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in the mirror。 Thirty minutes later； the attache case exploded between the legs of the British ambassador to Nigeria。
In the guarded whispers of his invisible brotherhood； Luke had often heard of Khamel； a man of many names and faces and languages； an assassin who struck quickly and left no trail； a fastidious killer who roamed the world but could never be found。 As they rode north in the darkness； Luke settled low in his seat； the brim of his hat almost on his nose； limp wrist across the wheel； trying to remember the stories he'd heard about his passenger。 Amazing feats of terror。 There was the British ambassador。 The ambush of seventeen Israeli soldiers on the West Bank in 1990 had been credited to Khamel。 He was the only suspect in the 1985 car…bomb murders of a wealthy German banker and his family。 His fee for that one was rumored to have been three million； cash。 Most intelligence experts believed he was the mastermind of the 1981 attempt to kill the Pope。 But then； Khamel was blamed for almost every unsolved terrorist attack and assassination。 He was easy to blame because no one was certain he existed。
This excited Luke。 Khamel was about to perform on American soil。 The targets were unknown to Luke； but important blood was about to be shed。
* * *
AT DAWN； the stolen farm truck stopped at the corner of Thirty…first and M streets in Georgetown。 Khamel grabbed his gym bag； said nothing； and hit the sidewalk。 He walked east a few blocks to the Four Seasons Hotel； bought a Post in the lobby； and casually rode the elevator to the seventh floor。 At precisely seven…fifteen； he knocked on a door at the end of the hall。 〃Yes？〃 a nervous voice asked from inside。
〃Looking for Mr。 Sneller；〃 Khamel said slowly in a perfect generic American tongue as he stuck his thumb over the peephole。
〃Mr。 Sneller？〃
〃Yes。 Edwin F。 Sneller。〃
The knob did not turn or click； and the door did not open。 A few seconds passed； and a white envelope eased from under the door。 Khamel picked it up。 〃Okay；〃 he said loud enough for Sneller or whoever he was to hear。
〃It's next door；〃 Sneller said。 〃I'll await your call。〃 He sounded like an American。 Unlike Luke； he'd never seen Khamel； and had no desire to； really。 Luke had seen him twice now； and was indeed lucky to be alive。
Khamel's room had two beds and a small table near the window。 The shades were drawn tightly； no chance of sunlight。 He placed his gym bag on one bed； next to two thick briefcases。 He walked to the window and peeked out； then to the phone。
〃It's me；〃 he said to Sneller。 〃Tell me about the car。〃
〃It's parked on the street。 Plain white Ford with Connecticut plates。 The keys are on the table。〃 Sneller spoke slowly。
〃Stolen？〃
〃Of course； but sanitized。 It's clean。〃
〃I'll leave it at Dulles shortly after midnight。 I want it destroyed； okay？〃 The English was perfect。
〃Those are my instructions。 Yes。〃 Sneller was proper and efficient。
〃It's very important； okay？ I intend to leave the gun in the car。 Guns leave bullets and people see cars； so it's important to pletely destroy the car and everything in it。 Understand？〃
〃Those are my instructions；〃 Sneller repeated。 He did not appreciate this lecture。 He was no novice at the killing game。
Khamel sat on the edge of the bed。 〃The four million was received a week ago； a day late I should add。 I'm now in D。C。； so I want the next three。〃
〃It will be wired before noon。 That was the agreement。〃
〃Yes； but I'm worried about the agreement。 You were a day late； remember？〃
This irritated Sneller； and since the killer was in the next room and not about to e out； he could sound a bit irritated。 〃The bank's fault； not ours。〃
This irritated Khamel。 〃Fine。 I want you and your bank to wire the next three million to the account in Zurich as soon as New York opens。 That will be about two hours from now。 I'll be checking。〃
〃Okay。〃
〃Okay； and I want no problem when the job is finished。 I'll be in Paris in twenty…four hours； and from there I'll go straight to Zurich。 I want all the money waiting for me when I arrive。〃
〃It will be there； if the job is finished。〃
Khamel smiled to himself。 〃The job will be finished； Mr。 Sneller； by midnight。 That is； if your information is correct。〃
〃As of now it is correct。 And no changes are expected today。 Our people are in the streets。 Everything is in the two briefcases； maps； diagrams； schedules； the tools and articles you requested。〃
Khamel glanced at the briefcases behind him。 He rubbed his eyes with his right hand。 〃I need a nap；〃 he mumbled into the phone。I haven't slept in twenty hours。〃
Sneller could think of no response。 There was plenty of time； and if Khamel wanted a nap； then Khamel could have a nap。 They were paying him ten million。
〃Would you like something to eat？〃 Sneller asked awkwardly。
〃No。 Call me in three hours； at precisely ten…thirty。〃 He placed the receiver on the phone； and stretched across the bed。
* * *
THE STREETS were clear and quiet for day two of the fall term。 The justices spent their day on the bench listening to lawyer after lawyer argue plex and quite dull cases。 Rosenberg slept through most of it。 He came to life briefly when the attorney general from Texas argued that a certain death…row inmate should be given medication to make him lucid before being lethally injected。 If he's mentally ill； how can he be executed？ Rosenberg asked incredulously。 Easy； said the AG from Texas； his illness can be controlled with medication。 So just give him a little shot to make him sane； then give him another shot to kill him。 It could all be very nice and constitutional。 Rosenberg harangued and bitched for a brief spell； then lost steam。 His little wheelchair sat much lower than the massive leather thrones of his brethren。 He looked rather pitiful。 In years past he was a tiger； a ruthless intimidator who tied even the slickest lawyers in knots。 But no more。 He began to mumble； and then faded away。 The AG sneered at him； and continued。
