The conference room door was pushed open.
A man walked in.
He wore an exceedingly plain gray jacket and carried a black, unbranded briefcase.
His looks were so ordinary that he would instantly vanish in a crowd. He had no distinguishing features, no expression; even his eyes were like stagnant water.
He was the consultant.
No one knew his real name.
All they knew was that he had spent fifteen years in the Central Intelligence Agency's Special Activities Division, specializing in the kind of wetwork that could never be entered into a file.
Now, he was one of Washington's expensive, underground crisis management experts.
"Sit."
Kane pointed to the chair opposite him.
The consultant sat down, placing the briefcase on his lap.
He didn't wipe away any sweat, as if he couldn't feel the room's temperature.
"I assume you've been briefed on our requirements."
The old director from Antai Insurance spoke, his voice hoarse.
