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strained, silent greeting but ignored Stralen, who was staring at him with undisguised contempt. Instead, he began moving toward the man standing in front of the large windows.
    On any given day David Brenneman looked at least a decade younger than his fifty-five years. However, the news he had just received had aged him in a way the rigors of the office had never managed to do. His silver-brown hair was disheveled, his eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, and his mouth had set in a tight, angry line.
    As Harper approached, he was acutely aware of the president’s stance. Dressed in a navy tracksuit bearing the insignia of his alma mater, Georgetown University, he stood with his feet apart and his hands curled into useless fists by his sides, like a fighter who’d been sucker punched bracing for a second blow.
    Harper could only imagine what he was feeling at that moment. David Brenneman was arguably the single most powerful person in the world, and yet, for all that, he had just taken a hit to the gut from which he would probably never recover. Worse still, there was nothing he could do to make it right, despite the enormous resources at his disposal. Harper couldn’t have articulated why, but the tracksuit made him look all the more exposed. Brenneman was the president, yes. But this morning he was first and foremost a man reeling from grief.
    Harper stopped a few feet away and forced himself to meet Brenneman’s eyes.
    â€œSir,” he began awkwardly, “I’m truly sorry for your loss. Believe me, we will do everything in our power to find the people who are responsible, and when we do, there is nothing to stop us from—”
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about?”
    At first Harper didn’t know where the words had come from. Then he turned to face the man who had snapped out the question. Stralen had jumped out of his chair and was staring at him with a mixed expression of irritation and disbelief.
    â€œExcuse me?” Harper said.
    â€œYou heard. What are you talking about?” said Stralen. “We already know who did the deed. It was one man, and we know exactly where to find him. The only question is what we’re going to do about it.”
    Harper let his gaze drift from Stralen to his immediate superior. Andrews was shaking his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, his gaze fixed on some distant corner of the room. Clearly, he wasn’t about to stand up to his counterpart at the DIA. Harper wondered how long he had been able to withstand the blunt force of the general’s rhetoric, or if he had even tried.
    â€œSir, with all due respect, it’s too early to draw any conclusions about—”
    â€œThat’s bullshit,” Stralen said. “You know damn well that Bashir was behind this. It’s payback for the sanctions we slapped on them last month. What else could it be?”
    Harper frowned. “I don’t think that’s likely. Bashir may be dangerous, but he isn’t certifiably insane. Why would he do this? What could he possibly hope to gain?”
    Stralen was already shaking his head. “Who knows?” he snapped. “A world court’s issued a warrant for him—and backed him into a corner. When he tried to attend Zuma’s swearing-in conference as president of South Africa, Bashir was warned to stay home. Even those corrupt bastards in Uganda reluctantly washed their hands of him through diplomatic channels. As signatories to the ICC they’d have had to arrest him if he showed at their regional conference.”
    â€œHow’s any of that lead him to an act of retribution against us?” Harper asked.
    â€œI don’t know how his mind connects the dots. Or even what dots they connect. But it’s a moot point, anyway. There are witnesses. ” Stralen pounded his right hand into his left to emphasize the point. “The camp’s doctor, Beckett, the man who reported the attack in the