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ADAMS THOMPSON could not shake thoughts of The Assassin from his mind. New York was on fire, a fire he had started, yet the impassioned words of the young woman coiled in his guest chair were losing the battle for his attention.

"We’re at the epicenter of what could become the worst race riots in thirty years, and you’re gonna let us get scooped," Christy Kirk said. "Dammit, Mr. T, this could be the story of the century."

Thompson’s gaze connected with her blazing brown eyes, the only hint that this tiny elf of a woman had the hardened soul of a reporter. She was so slight that Thompson was tempted to blow out a breath and watch her float away. But Christy Kirk was not so easily dismissed. Not by her sources, not by her editor at the City Desk and not even by the publisher of the Herald Times. Beneath that pixyish face and tangle of auburn hair lay the heart of a tiger.

Thompson broke Christy’s Svengali-like stare, turning to face the window behind his desk. "Sunday’s editorial triggered this mess," he said absently. "We’re too involved to be objective."

He ran his fingers through the wisp of sandy hair that circled the lower reaches of his scalp. The view of the Hudson River usually calmed him, but not now. He could ignore the angry mob milling about on the street ten stories below. He could even deal patiently with Christy Kirk. But the frightening riddle that had plagued him since Wednesday, when he received the cryptic e-mail from The Assassin—a man long thought dead—made his head throb. What does this imposter want from me?

"This story is bigger than your opinion on the Board of Education’s proposal to create a metropolitan area school district," Christy said.

It would have been easy to mistake her for one of the college interns employed by the New York Herald Times, Thompson thought, dressed as she was in their habitual uniform of brown suede jacket and blue jeans, but her voice resonated with a confidence that comes with experiencing success for hire.

"Black and white paramilitary groups are arming themselves," Christy continued. "There’s been an increase in racial violence all across the country. Two dozen incidents were reported in the Army alone in the past six months. This is not racism as usual."

Thompson sighed. If she only knew. Christy Kirk was right. This story had to be written. But in one year, not now; in his words, not hers. With some more fanning of the flames by the Herald Times, his cousins—seven descendants of a common ancestor now dead more than 160 years—would have the inferno of racial hatred for which they lusted. The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight, as they called their secret familial society, was a runaway train that he desperately wanted to get off, but setting Christy Kirk loose on them was not the ticket. Until Wednesday, when he was contacted by The Assassin, Thompson was sure that there was no way out. Now there was hope.

"The white supremacy groups are all bluster," Thompson said calmly, turning to face Christy. "They’ve been arming themselves for years. And the Army has always attracted a violent element. That crowd outside is hot about my editorial and nothing more. They’ll cool off, and then we’ll go back to reporting the news, not making it."

Christy sprang from her chair with an intensity that startled Thompson. She fumbled with the window locks. A blast of crisp November air ushered in the sounds of the street. At first the chants of the throng of angry black men, women and children were difficult to distinguish, but the message they repeated soon became clear: "Thompson lies, he must die! Thompson lies, he must die!"

"Look at the anger, the pain, on those faces," Christy said, thrusting her arm forward for emphasis. "Your last editorial may have been the trigger, but rage like that doesn’t arise overnight. Each racial incident in the military, each editorial sanctioning segregationist practices, each promotion that goes to a white candidate over a black man or woman and—"

"I admire your passion, but there’s nothing new about racism," Thompson interjected brusquely. "Maybe you were never exposed to it growing up in Minnesota, but—"

"Don’t patronize me, Mr. T," she said. "I’ve been a New Yorker since I was eighteen. My background is not the issue. Racial hostilities have risen to a new level. We’ve got to cover this story. Dammit, we are the story."

Thompson glowered at her. "Good newspapermen report the news, young lady, they don’t make it." Despite everything else he had become, he was still a newspaperman.

"I’m sorry. I was out of line," Christy said, chastised but not beaten. "The fuss over this editorial may blow over, but sooner or later something is going to set off this powder keg. That kind of passion you’re seeing down there can inspire ordinary people to extraordinary action."

