The Third Option   ::   Flynn Vince

Cameron turned onto M Street and headed west toward Georgetown. Just twenty minutes ago, he had used the account of a sophomore who was majoring in international business to surf the Web. It was the top story with all of the German newspapers and TV stations. The London Times had even posted it. Cameron had expected the Hagenmiller assassination to be fairly high-profile. That was part of the plan. But what he didn't expect to see was that the German authorities were seeking three individuals. Not two but three. When he had left the estate, there had been no fire, let alone a fire that would go on to destroy half of the century-old mansion. The stories also reported that the remains two badly burned bodies had been found in the smoldering wreckage. Beth Jansen had specifically said three bodies, not two. Hagenmiller, the bodyguard, and Rapp. Something was wrong, and Cameron thought he knew what it was.

He was starting to sweat. He unzipped his blue jacket as he crossed over Rock Creek and flapped it open several times to let his body heat escape. The parkway below was crowded with bikers and joggers. Cameron pushed on across the bridge, cursing the fact that instead of enjoying the day and relishing a job well done, plus a sizable cash deposit in one of his offshore accounts, he now had to deal with these incompetents.

At 29th Street, Cameron found another pay phone and punched in a number. He said, «Hey, I've got a tee time in an hour. Can you make it?»

The person hesitated and then said,» An hour might be pushing it. Where are we playing?»

«Montgomery Village Golf Club.»

There was another pause. «Is it a tough track?»

«It can be, but I think you can handle it.»

«Do we have a foursome?»

«No.» Cameron looked over his shoulder. «We could use two more, and make sure they're good sticks. And I don't want to play with any strangers.»

«Got it. I'll meet you out there in ninety minutes.»

Cameron hung up the phone and headed up 29th Street. The cobblestone sidewalk was steep and heaved from tree roots. A sheen of sweat coated his face, and his beard was starting to itch. His apartment was at the top of the hill on Q Street. It was only six blocks, but all of it was uphill. The forty-eight-year-old veteran of the CIA cursed himself for the extra weight he'd allowed to build around his abdomen. When this was over, he would check into one of those high-class spas where they flushed all of the crap out g of you and the weight just melted away. That's what he needed – to be pampered and surrounded by beautiful people.