During the last oral argument of the day； a lifeless desegregation case from Virginia； Rosenberg began snoring。 Chief Runyan glared down the bench； and Jason Kline； Rosenberg's senior clerk； took the hint。 He slowly pulled the wheelchair backward； away from the bench； and out of the courtroom。 He pushed it quickly through the back hallway。
The Justice regained consciousness in his office； took his pills； and informed his clerks he wanted to go home。 Kline notified the FBI； and moments later Rosenberg was wheeled into the rear of his van； parked in the basement。 Two FBI agents watched。 A male nurse； Frederic； strapped the wheelchair in place； and Sergeant Ferguson of the Supreme Court police slid behind the wheel of the van。 The Justice allowed no FBI agents near him。 They could follow in their car； and they could watch his townhouse from the street； and they were lucky to get that close。 He didn't trust cops； and he damned sure didn't trust FBI agents。 He didn't need protection。
On Volta Street in Georgetown； the van slowed and backed into a short driveway。 Frederic the nurse and Ferguson the cop gently rolled him inside。 The agents watched from the street in their black government…issue Dodge Aries。 The lawn in front of the townhome was tiny and their car was a few feet from the front door。 It was almost 4 P。M。
After a few minutes； Ferguson made his mandatory exit and spoke to the agents。 After much debate； Rosenberg had acquiesced a week earlier and allowed Ferguson to quietly inspect each room upstairs and down upon his arrival in the afternoons。 Then Ferguson had to leave； but could return at exactly 10 P。M。 and sit outside the rear door until exactly 6 A。M。 No one but Ferguson could do it； and he was tired of the overtime。
〃Everything's fine；〃 he said to the agents。 〃I guess I'll be back at ten。〃
〃Is he still alive？〃 one of the agents asked。 Standard question。
〃Afraid so。〃 Ferguson looked tired as he walked to the van。
Frederic was chubby and weak； but strength was not needed to handle his patient。 After arranging the pillows just so； he lifted him from the wheelchair and placed him carefully on the sofa； where he would remain motionless for the next two hours while dozing and watching CNN。 Frederic fixed himself a ham sandwich and a plate of cookies； and scanned a National Enquirer at the kitchen table。 Rosenberg mumbled something loudly and changed channels with the remote control。
At precisely seven； his dinner of chicken bouillon； boiled potatoes； and stewed onions stroke food was placed neatly on the table； and Frederic rolled him up to it。 He insisted on feeding himself； and it was not pretty。 Frederic watched television。 He would clean up the mess later。
By nine； he was bathed； dressed in a gown； and tucked tightly under the covers。 The bed was a narrow； reclining； pale green army…hospital job with a hard mattress； push…button controls； and collapsible rails that Rosenberg insisted remain down。 It was in a room behind the kitchen that he had used as a small study for thirty years； before the first stroke。 The room was now clinical； and smelled of antiseptic and looming death。 Next to his bed was a large table with a hospital lamp and at least twenty bottles of pills。 Thick； heavy law books were stacked in neat piles around the room。 Next to the table； the nurse sat close by in a worn recliner； and began reading from a brief。 He would read until he heard snoring…the nightly ritual。 He read slowly； yelling the words at Rosenberg； who was stiff； motionless； but listening。 The brief was from a case in which he would write the majority opinion。 He absorbed every word； for a while。
After an hour of reading and yelling； Frederic was tired and the Justice was drifting away。 He raised his hand slightly； then closed his eyes。 With a button on the bed； he lowered the lights。 The room was almost dark。 Frederic jerked backward； and the recliner unfolded。 He laid the brief on the floor； and closed his eyes。 Rosenberg was snoring。
He would not snore for long。
* * *
SHORTLY AFTER TEN； with the house dark and quiet； the door to a bedroom closet upstairs opened slightly； and Khamel eased out。 His wristbands； nylon cap； and running shorts were royal blue。 His long…sleeved shirt； socks； and Reeboks were white with royal trim。 Perfect color coordination。 Khamel the jogger。 He was clean shaven； and under the cap his very short hair was now blond； almost white。
The bedroom was dark； as was the hall。 The stairs creaked slightly under the Reeboks。 He was five…ten； and weighed less than a hundred and fifty pounds； with no fat。 He kept himself taut and light so the movements would be quick and soundless。 The stairs landed in a foyer not far from the front door。 He knew there were two agents in a car by the curb； probably not watching the house。 He knew Ferguson had arrived seven minutes ago。 He could hear the snoring from the back room。 While waiting in the closet； he had thought of striking earlier； before Ferguson arrived so he wouldn't have to kill him。 The killing was no problem； but it created another body to worry about。 But he guessed； wrongly； that Ferguson probably checked in with the male nurse when he came on duty。 If so； then Ferguson would find the carnage and Khamel would lose a few hours。 So he waited until now。
He slid through the foyer without a sound。 In the kitchen； a small light from the Ventahood illuminated the countertop and made things a bit more dangerous。 Khamel cursed himself for not checking the bulb and unscrewing it。 Those small mistakes were inexcusable。 He dipped under a window looking into the backyard。 He could not see Ferguson； although he knew he was seventy…four inches tall； sixty…one years old； had cataracts； and couldn't hit a barn with his 。357 magnum。
Both of them were snoring。 Khamel smiled to himself as h