" vs.  letter "I."  BFK has made his first, and 
last, mistake.

The General: What's going on?

The Spy: Imposter entered room with cyber-name almost identical to 
yours.  It must be BFK.

The General: Was any information compromised?

The Heir Apparent: He probably knows that we were behind the Fort Bragg
situation.

The Spy: I've got an agent with 24-hr CyberLine contact.  We'll know 
the point of presence where BFK connected within the hour.

Moderator: "The Spy" has left the room.

The Senator: That boy concerns me.  The longer he's out there, the 
better the chances that he finds a sympathetic ear.

The Heir Apparent: Hell, he's just desperate.  He has nowhere to turn. 
He can't look to the authorities for help.  Fritz Fox will be in the 
hospital for a couple of weeks.  He doesn't have enough credibility to 
go to the press.  What's he going to do, write a letter to the 
President?

They get a dozen letters from these nuts every week.  Relax.  Let's 
stay on alert, but we can't let this paralyze us.  The Spy will take 
care of Kravner shortly.

The Senator: I certainly hope so.  I'm not sure that we can mobilize 
quickly enough if our hand is forced in the next few weeks.

The Heir Apparent: General, why don't you brief us on the Fort Bragg 
situation and then we can work through our contingency plans.

The General: The situation at Fort Bragg has cooled down considerably. 
I tried to escalate the tension by recommending segregation of the 
troops at Fort Bragg, but the President chose to accept other advice. 
If we view the incident as a first volley in a long war, it was 
successful.  The reaction of the men indicates that the racial 
divisiveness runs deep.

The Heir Apparent: And the reaction by the NOMAADs suggests that they 
can be provoked.

The Senator: But is it a war we are certain we can win?  The rally at 
the White House was an impressive display of force.

The General: We'll need to gauge the success of the Super Conference 
this weekend.  If we can unify the white supremacy groups, we may be 
able to assemble an army of over 100,000 men.  That's a powerful force.
 Keep in mind that the

U.S.

Army only has about 500,000 men.

The Speaker: Do you have an estimate of the NOMAADs' manpower?

The General: We think that they've trained about 50,000 men.

The Speaker: There must have been more than that at the rally alone. 
And they assembled on only one day's notice.

The General: There were a lot of women and children in that crowd.  A 
lot of old men, too.  You need young men to fight a war.

The Heir Apparent: General, how quickly after the Super Conference 
could we mobilize an army?

The General: That depends upon our initial objectives.  It would take a
few days for me to work up a battle plan.  We need to organize the 
troops.  A limited fighting force could probably be assembled and 
trained in two to three weeks if properly motivated--a few months to 
train the entire army.  I've been laying the groundwork for 
participation by U.S. military personnel, but I was working under the 
assumptions that we had another year and that we would control the
presidency.  We should not count on that support right away.

Moderator: "The Spy" has entered the room.

The Heir Apparent: I don't want to commit to an immediate attack when 
we address the Super Conference, but we do need to organize a quick 
strike as a contingency plan.  If Kravner is not apprehended, we need 
to be prepared to strike at the first hint that we've been compromised.
What targets would we attack if it were only possible to prepare for a
 limited engagement?

The General: NOMAAD HQ in Washington.  If we take out their leadership,
they'll be demoralized.  A single strike to one of their training 
compounds might cause the rest of their troops to desert.

The Caretaker: Would it be possible to organize an attack by January 
17?

The General: Possible, but not recommended.  Why?

The Caretaker: Martin Luther King Day, There will probably be large 
rallies. The black leadership will be concentrated.  And the emotional 
impact could work for us two ways--motivating our troops and 
demoralizing theirs.

The Doctor: Would the Experiment be far enough along to provide an 
effective trigger for the hostilities by mid-January?  Allgood has 
signed the paperwork, but The Caretaker won't even have the check until
 early next week.

The Caretaker: I've already spoken to the warden at the state prison. 
He's a good old boy, and he's prepared to work with us.  We can start 
interviewing candidates next week and start a test group the week after
 if we push it.

The Heir Apparent: Push it.  Hopefully, we won't need to pull the 
trigger, but we need to have the gun cocked, I don't want to die in a 
blaze of glory.  If we start this war, I want to win it.  We can't do 
that without the public's sympathies, if not their support, and we 
can't gain their sympathies without a plan.

The General: I'll start preparing something that we can present at the 
Super Conference.

The Spy: We won't need them.  BFK logged on to CyberLine this PM using 
Pub's account.  Accessed network from Pittsfield, MA.  Albany, NY field
office working with MA, NY and VT state police to set roadblocks 
tomorrow AM.  BFK has made a fatal mistake.

THIRTY-NINE

BEN AND PROFESSOR CALDWELL were mired in a traffic jam on Wednesday 
morning, and they had not even left West Plymouth.  A light snow was 
falling.

"Is there usually so much traffic this early?"  Ben asked.

"We get a lot of skiers during the Christmas break.  But that jam up is
northbound on Route 7, heading into Vermont," the Professor said 
pointing ahead to a gridlocked intersection.

"Usually, traffic gets tied up southbound, but not until later in the 
morning. There's probably a wreck."

"Well, lucky for us," Ben said, as he steered the Allgoods' white 
Taurus through the intersection into the southbound lane on Route 7. A 
thin film of snow covered the road.  Ben gripped the steering wheel 
tightly.  A small line of cars formed behind them.  The Professor was 
in a jolly mood, pointing out Mount Greylock, the highest point in 
Massachusetts, then one ski resort or historical site after another. 
Ben turned on the radio.  The Professor did not take the hint, tuning 
the radio to a local Pittsfield station as he continued to chirp away 
merrily.

"--is calling for snow, snow and more snow!"  the radio announcer said
cheerfully.  He was even more annoying than the Professor.

"We're expecting another six inches today, which will leave us with a 
soft powder base of 22 inches.  Terrific news if you're hitting the 
slopes, not so good if you're stuck commuting to work!  Let's hope 
those overworked, under-appreciated boys in the Transportation 
Department can get those roads cleared for tonight's New Years Eve 
festivities!  And if you're leaving the Pittsfield area this morning, 
leave a little extra drive time-we've just gotten a report that the 
state police are stopping traffic all across the area to check for snow
tires.  If you don't have 'em on by now, you're looking at a fifty 
dollar fine!"

"That must have been the reason for the traffic jam up in West 
Plymouth," the Professor said.

"The Vermont border is just a mile north of that intersection."

"Geez, you'd think the Massachusetts state police would be checking 
cars coming into the state, not going out," Ben said, his voice 
trembling ever so slightly.

Even a routine traffic stop carried life threatening risk.  He did not 
have false identification.  He was driving a stranger's car.  And one
other doubt nagged at him.

"Max, do you know anything about the Internet?"  Ben asked.

"A bit.  I tinker around some with my computer," the Professor said.

"Last night I logged on to CyberLine on someone else's account.  I 
entered a chat room using a new cyber-name.  I was pretty sure nobody 
could trace my location, but now I'm starting to get a little 
paranoid."

"No, you're right," the Professor said.

"At least not to the precise telephone line.  But CyberLine would have 
a record of the point of presence that you accessed, which would be 
Pittsfield unless you dialed long distance."  The Professor chuckled.

"You don't think this snow tire check is just for you, do you?"

Ben's silence was his answer.  He was troubled.  He no longer believed 
in coincidence.  Entering the Millennium Nights room had been a 
mistake.

"Nonsense, boy, you are being paranoid," the Professor said.

"It's just a snow tire check.  One, two, three and we're on our way."

Ben pulled off the road.  Several cars passed, many of the drivers 
going out of their way to register their disgust with Ben's pace over 
the past several miles.

Ben looked directly into the Professor's eyes.

"I would think you of all people would be suspicious of coincidences, 
Max. Don't you think it's unusual that they're checking tires on New 
Year's Eve?  And on the way out of the state?  Even if it is just a 
tire check, they might recognize me.  I'm on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted 
list.  Hell, even if they don't recognize me with the shaved head and 
all, we're toast if they ask for identification.  I don't have a fake

ID."

"Well, they're not looking for me," the Professor said.

"Let me drive."

Ben clenched his teeth.  The Professor seemed blinded by the perceived 
proximity of the glory that had long eluded him.

"I don't think you understand the risk here, Max.  Gerry Kate--the
FBI--wants me dead.  They don't know about you yet.

You're putting yourself in the line of fire.  Let's go back to your 
house, I'll drop you off, and then I'll try to figure something out."

"Like what?"  the Professor asked with a sneer.

"Do you think they're going to go away if they don't catch you today? 
Blast it! These are smart, powerful men.

They have resources.  Don't you think they're going to question why you
were in Pittsfield, Massachusetts?  If you found me, what makes you 
think they're not going to find me, too?  We're both already in danger,
 and time is not on our side.  We're in this together, my friend."

Ben peered out the window at the slow-moving traffic.  The Professor 
was probably right--and was determined to go out in a blaze of glory 
even if he was wrong.

"So you think we should chance it now?"  Ben asked.

"We've got a couple of options," the Professor replied.

"We can try to walk around their dragnet, if that's what it is. 
Bennington, Vermont is twenty miles north of West Plymouth with the 
Green Mountains in between.  If we stay off Route 7, which is the only 
road to Bennington, we wouldn't make it until late tonight.

I could rent a car there.  The other choice would be to drive through 
the mountains into New York.  They can't cover every route out of the 
area.  They've probably blocked Route 7 at both ends, all the nearby 
entrances to the Turnpike, and Route 20, the main road from Pittsfield 
to Albany."

The Professor pointed to an intersection about one hundred yards 
ahead.

"That road off to the right loops around Jiminy Peak and then on into 
New York," he said.

"It ends in Albany, too, but it's a lot narrower and more dangerous 
than Route 20.  If I were a betting man, I'd lay odds that they aren't 
watching that one on a snowy day."

The idea of trudging through snow covered mountains for an entire day 
was not appealing to Ben's pioneer spirit.  The odds were in their 
favor.

"What do you want to do?"  Ben asked. "I'll drive," the Professor
said.

"Relax and enjoy the scenery."

The Professor guided the Taurus skillfully along the windy mountain 
road, through the snow covered pines.  The road ascended the mountain 
along a steep path.  Rickety wooden guard rails, long in disrepair, 
were soon all that separated them from precipitous drops into the 
valley below.  They passed the entrance to a deserted picnic area on 
the left as they neared the summit of Jiminy Peak.

A sign warned of a dangerous curve.  Ben gasped.  The summit was capped
by a gigantic, exposed granite block.  The roadway ahead was blasted 
out of the rock--a granite wall bounded the path on the left, a granite
cliff dropped off to the right, plunging two hundred feet to the pine 
forest on the slope below. The Professor negotiated the hairpin turn 
cautiously, slowing to a crawl.

"They call this Dead Man's Curve," the Professor said.

Ben snickered.

"Sounds like a line from a "B' movie."

"They've had some crashes on this corner that would make a stunt 
director drool," the Professor said.

The descent was easier.  After the roadway cornered the granite block, 
it descended gradually along a straight path for several hundred yards,
then resumed its winding ways as it crept towards the valley.  They 
passed through the quaint town of Pine Springs, which sat at the 
confluence of three mountain roads two miles before the New York 
border.

Ben saw the roadblock through the falling snow first.  A single 
unmarked car, a black sedan, blocked the westbound lane.  A makeshift 
removable gate allowed traffic in both directions to pass through the 
eastbound lane.  The trooper had chosen his location carefully--there 
was no room for a car to pass on either side of the roadblock.  The 
Professor slowed the car almost to a stop.

"What do you want to do?"  he asked.

Ben's heart raced.

"He's seen us," Ben said.

"We're cornered.  If we turn around, he'll radio ahead for backup and 
they'll trap us on Jiminy Peak." "We can ram through that barrier,"
the Professor said.

"The cops will track us," Ben said.

"Our only hope is that they don't recognize me.  If he asks to see my 
ID, back this thing up as fast as you can and turn it around.  We'll 
have to take our chances on Jiminy Peak."

The Professor pulled the car up to the roadblock.  He rolled the window
 down.

"Good morning, officer," he said.

"I heard on the radio you're checking snow tires.  We should be 
okay."

The trooper was dressed for the part.  Black leather jacket.  Fur lined
cap.  Dark sunglasses.  Grim face.  He bent down and leaned into the 
open window.  He looked carefully at Ben.  Ben froze when he saw the 
troopers badge.  FBI.  Albany Field Office.

"Identification please," the agent said gruffly.

The Professor handed over his driver's license calmly.  Ben's mind was 
spinning.

The agent had not recognized him.  Maybe he would let them pass.  The 
agent glanced at the Professor's license and returned it.

"You, too, buddy," he said to Ben.

Ben's heart was in his throat.  His eyes wide, he looked at the 
Professor and cocked his head in a gesture that he thought was clear. 
The Professor hesitated.

"My friend doesn't have his wallet with him," he said.

"I was not speaking to you, Mr.--" The Professors name had not 
registered.

"Maxwell," the Professor offered.

The agent scowled.

"What's your name, son?"  the agent asked.

The Professor interrupted before Ben could answer or stop him.

"Nathan Pierce," he said.

Ben could not see the agents eyes through the sunglasses, but there was
a momentary hesitation, maybe a facial twitch, that set off Ben's 
internal alarm.

"Hit the gas!  He's FBI!"  Ben shouted.

The agent made a move for his gun.  The Professor slammed his foot on 
the gas pedal.  The wheels spun in the new snow for a split second, 
then found turf.  The Taurus rocketed backwards.  The trooper crouched 
into shooting position and fired three rounds in rapid succession.

Two bullets glanced off the cars body; one shattered the front 
windshield.  The Professor and Ben screamed, shielding their heads from
the flying glass, an icy blast of wind whipping in through the small 
opening in the center of the windshield.  The Professor slammed on the 
brakes.  The car spun.

When the car settled, Ben and the Professor looked at each other 
dizzily.

Neither of them was hit.  Ben's side of the car was now facing 
westbound.  The agent was about fifty yards down the road, seemingly 
torn between running to the Taurus with guns blasting or dashing back 
to his own vehicle to give chase.

"Hit it.  Max!"

"Which way!"

"Back up the mountain!  I've got an idea," Ben said.  We've got to get 
a lead on him."

The Professor hit the gas pedal.  The agent ran back to his car.  The 
chase was on.

The road was treacherous.  The agent was content to follow at a safe 
distance, no doubt secure in the knowledge that his buddies were 
waiting on the other side.

Then the Taurus began the ascent up the long approach to Dead Mans 
Curve.

"Take it a little faster up the straightaway, Max."

"What's on your mind?"  the Professor asked.

"We've got to take out the agent and head back down this side."

The Professor rolled his eyes.

"And how do you propose to do that without a gun?"  he asked.

"We've got to sideswipe him," Ben said.

"The airbag won't protect him from a side impact.  We'll turn the car 
around and time the impact just as he's turning the corner on Dead 
Man's Curve."

The Professor frowned.

"We might all go flying over that cliff if we hit him too hard."

"Nobody's going over the cliff," Ben said.

"We need his car.  Thirty miles per hour should be enough to rattle his
head against the window without sending the car through the guard 
rail."

The Professor still looked skeptical.

"It's our only chance," Ben said.

"There's going to be an army of cops waiting for us on the other side, 
and they'll find an excuse to shoot."

The Professor picked up the pace.  The agent lagged behind.  Ben looked
 back as the Taurus entered the turn.

"We've got about two minutes," he said.

"Let me out here; turn the car around in that picnic area, and I'll 
signal when you should start."

"Wait a minute!"  the Professor shouted.

"Blast it!  I'm not going over that cliff by myself!"

"We don't have time for this!"  Ben yelled back.

"Get out.  I'll drive."

The Professor got out of the car, and Ben slid over to the driver's 
side.  He fastened his seatbelt, then rolled down the window.

"He's going about fifteen miles per hour.  I'll go from zero to thirty,
trying for an average speed of fifteen miles per hour.  Signal me when
he's about the same distance from the corner as I am," Ben said.  The 
Professor, wide-eyed, mumbled his understanding.

Ben turned the car quickly and waited, about thirty yards from the 
corner.  The Professor had positioned himself on the ground and was 
peeking around the corner.  He gave Ben the signal almost 
immediately.

Ben swallowed hard.  Thirty miles per hour might not be enough to push 
another car over, but the Taurus would sail through the wooden guard 
rail if the timing was even a little off.  At least his death would be 
spectacular.  The final scene from the movie Thelma and Louise, when 
the two co-stars drove their car into the Grand Canyon to avoid 
capture, flashed into his mind, and the image froze there.

Ben pushed the gas pedal to the floor.  The Professor was running back 
towards him to avoid the collision.  The Taurus accelerated.  Ben's 
heart pounded.  Two seconds passed, twenty yards to go.  The cold wind 
whistled through the bullet hole in the windshield.  Ten yards.  There 
was nothing but snow and sky in front of him.  Ben let go of the 
steering wheel and let loose a primal scream, his foot firmly on the 
gas pedal, waiting for the sound of splintering wood and the
horrifying, weightless feeling of a man plummeting earth wards from the
 sky.

The sound was thunderous.  Metal on metal.  Ben jerked forward from the
impact, then back as the airbag exploded into his body.  He hit the 
brakes hard.  The Taurus and the black sedan skidded across the roadway
 towards the guard rail.

Ben heard the awful sound of splintering wood, then it stopped and 
there was only the sound of the wind.

The nose of the Taurus was imbedded in the door of the agent's car, a 
Plymouth.

The Plymouth was resting on the guard rail.  The left front corner had 
broken through, and one wheel hung perilously over the cliff.  The 
Professor chugged up to Ben's window breathlessly.

"Are you okay?"  he asked.

"A little shaken up, no real damage," Ben said.

"How's our friend?"

The silence was encouraging.  The Professor peeked through the window 
of the Plymouth's back door.

"He's not moving," he said.

Ben joined the Professor.  His head and knees ached.  He was wobbly.

"We've got to move quickly," Ben said.

"Listen to the radio.  If they ask him for an update, tell them that 
all is well.  I'll move the Taurus back past the picnic area and block 
the road."

Ben moved the car, then rejoined the Professor.  The radio had been 
silent.  Ben checked the agent's pulse.  He was alive.  Ben and the 
Professor dragged him through the passenger side of the Plymouth, then 
carried him to the Taurus. They handcuffed him to the door.

Ben stood by the side of the cliff holding the agent's gun.  He had to 
decide quickly.  If he kept it, the FBI would be justified in shooting 
first, asking questions later.  If he left the gun behind, he was 
defenseless.  Ben slid the weapon into his jacket pocket.  There was no
sense deluding himself.  The FBI had shot at him twice.  He was in a 
fight for his life.

The Professor, who was about twenty pounds heavier than Ben, entered 
the passenger side of the Plymouth gingerly, wary of the front wheel 
teetering over the ledge on the other side.  Ben was even more cautious
entering the driver's side.  Their fears proved for naught, though, as
 the three wheels on firm ground proved sufficient for the task.

"What's your twenty, Agent Simmons?"  the radio crackled.  Ben and the 
Professor looked at each other.

Ben picked up the transmitter.  He put his hand over his mouth to 
muffle his voice.

"Suspects are approaching the summit ofjiminy Peak and proceeding 
cautiously," Ben said.

"Roger that," the voice answered.

Ben and the Professor descended back down the western slope of Jiminy 
Peak in the Plymouth, with Ben at the wheel.  Five minutes later, Ben 
picked up the transmitter, again.

"Simmons here," he said.

"Go ahead, Simmons."

Ben tried to add urgency to his voice.

"Suspects have evacuated the vehicle and are proceeding on foot down 
the eastern slope ofjiminy Peak!  I am following on foot.  We need all 
hands covering the base of the eastern slope ofjiminy Peak.

All hands!"

"Roger that, Simmons.  We'll handle it."

Within seconds, they heard the bulletin broadcast over the radio.  The
roadblocks were lifted.  Forty-five minutes later Ben and the Professor
heard a second bulletin broadcasted to all hands.  Shortly thereafter 
they abandoned the unmarked car near Troy, New York, just north of 
Albany.

Ben called Ray Allgood at his office in Bethesda, warning him to report
the Taurus stolen and to take any precautions for his family he deemed
 appropriate.

A taxi took Ben and the Professor to Albany, where the Professor rented
a brown Toyota Corolla.  He signed the rental agreement as "M. 
Caldwell."  The rental went undetected by the FBI, which was searching 
for car rentals or airplane or train ticket purchases by anyone with 
the name of Kravner, Pierce or Maxwell.

FORTY

THE PRESIDENT'S NEW YEAR'S EVE GALA at the Kennedy Center was still in 
full swing at one o'clock in the morning.  The President and the First 
Lady had left the party after the President s midnight toast, but most 
of the five hundred invited guests remained, drinking and dancing the 
night away to the Big Band sound of the Luie Bradshaw Quintet.

The entire Rooftop Level of the Kennedy Center had been converted to an
elegant party hall.  There was dancing on the long, narrow parquet 
floors of the South Foyer, an exquisite buffet dinner was served in the
North Foyer, and the rich and famous mingled over drinks in the 
red-carpeted atrium between them.  A giant Douglas fir decorated with 
holiday ornaments reached nearly to the top of the twenty-foot ceiling 
in the atrium.  Small cocktail tables lined each room.

Ray Allgood, decked out in black tie and tails, sat glumly, alone, at a
cocktail table in the corner of the North Foyer overlooking the Potomac
River. He was nursing a bourbon, straight up, while Claire mingled 
with the Washington elite in the atrium.  She had been disappointed 
that Ray was not in a dancing mood.

Ray had been honored to receive the invitation to the Gala.  It had 
crossed his mind that he was invited more to fill a quota for 
distinguished African-Americans in government service than for his 
personal accomplishments, but Claire had been excited and he had been 
proud.  His mood had gone deep south earlier in the day.

The call from Ben Kravner had alarmed him.  Now the Knights had surely 
connected him to Ben.  The pressure upon them would build as they 
sensed that another leak had sprung in the dyke.  Would they keep 
trying to plug the leaks, kidnapping or murdering all those that 
stepped in their way, or would they let the floodwaters break through, 
unleashing the Second Civil War before the appointed time?

Ray took another sip of his drink.  He was not like Ben.  He had a 
family.  He could not hide.  Could he fight back?  He had no 
significant contacts in the Washington establishment.  He was a doctor,
damn it.  For the first time he wished he had played the Washington 
game, attended more cocktail parties, politicked to improve his 
position.  Like Cal Stewart had done.

He felt trapped, helpless.  He made a decision.  He would tell Claire 
everything the next morning.  Together they would decide what to do 
with their lives with everything on the table.  It would be agonizing, 
but there was no other way.

Ray took his glass in hand and roamed among the shoulder-to-shoulder 
crowd, first in the North Foyer, then the atrium, looking for Claire. 
He saw her along the perimeter of the atrium talking animatedly with a 
slender young African-American woman.  The woman was pretty enough to 
be a model or an actress.

He quelled the impure thought that so naturally flashed into his mind. 
Never again.

Ray observed from afar as a steward in a white tuxedo handed a note to 
the young lady speaking with Claire.  The woman looked surprised, then 
excused herself, slinking away gracefully, like a cat.

Then Ray's eyes met Claire's from across the room.  She smiled.  She 
was beautiful, too.  After all these years of marriage, he was still in
love with her.  The notes of a familiar tune floated into the atrium 
from the South Foyer.

For one more night his life would be normal.  He set his glass down on 
a table. A beautiful lady who still loved him needed to dance.

LA ROSA SMITH WAS SURPRISED to receive a message on New Year's Eve. 
Tony Fabrizio was still at the party with his wife.  Who else would be 
summoning her at this hour?  She opened the unsealed envelope.

"Sancho needs to speak with you urgently.  " It was Ben.  Her heart 
raced.  She asked the steward if there was someone waiting for her 
downstairs, then apologized to Claire Allgood when told that a man was 
expecting her reply.

The steward escorted La Rosa to the elevator in the South Foyer, which
descended to the Hall of Nations on the first floor.  He led her to a 
makeshift security desk in the Grand Foyer, a cavernous hallway with 
ornate glass chandeliers swooping down from a sixty-five foot 
ceiling.

She was surprised to find an older man, probably in his mid-fifties, 
waiting for her.  He was a large, muscular man with sharp, angular 
features and a military-style buzz cut.  She recalled Ben's warning 
that the FBI was involved in his conspiracy.  Was Buzz Cut an agent 
looking to tie up a loose end?  The man forced a smile.  Something's 
not right, girl.  La Rosa turned to flee.

"Miss Smith, wait!"  Buzz Cut shouted, putting a hand on her shoulder. 
A brawny younger man in a tuxedo stepped between La Rosa and Buzz Cut 
from behind the security desk.

