evidence of the contact switch. Within the door frame, the contacts of a ferrous-metal switch were kept together - the circuit was kept closed - by a magnet recessed in the top of the door. As long as the door was shut, the magnet would keep a plunger within the door frame depressed, completing the electric circuit within the switch unit. Janson withdrew a powerful magnet from his knapsack and, using a fast-drying cyanoacrylate adhesive, fastened it to the lower part of the door frame.
Then he went to work on the door lock. More bad news: there was no keyhole. The door was opened by means of a magnetic card. Could the door simply be forced? No: he had to assume a heavy steel grid inside the wooden door and a multiple door-frame-bolt locking system. You had to ask a door like that to open. Unless you meant to take down part of the building, you couldn't force it to.
It was an eventuality he had prepared for; but again, with his rough-and-ready tools, the chances of success were far less than with the kind of instruments he was accustomed to having at his disposal. Certainly, his magnetic picklock was not an impressive-looking piece of equipment, having been jury-rigged with electrical tape and epoxy. He had removed the core of the solenoid and replaced it with a steel rod. At the other end of the rod, he had attached a thin rectangle of steel, which he had cut from a tin of butter cookies using heavy-duty scissors. The electronic part - a random noise generator - was a simple circuit of transistors he had extracted from a Radio Shack cell phone. Once he connected a pair of AA batteries to the apparatus, a quickly oscillating magnetic field was created: it was designed to pulse at the sensors until they were activated.
Janson inserted the metal rectangle in the slot and waited. Slow seconds ticked by.
Nothing.
Swallowing a gorge of frustration, he checked the battery contacts and reinserted the metal card. More long seconds ticked by - and suddenly he heard the click of the lock's own solenoid being activated. The door's bolts and latches were swiftly retracted.
He let out his breath slowly, and opened the door.
As long as the house was occupied, any internal photoelectric alarms would be deactivated. If he'd guessed wrong, it wouldn't take long to find out. Janson quietly closed the door behind him and, in the gloom, proceeded down a long hall.
After a few hundred feet, he saw a crack of light. It was seeping beneath a paneled door to his left.
On examination, it appeared to be a simple swing door, unlocked and unalarmed. What kind of lair was this? Was it an office? A conference room?
Fear slithered through his bowels. Every animal instinct he had was signaling frantically.
Something was wrong.
Yet he could not turn back now, whatever the risks. He removed his pistol from a bellyband holster beneath his tunic and, holding it before him, strode into the room.
To eyes that had adjusted to the gloom, the space was dazzlingly bright, illuminated by floor lamps and desk lamps and a chandelier overhead - and Janson squinted involuntarily as an even deeper sense of dread came over him.
His eyes swept the room. He was in the middle of a magnificent drawing room, a textural array of damask and leather and richly burnished antique woods. And in the middle of it, eight men and women were seated, facing him.
Janson felt the blood drain from his face.
They had been waiting for him.
"What the heck took you so long, Mr. Janson?" The question was asked with a practiced show of affability. "Collins here told me you'd make it here by eight o'clock. It's practically half past."
Janson blinked hard at his questioner, but the evidence of his eyes remained unchanged.
He was staring at the President of the United States.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The President of the United States. The director of Consular Operations. And the others?
Janson felt flash frozen by the shock. As he stood rooted to the spot, his mind struggled fiercely with itself.
It couldn't be. And yet it was.
Men in suits and ties had been waiting for him in the luxurious mansion, and Janson recognized most of them. There was the secretary of state, a hale man looking less hale than usual. The U.S. Treasury Department's undersecretary for international affairs, a plump, Princeton-trained economist. The sallow-faced chairman of the National Intelligence Council. The deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, a burly man with