Thompson and Christy were distracted by a flurry of activity in the crowd on the street below. Two men had taken a rope and were hanging an unflattering likeness of Thompson in effigy over a lamppost. The mob roared as the bloated mannequin was lit afire. The police maintained their distance.

Thompson wrinkled his face and subconsciously ran his hand across his flabby midsection. "That crowd wants blood," he said.

"Maybe we can offer them Roger as a human sacrifice," Christy said, straight-faced. Ordinarily, Thompson would frown at a young reporter’s disrespect for the City Editor, Roger Martin, but he knew that Roger was Christy’s lover as well as her boss.

He snorted. "You think you’re joking," Thompson said. "They want my blood, I wrote the editorial, but they might take whoever we offer them. Even you."

"All the best stories carry risk," Christy said, her eyes—those smoldering eyes—locking on Thompson’s. "I’ll never be a great reporter if you won’t let me take risks. Why are you—"

A knock on the open door to Thompson’s office interrupted her. A bespectacled young clerk with slicked back hair peeked in nervously. Christy’s glare shot daggers at him. "Watcha got, Pete?" Thompson asked.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," the clerk said. "Three more death threats in the morning mail. Anderson in Security wants to call the cops, maybe hire a bodyguard."

"Just three?" Thompson asked. "You see, Christy, the situation is already cooling down."

Pete shook his head uncertainly. "‘Fraid not, sir. We tossed out hundreds of hate letters. Security just asked for the ones that threatened violence," Pete said. "But don’t feel too bad—there’s lots of fan mail, too."

Thompson slumped into his executive chair and swiveled to face the window. He became aware, again, of the angry chants rising up from the street. Fan mail. Sometimes he disgusted himself.

"Mr. Thompson," Pete said awkwardly. "What should I tell Security?"

Thompson whirled abruptly to face the clerk. "No police. No bodyguards." He waved Pete off, then turned to Christy. "No story."

"Aren’t you worried about the death threats?" Christy asked with genuine concern. "Like you said, that mob sounds like it’s out for blood."

Thompson looked up in surprise. Concern and tenderness suited Christy Kirk as badly as a pink party dress. "I appreciate the thought, but I’ll be fine as long as I don’t try to mingle with them—a lesson you’d be wise to learn yourself."

Christy ignored the thinly veiled reproach. "You’ve exposed a raw nerve with that editorial," she said, gesturing towards the window. "There are a lot of angry black people in New York City, and their fury seems to be directed at you this week."

Thompson could almost visualize the tug-of-war between his mind and his heart, a contest fought every day for the last twenty-one months. His sworn obligation to The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight was to provoke racial rebellion, a task that was in grave conflict with his natural sentiments.

"My intention was not to belittle African-Americans," Thompson lied. "Integration seemed like a noble goal thirty years ago, but experience has shown that the experiment failed. Our cultures are like oil and water. I stand by my editorial. The Board of Ed’s proposal to bus children between suburban and city schools is unnatural."

Christy filled her cheeks with air, then expelled it. "Mr. T, whatever your intentions, using the word ‘unnatural’ conjures up an image of animals in a zoo. You could have made the case against the proposal by arguing that it’s too costly and burdensome. You’ve ticked off a lot of people unnecessarily."

Thompson stifled a smile. "Well, maybe I should ask all the cub reporters to review my word choices before I run my editorials," he said.

Christy blushed. "Oops, looks like I’ve crossed the line, again."

The corners of Thompson’s mouth turned up weakly. "Maybe you should take that as your cue to give up the race story and take an assignment from Roger at the City Desk," he said softly.

"I’m not conceding that easily," she said. "There’s an important story here, and I’m the one to write it. I’ve already—"

"You’ve already what?" Thompson said. "Already offended the Fire Department?"

