Finally, as they came alongside, Matt saw the vessel more clearly. Over the side of the boat's orange foam collar, a man extended his arm to help Seneca up. Matt watched her grab the hand. The man in the boat began lifting her.

"Bless you." She sighed, then looked up and recoiled.

THE LIST 1989, EL SEGUNDO, CA.

THE SPOKESMAN IN THE IBM-blue business suit stood at the po- dium in the Groves Aerospace press room. After completing the obligatory welcome and appreciation remarks, he spieled off a short bio of the man he was about to introduce. "It is my pleasure to present the new president and CEO of Groves Consortium, Mr. Javier Scarrow."

There was a rustle of whispers and paper as Scarrow shook the man's hand then took his place at the microphone. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." He thanked the spokesman for the flattering introduction and expressed his appreciation to the members of the press corps. He waited for everyone to settle before pointing to the AP reporter. "I'll take the first question."

"Will Mr. Groves be joining us today?"

"I'm afraid not. But be assured that I speak on behalf of our chairman, William Groves IV, in all matters concerning the Consortium and Groves Aerospace."

The reporter gave an expression that seemed to imply he had heard that excuse many times before. "As you know, Mr. Scarrow, there are anti-nuclear groups concerned over what they perceive as an unacceptable risk to the public's safety with the upcoming October launch of the Galileo spacecraft. Mainly, their issue is with Galileo's RTGs."

"We are well aware of their objections. To address those concerns, let me ask our senior RTG project engineer to say a few words."

Scarrow stepped aside as the scientist came to the podium. He was partially bald and wore thick framed glasses. "For those of you who don't know, RTG stands for radioisotope thermoelectric generator-there are two onboard the unmanned Galileo spacecraft. Groves Aerospace, in partnership with NASA, helped design the RTG units. It was determined that because of the distance between Jupiter and the sun, solar panels would be impractical as would be large, bulky batteries. RTG technology was chosen for its efficiency and compactness."

The reporter remained standing. "But, sir, the anti-nuclear groups are seeking a court injunction prohibiting Galileo's launch based on a fear that because the craft carries plutonium-238, an accident could cause harm to the atmosphere, possibly resulting in human injury or death."

Scarrow joined the engineer. "RTGs have been used for years in planetary exploration without mishap. The Lincoln Experimental Satellites launched by the US Department of Defense had seven percent more plutonium on board than Galileo, and the two Voyager spacecraft each carried eighty percent more plutonium."

"Yes," the reporter insisted, "but the activists point out the tragic crash of the Soviet Union's nuclear-powered Cosmos 954 satellite in Canada in 1978, and the 1986 Challenger accident as having raised public awareness of the possibility of a dangerous spacecraft failure. Also, Mr. Scarrow, no RTGs have ever been aboard a craft that will swing past the Earth at as close a range and high speed as Galileo's gravity assist trajectory required to propel it on its mission."

"We still believe, based upon our extensive safety studies, that the small amount of plutonium carried aboard the spacecraft poses no threat to the atmosphere, our planet, or anyone on it." He turned away from the reporter. "Next question?"

"Javier, did they bring up the legal attempts to stop the launch? Don't they understand that we've done the research? That there's no real danger?"

"Relax, William. All the questions were handled fine." Scarrow spoke to Groves on the car phone as the limousine moved north through traffic along Lincoln Boulevard.

"Did they ask why I wasn't there?"

"Of course. They always do. And once I apologized that for health reasons you couldn't make it, the subject wasn't brought up again. We agreed that you don't have to take part in any more dayto-day busywork. That's what you have me for and the hundreds of others assisting me. You worry too much. Let me handle the heavy lifting. You relax and enjoy that beautiful view of the Palisades."

"I know we made that decision. I just feel like I'm losing touch with what's going on in my ... our companies."

"You won't lose your touch, I promise. I give you a full briefing every morning, you know that." Scarrow glanced out the window as they passed Marina del Ray. Then he opened the folder on his lap. A sheet of paper displayed a list of names along with a short biography of each. He studied the list while he spoke. "William, are you taking your medications? You're not skipping any are you? You have to build up your immune system. You know how easily you can contract an infection or cold. Did you take your pills today?"

"Yes, I took the damn pills. I'm getting tired of this place. I want to move. Where can we move?"

"You live in a mansion in the Pacific Palisades that rivals the Hearst Castle. It would take you a month to sleep in every room." Scarrow realized that Groves was getting more and more eccentric with each passing year. That was good, but Groves's idiosyncrasies required constant maintenance. They had already relocated four times since Scarrow took on the management of Groves Consortium. First it had been from Arizona to a remote Greek island. From there, it was to another island off the coast of Thailand, then the Campania vineyard near Naples, and finally back to the US and a mansion in the Pacific Palisades.

