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very much, sir. The technician said we might have to find an alternative to the computer.”
    â€œAn alternative?” Peter was about to pour out all his anger on the slim officer standing to attention on the other side of his desk. But he reconsidered. Still staring at the blank screen, Peter seemed to reach some kind of decision. There was a hint of a smile on his face.
    â€œGet Colonel Yazarinsky in here now,” he said absently. “I have a little job for him.”

CHAPTER 2
    Grantsville, Utah
February 17
06:05 hours
    Â 
    Dawn cautiously probed the winter sky, dragging the valley from under the shadows of the jagged snow-covered peaks to the east.
    â€œLe Bistro” was located in an old converted warehouse at the west end of Grantsville, where Main Street bends northwest, joining up with Highway 138 on its way from Salt Lake City. The restaurant was the source of a mouth-watering aroma of fresh-baked croissants that lingered in the cold air. Using a recipe he picked up in the south of France, Edward baked an increasing number of the crescent-shaped rolls every morning. He now removed the last sizzling tray from the oven, placing it in a tall metal rack.
    Whistling a tune only he could have recognized, Edward attended to his favorite part of the morning: preparing a hearty, somewhat oversized breakfast for himself. His staff was not due in for another hour, which gave him all the time he needed.
    He had begun this routine the day after he opened ten months ago, and since then he had guarded it as a sacred rite. For someone who had dragged himself through some of the bloodiest gutters the world had to offer, as an officer with Alpha 27, a highly specialized and extremely covert operation unit of U.S. Military Intelligence, this was as close to heaven as it could get.
    Edward had just poured himself a cup of hot black Colombian coffee and set his loaded plate—three eggs over easy, six crispy strips of bacon, and a basket of fresh croissants—on the counter separating the open kitchen from the bistro’s main seating area, when he heard a knock at the door. It was the door leading from the kitchen into a back alley.
    Edward glanced quickly at the neon Michelob clock on the wall above the cash register. It was ten past six. The road in front of the restaurant was empty, and large, fluffy snowflakes descended gently through the fading yellow glow of the street lamp.
    The second knock was stronger, more vigorous. Edward felt the hairs bristle on the back of his neck: In his book, surprises were rarely pleasant. All his senses were now alert. Moving fast, he reached under the counter and drew a .357 Magnum Ruger revolver from a secret compartment.
    â€œJust a minute,” he called out, moving closer to the door. Through the spy hole, Edward got a fish-eye view of the back alley and the woman standing at the door. Clumps of wet snow clung to her coat and to the knitted black cap pulled over her ears. She was alone, her arms folded across her chest, trying to keep warm.
    â€œWe open at seven,” he said through the door. “What do you want?”
    â€œI’m looking for Edward.” The woman’s voice was barely audible. “Larry Collins sent me.”
    Larry Collins was not a name that would come up in casual conversation. Larry was CIA, one of the few friends who knew where Edward could be found. They had met on a job about ten years ago, in the Middle East, and had become friends—not common in the murky province of covert activity. The work they had done together was usually referred to in the inner circle of the intelligence community as an INHAP OP—It Never Happened Operation—giving the politicians their precious plausible deniability. Therefore, on the record, Larry and Edward had never met, which was exactly the reason they could be friends without endangering each other.
    Edward pulled the latch and moved a few feet back. “It’s