"Back off, sir," the Tuxedo said, patting the bulge of a weapon under 
his coat.

"Secret Service.  Is everything okay.  Miss Smith?"

La Rosa looked into Buzz Cut's eyes.

"I'm a friend of Sancho's," he said.

"We have information that we need to get to the President.  Please.  I 
need you to come with me."

He looked sincere.  And surely there were many more discreet 
opportunities for the FBI to abduct her than at the Presidents Gala.

"Give me a minute," she said to the agent.

"I was expecting somebody else."  The Secret Service agent backed away.
 La Rosa led Buzz Cut out of earshot.

"Where's Ben?  And who are you?"  she asked.

"Professor Maxwell Caldwell, at your service," Buzz Cut said, bowing 
and making a sweeping gesture with his arm.  He was trying hard to be 
suave, but succeeded only in appearing goofy.  There was something 
stiff and unpolished about him, like a London street urchin playing 
Lords and Ladies.

"Young Ben is close by," he continued.

"He asked me not to disclose the location before I was sure that you 
were cooperative."

"How do I know you're not FBI?"  La Rosa asked.

A thoughtful look crossed the Professor's face.

"I guess I'm flattered that you think I might be, but other than the 
fact that I don't think I look like an FBI agent, I don't know."  He 
shrugged, then raised his arms over his head.

"Blast it, frisk me and check for a gun or a badge if you're 
worried."

La Rosa laughed.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?"  she said.

The Professor smiled.

"You saw right through me, honey.  C'mon.  Ben's at the Lincoln 
Memorial."

A chill breeze whipped off the Potomac, as La Rosa and the Professor 
hiked the short distance along the river from the Kennedy Center to the
 Lincoln Memorial.

Ben stepped out from behind one of the twelve colossal columns at the 
top of the monument when La Rosa and the Professor were halfway up the 
forty-one marble steps.

La Rosa hardly recognized him.  Only a thin layer of stubble remained 
of his long, silky black hair.  The mustache on which he subconsciously
 tugged was no more.  He looked pale and haggard.

Ben climbed down the steps to greet them.

"Hi, Rosie," he said awkwardly.  His hands were in his jacket pockets. 
The left corner of his mouth curled up into a crooked grin.

"It's been a long time."

La Rosa swallowed hard.  It was the same old Ben.  Few words.  Awkward.
 Heart on his sleeve.  It was not the heart of a felon.

"Let's get some coffee at my office," La Rosa said.

"I need to sober up and hear your story."

FORTY-ONE

RAY ALL GOOD STARED at the ceiling.  Claire lay in bed next to him 
under the covers, purring quietly, her naked body spooned into his.  It
was New Year's Day, and the new year had brought new ideas.  They had 
not taken a family vacation in a long time.  Stanton and Diana could 
afford to miss a couple of weeks of school.

A European vacation would be educational, after all.  There was no need
to alarm Claire and the kids.  No need to throw away a lifetime.  Yes,
a vacation was a better alternative than a confession.  He would make 
the arrangements on Monday.

THE BAHAMAS.  BERMUDA.  WAIKIKI.  Christy Kirk shivered.  The sun's 
warming rays had lifted above the horizon almost two hours ago, but no 
amount of mind control could convince her semi-frozen body that 
Langtry, Colorado, in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, was a 
tropical paradise.  Not after a three-hour stakeout amidst the snow 
drifts on New Year's Day.

It had not been as difficult to learn the location of the Super 
Conference as Christy had imagined.  Over the past month, she had 
expanded her network, finding that by and large white supremacists, 
particularly the rank and file, were not particularly bright.  By 
dropping hints that she was in the know, she had accumulated bits and 
pieces of information from several contacts.  The low level members 
generally had not known details, but most had been eager to share what 
they did know, off the record, to impress her with their status.

By the time she had spoken with Gar Henderson, the Exalted Cyclops for 
the Klan in Yadkin County, North Carolina, she had enough information 
to convince him that she knew all about the Super Conference,

then she had leaned on him for the details after he confirmed it.  He 
had reluctantly told all, swearing her to secrecy, after she threatened
to inform some of the more temperamental leaders of his
indiscretion.

Christy raised her binoculars.  Gray smoke rose from the chimney of the
main lodge, a gigantic log cabin in the center of the forty-acre Aryan
Kingdom compound.  The trees had been cleared for several hundred
yards  around the ten-foot barbed wire fence that surrounded the
facility.  She  did not see any guards patrolling the perimeter.  Two
armed sentries  stood watch at the main gate.  A handful of burly men
exercised lightly  in the yard.

Christy had positioned herself near the base of the tree line on the 
ridge facing the rear of the camp.  She had a clear view of most of the
buildings inside.  Six log bunkhouses surrounded the main lodge--two
on  the north side, two on the south side and two in the rear, directly
in  front of Christy.  The northern half of the compound, to Christy's
left, was a training ground--an obstacle course, a shooting range and 
some sort of pit.  The only structure was a long, narrow blockhouse, 
which Christy guessed contained munitions.

The choice of the Aryan Kingdom's compound for the Super Conference was
ominous.

The group was led by Samuel Diggs, one of the fiercest and most vocal 
believers in the tenets of Christian Identity.  Diggs was among those 
who expected the new millennium to bring about a race war that would 
introduce the "era of perfection," when all non-Aryan people would be 
eliminated or expelled.

The incident at Fort Bragg had made Christy wonder how far these 
lunatics were willing to go to help fulfill that prophecy.  Were there 
links between the Armed Forces and the white supremacy movement as Tom 
Hardy had implied?  Were they preparing to draw the NOMAADs into a 
bloody battle of the races?

Christy hoped that the answers might lie in the Super Conference--a 
"leaders only" meeting of the most powerful white supremacy groups and 
anti-government militia.  Over two hundred vicious, hateful men 
gathered in one place.  If these groups unified, they would massacre 
the fledgling NOMAADs.  If they had the backing of the United States 
military, well, Christy shuddered at the possibilities.  Either way, it
was the news story of the century, a story that Christy knew she was 
becoming a part of, a story that could propel her into the
spotlight--as a reporter and as a national heroine.

Adams Thompson's words on the day she had pleaded for this assignment 
echoed in her mind.

"Good newspapermen report the news, they don't make it."

Unfortunately, that helpful tidbit was in conflict with Christy Kirk's 
third rule of journalism--dare to write the great story.

Shortly before nine o'clock, the activity in the compound increased. 
Dozens of figures began filing from the bunkhouses to the main lodge. 
The yard had emptied by five after nine.  Christy waited five more 
minutes to make sure there were no stragglers.  She scanned the grounds
one final time with the binoculars. The sentries at the main gate were
 the only people visible.

Christy did not hesitate.  Somewhere deep inside of her a neon warning 
light flashed, but she chose to see only visions of fame and glory.  No
great story was without risk.  That's what she had told Roger Martin. 
She emerged from behind the pines, backpack slung over one shoulder, 
and bounded down the ridge in full winter regalia--green ski jacket, 
navy blue nylon pants and enough layers below them to clothe a family
of four--her heart in her throat the entire way.

The barbed wire fence was penetrated quickly with a pair of cheap 
hardware store wire cutters.  Christy shuffled through the snow, her 
shoulders bent low, using one of the empty bunkhouses for cover.  She 
peered around the corner.  The main lodge was only twenty yards away. 
There were several windows on the rear wall.

The side wall was windowless, but there was no way to circle completely
around without being exposed to the windows for at least two or three 
seconds.

She took a deep breath of the frigid, pine-scented air, then made a 
dash for the side wall.  She caught her breath, then prowled cautiously
around the corner, hunched over below window level, stopping under the
first window.  She peeked inside.  It was the kitchen.  She crept over
 to the next window.  The room was packed with men.

Christy fumbled through her knapsack, then removed a small black box, a
sophisticated electronic listening device that she had purchased two 
days earlier from one of dozens of web sites catering to the amateur 
spy.  The electro-acoustic receiver was packaged by the manufacturer as
a device for the diagnosis of plumbing leaks because of its ability to
pick up tiny vibrations such as those made by dripping water, but most
sales were for the purpose of illegal surveillance.  Christy had
tested  it against her neighbors apartment door, and it amplified
voices with  exceptional clarity.  Two output jacks allowed her to
listen and record  at the same time.

Christy moved quickly now.  She attached the small ceramic receiver to 
the lower corner of the window with medical tape, then slipped on the 
headset.  A man's resounding, unaccented voice was clearly audible.  He
 spoke in a measured cadence, like a preacher from a pulpit.

"--in common.  We have each tended our own flock over the years, strong
men destined to lead, but we are guided by a singular vision-God's 
vision.  The Book of Revelations tells us that He is the Beginning and 
the Ending of all things and foretells the warning signs that the End 
is coming.  Many men of God have seen the warning signs as the 
twentieth century winds down and have predicted that the dawn of the 
new millennium will mark the beginning of the End.  My friends, they 
were right.  The time of the Apocalypse is now."

CAL STEWART ROLLED HIS EYES.  He looked at Buddy Frederick to his left.
 Buddy mouthed the v/ords, "What a fucking idiot."

But he was their fucking idiot.  Samuel Diggs was a charismatic and 
powerful man.

Not only would his flock follow him unquestioningly into holy war, but
he was respected by most of the other white supremacist leaders, as 
well. Stewart found this odd, because Diggs was not the stereotypical, 
macho white supremacist bully.  He was somewhat meek in 
appearance--only average in height and build, wire-rimmed glasses, 
neatly trimmed hair and goatee--but he exuded intelligence and 
confidence.  He almost made this bullshit seem credible.

Stewart looked around the room.  Many were already nodding in 
agreement. Whatever it took.

The main lodge was the central meeting place for the members of the 
Aryan Kingdom.  As one entered the room through the main door, there 
was a rudimentary kitchen to the far right, a stage with a lectern to 
the far left.  In the center, which was most of the expansive meeting 
hall, there were ten rows of institutional fiberglass tables with 
attached benches.

Samuel Diggs stood at the lectern on stage.  The room was packed solid,
 every man intently focused on the speaker.

"The preservation of our race is demanded and directed by God," Diggs 
continued indignantly, pounding the lectern.  He used his hands 
constantly when he spoke, to dramatic effect.  " We are the descendants
of the twelve tribes of Israel. The descendants of Cain, the Jews, are
the children of Satan, and they have intermarried with the Africans to
produce a Godless subhuman species of mud people.  These mongrels have
crept among us and are destroying the social fabric of America. 
Forced  integration, under the control of Jew lawyers and government
officials,  is destroying our schools, our neighborhoods, our cities
and ultimately  our nation.  High illegitimate birthrates among blacks
and other non-Aryan peoples will one day make them the majority and
give them  political control of our country--just as they now control
major  cities."

Stewart knew the alliance with the white supremacists was necessary to 
assure the success of their plan, but it made him uneasy nonetheless. 
His own rage had been inherited from his father and was rooted in a 
wrong that had been committed against his ancestor.  These men 
believed--truly believed--that their hate was ordained by God, and 
their zeal for bloodshed exceeded that of all the Knights, with the 
possible exception of The Spy.

Gerry Kate had not been able to attend the Super Conference.  He was 
preoccupied with the manhunt for that pesky lawyer.  But Stewart had 
met the others for the first time, and he was relieved to find that JJ 
Alexander was of a similar mind.

He believed that a brief civil war would be necessary to gain power and
enact the sweeping legal changes necessary to put blacks in their 
rightful place, but Alexander would not support the widespread murder
of innocent men, women and children.

"The Book of Revelations tells us that those who patiently obey God 
despite their persecution will be protected in the time of Great 
Tribulation and Temptation, and the conquerors will be made pillars in 
the temple of God and citizens of the new Jerusalem, a city of heaven 
on earth," Diggs continued.

"We are the conquerors!"  he exclaimed, his fist pounding the air 
violently.

"We have prepared our followers for the Great Tribulation by providing 
them with military training, building fortifications, stockpiling 
weapons and supplies, and educating ourselves of our responsibility as 
rulers of the everlasting Aryan Kingdom, waiting only for the signal 
from God that the Apocalypse is upon us."

Stewart surveyed the room with concern.  He wondered if The Heir 
Apparent had the power to stop this leviathan they were about to 
unleash.

"That day of reckoning is near," Diggs said.

"The new millennium will bring the long-awaited battle between the 
children of darkness and the children of light, the Aryan Race, the 
true Israel of the bible.  We will be the hand of God!  We must--" 
"Samuel!"  A tall man said, rising to his feet in the center of the 
great room.

He was the only man in the room wearing a sport jacket.  Stewart 
recognized him as Bryn Cook, the Grand Dragon of the American 
Association for the Advancement of White Persons, a relatively 
sophisticated splinter group of the Ku Klux Klan and one of the largest
 groups represented.  Stewart leaned forward expectantly.

"I think I speak for most of us in this room when I say that you're 
preaching to the choir," Cook said.

"We're all prepared to become martyrs to reserve our place in the 
Kingdom of God.  But who are you to declare yourself the leader of this
rebellion?  It's God's fight and God will pick his own leaders and God
 will let us know when the time has come to fight the good fight."

There was a general murmur of agreement throughout the room.  Stewart 
and Frederick glanced at each other apprehensively.  All previous 
efforts to unite the white supremacy groups had failed because of 
leadership disputes.  This was the moment of truth.

"This is not my Conference," Diggs said. "God has spoken.  There are
four men among us who have been sent to  lead us into battle."  He
paused for effect.

"My friends, we are in the presence of the Four Horsemen of the 
Apocalypse."

AT FIRST THERE WAS SILENCE, then an unsettling buzz of excitement. 
These men did not strike Christy as the type to buzz excitedly. 
Temptation got the better other judgment.  She leaned her back against 
the wall, beside the window, and rose only enough to raise her eyes 
above the sill.  She peered inside, shielding her eyes to lessen the 
glare off the glass, as an eerie scene unfolded.

STEWART AND FREDERICK SMILED at the wide-eyed reaction of the 
soon-to-be Generals of the Unified Forces of the Aryan Knights of the 
Millennium.  Four men strode dramatically out of the wings to center 
stage, forming a semi-circle around Samuel Diggs at the lectern.  They 
were clad in velvet robes with gilded linings, their faces concealed by
pointed hoods, all in the colors of the Four Horsemen of the
Apocalypse  as described in the New Testament--from left to right,
white, red,  black and pale.

Diggs addressed the awestruck audience.

"These are men of power.  Their identities will shock you.  Under 
direct instructions from God they have infiltrated the highest reaches 
of government, and they are prepared to lead the Aryan people in the 
holy war.  But, as you can understand, they are reluctant to reveal 
themselves to nonBelievers before the appointed time.  If there are any
among us who are not prepared to be guided by the hand of God in the 
Holy War, then renounce your place in the Kingdom of God now!"

Diggs surveyed the room, a much-practiced look of fury etched into his
features.

Cal Stewart's eyes followed Diggs's gaze.  The men were spellbound. 
Then Stewart saw something in the rear window.  He nudged Frederick. 
They rose and walked towards the front door of the lodge.  Stewart felt
 the angry stares.  Nobody else rose to leave.

"Only two cowards who refuse to fight God's fight?"  Diggs asked, 
scanning the room imperiously once more.

"Then my Aryan brothers, I give you the Royal Commanders of the Unified
 Forces of the Aryan Knights of the Millennium."

CHRISTY WAS ENTRANCED.  The scene unfolding before her was more 
incredible than any scenario she had imagined.

Diggs stepped down off the stage and claimed an empty chair in the
first row.

The man in the white robe lifted his hood.  It was John Daniel, the 
Speaker of the House of Representatives.  A palpable excitement filled 
the room, mixed with a collective sigh of relief that Samuel Diggs had 
not tricked them into anointing him their leader.

Then the red hood was lifted, revealing Ty Andrew, the Majority Leader 
in the Senate.  The suspense was starting to build.  The black hood 
came off.  The Conference roared its approval when Clint Glenn, the 
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the man who oversaw the entire 
United States military force, was exposed.  They now began to see the 
enormity of the opportunity that had been delivered to them.

Christy was stunned.  Colonel Hardy could not have had any idea how 
deep the white supremacy movement had penetrated the military.  Then 
she gasped.  The Super Conference erupted into pandemonium.  The pale 
hood had been peeled off to reveal JJ Alexander's weather-beaten 
face.

All of the men in the lodge simultaneously leaped to their feet, 
applauding, howling like wolves and stomping their feet.  Their 
dream,

viewed as evil but unachievable by mainstream Americans, was about to 
become reality.  These men, unified in purpose but long separated by 
ego, became one, a singular malevolent force that was at the same time 
electrifying and frightening.

Christy shuddered.  For the first time her fear overcame her zeal to 
write the story.  These were the leaders of the white supremacy 
movement, and they had been so easily moved to follow.  What hope was 
there that their followers would see the irrationality of the slaughter
 they were planning?

Her fear intensified as the possible permutations fell into place in 
her mind's eye.  The story was even bigger than a racial holocaust.  JJ
Alexander was a shoo-in to be the next vice president of the United 
States.  One bullet from an Aryan assassin's rifle and he would be 
president.  And General Glenn controlled the United States military. 
They were planning a coup.  The entire nation was at risk.

Christy yanked off her headset and stuffed it and the black box into 
her knapsack.  She removed the micro-cassette from her recorder, 
slipped it under her nylon pants into the back pocket of her jeans and 
inserted a fresh one into the recorder.  As she was lifting her 
knapsack, she saw a small-framed man turn the far corner of the 
lodge.

Cal Stewart stared directly at her.  Christy's eyes widened; her
stomach rose into her throat.  Stewart's sinister smile paralyzed her 
for a split second, then she darted in the opposite direction, still 
looking over her shoulder, straight into the waiting arms of Buddy 
Frederick.

JJ ALEXANDER ALLOWED THE MEN'S PASSION, his men's passion, to build 
into a frenzy.  They would need that enthusiasm to rouse their 
followers to action.

Soon.  Very soon.  Things were not going as planned.  Ben Kravner had 
slipped through their net yet again.  And now it seemed that he had 
somehow, incredibly, come into contact with Ray Allgood, the man who 
was to take the fall for igniting the Second Civil War.  Or the Holy 
War.  Whatever they wanted to call it, it had to start soon.

Finally, Alexander approached the lectern.  He raised his arms to 
signal the boisterous mob to quiet.

"The dawn of a new era of perfection is upon us.  God has called upon 
you to prepare for this moment, and you have individually met the 
challenge.  You have sought out the true believers and prepared them 
for the coming holy war.  You have trained them, armed them and 
reinforced their spirit.  Your forces, fighting in isolation, could 
hinder the forces of Satan, but you would ultimately be defeated.  This
Goliath will not fall by the slingshot.  But if we stand united, as
the  Unified Forces of the Aryan Knights of the Millennium, we become
the  Goliath to Satan's David.  We wield the power to cleanse our land
of Satan's followers."

The Heir Apparent turned and pointed to The General behind him.

"Under the leadership of General Glenn, it is imperative that the 
Unified Forces assemble and begin to train immediately.  The Apocalypse
is closer than you think.  In his great wisdom and with an almighty 
sense of irony.  God has commanded us to commence the Holy War on 
Monday, January 17, 2000--the day the birth of Satan's mongrel child, 
Martin Luther King, is commemorated.  We will meet with each of you, 
the Generals of the Unified Forces, this weekend to discuss our 
strategic battle plans, the strength of your forces, their tactical
role in the Holy War and--" Alexander was interrupted by a commotion at
the main entrance.  His audience's attention was diverted when Cal 
Stewart and Buddy Frederick burst through the door, holding back a 
struggling Christy Kirk.

CHRISTY WAS KICKING Stewart and Frederick and unleashing an onslaught 
of vile invective that would have made any of the Generals or their 
legion proud and their mothers blush.  Most of them seemed to find the 
scene amusing.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"  Alexander asked. "We saw her
outside the window," Cal Stewart said.  He held up her tape recorder.

"It looks like she was taping the Conference."

One of the Generals rose to his feet in the center of the room.  It was
 Franklin Verdant.

"That bitch is a reporter for the New York Herald Times.  She 
interviewed me a few weeks ago," Verdant boomed.

"Her name is Christy Kirk."

"Well, Miss Kirk, do you have anything to say for yourself?"  Alexander
 asked.

"As you know, this is private property and this is a very private 
meeting."

Christy glared at him scornfully.

"Fuck you," she said and spat in his direction.  Her heart raced, but 
she was determined to present a brave front.  Her eyes darted from face
to face, searching for options, but finding only bloodlust in the
souls  of the men that controlled her destiny.  Diggs and Alexander had
 incited them into a fervor.  A chill ran down her spine.

"What shall we do with her, gentlemen?"  Alexander asked expectantly. 
Several suggestions were shouted, most of which laid claim to either 
Christy's virtue or her life.  Dizziness overcame her.  The shouts 
began to blend together.  She felt the two men gripping her arms 
firmly, but the rest of the room faded into the distance as her mind 
transported her to another time, another place--a defense to the 
sinking realization that this episode was not going to end well.

Alexander stepped down off the stage and spoke quietly with Samuel 
Diggs, then returned to the lectern.

"Gentlemen," he said into the microphone.  The shouting continued.

"Gentlemen!"  The mob settled.  Alexander continued forcefully, his 
voice resonating throughout the room.

"Mr.  Diggs has proposed that we let Miss Kirk spend a night in the 
brig.  Her fare will be decided tomorrow."

TONY FABRIZIO, wearing a baggy Notre Dame sweatshirt and blue jeans, 
paced beside the mahogany conference table that dominated the center of
his palatial office.  Ben could already tell that he was not going to
be as easy to win over as La Rosa had been.  He still had the mind of
a prosecutor, and he was skeptical about the evidence that had been 
presented to him.  It was his life on the line, yet Fabrizio remained 
tough and fair-minded.

Ben, La Rosa and Max Caldwell were huddled at one end of the massive 
table.

La Rosa had warned that Fabrizio might be difficult, and it was agreed 
that she would lead the discussion.  The Vice President stopped pacing 
and faced them.

"It would make an interesting novel," he said.

"But I'm not sure I buy it in a court of law.  There are too many leaps
 of faith that strain credibility."

"We admit the evidence is mostly circumstantial," La Rosa said.

"But you can get a conviction on circumstantial evidence if there's no
reasonable doubt."

"But I have doubts myself," Fabrizio said.

"For example, I have my doubts about the evidentiary value of the 
Poem."

The evidentiary value of the Poem.  The words cut through Ben like the 
sound of fingernails scratching on a chalkboard.  He had not told La 
Rosa about the sealed envelope.  He had agreed with Debby that he would
unseal the envelope again and burn it this time.  But the sealed 
envelope was still in Kramer, Fox's vault.  Had Fabrizio somehow 
guessed his ethical breach?

"The defense will argue that it's fiction, written either by Adams 
Thompson for his own amusement or by Ben or Debby as a creative alibi 
for their crimes," Fabrizio said.

Ben relaxed.  No, his secret was safe.  He could discreetly dispose of 
the sealed envelope and the trust document when he recovered the Poem 
from the vault.

"Ben said that the Poem was written on old, tattered paper," La Rosa 
said.

"Can't forensic experts prove that it was written in the mid-1800s?"

"That's true," Fabrizio said.

"Okay, let's assume that the Poem wasn't written recently.  How do we
prove it's not fiction?"

"Well, that's the essence of the case," La Rosa said.

"It's the 20Year Jinx.  The presidents have died in office every twenty
 years, just as ordained by the Poem."

"But the Poem is vague," Fabrizio said.

"It speaks of acts of vengeance, never of a specific crime."

"History has revealed the nature of the crime," La Rosa argued.

"That's not too big a leap for a jury to make.  The MacDougalls blamed 
William Henry Harrison for their brother's execution.  They vowed 
payback against the presidency.  Tit for tat."

"Even if a jury buys the Jinx thing, we still can't prove that the 
modern day Knights agreed to commit a crime," Fabrizio said.

"We can't charge them for offenses perpetrated by their ancestors."

Ben was amazed at the sharpness of Fabrizio's mind.  He was forcing 
them to cast aside intuition and make the case more rigorously than 
they had done before. But La Rosa was holding her own.  She was every 
bit as brilliant as he remembered from law school.

"But the pattern of assassinations by their family in accordance with 
the Poem is evidence of an agreement by the present generation to 
continue the pattern," La Rosa said confidently.

"Especially when their actions provide corroboration."

"Okay, let's try another tack," Fabrizio said.

"Let's assume that there is in fact a conspiracy to assassinate the 
next president.  There's no direct link between the Poem and the group 
of men you claim are acting in concert.  How do you connect your 
suspects to this family that supposedly disappeared 160 years ago?"

"Perhaps the data that I've collected will be of some service," 
Professor Caldwell said.

"We can associate one member of each Knight's family to one dead 
president."