"Why do you want to move again?"

"I'm bored. And the air is filthy. I need clean air like back in Arizona."

"All right, William. Where would you like to live this time?"

"Are there any castles for sale in Germany?"

"I'm sure there are."

As Scarrow spoke, he came to the end of the list and now focused his attention back to the first name: Herod the Great. Roman king of Israel. Regarded as a madman who murdered his own family and a great many rabbis. Responsible for the Massacre of the Innocents. Died 4 BC. Believed to be buried in the Holy Land east of Herodium near Jerusalem.

Perfect.

RESCUE 2012, FLORIDA BAY.

SENECA WAS ANXIOUS To be out of the black water. And though at first she had shrunk back into the murkiness when she saw the face of the man who leaned over the boat to assist her, she quickly acquiesced.

"Give me your hand!"

The beam of light once again swept by and temporarily blinded her. She reached up, and at first grasp the man's strong hand clamped around her wrist. She locked on by returning the hold and was hefted up over the orange collar of the vessel, sliding belly first and toppling ass over teakettle onto the deck.

Matt was hoisted next and made his entrance much more in command than she had. Seneca thought she must have looked like the proverbial fish flopping in the bottom of the boat while Matt appeared more like a male gymnast performing a smooth pommel horse routine. She wiped the water from her face and swept back her hair.

"Thanks," Matt said. "Are you guys-"

"So is this really the Coast Guard or a kidnapping?" Seneca had an icy bite in her tone.

Matt looked at her, confused.

Swabbing her face with her palms, she looked up at the man who had helped her aboard. She made a wide sweep with her arm from Matt to her rescuer. "Matt Everhart, Al Palermo."

Matt's face was still ridden with confusion.

"My father."

Coast Guard officer Sawicki handed Seneca and Matt cups of coffee. Moments earlier, he had given her an orange jumpsuit to cover her blouse and panties-the outfit usually reserved for Cuban and Haitian refugees who were taken into custody. Al declined the beverage and sat in a nearby chair in the station office.

"So you say my father is responsible for our rescue?"

Al winked at Seneca, but said nothing.

"More or less." Sawicki sat behind his desk. "As a matter of fact, I didn't believe what was happening at first." He glanced at Palermo as if asking for an okay.

Al's expression deemed a positive response, so Sawicki continued. "I got an emergency call from the Commandant, Admiral Charles Burke." Sawicki scanned their faces and appeared disappointed in their reactions. "You do realize the admiral now leads the largest component of the Department of Homeland Security? So, you just don't get a call from the Commandant of the US Coast Guard every day. Any day for that matter, so you can bet it got my attention. The admiral said he had knowledge of a vessel in trouble and that a man," he pointed to Al, "this man as it turns out, would be requesting our help at any minute, and that we were to give our swiftest and most thorough response without question. Then he hung up. Just like that. I don't think I had the receiver back in the cradle yet when Mr. Palermo showed up in my doorway. We scrambled, as ordered, no questions asked. The glow on the horizon gave us pretty clear direction, but Mr. Palermo also gave us some GPS coordinates. You know the rest."

Seneca glared at her father. "GPS coordinates? How? What's going on?"

Before Al could answer, Matt said, "I'd like to know who the hell shot up my boat. I want somebody to pay for that."

"Were they trying to kill us?" All the mystery was making Seneca's anger boil.

"I think we deserve explanations, Mr. Palermo. Look, I don't want to interfere with some father-daughter thing you two have going, but I lost a $100,000 boat tonight and damn near got killed, and you seem to be the guy with all the answers."

"I'm just a dad looking out for his little girl." Al spread his hands in a gesture of innocence.

"Bullshit!" Seneca swirled the coffee in the mug before depositing it with a thud on Sawicki's desk. "Don't you have anything stronger than this? I think I could use a real drink." Plowing her fingers through her hair, she stomped over to her father. With her arms folded, she glared at him. "Who the hell are you?"

FOR SALE 1998, MEXICO CITY.

SCARROW STOOD ON THE crowded sidewalk along Calle del Carmen and studied the survey map. He had contracted three different Mexican land surveyors to pinpoint the specific location, and all three came to the same conclusion within a few feet. Folding the map, he crossed the street and entered Los Sanchez, a small taco stand and souvenir shop located a block east of the ruins of Templo Mayor.