"That wasn’t my fault," Christy said. She fidgeted in her chair defensively. A small fire had been set in the basement of the Herald Times building shortly after she wrote an investigative piece about corruption in the New York City Fire Department. "Nobody ever proved who set that fire."

"Before that it was the Sanitation Department," Thompson said. "Garbage on our front steps every day for a week. And before that it was the longshoremen. Face it, Christy, you rankle people. The perfect person to do a piece on race relations."

"Look, I’m not out there to make friends," she said. "I’m out there to get the story—and I always get the story."

"Maybe now, but a good reporter cultivates contacts," Thompson said. "Some day you’ll need the Fire Department, and they won’t be there for you. You’ve got to work with people, respect their position and their personal space. You’ve got the political instincts of a buffalo. You stampede over everyone."

"Maybe that political crap works for a middle-aged, Ivy League, WASP," she said angrily. "But it sure as hell doesn’t work for me. People see this little…little—"

"Leprechaun," Thompson offered.

Christy scowled. "People think they can walk all over me because I’m so small. I’m tough because I have to be tough. I bite and I don’t let go until I’ve got my story. That’s what rankles people."

"Maybe a pit bull would have been a better analogy."

"You pick the analogy. I just want the assignment."

Thompson looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. The Assassin had requested—no, commanded—a meeting tonight, but had yet to set the time and place. The mob outside showed no signs of breaking up. He needed a drink. "You’re not going to let go of me until I give in or fire you, are you?" Thompson asked.

She grinned. "You’d never fire me. I’ve heard the stories. You were a pit bull once, too."

Her smile was infectious. And her words rang true. They had called him a bulldog back then, but, like Christy Kirk, he had learned politics the hard way. Thompson viewed her as his special project. "What have you got so far?" he asked.

"I’m ready to rock ‘n roll as soon as you say the word," she said. "I’ve got contacts with most of the white and black groups. The Klan, the Skinheads, the Dark Nation, the NOMAADs—"

"I haven’t heard of the NOMAADs," Thompson said. "And I think the politically correct term is African-Americans these days."

"You’re hearing the NOMAADs chanting right now," Christy said. "The National Organization for Mutual African-American Defense. They organized the rally outside."

"Mmm-hmmm." Thompson was distracted by a beep from the computer on his desk, alerting him that a new e-mail message awaited. Christy continued talking while Thompson attended to the computer. He tapped a key on the keyboard. The new message popped up on screen:

Nine o’clock. Your apartment. Alone. No tricks.

The message was signed once again with the horrifying cyber-name: "The Assassin."

Christy stopped speaking in mid-sentence. "Bad news, Mr. T?" she asked. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"It’s nothing," Thompson said, regaining his composure. He glanced at his watch. "I almost forgot about an appointment. I’ve got to run."

"And the assignment?" Christy asked.

Thompson was weary of battling. He could kill the story later. "Be careful," he said. "The African-American groups may smell blood when they see the Herald Times coming. And white supremacists aren’t overgrown Boy Scouts."

"I suppose it’s more politically correct to call them Anglo-American supremacists," Christy said, smiling on the way out the door. "And they won’t even know what bit ‘em."

* * *

A MAN SAT IN THE BACK of an unmarked van behind the Herald Times Building, away from the chanting hordes. He was eating potato chips while monitoring the sophisticated surveillance equipment that surrounded him in the van’s dimly lit cargo compartment. Empty soda cans and moldy cartons from a Chinese takeout joint down the street littered the cramped area.

The man stopped chewing when Thompson opened The Assassin’s cryptic message. Finally. His boss had been waiting for this one. He wiped his greasy hands on his pants, punched a number into his cellular telephone, then said: "Let me speak to the Director."