"That's an unusual coincidence, Professor, but none of them pulled the
trigger," Fabrizio said.

"It also doesn't tie them back to the MacDougalls."

"But the coincidences are mounting," La Rosa said.

"All of the suspected Knights are linked together by a naming 
convention derived from the names of the first nine presidents and vice
presidents and the MacDougall siblings, once again tying the Knights
to  the MacDougalls and to presidents.  I'm willing to bet that, with
the  help of the CIA, we'll be able to show that the MacDougall family 
disappeared around 1840 and that the ancestry of each of our suspects 
can be traced back to that time and no further."

Ben pumped his arm under the table.  Way to go, Rosie.  You've got 
him.

"I'm still not convinced," Fabrizio said.

Damn!  Enough is enough, Ben thought.  He reminded himself that this 
was the Vice President of the United States talking, and he held his 
tongue in check.

"Before we call in the hounds, we need to make sure we can articulate a
winning case against the suspects.  You've made a credible argument
for  the conspiracy against the first seven presidents, but The
Assassin is  dead.  How can we prove that the remaining Knights still
intend to  carry out the assassination?  Just because their parents
gave them the  names doesn't mean they're prepared to do the crime."

Ben silently fumed.  The Jinx was real!  He had eavesdropped on the 
Knights in the Millennium Nights room.  Vice President or not, Fabrizio
was missing the big picture.  The country was in jeopardy, and he was 
dwelling on niggling details.

Fritz Fox's wary voice echoed in Ben's mind.  Patience, young Ben. 
Patience.

La Rosa opened her mouth to address Fabrizio's point, but Ben 
interrupted before she could begin.

"For cris sakes I saw them talking about me and Debby in the Millennium
Nights room," Ben heard himself say.  He could tell from Fabrizio's 
obvious astonishment that his tone was sharp.  A mental image of Fritz 
Fox slapping his hand against his bald crown popped into Ben's mind. 
Oy  vey.  Too late.

Ben plowed ahead.

"Whether or not we can prove the case in a court of law, we know that 
these guys are out to kill you and launch a race war and their actions 
support that intent!"  Ben said, then began ticking off the Knights' 
actions on his fingers.

"Thompson's inflammatory editorials, General Glenn's proposal to 
segregate the military, John Daniel s son showing up in the middle of 
the Fort Bragg incident, Dean Frederick telling me the story of the 
MacDougaIls, Gerry Kate fabricating charges against me and launching a 
nationwide manhunt, JJ Alexander setting himself up as the next vice 
president, Ty Andrew giving you a sly push in that direction, and Cal 
Stewart setting up Ray Allgood to trigger the Second Civil War.  We 
can't sit by and let this happen because we can't work out a few
technicalities!"

Silence.  La Rosa bit her lip.  Fabrizio maintained his composure.  His
 eyes locked with Ben's.

"I believe you, son," he said.

"And I admire your passion.  But these are powerful men we're up 
against, and they'll hire the best lawyers.  We can't risk embarrassing
 the President by accusing them of treason with a half-baked case."

"But we know in our hearts that the conspiracy is real," La Rosa 
said.

"With the CLA's help, we can build a case that's plausible enough to 
avoid a public relations nightmare.  At least we'll stop these nuts 
from taking over the country--and killing you."

Fabrizio began to pace alongside the table, again.  Ben was sure the 
Vice President would come around.  Once he got past the technicalities,
the evidence was overwhelming.  Technicalities--like the sealed 
envelope.  Ben wondered once again whether he should disclose his 
ethical slip.  But he had been over this before with Debby.  She was 
right.  He could not pass the buck.  It was his duty to destroy the 
envelope in Kramer, Fox's vault and the first envelope that was still 
in his desk at home.  Oh God.

Clong!  In that moment, terror struck.  He had left the original 
envelope with the broken seal in his apartment.  It was in the hands of
the FBI now--the hands of the Knights.  The defense could prove that
he  had opened the sealed envelope, and the Poem would be inadmissible
in  court.  There's got to be a way out of this.

Think!

"Okay, you've convinced me," Fabrizio said.

"The facts are too undeveloped to bring to the President yet, but let's
 see what the CIA can find."

La Rosa frowned.

"The CIA is prohibited from collecting information on Americans by 
executive order," she said.

"You need to talk to Hank immediately if you want to override that 
order."

"What about another executive agency, like the Secret Service?" 
Fabrizio asked.

"The FBI has exclusive jurisdiction over the collection of information 
on Americans unless special procedures are agreed with the head of the 
agency and the Attorney General," La Rosa said.

"If we're trying to keep the FBI out of the loop, you probably don't 
want to involve Dan Raskin.  The Attorney General is Gerry Kates boss,"
 she said for the benefit of Ben and the Professor.

"He'd be interacting with Kate on a daily basis, and he might 
inadvertently tip Kate off."

"I'll talk to the President this morning and get Frank Garcia over at 
CIA into the loop," Fabrizio said.

"One last point.  The announcement of this conspiracy to the public 
will be mind-blowing.  These are men at the highest level of government
guiding the nation into a race war.  I've accepted their leader as my 
running mate.  We need to have a reaction prepared.  It has to be big, 
and it has to be bold."

La Rosa bobbed her head vigorously in agreement.

"If we're going to drop a bomb like that, we'd better be ready to 
defuse it," she said.

"The President's State of the Union address is scheduled for Tuesday, 
the 18th. That would give us just over two weeks to build our case and 
prepare a response."

Ben frowned.

"Are we giving the Knights too much time?"  he asked.

"They may already have contrived the Fort Bragg incident because of me.
Now they know I've been in contact with Ray Allgood.  They may feel 
pressure to act quickly."

"They'll have to leak the story about the racially biased 
experimentation or some other triggering event before they launch an 
attack," Fabrizio said.

"The CIA will need at least a week for their investigation, anyway. 
Rosie, I know you've got a lot on your plate, but can you think about 
what Hank should say in the State of the Union address?"

"You got it.  Chief," she said.

"Well, I think that wraps this meeting up," Fabrizio said.

"The Rose Bowl beckons."

Ben tensed.  The Poem was inadmissible.  He could not lead the Vice 
President of the United States on a wild goose chase.  Think!

"Professor Caldwell, its been a pleasure," Fabrizio said.

"You've done a great service to your country, and I'm sure we'll speak 
again. We'll arrange protection for you and your wife."

"Thank you very much, Mr.  Vice President," the Professor said.

"The pleasure has been all mine."

Then the Vice President turned to Ben.  Ben's heart pounded.  They 
needed another, untainted copy of the Poem.  But without Thompson's 
copy, they would not have probable cause to search the residences of 
the other Knights.

"Ben, I believe your story, but you're a fugitive from the FBI," 
Fabrizio said.

"I'm placing you under house arrest.  We'll set you up with a cot in 
one of the empty offices down the hall and post a Secret Service agent 
outside."

Ben's mind spun desperately.

"I understand," he said.  Think!  Debby's copy of the Poem was no doubt
in the hands of the FBI, too, and it was just a photocopy, anyway. 
The  Assassin probably had the original.  The Assassin.

Fabrizio started to rise, his large hands gripping the edge of the 
table.

"Any questions?  Final thoughts?"

Now or never.

"I've got one," Ben said.  He felt his voice tremble.  Fabrizio shifted
 his weight back into the chair, then looked at his watch.

"The Poem was in a sealed envelope when I found it in Thompson's safe 
deposit box," Ben said.

"I later discovered that the envelope was the object of a trust 
agreement and shouldn't have been opened.  I resealed the original copy
of the Poem, but I left the envelope with the broken seal in my 
apartment.  I'm afraid the FBI has it now."

Fabrizio s jaw dropped.

"Then your copy of the Poem is inadmissible in court," he said 
incredulously.

"Your case depends on it."

Ben glanced over at La Rosa She looked away, her lips pressed together 
tightly.

"I've got an idea, though," Ben said.

"Debby Barnett's photocopy of the Poem is probably in the FBI's hands, 
too, but her brother must have the original.  If we can find The 
Assassin, we've got an admissible copy of the Poem."

FORTY-TWO

THEY CALLED IT HOUSE ARREST, but to Ben it was sanctuary.  For the 
first time in nine days he awakened confident that he would live to 
wake another day.  He rested on the fold-up cot that had been imported 
into the office adjacent to La Rosa staring up at the elaborate 
stenciled pattern on the ceiling.

Ben's mind turned to Debby.  He had ceased to obsess over her, and that
made him feel guilty.  Viewed from a distance, he could not remember 
how much of the relationship had been the product of her manipulation 
and how much had been real emotional sharing.  He would fight for her, 
as a friend, but he questioned the love that had once seemed so real.

Ben stuck his head outside the office door.  A man in the uniform of 
the Secret Service was seated on a chair in the hallway.

"Mornin'," Ben mumbled.

"Good morning.  I'm Chuck Carlisle, your host for the day," the man 
said cheerfully.  Agent Carlisle was balding, about forty years old, 
but appeared to be in near-perfect physical condition.  He tossed Ben a
 white towel that had been draped over the back of his chair.

Ben's eyes were drawn to the service revolver bolstered on Agent 
Carlisle's waist.

"No need to toss in the towel," Ben cracked.

"I'm unarmed."

Carlisle grinned.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said.

"Rosie told me she'd bring you some clean clothes this morning."

La Rosa was puttering in her office when Ben and Agent Carlisle 
returned from the washroom.  Ben knocked on the door.  He tried to hide
 his apprehension behind a mask of good cheer.

"Mornin', Rosie," he said.

"Sorry about that bomb I dropped on you yesterday."

La Rosa smiled awkwardly.  Ben saw no anger in her eyes, just 
sadness.

"I left a bag of clothes on your cot," she said.  Ben was still wearing
the second hand clothes from the Salvation Army thrift shop.  They
reeked of body odor.

"Why don't you change and then we can talk."

Ben returned shortly, clad in a dark green polo shirt and blue jeans.

"Perfect fit," Ben said.

"Thanks, Rosie."

La Rosa motioned for him to close the door, which he did, then he 
claimed a chair opposite her desk.  She still seemed uneasy.  Ben knew 
that this was about more than the sealed envelope.  It was about a 
moment forever burned in their souls.

Ben remembered the exact date--May 25, 1996.  The Saturday night before
La Rosa law school graduation.  The moment he had peered into her eyes
 and seen love.

Ben stole a glance at her eyes now.  They were moist.  He had lived 
with his own pain and guilt for months after that day, emotions that 
had softened with time but still panged whenever he saw the name of 
Quixote on his CyberLine Pen Pal list.

"I can't tell you how many times I almost called you," Ben said, 
breaking the uncomfortable silence.

"I was so embarrassed about standing you up in front of your family at
graduation.  But it was hard to pick up the telephone, and days turned 
into weeks and weeks into months.  You know how it is.  It just gets 
tougher and tougher."

Ben saw La Rosa fighting within herself for the courage to speak her 
mind.  No one was better at articulating complex legal and social 
issues, but she had always struggled with sharing her emotions.  It was
difficult for him, too, but people seemed to know how he felt. 
Somehow  he telegraphed his emotions in a way that was both a blessing
and a  curse.

"I loved you," she said finally, her voice quivering.

"I thought you loved me, too.  I would have slept with you that night 
if you kissed me."

"I know," Ben said, squirming.

"I wanted to.  Something held me back."

"I've wanted to know what that something was for three and a half 
years," Rosie said.  She had a pained, almost mournful expression. "I
believe you're innocent, and I'll help you no matter what you say.  But
I need to know why you didn't kiss me that night.  Why didn't you  show
up at my graduation?  Why--" "Why did I shut the closest friend I  have
ever had out of my life?"  Ben interrupted.

"Yeah.  Just, why?"

Ben paused to collect his thoughts.  He owed her an honest answer.

"I struggled with that question for a long time," he said.

"I was afraid."

"Because you were falling in love for the first time?  Afraid that the 
age difference was too great?  Afraid of telling me you didn't feel the
 same way I did?"  La Rosa asked, searching his eyes for truth.

"Those would be easy cop-outs," Ben said.

"I was falling in love for the first time, but I was ready for it.  I 
thought about the age difference, but eight years isn't all that 
much."

La Rosa closed her eyes.  Ben saw her swallow hard.

"Was it because I'm black?"

It was obvious that this was the answer she feared most, a demon that 
had haunted her for so many years.  Their friendship had been relaxed, 
caring and sincere.  There had been none of the edginess that 
characterized many of Ben's other relationships with people of color. 
The constant wariness in their eyes, their manner, always on alert for 
a hidden agenda, as if friendship could not be motive enough for a 
white man to talk with a black man.  He gazed directly into her green 
eyes.  They still made his heart melt.

"It's more complicated than that, but if you need to hear a short 
answer, it's yes," Ben said.

"But please don't lodge the short answer in your mind and shut out the 
rest of what I have to say."

Two tears streamed down her face, one on each cheek.  She nodded for 
him to go on; she was listening, but did not have the capacity to speak
 <?Whold back the floodgates.

"I was afraid of how everybody else in my life would react," Ben 
continued.

"I

had no doubts about you.  I've never felt a more intimate bond with 
anybody, and I doubt that I ever will.  But I thought about my parents 
and my grandparents--future employers, maybe--but mostly family. 
They've always been so proud of my accomplishments, and they've been 
dying for me to hook up with a nice Jewish girl so that we could make 
them perfect little grand babies I could picture their horror when I 
brought you home.  It seems silly saying those thoughts out loud--they 
are so inconsistent with what I think I believe.  But the feelings were
 real, and I was too embarrassed to face you."

"Nobody was talking about marriage," Rosie said sadly.

"It was a kiss.  We would have made love.  After that, who knows. 
Maybe  it would have ended painfully, maybe not.  But when you
abandoned me,  that hurt me badly."

"Rosie, I was so ashamed of what I did--I still am--but I have the 
gift, and the curse, of being able to see the future," Ben said.

"Not like one of those wacky clairvoyants.  I can play events out in my
mind.  I see almost every alternative possible in my mind's eye, and 
I'm amazingly good at assessing the probability of each alternative 
occurring.  If I kissed you that night, we would have been together for
 life.  We were soulmates."

La Rosa wiped her eyes.

"Would that have been so bad?"  she asked tearfully, tacitly agreeing 
with the conclusion.

Ben did not hesitate.

"No.  It wouldn't have been bad at all," he said sincerely.

"I haven't made many decisions in my life that I regret, but I wish I 
could do May 25, 1996 over again.  I've met many more women since then,
been close with a few, but nothing compares with what we had.  There 
was an honesty to our relationship that was unique--I don't know if I 
can ever be that open with another person again."

"I know I can't be," La Rosa said.

"I've dated some since then, but I haven't been in love.  I just can't 
trust, anymore.  My work is my passion."

"Still tilting at windmills?"  he asked, smiling as he took the cue to 
change the subject. She smiled back, obviously relieved to move on.

"I've still got big dreams," she said.

"My fondest memories of law school are the heated debates about social 
issues that we all had in the cafeteria," Ben said.

"Everybody had an opinion.  We cared."

"We thought we could take on the world," La Rosa agreed.

"But you're the only one doing it," Ben said.

"Most of us sold out to the big law firms.  I'm not even two years out 
of law school, and I haven't had a conversation about a meaningful 
social issue in months.  Lunchtime chatter at Kramer, Fox is about 
business, women or sports. The impossible dream is making partner, not 
making the world a better place.  I haven't done Don Quixote proud."

La Rosa laughed.

"Quixote isn't only about grand dreams--he's about following your 
dreams whatever they are and trying again and again after each failure.
You haven't lived the life of Quixote unless you've tried and failed, 
over and over again."

"Have you had any failures?"  Ben asked.

"Just in love."

"Ouch.  There I go, leading with my chin, again," Ben said.

"What about you?"  La Rosa asked.

"How are things going at the firm?"

Ben grinned the crooked grin.

"Assuming you mean before I was chased through the halls by the FBI and
then accused of dealing drugs and trying to kill the senior partner, 
terrific."

She laughed.

"Fair point.  As Ricky Ricardo used to say, "You've got some 'splaining
 to do, Lucy,"" she said in her best Cuban accent.

"Still hooked on old TV re-runs, I see," Ben said.

"I watch from time to time, but Tony keeps me pretty busy." "What
exactly do you do for him?"  Ben asked.

"I'm his Chief of Staff," she said.

"I juggle his calendar, run interference on the Hill, act as his 
liaison with the President's staff, and run his campaign.

But mostly I'm his political sounding board.  We talk about all the 
important issues.  He's a great guy.  He reminds me of you in many 
ways."

Ben's eyebrows shifted upwards.

"How so?"

"He has an honesty that comes from his core," she said, then paused.

"I thought I'd be mad at you, but I'm not.  You gave me the answer that
I feared the most a little while ago, but it was from your heart.  It 
didn't hurt as badly as I thought it would."

"I'm not a racist," Ben said.

"Am I?"

"No."

Ben was not content to drop it.  His consciousness of race had 
amplified over the past week--as a wanderer through the low-income 
housing projects near the bus station in Washington, encircled by an 
angry black mob at the NOMAAD rally, as a guest in the Allgood home, 
and as an observer of an incredible racist conspiracy.

"What makes someone a racist?"  he asked.

"Pardon the pun, but I don't think the answer is black and white," La 
Rosa said.

"The dictionary would define it as someone who thinks that a person's 
character and ability are determined by race.  But most people think 
that race or ethnicity have something to do with character, and they're
probably right.  We all pick up our values based on the culture in 
which we're raised, and there are cultural differences between the 
races and other ethnic groups.  A true racist thinks the differences 
are biological and can't be changed."

"A fine distinction," Ben said.

"And maybe not one that's relevant," La Rosa said. "It doesn't matter
whether those that hate or discriminate or tolerate discrimination
think that African-Americans are biologically flawed or  just
culturally different.  What matters is that they think it's  acceptable
to treat African-Americans differently."

"But everybody has their own prejudices," Ben said.

"Some people don't like Italians or Jews or Hispanics because of their 
cultural traits.  A lot of people get married to someone from the same 
ethnic or racial group because of their similar backgrounds and 
character traits.  Is that wrong?"

"I don't think so," La Rosa said.

"But where do you draw the line?  Is it okay to limit your choice of 
marital partner solely to one cultural group?  How about your friends, 
your neighbors, your business partners or your customers?"

"Somewhere in there I know you've crossed a legal line," Ben said.

"But what's rightf La Rosa asked.

"Like you said, it's not black and white," Ben said.

"It's probably not right to exclude any racial or ethnic group entirely
 from any of those classes."

"Including marriage partners?"  La Rosa asked.

"Including marriage partners.  But that doesn't mean that a person is 
wrong to take membership in a racial or ethnic group, or traits unique 
to a group, into consideration in making important life decisions," Ben
 said.

"For me, being married to an African American woman would carry a lot 
of consequences irrelevant to my relationship with the woman, like my 
family's reaction."

"So you're not a racist, but your family is, so its okay to 
discriminate against African-Americans?"  La Rosa asked.

Ben blushed.

"You make it sound so stupid, but that's a fact of life," he said.

"Racism is a fact of life in this country.  But it's a fact that we 
need to change," La Rosa said.

"So how would you change the world, Quixote?" "We need to change
people's mindset," she said.

"We need to raise a generation that doesn't even think about skin 
color."

"Dream on."

"You know I will," La Rosa said.

Ben smiled.  His feet rested on LaRosas desk.

"This reminds me of law school," he said.

"I haven't thought this hard about something that's truly important in 
a long time."

"Well, I've got a proposition for you," La Rosa said.

"More like a challenge."

"Uh-oh."

"You heard Tony yesterday.  If we prove this conspiracy of yours, 
there's going to be a huge backlash," she said.

"Tony and the President want me to spearhead the development of a 
program to counter it, and I hear you have some time on your hands."

"I'm nattered," Ben said sincerely.

"I'll do whatever I can to help."

"For now, just think," La Rosa said.

"We've got a once in a lifetime opportunity to change things, really 
change things.  It's like law school--what would you do to solve the 
race problem if you didn't have to worry about politics?"

"Only this is real," Ben said.

"This is real."

CHRISTY HEARD THEM before she saw them.  Her delicate frame was tied, 
tightly, to a post in the northeast corner of the barbed wire fence 
surrounding the Aryan Kingdom compound.  She sobbed quietly, her spirit
broken.  The bone-chilling chorus of a mob overcome with bloodlust 
resonated over the small, snow-covered hill that separated her from her
 fate.

She was cold.  The icy wind cut through her white wool sweater, blue 
jeans and thermal underwear.  Stewart and Frederick had removed her ski
 jacket and nylon pants, her hat and her gloves.

Christy had not been to church for several months, but she began to 
pray.  No one outside the Aryan Kingdom compound knew her whereabouts. 
There would be no last minute cavalry charge.  No choppers swooping in,
guns blazing.  She prayed for her soul, not her life.  She prayed for 
America.

The mob piled over the crest of the hill.  Each man carried a firearm 
at his side--rifles, semi-automatic machine guns, pistols.  JJ 
Alexander shouted, "Halt!"  when the men were about one hundred feet 
from Christy.  He instructed them to spread out across an imaginary 
line forming the third side of a triangle with the northern and eastern
 ends of the fence.

"Miss Kirk!  You have been sentenced to die by firing squad for crimes 
against the Unified Forces of the Aryan Knights of the Millennium.  Do 
you have any last words?"  Alexander shouted.

Christy suppressed her sobs.  She closed her eyes to collect herself, 
then reemerged, her head held high, her jaw thrust forward, resolute.

"Go fuck yourself, you Nazi pig!"  she screamed.

Alexander faced the men.

"Gentlemen, it's time to prove your allegiance to the Unified Forces," 
he said in a loud, commanding voice.

"Every man aims for the heart.  No man can claim innocence."

Christy cringed as two hundred weapons were raised.

"Ready!"  Alexander shouted impassively.

She could not decide whether she wanted to scream or vomit.  Where was 
the fucking cavalry, anyway?  Christy tried to look as many men in the 
eye as she could.  Most appeared unmoved.  Gar Henderson turned away. 
Franklin Verdant glared back at her with the contempt he wore like a 
Satanic mask.

"Aim!"  Two hundred pairs of eyes lined up behind two hundred gun 
sights.

A strange calm came over Christy.  Her body relaxed.  Her mind stopped 
racing. The moment was suspended in time and space; it seemed to last 
forever.  She squared her shoulders and thrust out her chest; she 
stared straight ahead, unblinking, daring death to take her with the 
unwavering irreverence with which she lived.

"Fire!"

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT can do strange things to a person's mind.  Debby 
Barnett had spent most of the past nine days handcuffed to a pole in 
the dark, dank basement of the Maryland safe house.  Almost a full week
had passed since her last encounter with The Spy.  Her face was still 
tender from The Spy's two sucker punches; she was sure her nose was 
broken.  Her body was stiff.  She had only been allowed to walk briefly
each day at meal time.  But the effects of sensory deprivation on her 
mind had been the most dramatic.  She was losing it.

Debby slept as much as possible--she had lost track of night and day. 
When she was awake, she did not know how to pass the time.  She was at 
the same time desperate for human company and afraid of it.  She was 
anxious and paranoid, fearful that every creak in the floorboards 
signaled the approach of The Spy.

The Spy was on her mind now.  She rocked gently in place, trying to 
connect her thoughts.  It was hard to retain focus.  Strike Three was 
next.  She remembered that.  If she did not tell him the truth, she 
would die.

Would that be so bad?  Death was inevitable, anyway; why prolong the 
agony?  She wondered if she had just spoken her thoughts out loud.  Did
that make a difference?  If a tree falls in the woods and nobody hears
it, does it make a sound?  What was the truth?  How much of the past 
several months was real and how much was a dream?  So many questions, 
no answers.

The walls were moving, again.  In and out.  The Spy was controlling it.
He was determined to make her crazy.  The sliver of light under the 
door was a tease.

Brighter, then dimmer, brighter, then dimmer.  She needed the sun.  Was
today Sunday?  The Spy was going to pay for his mind games.  She could
play dead, then kick him in the head.  She giggled at the rhyme, then 
repeated it out loud several times.  What rhymes with cutting off his 
balls?

A loud noise, like a thunderclap, startled Debby.  Panic consumed her. 
Were the walls falling now?  The door opened.  She covered her eyes to 
shield them from the blinding light.  She heard footsteps.  She rocked 
with her head buried in her arms, petrified.

"Good evening.  Miss Barnett," The Spy said softly.  Why is he 
shouting?

"How are you this evening?"  The Spy left the door open this time.  The
 only light was a low wattage bulb hanging in the staircase.

Debby began to sob.

"I want to go home.  I want this nightmare to be over," she said.  Her 
mouth and tongue were stiff.  She spoke in a labored manner, similar to
 a deaf person's speech, the words slurred.

