Allan Folsom - The Machiavelli Covenant

As good a marksman as Victor was, he was not a professional, and if "The Covenant" with all their resources and connections-from the military to the Secretary of Defense to the National Security Advisor-had meant to kill one or all three, and it seemed they had, at least until their undoing at Aragon, then they would unquestionably have used a professional or a team of professionals. Victor, Marten knew, was their fall guy. Somebody's Lee Harvey Oswald. If he took the shots and made the kill, fine; if not, fine too. He'd left a stalking trail and in doing so he'd left himself wide open to be killed if anything went wrong. And it had, not just because of the fiasco at Aragon, but because Marten had remembered the killings in Washington and at the Chantilly racetrack and sounded the alarm.

And that was the thing that disturbed him now and kept him from sleep. The whole thing had seemingly been put to bed. The Covenant was stopped, every piece of it was being investigated and if the information on the hard drives continued to deliver, they would have complete annual records of the events and the identities of members attending, potentially blockbuster revelations that might go back years, even decades, maybe even centuries, depending on what was there.

When Marten had come through London on his way home to Manchester, he'd taken a few hours between connecting flights to go into the city. There he'd heard Big Ben chime out the hour, the same way the hour was chimed out in cities and towns around the globe, by chimes that played the Westminster Quarters, a striking of familiar notes half the world's population knew by heart. The same Westminster Quarters that had chimed-and seemed so out of place-at the Aragon church as the members of the New World Institute entered. It made him wonder if that was a universal signal from The Covenant to its secretive members everywhere, that no matter what happened it was alive and well. And had been. And would continue to be for centuries to come. If so, The Covenant was not stopped at all, but like Foxx's planned destruction of Aragon, had simply chosen to go underground for a time, decades maybe. If that were the case it meant people still existed inside it that no one else knew about or could even imagine.

It was why he remembered now what had happened at Auschwitz after he'd alerted Hap to the possibility of a sniper. Never mind the press credentials or the Secret Service-approved list or the hidden gun. Victor had been fingered by someone else. Bill Strait had been the one who pulled up his press picture on the video screen to identify him as the man who had tested their security in Madrid. Moments later when they were out chasing him, running with the other agents following the dogs and dog handlers, it had been Strait who had suddenly veered to the side of the pond ahead of Marten and away from everyone else, running almost directly to the place where Victor was hiding, as if he knew exactly where he would be.

And when Marten had given chase and shouted for Strait to wait to go into the building until he got there, Strait had ignored him and gone in alone. It was when Marten finally reached the building that he'd heard their very brief exchange inside, just two words spoken between the men.

"Victor," Strait had said clearly.

"Richard?" Victor had asked, as if suddenly surprised by someone he knew by voice but had never seen.

Immediately after that had come the dull, sharp spit of Strait's machine pistol.

Eyes wide, Marten rolled over again. Bill Strait. Hap's trusted deputy-or for a time in Barcelona not trusted at all when Hap, like the president, could afford to place his faith in no one. What if Strait was "The Covenant's" man inside the Secret Service and posted to the presidential detail? A perfect cover for access to all kinds of things that went on deep within the executive branch.

Marten wondered if anyone else knew or even had the suspicion he had. Probably not, because he was the only one who had been there at the end. Had seen the direct route Strait had taken. Had heard him say Victor's name and heard Victor say "Richard?"

If he was right, it meant that only he knew, or suspected. Which also meant that in time, maybe sooner than later, Bill Strait would figure it out too.

• 2:22 A.M.

Marten lay back and closed his eyes. He'd worked in close liaison with people from the U.S. Secret Service off and on for years when he'd been a member of the LAPD. He knew their motto of "Worthy of Trust and Confidence" was not taken lightly and that all of its agents had top secret clearances, and most were cleared beyond that level. Furthermore the organization was far too respected, far too professional, and far too much of a close knit brotherhood for someone to infiltrate it like that.

So maybe, even probably, he was wrong about Bill Strait. Maybe, even probably, he was just thinking too much. Maybe he-

Suddenly there was a sharp knock on his door.

If you would care to know more about Nicholas Marten, his story, and that of his sister Rebecca, Lady Clementine Simpson, and of the LAPD's infamous 5-2 squad, it is told at length in The Exile .

For technical information and advice I am especially grateful to Anthony Chapa; and to Ron Nessen, former White House press secretary and fellow writer; Emma Casanova and Josep Maria Cañadell, Policia-Mossos d'Esquadra, Barcelona, Spain; Paul Tippin, former Los Angeles Police Department homicide investigator; Colonel John R. Power, U.S. Army-retired; Kirk Stapp, U.S. Army Special Forces; Alan Landsburg; Andrew Robart; Stanley Mendes; and Norton Kristy, Ph.D.

For suggestions and corrections to the manuscript I am particularly thankful to Robert Gleason. I am also indebted to Robert Gottlieb and John Silbersack for their counsel and guidance, and to Tom Doherty and Linda Quinton for their support and faith in the project.

Finally, a very special thanks to my friends in the United States Secret Service.