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"Oh, Mr. Freidman, I think you underestimate my dislike for you, and I think you overestimate your importance to your government. All I have to do is show Prime Minister Goldberg what you've been up to and by the time I'm done, he'll be thanking me for killing you." Hayes opened the door and ushered Donatella out.

"Wait," said a nervous Freidman.

The President motioned for Donatella to go on without him and he closed the door. "Don't waste my time, Mr. Freidman."

"What do you want to know?" Rapp asked the question. "Who hired you to kill Peter Cameron?"

Freidman squirmed. "That's a complicated question."

Rapp raised his gun and pointed it at Freidman's knee cap. "No it isn't."

He looked at the gun and then at the man holding it. There was absolutely no doubt in Freidman's mind that Rapp would pull the trigger. In the blink of an eye he made up his mind and said, "It was Hank Clark." "What?" asked a shocked President.

"Hank Clark." Freidman looked at Kennedy and said. "Give me my money back, and I'll tell you everything I know." Rapp turned to the President and said, "I'd like you to leave now."

Hayes, still reeling over the name he'd just heard, said, "But-"

Rapp grabbed the President by his shoulder and said, "Leave."

Hayes looked to Kennedy for guidance. She nodded and looked at the door. After a moment of hesitation he reluctantly left the room. When he was gone Freidman breathed a sigh of relief and said to Kennedy, "Good. Now we can deal."

"Wrong!" bellowed Rapp. He pointed his gun at Freidman's leg and pulled the trigger. A bullet spat from the end of the silencer and grazed the Israeli's meaty inner thigh. Freidman lurched back in his chair and grabbed his leg in a mix of shock and pain. Rapp moved the weapon back to Freidman's knee and through clenched teeth said, "I'm looking for a reason to kill you, so there ain't gonna be any negotiating. If you want to walk out of here alive, you're gonna tell us everything you know."

Clutching his leg in pain, Freidman nodded his head and began to talk.

* * *

EPILOGUE.

The Cosmos Club was Senator Clark's kind of place, especially around Christmas. The mansion at 2121 Massachusetts Avenue was a bastion of wealth, class, intellectual discussion, fine food, cigars and liquor. It was the type of place that would have never allowed Congressman Albert Rudin through its doors. The century-old club had rules, and chief among them was a sense of decorum. Differing opinions were encouraged, but loud divisive arguing was not.

The senator's limousine was cued up on Mass Avenue with the other social elites of Washington. He was fifth in line with at least as many limos and cars behind him. Sally Bradley's annual Christmas party at the Cosmos Club was an event not to be missed. That was, unless you were wife number three. She'd gone home to Phoenix. Washington 's cold gray December skies depressed her too much.

Clark was more than a little surprised at the lack of remorse and guilt he felt over killing Rudin. He found it very satisfying that he was the only person who knew the truth. Just three weeks after the death the case was ruled a suicide and closed. The police had been very easy to handle, Clark laid it all out for the detectives. Rudin had been depressed for some time, especially since a meeting he'd had with his party's leadership and the President several weeks earlier. They'd threatened to strip him of his chairmanship and do everything in their power to make sure he didn't get reelected. Rudin had been devastated. Blinded by his convictions, he tried to find a way to torpedo Kennedy's nomination, Clark warned him against it, but Rudin said he'd discovered something that would ruin Kennedy. That was when he went on Meet the Press with his accusations. The next night his world fell apart around him when the President gave his speech to the nation. Clark told how a panicked Rudin came to him and begged him to talk to the President. He'd pleaded with Clark to intercede and get the President to call off the FBI's investigation.

Solemnly, Clark told the investigators that he'd refused Rudin's plea. How he'd told Rudin that he had nobody to blame but himself for the mess he was in. "I didn't think he'd jump. The thought never occurred to me. Now I realize I failed him in his hour of need." Clark seemed genuinely remorseful and the police believed him. Much of his story was backed up by the President himself and even Rudin's wife had said he'd been in a dark funk for several weeks. Clark was never once treated as a suspect, and after a short investigation it was ruled that Rudin had committed suicide.

The feeling of having avoided near disaster was intoxicating. Knowing that he had fooled them all gave him a sense of omnipotence. His plans to run for the White House, however, were on hold. Ellis and his West Coast financiers were very upset that Kennedy had been confirmed as director, but there was nothing he could do about that. At least not for now. In the meantime he told Ellis that he would begin trying to find another mole at the CIA. Amazingly, neither Steveken nor Brown's name had been dragged into the spotlight. After Rudin's death the FBI just dropped everything.

President Hayes was untouchable at present. His numbers were so high, someone would have to be a complete fool to run against him. But that was now. Who knew what the political climate would be like in a year? Clark would hang around biding his time. He'd lived to fight another day, and his dream of someday occupying the Oval Office was still alive.

Clark 's limousine finally pulled into the small drive and a doorman, resplendent in topcoat and top hat, opened the door. The senator got out of the car in his double-breasted tuxedo and entered the club. He looked tanned and rested from another weekend retreat in the Bahamas and was in the mood to have some fun. He proceeded to the magnificent Warne Lounge where a band was playing and most of the partygoers had gathered. Too many in fact. Upon seeing that they were five deep at the bar, the senator reversed his course and headed off for the Cherrywood Bar. A few folks tried to stop him on the way but Clark politely informed them of his predicament and told them he would be back. Fortunately, there were only a few wise souls bellied up to the curved granite bar.

He ordered a glass of merlot and settled in. He'd finish this one and order another before he went back to join the revelry. He was about to begin making small talk with the bartender when an absolutely stunning blonde in an ivory, beaded dress sauntered into the room. She cozied up to the bar one chair over from Clark and ordered a glass of Chardonnay.

When she looked in his direction Clark said, "How are you doing this evening?"

"Just fine, thank you." She turned her attention back to the bartender.

The woman had just a touch of an accent, but Clark couldn't place it. She was absolutely gorgeous, high cheekbones, full lips and a curvaceous figure with a tiny waist, Clark was already wondering what she looked like with her clothes off when he asked, "Are you enjoying the party?"

"Yes." She studied Clark for a second and said, "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

He smiled and took a big sip of wine. "Most certainly not. I'd remember that." Standing, he extended his hand. "I'm Senator Hank Clark."

"Oh, that's right." She took his hand. "I've seen you on TV." With a flirtatious smile she added, "You're much better-looking in person."

"Why thank you, and so are you."

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