"Now, now, Miss Barnett, it's only natural to be a little disoriented 
in your situation," The Spy said gently.

"I'm not such a bad guy.  I might have been a little ill-tempered the 
other day because I was under a lot of pressure."

He paused, then said: "I'll make you a deal.  Let's speak the truth 
tonight, and tomorrow maybe we can arrange a walk outside for an hour 
or two.  Maybe even a picnic lunch.  Would you like that?"

Debby wiped her eyes.

"You won't hurt me if I tell you everything?"

The Spy chuckled.

"Of course, not, Miss Barnett.  You're a lovely woman.  What kind of 
man do you think I am?"

She started sobbing, again.

"But how do I know?"  she wailed.

"How do I know for sure that you won't hurt me, again?  I know you're 
going to kill me if I talk and you're going to kill me if I don't. 
Just  kill me, already, dammit!  Get it over with--please."

The Spy squatted down in front of her.  He wiped her tears with his
handkerchief, then rubbed her face gently with the back of his 
fingers.

"Miss Barnett, you have to trust me.  I'm a man of my word.  I will not
 hurt you if you tell me the truth."

She was becoming accustomed to the bright light.  The Spy's face was 
not as menacing as she had imagined.  He had a pleasant smile.  At 
least there was hope if she submitted.

"What do you want to know?"  she asked.

"Tell me how you learned about The Poem," The Spy said.

"I found it in my brother's apartment."

A look of surprise crossed The Spy's face.

"Your brother?  I wasn't aware that you had a brother."

"I wasn't, either," Debby said.

"I found a letter from him in my father's place.

He's my illegitimate half brother--he's older than I am."

"Hmmm.  I see.  What's his name?"

There was no longer any reason to hesitate.

"Van Buren Andrew Stone," Debby said.

"He's The Assassin."

FORTY-THREE

AS THE WEEK WORE ON, Ben and La Rosa had wandered in and out of the 
other's office regularly to discuss issues, take their meals and shoot 
the breeze.  The stiffness that had characterized their first meetings 
had eased.  Ben had found himself full of energy despite his recent 
ordeal.  La Rosa had also seemed perkier as the two old friends 
rekindled a flame long extinguished.

By the time Wednesday morning rolled around, they were ready to create 
law.  Ben was seated in one of La Rosa guest chairs, legs crossed, a 
yellow legal pad in his lap.  His face was clean-shaven; a thin layer 
of matted black hair already covered his scalp.  It was like old times.
 She was the teacher; he was the student.

Ben had been advocating an approach that focused on the plight of the
underclass generally.  He argued that legislation should focus on 
remedying crime, drugs, the lack of educational opportunities and the 
feelings of hopelessness that make it difficult for African-Americans 
to escape the cycle of poverty.  La Rosa once again accused him of 
taking too academic a view of what was essentially an emotional 
issue.

"Discrimination is not just a poverty issue," La Rosa said, her feer 
resting on the desk a la Tony Fabrizio.  She spoke dispassionately, as 
if lecturing, distancing herself from a subject that was all too 
near.

"Being African-American means suffering a thousand slights and subtle 
insults every week," she continued.

"It means always wondering if you're being treated fairly and knowing 
that most of the time you're not.  Middle class blacks live with 
feelings of oppression and rage that whites can't begin to understand. 
That emotional burden is easy to discount, but it's an enormous quality
of life issue for AfricanAmericans. Think about how you'd feel if one 
of your co-workers, who you know is no better than you, was earning 
twenty thousand dollars more than you.

Multiply that feeling by ten times a day, 365 times per year.  Then 
scratch your head and see if you can figure out why AfricanAmericans 
suffer from high rates of heart disease."

"Is it that bad for you?"  Ben asked.

La Rosa paused.

"No," she said.

"There are occasional slights, and I let them bother me more than I
care to admit, but for the most part I've been lucky.  But when I go 
out to a restaurant, I find myself wondering why I've been seated near 
the kitchen when there's an open table by the window.  Or if I'm 
shopping in the mall, I feel the clerk watching me closely when I take 
something to the dressing room.  They're small slights, but they add 
up."

"Well, any initiative we come up with to deal with racial 
discrimination wouldn't be limited to the underclass," Ben said.

"My point is that we need to understand the causes of discrimination 
and poverty to develop solutions to those problems."

"Gee, that's a tough one.  Let's try two hundred years of slavery and 
oppression followed by thirty of polite indifference," La Rosa said 
sarcastically.

"That's a little harsh."

"Is it really?  Which do you take offense to, the slavery, the 
oppression or the indifference?"  she asked.

"I don't take offense," Ben said.

"But I do think such broad terms are more appropriate for the pulpit 
than for meaningful debate.  I agree that historical, 
government-sanctioned discrimination is a significant cause of the 
problems of African-Americans today.  But it's a problem that the 
federal government has been addressing for the past forty years.  Why 
aren't African-Americans uplifting themselves from the underclass at a 
faster rate?  Why are these problems so resistant to solution if the 
causes are purely historical?"

"Because it's not purely historical.  We still live in a segregated 
society," La Rosa said.

"Even when we live or work or go to school side by side, there's almost
always an intangible distance between us that transcends space. 
There's  an artificiality, a polite indifference, an invisible wall in
most  black white relationships."

"But that's not promoted by the government," Ben said.

"It's like we were talking about the other day.  You can't legislate 
love or friendship or collegiality.  Individual people need to break 
down those walls one at a time."

"So what the world needs now is love, sweet love?"  La Rosa cracked.

Ben flashed his crooked grin. "Love and a house in the suburbs."

"Cute.  So now we're back to throwing money at the problem.  What do 
you think would happen if we started building low-income housing in the
 suburbs?"  La Rosa asked.

"Probably white flight to new suburbs," Ben replied.

"But you can't legislate emotions.  You can't force people to stay with
 people they don't want to be with.

Any program that Tony adopts needs to provide opportunity to 
African-Americans and address peoples feelings about integration."

"That's easy to say from the ivory tower, but it's so much harder to
implement," La Rosa said.  She hesitated, as if wavering whether to 
speak her mind.

"Integration was the goal of the civil rights movement in the Sixties, 
but I think the black leadership went about it the wrong way after Dr. 
King was killed.  Integration might have been easier to achieve if the 
black leadership had pursued it without the giant chip on their 
shoulder.  Most of the leaders that stepped forward after Dr.  King 
died were militants more interested in racial posturing and personal 
power than in working together with whites to find a common 
solution."

"I think you're right," Ben said.

"But most whites are afraid to say it because they fear being branded 
as racists.  It's become a taboo.  The tensions are so high that we 
can't talk honestly with each other."

"Be the voice of White America," La Rosa said.

"What would you say if you could speak without fear?"

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that," Ben said warily.

"I'm not comfortable being the voice of Black America, either," La Rosa
 said.

"But somehow I feel that I've become just that in this Administration. 
Like you said, it starts with individuals.  If two old friends can't 
talk honestly about it, we can't expect the American people to do 
it."

"Nothing held back?"  Ben asked.

She smiled.

"Everything on the table.  No secrets, no lies."

Ben collected his thoughts.  Two young lawyers with a combined five 
years of real world legal experience discussing, maybe deciding, 
policies that would affect 250 million people's daily lives.  He felt 
as if it was at the same time overwhelming and the fulfillment of his 
destiny.  He was making a difference in people's lives.

"While it's not fair to stereotype an entire race, I think that most 
white people perceive African-Americans as resisting assimilation," Ben
 began cautiously.

"All immigrant groups since the mid-1800s faced discrimination, but 
they gradually melded into a single, mainstream culture.  All ethnic 
groups maintain some elements of their culture--religious practices, 
weddings, music, slang terms--but they adopt many of the common 
elements of society--the way we dress, speak, choose friends, respect 
strangers and obey laws.  Most whites see young black kids speaking 
Ebonies, dressing in rap attire, walking the walk, playing boom boxes 
loud in public, not respecting other people's space and adopting a
menacing attitude.  Why shouldn't mainstream America flee from that?"

"Is that how you think?"  La Rosa asked.

It was all out on the table.  La Rosa face did not betray her emotions;
Ben wondered what she thought of him now.  But he knew she was right. 
If they were going to peer into the minds of all Americans, they had to
 lay bare their own perceptions.

"You know, I didn't think that way until I started working in New 
York," he said.

"When we were in law school it was easy to take lofty positions because
I hadn't seen the real world.  I hadn't ridden the subway at nine 
o'clock at night with a band of black teenage gangsta rappers roaming 
from car to car.  I didn't have a co-worker who was murdered in 
Greenwich Village by a black teenager for the fifteen bucks in his 
wallet.  You're forced to stereotype for your personal safety even 
though it goes against everything you want to believe.  When I deal
with another lawyer in a business suit, I don't see his color.  Same 
with the guys who run the local grocery or the dry cleaners.  But, 
yeah, if I'm out on the street and I see a black kid dressed in baggy 
pants walking the walk, I'm conscious of his race, and I have a strong 
desire to avoid him."

La Rosa snorted, shaking her head.

"Honestly, I'd avoid him, too," she said.

Ben laughed nervously.

"I'm not saying I don't understand the alienation," he said.

"Thumbing your nose at your persecutors is not an unreasonable 
response.

But it's not a response that bridges gaps."

"Alienation is the right word," La Rosa said.  She shifted forward in 
her chair.

"African-Americans aren't going to reach out to join a society that's 
spurned them; the government, mainstream America, needs to bring them 
back into the fold."

"But how do you reach out to forty million people on a personal basis?"
 Ben asked.

La Rosa rubbed the bristles on the back of her neck while she 
thought.

"I think we need a national dialogue on race," she said.

"A real dialogue, with real people, not a half dozen bullshit town hall
meetings with the president."

"But what makes you think people will speak their minds?"  Ben asked.

"It's hard for me to open up to you.  Many people, maybe most people, 
will be inhibited from saying what they really mean.  The Internet is 
the only place where I feel that I can really speak my mind."

La Rosa paused, deep in thought.

"Then why not create the dialogue on the Net?"

she asked.

"Well, the poor, the people we want to reach most, aren't going to be 
on-line," Ben said.

"Maybe not, but like I said before, discrimination isn't a poverty 
issue.  If we can engage the leaders of the community in a meaningful 
discussion, we can understand peoples expectations," La Rosa said.

"If whites expect African-Americans to assimilate, and African-American
leaders agree to encourage that as long as white community leaders 
encourage acceptance and nondiscrimination, we have a meeting of the 
minds."

"Anonymity cuts two ways," Ben said.

"Open Internet chats would be vulnerable to intrusion by racist 
agitators."

"We could use trained moderators to screen out antagonizers," La Rosa 
said.

"The moderators could also take the discussion in constructive 
directions where the conversation seems to be breaking down from lack 
of initiative."

"I guess we need to start somewhere," Ben said.

"It'll take time to break down people's prejudices, white and black, 
but it won't ever happen unless we try," she said.

"But I still think the race dialogue needs to be coupled with programs 
that target the problems of the underclass," Ben said.

"We need to attract better teachers to inner city schools and make an 
honest effort at eliminating drugs and violence from inner city 
neighborhoods.  We've got to give these kids hope that they can lift 
themselves out of poverty if they work hard."

La Rosa raised her eyebrows.

"Any program that attempts to do all that on a national scale will be
expensive," she said.

"It's political suicide."

"Fabrizio said he wanted a revolution," Ben said with intensity.

"Revolutions don't come cheap."

FORTY-FOUR

THE ROYAL ORDER OF THE MILLENNIUM KNIGHT met on-line for the first time
in the new year in the wee hours of Friday morning.  They were now 
meeting in a private room with the innocuous name "Buddy's Bar & 
Grill."  The Knights were all present at exactly one o'clock.

The Heir Apparent2: Gentlemen, our forefathers dictated our 
mission--claim the presidency by force and vanquish the Negro race as 
the Final Vengeance for the murder of Jimmy MacDougall.  We expected 
one more year to complete our objectives, but now we face the challenge
of preparing for battle in less than two weeks.  I want a brief update
of your activities and your vision of our strategy.  Spy, you're up 
first.

The Spy2: BFK has disappeared.  Middle-aged white male traveling with 
BFK when eluded dragnet identified self as Mr, Maxwell, but not 
verified.  Driving Ray Allgood's car.

The Doctor2: Do we know how Kravner made contact with Allgood?

The Spy2: No.  Don't know how much Allgood knows, either.

The Speaker2: Does he have White House connections?

The Doctor2: I don't think so.  He's a research doctor.  He was invited
to the President's New Year's Eve party this year, but only because I 
was asked to provide a list of high ranking minority administrators 
at

NIH.

The Spy2: Agents report Allgood was a stiff all night at party.  Easy 
target, but no immediate threat.  In Europe with family, probably 
running from us.  Agent following him and reporting to me 2x/day. 
Scheduled return: Sat 1/14.

The Senator2: I think it's critical that we keep him alive at least 
until he takes the fall for the Experiment.  We'll have no chance of 
winning public support if we launch an attack without provocation.

The Doctor2: Our attack would appear justified as a response to the 
disclosure of the Experiment whether Allgood's dead or alive.  It's too
 dangerous to keep him alive.

The Speaker2: People will see a pattern.  Think about the reaction by 
the press to Fort Bragg.  White man accuses black men of inciting 
racial violence, but the black men were conveniently killed before the 
accusations could be confirmed or denied.  The press may be more 
receptive to conspiracy theories if that happens again so soon after 
the first incident.  That reporter who showed up at the Super 
Conference was only the first of many.

The Doctor2: Perhaps Allgood's home would make an appropriate target on
 King Day.

The Heir Apparent2: Something personal, Doctor?  The Caretaker2: I'm 
with The Doctor--Allgood is an arrogant SOB who needs to be taken to 
the whipping post.

The Speaker2: Once the press reports that Allgood authorized the 
Experiment, he's a natural target of the white supremacy movement.  As 
long as we wait until after the leak, his death shouldn't arouse 
suspicions.

The Heir Apparent2: General, do you see any logistical problems?

The General2: Not if we work the timing right.  We should leak the 
story late on Saturday to make the papers on Sunday, 1/16, then stage 
the attacks on Monday.

The Heir Apparent2: Good.  Spy, any other intelligence to report?

The Spy2: DB confessed Sat PM.  Assassin had bastard son.  DB thinks 
he's taken on role of Assassin.  She thought he had identified Pub and 
trying to contact us.

Knowing their father, I'm more concerned that brother is out to exact 
revenge against us--may have already murdered Pub.

The Heir Apparent2: Does he know our identities?

The Spy2: DB never contacted him, so she doesn't know.  But our IDs 
evident if King Day attack successful.

The Heir Apparent2: We still must decide how much information about the
Unified Forces will be disclosed after the attacks.  It may be
possible  to conceal our identities until after The Assassin is
eliminated.

The Spy2: Assassin shouldn't be a factor.  We need military protection 
if when we announce participation, anyway.  Assassin will be least of 
our concerns. Recommendation:

proceed as planned.

The Heir Apparent2: That's a reasonable point.  Doctor, Caretaker, 
what's the status of the Experiment?

The Doctor2: The Caretaker should have received a check on Tuesday.

The Caretaker2: The Experiment is underway.  The Heir Apparent2: 
Excellent.

General, your battle plans?

The General2: We're trying to do an awful lot in short time, but I 
think we can plan a successful limited engagement on King Day.  The 
most difficult tactical issues arise in planning the next steps.  I 
want a plan in place for at least the next month and a clear view of 
the end game before our first strike.  Like you said earlier, we 
haven't even decided if we're going to disclose our involvement right 
away.  That's a critical tactical issue.

The Heir Apparent2: What targets have you selected for the first 
strike?

The General2: We want maximum damage with minimum troops.  The NOMAADs 
have scheduled a candlelight vigil at the Washington Monument at 6:01 
p.m. on King Day--marking the time of King's death on the day they 
celebrate his birth.

Snipers will be positioned to take out the NOMAAD leadership at exactly
6:01 p.m. At the same time, a bomb will explode in NOMAAD HQ and an 
assault team will attack a NOMAAD training facility to be designated. 
We'll arrange for a bomb to be placed in Allgood's home, as well.

The Heir Apparent2: Will the troops be prepared in time?

The General2: There are 22 organizations, with a total of 1,500 troops,
that are at or close to combat readiness.  I'm looking for a NOMAAD 
target that's convenient to one of our facilities.  We don't have the 
resources to drop storm troopers from the sky.  We've got to march 
right up to the front door, blow it in and take them out.  Nothing 
fancy.

The Heir Apparent2: Let's address the big picture tactical issues.  I 
think we need to assume that somehow our involvement with the Unified 
Forces will be disclosed.  We've already revealed ourselves to the 
white supremacy leadership.

They've been sworn to secrecy, but there are bound to be leaks.  Hell, 
that Kirk woman found out about the Super Conference; another snoop 
will discover we're behind the Unified Forces.  Do we add more value 
remaining in our present positions as long as possible or demonstrating
to the American public that men of power and influence stand behind
the  Unified Forces?

The Senator2: Bear in mind that we'll be arrested if we remain in our 
present positions and we're exposed.

The Spy2: And, in due time, executed.

The Heir Apparent2: If we reveal ourselves, we become outlaws.  I'd 
lose the vice-presidential nomination.  We could only claim the 
presidency by force--a military coup.  General, what's our position 
with the military leadership?

The General: Unclear.  There are white supremacists at all levels, but 
they've never been forced to choose between white power and the U.S. 
government.  As political outsiders we might gain the support of a few 
military bases, but we'd face overwhelming opposition.  We need to 
stake a legitimate claim to the presidency if we want to control the 
Armed Forces.  There'd still be active resistance-minorities make up 
about 20% of the enlisted troops--but we'd have the law on our side.

The Heir Apparent2: Catch-22.  We need to control the Army to stage a 
successful coup, but the Army won't support us unless we have a 
legitimate claim to power.

We don't have a year to wait for the election!

The General2: No catch.  If the offices of the president and the vice 
president are both vacant, The Speaker is next in line.

The Heir Apparent2: Intriguing.  You're absolutely right.  Speaker, are
 you prepared to lead the nation into civil war?

The Speaker2: Whatever it takes.

The Heir Apparent2: Then the plan is complete.  It's one year early, 
but the Final Vengeance is within our grasp.  Hell, it's ironic, but 
we'll claim the presidency exactly as our ancestors envisioned after 
all--by the handiwork of our own assassin.

FORTY-FIVE

THE NEWS FROM THE CIA on Friday afternoon was not good.

"We can't find The Assassin," Frank Garda said.

"Without Stone's copy of the Poem, we can't show a direct link between 
the suspected members of The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight and 
the presidential assassinations."

Ben, La Rosa and Tony Fabrizio listened glumly as Garcia, the CIA 
Director, and his analyst, Mitch Adler, reported their findings.

"You agree that Ben's copy of the Poem would be inadmissible?" 
Fabrizio  asked.

"Yes," Garcia replied.

"But other evidence is falling into place.  If we can locate The 
Assassin, we can make a credible case.  Not airtight, but credible.

Mitch, run through our conclusions."

Adler looked more like a lawyer than a spy, Ben thought.  He was in his
late twenties, wore designer eyeglasses and sported a slight paunch. 
His thick, black hair was slicked straight back.  He articulated the 
CiA's findings in a relaxed manner, leaning forward, rarely breaking 
eye contact with the Vice President.

The CIA had found evidence supporting the naming convention.  A 
clandestine search of Calhoun College revealed only pictures of old 
English horsemen and ducks where Ben had described the portraits of the
brothers and sisters MacDougall; however, the original deed to the 
Calhoun College property was located in public records.  It included a 
quitclaim deed signed by each of the siblings.

There had been no electronic evidence of the Millennium Nights room on
CyberLine.  However, accounts linked to the Knights' cyber-names had 
been issued to false identities, paid for with canceled credit cards 
billed to canceled post office boxes.  The Knights had covered their 
tracks well, but the coincidences were mounting.

Professor Caldwell's research had also been validated.  The CIA had 
confirmed that ancestors of each of the Knights were connected to 
either one dead president or his assassin in some peripheral capacity. 
They had even found a link to the death of Franklin Roosevelt that the 
Professor had overlooked.  No trace of any ancestor could be found 
before 1840, and no trace of the MacDougalls could be found after that 
year.  Jimmy MacDougalls gravesite had been located on the Calhoun 
College grounds, and he had indeed died in 1840. The cause of death
could not be determined.

Still, without the Poem, there was no direct link between the 
presidential assassinations and the naming convention.  The naming 
convention itself was odd, but it was not evidence of a crime.  Even if
the Knights' ancestors could be linked to the presidential 
assassinations, there was insufficient evidence of a conspiracy by the 
present day Knights.

The last line of analysis pursued by the CIA had been an evaluation of 
the suspects' recent activities.  Adams Thompsons editorials had been 
inflammatory, but not criminal.  General Glenn's recommendation to 
segregate the military, while extreme, had not risen to the level of 
misfeasance, and was supported by court decisions upholding the 
military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy relating to homosexual 
conduct.

JJ Alexanders suggestion that the parties be unified for the 2000 
election had been founded on a platform of racial unity, hardly 
evidence of a conspiracy to incite a race war.  It was also difficult 
to argue that Cal Stewarts demand that Ray Allgood limit Calhoun 
College's experiment to white prisoners had been racially inflammatory 
because Stewart's stated purpose had been to avoids backlash from 
African-American groups.

The presence of John Daniels son at the epicenter of the Fort Bragg 
incident had been suspicious, but The Speaker himself had not been 
implicated, and any role his son had played in the event could not be 
proven.  Gerry Kate appeared to have led a vendetta against Ben 
Kravner, but the evidence, which Ben alleged was planted, did support 
the charges, and ultimately it would be Ben's word against the FBI.

"The bottom line is that without the Poem we don't think we can win 
this case in court," Adler concluded.

"Even with the Poem, it's not a slam dunk."

Fabrizio chewed on his lower lip, processing the new information, then 
asked:

"But you agree it's likely that these men are participating in a 
conspiracy to assassinate the next president and launch a race war?"

Garcia nodded his head gravely.

"Absolutely," he said.

"And if this Royal Order controls the FBI, they could easily be 
assembling the firepower to do it.  The FBI has an enormous black 
operations budget that the Director controls."

"The FBI also has exclusive jurisdiction over the white supremacy and
paramilitary groups," Adler said.

"So if the FBI's involved in the conspiracy, nobody's minding the 
store.  Any illegal activities are probably going unmonitored."

"That's a frightening thought," La Rosa said.

"So what do I do?"  Fabrizio asked helplessly.

"What do I advise Hank to do?"

Ben stroked the bristly beginnings of a new mustache.  An idea was 
forming.  But it was a longshot, and he hated to be thought the fool. 
He turned the idea over and over in his mind while the CLA Director 
offered his advice.

"If we find The Assassin and obtain his copy of the Poem, we have 
probable cause," Garcia said.

"We can make the arrests and search the Knights' homes and offices.  It
could be a public relations disaster if we can't prove their guilt,
but  the stakes are too high to ignore the evidence."

"And if you can't locate The Assassin?"  Fabrizio asked.

"It's a tougher call.  The President could look pretty damn foolish," 
Garcia said.

"But you do have Ben's copy of the Poem--it's just not admissible in 
court. Maybe you can wriggle out of the public relations mess.  Ben 
should expect to be disbarred after the Knights' lawyers get through 
with him."

Ben rolled his eyes.  Wonderful.  The recital of his name seemed like a
 cue.

"Can I bounce an idea off the group?"  Ben asked.

Fabrizio tossed up his arms.

"Why not?  It seems like we're running out of them," he said.

"JJ Alexander volunteered to run as your vice president soon after 
Adams Thompsons murder.  Why would he do that?"  Ben asked, looking 
from face to face as he spoke, then answered his own question before 
anyone else could interrupt.

"The Knights must have learned that Stone had assumed the role of The 
Assassin, and Alexander feared assassination after his election as 
president," he said.

"Now, as vice president, he expects to become president after The 
Assassin kills you, Mr.  Vice President.  Why not turn the tables back 
on him?  If you nominate him as the presidential candidate, he becomes 
the target."

Everybody's reaction was the same.  They cringed.  Garcia was the first
 to speak.

"What if they've already located The Assassin?"  he asked.

"If Gerry Kate has your friend, Debby Barnett, then he knows Stone s 
name by now.  Maybe we can't find him because the FBI already has him 
in custody."

"The risks are too big, Tony," La Rosa said, shaking her head 
vigorously.

"If you confront JJ, and he knows that The Assassin has been taken out 
of play, you've handed them the keys to the White House.  If he is 
worried about The Assassin, confronting him might incite the Knights to
attack immediately and do whatever damage they can before they're 
brought to justice.  They'd be facing the death penalty for treason, 
anyway."

"What else can we do?"  Fabrizio asked.

