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over to him. The FBI summary inside told what they had learned about Joplan’s bank accounts, spending habits, social contacts, family relationships, cars, clothes and house mortgage. Phone taps and the trash recovered from Joplan’s garbage cans revealed almost nothing. Cross said the FBI didn’t expect to find much more, even with the warrant. Joplan had covered his tracks.
    Warfield scanned the file. “It’s obvious why they can’t hold him with what they have here.”
    “And the clock’s ticking.”
    “What have you told Fullwood and Quinn?”
    “Nothing. If you take the job, I’ll get them in here for a little kickoff meeting. I’ll bring in Stern, too.” Otto Stern was the national security advisor.
    “Where is Joplan being held?”
    “The Bureau has him across the river in Virginia. Alexandria Detention Center.”
    Warfield thought about it for a moment, then said, “Here’s what's holding me back, Mr. President. I would have to run the show—Joplan all to myself. No interference from CIA or FBI, any other agencies. You're not going to want to grant me that.”
    Cross stood and Warfield followed. Cross’s hands capped Warfield’s shoulders as the president seemed to weigh the moment with due gravity. “I’ll give you Joplan exclusively, Cam. But with that comes all of the responsibility that a president can transfer to you. A lot of our intel brains think something big is in the works now. You’re the one man I trust with this job and it’s not just national security. The very essence of American culture is at stake. You have seven days to find out who Joplan’s contact is. That will lead you to the nukes that walked out of Kremlyov, which if not stopped … well, only God can help us.”

PART ONE
Karly Amarson

CHAPTER 1
    Karly Amarson winced at the tremor in her fingers as she punched the Washington Post telephone number into the phone next to her bed. When the line began to ring she replaced the receiver in its cradle and laid out the jewelry she’d chosen to complement the dress she was going to wear before jumping into the shower. Thoughts of the evening, now just an hour away, raised goose bumps on her soft skin even as the steaming water drenched her body. Never in the eight years she’d entertained Atlantic City’s high-end clientele had there been so much to gain as tonight. Or so much to lose. A smile crossed her lips as something reminded her of the times as a little girl when she lured Tommy Scott who lived next door into some scheme she’d dreamed up that never turned out well for him.
    Karly stepped out of the shower, pulled a body towel around her shoulders and bent closer to the mirror, focusing on the micro wrinkles around her eyes as she’d done with increasing frequency over the past few months. What do you want, confirmation you’re getting old? That you’re doing the right thing? She traced one of the threadlike lines with a fingernail until the water drops winding their way down her neck turned her attention to her body. Not so bad, she told herself, her breasts were still high, her buttocks firm, stomach hard and flat, and the attention shown her by her regulars had never waned. But twenty-nine in her line of work approached retirement age. The quality of life curve for high-end ladies of the evening nosedived after thirty. Maintaining her assets in spin classes, in the pool, on the strength machines…that all took more and more time, and inevitably at some point would quit producing the results she required. Surgery was the usual fix after botox, laser, Sculptra, and the like no longer did the trick, but even that was simply delaying the inevitable. Go in for a remake every couple of years? Pass! She’d invested some of her money but not nearly enough to provide the lifestyle she had become accustomed to—and intended to enjoy for the rest of her life.
    Frank Gallardi had offered her a job, any job she wanted, there in his Golden Touch Casino & Hotel if she