* * *

SAUSOLITO’S WAS NOT ADAMS THOMPSON’S usual Friday night haunt. He preferred a cigar and a few single malt scotch whiskeys at one of the gentlemen’s clubs on the Upper West Side to wind down after another hectic week at the Herald Times. But Sausolito’s was in Greenwich Village, and he did not want to stray far from home before his meeting with the man who claimed to be The Assassin.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and Sausolito’s was quiet. Adams sipped a Dewars, watching the Knicks game on the television in the corner. A scrawny NYU student with bright orange hair sat at the other end of the bar. The basketball season was only a month under way, but Thompson could tell that the 1999-2000 season was to be a rebuilding year for his beloved Knicks.

God, "1999-2000." Even saying it to himself made his head swim. One of his earliest memories was his seventh birthday in 1960. He remembered his father bringing home a rubber stamp kit that the Herald Times had tried to market the previous Christmas. The kit included a date stamp that went up to 1972. He recalled thinking at the time that 1972 seemed like forever. He ordered another Dewars.

Adams saddened as he thought about his father. It was almost two years since George Thompson had died.

A tall, well-built young man entering Sausolito’s caught Adams’s attention, interesting only in his remarkable resemblance to the Marlboro Man. He had a weather-beaten face and wore a suede jacket, cowboy hat and work boots. Adams observed him for a moment, then looked away as Marlboro sauntered towards the bar. Marlboro placed his hat on the counter, claimed the stool two down from Adams, and ordered a beer.

"Cold night, huh pops," Marlboro said, looking in Adams’s direction.

"Hmmph. November in New York," Adams said.

Marlboro looked up at the television. "You a Knicks fan?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," Adams said.

"How they doin’?" Marlboro asked.

"Celtics are up by five," Adams said, frowning. "It doesn’t look like they’re ‘The Team for the Next Millennium.’"

Marlboro chuckled. He slid over one stool, next to Adams, and extended his hand. "I’m Stone. Van Stone," he said.

Adams shook his hand. Firm grip. "Adams," he said hesitantly, reluctant to identify himself to this outlandish stranger.

"Mighty pleased to meet you, Mr. Adams," Marlboro said. "What brings you out alone tonight? You seem a little down, if you don’t mind my sayin’."

Adams hesitated, again weighing the risk of revealing much of himself against the horror of dwelling on his own nightmarish thoughts. "I was thinking about my father," Adams said. "He passed away almost two years ago."

"I’m sorry. Were you close?"

"Hmmph. Not really," Adams said. "Not until he got sick. Prostate cancer."

"Nasty stuff," Marlboro said. "My dad died recently, too."

"My condolences," Adams said. "I hope you had a better relationship with yours."

"He wasn’t around much. I spent some quality time with him before he died, though," Marlboro said. He sipped his beer. "Tell me about your dad. What kept you apart?"

"To tell you the truth, I don’t know," Adams said. "My mother was killed in an accident when I was three. He sort of withdrew after that. Put all his energy into his work."

"What did he do?"

Adams sipped his drink. It had been a long time since he had trusted anyone. But he was enjoying the attention from this attractive young man. "Same thing as me. He was the publisher of the Herald Times."

Marlboro slapped the counter. "You’re Adams Thompson?" he said. "Man, you are one unpopular son of a bitch tonight! No wonder you’re drinkin’ alone."

Adams lifted his glass in a mock toast. "Thank you for reminding me, young man."

"Aw, hell, I don’t care about any of that shit," Marlboro said. "I leave politics to the politicians. So, things between you and your old man couldn’t have been too hostile if you followed in his footsteps."

"I think I took up journalism to impress him," Adams said. "I finished at the top of my class at the Columbia School of Journalism—the goddam Columbia School of Journalism—but that bastard wanted to hire me as a copy boy, the same way he started out."

"Did you do it?"

"My pride got the better of me," Adams said. "I took a job as a beat reporter at the Daily News. He hired me a couple of years later after I made a name for myself."

"Geez-us, will you look at that!" the scrawny orange-haired student said in a piercing, nasal voice. Adams and Marlboro looked up at the television to see the Knicks fall prey to a series of dazzling three-point shots by a young Celtics guard that Adams had not noticed before. The Knicks were down by twelve.