"Doing nothing carries big risks, too."

"Maybe we could offer JJ a plea bargain in exchange for his 
confession," Garcia suggested.

"Ben's right.  JJ's dramatic change of plans suggests that he was 
worried about The Assassin.  We could guarantee no death penalty."

"But what if we guess wrong?"  La Rosa asked, her brow furrowed.

"We don't know their strength.  If General Glenn is involved, they may 
have military backing."

"Shitfuck!"  Fabrizio said.

"We need more intelligence.  We need to know how much time we have 
before they plan to strike.  How can we make informed decisions without
 information?"

All eyes turned to Garcia.

"If they have broad-based support, it's in the military and the radical
fringe," Garcia said.

"Any intelligence gathering would be under the jurisdiction of military
intelligence and the FBI--and we know who controls those functions."

"What can you get for us on short notice?"  Fabrizio asked.

"This kind of operation can't be thrown together," Garcia said.

"The CIA does not have any domestic intelligence gathering function. 
We'll need operatives undercover in the white supremacy movement and 
the military.  We can insert a limited number of agents at low levels, 
but that won't yield the intelligence that you need, when you need 
it."

"Tony, I'd err on the side of caution here," La Rosa said.

"The State of the Union Address would be an ideal time to reveal the 
conspiracy and the remedial programs we're thinking about, but it's not
carved on tablets from God.  Rather than incite the Knights to war,
let  the CIA do some groundwork.

If the Knights are unprovoked, there's still another year before their 
plan kicks in."

"But they're already on alert," Garcia said.

"The Fort Bragg incident may have been a botched attempt to start the 
war.  They may be setting the stage for a second attempt with that 
Calhoun College research project.  We need to stop them before emotions
 run high and people die."

Fabrizio paced by the fireplace.  The others stared at the ground. 
Finally, the Vice President spoke.

"I've got to clear it with the President, but I'm willing to try Ben's 
idea," he said, still pacing.  There was fire in his eyes.

"I want JJ's confession.  I'm not convinced that the Poem is sufficient
to send these traitors to the gas chamber even if it is admissible 
evidence, and, dammit, I want them dead.  But we need to control The 
Assassin; if the Knights have located Stone--even if they might be in 
contact with him--I can't risk handing JJ the presidency."

Fabrizio glared at Garcia and Adler.

"We've got ten days before the State of the Union address," he said.

"You've got to find The Assassin first.  Otherwise we wait and take our
 chances on war."

Ben could feel the tension in the room.  Nobody appeared confident that
The Assassin would be found.  As long as he and Dr.  Allgood roamed 
free, Ben knew that the Knights would be under pressure to act.  The 
passion of the MacDougall clan could not be doubted.  The nation was at
the brink of civil war, and the United States government was powerless
 to stop it.

Ben's heart pounded.  He was responsible.  He had opened the sealed 
envelope.  He had somehow alerted the Knights that their secret had 
been discovered.  He was the reason that the Knights were accelerating 
their plans.  Ben began to sweat.

He knew what he had to do.

"If I surrender to the FBI, that should buy you some time," he blurted 
out.

"I'm the reason the Knights are feeling a sense of urgency."

A concerned look crossed La Rosa face.  Ben saw something in her eyes 
that he had seen only once before, on the night before her law school 
graduation.  He turned away, swallowing hard.  La Rosa remained 
silent.

Fabrizio reflected on Ben's proposal.

"That's a courageous offer," he said.

"But once you leave the White House compound, we can't guarantee your 
safety. My paternal instinct tells me to forbid it, but we're staring 
into the barrel of a loaded gun.  This is the gravest national crisis 
we've faced this century."

"If I surrender to the police and somebody tips the press, it'll be 
hard for the FBI to murder me," Ben said.

"I'll offer to plead guilty to the drug charges and keep quiet if Gerry
 Kate offers the same deal to Debby Barnett."

Fabrizio glanced around the table.

"Any better ideas?"  he asked.  La Rosa eyes were cast down.  Garcia 
and Adler shook their heads.  Fabrizio turned back to Ben.

"Son, your country thanks you," he said.

"Relax this weekend.  We'll arrange for safe passage to the D.C. police
 on Monday morning."

Ben stroked his nascent mustache nervously.  What have I done.

FORTY-SIX

BEN SMILED TENSELY.

"I guess this is it," he said.  It was four o'clock on Monday morning. 
Ben sat in the passenger seat of La Rosa red Pontiac, dressed once 
again in the thrift shop clothes that he had purchased in New York. 
The  car was parked on Indiana Avenue, near Capitol Hill, three blocks
from  the D.C. police headquarters.

La Rosa fought back tears.  She seemed to have difficulty finding the 
words she wanted to say.  Ben knew how she felt.  Although they were 
both still guarded in matters of the heart, the old feelings had 
returned.  They were soulmates.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said, searching his eyes for
 the courage to reveal her heart.

"I know," Ben said grimly.

"But a lot of people might die if I don't surrender.

I couldn't live with that on my conscience.  I'll be okay as long as 
you make that call to the Washington Post in twenty minutes.  If my 
surrender is public, the FBI can't murder me."

"I don't think you want to spend a lot of time in the D.C. jail-you'll 
probably run into a few of those gangsta rappers you're so afraid of," 
La Rosa said.

Ben forced a crooked grin.  He was so tense it hurt.

"I'll get by," he said softly.  He puffed up his chest in mock 
bravado.

"What's that famous quote from Nathan Hale?

"My only regret is that I have but one life to give for my country."" 
"Get real."

"Okay, I'm scared half to death, maybe a little more," Ben said.

"Just don't forget about me rotting in jail after you and Tony ride out
 on the white horse and save the day."

Ben saw La Rosa swallow hard.  She smiled awkwardly and looked directly
 into his eyes.  A tear ran down her cheek.

"I won't ever forget you," she said in a hoarse whisper.

Sadness filled Ben's heart.  He might never see her again.  He leaned 
towards her, hesitantly, their lips magnetically drawn together.  Their
 first kiss was a tender kiss.

"I love you, Rosie," he said.

"I always have."

Then he exited the car and jogged down Indiana, not looking back, tears
 filling his eyes.

Moments later, his eyes dried but puffy, Ben passed through a metal 
detector and entered the gray marble lobby of the D.C. Metropolitan 
Police Department Headquarters.  A uniformed police woman directed him 
to the Desk Lieutenant's office on the third floor.

Business was slow at four in the morning.  Light poured from a solitary
doorway about halfway down the empty third floor hallway.  Ben's 
footsteps echoed in the dimly lit corridor as he walked hesitantly 
towards the light.

Ben wavered momentarily, then entered the room.  He strode up to a long
marble countertop.  The desk lieutenant, a big-boned black man with 
short salt and pepper hair, was reading a newspaper at a beat up wooden
 desk behind the counter.

Ben waited patiently.  Finally, after thirty seconds had passed, Ben 
cleared his throat.  No reaction.  Three calendar pages tacked to a 
bulletin board behind the lieutenant's desk hinted at the pace of 
progress in this office--they were for October, November and December, 
1999.

"Excuse me," Ben said softly.

The lieutenant shot Ben a derisive glance.

"Have a seat," the lieutenant said, motioning toward a fold-up chair 
against the wall next to the door.

With a thin layer of black stubble on his head and dressed in ratty 
attire, Ben figured that he was not impressive enough to warrant 
priority over the newspaper.

lieutenant sir-The lieutenant glared at him.

"Have a seat," he said sternly.  Ben took two steps toward the chair 
then doubled back to the counter.  The lieutenant looked up from his 
newspaper, visibly agitated.  Before the lieutenant could find the 
surly words to match the sneer on his face, Ben silenced him.  In a 
loud, clear voice that reverberated throughout the near-empty third 
floor, Ben said: "My name is Benjamin Franklin Kravner.  I'm on the 
FBI's "Most Wanted' list.  I'm surrendering to the Washington D.C. 
Metro Police to avoid being murdered by the FBI."

The lieutenant's jaw dropped.

"If you don't want me," Ben said softly, in his best imitation ofW.C. 
Fields, "All things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

The desk lieutenant was not amused.

FORTY-SEVEN

T T ALEXANDER SAT PENSIVELY at the head of the massive conference table
in the windowless MacDougall Room at Calhoun College.  The others, Ty 
Andrew and John Daniel to his left and Gerry Kate, Buddy Frederick and 
Cal Stewart to his right, were talking in hushed tones about nothing 
that mattered to him.  The urn that had become Adams Thompson's final 
resting place stood neglected on the cabinet behind Alexander's 
chair.

Alexander's eyes were fixed on a print of a duck in flight, but his 
thoughts were far away.  A single bell chimed ominously in his mind, 
giving way to the mournful strains of the bagpipes and an image of 
himself taking the oath of office on the Capitol steps, clad in the 
traditional tartan of Clan MacDougall.

He had lived his whole life chasing the dream that his father instilled
in him, a dream that had been passed down proudly, fervently, over 
seven generations.

Jefferson John Alexander, the descendent of Alexander MacDougall, the 
oldest of the nine siblings of Jimmy MacDougall, was to rise to the 
presidency of the United States and oversee the vanquishment of the 
Negro race in America, dramatically achieving the Final Vengeance of 
Clan MacDougall.

Victory had appeared within reach two months ago.  Then a series of 
fluke events beginning with the death of Adams Thompson had nearly 
dashed his dreams, first jeopardizing The Royal Order itself, then 
presenting a solution that deprived him of the glorious moment that 
filled his fantasies.  Now, with the capture of the young lawyer, Ben 
Kravner, his hopes were rejuvenated.

Alexander's ruminations were interrupted when Clint Glenn burst into
the room, dressed in full military uniform, the array of war deco N

rations tacked to his left breast gleaming like a multi-colored 
children's toy.

General Glenn took his place beside John Daniel on the left side of the
 table.

It was ten past four on Thursday afternoon.  The General offered no 
apologies.

Alexander sat upright, rolled his chair to the table, and called the 
first live meeting of The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight to 
order.  His blue eyes regained their characteristic intensity as he 
surveyed the faces of his cousins.

"Gentlemen, we have critical decisions to make this afternoon," the
leathery-faced leader of the Knights said.

"With Kravner in custody and under our control, we're under less 
pressure to go on offense this Monday.  I think we should take the time
to work out an aggressive strategic battle plan, properly train our 
forces and lay the groundwork for participation by the military in our 
effort after I become vice president next year."

Clint Glenn leaned forward.

"JJ, I disagree with you on that," he said.  The others turned towards 
The General.  He was an imposing figure even to JJ Alexander.  He 
barked his words in short, staccato bursts, punctuated with sharp 
gestures with his hands.

"We know Kravner spoke to Allgood.  Maybe others.  We're combat ready. 
The troops are fired up.  I say we make our move now."

"I've got to side with Clint on this one," Ty Andrew drawled, his eyes 
darting from face to face.  He was wearing a gray three-piece suit that
 barely contained his girth.

"I admit that I was hesitant to start the bloodshed, but once we stoked
up those good of' boys at the Super Conference, we passed the point of
no return. The longer we wait, the greater the risk that someone 
spills the beans, whether its Kravner, Allgood or some dumbass country 
boy all excited to shoot up some nigras."

Gerry Kate concurred.

"Kravner is no longer a threat," he said.

"He understands that if he tries to communicate his knowledge to
anybody, Miss Barnett will be killed.  That said, I agree with Ty. 
I'm  more worried about our friends than our enemies."

Alexander searched for an ally.  Buddy Frederick and Cal Stewart were 
leaning forward, nodding their heads in quiet agreement with the 
others.  John Daniel's chair was tilted back.  He stroked his 
pronounced chin.  His deep set brown eyes betrayed no emotion.

"What about you, John?"  Alexander asked.

"You're unusually reserved today."

Daniel shifted forward.  Alexander knew that words did not come easily 
to The Speaker.  He built his reputation in the House of 
Representatives as a backslapping, deal-making operator, not as an 
orator.  He spoke slowly, selecting his words with care so as not to 
offend.

"JJ, I know that your role in our plan is important to you.  It's 
important to all of us," Daniel said.

"It was dictated by our ancestors.  So I'm in the awkward position of
leapfrogging over you into the presidency if we go with Clint's plan. 
You're our leader.  You'll be right beside me if we go that route.

But I defer to your judgment."

Alexander mulled over Daniel s words.  He could not state his true 
motivation. It would seem petty and vain.  Hell, it was petty and 
vain.  Each of them had sacrificed normal lives to return honor to the 
MacDougall name.  This was not about one man's quest for glory.  It was
 about family honor.  It was about revenge.

"Tradition is important, but I'm hesitant more out of caution than for 
the sake of tradition or self-fulfillment," Alexander said.

"Clint, tell us about your battle plan for King Day.  If time will 
improve our chances of victory, I don't want to rush into a fight just 
because we can smell blood."

The General described in bone-chilling detail the tentative battle 
plans for the Unified Forces on King Day.  General Glenn would set up a
command center at the Aryan Alliance compound in western North 
Carolina, about twenty miles southeast ofAsheville.  Over 1,500 troops 
would be transferred there from other training facilities on Friday and
 Saturday.

The Experiment would be leaked to the press on Friday.  Cal Stewart 
would make an anonymous telephone call to the Washington Post in the 
afternoon, disclosing some of the details of the illegal research on
prisoners being conducted by Calhoun College.  Buddy Frederick would
be  given as a contact.  Frederick would confirm that the Experiment
was  being conducted on prisoners, but that it had been approved by the
National Institutes of Health. He would give the reporter Cal Stewart 
s office and home telephone numbers.

Stewart would confirm that the research was illegal if in fact it was 
being conducted as described by the reporter, but he would ask that the
story be delayed until he could check with Ray Allgood.  Stewart would
let it slip that Allgood was black.  He would promise to fax the 
reporter a copy of the paperwork on Saturday night.  The reporter would
see the handwritten restriction limiting the Experiment to white 
subjects initialed by Ray Allgood and would realize that he had a hot 
story.  It would be too late for the Sunday edition, so the story would
 break on Monday morning.

During the early morning hours on Monday, a tactical team would 
surreptitiously place fire bombs at NOMAAD headquarters in Washington 
and in the home of Dr.

Raymond Allgood.  The bombs would be set to explode at precisely one 
minute past six o'clock on Monday night.

Cal Stewart and Buddy Frederick would remain in their offices on Monday
morning to respond to press inquiries about the Experiment.  They
would  cast blame for the incident on Ray Allgood, expressing outrage
at the  apparent racially motivated restriction of the illegal
experimentation  to white prisoners.  They would travel to the North
Carolina command  center in the afternoon.

JJ Alexander would participate in a scheduled King Day luncheon with 
Tony Fabrizio at the White House on Monday afternoon.  He was to book a
flight to Asheville and arrive at the command center before six 
o'clock.

General William Collins was to speak at the NOMAADs' candlelight vigil 
at the Washington Monument on Monday.  The rally was set to begin at 
6:01 p.m."  and a sniper would be prepared to assassinate General 
Collins as soon as he stepped to the microphone.

Gerry Kate, together with Franklin Verdant, the Chairman of the Aryan 
Alliance, would lead an assault on Camp Tubman, the NOMAADs' training 
facility in South Carolina.  Camp Tubman was only fifty miles from the 
Aryan Alliance compound.  A convoy of troop carriers and light 
artillery would leave the command center at four o'clock, Monday 
afternoon.  Over one thousand troops would assemble behind the cover of
the ridge separating the NOMAAD encampment from Cowpens National
Battlefield, and then storm "right through the front door" at 6:01 
p.m."  as General Glenn succinctly put it. The NOMAAD trainees were
expected to be dining or watching General  Collins's speech on
television at that hour.  Heavy resistance was not  anticipated.  It
would be a massacre.  The assault team would retreat  to the command
center to defend against any military reprisals,  although none were
expected.

A special tactical squad comprised of five former U.S. Army commandos, 
now active participants in the white supremacy movement,

would be poised to assassinate President Norton and Vice President 
Fabrizio at precisely 6:01 p.m. Conveniently, the two were scheduled to
meet all evening, with their staffs, to prepare for the State of the 
Union Address on Tuesday.

Four commandos would slip into the White House compound in disguise. 
The fifth man would be equipped with an arsenal of the latest military 
firepower, compliments of the federal government, that would be more 
than sufficient to blow up the White House and half the city if the 
raiding party failed to kill Norton and Fabrizio.

"Which half?"  John Daniel had asked with a wink.  The Speaker would be
the only Knight left behind in Washington.  He would be sworn in as
the  President of the United States some time early Monday evening as
the  next in the line of succession after Vice President Fabrizio.

At seven o'clock Monday night.  Eastern Standard Time, telephone calls 
would be made to various news agencies claiming credit for the attacks 
in the name of the Unified Forces of the Aryan Knights of the 
Millennium as retribution for crimes against white people.  The calls 
would be placed by members from pay phones in different cities across 
the country.  The leadership of the Unified Forces would not be 
identified.

President Daniel would address his grieving countrymen on national 
television later that night.  He would assure the nation that bringing 
the Unified Forces to justice would be the FBI's top priority.  In 
fact, Gerry Kate would control the pace of the investigation to allow 
Clint Glenn to build support within the military.  The white supremacy 
movement already had strong roots in the Armed Forces, among the 
leadership as well as the rank and file.  Glenn would test the
willingness of the top brass to defend the President's constitutionally
 suspect agenda.

"If the military supports us, then damn the Constitution and anything 
else in our way!"  General Glenn concluded.

"Let the Second Civil War begin."

It was clear to Alexander that The General's plan was frighteningly 
workable. There was no reason to delay.  But he had realized at the
Super  Conference, and perhaps even before that, that his cousins did
not have  a uniform vision of their end game.  He now viewed it as his
role to  bring them all together today.

"Clint, I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself," Alexander 
said.

"We haven't reached agreement on the scope of this war yet.  Hell, if 
we can avoid bloodshed entirely, that's all the better."

"Bullshit!"  All eyes turned towards Gerry Kate.  Fury filled The Spy's
 eyes.

"Our ancestors commanded us to drive every goddam nigger out of this 
country. Our mission is not complete until cold steel has run through 
that last black heart."

CyberLine had provided a convenient medium for the Knights to meet 
regularly and in secret over the past five years, but it had deprived 
them of the ability to gauge the depth of the others' passion, their 
sincerity--their sanity. Alexander had never met Gerry Kate before. 
Still, it did not shock him that Kate was now proving to be the most 
militant of the Knights.  He was appalled nonetheless at his 
unflinching resolve to murder an entire race.

General Glenn responded first.  Alexander held his breath.

"Gerry, JJ's right," Glenn said.

Thank God.  Alexander released his breath slowly.  He saw Cal Stewart 
and Buddy Frederick react similarly.

"If blacks accept our agenda peacefully, then there's no reason to 
extend the war beyond the King Day attacks," Glenn continued.

"But if the NOMAADs want to fight, and I'm certain they will, then 
we'll be ready.  But we're soldiers, not terrorists.  We will not kill 
old men, women and children."

Kate's ears were bright red.  His eyes darted from face to face.

"Then what are we trying to achieve here?"  he asked incredulously.

"I thought we were in agreement.  Do you think they're going to raise a
white flag and say, "Okay, we're vanquished, let's start a new game?" 
This is no game!  We--" "I guess I've had a different vision," 
Alexander interrupted.

"And I think the others will agree.  I know Cal does.  Blacks are 
inferior by nature.  If we remove all affirmative action programs and 
prohibitions against discrimination, they'll vanquish themselves. 
The--" "Dammit, that's not what our ancestors were thinking," Kate 
said.

"For God's sake, most of them were already slaves in 1840!"

Ty Andrew cleared his throat.

"You need to get a grip on reality, son," The Senator said in his deep,
Southern drawl.

"There's got to be some serious mental illness in our family tree to 
keep this conspiracy alive for so many years.  But, by God, somehow 
we've done it, and we're on the verge of bringing honor and power to 
the MacDougall name like no other family has known in history.  There 
are a lot of people in this country who would agree that men need to 
rise or fall on their own merits.  There are few who would support us 
if we announce ourselves as demonic killers.  We are William Wallace 
and Robert Bruce; we are not Adolf Hitler and Josef Stalin."

Alexander stifled a smile as he noticed The Spy rolling his eyeballs.

"Eloquently put, Senator," Alexander said.

"The President's role will be to remove all racial bias from the law. 
People will be free to act as they see fit.

Whether they take race into account or not will be a personal choice. 
If Congress does not support these presidential decrees, the military 
will step in to enforce them.  John?  Clint?  Do you agree?"

The Speaker and The General nodded their assent.

Gerry Kate stood and glared at his cousins.

"You are all deluding yourselves if you think your plan will avoid a 
bloody race war," he said bitterly.

"Once you put the match to the kerosene, you can't tell it to stop 
burning."

The Spy stalked out of the room.

After the meeting was adjourned, Buddy Frederick poured six glasses of 
scotch from the cask that had been brought to America 170 years earlier
by the patriarch of Clan MacDougall.  The Royal Order of the
Millennium  Knight drank a toast to their first American ancestors and
to the  imminent achievement of their Final Vengeance.

"May God Bless Jimmy MacDougall and each of his descendants and may his
Persecutors suffer eternal Damnation," Alexander said.  Each of the 
other Knights responded, "Aye," as had been their ritual in the 
Millennium Nights room these past five years.

As they parted company, a bell chimed ominously in JJ Alexander's mind.
The hellish dream of his nine drunken ancestors was about to become 
reality.

FORTY-EIGHT

THE DELIVERY BOY WAS LATE with the morning edition of the Washington 
Post, but Ray Allgood was too restless to wait.  The National Cancer 
Institute was officially closed for the King Day holiday, as were all 
federal agencies, but Ray had been in Europe for two weeks, and he was 
eager to clean out his inbox.

Diana and Stanton were still asleep.  He left a note reminding them to 
spend the day catching up on the schoolwork they missed while away in 
Europe.

It was five past six o'clock on Monday morning when Ray left the house.
The sun had not yet risen.  Ray climbed into his maroon Buick and 
frowned at the vacant spot where Claire's Taurus was ordinarily parked.
The car had sustained considerable damage in the crash on Jiminy Peak.
Ray had reported it stolen, as Ben Kravner had suggested, and the 
police had not questioned him before the family left for Europe.  His 
oldest daughter, Samantha, had arranged for the car to be repaired and 
driven back to Bethesda.

The Taurus was in fine working order when they had returned on 
Saturday, but Claire had fled to her mother's home in Virginia in it on
 Sunday.

On the last night of their eight-city tour, in Paris, Ray had confessed
his infidelity and unwitting involvement in The Royal Order's scheme
to  Claire.  She had been devastated.  She had trusted him so deeply
that  the possibility of his breach had never entered her
consciousness.  Her  sky had fallen.

For the first time in twenty years, he had cried.  Not for himself, but
for the pain he had caused her.  He had sworn that not even an impure 
thought would cross his mind from that day hence.  He had sworn that he
 would sign a pact with the devil to protect his family from The

Royal Order of the Millennium Knight.  And he had sworn to love her 
forever.

Ray backed out onto Asbury Lane.  It was out of his hands now.  He had 
said all the right things in Paris and was genuinely contrite.  He had 
faith that twenty years of loving marriage would count for something in
the end.  For now, his focus had to be on his other problem.  He
needed  to confront Cal Stewart, the devil himself, about the Calhoun
College  grant.  Ray Allgood was smart enough to know that his life was
still in  danger.  He wished he was smart enough to figure a way out.

THE WASHINGTON POST LAY FACE UP on President Norton's desk.  The banner
headline screamed: "Black Cancer Chief Experiments on White 
Prisoners!" Hank Norton was livid.

"Who the fuck is Ray Allgood and why is he ruining my life!"  the 
President shouted, his arms flailing about in no particular direction. 
He was pacing behind his desk in the Oval Office.  Tony Fabrizio, La 
Rosa Smith, Conrad Tucker, the President's Chief of Staff, and Helen 
Briggs, the Secretary of Health and Human Services, were on the 
receiving end of his invective.

Fabrizio shot La Rosa a worried glance.  La Rosa took the cue--let 
Helen Briggs do the talking.  Tony had not briefed the President about 
Ray Allgood's involvement in the conspiracy.

Briggs was a smooth one.  At forty-five, she was young to hold a 
Cabinet post, but her family was well-connected and were heavy 
contributors to Hank Norton's campaign fund.  She was nicely dressed in
a gray business suit, but her usually tidy hair-do was askew,
revealing  the hurry with which she must have left her home after
reading the  story in the Post.

"Dr.  Allgood is the director of the National Cancer Institute and a 
profoundly ethical man," Briggs said.

"I haven't had the opportunity to speak with him or Dr.  Stewart, the 
NIH director, but I'm sure there's some misunderstanding here.

