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exterminators, who do the job other American agents can’t or won’t do,” explained Rubin. “Each agent has an unbreakable alias or cover. They operate completely off the shelf and under the radar; and they work under pain of death.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘pain of death’?” asked the president.
    â€œOperational security is not only everything, it’s the only thing,” offered Seelye. “The identity of each Branch 4 agent is unknown even to another Branch 4 agent. They put together their own teams, the members of which are unaware for whom they’re really working. And should their identities ever become known even to a fellow member of the unit…” His voice trailed off, his meaning clear.
    â€œAre you telling me that the United States government employs professional assassins?”
    â€œI wouldn’t use that word, Mr. President,” replied General Seelye. “More like the business end of our forward defenses. The tip of the tip of the spear.”
    â€œBranch 4 is a unit whose very existence—until this moment—is authorized to be known to only three governmental officials: POTUS, the SecDef, and DIRNSA,” continued Rubin, turning his attention to Hartley, trying to impress on him the importance of keeping his mouth shut. “Notice I did not use our names. Branch 4 existed before we assumed our offices and it will continue to exist after we leave. No matter who is sitting in our chairs…”
    The president did a slow burn. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?”
    â€œIt’s not, sir,” said Seelye, quietly. “It’s just that you’ve made domestic considerations the top priority of your administration thus far.”
    President Tyler was in a box. He hated being in a box. He hated Rubin and Seelye for putting him in a box. When this was over, especially if it ended badly, he was going to have both their heads on pikes, to be displayed in the Rose Garden until the next election. “This Branch 4, this Devlin…sounds like God.”
    â€œThe next best thing,” said Seelye. “Plus, Branch 4, you get your prayers answered one hundred percent of the time. Devlin never fails.”
    The president thought for a moment. “Does this mean I won’t have to convert to Islam?” he asked. “I don’t think that would go over very well with the folks back home in Lafayette.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what it means,” said Seelye.
    That seemed to please Jeb Tyler. “Get Devlin,” said the president of the United States.

Chapter Eleven
    L EONARDO DA V INCI A IRPORT , R OME , C HRISTMAS , 1985
    The man known as “Devlin” was born on December 27, 1985, in Rome, Italy. At the time, he was eight years old.
    Survivors of shootings almost always say that, at first, they thought the gunshots were something else. A car backfiring. A man chipping ice off a windshield on a freezing winter’s day. Birthday balloons popping. The mind attempts to process what it already knows, and instinctively blocks that which it doesn’t wish to recognize. Such things are called “memories.”
    â€œMama, can I have one?” One what? He could only remember the want, not the object. Some trifle for sale in one of the kiosks.
    â€œNo,” she said.
    Far better to remember her, his mother, as she was, young and beautiful, young to him, beautiful to him and at least two others—but that he only found out about later, when he was older, not young.
    He and she both knew she didn’t mean it. But it was what she had to say. Because her husband, his father, would instantly overrule her had she said yes, that whatever it was he’d wanted would be dismissed as trivial, transient, of no moment. Unworthy. His father always said no.
    The boy who would die that day loved his mother. All his childhood memories were of her, because she was the