before. “Where’s that girl of yours?”

“At school in France, sir.”

“You better hook up with her soon, or whatever you young people are calling it these days,” said the president. “Don’t let her get away.”

Karr blushed.

“Ambassador Jackson, I was hoping I would see you,” said Marcke, taking Jackson’s hand. “You did a good job with Aznar. He told our ambassador he owes many favors in the future.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll see how much that means when we actually want something down the line,” added Marcke wryly. “Mr. Rubens told me what a help you’d been. I hope you’ll stay on.”

“He asked me to, sir.”

“Good. Please do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcke turned to some of the young people on Johnny Bib’s staff, congratulating each one by name. His recall was incredible, thought Rubens; he’d given the president a list with faces the day before when the visit had been arranged, but how much time could he have had to memorize it?

Marcke worked his way through the small group, then said good-bye; he was on his way to Pennsylvania to thank the people of the Commonwealth for coming through the crisis.

“I understand the warhead has been taken to Nevada to be disassembled,” said Marcke as they rode down in the elevator.

“Yes, sir.”

“Would it have exploded?”

“No question.”

“Some people think it would have been inert.”

“No. It would have gone.”

“Good work on this, Billy. It was a gutsy call on Philadelphia.”

“It was — the product of a great deal of staff research,” said Rubens. “I was only the messenger.”

Marcke smiled at him. Rubens glanced at the two Secret Service people at the back of the elevator car. This was as alone as they were going to get.

“I wonder, sir — about the national security adviser’s post. I–I would like to be considered.”

“George told me you didn’t want it.”

“I believe I made a mistake. I was hasty, and did not give it the proper consideration.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The door opened behind them. The president’s aides were standing in a knot nearby.

“Oh.” Rubens felt as if the elevator had suddenly plunged a hundred feet. “Ms. Collins?”

“At the present time, I don’t think anyone from the CIA would do well in the spotlight. I’ve gone ahead and chosen Donna Bing out at Stanford. She worked for George Bush as undersecretary of defense; I believe you know her.”

“An excellent choice,” said Rubens softly. He remained in the elevator, watching as the president and his aides strode away.

137

Dean climbed up the small rise from the stream and gazed in the direction of the narrow clearing where the huge buck had appeared a few days before. He brought his binoculars up, scanning the nearby woods carefully, hoping he would see the buck again.

“You’re not really quitting, are you?” said Lia, trudging up behind him.

“Ssshhh.”

“You can’t leave.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“Mr. Rubens is going to get that girl from Peru a job. He thinks he can find something in the non-secure section of the agency. Or over at State.”

“That’s good.”

“I know you’re not leaving,” she added.

“Maybe not,” Dean admitted. “This is where I saw that buck I told you about.”

Lia took out her own binoculars and examined the woods. They stood there for five, ten minutes, neither talking. Dean had suggested they come here after the mission was over. Rubens had called yesterday to tell them that the president wanted to honor them as heroes; Dean had told him, not with much diplomacy, that he’d prefer to stay in the woods.

And Lia said she wanted to be with Dean.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you when you came to help me,” Lia told him now, putting down her field glasses. “I–I thought that being helped meant I was weak. All my life, I guess, I’ve thought that.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I don’t like being scared, Charlie Dean.”

He turned and looked down into her face. “It’s not the worst thing.”

“What is?”

“Being scared for somebody else when you can’t do anything about it.”

“Being alone is worse, I think. Not on a mission — really alone. I think that’s really what I’m afraid of. That’s the real fear. Everything else — it’s a reaction to it.”

“You’re not alone.”

As he bent to kiss her, he thought he heard something moving in the woods. How perfect it would be, he thought, if the big buck appeared now.

He straightened and picked up his glasses. Lia did the same. But they saw nothing, and though they stayed on the knoll for more than an hour, the big buck never came.

STEPHEN COONTS

As a naval aviator, STEPHEN COONTS flew combat missions during the Vietnam War. A former attorney and the author of fourteen New York Times bestselling novels, he resides with his wife and son in Nevada. He maintains a Web site at www.coonts.com.

Deep Black co-author JIM DEFELICE’S most recent solo effort is Cyclops One. He lives in upstate New York and can be reached at [email protected].

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