Both experimentation on prisoners and the use of race as a criteria for
selecting participants in a research project would be clearly illegal, 
and I'm confident that Dr.  Allgood would not be involved in such 
activities."

The President was not satisfied.

"Dammit, Helen!"  he snapped.  Briggs recoiled from the sharpness of 
his tone, a look of fear crossing her face.

"Three weeks ago it was Fort Bragg and the fucking NOMAADs tied up 
traffic out there for an entire day," the President continued, 
gesturing outside towards Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Now I'm going to have the fucking KKK in my backyard!  Somebody has 
got to get out there and give our federal employees some sensitivity 
training!"

"Well, I sure hope it's not you," Fabrizio quipped, his broad grin 
designed to break the tension in the room as it had in so many tense 
rooms before.

"Relax, Hank.  We'll get this under control.  Let Helen talk to her
people before the press finds them.  The federal offices are closed 
today, so maybe that'll buy us a little time."

Norton slumped into his chair, but he did not smile.  His shoulders 
were rigid, his brow wrinkled.

"I'm sorry, Helen," he said.

"I don't want history to remember me as the man who presided over a 
race war. My State of the Union Address is tomorrow night.  The last 
thing I need is the Klan or some other group of rabble-rousers 
protesting on Capitol Hill in front of the TV cameras."

La Rosa glanced at Fabrizio.  He had told the President over the 
weekend that he did not think the investigation of the conspiracy was 
far enough along to arrest the Knights before the State of the Union 
Address.  The President's current draft of the speech included vague 
promises to address the existing state of racial tension, but did not 
raise the issue to the level of a national priority.  La Rosa was 
working on an alternative draft.  Hank Norton was upset now; she 
shuddered as she imagined his reaction when Fabrizio told him the true
impact of the Post story.

The President excused the group.  Helen Briggs made a quick exit, but 
the Vice President lingered.  Tucker remained seated.  La Rosa closed 
the doors after Secretary Briggs was out of earshot.

"Hank, this situation is more serious than you think," Fabrizio said.

CLINT GLENN LEANED on the window frame of his command center, a log 
cabin that had been constructed for him the week before.  He had traded
the dark green dress uniform of the United States Army for a slate
gray  one reminiscent of the uniforms worn by the Army of the
Confederacy in  America's first civil war.  He stared at the map of
Camp Tubman that  occupied most of the opposite wall, then peered out
the window.  It was  noon, lunchtime at the Aryan Alliance compound,
but the main yard was  bustling with activity.

Twenty-five troop carriers, recently painted slate gray, were lined up 
in five rows of five.  Mechanics hovered over the trucks' open hoods, 
tweaking their engines into perfect tune.

Even the roar of the engines could not drown out the boisterous yells 
of five hundred troops simulating the attack on Camp Tubman on the 
training fields one last time.  A constant stream of loud pops, like 
thousands of firecrackers ignited at once on the Fourth of July, 
emanated from the firing range, as another battalion of five hundred 
troops prepared for the defense of the command center in the event of a
retaliatory strike.  Still another battalion, the other half of the 
Camp Tubman strike force, was in the mess tent. General Glenn, framed
in the window of the command center, nodded  confidently.

This was a fighting force of which he could be proud--tough, 
disciplined, pure white.

JJ ALEXANDER STOOD AT THE LECTERN, silent, smiling, waiting for the 
applause to subside.  La Rosa Smith looked on from a large, round table
with eleven African-American religious leaders of little renown.  The 
big honchos, Douglas Malone, the chairman of the NAACP, General William
Collins, the NOMAAD chieftain, John Tubbs, the director of the
Southern  Christian Leadership Conference, and a number of others were
seated on  the dais with Vice President Fabrizio and Alexander.  A
total of 140  men and women, most of them notable African-Americans,
some of them  members of the press, filled the White House's State
Dining Room to  capacity.

La Rosa surveyed the room.  The mood was somber.  Everybody wanted to 
know how Fabrizio and Alexander, mainstream America, were going to 
react to this morning's story in the Washington Post.  The expectation 
of a collective slap on the wrist for the transgression of their 
brother, Ray Allgood, hung over the room like a dark cloud.

La Rosa wondered whether Alexander would take an inflammatory or 
conciliatory approach.

"Tony Fabrizio and I have spoken of our dream for America many times 
over this past month," Alexander began.

"We dream of an America that is free of racial strife."

La Rosa snorted softly.  Yeah, a lily white America.  Alexander was 
thumbing his nose at his audience, and they did not even know it.  She 
had not noticed the dual meanings in his speech when Tony Fabrizio 
announced him as his vice-presidential pick.  How could he keep a 
straight face?

"Realizing that dream starts with individuals," Alexander continued.

"It starts with fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, blacks and 
whites.  But the dream stops if we attribute the acts of individuals to
an entire class of people.  It stops if African-Americans cannot 
forgive all whites for the depraved act of one white soldier at Fort 
Bragg.  It stops if white Americans blame all African-Americans for the
 misguided act of Dr.  Raymond Allgood."

With those words of conciliation, the dark cloud dissipated.  La Rosa 
was puzzled by JJ's approach, but she joined the crowd, rising to her 
feet and half-heartedly applauding the hypocritical words of The Heir
Apparent.

Alexander basked in the warmth of the ovation, then plunged forward as 
his audience cooled.  He continued with more of the same rhetoric for 
five minutes, before deferring to the Vice President.

Alexander stepped back from the lectern, as the now enraptured crowd 
stood once again.  La Rosa felt the electricity running through this 
group of sophisticated leaders, and she realized what JJ Alexander had 
done.  He gave them a taste of the dream, lifting their hope ever 
higher, so that they would have farther to fall.

La Rosa closed her eyes and crossed her fingers as Fabrizio launched 
into his remarks.

"I've worked with JJ Alexander in the Senate for the past seven years,"
Fabrizio said.

"I've known him as a worthy adversary, a man of both principle and 
passion.  But it's only in the past month that I've truly known him as 
a man and as a friend. I've come to know that the state of race 
relations in America is more than a political issue forJJ, it's a 
deeply-rooted passion that he has carried since his youth, indeed one 
that has been passed down from generation to generation by the 
Alexander clan."

La Rosa watched Alexander's reaction carefully.  His head was cocked 
towards the Vice President, accepting the accolades gracefully, smiling
stiffly.  The color drained from his face at the mention of previous 
generations of the Alexander clan.  She smiled as she imagined the 
thoughts running through his mind.

"I'm going to let you all in on a secret," Fabrizio continued.  His 
expression changed from earnest to sad.  La Rosa marveled at how he did
 that.

"JJ Alexander has cancer."

A low rumble of gasps and exclamations of shock and dismay rolled 
across the room.  Alexanders shade quickly morphed from pale to 
crimson.  La Rosa was amused.

He had to suspect that Fabrizio was toying with him, but he could not 
be sure.

Fabrizio held up his right hand for silence.

"Wait, wait, please," Fabrizio said.

"JJ's cancer is in remission, and there is no imminent danger to him.
But it was he who came to me just over a month ago and suggested that 
we combine our campaigns.  You see, JJ Alexander wanted to leave a 
legacy for his grandchildren that would never be forgotten.  He was 
willing to give up part of his dream to assure that his goal of an 
America free of racial strife was realized in his lifetime."

Fabrizio's strong voice resounded through the stillness of the room. 
La  Rosa watched Alexander.  His head was bowed; confusion no doubt
reigned  within.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Fabrizio said, pausing dramatically.

"It is with great pleasure and admiration that I yield to the Senator 
from Texas, who I hope will be the next President of the United States 
of America."

RAY ALL GOOD FILED the last of his incoming mail.  He almost enjoyed 
being in the office on weekends and holidays.  His time was spent so 
much more productively when there were no telephones and meetings, the 
bane of the administrator's existence.  His inbox had been daunting, 
but only a few items had required urgent attention.  He looked at his 
watch.  It was almost one o'clock.  Even those items could wait until 
tomorrow.

Almost on cue, the telephone rang.  Ray scowled at it.  He was tempted 
to let it ring.  But it might be Claire or the kids.

"Allgood," he answered gruffly.

"Dr.  Allgood, this is Roger Martin of the New York Herald Times. 
Would  you like to comment on this morning's article in the Washington 
Post?"

"What article?"  Ray asked warily.

"The one about your authorization of illegal experimentation on white 
prisoners in Georgia," the reporter said.

"Haven't you seen it yet?"

"No."  Rays mind raced.  The shit was hitting the fan.  He wondered if 
Claire had seen the story.  If The Royal Order leaked it, they were 
preparing to launch the race war.  But why?  Ben Kravner was safely in 
custody.  They couldn't be worried about me.  Ray thought that he had 
sent the right message by fleeing to Europe for two weeks.  Leave me 
and my family alone, and I'll leave you alone.  Maybe they were simply 
fanning the flames.

"Ah, here, it says you could not be reached for comment," the reporter 
said. "I have an unlisted telephone number," Ray said automatically. 
His  mind was elsewhere.  I'm about to start the Second Civil War.  The
reporter asked another question.  Ray did not hear it.  He hung up the
telephone.  It started to ring again a few seconds later.  He let it 
ring.  Ray was dazed.  He needed to go somewhere and think. 
Anywhere.

TONY FABRIZIO AND JJ ALEXANDER sat in the Oval Office waiting for the
President, making small talk, but Alexander's mind was churning. 
Fabrizio was up to no good; he smelled a trap.  His flight to Asheville
left in two and a half hours, at four o'clock.  The presidency, the 
vice-presidency, nothing mattered now except getting on that plane.  He
 rubbed his left leg against his right ankle.

The .22 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver was like life insurance; he had
 hoped never to use it.

With a gleam in his eye, Hank Norton strode into the Oval Office. 
Alexander and Fabrizio rose to greet him.  The President shook hands 
with Alexander vigorously and slapped him on the back.

"Congratulations, JJ!  I tried to talk Tony out of his decision, but he
 couldn't be swayed," he said, winking.

"It's a great honor, Mr.  President," Alexander said, maintaining his 
composure.

They all sat.  Alexander saw Norton and Fabrizio exchange glances.

"We know everything, JJ," the President said calmly.

"You know what!"  Alexander asked.  He tried to maintain a blank look. 
His heart pounded.  It did not matter if they knew; all that mattered 
was getting on that plane.

"About the conspiracy," Fabrizio said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Alexander said.  Remain calm.
 He looked at his watch.

"Gentlemen, I've got to catch a plane."  He stood to go.

"Sit down, JJ," Norton commanded sternly.

Alexander walked towards the door.

"This meeting is over," he said.

"There are two Secret Service agents outside," Norton said. "It would
be better if you didn't make a scene."

Alexander stopped and turned towards them.

"You're making a big mistake," he said, his blue eyes glowering.  The 
muscles around his jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth.

"We know where The Assassin is," Fabrizio said, watching Alexander for 
a reaction.

"We know that he's safe and you won't be able to stop him."

Alexander snorted, unmoved.

"Who is The Assassin?"  he asked, shaking his head, his face scrunched 
into his best look of disbelief.  His mind churned.  They think I'm 
afraid of The Assassin.  The Assassin had become almost irrelevant. 
The  election was now anticlimactic.  By November, the nation would be
mired  in civil war.  By tonight, Norton and Fabrizio would be dead,
and John  Daniel would be at the helm.  / can bluff my way out of
this.

Fabrizio's thick, dark eyebrows shifted downwards under the weight of 
his furrowed brow.  His eyes flashed.

"Van Buren Andrew Stone.  The man who you thought was going to 
assassinate me and make you president," the Vice President said 
angrily.

"We know all about The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight, the 
assassinations of seven presidents and your plans for a race war. 
Shitfuck, we know that your dad was responsible for the murder of JFK

"Tony, this is absolutely insane!"  Alexander exclaimed.

"Conspiracies, Assassins, Knights--this sounds like some kind of 
children's game!"

"It's no game," President Norton said.

"We know you're behind the Fort Bragg incident and the illegal medical 
research story in this morning's Post."

"We also believe that you have something bigger in mind," Fabrizio 
added.

"And you're not going to leave this room until you confess."

Suddenly Alexander felt light-headed.

"I want to call my lawyer immediately," he demanded. "We can't let you
do that, JJ," the President said.

"Lives are at stake.  We're not worried about the admissibility of your
confession in court.  We're going to stop you and your cohorts from 
starting a race war that nobody can win."

Alexander paced across the Oval Office.  The imprisonment was illegal, 
but in about four hours nobody would care.  Everybody in the West Wing 
is going to die at 6:01 p.m. It was the final irony.  He had joined 
forces with Tony Fabrizio to avoid the risk of death by The Assassin's 
bullet.  Now that ploy had backfired.

He was trapped.

Alexander ran his hand through his thinning, silver-streaked blonde 
hair.  If he surrendered, he faced treason charges and the death 
penalty.  The White House was guarded like a fortress.  He felt the 
weight of the puny handgun on his ankle.

There was only one way out.

Alexander's gaze shifted to his adversaries, first to Norton seated 
behind his desk, arms folded tightly in front of him, then to Fabrizio.
Alexander pulled the chair that he had vacated a safe distance away 
from the Vice President, then sat.  He crossed his right leg over his 
left, then yanked the pistol from its holster above his right ankle.

"Don't move!"  Alexander said, training the gun on Fabrizio.  Alexander
 stood.

Fabrizios mouth hung open.  Norton's jaw was clenched tight; he looked 
at the intercom.  Alexander swung the silver Smith & Wesson towards the
 President.

"Back away from the desk, Hank," he said.

"JJ, this is crazy," Fabrizio said calmly.

"Put down the gun.  There are two Secret Service agents right outside 
the door."

"You don't have to die here, JJ," the President said.

"It's over.  Put down the gun."

"It's not over," Alexander said.

"We're going to walk out of here like old friends.  You're going to 
smile at the Secret Service agents and tell them we're going for a
stroll in the Rose Garden."

Norton shook his head.

"I'm not going to do that," he said.

"The fate of the nation is at stake.  You can shoot me or Tony with 
that peashooter if you want, but you're not leaving this room a free 
man."

"And you'd better pray those agents shoot to kill," Fabrizio said 
angrily.

"Because if people die today, you'll wish you were dead after I get 
through with you."

Alexander felt beads of perspiration dripping down his forehead.  His 
heart pounded.  Breathing was difficult.  He loosened his tie.  His 
balance felt shaky.

There was no way out.  No, there was one way.

Alexander backed away two steps from the desk, then swung the gun 
towards himself, inserting the short barrel into his mouth.

Fabrizio rose from his seat slowly, his palms raised.  Alexander backed
 away another step.

"It doesn't have to end like this, JJ," Fabrizio said.

Alexander slid the gun out of his mouth.

"You've left me no choice," he said.

His hands trembled.

"There are always choices," Fabrizio said.

"You don't have to die today."

Alexander took another step back; Fabrizio followed, his palms still in
front of him.  Four feet separated them.  Alexander fought the demons 
in his mind.  He faced death in every direction.  His finger tightened 
on the trigger.  He closed his eyes.  It was time to die for The Royal 
Order of the Millennium Knight.

"JJ, don't do it," Fabrizio said.

"You can't let a race war be your legacy.  Your grandchildren weren't 
born to hate.  They'll never understand what you've done here."
Alexander's finger relaxed on the trigger.  Guilt and sorrow overcame 
him as he thought about his grandchildren.

"We can offer you a plea bargain," Fabrizio said.

"If you help us, we won't ask for the death penalty.  You'll see your
grandchildren grow up.  They'll live in a better place."

Alexander continued his slow, steady retreat.  The gun weighed less 
than a pound, but his arm was suddenly heavy.  He could not betray his 
cousins.  He was their leader.  They trusted him.  They all have 
children and grandchildren, too.

"I'll deal," Alexander said.

"But only if the deal applies to the others, too."

Fabrizio glanced at the President.  Norton nodded his assent.

"Done," Fabrizio said.

"We'll seek life imprisonment for treason and any conspiracy for crimes
 as yet not committed."

"There was a murder, too," Alexander said.

"Who?"  Fabrizio asked.

"A woman reporter," Alexander said.

"Christy Kirk.  Herald Times."

Alexander watched the Vice President struggle to control his 
emotions.

"Okay," Fabrizio said finally.

"No death penalty for the murder of Christy Kirk."

"And minimum security prison," Alexander said.

"We won't last a day in Leavenworth."

Fabrizio wrinkled his brow.

"I can't do that, JJ," he said.

"You're a politician.  Think about the public reaction." "You don't
have much time," he' said

"The Apocalypse begins at 6:01 p.m.

tonight."

Fabrizio and Norton both looked at their watches.  One-fifty.

"It's a deal," the President said grimly.

"But that's it.  Give Tony the gun."

Alexander lowered the revolver and offered it to Fabrizio.  Fabrizio 
took it, then unleashed a punch, a right cross, that struck Alexander 
on the left side of his face with a loud slap, knocking him to the 
floor.  Alexander saw stars, he felt a bruise rising on his cheekbone, 
and he heard Fabrizio, who was standing directly over him, say: 
"Fuckshit, that was for JFK."

LA ROSA SMITH LEANED AGAINST THE WALL of the Oval Office, listening in
disbelief.

"Dammit, Bill, martyring yourself is not going to solve the race 
problem," Norton said.  General Collins, the NOMAAD leader, was seated 
across the desk from the President in the Oval Office.  Tony Fabrizio 
was pacing beside him.

"We can avoid this war.  We're calling in the D.C. police to deal with 
the bomb in your headquarters building, but you've got to call off the 
rally tonight, and you've got to evacuate Camp Tubman."

"Do you back down from terrorists threats?"  Collins asked 
indignantly.

"We do not negotiate with terrorists," the President said.

"But we do protect ourselves from them.  We'd live in a different world
 if Dr. King had this opportunity."

Collins reflected on the President's words.

"You're right.  There's no reason for me to make myself a human target 
for a coward hiding behind a sniper's scope.

I'm willing to cancel the candlelight vigil tonight," he said.

"But I'm not evacuating Camp Tubman.  If they want to fight us toe to 
toe, bring 'em on."

"How many men do you have at Camp Tubman?"  Fabrizio asked. "About
five hundred," Collins said.

"They'll be coming at you with one thousand men plus artillery," Norton
 said.

La Rosa felt the frustration boiling over.

"Killing five hundred good African-American men will not resolve 
anything," she said.

"And neither will a full scale race war.  We need to work our way into
mainstream America by softening peoples attitudes towards 
AfricanAmericans, not make them more afraid of us."

Collins ignored La Rosa

"We'll take whatever support you offer," he said, looking first at the
President, then at Fabrizio.

"But if you can't stop them, there will be bloodshed.  We may lose the 
first battle, but we will not lose the war."  Collins leaned forward, 
his hands on his thighs, poised to exit.

"Is there anything else that I can do for you?"

Fabrizio and La Rosa slumped into the chairs across from the President 
after General Collins departed.

"So much for the easy way out," President Norton said glumly.

"Rosie, get Royce Monahan in here with the Commander-in-Chief of the 
U.S. Atlantic Command and a map.  We've got to find a military base 
that can get some firepower to Camp Tubman by six o'clock."

La Rosa and Fabrizio looked at their watches in tandem.  It was 
two-thirty.

"Can we trust them?"  La Rosa asked.

"CINC USA COM Admiral Jordan, is Jewish.  I think we can take our 
chances with him," the President said.

"I've known Royce for thirty years, and I hope to God I can trust him. 
With three and a half hours to go, prayer is our only other option."

ROYCE MONA HAN RUSHED into the Oval Office at three-thirty.  He was 
breathing hard.  A uniformed naval officer accompanied him.  Admiral 
Jordan, CINC USA COM was a tall, distinguished man with a full head of 
white hair.  He appeared unruffled, despite having sped to the White 
House by helicopter from his headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia.

"Royce, Admiral, we've got a crisis," President Norton said.

"We don't have time to fill you in on the details, but we need enough 
firepower to repel an attack by one thousand troops, with artillery 
support, on a target in South Carolina--and we need it in place by six 
o'clock."

Monahan gaped in disbelief.

"Tonight?"  he asked, his eyes wide.

"Yep," Norton said.

"Clint Glenn should be here," Monahan said.

"He and the rest of the Joint Chiefs are out of play--don't ask why," 
the President said, his intense brown eyes signaling the finality of 
the order.

Monahan turned to Admiral Jordan.

"Pete, what do we have available?"

"Where in South Carolina is the target?"  Admiral Jordan asked, his 
tone neutral, his demeanor calm.  CINC USA COM exercised combat control
over eighty percent of the U.S.-based armed forces and was responsible
for the integration of combat ready units of the Army, Navy, Air Force
 and Marines to meet any challenge.

"It's Camp Tubman, a training facility for the NOMAADs," La Rosa 
said.

"It's north of Spartanburg and Greenville, near the North Carolina 
border."

"The Hell's Angels, Company D, out of Fort Bragg is in-country.  I can 
get a squadron of Apache attack helicopters over there in an hour," 
Admiral Jordan said confidently.

Norton, Fabrizio and La Rosa all grimaced simultaneously.  Monahan 
looked at the Admiral.  He shrugged.

"What's wrong?"  Monahan asked.

"We've resolved the race issues on the base."

"Fort Bragg is not an option," the President said.

"What are our alternatives?"

La Rosa saw Admiral Jordan blow out a short breath, his first sign of 
concern.

"Limited, given the time we have," he said.  He unfolded a map and 
spread it across the President's desk.

"Fort Campbell has our largest stock of Apaches, but it's in western 
Kentucky, about 330 miles from Spartanburg.  An Apache has a range of 
about four hundred miles, but it's top speed is 168 miles per hour.

It'll take almost two hours--a little close for comfort unless we get 
the birds in the air right now."

"Do we need Apaches?"  Fabrizio asked.

"We must have an Air Force base closer than Kentucky.  What about Shaw 
Air Force Base in South Carolina or Robins in Georgia?"

Admiral Jordan shook his head.

"The Apache's night-time capabilities are superior to any other 
helicopter. That aside, the Air Force doesn't maintain an arsenal of 
attack helicopters--they have mostly transports," he said.

"I've got one Marine Expeditionary Unit deployed at Camp Lejeune in 
North Carolina.  They have four Super Cobras and four Hueys, but the 
Hueys don't have the range to make it 250 miles to the target.  Four 
Cobras won't be enough to stop a thousand motivated soldiers with 
artillery support, especially at night. If Fort Bragg is out of play, 
Fort Campbell is your best option."

"Get the commanding officer at Campbell on the horn," the President 
ordered.

"Let's see how fast we can get those choppers in the air."

Each of them instinctively checked the time.  It was 
three-forty-five.

FIFTEEN HUNDRED GRAY-UNIFORMED TROOPS lined the training grounds of the
Aryan Alliance compound in perfect military formation--three 
battalions, each battalion lined up twenty across and twenty-five 
deep.

Franklin Verdant stood at attention in front of White Battalion. 
General Glenn ambled past the front line, inspecting the troops, then 
offered Verdant a firm salute, complimenting him on the readiness of 
his men.  Black Battalion, headed by Gerry Kate, received a similar 
review.  Finally, Red Battalion, the troops that were to defend the 
command center under the leadership of Buddy Frederick and Cat Stewart,
 were granted The General s seal of approval.

General Glenn climbed a makeshift podium to address the troops.  He 
glowered dramatically at the men, then offered his final instructions. 
He spoke without the benefit of a microphone, but his words were, as 
always, clear and concise: "Blast those fucking niggers to hell!"  he 
yelled, his taut face contorted into a frightening battle mask, his 
right fist thrusting high into the air as he spoke.

The General's words were met with a rousing cheer.  Moments later, at 
precisely four o'clock, the troop carriers rolled from the Aryan 
Alliance compound, in single file, a long, gray snake winding its way 
through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains towards the South 
Carolina border.

B COMPANY, ist BRIGADE, 101st Airborne Division was involved in a 
spirited basketball game in the Fort Campbell gymnasium when a 
wide-eyed private raced in with a message.  Colonel Jeffrey Woods, the 
Commanding Officer of B Company, thought the orders were a bizarre 
joke.  Ten minutes to get twenty birds in the air, two hours to fly 330
miles at top speed, instructions for attack on a domestic target to be
delivered in the air.  It had to be a joke.  Bur no one would ever be 
able to say that the Screaming Eagles could not get the job done.

Better to be a fool in the clouds, than caught with his pants down on 
the ground.

Colonel Woods barked our commands.  Half the soldiers of B Company 
sprinted for their flight gear, the other half raced to prime the 
birds.  At exactly 4:05 p.m.

Eastern Standard Time, twenty green Boeing AH-64D Apache attack 
helicopters climbed vertically into the air, each fully loaded with two
 M230 30mm automatic cannons and eight Hellfire missiles.

A voice crackled over the two-way radio instructing the pilots to set 
their flight coordinates.  Their destination was Cowpens National 
Battlefield in South Carolina, USA.