"I’ve got to ask you this," Marlboro said. "You seem like such a nice guy. Do you really believe the shit you write in those editorials? I mean, come on, it’s been almost fifty years since Little Rock."

Adams glanced at the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty. "As much as I’d love to debate my politics, I’ve got an appointment," he said. "Son, it’s been a pleasure."

Adams opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty. The slip of paper that his father had given him the night before he died caught his eye. It was a list. He kept it as a frightening reminder of the magnitude of what his family had achieved. These powerful men, his cousins, had made their ancestors’ unlikely plan work. "The Heir Apparent. The Speaker. The Senator. The General. The Spy. The Publisher. The Doctor. The Caretaker. The Assassin." Adams returned the list to his wallet.

"I’ve enjoyed talkin’ to you, too," Marlboro said. "Are ya lookin’ for company tonight?"

Adams looked Marlboro straight in the eyes for a fleeting moment. A rush of thoughts filled his head. Could he trust this man? Did he have AIDS? What would George Thompson think about his 46-year old son cavorting with the Marlboro Man wearing nothing but his cowboy hat? It had been a long time since he had been intimate with anybody, but The Assassin awaited.

"No thank you, son," Adams replied. He dropped the twenty on the bar, slid off his stool and grabbed his tweed sports coat from the back of the chair. He caught a glimpse of his flabby countenance and balding head in the mirror behind the bar and scowled. "Have a good evening."

Adams walked out into the chilly November air. He glanced southwards, the brightly lit twin towers of the World Trade Center rising in the distance above the colorful, low-rise buildings of Greenwich Village, then strolled north on MacDougal Street, towards his Fifth Avenue apartment just beyond Washington Square. There was nobody else on the street.

Vivid memories flashed through Adams’s mind as he marched towards his date with The Assassin. His eyes moistened as he recalled that solemn night two years earlier when he had finally gained his father’s trust, and maybe even his love.

At first Adams had listened in disbelief as the story unfurled that evening over a bottle of Scotch whiskey, probably not unlike the evening when his ancestors hatched the conspiracy of all conspiracies to avenge the murder of their brother 160 years before. Adams was so horrified by the plot that his first impulse was to disclose it to the authorities if he could not persuade his father that the scheme was insane.

Surely, Adams had argued, reason must have intervened at some point during the past 160 years? But, no, the elder Thompson had convinced the younger that, indeed, the family had taken its vengeance like clockwork for a century and a half and was prepared to complete its mission as the millennium turned.

As he had listened to the tale and felt the passion of his father, seven generations removed from the grievous event, it had slowly dawned on him how this conspiracy had survived. The hate had been emblazoned in the hearts of each generation, each father to one son. Fathers share so few passionate moments with their sons. Until that night, Adams had experienced none. He could understand how such a moment at a tender age could shape a lifetime.

Even at his advanced age, Adams had caught some of the spirit of his infuriated clansmen from his own father that night. His yearning for George Thompson’s love had been so great that it had overcome reason. With the eloquence that only a pint of fine Scotch can muster, he had sworn his eternal allegiance to The Royal Order of the Millennium Knight. It was a moment that he had come to regret.

As Adams replayed that night in his mind’s eye, he did not observe the young man who had so eagerly engaged him in conversation emerge from Sausolito’s. The man stopped and turned to light a cigarette with his back to the wind. He waited until Adams reached the corner of West Third Street, then followed, a half block behind.

The street lamps near the southwest entrance to Washington Square, at West Fourth Street, were broken. Adams shook his head. In the heart of New York University, the Square was once the soul of Greenwich Village. It had been alive at all hours. Now, at night, the Square had become a macabre haven for drug dealers and the homeless. Barren oaks danced in the dim light like monstrous skeletons in a graveyard.

Adams continued north, around the perimeter of the Square, rather than risk the shorter walk through it. His heart pounded.