"May I speak to the owner," Scarrow said in Spanish to the man behind the counter. The shop was filled with tourists, buzzing conversation, and the aroma of chili pepper and fried cornmeal. The man called out to a gray-haired elderly Mexican who had just entered the shop from the back, his arms full of boxes.

The old man sat the boxes down and approached Scarrow. His eyes were milky, and his skin blotched from age and too much sun. He walked with a limp.

"I am Jose Sanchez, the owner. What do you need?"

"Javier Scarrow. I was wondering if there was a place we could talk in private?"

"As you can see, this is a busy day for us. If you would like to buy something, any of my employees can help you."

Scarrow leaned forward and spoke so only Sanchez could hear. "I only need a few minutes. I'm willing to make it worth your while."

The store owner gave him a look of suspicion.

"Only a few moments, I promise."

With a hesitant wave, he motioned for Scarrow to follow through a swinging doorway into the steamy kitchen; the source of the heavy aromas. They moved up a narrow stairway to a second-floor landing. A large open area served as storage for dry goods and merchandise. Lining a number of wooden shelves, Scarrow saw miniature models of the Mexico City Metropolitan Cathedral and a number of Aztec souvenir trinkets including a small replica of the Mexica Sun Stone. It was a good reproduction, he thought. In the corner was a desk cluttered with stacks of papers and more novelties.

"What do you want?" Sanchez stood beside the desk and turned to face Scarrow.

"Does your store have a basement?"

Sanchez gave Scarrow another look of skepticism and shook his head. "I don't understand the purpose of your question. And I told you, I'm very busy. So if you don't mind-"

"Does it?"

With a deep sigh, Sanchez said, "Yes, there's a basement." He motioned to the stairs. "That's all the time I have-"

"I want to buy your store."

"I'm afraid it's not for sale."

"At what price would it be for sale?"

"You don't understand, I'm not-"

"Name your price."

Sanchez looked at Scarrow with an expression of total confusion. He shrugged. "I really have never thought of selling..." He turned and went to the chair behind the desk. Sitting, he rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't know, it's been in my family-"

"How does twenty million sound?"

The old man's mouth dropped open, and his eyes grew wide at Scarrow's words. It was obvious the wheels, however old and worn, were turning in his head. Finally, he stood. "Pesos?"

"Dollars."

BLACK OP 2012, FLORIDA KEYS.

MATT EVERHART POURED TWO shots of whiskey over ice and took it to Al Palermo who sat in one of the lounge chairs on the veranda overlooking the bay. After leaving the Coast Guard station, they had gone to Matt's place to talk. Seneca still wore the orange jumpsuit, but Matt had changed out of his sodden clothes into jeans and T-shirt.

"How about you, Seneca? If you don't want hard stuff I've got beer or "Whiskey is perfect. On the rocks, please."

"Why don't you just bring her a glass of wine?"

"Whiskey," Seneca restated.

Seneca straightened and breathed out a loud, disapproving huff. "I'm an adult and can decide what I want to drink, how much, and when. And besides that, you have no stinking right-" Too frustrated to continue, Seneca settled in the chair.

She watched Matt through the open sliding glass doors, certain that he couldn't have missed the crossfire between her and Al.

Matt returned and handed the drink to her with a napkin wrapped around the bottom.

"Thanks, Matt. So, Al, you told us at the Coast Guard station that you would explain about yourself later. Well, it's later, so explain."

"Not a 'thank you, Dad,' first? 'Glad you saved my life, Dad.' Something like that would be nice."

"Thank you, Al. Matt and I are grateful you saved our lives. How's that?"

"It'll do for the time being."

"The floor is yours."

Al took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips. "I'm retired. But I've maintained good friends in the business over the years. They do me favors when I need them."

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Seneca groaned. "You're unbelievable. Why don't you just talk straight and stop with all this mumbojumbo vagueness. I think I deserve that."

Al sipped his drink again, taking his time. "You're right." He stood and faced her. "I spent my life working for the government. Intelligence gathering."

"CIA?" Matt said.

"Not exactly, but close enough."

Seneca put her face in her hands, shaking her head. "Unbelievable." Looking up, she rolled her eyes. "What does not exactly mean?"

"In pedestrian terms, I worked for an organization not known to the public."

"Black op?" Matt said.

"You could say that."

"I hate to feel stupid," she said, "but covert operations aren't my forte. What is black op?"

"Black ops are highly secret covert operations," Matt said before turning to Al. "Correct me if I'm off base and have put the wrong spin on this, but black ops are usually ultra secretive because they often involve activities that are questionable in regards to ethics and legality."