"A goddam national park.  Colonel Woods shook his head and smiled.

They would not let the Apaches fly too far from home before they called
them back and had their laugh at B Company's expense.  He started to 
nod his head vigorously when the radio crackled, again.  Here it 
comes.

"This is not a drill," the voice said.  Colonel Woods's smile 
disappeared; his eyes widened.

"Estimated time of attack: 6:02 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.  Combat 
instructions to follow.  Over."

Colonel Woods was not a man who had lived his life in fear.  He had 
fought in Panama and Iraq.  He had flown death-defying missions in the 
mountains of Bosnia.

But he could not squelch the chill that ran through his body.  The 
United States was at war with itself.  The Second Civil War was about 
to begin.

FORTY-NINE

FOUR HUNDRED AND FORTY MEN, the NOMAAD fighting force, sat crammed into
the cafeteria at Camp Tubman.  Colonel Hardy stood in their midst, 
relaxed, strolling and talking as if he was lecturing a class in 
Military History at West Point.

"Few people know this," Hardy said, "But the Battle ofCowpens, fought 
on the other side of that giant ridge out there, was one of the 
critical battles in the Revolutionary War."  He had not yet told them 
about the imminent attack.

"An outnumbered, out-trained, out-supplied band of colonial misfits, 
kicked the living shit out of the British," the Colonel continued.

"Does anybody know how they did it?"

Hardy surveyed the crowd of young, black men.  No volunteers.

"They did it with superior tactics," he said.

"And they did it with heart, a courage born from their conviction that 
they were fighting for their basic human right to freedom."

Hardy paced silently among his rapt audience as he framed his words 
carefully in his mind.

"General Collins has informed me that Camp Tubman will be attacked by 
an army of white supremacists in less than two hours," he said.

"We have time to evacuate the camp.  But I can teach you tactics that 
will allow us to defeat a force that will outnumber us better than two 
to one.  What I can't teach you is heart.  Men, the choice is yours. 
Do  we run and hide from oppression or do we stand and fight for our 
freedom?"

"WHAT'S UP, JJ?"  Fabrizio said, making no effort to conceal his 
disgust for his former running mate.

Alexander was handcuffed to a ladder back chair in a conference room 
adjacent to the Oval Office.  His hair was in disarray.  A purple welt 
was evident on his left cheek.

"I neglected to tell you something important in the confusion after you
sucker-punched me," Alexander said, smirking.

"I wouldn't want to jeopardize my plea bargain."

Fabrizio grabbed Alexander by the collar; his teeth were clenched.
"Making that plea bargain with you was one of the toughest things I've
 ever had to do," Fabrizio said, his eyes ablaze.

"I'm praying for you to give me a reason to break it."

"Sorry, Tony, not this time," Alexander said.

"There's a bomb in Ray Allgood's house.  There might not be time to get
the bomb squad in there, but you should be able to get everybody out
by  six o'clock."

Fabrizio looked at his watch.  It was five o'clock.

"You son of a bitch," he said, pacing across the room, gnashing his 
teeth.  Then he stopped and faced Alexander.

"We were ready to give up the West Wing of the WTiite House to your 
commandos, but I think I just came up with a better idea."

STANTON ALL GOOD SAT AT THE DESK in his bedroom, his head bopping to 
the rhythm of Will Smith's latest rap album while he struggled with two
weeks' worth of algebra homework.  He had the house to himself.  Diana
was studying at a friend's house.  Just the same, his parents 
complained about the loud music so often that he wore headphones out of
 habit.  He did not hear the telephone ringing.

THE PRESIDENT, the Vice President, and Conrad Tucker huddled around the
massive conference table in the center ofFabrizio's office on the 
second floor of the Old Executive Office Building.  They were reviewing
La Rosa Smiths draft of the State of the Union Address, which was 
scheduled to be delivered the next night.

La Rosa was alone in the informal sitting area to their left.  She 
slammed the telephone down.

"Nobody's picking up at Allgood's house or at his office," she said.

"Try the Bethesda police," Tucker suggested.

"I did," she said.

"Twice.  They keep putting me on hold.  It's five-twenty.  I feel like 
I've got to do something."

"Maybe the whole family is at the candlelight vigil out there," Tucker 
said, pointing out the window towards the Washington Monument.

La Rosa walked over to the window.  The sun had set, and twilight was 
creeping over the city.  The Monument was lit up against the darkening 
sky.  Thousands of people were waiting on the lawn surrounding the
monument and had spilled over on to the Ellipse.

"I'm driving out to Bethesda," she said.

"I'll keep trying to reach Allgood on my cell phone.  Traffic should be
 light because of the holiday."

THE NOMAAD PARTISANS looked up into the sky.  They heard the 
helicopters before they could see them.  Then two green Bell UH-1H 
Iroquois "Hueys" appeared over the top of the Department of Commerce 
Building across 15th Street and swooped low over the crowd by the 
Washington Monument.  The racket was deafening.  The people held their 
hands over their ears, shaking their heads at each other.  Was General 
Collins making a dramatic entrance?

The mystery was soon over.  An announcement was broadcast over a 
loudspeaker from one of the helicopters.

"This is the United States Air Force.  Tonight's rally has been 
canceled due to a bomb threat.  Please leave the area in an orderly 
fashion.  There is no need to panic."

The announcement was repeated three times.  Then the Hueys left in the 
same direction from which they came.  The crowd dispersed in what could
only be described as a scene of controlled chaos.  It was 
five-forty-five.

COLONEL TOM HARDY PEERED OUT from behind the chimney of his perch atop 
the center most building in Camp Tubman, one of dozens of simple, white
shingle barracks.  He pointed his binoculars to the west.  One hundred
and forty seven men, all clad in gray cotton sweatsuits, dodged among 
the hickories and oaks that lined the western border of the property 
leased to the NOMAADs.  The sun had just fallen below the massive ridge
that loomed over the compound; the gray twilight failed to provide 
adequate cover.  The envelopment maneuver could only succeed if it was 
a complete surprise to the enemy forces massing on the other side of 
the ridge.

Then Hardy glanced to the east.  Another equal force of NOMAAD 
volunteers was scurrying along the eastern rim of the compound.  A 
third group waited anxiously behind the cover of the buildings within 
the camp.  This group, led by Colonel Hardy himself, would take the 
brunt of the Unified Forces' attack.

Hardy raised his binoculars and scanned the top of the ridge a half 
mile away.

There was no movement.  He was counting on the over eagerness of the
inexperienced Unified Forces' troops for the success of his trap.  The 
double envelopment maneuver required patience, an overconfident enemy
and balls of steel.  The Unified Forces would come charging down the 
ridge, through the open pasture, into the valley.  The NOMAAD units on 
the flanks had to resist the urge to attack until the enemy was past 
them.  The NOMAAD troops hiding behind the barracks would repel the 
charging forces with a buzz saw of gunfire, then the units on both 
flanks would encircle the enemy.

The Battle of Cowpens, Hardy's inspiration, was one of the few examples
in history of a successful double envelopment.  General Morgan, the 
leader of the Colonial forces, trapped the British by feinting a 
retreat, drawing the British troops between two American units on their
flanks.  The retreating forces then turned and fired upon the British,
 and the two units on their flanks surrounded them.

The maneuver worked in Revolutionary times; Hardy was less confident 
that it would be successful in a modern battle.  Automatic weapons 
would allow the Unified Forces' to cut down NOMAAD troops on all sides,
especially with their numeric advantage.  The Unified Forces'
artillery  also carried far more explosive force than the British
cannons.  The  Colonials had only lost twelve men; the NOMAADs would
lose many more.

Hardy scanned the perimeter of the compound.  Both NOMAAD units were in
 place.

There was still no sign of the Unified Forces at the top of the ridge. 
And no sign of the Screaming Eagles.

Once the battle began, the attack helicopters would be useless.  Attack
helicopters were primarily deployed to destroy armored and mechanized 
targets.

They could be employed to support light infantry on the ground in a
low-intensity conflict, but it was critical that the helicopter pilots 
be able to identify both the enemy and friendly positions.  The NOMAADs
were equipped with high intensity flashlights to reveal their
location,  but the disadvantage of the double envelopment maneuver was
that once  the troops were fully engaged, it would be impossible for
the Apache  gunners to distinguish between the enemy and the NOMAADs.

Hardy looked at his watch.  Five-fifty-one.  In ten minutes it would be
dark enough to provide adequate cover for the double envelopment.  It 
looked as if they were going to need it.

*** LA ROSA HEART was in her throat.  She looked at her watch. 
Five-fifty-one. She was not going to make it.  Traffic was jammed up 
on Wisconsin Avenue, near Tenley Circle.  She dialed the Allgoods' home
telephone number.  No answer.  She prayed that they were out and not 
simply avoiding telephone calls from the press.  She had a bad feeling.
Five-fifty-two. She dialed Ray Allgoods number at the National Cancer
Institute.

"Allgood," a man's voice answered.

"Ray!"

"Yes," Dr.  Allgood said warily.

"This is La Rosa Smith, Vice President Fabrizio's Chief of Staff.  Is 
there anybody in your house now?"

CHUCK CARLISLE, the Secret Service agent who had guarded Ben Kravner, 
was stationed inside the lobby near the Visitors' Entrance to the Old 
Executive Office Building.  A bead of sweat formed on his balding 
scalp.  Another man in the uniform of the Secret Service had walked in 
off the street.  He was at least fifteen years younger than Carlisle, 
and he was military trim.

The younger agent nodded at Carlisle.  Carlisle returned the gesture, 
resisting the urge to yank out his gun.  The White House would be blown
apart if the commandos did not check in at the appointed time.  The 
imposter passed through the security checkpoint, and entered the Old 
Executive Office Building.

Thirty seconds later, at five-fifty-five, Carlisle spoke softly into 
his two-way radio: "Alien Three is in the House."

RAY ALL GOOD RAN A RED LIGHT on the corner of Wisconsin and Elsemere 
Avenues. His heart pounded.  The neon numerals on the Buick's 
dashboard clock told a frightening story.  Five-fifty-nine.

The Buick's tires squealed as it cornered the right turn on to Bellevue
 Drive.

Ray blasted the horn as he sped through his neighborhood.  Six 
o'clock.

Ray barely touched the brake pedal as he made the sharp left on to 
Asbury Lane.

The Buick careened into the driveway ten seconds later.  Ray burst out 
the door and sprinted up the front walkway, shouting, "Stanron!  Diana!
 Get out of the house!"

He leaped on to the front stoop, hurdling three steps.  His hands shook
as he rumbled for the front door key.  He shouted for his children, 
again.

The force of the explosion knocked Ray off the front stoop.  Glass 
shattered.  He saw flames rip through his home as he tumbled backwards,
 shouting, "My babies!"

amidst the deafening roar.  Claire's image flashed in his mind.  His 
arms hit the ground first, then his back.  Pain seared through his 
body, then his head flung back against the concrete walkway, and 
everything went black.

A LONG SLATE GRAY LINE of troops stood poised to charge the last three 
hundred yards to the crest of the ridge that separated them from Camp 
Tubman.  Restless fingers massaged the triggers of their automatic 
rifles.  Many had waited their whole lives for this moment, Gerry Kate 
among them.

But The Spy remained calm.  He walked among the troops, his rifle slung
over his shoulder and a toothpick dangling from his mouth, urging them
 to hold the line.

He was confident that the battle would be over quickly.  A handful of 
men guarded the road near the top of the ridge, ready to intercept 
anyone trying to leave the camp.  Another group waited a mile away just
inside the unmarked entrance to Camp Tubman, prepared to snare any 
intruders who might jeopardize the attack.

Kate looked at his watch.  Six o'clock.  He wandered over to Franklin 
Verdant, dried leaves and pine needles crackling under his weight. 
Verdant rested against a twisted hickory tree near the edge of the 
pastureland.

"Any last words of inspiration for the troops," Kate asked.

Verdant had his game face on.  His wrinkled brow threatened to drive 
his dark, bushy eyebrows into the lower reaches of his face.

"Tell them: "No survivors,"" Verdant said fiercely.

Kate walked purposefully up the side of the ridge, about fifty feet. 
He  turned back to face the men.

"Ten hut!"  he shouted.  The troops on both sides of the road snapped 
to attention.

"Victory is ours to take, my friends.  It will be the first of many. 
Strike fear into their black hearts!  Take no survivors!"

Kate turned sideways as if to throw a football, thrust his right arm 
forward, and hollered: "Charge!"

One thousand men unleashed a fearsome rebel yell, bursting forward up 
the hill, three deep, forming a battle line almost a quarter mile wide.
Gerry Kate strode up the ridge, behind the lines, Franklin Verdant in 
tow.  The Spy proudly watched the troops tumble over the crest.  The 
Unified Forces would be on top of the surprised NOMAADs within four 
minutes.  Victory would be sweet.

The roar of the howling troops muffled as they hurtled down the leeward
side of the ridge towards the NOMAAD encampment.  Kate and Verdant 
jogged towards the peak to view the slaughter.  When they were not ten 
yards from the summit, the volume of the Unified Forces' howls began to
increase, again.  Kate and Verdant shared a quizzical look, then, 
suddenly, the herd of wide-eyed troops stampeded over the ridge.  Kate 
and Verdant were knocked to the ground, stunned.

Kate rose quickly.

"Get back here and fight, you cowards!"  he screamed at the retreating 
gray line.

Then the sound of metal whooshing through air, made him whirl.  The Spy
gawked in silent astonishment.  Twenty Apache attack helicopters rose 
vertically above the crest of the ridge, not fifty yards away.  They 
bobbed in the twilight like giant green bumblebees, their Hellfire 
missiles aimed at The Spy like 160 turbo-charged stingers.

One of the Apaches unleashed a dozen rounds of cannon-fire at the 
ground directly in front of Kate.  Dirt sprayed all about him, jolting 
him from his momentary paralysis.  He dropped his weapon and raised his
 arms over his head, his mouth still hanging open in utter disbelief.

JJ ALEXANDER HEARD A DOOR BANG OPEN down the hall.  He rolled his eyes,
then exhaled deeply.  The same sound followed, again, some seconds 
later, this time closer.  He rolled his eyes, again.  A third door 
banged against a third wall as it was forced open.

Then, suddenly, the door to the conference room where he was imprisoned
swung open with a loud crash.  Two uniformed Secret Service agents 
plowed in, guns drawn, one stooped, the other from up high.  They 
lowered their guns when they saw Alexander cuffed to the chair atop the
 conference table in the center of the room.

"Where's the President?"  one of them asked angrily.  Alexander rolled 
his eyes.

"You idiots, don't you recognize me?"  Alexander said, too weary to 
lash out at them with the viciousness he felt in his heart.

"It's a trap.  They let you in here."

Two more men wearing the uniform of the Secret Service entered the 
room.

"The West Wing is empty," one of them said.

"Call your man with the rocket launcher and tell him to abort," 
Alexander ordered.

"What's your drop dead time?"

"Six-ten," another commando said.  He seemed to be the leader.

"We still have eight minutes to get out and switch targets."

Alexander closed his eyes.  Fools.

"They know you're in here," he said.

"The building is surrounded.  If your man outside launches the rocket, 
he's only going to kill us.  The instant you radio him, to abort or 
switch targets, the Secret Service will triangulate on the signals and 
take him out.  Call in the abort code.  It's him or us.  Either way, 
it's over.

JOHN DANIEL ADMIRED his widow's peak in the mirror in the bedroom of 
his Georgetown apartment.  He thought the dash of gray around his ears 
made him look presidential.  He practiced his look of horror, raising 
his right hand to his temple, then brushing it down along the side of 
his face, then finally sweeping it over his gasping mouth.  "10.0!"

"10.01"

"10.01"

"9.0 from the Russian judge."

He heard the opening strains of the theme for the Seven O'clock News.

"John!  The news is on," his wife, Sharon, called from the den.

The Speaker practiced his look once more, this time mouthing the words,
 "My God.

How could this happen?"  Then he winked at himself, and rushed to the 
living room to catch the day's top stories.

The news anchor led off with the cancellation of the NOMAADs' 
candlelight vigil at the Washington Monument due to a bomb threat.  The
television cameras had captured the Hueys dramatically circling the 
Monument and dispersing the crowd.

Daniel panicked.  Had an overeager Secret Service agent spied the 
snipers before they could take out their targets?  There was no report 
of the presidential assassination.  But that only meant that the West 
Wing of the White House, his new home, had not been destroyed.  The 
story would not break until he was notified, so that some semblance of 
order could be restored before the public had time to panic.

The door buzzer sounded.  Sharon jumped up from her perch on the couch 
to answer it.

"Wait, I'll get it, honey," Daniel said abruptly.  He sprang towards 
the intercom, gently sliding his wife out of his way.

"Yes," Daniel said into the intercom.

"This is the Secret Service, sir," a man's voice replied.

"May we come up?"

Daniel breathed a sigh of relief.  The deed had been done.

"What do you want?"

Daniel asked, trying to inject an edge of wariness into his voice.

"We need to speak with you privately, sir," the voice said.

"It's urgent."

Daniel pressed the entry buzzer.  There was a knock on the door two 
minutes later.  Daniel dug his fingernails into the meat of his forearm
 to steel himself.

My God.  How could this happen?  He opened the door.

Two uniformed Secret Service agents stood in the doorway.  Their guns 
were pointed at his heart.

"Johnson Martin Daniel, you're under arrest for the crime of treason 
against the United States of America," one of them said.

Even the Russian judge would have given Daniel a perfect ten for the 
look of horror that crossed his face.

FIFTY

BEN SAT WIDE-EYED in the first row of the gallery that ringed the House
Chamber on Tuesday night.  The buzz of excitement on the floor of the 
House of Representatives was more electric than was typical for the 
President's State of the Union Address.  It was always an Event--it was
easier to get a ticket to the Super Bowl than to the President's
annual  speech to a joint session of Congress.

But, tonight, the crowd seemed to sense that they were about to witness
something extraordinary.

Perhaps they were primed to expect the unexpected after Tony Fabrizio's
surprise announcement that catapulted JJ Alexander into the role of
presidential heir apparent.  Or maybe they had spotted the clues.

Fabrizio, as the President of the Senate, sat alone atop the three-tier
rostrum that rose majestically above the House Chamber, a large 
American flag draped on the wall behind him, flanked on either side by 
giant portraits of George Washington and Lafayette.  The position next 
to Fabrizio, ordinarily occupied by the Speaker of the House, was 
vacant.  JJ Alexander and Ty Andrew, the Senate majority leader, were 
also mysteriously absent.

The spectators rose to their feet as the Sergeant-at-Arms announced the
entrance of the Supreme Court Justices.  Whether it was the crowds 
energy, his newly won freedom, his impending fifteen minutes of fame, 
love or some combustible combination of all of them, Ben felt more 
alive than ever before. He turned to his left and squeezed Debbys 
hand, as the nine black-robed Justices strode down the center aisle.

Debby smiled weakly.  Her elegant black evening dress hung slackly over
her gaunt figure.  Her make-up barely hid the black and blue marks on 
her face.  An FBI agent, a true blue All-American one, sat to her left,
ready to escort her back to a minimum security prison after the
night's  festivities.  She was being held for the murder of Adams
Thompson, Jr.,  despite her protestations of innocence.  The evidence
against her  appeared overwhelming, but Ben was determined to fight for
her freedom.  He now had powerful friends who might help him, but,
until then, the  FBI insisted upon holding her in custody.

After the Justices took their places on the House floor, in the front 
row of one of the six wedge-shaped seating sections, the Ambassador 
Corps entered.  Ben turned to his right and squeezed La Rosa hand.  She
smiled radiantly.  This was her night--her man, Tony Fabrizio, was 
about to shine.  But in Ben's eyes, she was the shining star. 
Intelligent, warm-hearted and stunningly beautiful, La Rosa Smith had 
once again captivated him.  For now, he was too happy to be confused.

There would be time to sort out the women in his life. Maxwell
Caldwell sat to La Rosa right.  The Professor looked  uncomfortable in
black tie, but it was his night, too.  After  twenty-five years of
ignominy, his reputation, a scholar s most  valuable possession, was
about to be restored.

Next to the Professor sat a young man who had learned to always trust 
his instincts, even if it was simply a craving for a cheeseburger. 
Stanton Allgood was in attendance in his father's stead thanks to an 
impromptu visit to the local burger joint half an hour before the blast
that destroyed the Allgood home.  Ray Allgood was in stable condition 
at The Bethesda Naval Hospital with a concussion and a broken arm.

After the President's Cabinet entered the House Chamber, the 
Sergeant-at-Arms said in a loud, clear voice: "Mr.  Vice President, the
 President of the United States!"

Hank Norton strode confidently down the center aisle, smiling and 
shaking hands with friend and foe alike.  In this one moment each year,
a facade of nonpardsanship was erected.  The Republicans were prepared
to knock it down an hour later, on national television, when one of 
their leaders rebutted the President's rosy view of the State of the 
Union.  But, tonight, the Republicans were unaware that the advance 
copy of the President's speech was a red herring.

Finally, President Norton advanced to the lectern on the middle tier of
the Speaker's rostrum, directly below Tony Fabrizio.  He grasped the 
sides of the lectern firmly.  His expression was serious.

"Mr.  Vice President, Members of Congress, honored guests, my fellow

Americans: I have come before you to report the State of the Union for 
the last time."

The crowd erupted in spontaneous applause.  Rather than basking in the 
ovation for the benefit of the television cameras as he had done seven 
times before, Norton raised his hand for silence.

"For the last seven years I have had the privilege and the joy to 
report that the Union has been doing just fine, as we have witnessed 
unprecedented economic expansion fueled by remarkable technological 
change," he continued.  Then his expression turned grave.

"But today I have the unenviable task of reporting that the State of 
the Union has never been worse, a task made easier only because we 
think we see a way out of the darkness."

A few murmurs and gasps could be heard in the gallery, but for the most
part the audience, including the Congressmen and members of the Norton
Administration, sat in stunned silence.  This was not the speech they 
had seen.

"As difficult as it is to believe, we are the victims of a conspiracy 
that has been perpetuated against all Americans by a single depraved 
family over the course of 160 years.  These madmen have assassinated 
seven United States presidents, infiltrated the highest reaches of the 
federal government and taken the nation to the brink of its second 
civil war."

A low rumble of whispers rolled through the chamber.

"But there's a bright side to this dark tale, as well," the President
continued.

"Because it's also a story about our future, about how a handful of 
young Americans unearthed this dark conspiracy and risked their lives 
to bring it to light."

Ben sat tall in his chair.  He thought about his parents watching at 
home, knowing that their son had been responsible for saving the 
nation.  Yeah, by illegally opening Thompson's sealed envelope.  He had
 to keep reminding himself not to let his head swell.

Ben surveyed the audience as the President launched into a detailed 
retelling of the tale of the MacDougall family vendetta.  Seven 
generations, seven dead presidents, with their eye always on their 
hideous Final Vengeance at the turn of the millennium.  Expressions of 
shock, amazement and horror were frozen on every face, political 
neophyte and veteran alike.

"They came within a whisker of achieving their goal," President Norton 
said. Ben felt La Rosa squeeze his hand.  His moment had arrived.

"A courageous young man, Benjamin Franklin Kravner, brought the 
conspiracy to our attention two weeks ago," the President said. 
Adrenaline roared through Ben's veins.  The President gestured in his 
direction.

"Ben, please stand up and show America our future."

Ben stood stiffly and gave a weak wave of the hand.  The audience 
applauded loudly.  Ben bowed his head humbly in acknowledgement, his 
face flushed.  He sat down quickly.

The President raised his voice to speak through the ovation.

"Sitting on Ben's left is Miss Deborah Barnett and two seats to his 
right is Professor Maxwell Caldwell, both of whom played substantial 
roles in bringing these traitors to justice," he said.

Debby sheepishly rose halfway, then sat immediately.  The Professor 
stood proudly, accepting the acclaim as humbly as he could under the 
circumstances. He sat reluctantly when the applause began to fade.

"As it became clear to The Royal Order that their conspiracy was 
crumbling, they accelerated their plans to incite America into civil 
war-the Final Vengeance for their ancestor's death," Norton said.

"The incident at Fort Bragg was their work, as was the undertaking and
disclosure of the racially targeted medical research reported in the 
press yesterday.  We have withheld an announcement for national 
security reasons, but yesterday evening the United States Army and the 
Secret Service thwarted military strikes by an armed white militia 
against the United States government and certain African-American 
targets.  We were this close to civil war."  He held his thumb and 
forefinger a fraction of an inch apart.

"You will notice that a number of prominent government officials are 
absent tonight," Norton said, then proceeded to identify the seven 
members of The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight to the crowd's 
astonishment.

"These men have all been taken into custody by the Justice Department 
and will be tried and convicted for high treason against the United 
States of America."