Adams had fallen into the role of The Publisher almost by happenstance. His father had never encouraged him to choose a career in journalism. George Thompson had always assumed that he would be alive when the millennium turned, and he had not seen the need to involve his son. But Adams’s contemporaries had been brought into the fold at an early age. Miraculously, they had positioned themselves even better than their ancestors could have imagined in their wildest, drunken dreams.

The group had never actually met, but they had assembled under the direction of The Caretaker via the Internet. For the past four years The Royal Order had refined their clandestine plot in weekly on-line chat sessions. All but The Assassin.

The Assassin had proven to be a weak link in the conspiracy. It had never been intended that he join the others; his task was to be completed in grim isolation. But as the details of the conspiracy were engineered, the role of The Assassin changed, and his participation had been required. Unfortunately, he was a reluctant accomplice. He had joined their Internet meetings only under duress. Eventually, after three years, he renounced The Royal Order.

The Assassin’s punishment was swift. The Spy, whom Adams had identified as a malevolent force among the Knights, had eagerly undertaken the execution of The Assassin as his personal project. The murder was made to appear accidental. There was no investigation. The Assassin had been long divorced, and his estranged family had not questioned that his death was anything but an alcohol-related mishap. All evidence of his involvement with The Royal Order had been erased. There were no male heirs who could have assumed The Assassin’s role upon his death. The Spy had assured the others that all loose ends had been tied.

Until Wednesday, Adams had no reason to doubt The Spy’s claims. After the initial shock had subsided, Adams had debated with himself whether to tell the other Knights about his contact with The Assassin. Concealing information from The Spy was dangerous, but it was worth the risk.

Perhaps he was not as dedicated to fulfilling his ancestors’ vengeful dream because he had learned of the plot later in life than his cousins. For whatever reason, the inspiration that had come to him on that fateful night with his father had faded. He hoped that The Assassin might prove an ally who could offer a graceful exit from this insanity.

In a few minutes he would have the answer. If The Assassin was of like mind, together they would reveal the plot to all the world. If not, he was too cowardly to face his cousins’ wrath alone. The Presidency of the United States would fall. The nation would be plunged into civil war. The grand Final Vengeance for his ancestor’s death—the vanquishment of the Negro race in America—would become a hideous reality. It was in the hands of the gods. It was in the hands of this man who called himself The Assassin.

Adams strolled alongside Washington Square, lost in thought. He did not see the figure lurking in the shadows of the apartment building on the corner of Washington Place, across the street to his left. Marlboro, still a half block behind, near the entrance to the Square, saw the trenchcoat-clad wraith leap out from the darkness, but it was too late to shout a warning.

Adams turned with a start at the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. He felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized the attacker barreling towards him not ten feet away. He stood paralyzed, resigned to his fate. He closed his eyes a moment before a long, thin blade plunged into his belly.

Adams gasped, and his eyes jerked open as the gut-wrenching pain cut through him. He looked into his executioner’s eyes. Had the message from The Assassin been only a ruse? The eyes of the devil yielded no answers as the knife was yanked upwards into his heart.

The assailant raced away, west on Washington Place, as Adams fell limp to the sidewalk. He felt the warm trickle flowing from his wound. He knew that his would not be the last blood to spill. There would be war.

Then Adams heard more footsteps. It took a Herculean effort to open his eyes. He saw Marlboro hovering over him, but his vision was already fading to gray. One last chance.

Adams summoned all of his remaining strength. Breathing was difficult. "President," he gasped. "Assassination."

Marlboro knelt by the dying man’s side. "Who?" he asked urgently.

"Knight," Adams whispered.

"You can’t go to sleep on me yet, Pops," Marlboro said. "Give me a name."

Adams opened his mouth, but the words would not come. Then his world went blank.

Marlboro cursed, closed Adams’s eyes, then looked around. No other witnesses. He carefully reached into Adams’s slacks, prying out his wallet. He slipped it into his suede jacket, cautiously scanned the scene one more time, then walked briskly away, turning east on Washington Square North.

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