Peterson put his 1991 Plymouth Voyager into gear and stepped on the gas pedal, which caused a mixture of air and fuel to flow into the the 3.0 liter engine’s six cylinders, where the mixture was burned, forcing six pistons to move up and down, which turned a crankshaft, which transferred power to the drive shafts, which turned the front wheels, which propelled the car forward. Slowly, obeying an electronic command from inside the complex, the gates opened. Tom Clancy, best-selling techno-novelist, multimillionaire, gun fancier, friend of Republican presidents, hobnobber with FBI and military honchos, would-be professional sports team owner, quasi-would-be politi-cian, disillusioned presidential blue-ribbon panel member, battler with Hollywood moguls and self-proclaimed expert on national defense, international politics and just about everything else. Peterson identified himself and explained his mission, which was to interrogate and debrief the proprietor of this estate in Calvert County, Md. “Yes?” asked a brisk, efficient, British-accented female voice. He stopped the van, leaned out the window and, as he’d been instructed, punched a code number into a security device. He drove to the end of the road, which terminated in a pair of battleship-gray gates. Everything appeared to be in order no unusual activity. He’d already recon-noitered the perimeter of the complex. The rendezvous was planned for 1 o’clock.
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