The audience rose and applauded.  Norton raised his hand for silence.

"But punishing these traitors is not enough," he said.

"No punishment can bring back the seven great Americans who died 
without fulfilling their legacies as President of the United States. 
No  punishment will right the ten thousand wrongs committed against 
AfricanAmericans in the name of The Royal Order of the Millennium 
Knight.  No punishment can heal the psychic wounds inflicted in the 
bitter race war waged over the past century and a half."

Norton paused for effect.

"One month ago JJ Alexander eloquently, and we now know deceptively, 
launched his vice-presidential candidacy by recalling the slumbering 
dream of Martin Luther King," Norton said.

"We need to awaken the Dream.  Racism will never be banished from our 
society if we wait passively for a generation to be born devoid of 
racist thoughts.  Like the vengeful conspiracy perpetuated by the 
descendants of Jimmy MacDougall, racism is passed down from generation 
to generation, one father to one son.  It can be done passionately, by 
preaching the politics of hate, or tacitly, by observing skin color as 
a trait worthy of importance.  Racism will only end when parents, black
and white, find the intellectual strength to quiet their racist
impulses or strong-minded children overcome the urge to submit to their
parents' bigotry."

Ben blushed as he recognized the source of the President's words.  He 
looked over at La Rosa she avoided his gaze.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the State of the Union is a state of mind. 
Tonight, the Union is in turmoil, a nation torn asunder by radical 
forces.  Tomorrow, if we dream a common dream, we can become of one 
mind, one nation, where all men and women are truly created-and 
treated--equal."

Everyone in the gallery rose to their feet and cheered the President's 
words.

Ben squeezed La Rosa hand.  It was a magnificent speech.  She smiled at
him and mouthed the words: "It's not over yet."  Norton remained
poised  at the lectern, waiting for the crowd to quiet.  Then he went
on.

"But we realize today, more than ever, that equal treatment is not 
enough.

America's great economic expansion in the nineteenth and twentieth 
centuries took place on an unequal playing field.  AfricanAmericans did
not have the opportunity to participate in most of that economic 
expansion because of discrimination that was tacitly, if not expressly,
sanctioned by the United States government--as a result of the 
influence of The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight and otherwise. 
Our frontiers are closed.  Our vast resources have been largely 
allocated.  Our efforts to share opportunities among all Americans ring
hollow now that most of the prime opportunities are out of the reach
of  those that were left behind."

Ben's chest swelled with pride; his eyes misted.  Revolutions don't 
come cheap.

He had convinced La Rosa to recommend the politically risky programs 
that would be necessary to truly solve the problems of the underclass. 
He had made a difference in people's lives.

"I will work with Tony Fabrizio and the next Administration to assure 
that we ring in the next millennium with a true Second American 
Revolution, not a Second Civil War.  Tony and his staff have been 
working on specific proposals, and I'll leave it to him to present them
for the consideration of the Congress and the American people.  God 
bless you and good night."

The members of Congress, the President's cabinet, the Justices of the 
Supreme Court, the Ambassador Corps and the entire gallery 
simultaneously rose to their feet and erupted in a thunderous ovation. 
Norton hurried from the rostrum, humbly acknowledging their approval, 
as he made his way up the center aisle towards the exit, shaking hands 
as he went.

Ben closed his eyes, absently applauding the President, saying a silent
 prayer of thanks to a God in whom he did not believe.  It's over.

FIFTY-ONE

THE NATION WAS SPELLBOUND by the stunning revelations made in President
Norton's State of the Union address on Tuesday night.  But by Wednesday
morning, La Rosa Smith was already absorbed by the mundane tasks of 
managing Tony Fabrizio's life, present and future.

Fabrizio reclined in his chair, arms folded behind his head, shoeless 
feet resting on his desk inches away from a half-eaten Danish.  La Rosa
leaned forward in one of the guest chairs, absent-mindedly drumming
her  fingers on the desk, waiting impatiently as ever for Fabrizio to 
capture the thought that eluded him.

Finally, he spoke.

"Revolutionary change, not evolutionary change," he said.

"I

need to show the American people that the words I say are more than 
rhetoric. We need to restore their faith in the government.  Shitfuck. 
We need to restore their faith in me--I came within a whisker of 
leading them into holocaust.

Picking Tom Stevenson as my VP won't cut it."

"You once told me that you were thinking about putting a black man on 
your ticket," La Rosa said, her tone and expression suggesting some 
combination of wariness and hope.

"Are you still considering that option?"

"Nope," he said.  La Rosa was disappointed.  The American people were 
not blaming him for the crisis.  Fabrizio was a shoo-in no matter who 
he selected as his running mate.  It was a perfect time to break new 
ground.  Then she brightened.

"A

woman?"  she asked.

"It's a possibility," he said.

"You just had a birthday, didn't you, Rosie?"  he asked.

She wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah, thanks for reminding me," she said suspiciously, wondering what 
sparked the dramatic shift in the topic of conversation. "Thirty-five,
if you're wondering--and I weigh 116 pounds if you need  to know that,
too."

Fabrizio chuckled.

"Always a straight shooter.  It's one of the things I like best about 
you," he said.

She glanced skywards.

"Can we get back on topic, Chief?  You've got me on the edge of my seat
wondering who your 'revolutionary' candidate might be."

Fabrizio removed his feet from the desk, leaned forward in his chair, 
and placed his interlocked hands firmly on the desk.  His eyes twinkled
 as they looked directly into hers.  He seemed to enjoy teasing her.

"I want you," he said, smiling.

"You satisfy the age requirement--I don't think there's any restriction
 on height or weight."

She was stunned.  Was he kidding?  She did not know whether to laugh or
 risk playing the fool.  Finally, words came.

"That's not funny if you're kidding, and it's insane if you're not," 
she said flatly, waiting for Fabrizio to break out laughing at her 
expense.

"Well, it's no joke and we can argue about my sanity some other time," 
he said.

"I saw you in action in pressure situations over the last few weeks. 
You impressed me with the way you handled General Glenn during the Fort
Bragg crisis.  You expressed your opinion articulately, unfazed by the
artillery lined up against you, and cautiously built consensus.  You 
helped Hank make the hardest decision of his presidency.  The speech 
that you wrote for him, on short notice, was brilliant.  You averted a 
disaster.  You saved lives.  You showed real leadership."

"But I've never been elected to any position in my life.  I'm an 
advisor," La Rosa pleaded.

"The country doesn't need another politician in a position of power 
right now," Fabrizio said.

"We need "real leaders with a real vision."

"The vision thing is back," she wisecracked.

"It's one thing to toss out political slogans, it's another thing to be
 a true visionary," Fabrizio said.

"You're a remarkably perceptive young woman.  You can sense public 
opinion.  You know in your heart what's right and what's wrong.  And 
you have the intellect to blend public opinion and your moral 
conscience to build a solution that seems reasonable to almost 
everybody."

The Vice President was on a roll, and, for once, La Rosa was content to
 let him run with it.

"I enjoyed watching you and Ben play off each other," he continued.

"You've developed the foundation for a plan that will revolutionize 
this country.  I want you to help me implement that plan, and eight 
years from now I want you to run it.  If you accept my offer, you will 
be the first woman and the first African-American to be President of 
the United States."

La Rosa could feel the pride gushing up inside her as Fabrizio spoke. 
She had difficulty suppressing a smile.  When Fabrizio finished, she 
gave in to temptation and grinned a crooked grin straight out of Ben 
Kravner's repertoire.

"You're making my head swell," she said, wondering at the same time why
she was thinking of Ben Kravner during the most important moment other
 life.

"I don't know what to say."

Fabrizio smiled.

"You should be proud," he said.

"And you should < , say yes.

Before La Rosa could say, "Let me think about it," the intercom buzzed.
It was Dan Raskin, the Attorney General.  The Assassin had surrendered
 to the FBI.

RASKIN USHERED FABRIZIO and La Rosa into a small, dark room at FBI
headquarters.

A man was sitting calmly at a scarred wooden table on the other side of
a two-way mirror.  He was sitting with his right side facing the 
mirror, but he turned towards them as they entered, as if he could 
sense their presence behind the glass.

La Rosa glanced at Fabrizio.  His eyes were locked on to the eyes of 
The Assassin, the man whose mission in life had been to bring about 
Fabrizio's death.

He did not look like a killer to La Rosa but then again neither did the
other members of The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight.  He was a 
tall, well-built young man with sandy hair and a weather-beaten face. 
He was wearing a light blue cotton shirt, blue jeans and work boots.  A
suede jacket was slung over the back of his chair; a cowboy hat rested
on the table.  An FBI agent entered the room, introduced himself as 
Agent Cashman, and Marlboro broke eye contact with the mirror.

Agent Cashman sat in the chair opposite Marlboro.  Cashman was about 
forty years old, large-framed, but not fat.  His light brown hair was 
thinning.

"Please state your name," he said.

"Van Buren Andrew Stone."

"Mr.  Stone, we've been searching for you for over two weeks--what led 
you to turn yourself in?"  Cashmans manner was relaxed, not 
intimidating.

"I read in today's newspaper that you're holding my sister for the 
murder of Adams Thompson.  She didn't do it."

"Did you kill Adams Thompson?"

"No."  Stone was not going to make this easy.  It was obvious to La 
Rosa and no doubt everybody else watching, that he was holding back 
information.  His body was tight.  He was afraid of something or 
someone.

Cashman seemed to see it, too.  He maintained his relaxed style, moving
away from questions that could be answered with a simple yes or no 
response.

"Then why have you been hiding from the authori'I didn't even know you 
were looking for me," Stone said.

"I was hiding from the men you arrested on Monday--The Royal Order of 
the Millennium Knight."

"Are you the member of that group known as The Assassin?"

"No, sir.  My father was assigned that role, but he renounced it before
 his death."

"Your sister claims that she found evidence in your apartment that you 
had assumed the role of The Assassin and that you were tracking Adams 
Thompson in order to make contact with the other members of the group,"
 Cashman said.

"Sir, my father renounced his role, and he was killed because of it.  I
was tracking Adams Thompson so that I could find the men that murdered
 my father."

La Rosa eyebrows perked up.  The conspirators would all get life 
sentences for conspiracy to commit treason and the murder of Christy 
Kirk under the agreement negotiated by JJ Alexander.  The death penalty
would not even be considered.  The agreement did not cover other 
crimes.  She hoped Cashman would follow that line of questioning.

"Do you have any evidence that your father was murdered?"  Cashman 
asked.

"He spoke to me a week before the crash.  He intended to withdraw from 
the group.

He planned to hunt the other members of the group and stop them.  He 
thought that the others suspected him, and he feared for his life."

"Did the group members explicitly threaten his life?"

"Not explicitly," Stone admitted.

"When he tried to withdraw from the group, they strongly suggested that
he reconsider.  The threats were veiled, but he knew what they were 
saying.  He agreed to remain in the group, but he had already decided 
to run."

La Rosa heart sank.  She looked at Raskin.  He grimly shook his head. 
There was no hard evidence of foul play in the crash that killed The 
Assassin.  Veiled threats by anonymous members of an Internet chat room
reported second-hand by the victim's son over a year after the
incident  would not even be admissible in court.

Cashman pursued the line of questioning.

"Did your father have personal contact with any of the members of the 
group?"

"No," Stone said, tentatively.

"Well, yes.  The Spy initially contacted him.  They met, but on a 
no-names basis. The Spy was disguised."

"What was the nature of The Spy's contact with your father?

"It was 1995.  The Spy told my father that the other members of the 
group were meeting regularly on the Internet, and they wanted my father
 to join them."

"Why was your father treated differently than the other members?"

"Our ancestors planned it that way.  The Assassin's role at the turn of
the millennium was predefined.  I assume you've seen the Poem?"  Stone
 asked.

Cashman nodded affirmatively.

"There was no need for The Assassin to participate in the Final 
Vengeance," Stone continued.

"That part of the scheme was left flexible, presumably because the 
MacDougalls knew there could be big changes in the way people lived 160
years later. Keeping The Assassin out of the loop prevented him from 
interfering with the larger plan."

"How did the other members of the group get together?"  Cashman 
asked.

"When our ancestors parted in 1840, each one took with him or her two 
sealed envelopes, except for my ancestor, Colleen MacDougall, who was 
only given one.

The first package was to be opened in 1930 by the youngest Knight in 
each family older than eighteen years of age.  It contained 
instructions providing the first and middle names to be given the 
Knight's next born son and that son's first born son.  My grandfather 
opened the envelope and named my father Van Buren Andrew, as 
instructed, and my father gave me the same name.  The second package 
was to be opened by the oldest Knight in each family in 1995. That 
envelope contained the Key--the code for finding the other Knights.  My
father did not have that package

age, and he did not participate with the other Knights until they 
contacted him."

"Why was The Assassin given the first package?"  Agent Cashman asked.

"It must have been a failsafe," Stone said.

"If the larger group needed to revise the plan, as it turned out they 
did, there was the hope that they could identify The Assassin."

"Was your father a willing participant after he was contacted?"  Agent 
Cashman asked.

"No."

"Then why did he name you in accordance with the naming convention?"

Stone thought deeply, chewing on his lower lip.

"Did your father ever feel passionately about anything?"  he asked.

Cashman shrugged.

"Geez, I don't know," he said, glancing sheepishly at the mirror.  Then
 he snorted.

"Baseball.  Pop loved the Sox.  He took me to Fenway Park when I was 
nine years old and Yaz hit a slam to win a game against the Yankees.

Pop went wild.  I never saw him like that before."

"And do you still enjoy baseball?"  Stone asked.

Cashman smiled.

"Still a diehard Sox fan.  I've lived in D.C. for almost twenty years, 
but I still read the box scores every morning."

"My grandfather was passionate about The Royal Order of the Millennium 
Knight," Stone said.

"He instilled that passion in my father when he was young, never 
telling him the details, but filling his head with stories of our 
family's grand deeds and preparing him for a special role at the turn 
of the millennium.  It was an exciting game for a little boy who 
idolized his father."

"So why did he renounce his role when he was contacted by The Spy?"

"Two things," Stone said.

"The Vietnam War and me.  He fought alongside men of color.  He saw 
fathers and sons die.  He questioned all that he had been taught to 
believe.  He named me in accordance with the naming convention out of 
respect for his father, but he had already begun to question whether he
would inspire me to hate and kill.  I lived in Los Angeles with my 
mother; he returned to San Francisco to his wife.  When they divorced a
few years later, he spent more time with me in Los Angeles, but he 
never spoke of The Royal Order until he snapped."

"That was right before he was killed?"  Cashman asked.

"Yes, sir," Stone said.

"He told me the entire story and gave me a photocopy of the Poem and a 
list of the nicknames of the other members.  He told me that he was 
going to find their true identities and kill them all.  He asked me to 
think about completing his mission if he failed.  I wrote him a few 
days later to say that I would, but he was murdered before we spoke 
again."

Cashman paced across the room.

"Let me ask this question one more time, Mr.

Stone.  We're prepared to reduce the charges against you to 
manslaughter if you confess.  Did you kill Adams Thompson?"

"No.  I identified him as The Publisher because of the tone of his 
editorials.  I was following him, hoping that he would lead me to the 
others.  I was prepared to use force if my surveillance continued to be
 unproductive."

"Were you following Thompson the night he was killed?"

"Yes.  But I didn't kill him and my sister didn't, either," Stone 
pleaded.  He squirmed.  His eyes were wide with fear.  La Rosa heart 
began to beat faster.  He knows.

"Did you see who murdered him?"  Cashman asked.

"I saw the killers face," Stone said.  He turned to look directly into 
the mirror, again, his piercing blue eyes locked on to a presence he 
seemed to feel but could not see.

"But I want somebody else in this room before I say any more.

Somebody I know I can trust."

Stone stood when the Vice President entered the room.

"Will I do?"  Fabrizio asked.  Stone shook his hand and grinned.

"I saw the killer's face again in the newspaper this morning.  It was 
Agent Cashmans boss--Gerry Kate."

Fabrizio winked in the direction of the mirror.  La Rosa smiled. 
Bingo.

FIFTY-TWO

'-pHE CEMETERY WAS ON TOP OF A GRASSY HILL in a small JL clearing in 
the northwest corner of the old MacDougall plantation, now the grounds 
of Calhoun College.  This section of the campus, rarely visited by 
Calhoun students, was a half mile from the nearest building and 
remained heavily forested with birch and pines.  A row of dogwoods 
encircled the clearing.

In early March, when the delicate white flowers of the dogwoods were in
bloom, the scene was stunningly beautiful and serene.  But it had 
rained that morning, the second day of February, and the grim shadow of
the barren trees did nothing to shake the mid-winter gloom.  A
solitary  beam of sunlight emerged from the turbulent sea of dark
purple clouds  to make an attempt, focusing like a beacon on the grassy
hill,  momentarily producing an eerie, almost biblical, effect, then
vanishing  into the churning sky.

Ben and Debby entered the clearing from a lightly worn path in the 
woods.  It was cold and dank, a wet forty degrees, and it seemed even 
colder clad in the garb of the Scottish Highlands--white peasant shirts
and plaid kilts with the traditional tartan of Clan MacDougall.  A 
green backpack was slung over Debby's shoulder.

The sunlight glistened on the dewy grass and wildflowers that 
surrounded the makeshift wooden markers on the graves of Debby's 
great-great-great-great-great grandparents and their eldest son. 
Jimmy.  Debby knelt on the wet ground, set her backpack down and pulled
out a  bottle of fine Scotch whiskey, three glasses and the urn that
contained  the ashes other natural father, Van Buren Andrew Colleen.

"He'll be here in a few minutes, I'm sure," Debby said.

"Punctuality is not a family trait."

"Me arse is cold, lass," Ben said, trying on a new Scottish accent.

"I hope he's taken the high road."

Debby giggled.  Ben smiled, then surveyed the landscape.  Her smile 
could not mask her sadness.  Her bruises had almost healed, but the 
mental scars would last a lifetime.  He could only imagine the anguish 
she had endured awaiting a certain death in the dark solitude of the 
Maryland safe house.

He had been there when she had been rescued on the night of the King 
Day attacks, only a short while after his own release from prison.  It 
was an emotional moment.  She had screamed with fright as a half dozen 
men thundered down die steps to the basement, only believing that her 
rescue was real when Ben had come to her and hugged her weak, battered,
body, whispering in her ear that everything was going to be all 
right.

They had both run an emotional gauntlet over the past two months, but 
Ben felt guilty that somehow he had emerged from their adventure a 
champion while Debby seemed destined to remain a forgotten footnote in 
history.  At least she had fared better than poor Christy Kirk, the 
reporter whose shredded body had been discovered the week before in a 
gorge near the paramilitary compound of the Aryan Kingdom.

The Knights could not be sentenced to death for the murder of Christy 
Kirk, or for the conspiracy to commit treason, under the plea bargain 
negotiated by JJ Alexander, but Christy's death had not been in vain. 
The micro-cassette found in the back pocket of her jeans would be 
admissible to show the brutality and evil intent of the Knights, 
virtually assuring that all of them would receive capital punishment as
 coconspirators with Gerry Kate in the murder of Adams Thompson.

They would be remembered as the most contemptible traitors in American 
history.

Ben, on the other hand, had charmed the nation.  The attention had been
unrelenting for the past two weeks, but Ben's unassuming manner had 
made him a media darling.  He could not satisfy everybody, though.  His
crooked grin had graced the stages of Letterman, Oprah and Larry King 
Live, while he had spurned Leno, Springer and Geraldo.

Ben had been careful to remind each interviewer of the forgotten 
heroes--Debby Barnett, Christy Kirk, Ray Allgood, Woody Taylor and

Max Caldwell--but they had usually smiled blankly, barely listening to 
his words, then asked again how he had evaded the FBI dragnet on Jiminy
 Peak.

No matter how many times he had to tell the story, though, he had 
always left out certain parts.  He had kept his promise to Ray Allgood,
although Ray had confided to him that he told Claire about his affair 
while they were in Europe.

Ben also had neglected to tell about his second trip to Atlanta when he
had seduced Kimberly Frederick in the MacDougall Room, not knowing
that  she was The Caretaker's daughter.  It was a memory he would
always  cherish, privately.  He had met with her briefly before he came
to the  cemetery, and they had agreed to remain friends.

Ben's professional life was also on the upswing.  Fritz Fox was 
recovering nicely, and he had all but assured Ben that he would make 
partner at Kramer, Fox in record time.  It was an unheard of 
endorsement, and two months ago Ben would have been ecstatic.

Now, he was thinking of leaving the default career path.  He had too 
many grand ideas to waste his life managing other people's estates or 
orchestrating corporate mega-mergers.  He had windmills to tilt, and 
his new friends in high places were determined to give him that 
opportunity.

Tony Fabrizio had told him to name the job he wanted in the Justice 
Department or any other federal agency.  That prospect was intriguing. 
His discussions with La Rosa had awakened a passion that had lain 
dormant since law school.  He would have the opportunity to make a 
difference in people's lives.  In the Civil Rights Division of the 
Justice Department, he could help Fabrizio and La Rosa usher in the 
Second American Revolution.

La Rosa She seemed to be always on his mind nowadays.  She had been 
announced as Tony Fabrizio's running mate, and the public outpouring of
support from all segments of society was heartwarming.  The people
were  ready for a revolution.

She was looking for a chief-of-staff who she could trust.

The job was Ben's most exciting professional option, but it created so 
many issues.  For one, he did not have her political instincts.  He 
enjoyed being her sounding board on substantive issues, but he knew 
nothing of the workings of government and might become more of a burden
 than help.

Then there was a small matter of the heart.  He had fallen in love with
her all over again--or maybe he only now realized that it was she who 
he had loved all along.  They were soulmates.  His family's acceptance 
was still an issue.  But he would no longer quell his passions to 
satisfy their prejudices, whether real or imagined.  If she could trust
him again, he would love her without inhibition. It was a role 
inconsistent with chief-of-staff.

A faint sound from the woods shook Ben from his daydream.  As it drew 
closer, the familiar, somber melody of "Amazing Grace" wafted through 
the forest much as it had on a fateful day 160 years before.

Nine children of James and Anne MacDougall solemnly encamped around the
graves of their parents and brother.  Alone.  Angry.  Grieving. 
Intoxicated.  A deadly blend of alcohol, emotions and fiery Scottish 
blood.  Alexander.  Frederick. Kate.

Thompson.  Glenn.  Andrew.  Daniel.  Stewart.  Colleen.  The architects
 of a conspiracy that had almost toppled a nation.

Ben, still fixated with the inner workings of people's minds, wondered 
how the MacDougalls had come to that fateful moment of insight when 
personal fury was transformed into a vendetta for the ages.  It had 
been the isolation and secrecy, the singularity of purpose, the 
strength of the bond between father and son, and the passion with which
it had been imparted that had permitted this insane notion to be 
perpetuated.

It would have been easy for young people with fire in their hearts to 
plan ritualistic family meetings where a single moment of sanity by any
one of their progeny could have doused the spark of hate residing in 
each of their souls. But they had not, and seven presidents had been 
jinxed because of it.

A tall man, about thirty years old, emerged from the woods, bagpipes 
pressed to his lips.  Van Buren Andrew Stone bore little resemblance to
the Marlboro Man, shedding one uniform for another, denim and leather 
in favor of the tartan of Clan MacDougall.

Tears welled up in Debby's eyes, as she rose and scattered their 
father's ashes over the graves of their ancestors while the mournful 
tones wailed through the morning stillness.  Then Ben followed suit, 
spreading the ashes of Adams Thompson, Jr."  which he had reclaimed 
from Kimberly Frederick earlier that morning.

Ben poured three glasses of Scotch.  Stone set down his pipes and 
raised his glass.

"To The Assassin," he said.

"May his soul forever rest with the knowledge that by his death tens of
thousands of lives, black and white, were spared and our nation was 
forever changed for the better."

"Aye," said Debby, as they gulped their drinks.  Her eyes locked with 
Ben's once more.  Ben could see that she was still in love with him. 
If  he dropped to his knee, right there in his plaid dress, she would 
consent to marry him.

He sighed.  Two months earlier that would have been his dream come 
true; but they had traveled a different road--and that had made all the
 difference.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Larry Kahn is an attorney specializing in the taxation of domestic and
international mergers and acquisitions.  He resides in Atlanta, Georgia
with his wife, Ellie, and two children, Matthew and Michael.  Mr. 
Kahn  graduated first in his class from the State University of New
York at  Albany in 1982 with a B.A. in Economics.  He developed a keen
interest  in race relations while attending Yale Law School, where he
received  his J.D. degree in 1985.  Mr.  Kahn was employed by a large
New York  City law firm before joining Bell South Corporation in 1993. 
His  passions include family, politics, tennis and Murphey Candler
Little  League baseball.  The Jinx is his first novel.